Stolen Time - Espernyan - Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu (2024)

Chapter 1: Dreaming Blade

Chapter Text

Byleth Eisner startles awake in her chair, her dreams still playing against the backs of her eyes.

Great wings, silhouetted black against the moon. Fire, pooling in the heart of a city, pulling in air like seawater into the gaping maw of a whale.

And the screams of thousands, torn from their lips with the shriek of the unnatural winds, buried under the roar of the colossal beast above as flame pooled in its maw.

Worst of all was the intelligence in its beautiful green eyes. It knew exactly what it was doing.

…

Her mouth is dry, her throat aches.

A familiar voice soothes her.

“Be at ease, child. What you saw… put it far from your mind, and farther from your heart.”

She runs a hand through her hair, fingers brushing out tangles in the mess of deep blue locks, and blinks up at the speaker with eyes every bit as blue.

“Sothis…” Byleth not-quite-says. She’s still not sure what to call the speaking-without-words that the two of them do.

The girl in question floats beside her, tiny and strangely-garbed, but wise, wise beyond her years – and, Byleth is beginning to suspect, anyone’s years. Her hair, pale green like her eyes (another oddity they share, Byleth thinks) is roughly as long as she is tall, and there’s nothing playful in the way she hovers in place, in this moment– a sharp contrast from her usual, more playful attitude.

“Besides,” Sothis says, taking up a tone more akin to her usual mischief, “if you startle too much, you might wake your dear Princess.”

And Byleth spares said princess a glance, a faint smile gracing her not-quite-expressive features as she sees the peaceful look on the young woman’s pale face.

Edelgard, she thinks, and notes with some fondness that her hand is still clasped in her Lady’s.

Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, heir apparent of the Adrestian Empire – the oldest power on the continent of Fódlan. Troubled by nightmares, driven by horrors to fight for a better world with tooth and claw, axe and flame…

Byleth had been her retainer for about a year, now, and she had grown to care deeply for the noblewoman, along with Edelgard’s other retainer, Hubert von Vestra, a dark mage about the same age as Byleth. Compared to her life before, as a listless mercenary in her father’s band, the semi-infamous swordswoman who had come to be called the Ashen Demon for her empty expression and ruthless efficiency on the battlefield… Hubert and Edelgard felt like family, as much as her father did, and the two had gently coaxed her out of her shell, helped her to feel, and know that she felt.

The two had, through their efforts, made Byleth the woman she is today. And, compared to the woman she once had been, that feels almost like a miracle.

“Hmph!” Sothis pouts beside her. “I daresay I helped a great deal, wouldn’t you agree?”

Byleth grins up at her. Her expressions are still… subdued, as are many of her emotions, but… they’re there.

“You were with me the whole time, Sothis,” Byleth assures her. “I doubt I’d be alive were it not for you.”

And the tiny phantom kicks her feet, letting out a triumphant little, ‘Hmm-hmm!’ which, privately, Byleth can’t help but find adorable.

Leaning over, she brushes a stray lock of silver hair from her lady’s face, careful not to wake her.

“Any idea what time it is, Sothis?” Byleth wonders at her phantasmal friend, and the girl flits over to the window, leaning straight through the curtains and the pane itself to peer up at the sky.

“Hmm,” Sothis hums. “The sun should be rising soon,” she reports, “you might as well take your gendering medication now– you know how your princess fusses over you when she gets the chance.”

Byleth huffs with silent laughter, and Sothis, returning to her side, scrunches up her nose.

“What? You know I’m right. ‘Oh, do you need water with that? Do you need to see Professor Manuela? Hubert would be happy to help keep things discrete, if you’d like-’” Sothis parrots, and Byleth has to bite her lip not to actually laugh.

“It’s how she shows she cares,” Byleth says, and Sothis leans back in the air, folding her tiny arms across her tiny chest. (She is so small.)

“I know,” she sighs, “but ever since that romantic-”

“It wasn’t romantic.”

“But ever since that extremely romantic pegasus ride last year, the two of you have been dancing around each other like idiots. It’s frustrating to watch. She bears the heraldry of an eagle! She should seize what is hers, as is what it means to be a raptor!”

Right. Raptor meant ‘seizer’ or ‘snatcher’, something along those lines.

… Hell, maybe she really was learning something from all those books.

At that thought, Sothis looks smug.

“I told you so,” she teases, and Byleth sticks out her tongue.

“At any rate,” she says, “we’re not just moving past this. It wasn’t romantic! She and Hubert got me a pegasus for my birthday! Hubert’s scared of heights! So I took Edelgard for a ride!”

“Byleth, that’s romantic. That’s incredibly romantic.”

And now it’s Byleth’s turn to pout.

“I can’t believe you’d use my horse against me like this.”

“If Leraje could talk, he’d agree with me.”

The two lapsed into silence– or, true silence? It was already quiet, since they didn’t speak, but.

“… It simply troubles me, Byleth. Why are the two of you so afraid to admit that you adore each other? Some days I wish I could speak with Hubert, if only to commiserate with the poor fool, for he and I are bound by the kinship borne of having to watch the two of you… smolder at one another.”

“We do not-”

“Oh, please. I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you aren’t looking-”

Byleth bristles.

“See, this is why I like that Hubert fellow.”

And Byleth shoots her a Look.

“Yes? I like him too.”

“You like everyone that treats you like a person.”

“I don’t like Rhea,” Byleth counters.

“Rhea doesn’t treat you like a person,” comes the reply, and neither of them seem able to stomach the truth of that well enough to carry on.

Instead, Byleth simply runs her thumb across Edelgard’s bared knuckles, taking in the scars that mottle the back of the younger woman’s hand.

“… You care about her, Byleth.”

“I know I do.”

“You’re sat at her bedside, holding her hand to comfort her, to anchor her against dark dreams, battering the shores of her mind…” Sothis shoots a pointed look at the pair’s joined hands. “And your presence comforts her enough for that to work, Byleth.”

“… I owe them my life, Sothis. Owe them and you and my father everything that I am. At the end of the day, I’m just-”

“Don’t say it.” Sothis’ tone is warning, and Byleth heeds her.

They both know what she’s thinking.

‘A sword.’

“You are a woman-”

“Barely,” Byleth quips, and Sothis fixes her with a glare that seems to burn with all the fire of all the stars in the heavens.

“Byleth Eisner.” She demands with an authority that shouldn’t be possible for someone of her size and general demeanor. “Don’t you ever talk about my friend that way again.” She shakes her head. “You already know what I think, but-” she jerks her chin at the sleeping Edelgard. “What would she think?”

“I think she might crack me in half,” Byleth admits, shuddering.

“And she’d be right to! Your princess doesn’t put up with that sort of nonsense, and neither do I!”

After a moment, Byleth nods. “Sorry,” she says. “I know how much you hate it when I. Get like that.”

She watches Sothis’ expression soften out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s something to work on,” she says, at length.

Again, Byleth nods.

They lapse into silence, and, after a few minutes, Sothis stifles a mighty yawn.

“I think, for now,” – another yawn – “I should like to take a nap.”

Byleth almost chuckles to herself.

“Goodnight, Sothis.”

“Good-” she gives yet another yawn. “Goodnight, Byleth.”

With that, she fades from view, and Byleth shuts her eyes, reckoning she can rest for another half-hour or so before the princess wakes and her morning starts.

Hopefully this time she won’t dream of the f*cking sable wings of death, or dragon’s-fire from on high, or- or anything of the sort.

It’s just before sleep takes her that she wonders: should she tell Hubert and Edelgard about Sothis? Obviously she’d kept it to herself, at first, but… well, it’s been a year, hasn’t it?

Hell, Hubert might even know something.

…

Lady Edelgard mutters her name as she sleeps, and Byleth feels a mixture of fond amusem*nt and a queer warmth she can’t quite place as her eyes drift shut.

* * *

The warm light of dawn peeks through the window as Edelgard von Hresvelg stirs, her awakening mind prickling with the fuzzy understanding that she’s coming out of slumber, nestled comfortably in bed. There’s the vague awareness of a familiar presence nearby, comfortable and trusted, their hand clasped in hers, and she gives that hand a squeeze, receiving one in turn.

“Mh… Hubert?” she mumbles over her pillow, her pale lavender eyes bleary and half-lidded.

It’s a calm voice that replies.

“Close,” it says. “I’m the other one.”

And, despite herself, the sleepy-eyed Edelgard smiles sweetly. For once, she feels as though she’s truly slept well, and the princess is sure she knows who’s responsible for that.

“Ah, my Byleth,” she says fondly, not quite awake enough to realize she’s mixed her phrases a little, and rubs at her eyes, doing her best to blink away sleep. Which she does, just in time to see her sworn swordsman turn a shade of crimson in the early morning light.

“… Yeah,” her retainer admits lamely. “I’m here, my lady.”

And Edelgard, relinquishing her grasp on the other woman’s hand, rolls onto her back, sighs, and begins gathering her wits.

… Right. It’s the Harpstring moon, and things are well underway, if a little stranger than planned.

Byleth’s father, Sir Jeralt Eisner, has been appointed to the position of Captain of the Knights of Seiros. (Unfortunate, but not shocking.)

Byleth herself has the attention of the Archbishop for some reason, and, after her performance in the mock battle between the three houses recently, has been asked to meet with her, possibly to receive some sort of teaching appointment alongside Professor Jeritza? (Given Jeritza’s general disinterest in instruction, it’s probably not a bad idea, though Edelgard will be damned before she lets the Church of Seiros wrangle her retainer away.)

Kostas, the incompetent bandit who’d fumbled the job she’d hired him for a few months ago, had been… addressed by the Flame Emperor; he’s holed up in the red canyon, Zanado, and, having drawn the ire of the Church, isn’t long for this world. (Edelgard had grown irritated with him at their meeting, and she – or, rather, the ‘Flame Emperor’ – had essentially informed the man he was a failure and would die.)

(Maybe she’d have made some joke about the difficulty of finding good help, but they’d brought Byleth on just about a year ago, and she was – and is – a joy.)

Hubert was keeping tabs on… most everything, really, but especially the monastery librarian, Tomas, who they suspected was an agent of Those Who Slither In The Dark.

Edelgard’s studies have been going well, as was her training. Hubert and Byleth seem to be adapting to their new environment admirably enough (Hubert is no surprise, there, but the two of them had worried a bit about Byleth. But she’s spoken to people other than them and her father, doesn’t seem too distressed about things, and even appears to be fairly well-liked among their classmates.)

None of them had been prepared for Byleth to garner so much intrigue and interest, though. Least of all the woman herself; Edelgard had asked Hubert to seek out Jeralt and question him about it. (The fact that he’s so distrustful of the Church, and Archbishop Rhea in particular, has been nothing but a boon, and she suspects he might actually join his daughter, firmly on their side, when the time comes.)

Hm. Was there anything else?

Looking over at Byleth, she notes the woman’s eyes are shut and smiles. Perhaps, if she’s quiet, she can allow the poor woman a few extra moments of rest-

That idea is quickly dashed upon the rocks of reality as soon as Edelgard makes to sit up, only to find that this alone had been enough to rouse the dutiful swordsman. Damn.

Byleth stretches with a groan, not yet standing up – probably not wanting to do so without first bracing her knee – and Edelgard feels more than a pang of guilt for making the woman sleep in a chair by her bedside when she had her own quarters.

Still, Edelgard rises and dresses herself, Byleth remaining seated and keeping her gaze fixed solely forward as she does so, only to realize that, even as she’s folding and putting away her nightgown, now dressed, the woman has yet to rise.

Yes, Edelgard surmises, that knee must really be troubling her. Perhaps the changing weather…

“Princess?” Byleth calls, just as Edelgard’s thoughts were headed that direction, “Would you help me with my brace?”

Her tone is a little more meek, a little more ashamed than Edelgard would prefer, and she wonders if Byleth has ever allowed herself to be this vulnerable with anyone in her life. Probably she hasn’t.

Somewhat upsetting, but it’s not as if Edelgard can’t relate– she’s certainly been there herself, after all. It’s not as if she wears gloves all the time for the sake of being vulnerable, after all. (And she hasn’t put them on just yet. Does Byleth appreciate the significance of that? She wonders.)

Of course, Edelgard agrees without hesitation, assuring the woman with a firm nod as she sits back down on the bed, directly opposite the bluenette’s chair.

Thank you, Alois, she mentally bemoans, for that terrible pun I’ll never be rid of.

Bending down, then, she (gently) lifts Byleth’s leg into her lap, relishing in the supple strength of the limb – and the slight flush of her retainer’s cheeks.

Gods’ blood, but Byleth was cute.

“You know,” she begins, her bare fingertips ghosting over mottled, stocking-covered scarring before quickly moving to the laces (points, really; this contraption was much like a harness in some ways – much like an armor – so it only feels appropriate that it should share in that terminology), “you’ve had this injury for as long as I’ve known you, my blade.”

She raises her head for a moment, turning her attention from her work to her compatriot.

“Is there a story behind it?”

Byleth shrugs, and Edelgard returns to the points as the older girl explains.

“… I guess there probably was,” she admits, “but I didn’t pay much mind to such things, back then.”

Edelgard nods. They’d spoken about this before – about the way Byleth’s life was mostly a blur to her, up until their meeting – so it wasn’t news to her to hear it. Uncomfortable, sure, but nothing new.

Still, sometimes even the so-called Ashen Demon had some truly interesting insights, and uncovering those was almost as good for Byleth as whenever they managed to stumble upon a proper, humanizing memory of hers. (Hubert in particular found those ‘Ashen Demon’ thoughts and anecdotes to be especially fascinating, and, to Edelgard’s eye, seemed almost to take pride in his fellow’s clever thinking, ruthless pragmatism, and candid, unusual observations of things.)

“From what I remember, I got shot in the knee, fixed up the bare minimum amount, and finished the engagement that way.”

A slight frown tugs a the corners of her mouth.

“I think there was something important, something pressing, but I don’t remember what. Only that I wouldn’t have been up and fighting on that injury if I hadn’t felt I needed to be.”

Edelgard ties a final bow and smiles up at her.

“That sounds rather valiant of you,” she says, and Byleth… Byleth’s reaction is difficult to describe. She doesn’t quite flinch, but there’s a twinge of something in her body language.

“Hubert would call it folly,” Byleth replies, and raps a fingertip on the armor Edelgard now secures over the joint. “Folly for which I’ve paid.”

Edelgard hums, considering this as she finishes her work, and thoughtlessly runs a hand up the inside of Byleth’s thigh.

She only realizes what she’s done when the woman goes completely still.

Oh.

f*ck.

Her heart leaps into her throat.

Well, she tells herself, you’ve sure found a fascinating way to f*ck that up, Hresvelg.

But then she masters herself. The best way to ruin things is to assume you’ve done so without checking.

“Is- is this okay?” Edelgard asks, after a moment, and looks up to see Byleth’s cheeks entirely pink.

“I-” the swordsman clears her throat. “As much as I’d like to say ‘yes,’ my lady,” she says – remarkably smoothly, given the circ*mstance – “you did just finish getting my brace on, and-”

She glances out the window, and Edelgard, in a single, selfish, guilty moment, misses having those lovely blue eyes all to herself.

“-Well, it’s just after dawn, my lady, not dusk.” Byleth almost chuckles.

Belatedly, Edelgard realizes her hand is still on the poor woman’s thigh and carefully extracts it.

“Another time, perhaps,” says Edelgard.

She tries to pass it off as just enough of a joke to be acceptable either way, and reaches out a hand for Byleth’s, a gesture the woman (thankfully) allows.

Byleth scrutinizes her carefully, her gaze sharp, but not unkind, and it makes Edelgard feel some kind of way, as the expression goes.

“… Perhaps,” the swordsman allows. “I wouldn’t want to take advantage-”

“Nor would I,” Edelgard replies, not waiting to be certain Byleth had finished before interjecting, this detail (and mutual concern) being particularly critical.

“And please, Byleth,” she adds, after a moment, “I know Hubert’s got you in the habit, but, in private, just ‘Edelgard’ is fine.”

“Of course, Lady Edelgard,” Byleth teases, bowing at the waist as best she can whilst seated.

“… Still,” Edelgard again adds, “you didn’t dislike it, did you?”

And, at that, Byleth actually, properly laughs.

“Were that the case, Edelgard,” she says, something thrilling and dangerous buried in her tone, just below the surface, “you’d know about it.”

“I suppose you’ve killed for less,” Edelgard says, before she can think better of it, and Byleth laughs through her nose.

“I most certainly have,” she says coolly.

Edelgard leaves the admission that she has as well unspoken.

Some things are best left unsaid.

…

“Come on,” Byleth says, swinging her leg out of Edelgard’s lap and rising to her feet, pausing only to collect her scabbard – and the sword within, of course – from where it leans against the chair, “let’s get some breakfast. It’s gonna be a long day.”

Edelgard nods, and pulls on her gloves just as Byleth is buckling her sword to her belt.

It would be a long day indeed.

* * *

Chapter 2: Introductions

Chapter Text

Byleth hates the way Rhea looks at her.

It feels… bad. Worse than Sylvain oggling her made her feel by a wide margin, and that had been bad enough that Hubert had openly threatened to murder the ‘redheaded fool’ for her. (Which had been awfully sweet of him, and had certainly given Sylvain pause.)

For now, she’s standing outside the doors to the audience chamber, mentally preparing herself, along with Sothis.

“Somehow,” Sothis says beside her, “this woman manages to feel more like she’s up to something than your Edelgard. And we’ve explicitly been informed that Edelgard is up to something– by the princess herself, no less!”

The thought is unnervingly accurate, and the sheer unknown possibility of it makes Byleth’s stomach turn.

“If we fear her poaching us, perhaps we should lay out exactly what we’d do if she were to try? It’s not as though we have no recourse– your father is the head knight here, and apparently well-valued. And your princess certainly wouldn’t stand for it, not without a dagger at her throat. Maybe not even then.”

“So we threaten to inform Papa, go to Lady Edelgard, and potentially withdraw from Garreg Mach entirely? Return to Enbarr and spread the news that Archbishop Rhea was such a poor host as to try and steal away the crown princess’ retainer, even when refused, to the extent that the imperial scion and her retinue felt the need to leave the academy?”

Sothis tapped her little chin, thoughtful. “It would certainly be a terrible blow to their reputation, would it not? And we have heard whisperings already that relations between church and empire are strained…”

“We could effectively threaten a schism,” Byleth says, only realizing the full implication when she’s formulated it down like this.

“Indeed. That’s quite some leverage.”

Sothis sounded pleased at the thought, and Byleth can’t disagree.

Seteth calls her in, and she enters, only to find that Rhea isn’t even present.

Instead, Seteth addresses her as ‘Professor Eisner,’ informs her she and Jeritza will be taking the Black Eagles to cut down bandits in the Red Canyon, and sends her on her way, the stern expression as fixed to his face as his dark green goatee.

As they leave, Sothis tries to offer reassurance– “I’m sure you’ll make a fine teacher, Byleth.”

To which Byleth can only respond by asking what happened to ‘we’.

Regardless, the two of them suppose that there’s little else to do but go to the Black Eagles’ classroom. Perhaps they’ll figure out where to go from here from there (“Ha!”).

So when they arrive and find Jeritza waiting outside, towering and blond and still wearing that white mask that covers the top of his face– when Jeritza, who is supposed to be her professor, greets her with a simple, “Hello, Professor.” she doesn’t know what to think or how to feel.

So she pushes open the doors to the classroom takes a deep breath, and walks to the front of the class.

Edelgard and Hubert regard her curiously, and Byleth says the only thing that comes to mind.

“Motherf*cker.”

* * *

… As it turns out, she’s actually pretty good at this teaching stuff. And Jeritza is actually a very good ‘little helper’, so to speak.

Really, he handles all the back-end stuff, it’s just lecturing that’s beyond him.

Small victories, right?

And, after the first few days of worrying, her lady actually seems fairly pleased at this turn of events.

Hubert finds it equal parts incredibly alarming and hilarious.

It’s not like the position doesn’t have its advantages– it offers an array of excuses and privileges they hadn’t had otherwise, allows Byleth to monitor and modulate workloads (her liege and her partner are occasionally rather busy), and lets her train and cultivate the class into officers, properly.

There are six of them- students other than Edelgard and Hubert, that is.

There’s Dorothea Arnault, a fellow commoner, albeit one of a different caliber than Byleth – a talented songstress, apparently famous among the nobility of Enbarr. There’s Petra Macneary, a princess from the land of Brigid, an archipelago to the east of Fódlan’s Fangs, and the energetic young Caspar von Bergliez, the Crestless second son of the Empire’s Minister of Military Affairs, Count Leopold von Bergliez. Then there’s the timid Bernadetta von Varley, daughter of the Minister of Religion, who appears to suffer from some manner of affliction of the nerves, and Linhardt von Hevring, the worst kind of prodigy, who would rather nap than apply himself, and happens to be the son of Count Waldemar von Hevring, the Minister of Domestic Affairs.

And, last (and certainly least, in Byleth’s rather biased estimation) is Ferdinand von Aegir, scion of House Aegir and son of Duke Ludwig von Aegir, the Empire’s bastard of a Prime Minister. Ferdinand is a loudmouthed fool who practically worships his family name, constantly harasses Lady Edelgard with meaningless competitions in a sad attempt to fuel some kind of chauvinistic superiority complex – most of which he loses spectacularly.

… He is not an unkind person, nor is he the awful man his father is, and, to Byleth’s knowledge, he has no understanding of what his father has done, nor the true consequences of the Insurrection of the Seven, which Duke Aegir led. He is… trying, and Byleth can see it. What’s more, she can see how the years of layered-on noble tripe are peeled back, one by one, every time the young man is exposed to the realities of the world, of Fódlan. He is tall, and probably handsome, with bright orange hair and eyes only a shade darker. And he is skilled with the lance and competent with an axe, and very fond of animals – particularly horses.

With guidance, Ferdinand von Aegir might become a fine fellow indeed– perhaps even worthy of the position his father holds as a matter of heredity.

Linhardt is an exceptionally-talented healer, more skilled in white magic than black– though his affinity for wind magic is certainly passable. He is primarily self-motivated, in Byleth’s estimation– while coursework seldom holds his interest or attention, scholarly whims often draw him in as surely as honey draws flies, and he’s especially fascinated by Crests and Crestology. Despite his tendency to idle, though, he does seem to care for others, which is maybe why he seems so unnerved by violence? Byleth doesn’t really understand, but then– she wouldn’t, would she? Linhardt is a little scrawny, with dark green hair, which he keeps tied back, and blue eyes, albeit a different shade from Byleth’s. Grayer? Hubert and Edelgard both seem to find his lack of drive rather frustrating, but at least he’s kind of funny?

Instructing Linhardt is going to mean learning more magic, on Byleth’s part.

Bernadetta is… sweet? She seems very small, though Byleth thinks that’s as much a matter of her personality and tendency to make herself as small as possible as it is her actual (fairly small) size. She’s very… flighty, and often jumps to fairly irrational conclusions in a manner that makes Edelgard believe she’s been treated very poorly in the past, like she’s always on the verge of being in terrible trouble through no real fault of her own.

She’s also a terrific marksman, easily better than Byleth herself (who is only competent), and a fair hand with a lance. Byleth hopes to get her onto a horse at some point – she seems like a natural fit for a horse archer, and her anxiety gives her a keen sense of danger which might help her to keep safe while skirmishing? She’s certainly good enough to deliver parting shots and harass enemy fliers already, in terms of marksmanship alone.

And her messy purple hair is cute! It makes Byleth want to pet her head, or look her in her stormy-gray eyes and tell her things will be okay.

Honestly, the Varley girl inspires a particular sort of protective instinct in Byleth, and Edelgard and even Hubert seem to feel similarly.

Caspar…

Caspar might be an idiot? Byleth isn’t certain. He’s a little small, and his hair is light blue – he keeps it almost shaggy, but quite short – and his eyes match.

He’s eager to fight, eager to prove himself. Energetic, and also energetic. A little loud? Kind of too loud, honestly. He likes to fight, and is very– Edelgard might call him unfettered. Very competitive, very excitable, and he has a strong sense of justice, which is good. His father slew Petra’s father, the King of Brigid, in the Dagda-Brigid war, and he’s apparently been friends with Linhardt since they were children.

Being Crestless and a second son, Caspar looks forward to no real inheritance, and as such is very driven to prove himself, to find a place for himself in the world? Between that drive and his sense of justice, he’ll be an easy recruit to the cause, and a stalwart ally thereafter, and he’s a fair hand with an axe, as well as a perfectly-passable brawler.

Petra Macneary is, essentially, a hostage of the Empire. She struggles with the Adrestian tongue somewhat, though Byleth finds it a little adorable, and she’s perfectly literate in the language (this actually makes it cuter that she sometimes stumbles with the language, and Byleth intends to deal with any who insult her over this with appropriate harshness). She’s the crown princess of Brigid, which her grandfather currently presides over as king; she was taken to Enbarr to ensure her homeland’s compliance in the wake of the Dagda and Brigid war, when the nations of Dagda and Brigid joined forces to invade the Adrestian Empire, only to be driven back and even counter-invaded.

Despite this, and perhaps because of Edelgard and Hubert’s stepping in to help her adjust, Petra remains determined to become a great warrior and a strong ruler, proud of her people and her culture. She aims to end the vassalage of her nation and stand on equal footing with the Empire, and, in Byleth’s opinion, the girl is perfectly capable of doing so, especially since Edelgard seems to approve so wholeheartedly of her ambition.

Petra is high-spirited and clever, and a skilled hunter, talented with the sword, axe, and bow. Magic escapes her, and she dislikes mathematics, neither of which Byleth expects to hold a woman of her caliber back in the slightest.

Petra is the only member of the Black Eagles with a darker complexion, with hair of a deep purple color – which she wears in a long braid, though she also has smaller braids about her head, by some technique Byleth can barely conceive of – and lovely brown eyes. She also has a small purple tattoo under her right eye, a little flattened, rounded chevron, which apparently marks her as a hunter among her people.

And Dorothea is… Dorothea is a lot. She was a singer at the Mittlefrank Opera House in Enbarr (and quite famous there as well), which is apparently very impressive, though Byleth has little understanding of such things, and she seems to be a naturally-gifted black mage, in addition to being very friendly and outgoing. As far as Byleth can understand, Dorothea was an orphan on the streets of Enbarr before she became famous, having essentially been adopted by Professor Manuela, all of which means she went from a life of deprivation and scorn to being idolized and objectified by the very nobles who allowed children like her to starve, homeless and alone.

Dorothea is more openly-hostile to Ferdinand than even Edelgard (who mostly finds him exhausting and uncomfortable, really), and cares little for noble status, while also providing a more grounded view of the commonfolk than Byleth, with her mercenary upbringing, could ever hope to offer. Naturally, it’s obvious to Edelgard and her retinue that Dorothea will one day be a valuable friend and ally.

… She’s also quite the flirt, even ‘making passes’ at Byleth, so to speak, which Byleth herself doesn’t really understand. She’s lovely, with beautiful green eyes and luscious, wavy brown hair, and an exceptionally sharp and empathetic person, decent with a blade– so why the hell would she flirt with Byleth, of all people?

It’s terribly strange, to be frank.

…

Essentially, none of these people are even remotely like Byleth, which means that, as she stands before the class, very aware that most of them have never taken a life, trying to figure out how she’s going to tell them that they’ll be killing bandits at the end of the month, she has no idea what to do.

Byleth has been killing people for almost a decade, after all.

And, unfortunately, Sothis is presently napping.

She’s already told Edelgard and Hubert, of course.

So now she’s standing at the front of the classroom, leaning on her desk, desperately trying to puzzle out how she’s meant to do this.

Dorothea, perhaps sensing something’s wrong, winks at her, and Byleth finds herself struck by an idea.

“Lady Edelgard,” she says, shooting a glance at her liege, “would you join me outside for a moment? I could use your counsel.”

Edelgard, as always, (is it always? Or does it just seem that way?) smiles.

“Of course, my blade,” she says, and stands.

“This will only take a moment,” Byleth assures the class, and the two depart, closing the doors behind themselves and stopping just outside the classroom.

Byleth runs the idea past her, she smiles and tells her retainer it ‘seems like a wonderful idea’, and, just like that, they return to class, Edelgard taking her seat and Byleth standing at her desk.

“As some of you may already know, or have heard,” she says, looking out across her pupils, her comrades, and a completely impassive Jeritza, “the Archbishop has tasked us with a mission this month. Several days ago, in fact, but I’ve been uncertain how to broach the subject until now.”

She flashes a sheepish, apologetic grin – as much of one as she can manage, at any rate.

“So, before we get into that, I’m going to ask each of you a few questions – very private questions – which you will answer by nodding your head ‘yes’ or shaking your head ‘no’. The rest of the class will turn to face the walls – with their eyes closed – while I ask and you answer.”

She scans the room, looking for any signs of confusion or dissent.

“Does anyone object to this, or have any questions?”

Bernadetta’s hand shoots up almost absurdly quickly.

“Yes, Bernadetta?”

“Wh-what kinds of questions, Professor?” she asks, and Byleth takes a deep breath through her nose, in and out.

“Everyone close your eyes,” Byleth says. “You, too, Bernadetta.”

She gets some confused looks, but they all comply– and she explains anyways.

“I’m going to be asking each of you if you have killed,” she says. “Even the tiniest reaction could give someone away, and, as someone who has slain so many men I couldn’t even begin to put a number on it, I would rather spare you all from the risk of any such judgement as even flinching at the words might bring about.”

“Oh.” Bernadetta says, in just the tiniest voice, and Byleth, despite their closed eyes, nods.

“With that out of the way,” she says, “everyone except Lady Edelgard, face the walls, please.”

There’s a great squeaking of chairs as only half of the class seems to even consider simply turning in their seats (Ferdinand.), and Edelgard opens her eyes, regarding her ‘teacher’ with a raised eyebrow.

“This is only a formality, of course,” Edelgard says, and Byleth smiles.

Her Lady is de facto answering the question aloud, before it’s been asked, to reassure the others, and let them know that their leader has taken lives in the past.

“Of course, my lady,” Byleth says, and begins: “Have you ever killed another human being?”

Edelgard nods.

“Have you ever hunted and taken game– killed an animal to feed yourself or another?”

Edelgard thinks about it for a moment, grimaces, and shrugs; Byleth tries to give her a reassuring smile. She knows the princess’ memory is a little… spotty, in places. It’s much the same for her, after all.

“Have you ever been in a fight? Taken part in a brawl or the like?”

“Does sparring with you count?” Edelgard laughs, and Byleth, exasperated, lets out an amused breath.

“Half-credit,” she says, after pretending to deliberate for a moment.

“Very well, my teacher,” says the princess, and laughs when Byleth shoots her the dirtiest look.

“Alright,” Byleth grouses. “Eyes shut, turn toward the wall.”

Edelgard complies, smirking, and Byleth sticks out her tongue before calling for Hubert to take his turn.

Obviously, Hubert has killed, and he sits there, chin propped up on the laced-together fingers of his hands, and bats his eyelashes at her, mouthing the question, ‘Are you going to flirt with me, too?’

To which Byleth replies, aloud, “Lord Vestra, I love you like a brother. Go f*ck yourself.”

He laughs (darkly, as always), she blows a raspberry at him, and they move on. She ignores any other laughter at the remark, of course, as is professional. (Ha!)

Ferdinand indicates that he’s hunted, as does Petra. Caspar nods so emphatically that he’s brawled that Byleth has to stifle a giggle, but there’s nobody in the room who doesn’t know that, so it’s fine. Linhardt looks at her incredulously with every question, finally explaining that the sight of blood makes him sick (aloud), which Caspar verifies.

Bernadetta has hunted, though she doesn’t look especially eager about having done so.

… and Dorothea has killed.

Mercifully, Byleth is more than capable of schooling her reaction to that.

She gives the songstress a reassuring smile and nod (she hopes) and asks if anybody needs a moment– largely for Dorothea’s benefit, obviously.

Dorothea smiles at her, if a little weakly, and nobody says or shakes their head ‘no’, so Byleth bids them to face forward and open their eyes again.

“Thank you, everyone,” she says, “I appreciate your understanding. I asked you these things because our mission this month is to dispose of a group of bandits in the Red Canyon.”

The students’ reactions are varied, and, glancing at the closed doors, Byleth says, “I don’t pretend to know what the Archbishop is thinking, nor do I relish the idea of sending teenagers into combat after one mock battle and two months of instruction, but Professor Jeritza is a master at arms-” the towering man actually smiles a little, at this, “-and I’m a veteran mercenary and an expert swordfighter. The two of us will keep you safe.”

“I will allow no harm to come to you,” Jeritza says, in that deep, distant voice of his.

“In a year of service to Lady Edelgard,” Hubert adds, “Miss Eisner’s performance has been beyond exemplary. I personally trust her with not only my own life, but with that of my lady.”

Byleth blushes. That’s high praise, coming from Hubert. Possibly the highest praise.

“I feel the same,” Edelgard adds. “I would stake my life on her skill, tactical acumen, and strength of character– and I would come out on top every time. If Hubert is my left hand, then Byleth is my right– and if he is my right hand, then she is my left.”

“I fear I am most certainly the left,” Hubert chuckles, saving Byleth from her escalating embarrassment as she rushes to argue with him.

“You can be the right,” she says, “you’ve been with her for far longer-”

“Yes, and I have operated in the shadows the entire time. You are altogether more presentable, Miss Eisner, and exemplify our lady’s ideals in a way I never could.”

“But I’m also no politician-”

“Which is a mark in your favor, need I remind you,” Hubert counters, and Byleth pouts.

“You are her Highness’ right hand,” he says, triumphant.

“Fine,” Byleth sighs, and realizes that, by this point, Edelgard is covering her mouth, mirth in her eyes, and everyone else is looking at herself and Hubert in some degree of shock.

Again, her face goes red, and she sets aside her lecture notes – on tactical maneuver – and calls for the class to move to the training yard.

She needs to assert her dominance and regain her respect as their instructor. (Or so she thinks.)

* * *

Chapter 3: The Beginning

Chapter Text

“So, Professor,” Hubert drawls, reclining languidly upon the lovely little couch in Byleth’s new office, “are you adjusting well to your new position?”

It’s a Saturday, the 17^th of the Harpstring Moon, and a lovely afternoon, and he’s ignoring the death glare the freshly-minted teacher in question is directing his way, while his- no, their lady glances back and forth between the two of them, looking slightly concerned.

Professor Eisner – Byleth, his friend and comrade, one of the few people in this world he knows he can trust – is seated behind her desk, poring over maps and relevant tactical information, planning their assault on the bandits sheltering at Zanado, the Red Canyon. Lady Edelgard is seated across from her, her brows furrowed, and presently fixes him with a lavender stare.

“She’s faster than me, Hubert,” their liege admits. “If she decides to go after you, I’m not going to be able to stop her.”

Byleth, for her part, smiles faintly at the praise, and Hubert smirks.

“In theory, she’s part of the Church, now,” he says. “Is it not my duty, then, to antagonize her?”

The (former) mercenary’s face falls, and he grimaces.

“I’m joking, Eisner,” he says, gently. “I know your loyalty to our lady and our cause is not so thin.”

Lady Edelgard offers the woman a hand, reaching halfway across the desk, and Byleth takes it almost automatically.

“Honestly, I’ve come to feel your position here could be a boon to us,” Lady Edelgard admits. “Jeritza’s loyalty is without question, but it’s a great reassurance to know that we have someone inside the Church who can be relied upon to handle delicate matters.”

Byleth tries to look reassured by this, but has little luck in fooling either Hubert himself or Lady Edelgard.

She returns her attention to her planning.

“… Edelgard, where’d you even find this Kostas asshole?” Byleth asks, completely blunt, and Lady Edelgard can only flush with embarrassment and laugh awkwardly.

Byleth raises her eyebrows– glances at Hubert as if to say, ‘That bad, huh?’

“Did you just go to the first seedy bar you could find and pick out the roughest, dumbest-looking cutthroat in the place?”

Of course, the look Lady Edelgard gives her confirms that she’d done just that, and their blue-haired companion sighs heavily.

“Next time, just ask me,” she says tiredly, and it seems to occur to Hubert and Lady Edelgard simultaneously that they should, in fact, have done precisely that.

… Next time, then.

“You’re right, my blade,” their lady says, looking equal parts fond and rueful. “We were rather foolish to forget that one third of our little coterie was a mercenary legend in another life.”

At that, Byleth chuckles.

“I think there are still horror stories about me.”

Hubert laughs, but Lady Edelgard seems a little concerned at this– and that’s fine. Their lady doesn’t quite understand, and Hubert’s certain Byleth would agree that’s for the best.

Let their lady wear white gloves; Byleth’s hands are stained with blood, and Hubert’s have long since been blackened by the cruel condemnation of ink and the miasmatic touch of dark magics.

Let their lady’s red right hand strike terror in the light. He would do the same, protecting the peace of night, his black hands bringing fear to those who lurk in the darkness behind closed doors. That, Hubert knows, is where he belongs. That is his place.

“I think I’ll be riding Leraje,” Byleth decides. “I’m not as practiced in the air or on horseback as I am fighting on foot, but I was easily qualified for my Pegasus Knight cert., and-” She was indeed: she’d passed the exam with flying colors, if Hubert’s memory served. (And it most certainly did.)

“-being up in the air will let me maneuver freely while keeping an eye on things from above, and that means being able to provide support wherever it’s needed.”

“And you’ll have an easier time relaying orders,” Lady Edelgard adds. “Was that your only thought?”

“No,” Byleth says, and their lady waits for a minute, expecting her to elaborate, only for the older woman to carry on as she had been, completely oblivious.

Lady Edelgard gives Hubert an exasperated look, but he only grimaces.

“… You’re worried,” he says, “aren’t you, Eisner?”

And now that he’s mentioned it, he can see it in her face, in her posture as she glances up at the sound of her name– the tension in her eyes, the invisible weight upon her shoulders…

Their lady seems to see it as well, now.

“Byleth,” she breathes, and squeezes the hand she’s still holding, obviously receiving a squeeze in turn.

“I have been given a duty I could not refuse,” Byleth says quietly. “And made to lead untested, uncut students into actual combat.”

Something flashes in the woman’s eyes.

“I have to consider the possibility of each and every one of them breaking, faltering, hesitating… even just failing to follow orders in the face of death.”

She sighs.

“And I need to make sure every single one of them has killed a man by the time we’re done.”

“Ah. That’s… quite a lot of variables, my blade.” says Lady Edelgard, and Byleth nods.

“And it isn’t as though we can simply leave men barely alive and have them finish the poor bastards; that’d be far more traumatic, more dangerous to pull off, and wouldn’t at all serve as a test of their nerves…”

Their lady shudders as she speaks, and, to her credit, Byleth quickly recognizes it’s happened.

“Edelgard?” she manages, and then understanding alights in her eyes before her gaze drops to the desktop.

“… I’m sorry, my lady,” she says quietly. “I hadn’t realized yours was-”

Byleth clears her throat.

“I suppose you know what I mean better than anyone else could,” she says halfheartedly.

“I do,” says Lady Edelgard, already composed again.

Hubert knows it’s obvious to them both that Byleth is currently thinking of herself as a void into which all good things vanish, never to be seen again, and, in all honesty, he doesn’t know what to do about that. What can one do? Offer platitudes? That was hardly on the table.

No, he had to trust in their princess to soothe their mutual companion’s wounds-of-the-soul.

Their lady brings Byleth’s hand up to her lips and presses a kiss to the woman’s knuckles, and immediately Eisner perks up a little.

Even Hubert has the decency to be a little embarrassed.

“What are you thinking, Byleth?” Lady Edelgard asks. “You’ll have Jeritza and the two of us at your disposal, of course.”

Byleth, even revitalized, sighs.

“I’m worried our only healer will faint at the sight of his comrades’ blood,” she says. “I’ve been practicing my white magic with him – me and Dorothea both, in fact – but Linhardt is by far our best at it, regardless of how quickly I might learn.”

“You are learning rather quickly,” Hubert interjects. “Despite being raised away from the Church, faith-based magic seems to come to you more naturally than that based in reason– you’re clearly able to channel something, unlike our dear Miss Arnault.”

“Dorothea’s had a rough life, from what I understand,” says Lady Edelgard, and, by the look on Byleth’s face, Hubert discerns that they probably don’t know the half of it.

The woman swallows, the apple of her throat bobbing.

“… There’s something I need to talk to you guys about,” she says, at length, and Lady Edelgard blinks.

“Is Professor Manuela having issues with your gendering medication again?” their princess asks.

“I-” Byleth’s cheeks flush. “sh*t, is that obvious?”

“You start to get a little moodier than usual,” Lady Edelgard admits, “is it a supply issue with the apothecary in town?”

“Yes,” Byleth says, “but-”

“But that’s not what she wishes to speak with us about, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says, perhaps a little more dryly than he intends, and their lady flushes pink.

“Right, of course. Please, my blade, continue.”

Byleth takes a moment to gather herself.

“Hubert, you once told me that, looking at me, you sometimes feel as though I’m engaged with dialogue with a second self, deeper within. Something with its own desires,” she begins, and Hubert stiffens.

“… And you told me ‘There might be something to that.’” Hubert says quietly.

Just what the hell is she about to tell them?
Is she one of Them? Perhaps a turncoat from their number? Or-

“For about a year, now,” Byleth says, “my closest friends and companions have been the two of you…” again, she swallows, “and a funny little ghost girl inside of my head.”

“What?”
The question leaves Lady Edelgard’s mouth, but it might as well have been Hubert’s own.

“I had dreamt of her all my life, I think? Always asleep upon a throne. It was always her or that battle…” she pauses. “I think I told you about my dreams, back then. She awoke the day I met the two of you, and- and I think a part of me did as well.”

Byleth’s gaze falls back to her desk, and Hubert speaks up.

“You think she’s more than just a hallucination.”

“I know she is,” Byleth says, “because she awoke to save my life – to turn back the hands of time so that I could save Lady Edelgard from that assassin’s blade without being gutted myself.”

She meets Hubert’s gaze. Then drifts back to Lady Edelgard’s.

“You once asked me if I had eyes in the back of my head,” she says, and, licking her lips, offers a slight smile. “I told you-”

“‘No, not quite.’ I believe.” their lady says softly.

“They’re not my eyes, after all.”

Byleth’s teeth worry at her lower lip. “She’s very sleepy, and she doesn’t remember much of what she was before, but she has the power to roll back time, to look where I’m not looking, and understand things I cannot.”

“Which is why you only sometimes seem to know things you shouldn’t,” Hubert says, and Byleth, despite herself, laughs.

“Sometimes that’s still me,” she admits. “But sometimes, it’s Sothis.”

Lady Edelgard blanches and goes as stiff as a statue.

“… Sothis,” she breathes, and Byleth’s eyes seem to light up.

“sh*t,” she says. “You guys really do know something?”

A pause, then.

“We thought it’d be Hubert, though-”

* * *

Edelgard feels cold. Feels the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, the gooseflesh up and down her arms.

Byleth has just uttered the name of the creator goddess herself, one of the more closely-held secrets of the Church of Seiros. A name Edelgard herself knew only because she was the crown princess of the Adrestian Empire, which was forged with the help of the very Saint Seiros herself.

“My blade,” she says, her tone warning, “if this is a joke-”

Byleth looks her straight in the eye. Any other day, it would be enough to make Edelgard wobbly in the knees.

“I’ll prove it to you,” she says flatly, and kisses Edelgard’s knuckles, just as Edelgard did to her mere minutes earlier.

“I want each of you to think of something I couldn’t possibly know.” She pauses. “Sothis is asleep right now, so I can’t have you each write it down and show each other and simply have her read it to me, but if you do that all the same, I can turn back time and tell you once-” she blinks, scrunching up her nose in thought.

“Actually, I suppose I could tell you before you’ve seen it-?”

She glances back and forth between Edelgard and Hubert. “Would one of those be better than the other?”

Edelgard shrugs, and Hubert does the same, and Byleth decides she can simply try again if they’re not convinced the first time– which is both perfectly sensible, assuming what she says is true, and entirely bizarre to hear.

Byleth stands, then, and turns to face the wall, and says, “Okay. Come up with your thing – don’t say it aloud, I can only do this so often – write it down and show each other, if you want, and then wait fifteen seconds and tell me what it is.”

Edelgard blinks, and looks at Hubert.

“If what you say is true-”

“From your perspective, you’ll never tell me,” Byleth says, a little pride seeping into her voice.

“But you still have to ask us to tell you so that you can come back and tell us-”

“Yes.”

Edelgard debates writing down something inappropriate out of disbelief before opting on the side of caution – if nothing else, Byleth truly did seem convinced of this, so the least she could do was not risk shaming them both.

‘My Uncle Arundel is long dead,’ she decides to write, ‘as is Tomas, the librarian. Wearing their skins are men named Thales and Solon. Please stop visiting the library.’

She passes her note to Hubert, who passes her a list of at least twenty numbers.

Which, in hindsight, was probably a more effective test.

And then Byleth turns around, alarm evident in her eyes.

“What do you mean, wearing their skins-” she says, and stops, thinking better of it, and turns to Hubert.

“Um. One three four seven- sorry, three two four seven five? One one eight, oh-four, one seven, two eight-”

“It’s eight two,” Hubert corrects, smiling to hide his evident unease, and Byleth thanks him like this is a normal situation and recites off several more digits before again turning to Edelgard herself, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Edelgard, my lady, what the f*ck does that mean?”

“Arundel and Tomas are members of a group I – and others before me – have taken to calling ‘Those Who Slither in the Dark.’” Hubert says smoothly. “As our lady wrote, their true names are-”

“Tal-es and Sole-un,” Byleth says, and Hubert nods.

“Thales and Solon,” he agrees, letting her know she was close but not quite right without correcting her, thoughtful as ever.

Edelgard guides Byleth back into her chair, removing the woman’s hands from her shoulders and clasping them between her own.

“Do you know the significance of the name ‘Sothis’, my blade?”

“Nope,” Byleth says, putting a smidgen of emphasis on the ‘o’. “But she thinks she’s also sometimes called ‘The Beginning’? We’re pretty sure that’s significant somehow.”

“Sothis is the name of the progenitor goddess, Byleth, my blade.”

Byleth only blinks.

“I didn’t realize the goddess had a name,” she admits.

“It’s something of a secret,” says Edelgard, and Byleth has the good sense not to ask how she knows of it if that’s the case.

“I think I can almost believe that she’s a- the goddess, given everything,” Byleth says, “but… why would she be…”

She gestures vaguely at the space around herself, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Here, with me?”

Edelgard, deciding she can’t think of a reason that wouldn’t simply be thinly-veiled flirtation, shrugs.

Sparing a glance at Hubert, meanwhile, shows a terrible smile on his face.

He catches her eye, and his grin only broadens.

“If she truly is the goddess,” he says, “and she’s been with you since the day you were first hired to protect Lady Edelgard…”

Gods’ blood, but that had been a day and a half.

“… then I take it we have at least her tacit-”

Byleth snorts.

“Tacit?” she says, her eyebrows arching high. “Hubert, she thinks you’re hysterical, agonizes about how Edelgard and I ‘dance around each other’-”

Edelgard flinches. Even the goddess?

“-she thinks Rhea doesn’t even treat me like a person,” Byleth continues, “and has outright helped me find what leverage I can against the Church potentially head-hunting me.”

At that, Byleth flashes a smug little smile. “It would never have occurred to me alone that our relative positions and the political landscape mean that, as Lady Edelgard’s retainer, they can’t make any overt moves without risking a schism with the Empire.”

“She’s supportive of you, then?” the princess asks.

“Absolutely,” her blade says, not hesitating for so much as a moment. “When I start thinking poorly of myself, she scolds me for it– even when she’s asleep, it seems to wake her, for some reason.”

“… And you say the goddess is a little girl?”

At this, Byleth pauses.

“She looks like one, but she’s far too wise and far too motherly to actually be a child. It feels like maybe…” again, she seems to struggle to find the words to express what she’s intuited. “Like it’s tied to her missing memories – like something…”

“Do you think she’s missing a part of herself?” Hubert asks.

“I-” Byleth licks her lips. “Sort of? She’s- she’s a complete person, but…” she pauses, for a time, her mouth twisting up in thought. “Maybe she’s not a complete being?”

“Perhaps that also explains why she’s attached to you,” Edelgard suggests. “Perhaps she’s a complete person in her own right, but some portion of what makes a god is absent, or elsewhere, thus her great, but limited power, and her lack of a corporeal form.”

“And her connection to me,” Byleth adds. “Maybe I have something that she requires to exist.”

“Hmm,” Hubert hums. “If she needs energy to sustain herself, as we do, that might go some ways towards explaining your appetite.”

Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg covers her mouth and tries not to laugh.

She’s eating for two-

“That…” Byleth starts, heedless of Edelgard’s internal strife. “That may be true.”

The older woman pauses.

“I wish you guys could talk to each other,” she says, after a moment. “You’d like her. She’s… honestly pretty funny.”

A pang of concern flashes through Edelgard’s heart.

“… Does she help you on the battlefield?”

Byleth looks at her like she’s asked if the goddess is a tiny bug that sits on her shoulder and whispers tactical advice to her.

“What? No. She’s a funny little therapy ghost who lets me turn back time, I’m the tactician.”

She looks almost offended, and, in fairness, quite rightly so.

“My cooking and lectures? Those are all me.” She smirks, then. “The political stuff? That’s at least half her. What she’s taught me, if not directly her.”

“Oh?” Hubert intones. “Is that all?”

Byleth hums. “I think her memory’s a bit better than mine, ironically enough. A lot of the time, I think she’d just tell you that two heads are better than one.”

“Obviously it sounds as though she’s asleep right now,” Edelgard says, “but do you expect her to wake at any time in particular? Is there some sort of interval, or…?”

“She’s not especially consistent,” Byleth admits. “Some things seem to really wear her out, but other times she’ll be around for most or all of the day.”

They let this sink in for a moment.

“Honestly,” Edelgard says, “it’s something of a relief to know you’re able to look out for us this way, my blade. That we need not worry so much about random chance…” she feels her face soften as she gazes up at the woman seated across from her. “That you can protect me from even the whims of fate itself.”

There’s a pain reflected in her swordsman’s eyes. She can see it, there.

Perhaps Byleth has already seen her die, or else suffer some manner of grievous wound or misfortune?

“This also allows us the opportunity to try our chances in other ways,” Hubert muses. “We need not be so terribly cautious with what information we expose to the enemy– Archbishop Rhea, for example. Imagine what we could learn if we let slip that Byleth is in communication with the goddess herself, had we no fear of permanent consequence.”

That was certainly food for thought.

But Edelgard’s thoughts were currently focused on Byleth.

“How often have you used this power?” she asks – she hopes – gently.

“Not very,” Byleth answers, offering something of a reassuring smile, “Hubert and I are good at what we do, to be frank. Sometimes I’ll run things back to avoid an embarrassing or stressful situation– you walked in on me changing, one time, and last fall I told Arundel to go f*ck himself, I think?”

Edelgard hides her pout at that first one, then her smirk at the second.

“Oh! To go f*ck himself with a broomstick,” she says, and smiles– then glances up to the side, returns her gaze to Edelgard, and blinks twice.

“Ah, that was-” she gestures at the empty air beside herself, and Edelgard forces herself not to pout at the removal of her blade’s hands from her own. “Sothis remembered.”

“So she’s awoken,” Hubert drawls.

Byleth, presumably in response to something Sothis has said, claps her hands over her mouth, scandalized.

“Sothis,” she hisses, and Edelgard decides this is probably the best time to greet the unseen presence.

“Hello,” she says softly, and waves in the general direction of the spot Byleth had seemed to indicate before. “Byleth tells us you’ve not only saved her life, but provided her valuable counsel.”

The princess bows her head to the supposedly-sassy specter. “For all you have done for her, you have my utmost gratitude.”

Byleth, for some reason, flushes red up to her ears.

She looks up and to the side again, and seems to have a silent conversation.

Then, she flinches.

“… No, you’re right, it probably is rude to have a conversation in front of them, now that they know,” she says, at length, “but I’m not going to let you use that to embarrass me in front of my friends-”

“I think you’re right,” Edelgard says, “I think we would enjoy speaking to her.”

Byleth somehow grows even redder.

“Of course I told them so, it’s- No!”

Hubert stiffens at the distress in her voice.

“Eisner,” he says quietly, “is your… friend… troubling you?”

Byleth covers her face. She looks like she wishes she could disappear – it’s terribly cute.

“You can’t kill her, Hubert,” Byleth says, “and, Sothis, if you think you can speak through me, then, sure, try. I think I’d like to disappear right about now anyways.”

Her tone is almost petulant, which is somewhat unusual for her, and then, more unusual, she speaks with another voice. A very childlike one, in fact.

Well, more cackles than anything. Still.

“Hubert!” She exclaims. “Little Princess!”

Edelgard tries to swallow down her instinctive horror, and Byl- Sothis seems to catch it immediately, her – Byleth’s eyes softening immensely.

“Do not fret, child,” she says, her tone soothing and sweet. “I will not take your Byleth from you. She is right here.”

A pause. “Ah, and she is very embarrassed I have called her your Byleth.”

Now that she mentions it, Edelgard finds that she’s rather embarrassed about it herself, and Sothis groans with Byleth’s mouth.

“Uuuugh.” She looks at Hubert. “Aren’t these two just disgusting?”

Hubert laughs.

Traitor…!

“Long have I wished to commiserate with you, my friend,” she tells him, “for you are the only one to watch, as I do, how these two fools have danced about each other-”

And Hubert, the treacherous bastard, rolls his eyes. “Don’t even get me started,” he laughs. “Tell me, Sothis- do they hold hands as incessantly in my absence as they do in my presence?”

Edelgard thinks she’d like to disappear right about now as well.

And then Sothis pauses, and a guilty look crosses her face.

“… Little one,” she says softly, her gaze turning toward Edelgard. “Byleth tells me the two of you have actually spoken on this of late. Is this true?”

The princess clears her throat. Finds that she hasn’t the words.

Nods.

They rather had, after all, hadn’t they?

And By- Sothis stands up from Byleth’s desk and bows to her. Deeply.

“My apologies, little princess,” she says. “I teased because I thought there would be no other way to get the lead out, so to speak.”

She pauses, then.

“Would it make you feel better to hear my precise feelings on that Archbishop woman? Byleth seems to believe you would be well-pleased by this.”

“Given we suspect you of being the progenitor goddess herself,” Hubert says, “I think I speak for both Her Highness and myself in saying it would be incredibly therapeutic.”

Sothis swallows, her eyes going wide.

“I-” again, she swallows. “We’ll discuss that later. It’s far too outlandish for me to entertain at the moment.”

“Can you recall our discussion from earlier?”

“I can, now that I know to look for it,” she says, a little distantly. “There are… you have all raised a number of interesting points, but the idea that this institution has been raised and run in my name for a thousand years… that I could be the goddess herself…”

She shakes her head and seats herself on Byleth’s desk, folding Byleth’s uninjured leg over the other, and, for just a moment, Edelgard swears she can see the fainest flash of green in Byleth’s lovely, cornflower-blue eyes.

“I will need time to consider that,” says the provisional goddess, “For now, allow me to explain just how vile that Rhea woman’s behavior towards our dear Byleth has been…”

* * *

It’s some days later that a familiar scream rouses Byleth from her sleep.

Leraje, likely sensing his master’s awakening, raises his wing, and Byleth rolls out from under it, where she was nestled against his side.

It’s improper, after all, to pack a tent on one’s pegasus– unnecessary and unkind to burden one of the beasts with such a luxury, as a pegasus cannot bear the same weight as their common, grounded kin. Certainly not as easily or as comfortably.

No, one riding a pegasus into battle is to sleep beneath their steed’s wing, or, when that is impossible, bunk with a comrade.

The scream, of course, is her lady’s, and she catches the eye of the Knight of Seiros keeping watch as she rises to her feet, nodding to them to indicate she’ll handle the situation.

In the morning, they’ll be marching into the Red Canyon to put Kostas’ bandits to rout.

“Goddess keep you, Professor Eisner,” they say to her, bowing their head, and Byleth responds in kind.

“And you as well.”

With all of that out of the way, she rushes to attend to her duty– to her lady, and, within moments, is ducking into the younger woman’s tent.

Her eyes adjust quickly to the darkness; Edelgard is halfway out of her bedroll, having obviously been tossing and turning in the night, and Byleth moves to kneel beside her.

“Edelgard,” she whispers, and the princess whimpers, her face contorting as she sleeps.

“It seems dire dreams trouble the sweet princess once more,” a sleepy voice muses, and Byleth can only nod glumly.

“Indeed it does,” she replies. What else is there to say?

She reaches for Edelgard’s hand, and the princess thrashes, jerking away from her– and, even knowing she’s asleep, it’s a little heartbreaking. The low whine she emits certainly doesn’t help with that.

“I am sorry, child,” Sothis whispers. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this– that she must experience it, and you must witness it. Were I truly a goddess – or at least the sort of goddess the people of Fódlan seem to believe I am – I would not allow it to be so, that such things could happen to children as to haunt them all their lives…”

“I know,” Byleth assures her, and lowers herself a little further just to halfway-scoop Edelgard up into her arms.

At this, the girl stirs, her lavender eyes fluttering open.

“Mn…” she groans, her voice hoarse with sleep, restless though it may have been. “Byleth? My blade?”

Her voice is so quiet, so vulnerable– Byleth’s heart strains just to hear it, even as her ears have no such trouble.

“It’s me,” she soothes. “I’m here, my lady.”

“I woke you,” Edelgard croaks, but she still nestles into Byleth’s embrace, still relaxes into Byleth’s arms, her cheek against Byleth’s breast.

“That’s true,” Byleth quietly admits, “but, more importantly, you woke my horse-”

Edelgard giggles sweetly and punches her in the arm.

Byleth couldn’t hide her smile if she wanted to.

“Feeling better already?” she murmurs, making no effort to disguise her amusem*nt.

Edelgard presses more closely against her, nestling into her body, and, though it is only just barely visible, averts her eyes.

“How could I not?” comes the whisper. “By the strength of your arms and the warmth you cradle me against, I know that I am safe– that I am loved.”

Byleth squeezes the woman just a fraction more tightly against herself.

“Yeah,” the swordswoman breathes. It isn’t as though she could deny it.

… After a moment, Edelgard tugs at her gently.

“My blade?”

“My lady.”

“Hold me?”

There’s that vulnerability in her voice again, the princess opening up to her. Despite herself, Byleth smiles.

“Of course, my lady,” she whispers, and eases her princess back into the bedroll, not expecting the woman to pull her right along with her.

“ Hmh! You thought to hold her from outside the bedroll, did you?”

She had.

Admittedly, she probably should have known better.

Still, she lets Edelgard drag her to the ground, and, after a moment of finagling, into the bedroll.

It’s warm.

The princess latches onto her, and the swordswoman allows it, draping one arm over the woman and letting her other hand card through soft tresses of long, white hair.

“It’s not as though she’s the first to need comfort on the eve of battle,” Byleth thinks as her smaller companion rests a weary head upon her bicep and lets out an odd sort of sigh.

“Indeed not,” Sothis muses, “but, ah, to see the two of you truly making some kind of progress, and at your own peculiar little pace…” She sighs, too, the same way Edelgard just had.

“I would call your princess’ sigh ‘dreamy’, and mine ‘contented’– similar, but contextually different.” Sothis explains.

“Ah, then she is well-pleased.” Byleth thinks happily, and Edelgard nuzzles into her, and Sothis has little to say to that.

It wasn’t as though the girl was wrong, after all.

* * *

Chapter 4: The Black Eagles, Blooded

Chapter Text

The battlefield today is holy ground, supposedly.

The Church had thought that very important to know.

Looking out over it – Zanado, the ruins and the Red Canyon which played host to their prey – Byleth feels an odd pang of nostalgia. She’d dismiss it as being for bandit hunting, or perhaps the terrain, but Sothis feels it, too, perhaps even more strongly, and, however distant her feelings may be, Byleth is perfectly aware that this is odd.

“I do not like that you take up the mantle of the Ashen Demon again so easily,” Sothis says, and Byleth simply nods her head.

“That is perfectly reasonable,” she replies. “I only hope the canyon will not be too red by the time I am done with it.”

Beside her, Sothis shudders.

“… Byleth?” She asks, quietly.

Byleth tilts her head.

“Yes, Sothis?”

“This terrifies you, does it not?”

“It does.” Byleth replies impassively, her tone painfully neutral. “It torments me. You are well aware of this.”

“I am, I just…”

“The reminder helps you accept it. I understand.”

“I fear it, Byleth.”

“Everyone who does what I have must find their own way to do this,” she asserts, and, horrible as it is, Sothis knows that it is Byleth who is the expert. “I am simply better at it than any other. For that, they fear me.”

“… They most certainly do.”

“Perhaps they will find a new name for me. Perhaps they will see I can feel and take to calling me half-hearted.”

“Your lady would be furious to hear such a thing.”

Byleth smiles. The expression, as genuine as the fondness in her eyes, is likewise every bit as devoid of warmth as her gaze. “She would. She is kind, and she cares much. For her, I am happy to be a sword.”

“I am glad, at least, that you are not so unfortunate and easily-swayed as to have become a blade of the Church.”

Down below, in the canyon, armed footmen move about.

“I am not so weak-willed,” the swordswoman says, and glances over her shoulder at the Black Eagles, the majority of whom are currently taking breakfast.

“… Were it permissible, I would kill every bandit in that canyon myself rather than make them do it.”

“I know, Byleth.”

She watches the bandits for some time longer.

Eventually, a hand settles on her shoulder.

“Good morning, my liege,” she says without turning, and Lady Edelgard sighs.

This one is neither dreamy nor content.

“I mislike this, my blade.”

Byleth straightens and turns to face her.

“You’ll be happy to know you and Sothis are of a mind, then,” the swordswoman says simply.

She smiles, and it’s even slighter than it normally is.

“Even when I put my heart away, it warms it to know you care for it so.” She pauses, and the mask of the Ashen Demon softens slightly.

“Waking up with you in my arms, nestled against me and completely at peace…” Edelgard meets her eyes, and she smiles, almost softly. “Those moments – those memories – are what makes it worthwhile. Know that it is they that I will hold closely to my heart on this day, and know that I cherish you so dearly I know not how to give voice to it.”

Tears form in the corners of Edelgard’s eyes, and Byleth patiently brushes them away.

“Even like this, my lady, I have feelings. They are buried, somewhere deep down, but they are there, and I feel them. I feel everything.”

But her eyes are blank, and her face is blank, and her soul is blank, and it troubles and frightens her lady so.

A lamentable failure on her part.

Powerful arms wrap around her, pulling her into an embrace, and she smiles like a vessel that isn’t quite so hollow as her creators might think, be they gods or otherwise.

“You’ll not be dissuaded, then,” Edelgard breathes against her neck, and Byleth laughs– a hoarse sort of sound. It’s not a question her lady is asking, but a statement she’s making.

“No,” she agrees. “My resolve is unshakable. I will do whatever I must to protect all of them.”

“Tell your little girlfriend I’m sorry, if you would.” Sothis says miserably. “I can’t help but feel I’m at least partially responsible for this.”

“Sothis is apologetic,” Byleth says. “She feels somewhat responsible, and asked that I convey her apologies to you.”

“I- to me?”

Byleth blinks. “Unless there’s some other woman she’d call ‘my little girlfriend’ that I should know about,” she jokes, and Edelgard buries her face into her tunic. Hiding a blush, Byleth assumes.

Though maybe it’s further heartache and despair.

“… Byleth, if you break this girl’s heart, I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t think you can kill me, Sothis,” Byleth whispers aloud, so Edelgard can have at least some idea of what’s going on (to be honest, it’s nice to be able to actually speak to Sothis sometimes), “so we’ll have to have Hubert do it.”

“Hmm. That’s fair. I trust Hubert to see to the deed, if he must.”

“Good. If he had to, Hubert would kill me in a second,” Byleth says, and smiles. “It’s reassuring to know, admittedly.”

“You’re not making this any easier, my blade,” Edelgard complains, and Byleth clarifies immediately.

“Sothis said she’d kill me if I broke your heart, but I think we’d need Hubert to do it.”

“… And why is the goddess so protective of me?”

“Because I know you, fool.” Sothis answers immediately.

“She says it’s ‘because she knows you, fool,’” Byleth says. Her affect still barely wavers.

“Well,” she huffs, “I’m glad someone understands how upsetting this is.”

Byleth grimaces at a dull pain in her stomach– the distant twisting of guilt.

“I apologize, Lady Edelgard,” she says, and hangs her head a little.

The shame bothers her more than it should.

Troublesome.

* * *

The Ashen Demon watches each of her flock of eaglets kill with all the care of a mother bird, swooping down upon their enemies with couched lance and sword-stroke alike, at multiple points dismounting to tear through a stubborn enemy formation like a whirlwind stained in blood.

Bandits like these scarcely put up any real resistance, after all.

All she has to do, she reminds herself, is guide them through this slau- battle. Then they can all go home, and she can pretend to be normal. Pretend that this isn’t the only thing she’s ever truly known, that a sword is even worth the air she breathes-

“Byleth.”

“My apologies.”

Dorothea electrocutes a man with her magic and laughs awkwardly as he falls, dead, to the red soil.

“Is making us experience battle part of the Church’s teachings?” she asks, and the Demon simply meets her eye and nods.

Nearby, Petra opens a man’s throat with a swift swipe of steel and recites a private-seeming mantra to herself, and Ferdinand von Aegir rattles off something about his nobility, no doubt to keep his nerve.

Proceeding in this manner, the Black Eagles secure a central plateau and take their measure of the area from there; two bridges connect it to the lower table upon which their enemies reside, one to the west and one directly ahead, to the north. Sothis again notes that this place feels somehow familiar, and Byleth, almost to her own surprise, agrees– that pang of nostalgia has grown into something more. She leaves the little spirit to her own devices– perhaps she can investigate while Byleth is otherwise occupied.

Jeritza rides up alongside Byleth, his lance well-blooded, and regards her with a sort of quiet amusem*nt as she pets Leraje’s muzzle, murmuring an apology for the red spatter that mars his pristine white coat and feathers in places.

“You fight well,” he intones, gladness and approval warming his otherwise monotonous affect, and Byleth nods, and tells him the same.

“My blade,” Edelgard says coolly, approaching her with a casual step and faint concern in her eyes, “Why don’t we split up and attack the enemy on two fronts? If we advance tactfully, we should be able to break them in relative safety.”

Byleth smiles at her. “I was thinking much the same. How would you prefer we split our forces – Hubert and Petra are the natural choices for a more subtle maneuver, along with perhaps Bernadetta. We could send Jeritza with them, and I could support your advance on the north bridge by cutting into the enemies’ flanks from Leraje.”

“Alternatively,” Edelgard offers, “I could take you, Hubert, and Petra to the west, leaving Professor Jeritza to lead the charge.”

“I would much rather the latter,” Jeritza says, and Byleth nods, more than amenable.

She and Hubert preferred that at least one of them be with Lady Edelgard, of course, so both was essentially ideal.

Byleth turns to Leraje and again strokes his muzzle.

“Alright, partner,” she tells him, “stay here, and come to me if I whistle.”

The stallion whinnies his understanding, probably, and she gives him a little treat– horse bread with lots of currants.

She gives him a pap-pap-pap on his neck and turns to examine and inform her students. They’ve all lined up for inspection, much to her approval, and she starts down the line without any ado.

Ferdinand smiles bravely at her, staunchly refusing to let the blood on himself or his teacher bother him, and she acknowledges him with a nod.

He is, despite her better judgement, an alright fellow.

She licks her thumb and cleans a bit of blood from his brow, then claps him on the shoulder.

“I saw you step in to cover Caspar when he risked overextension,” she says. “Good man.”

Something in his posture eases somewhat, and she moves on to Caspar.

“I like the sense of justice,” she tells her sole comrade in having blue hair (even if his is substantially lighter), “but remember that you have an axe and comrades to rely on. Try not to get overexcited when brawling, alright?”

He beams at her, and she tousles his hair.

“Alright!” he exclaims, and even the Ashen Demon almost laughs at his energy.

Bernadetta is next, and the girl is as small and jittery as ever.

Byleth remembers watching her kill a man with a well-placed shot, her hands stone-steady on bow and arrow alike.

“Will you be alright once we get you feeling safe again?” Byleth asks, and Bernie, however shakily, nods.

“Y-y-yes, Professor!” She blurts, and Byleth smiles at her.

“Good lass,” she says, parroting her father, and gently pets the girl’s head.

Agoraphobia aside, little Bernie would be an excellent sharpshooter one day. Moreso than she already is, at any rate.

Petra is next in line, and the Brigid native gives Byleth a stern nod, which Byleth returns.

Her composure is impeccable, her skills undeniable. The swordswoman almost doesn’t know what to say to her.

“You’ll make a fine queen one day,” Byleth eventually settles on, and apparently it’s apropos, because the girl smiles brightly.

“Thank you, Professor,” she says, “I am glad to be having- to have your support.”

Byleth gives her a half-bow (no more than is appropriate) and moves on.

Dorothea looks shaken, and Linhardt is outright rattled.

Obviously, Dorothea had already killed, and had done so again earlier today, but Linhardt hasn’t spilled a single drop.

The fact that he’s this affected from the mere proximity is… worrying.

… In fact, who the hell decided to send a hemophobe to an officers’ academy in the first place?

She’d read a little about it the other day– hemophobia, that is. The book had said that it was unique as a phobia because it can actually cause dizziness and fainting, and Professor Manuela had confirmed that, at the very least, that sounded right to her.

Bernadetta’s agoraphobia was and is much easier for Byleth to understand– it was like she was stuck being tactically-sensible even outside of battle, and the veteran mercenary could more than understand that. (Just making sure she had a trusted companion with her when she needed to come to class has been a marked improvement, and it seems like it’s good for her socially as well, which Byleth feels is a nice side-bonus).

So she’s found it frustrating that she doesn’t understand Linhardt’s predicament.

As she’s contemplating this, she notices a trickle of blood running down Dorothea’s forehead – and the well-concealed cut in her scalp whence it came – and reaches up to heal it, recalling Linhardt’s lessons on the channeling of faith-based magic and putting them into practice. White magic dances across her fingertips, and suddenly Linhardt is there, instructing her again.

“To heal a wound, Professor,” he says, “you need to channel the magic steadily, maintaining an even flow of energy. Focus on turning those sparks into a steady glow, and then let it wash over the wound, invigorating the body’s natural ability to heal…”

And Dorothea watches, wide-eyed, as the blood-soaked swordswoman and the hemophobic scholar calmly go through the steps of healing a cut she hadn’t quite realized she even had.

“… Professor?” the songstress asks, and the expressionless mercenary tilts her head at the slightly-taller woman.

“Is something wrong, Dorothea?”

For a moment, Byleth thinks Dorothea looks like she has no idea what to say.

“You fixed Lin, Professor,” she laughs halfheartedly, and the mage regards her with an expression nearly as blank as Byleth’s.

“How rude,” he says, and says no more as Byleth reaches up to pat both of their heads simultaneously.

“You’ve both done a very good job so far,” she says. “Keep it up and we’ll be back at the monastery before you know it.”

She pauses, then, for a moment, and something in her expression betrays some distantly-felt, hard-to-identify emotion.

“I’m proud of you both,” she says, and steps back to address the others more broadly, raising her voice.

“I’m proud of you all,” she tells them, and immediately sets about informing them of the plan going forward.

Which is fortunate, as it seems nobody knows quite what to do with that.

* * *

Petra had heard a bit about Byleth, before, but they’d only really met when they came to Garreg Mach– Edelgard knows because it’s her that Petra heard about her from, and she can’t help but wonder what her fellow princess’ impression of the woman is, now that the two have spoken, have fought and studied together. They seemed to get along well enough. Did Petra approve of her new (compared to Hubert) retainer?

She’d seen them exchange a few words when Byleth checked up on the students other than Hubert and herself, but she hadn’t listened in, of course, and she hadn’t exactly studied Petra’s facial expressions while they’d talked – and Byleth was Blank right now, even if she hadn’t been facing away from Edelgard at the time.

They certainly didn’t seem hostile, at least, and they’re working together well enough now–

Edelgard is roused from her thoughts as an axeman charges her; she parries his sloppy overhand blow with a simple raising of her shield and buries her own axe into the crook of his neck. Applying a bit of torque to the haft, she wrenches her weapon free with a sickening snap of bone or sinew (she neither knows nor cares which), and the man collapses to the dusty ground beneath their feet, incapacitated and possibly well on his way to death.

At her shoulder, Byleth silences a swift-footed swordsman with a stutter-strike of her lance – feinting at his belly before popping the spearhead up and burying it into his throat with a single, vicious thrust – the man’s horrible gurgle not seeming to faze her in the slightest. Of course, Edelgard is little better, but she still grimaces at such gruesome sights and sounds as that.

As much as the princess feels Byleth helps her keep her humanity as a leader, she can’t help but wonder if Edelgard helps Byleth retain hers through combat. Perhaps they’re stronger together in that way.

It’s a nice thought, if nothing else.

Far nicer than thinking about what Hubert’s dark magic does to the human body.

Because he casts a deep purple miasma on one of the enemy’s archers, and the bowman staggers a half-step backwards, his hands going to his throat, his eyes widening before Petra, with the snap of a bowstring, shoots the poor bastard dead.

Abruptly, Byleth nudges Edelgard to the side with her hip– a moment later, an arrow streaks by, and she realizes it would probably have embedded itself in her shoulder had her sworn blade not done that.

And she wonders: did Byleth have to turn back time for that? To prevent a potentially-debilitating injury for someone who fought with axe and shield? For someone Byleth cared for? Or had she simply noticed the archer, deduced the woman’s target and reacted accordingly?

Perhaps it had simply been instinct and intuition.

She’s afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

And Edelgard wonders: how many times could she watch Byleth or Hubert die before it destroyed her?

She’d done many times more than her fair share of watching people she cared about die already.

She wonders what happens if they fail. If she plunges Fódlan into war and chaos and bloodshed, just to die before she can change the world for good.

Byleth has told her, in the past, that even if that were to happen, it wouldn’t have been for nothing. Edelgard had often used that sort of phrasing. ‘All for nothing.’ and the like.

Byleth has told her that, even if they fail, and they all die, and things go back to some semblance of how they were before… it will have been worth it merely to try. And things will never be able to truly return to the way they were– you can open a man’s breast with the tip of your sword, and you can close that wound with white magic, but you can never undo the cut. The scar – the memory-- remains. And perhaps one day, someone will see that scar, and know that the man can be wounded – can be killed – and maybe, just maybe, they’ll be the one to succeed at finally killing the son of a bitch.

It was a very ‘Byleth’ sort of metaphor, but poignant, in its way. Perhaps poignant in and of itself.

And Edelgard sorely wishes it was that Byleth at her side, fighting with her, shoulder-to-shoulder.

At least the creator goddess is at least as disgruntled with the woman as she is. If not moreso, given the two share a body, or however they might refer to their particular… arrangement.

Another trio of bandits meet them as they advance. Hubert blasts the woman in the middle with yet more shadowy miasma, and Byleth kills her while she’s distracted, then harries the men facing Petra and Edelgard with her spear, forcing them to make mistakes and open themselves to killing blows from their respective princesses.

More blood soaks into the soil of the holy site.

They spy Kostas shortly; the man, still as big and brutish as ever, shelters in an ancient ruin, illuminated from below with the blue-green light of enchanted defensive tile.

He’s at the intersection of the peculiar L-shaped shelf, and as they near him, the rest of the Eagles also come into view– Jeritza at the head of their formation, all of them well and accounted for, if a little more ragged-looking than when Edelgard had last laid eyes on them.

She lets out a little sigh of relief at the sight of them, and, to her surprise, she hears Byleth do the same behind her.

Her blade must be terribly relieved for it to come through even the mask of the Ashen Demon– perhaps the Church had been onto something, assigning her a teaching position. Not that she’d ever admit that, of course. Nor would she forgive them the transgression of trying to steal her swordsman away from her.

The sun is beating down upon them from directly overhead, and Edelgard has to wipe the sweat from her brow as they approach Kostas’ position.

The four corners of his little stronghold are occupied by broken pillars of marble, limiting approaches, but that suits the Adrestians just fine– Byleth is already whistling for Leraje when Edelgard gives the order to box the bandit chief in, and her fellow Eagles swiftly oblige, with Byleth herself flying to cut the man off from behind.

Kostas, for his part, shouts some nonsense at the woman– and then, to Byleth’s apparent surprise, hurls a hatchet at her.

Edelgard’s surprised, too, but only even moreso when the former mercenary can’t manage to fully twist out of the way in time– when the bit buries itself into Byleth’s shoulder, and the woman cries out, nearly falling off of her pegasus.

The princess doesn’t see red, per se, but she’s upon the bandit before she knows it. He’s half-turned to face her when she introduces him to her axe, and then she does see red.

She sees some more when she cuts into him again, and yet more still when she buries the head of her weapon in his breast.

He falls to his knees before her, terror in his eyes, and she opens his neck with her fourth and final stroke.

And Edelgard stands there, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, and watches Kostas keel over dead.

It takes her a second to remember herself – to remember Byleth – and rush over to the woman, all else forgotten.

“Linhardt!” she shouts, and swears to herself she’ll kill the fool if anything happens to her swordsman on his account.

But the mage hurries over and quickly begins dealing with Byleth’s wound, and Edelgard von Hresvelg can let out a sigh of relief as he babbles something to himself about it being perfectly treatable.

White mages, for some reason unbeknownst to her, cannot directly heal themselves with their magic– spells like Nosferatu can allow them to heal themselves with vitality pulled from others, but the reason Byleth doesn’t just heal herself is the simple fact that she can’t.

The fact has never been personally frustrating to Edelgard until now.

More than that, there’s something particularly unsettling about seeing Byleth injured. Like it just shouldn’t happen.

It makes the princess uneasy– and, surveying her classmates with a long glance, it seems she’s not alone in feeling that way. A fact which both relieves her and tweaks a possessive nerve– she reaches up to her mouth, feeling her busted lower lip, and grimaces. One of the first bandits they’d encountered had managed to make her kiss the rim of her shield, so to speak, and, in hindsight – now that she has the opportunity to reflect on it – she feels like a complete and total amateur.

A gloved hand rests itself on her shoulder, and she glances back to acknowledge its owner (Hubert, of course) with a nod.

She turns back to see Byleth climbing down from the saddle, and some force compels her forward. And she lets it– makes her way over to their Professor, her retainer, at a brisk walk.

She catches Byleth’s eye as the woman turns around, but there’s little more time for Byleth to do anything more than recognize her before Edelgard is upon her.

“Lady Edelg-” she manages, and then Edelgard’s hands are upon her, gathering fistfuls of her tunic, and she drags Byleth close, pulls her down to her height and looks her in the eye.

And then Edelgard kisses her. She has a fat lip, Byleth’s are chapped from flight. It’s perfect, and Byleth turns to putty, all but melting against her, and drapes her arms around Edelgard’s neck, sighing dreamily into the meeting of their mouths.

Somewhere behind her, she hears Dorothea cheer – she probably should have expected that, really – and she grins against Byleth’s lips.

Her heart pounds. Her blood roars in her veins. They are alive and their enemies are dead– and Byleth is hers. The thought sends a thrill racing up her spine.

She pulls away for a moment, and the big blue eyes that gaze back at her gleam with something inscrutable – something like adoration, perhaps – and she knows the Ashen Demon is gone. This is her Byleth.

Edelgard kisses her again.

Her blade. Her Byleth.

Hers.

The mere notion makes her giddy.

The kisses help, too.

* * *

Chapter 5: The Crest of Flames

Chapter Text

Byleth drifts along in a bit of a daze. She and Lady Edelgard are near the head of the formation, but Jeritza is leading the way, thank every god, so all she needs to do is follow along. Leraje can essentially do that himself, even: all she really has to do is not fall out of the saddle.

Apparently her earlier injury had rather worried her lady – or perhaps it was seeing her be wounded? – because Byleth found herself rather thoroughly kissed in in the aftermath of the battle with Kostas’ ragtag band of marauders.

It was nice! Very nice indeed!

Nice enough to obliterate the distance she’d put between herself and the world in an instant, in fact.

Now they’re headed home to the monastery, and Edelgard, even riding, is close at her side. Close enough they could reach out and touch one another, even on horseback.

It’s… strange? Strange, but very pleasant.

She imagines that, if she had a heart, it’d be pounding right about now.

But she doesn’t, so it isn’t.

The strangest part, she thinks, is that Hubert is giving them space.

She supposes that means he’d been sincere in his teasing.

Sothis had laughed so hard she’d tired herself out and gone back to sleep.

…

She steals a glance at Lady Edelgard.

She looks… happy. Contented, in a way Byleth hasn’t seen before. There’s a warm smile on her face, and she’s humming herself a tune, and even the purple ribbons in her snow-white hair, fluttering in the breeze, seem somehow carefree.

What’s really strange is the positive impact the Kissing Event appears to have had on morale: why are the Black Eagles so pleased that the head of their class has kissed their professor?

Byleth doesn’t understand.

Well. Dorothea, she understands- ah, and Caspar.

… Petra, too. And Ferdinand.

And it makes sense that Bernadetta might be kind of happy about it.

…

Linhardt doesn’t care, but that’s no surprise to anybody.

Okay, so maybe Byleth understands a little.

… Couldn’t Ferdinand be even the least bit scandalized?

Somebody had to at least be a little surprised, surely. Maybe in one of the other classes. Or- or Seteth! Surely Seteth, of all people, would be both surprised and scandalized.

“What troubles you, my blade?” Edelgard asks suddenly. “You seem deep in thought.”

Byleth nearly jumps out of the saddle at the sudden intrusion into her thoughts, and Edelgard laughs.

After taking a moment to compose herself, Byleth leans over in the saddle, towards her lady, and quietly lies, “You-know-who and I felt like the Red Canyon was familiar– she did her best to look around while we were fighting, but we haven’t talked about what she observed just yet.”

The princess’ sworn blade blushes faintly. “She tired herself out laughing at us– or, about us, I suppose.”

Edelgard hums appreciatively. “Interesting. We’ll have to talk with her later. But, my blade, what were you really thinking about?”

Lavender eyes bore into Byleth’s, fond and amused and knowing, and she reddens a little further.

“It feels like that didn’t surprise anybody.” Byleth says. “Are we really that- I don’t know, obvious?”

Edelgard reaches out a hand to her, and Byleth takes it automatically, humming quietly as she does.

“I believe we are, my dear blade,” says her lady, and, glancing at their joined hands, it occurs to Byleth that maybe she has something of a point.

* * *

Bracing herself, Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg casts a look about the empty hallway before letting her gaze resettle on the wooden door before her.

The second floor of the administrative building is hardly as busy as the entrance hall, and, in this moment, Edelgard finds herself grateful that should be so.

She shuffles her feet, smooths down her hair.

Peers up at the polished brass plaque on the door.

SIR JERALT EISNER
CAPTAIN, KNIGHTS OF SEIROS

Byleth’s father is, by all accounts, a kindhearted and accepting man. Hell, she’s met him before– a handful of times, no less!

Across the hall – that is, directly behind her – is Seteth’s office. Next door to that is Professor Hanneman’s office, where Byleth presently is.

The two of them have some time before they’re meant to report to the Archbishop on the status of their mission, and Byleth had apparently agreed to visit Professor Hanneman for some tests when she could. Byleth decided to take the opportunity, and Edelgard decided she had something that needed doing herself…

And now she’s here, and far more nervous than she really ought to be.

She steels herself, reaches up, and raps her knuckles on the door.

From inside, a gruff voice calls– “Come in.”

Edelgard turns the handle and enters.

Sir Jeralt Eisner is a giant of a man, grizzled and, it cannot be overstated, very, very large. At least three times the size of his daughter. There’s a prominent scar on his cheek, and he wears it like it’s natural – like it’s simply another feature – and it kindles a tiny bit of hope in Edelgard’s heart that perhaps one day she, too…

…

Honestly, the man doesn’t really look all that much like the swordsman-professor. She really must take after her mother, then– with sandy-blond hair and beard, both shaggy, facial features easier to carve from stone than to paint, and olive eyes which narrow slightly as he registers that the imperial princess has arrived unexpectedly at his door, he barely resembles the woman Edelgard so adores.

“Sir Eisner,” she says, hopefully not too stiffly.

“Princess,” he replies.

A moment of quiet.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t think you’re old enough.” He pauses, his eyebrows lifting as he tabulates some unspoken figures. “Hell, by Adrestian law, I don’t think Byleth’s old enough.”

Edelgard blinks. “… Is she truly only twenty?”

He thinks some more. Seems to consider for a moment whether or not to lie or dodge the question before co*cking his head – ah, there’s the resemblance to her blade – and meeting her eyes, his gaze appraising.

“… It’s the first of the Garland Moon, 1180?” He asks, and Edelgard nods.

“She’ll be twenty-one on the twentieth of the Horsebow Moon,” he says. “You’re, what, eighteen, nineteen?”

“I’ll be turning eighteen in three weeks,” she says. “Twenty-second of the Garland Moon.”

He makes a noise like he neither expected that answer nor was entirely surprised by it.

“An’ you’re here about her, of course,” he says, and it strikes Edelgard that he’s almost comically hunched over his normal-sized desk. “The kid cause some sorta trouble? Or is it contract negotiations?”

At this, Edelgard allows herself a small smile.

“No, no, nothing like that. Quite the opposite, in fact,” she says, and tries not to let any blood rush to her cheeks (with only middling success). “I’m-”

She swallows.

Come on, El. You can do this.

“I’m here to inform you that I intend to court your daughter, Sir Eisner,” she says, forcing herself not to blurt it all out at once, and the man leans back in his chair and whistles.

“Oh, okay, so not in trouble at all,” he says, mostly to himself.

The venerable knight-captain stares at the ceiling for a minute, then lowers his gaze back princessward.

“You askin’ permission?” he asks.

Edelgard’s smile widens a little as she shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “Your daughter is a grown woman, and I will pursue her whether I have your approval or not. I inform you out of respect and out of courtesy– any decisions she makes on the subject are hers and hers alone.”

The knight laughs from deep in his belly.

“That’s the spirit,” he says, almost proudly, and gives her an up-nod. “If you wanted my approval, kid, you’ve got it.”

Edelgard beams despite herself, and offers the man a rare bow.

If anyone calls her on bowing to someone of lower station, she can always suggest he’s the esteemed father of a potential future empress– obviously she’s not thought quite so far ahead as that, but anybody who’d be offended by the gesture is the sort of person who very much doesn’t need to know that.

“Tell you the truth, Princess, the kid’s crazy about you– I don’t think you’ll have any problems on that front.”

Edelgard nods respectfully– obviously she’s aware of that already, but it is important information, and he doesn’t particularly need to know that. Especially given he’s just told her – he knows she knows regardless, now, after all.

There’s a knock at the door, then, and an awfully-familiar voice calls, “Father?”

“Come in, kid,” Jeralt replies, and the door swings obligingly open to admit one Byleth Eisner.

“Papa,” she says, closing the door behind herself, and turns to Edelgard, half-bowing. “My lady.”

Edelgard and Jeralt share a glance, and he asks, “You aren’t makin’ her do that, are you?”

Edelgard shakes her head. “I understand why she and Hubert do it in public, at least, but at this point, I think she must think of me as ‘Lady Edelgard’.”

Byleth turns a little pink at that, and, for a moment, Edelgard wishes she had a Sothis to switch places with for a minute.

Instead, the princess can only groan.

“At any rate, my blade,” she says, turning to the swordsman in question, “I’ve already told your father of my intentions; there’s no need to keep up appearances.”

“If she wanted to date somebody stiff and formal, kid, she’d have her pick of one of a dozen noble pricks,” Jeralt says, and Edelgard snorts in spite of herself.

(Blessedly, she already knows Byleth finds that cute rather than unladylike, so she’s perfectly safe to snort to her heart’s content, here.)

Byleth grimaces, however, and says, “Hanneman says I have a Crest, but his machine can’t identify it.”

Edelgard steals a glance at Sir Jeralt, who wears much the same grimace.

“Can you activate it?” he asks, and Byleth, however hesitantly, nods.

She closes her eyes and seems to reach deep inside herself, and then-

Edelgard’s eyes go wide as she feels the Crest resonate within herself. Within her blood.

And, seeing this, Jeralt grimaces.

“… It’s not the Crest of Seiros,” he mutters, and Edelgard moves to lock the door, which raises exactly two eyebrows.

“What I’m about to tell the two of you cannot leave this room,” she says, and though she knows Byleth will heed her on this, Jeralt…

“You’ve got my kid’s heart in your hands, Princess,” he says simply, his expression softening somewhat. “And I shouldn’t have a Major Crest of Seiros anyhow.”

He grins. “So I’ve already let a cat out of a bag, here.”

“You have a Crest of Seiros?” Byleth asks, and looks at Edelgard, confused and verging on a little alarmed before her father again speaks.

“Yeah, kid,” he rumbles, “but I didn’t get it the normal way, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

And, indeed, Byleth lets out a sigh of relief – and again looks to Edelgard.

“… Don’t you have a Minor Crest of Seiros-?” she begins, and the imperial princess nods sharply.

“I do,” she affirms. “But I also have the Crest of Nemesis, the King of Liberation – the Crest of Flames-”

Byleth stares at her in open confusion, and Edelgard regards her with a fond smile.

“-as do you, my blade.”

Jeralt nods, thoughtful, and scratches at his beard.

“Crest Resonance,” he mutters, and Edelgard nods in turn, and steps over to take Byleth’s hands.

“Admittedly, I’d had my suspicions already,” she says. “Hubert and I have discussed the possibility before, but- for Hanneman’s Crestology apparatus to be dumbfounded by it, it can only be the Crest of Flames. I’ve felt the resonance before, but never so strongly as just now, when you called upon it directly.”

“… Can you call upon yours?” Byleth asks, and Edelgard obliges – reaching deep within herself to call on the unnatural power transfused into her very essence – only for Byleth to let out a surprised squeak and actually, physically jump.

She paws frantically at her chest, blue eyes wild, and, after a moment, stares Edelgard directly in the eye.

“Do that again,” she says, and Edelgard does so- and Byleth’s eyes widen only that much further.

“My heart moved,” she breathes. “I- it’s never done that before-”

“I’ve only ever called upon my Crest of Seiros,” Edelgard admits, “for fear that someone – you, honestly – might find out about it.”

“Nemesis didn’t have any kids,” Jeralt adds, and tilts his head in Edelgard’s direction. “She didn’t get it the normal way.”

“No,” Edelgard agrees, her eyes never leaving Byleth’s, “and neither did you.”

* * *

Sothis is talking a mile a minute, and Byleth can’t understand a f*cking word of it.

All she understands is the blood rushing in her ears.

“I’ve told you about my scars,” Edelgard explains, glancing over at Jeralt – at Byleth’s father, her papa – “but I’ve left out the reason why this was done to us in the first place.”

Her lady’s voice grows more and more hoarse with each word.

“They wanted to create a peerless Emperor,” she says, “to unite all of Fódlan under Imperial rule. And to do so, they implanted us with the Crest of Flames.”

She smiles sadly.

“I was the only one to survive the procedure.”

Byleth’s mouth goes dry, and Edelgard reaches up to cup her cheek with a silk-gloved hand.

“Are you-” the princess swallows thickly. “Please tell me you aren’t the same.”

Byleth doesn’t know what to say. Maybe she doesn’t know how to speak anymore?

But her father speaks up instead.

“She’s not, kid- er, Princess.” He says, his eyes hard. “Byleth’s got a scar over her heart and no heartbeat – and she’s been that way since the day she was born.”

He shakes his head. “Rhea… I don’t know what she did, but whatever it was, it’s the reason you’ve never cried, not even as a baby. And I imagine it’s why you have that Crest, too. Has to be.”

“She was born here?” Edelgard asks, and Papa nods.

“Her mother was a cleric, here. Rhea delivered her, said Sitri – her mother – died in childbirth. And she gave me this baby that didn’t laugh or cry, with a pulse but no heartbeat.” Again, he shakes his head. “I dunno what she did, but… there was a fire soon after, and I used the chaos to take the kid and get the hell outta here. As far away from Rhea and the Church as possible.”

Byleth watches Edelgard’s free hand ball into a fist at her side.

“… I’ll kill her,” Edelgard starts, her shoulders shaking, and Byleth bends down to give her a peck on the forehead.

“I’d like to find out what she did to me,” Byleth says softly, and offers her best, winningest smile. “And besides, if you get to kill Rhea, then I get to kill Arundel and Aegir.”

“There’s also the fact that the Archbishop is an ancient f*cking dragon,” Jeralt interjects, and Edelgard laughs– a short, harsh sound.

“Oh, I’m aware, Sir Eisner,” Edelgard says, but Byleth – and Sothis – are still stuck on that word.

Dragon.

“Who was your mother?” Sothis asks, and Byleth dutifully repeats the question.

“I… Rhea treated her like a daughter,” Jeralt says, “but I was never really sure-”

“I- I need to know, Byleth. Your princess looks to feel the same way. Let us go to her – to Rhea – and ask. We shall learn all that we can, and then we shall turn back the hands of time and return here, to inform the others.”

Byleth looks up at her – and she catches Edelgard taking notice of it – and nods.

“Sothis insists that we ask Rhea herself,” she explains, mostly to Edelgard – Papa doesn’t know, after all – “find out what we can, then turn back time and inform you guys what we’ve found.”

“Do you intend to heed her?” Edelgard asks quietly, and when Byleth nods, she kisses her.

After a moment, they separate, though Byleth is admittedly rather reluctant to do so, and Edelgard gives her what she chooses to interpret as an order:

“Then come back safe, my blade. I’ll… do my best to explain to your father.”

Byleth bumps their heads together, eliciting a giggle out of the princess, and, glancing back at her father and her lady-friend (Sothis laughs at that one) once last time, turns to leave them, however briefly.

* * *

They find Rhea in the audience chamber, as per usual, and don’t even bother ensuring any sort of secrecy. It doesn’t matter, after all.

Byleth’s bootfalls echo off of the stone-title flooring, the only sound in the room, and the Archbishop smiles beatifically, seemingly unfazed by what Byleth is sure must be a deeply unimpressed expression on her face.

As for Rhea, she’s in the same kind of pure white gown as always, she’s as… shapely… as always, her hair is as long and lovely and lime green as always, and her over-elaborate headdress is perched upon her head in exactly the same way as always.

“Rhea,” Byleth says, her tone harsh, “who was my mother? Who was Sitri Eisner?”

A whole kaleidoscope of emotions flash across Archbishop Rhea’s face. Byleth catches guilt and shame among their numbers, and Sothis detects fear and surprise and even a moment of anger, in addition to a strong overtone of anguish and sorrow, but eventually the woman’s expression settles into a slightly-strained smile.

“Oh, child,” she coos, and Byleth’s hand drifts to the hilt of her sword, her eyes hard as steel.

She doesn’t give voice to the threat. She doesn’t even know what she’d say.

But the look on her face must be enough for Rhea to recognize it’s not an idle one, or perhaps simply that the matter is serious, for she speaks more directly, then.

“Sitri Eisner was like a daughter to me-”

“Was she like a daughter, or was she your daughter?” Sothis and Byleth ask in unison, which saves Sothis the trouble of having to have Byleth relay the question, at least.

“That’s…”

“Your own goddess is in my ear asking, woman,” Byleth says flatly. “Is that your doing? What did you do to me. Who was my mother? Speak, and speak plainly.”

“The goddess…” Rhea breathes. “Truly?”

Byleth bites down on the urge to mouth off at the woman.

“Yes,” she says instead. “Now-”

And Rhea tears up.

“Mother…” she breathes, and darts forward all of a sudden–

“Byleth!” Sothis cries, and Byleth is already reacting, her sword already ripping free of its scabbard-

And Rhea stops, the tip of the silvered steel sword just barely touching her neck.

“… Your mother,” she begins, looking anywhere else for a moment before finally meeting Byleth’s eye, “Sitri, was…” she seems almost to struggle to find the words.

“A vessel for the goddess,” she says, at length, and Sothis screams in frustration.

“What does that mean?”

“She was… an artificial being.”

“Was she a dragon, like you?” Sothis asks, and Byleth repeats the question, only for Rhea’s eyes to go wide.

“I- that’s a complicated question, child. She was Nabatean, yes, but she never expressed any sort of transformation– she never assumed the form of a Divine Beast.”

“So- yes and no?” Byleth says, and Rhea nods as best she can with a sword at her neck.

“Byleth,” Sothis says softly, “do you mind if I…”

“Take over? Go ahead. I’m…”

“Exhausted?”

“Yes.”

She watches through their shared eyes, then, as Sothis begins to speak.

“What have you done to Byleth? What have you done to this child?” She snaps, and Rhea’s eyes go wide as can be.

“Mother-!?” she gasps, and Sothis presses the sword a little further into her flesh, drawing a trickle of blood down the blade.

“If I am truly your goddess, I know not-”

“It is you, Mother,” Rhea insists. “I know it is.”

“Very well, then. What have you done to this child?”

Rhea swallows, albeit with some apparent difficulty, given the sword and all, and says, “The child was stillborn, Mother. Sitri, her mother, she- she had your heart. She, too, was going to die – she was such a frail thing, my Sitri – and she asked me, begged me to take her Crest Stone and use it to save her child-”

“And so you did,” Sothis says quietly, and relents somewhat with the sword.

Rhea nods.

“And so I did. I plucked the heart from my daughter’s breast and implanted it into the child’s – into Byleth’s.” She looks at Byleth’s face, then, and smiles gently. “You made a handsome baby boy, but you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman– you look so very much like your mother.”

Byleth flinches at this, albeit not physically – a strange sensation, that – and Sothis presses the woman further. “You made her, and thus considered her your daughter?”

“Yes. Moreso than any of the previous vessels, Sitri was full of life and love– she was a bright spot in every life that she touched, and I quickly came to love her as a child of my very own. To lose her was…”

“And my Crest Stone– it bears the Crest of Flames?”

Rhea blinks at her, her confusion obvious. “Yes, but… you truly don’t remember?” she asks, and Sothis nods soberly.

“My past before Byleth is obscured to me,” she admits. “Are you truly my child?”

Rhea nods fervently. “I am Seiros, the Immaculate One, the youngest of your children-”

A flash of memory, then. White scales and wings; teeth and tail and horns. Seiros, the Immaculate One.

“Ah,” she breathes, and then scowls.

“Then, as your mother, allow me to tell you that what you have done here – to this girl, to this country – is vile beyond measure-”

* * *

It’s several minutes later that Byleth re-enters the room, and Edelgard almost jumps at the sound of her entry. She’d been starting to worry, after all, but she’s done her best to explain things to Sir Jeralt, who, thankfully, has taken everything remarkably well– something about being some centuries old, he said? Edelgard wasn’t ready to unpack that, frankly.

“Did you-”

“We turned back time,” Byleth confirms, “but… we had a lot to think about.”

“Take your time, my blade,” Edelgard soothes, and grabs her swordsman by the arm to lead her to the little couch Sir Eisner’s office, like many others, seems to boast. “I don’t care in the slightest if we’re late to our debriefing with Rhea, and, at this point, I doubt you feel any different.”

The curse Byleth breathes out indicates to Edelgard that she’d forgotten about that, which is adorable, but- well, they have more important things to worry about.

“Rhea seems convinced Sothis really is the goddess,” Byleth says, after Edelgard has coaxed her into sitting down, “and my mother, Sitri, was someone she made? A Nabatean, and she made her to be a vessel for the goddess. She had Sothis’ crest stone for that reason, and- I was stillborn, and S- my mother was going to die as well, so she asked Rhea to give her – Sitri’s – heart to me, to save my life.”

Edelgard blinks.

Does that mean her girlfriend is… half-dragon? She assumes ‘Nabatean’ is what the so-called- well, not so-called anymore, apparently, are they? She assumes that’s what the Children of the Goddess, who it sounds like were very literally-named, called themselves Nabateans, and that’s…

Well, it sure is interesting.

“My mother never turned into a dragon, though? Ah, and- Rhea said she’s Saint Seiros, and-”

“The Immaculate One,” Edelgard finishes for her, and Byleth nods.

“Goddess,” the swordsman sighs, “is this what people mean when they say they need a drink?”

“Yes,” Jeralt says, “but they mean a drink of something strong when they say that, not just smallbeer or watered-down wine, and you’re not old enough for that, and neither is she.”

He gestures at Edelgard with that last bit, and Byleth co*cks her head.

“… How old are you, anyways?” she asks, and when Edelgard answers, she blanches.

“You’re seventeen?!” her retainer blurts, and then pauses. “I’m- I mean, I’m older than that-”

“You’ll be turning twenty-one on the twentieth of the Horsebow Moon,” Edelgard reports proudly, and Byleth turns just that little bit paler.

“She’ll be turning eighteen in a couple of weeks,” Jeralt assures his daughter, yet she still seems mortified.

“I’ve been flirting with a seventeen-year-old,” she wheezes, and Edelgard scowls.

She’s beginning to think she understands how Lysithea feels when people treat her like a child.

“Mostly it’s been me flirting with you,” the princess says firmly, “and, need I remind you, I will be Emperor before the year is out-”

“I was probably three-hundred-something when I met your mother, kid,” Jeralt says, “trust me, you’re fine. If it really bothers you, just don’t sleep with her until-”

“I killed several men yesterday,” Edelgard snaps. “I am not a child.”

Jeralt goes somewhat sheepish at this, and Byleth counters, “I could have said the same years ago, when I was very much a child-”

And Edelgard sighs.

“No, you know what, that’s fair, I knew that about you,” she says, “but I’m not going to hold off on being intimate with you for three weeks because of an arbitrary date-”

“Well, what if I decide we’re fighting?”

“Kid, I’ve watched you two interact. You’ll get as far as ‘We’re fighting.’ before you cave and agree to do any of the stuff you guys normally do.”

Now that he says that, Edelgard can’t help but think– doesn’t that sound rather cute, actually?

She can just imagine it – they walk into the classroom, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Byleth, seeing everybody looking at them, insists, “We’re fighting.”

There’s a simple way to test this hypothesis – Edelgard snuggles up to Byleth’s arm, hugging it and laying her head on the older woman’s shoulder, and agrees, “Alright then, my blade. We’re fighting.”

And, indeed, the way Byleth lights up is adorable.

“See?” she says, and goes to fold her arms across her chest, only to realize Edelgard’s got a hold of one and immediately relent.

“We’re fighting,” she continues, regardless, and Jeralt shoots Edelgard the most exasperated look that’s ever been shot and sighs.

“And I imagine you’ll be fighting for three weeks?”

“Mhm!” Byleth affirms proudly, and Jeralt produces a wooden flask from his desk and takes a long draught from it.

Edelgard, meanwhile, is rather satisfied with this. Her dear, sweet Byleth can be a little silly, and a little strange, but- she wouldn’t be Byleth if she wasn’t.

Besides, it wasn’t her problem if people didn’t believe they were fighting.

Whether it’ll be Byleth’s remains to be seen, she supposes?

And three weeks doesn’t seem so bad, really.

* * *

Their debriefing goes smoothly enough, which is more than a little awkward for Byleth and Sothis, but Rhea does reveal some interesting tidbits. Namely that, ‘according to legend’ (ha!), the goddess either descended from the heavens at Zanado, or did so and then went to Zanado? Her phrasing was a little unclear, but neither Byleth nor Sothis felt like pressing her for specifics on the matter.

She claimed it was a “temporary haven” for her – the goddess, that is – and that it could only ever have been such. They didn’t know what to make of that.

The rest was just religious talk – Byleth had the goddess in her head, and said goddess didn’t know sh*t about the Church of Seiros, so she felt pretty safe glossing over it.

Funnily enough, after their debriefing, the two (or three) of them go to be debriefed by Hubert about the debriefing (and the events preceding it).

That goes pretty well, too, though- when Byleth tells him she and Edelgard are fighting, he just looks at their linked arms and raises an eyebrow. Like that wasn’t why Byleth was telling him in the first place?

Obviously if they’re not being affectionate, then it’s not necessary to explain that they’re fighting?

What’s worse, Sothis and Edelgard both seem to find this very amusing for some reason.

It’s all rather distressing, but fortunately Edelgard seems to know how to soothe her, which seems like a very desirable skill in a partner, really.

She’s not entirely certain they ought to be kissing when they’re fighting, though.

That seems wrong, somehow?

But Edelgard says it’s okay, and, well, it’s their relationship, so if they feel like it’s okay for them, then it’s probably okay for them.

(It feels nice to think of it as their relationship. Like they, together, are a thing. Which, in fairness, they are.)

For a few days after that, things are nice and relatively peaceful, and Byleth and Edelgard do their best to help the rest of the Black Eagles through the aftermath of their first mission.

And then the Archbishop calls them in to be assigned their mission for the Garland Moon.

* * *

Chapter 6: Family

Chapter Text

“Crest Resonance can certainly make you feel a bit of a pull, so to speak, but it doesn’t inspire… ardor,” Edelgard assures her once-again-worrying girlfriend. “If it did, we’d see a lot more noblemen having liaisons with their cousins than we do currently.”

She’s currently lounging with her head in Byleth’s lap (the highest of luxuries, as near as she can tell), and her sworn sword is looking down at her with those big, blue eyes in that way that makes her heart ache just a little bit.

“So,” Byleth says softly, “this is real? This- we’re-”

And Edelgard’s heart breaks a little.

“Yes, my blade,” she soothes. “This relationship, these feelings you and I share? They’re real, and nothing to do with the burdens we carry in our blood. Perhaps it is fate, if you believe in such things, but other than that…”

Byleth leans down and kisses her. Edelgard has to lift her head a bit for her to do so, but she’s hardly complaining about it, and as they part, she captures her lover’s lower lip between her teeth. She drags them slightly over it as they separate, and watches with some delight as Byleth’s face goes beet-red.

“Edelgard,” she whimpers, and Edelgard finds she’s rather glad they’re somewhere private – Byleth’s room, in this case. There’s something almost sinfully-decadent about pillowing her head in her partner’s lap when there’s an actual pillow just two feet away, and the princess luxuriates in it the way lesser royals might indulge in most everything in their lives.

Edelgard doesn’t think she’s ever anticipated a birthday as much as this coming one, not even as a child.

“I know you worry, my blade,” the princess says quietly, sitting up to look her companion in the eye, “but I won’t let the Archbishop poach you like some fancy Faerghan chef. I swear it.”

Byleth rewards the sentiment with another kiss, and it warms Edelgard to her very core.

This one runs somewhat deeper, and, at length, she finds herself moaning the woman’s name against her lips.

“Byleth,” she groans, heated and breathy, and her precious swordsman pulls away, her ashen features painted imperial crimson.

“W-we’re fighting,” Byleth stammers, and the sheer terror on the woman’s face knocks the air out of Edelgard’s lungs, dragging an exasperated laugh from her sadly-unoccupied lips.

“I hope you understand the bed you’re making,” she teases, “and that we’re likely to lie in it.”

Byleth’s eyes are wide and pleading, and more than a little afraid, and Edelgard kisses her again.

How this woman can be so cute and so unremittingly dangerous at the same time, she can only speculate.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” Edelgard assures her, gently as she can, and Byleth lets out a quiet whine as their lips part, setting her forehead against that of her princess.

“You won’t have to,” comes her whispered admission, and, oh, but this woman is dangerous in ways she doesn’t even begin to understand.

Edelgard swallows thickly.

“… Is that what frightens you so, my Byleth?” she asks, and, reluctantly, Byleth nods.

“You have Hubert to slip you poison if you hurt me,” Edelgard says, “but who’s to hold me accountable, should I hurt you?”

Byleth grimaces. “I- I’d say ‘my father’, but– frankly, you’d never forgive yourself.”

Ah.

She’s got a point, there, hasn’t she?

Edelgard realizes she’s scrunched up her face when Byleth raises a hand to cup her cheek, and she’s leaning in to kiss the woman once more when a knock at the door interrupts them with a start.

“Professor Eisner?” calls a young boy’s voice, and Edelgard thinks she recognizes him as Cyril, the young Almyran boy the Church had taken in (and subsequently allowed to do far too many chores, even if only of his own initiative and volition).

There’s a silent look of understanding between the two women, and they quickly rise and straighten each other’s uniforms (and Edelgard’s hair– Byleth’s is always a mess, so she’s fine) as Byleth calls out that she’ll be just a moment.

Edelgard sits at her retainer’s desk and pretends to be working on something (ironically, one of her very own essays stares back up at her from the tabletop) while Byleth answers the door.

“Lady Rhea wants to see you and your boss about your next mission,” he tells her, and, glancing over, she watches as Byleth simply nods.

“Got it, thanks.”

“No problem. See you later, Professor.”

The boy leaves, and Edelgard and her retainer share a glance.

“… Your boss?” Edelgard echoes, a wry twist to her mouth, and Byleth shrugs.

“Hey, at least he respects that I’m yours first and foremost,” she says, only to immediately flush red again as Edelgard’s grin turns catlike.

“Hmmhmm,” the princess hums happily. “You most certainly are, my blade.”

The two prepare themselves quickly, largely needing only to pull on their boots and belt on their swords– Edelgard’s a ceremonial officer’s saber, as per the uniform, while Byleth dons her ever-present and rather more practical bastard sword. The contrast, Edelgard feels, is striking, and only highlights the gulf between a woman like Byleth – an expert swordsman and veteran mercenary – and noblemen playing at being leaders of men, like Lorenz Hellman Gloucester of the Golden Deer. The Gloucester boy wears his saber like a peaco*ck handed a badge of honor; Byleth wears her sword like the weapon it is, at once burdensome and effortless.

When they’ve armed themselves and made sure Edelgard’s hair is presentable, they set out for the administrative building, and, idly, Edelgard hopes this month’s mission won’t be anything too rough on the rest of the Black Eagles.

* * *

Archbishop Rhea stands at the far end of the audience chamber, as she always seems to for these meetings, as perfectly-serene and welcoming as she always seems to be. At her side, as is often the case, stands Seteth, examining a slim sheaf of papers in his hand, his expression stern.

“Professor Eisner, Princess Edelgard,” says Rhea, nodding to each of them in turn, “I have a new mission for your class.”

Seteth looks up from his documents.

“We have received reports from Gaspard in the Holy Kingdom that the local lord, Lonato, is rallying troops against the Church of Seiros.”

Byleth blinks.

“Any word on why?” she asks, glancing at Edelgard, who stands to her right, and Rhea sighs.

“Lord Lonato is a minor lord of Faerghus, and a vassal of Count Rowe. Apparently he’s been growing increasingly dissatisfied with the church for the past several years, now, and it’s finally reached a boiling point.”

Well, Byleth thinks, that was almost an answer.

“And now it threatens to spill over the sides of the pot,” Byleth says, and Rhea nods.

“Precisely, Professor.”

“A vanguard unit of the Knights of Seiros was dispatched to Castle Gaspard this morning,” Seteth explains. “Lord Lonato’s forces are nothing compared to the might of the knights, so it’s quite possible the rebellion will have already been suppressed by the time you arrive.”

“Even so,” Rhea says, “I would like the Black Eagles to accompany the knights’ rearguard to assist with the aftermath– provide aid to any displaced civilians and the like.”

Again, Seteth picks up from Rhea leaves off. “That said, war zones are unpredictable. You should not have cause to do battle, but I advise you to be prepared for the worst.”

He folds his hands behind his back.

“Any questions?”

Edelgard takes a half-step forward. “This seems like a Faerghan affair– why assign this task to us, rather than the Blue Lions?”

Rhea smiles sadly.

“Lord Lonato Gildas Gaspard is the adoptive father of Ashe Ubert, one of this year’s Blue Lions,” she explains.

Seteth once again steps forward to supply further information:

“I believe you faced him in the mock battle a little over a month ago,” he says.

Byleth thinks she remembers the boy– gray hair, maybe green eyes, freckles. A bowman, carries himself quietly. A promising scout, in all likelihood.

Rhea inclines her head.

“Lonato will likely fight to the last; given the circ*mstances, we felt it would be more cruel and unusual than harsh but instructive to deploy the Blue Lions for this task.”

“I can respect that,” says Byleth, and Edelgard nods her head.

“Instead, the Blue Lions will be investigating an old fortress on the Adrestian-Faerghan border this month– we’ve received word from a nearby village that an odd young woman passed through and has since gone missing, alongside reports of a…” Seteth pauses and looks down at his notes. “… A ‘tremendous fracas’ from within the fortress in the early hours of the very next morning.”

Byleth and Edelgard share a glance– and grimaces.

“That’s uncomfortably suspicious,” says Byleth.

“Almost too much so,” Edelgard adds. “Do you think it could be a trap?”

“I wondered the same,” Seteth admits, “but if it was, then for whom?”

“We’ll be sending a sizable detachment of knights along with the Blue Lions, just in case,” Rhea assures them, and then the doors to the chamber swing open, fairly decisively ending the discussion.

Byleth turns to see a Knight of Seiros enter, and notes that she’s pretty good-looking. Tanned skin, messy blonde hair pulled into a low, rough ponytail. A f*cked-up sword on her hip. Pale blue eyes.

Facing the archbishop, the knight bows at the waist, pausing only to excuse herself.

“You sent for me, Lady Rhea?” the woman asks, and Rhea nods serenely.

“This is Catherine,” she says. “She will be leading the detachment of knights whom you will be accompanying to Gaspard.”

Catherine turns to Byleth and extends a hand, grinning lopsidedly.

She has something of a roguish charm to her, Byleth finds, which seems a little odd for a knight? But then, who’s she, the ex-mercenary, to judge, really?

“Eisner, right? Byleth Eisner? Nice to meetcha,” she says when Byleth shakes her offered hand, “the knights have heard a lot about you, you know.”

“I promise only the parts that make me seem cool and attractive are true,” Byleth jokes, and, to her pleasant surprise, Catherine barks with laughter.

“You’re alright,” the knight says, calming herself, and winks. “If you need anything, just ask, alright?”

Byleth blushes a little, but nods all the same.

“Catherine is one of our bravest knights,” Rhea interjects, probably for the sake of rescuing Byleth from an awkward moment, “and that is no small feat. Only an exceptional few have what it takes to join the Knights of Seiros.”

There’s a quiet pride in her voice as she speaks, which only makes it all the worse when she continues, “This mission should prove useful in demonstrating to the students how foolish it would be to ever turn their blades on the Church…”

Byleth senses Edelgard stiffening beside her, and tenses herself, her hand drifting to the hilt of her sword of its own accord.

“What?”

And Rhea blinks at her, as if she can’t even begin to understand Byleth’s surprise.

“Pointing a sword at the Holy Church of Seiros is akin to pointing it at the goddess herself. Meting out appropriate punishments to the sinful…” she shakes her head sadly. “It is a sacred duty with which we have been entrusted.”

“As a member of the church yourself,” Seteth says, “I hope you will take that to heart.”

At that, something within Byleth snaps. She has to force herself to open her mouth to speak, rather than letting her words filter through gritted teeth, but she manages.

“Seteth,” she says, a little shakily, “have you been led to believe I was offered a position within the church?”

The way his brow furrows at her inflection gives her her answer, and she turns to scowl at Rhea.

“I was told to come and meet with the Archbishop, possibly to discuss a teaching position,” she explains, her eyes blazing. “Do you know what happened instead? I entered this chamber and found only you, Seteth, already calling me Professor and telling me I was to take the Black Eagles to cut down brigands in the Red Canyon.”

Seteth has long since gone rigid; the man looks distinctly uncomfortable, now.

Byleth’s affect, meanwhile, has begun to flatten.

“I never accepted a position, here. I was thrust into one and accepted the reality that, if I didn’t step up, the Black Eagles – who were meant to be my classmates, need I remind you – would receive subpar instruction, and that if I was being called Professor all of a sudden, I probably wasn’t a student here anymore. It was a fait accompli, Seteth, and she left you to deliver it.”

The man turns to Rhea, his stern expression only hardening.

“… Is this true, Lady Rhea?”

Rhea lowers her gaze, shamefaced, and Catherine steps forward, barely hiding her scowl.

“Easy, now, you two,” she cautions, glancing between Byleth and Seteth. “I’m sure she had her reasons,” she continues, and shoots a furtive look at the Archbishop. “Right, Lady Rhea?”

Distantly, Byleth realizes that Edelgard has taken her hand, and is squeezing it tightly.

“I do,” Rhea admits, after a moment, and raises her head to look Byleth right in the eye.

By this point, the swordswoman can hear Sothis stirring beside her– just to her left, opposite Lad- Edelgard.

“I wished to keep her here,” the Archbishop says, never once breaking eye contact – even as she takes a shuddering breath – “because I raised her mother, Sitri Eisner, as my own daughter.”

Beside her, Edelgard gasps sharply – albeit not for the reason the others would expect – and Byleth watches with quiet interest as Seteth turns to look at the woman in white.

“… So you roped her into teaching here,” Catherine says, as though she’s just finished figuring something out. “I gotta say, I don’t really get why it couldn’t have waited, but- it’s not so bad.”

The knight steals a glance at Byleth.

“Right?” she asks, and Byleth nods.

“I’m certain every one of us has done worse,” she concedes, “but it’s not the only thing she’s lied about or kept secret, either.”

“… That’s true as well,” Rhea says softly. “Byleth has every right to be angry with me.”

“I’m glad she understands that, at least,” Sothis remarks, and Byleth opts to share the sentiment.

“I’m glad you understand that, at least,” she repeats, and gives Edelgard a sidelong look, paying no mind to whatever Rhea’s reaction to their words might be.

“Shall we take our leave, Lady Edelgard?” she prompts. “We’ve a mission to prepare for, and-” she glances up at the knight and the two Children of the Goddess meaningfully, “-I believe they have much to discuss among themselves.”

“Yes,” says the princess, reluctantly releasing her grip on Byleth’s hand, “let’s.”

“Yes,” Seteth says in turn, a moment later, “I believe we do.”

Byleth and her lady turn and leave, and Sothis seems to hold her breath until they’re safely outside of the audience chamber, whereupon she turns in the air and asks, “Am I your great grandmother?”

Byleth just shrugs. What difference does it really make?

* * *

“Hey, Professor? Are you really the Archbishop’s granddaughter?”

Byleth turns from the blackboard – where she’s drawing up a scenario in which an irregular force ambushes a column of passing knights (Hubert and Edelgard have done an amazing job of not laughing at how on-the-nose the lesson is) – to regard the speaker, Caspar, with a curious look.

“That’s essentially what she told us,” she says, “and, before you ask – no, I really wasn’t given the option to turn down this position, and, no, that doesn’t mean I regret working with all of you.”

“You know,” Sothis says, “I had not realized it would be this easy to sew the seeds of doubt about the Archbishop.” The little goddess shakes her head. “To think, we hardly had to do anything ourselves!”

“I’m honestly amazed she admitted that in front of not only Seteth and Catherine, but even Edelgard.” Byleth thinks, returning her attention to the board. “She must really have felt terrible about it.”

“Remember that she has personally guided the course of history to make Fódlan the place it is today,” Sothis cautions. “It has been her hand on the tiller for a thousand years.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Sothis.”

“Good.” Sothis says firmly. “You’re too softhearted sometimes.”

Byleth, finishing with the scratching of chalk, turns and begins to grill the class on the proposed scenario, making note of who struggles to follow along, who looks bored, and, perhaps the best gauge for the quality of a lecture, the division of Edelgard’s attention. When Edelgard has eyes for Byleth and Byleth alone, the lesson isn’t properly engaging her. When Byleth passes close by and Edelgard is surprised to be reminded that her teacher is also that girl with whom she shares so many kisses, the lesson is going very well.

Similarly, it’s a good sign when Ferdinand is so engrossed that he doesn’t rattle off his name or bring up the proper qualities of the nobility whilst answering a question, or when Dorothea is so focused she doesn’t try to fluster her poor, innocent professor, even at an opportune moment.

“You really have taken to this like a duck takes to water,” the goddess notes, with more than a hint of pride in her voice. She rolls her eyes and scoffs at Byleth’s making note of it. “Of course I’m proud. Look at you! From legendary mercenary to trusted retainer, from trusted retainer to beloved teacher… you’ve come so far, Byleth.”

“Ah, but what of my true calling?”

“Professional Princess Kisser?” Sothis quips.

“It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

“Mmh… do you think we’re subverting the youth?” Sothis makes a vague gesture, just sort of waving her hands about as if to indicate Literally Everything, or perhaps simply the Black Eagles. (Which is more likely, we may never know). “With. All this, I mean.”

“For a given value of ‘subverting’, I suppose. What’s the saying? ‘All that is required for evil to fester is for good men to sit and do nothing?’ We will teach them so.”

“And show them just how little the Church has done to improve things while we’re at it,” Sothis adds, and Byleth has to stifle a laugh – and then excuse herself to her Eaglets as having stumbled upon a funny anecdote in her memory – as she realizes just how chuffed Edelgard would be to realize they’ve turned the goddess herself into a fully-fledged revolutionary-slash-conspirator.

“Ah, you do have a point, your dear princess has little way of knowing how invested I am in her cause.”

“You should tell her all about it – she’d be thrilled, and you might have some wisdom to dispense in unexpected places. You are a goddess, after all.”

“Next time I visit, perhaps.”

Byleth has to make another excuse for another outburst of mirth. The notion of calling them something as mundane as ‘visits’ is simply too much for her to handle. Like Sothis is her little old grandmother, finally making it back into town-

“Oh, hush!” Sothis protests.

And Byleth obliges her.

* * *

It’s some time in the middle of the night that Edelgard stirs awake.

She’s just opened her bleary eyes, confused as to what’s roused her, when a pitiful whimper escapes the woman in whose arms she lays.

The sound flushes all traces of tiredness from her mind, and she quickly blinks her vision clear and assesses the situation.

Byleth is plainly asleep, her eyes pressed gently shut and her breathing slow, and Edelgard is nestled into her front, her head pillowed on her lover’s arm.

Another whimper.

Briefly, she wonders if Sothis can help – if Sothis can be conscious when Byleth isn’t, or even if she ever is, capable or no, and whether or not she could even provide any sort of help in this situation.

Then her girlfriend emits a low, pathetic whine, and Edelgard scootches up a little to kiss her awake. It’s probably the calling her name and gently shaking her by the shoulder that does the trick, really, but the kissing seemed like a good way to counter a nightmare with something pleasant at the time.

“… Edelgard?” Byleth mumbles, her cornflower-blue eyes fluttering half-open.

“It’s me,” Edelgard says softly, “I’m here.”

Byleth blinks sleepily and leans forward to tip their foreheads against one another.

“Mmh,” she intones, “’m sorry.”

Edelgard shifts under the covers, and the fabric rustles above their bodies.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You were having a nightmare.”

That sparks some recognition in Byleth’s eyes.

“Mmh,” she begins, “the Church killed you and Hubert. But- they kept me. They tried to empty me out, so Sothis could fill me up, and they made me think you were dead, but then maybe that you were alive, even though I thought I knew you were dead.”

She wraps Edelgard up in her arms and draws her close, even as the words keep rushing out.

“But they kept it up until I didn’t know what I knew anymore, and-” her brow furrows. “And then there was a dragon. And she was angry. So angry she burned everything, and then the fire swallowed me up, and I was gone.”

Edelgard suppresses a shiver.

“It’s okay, my blade,” she soothes. “you’re here. You’re safe.”

Taken by a mischievous fancy, then, she adds, “And we’re fighting.”

Something in Byleth’s eyes lights up at that.

“We’re fighting!” she breathes, and, goddess forgive her, Edelgard just can’t help but adore this strange, strange woman. Why that of all things might cheer her up, she couldn’t even begin to guess.

“It’s only appropriate, really,” Edelgard says wistfully. “Life has conspired to forge the two of us into weapons– yet no matter how we may rebuke our makers, we shall always hold an edge.”

And Byleth kisses her. Rather aggressively. Her hands twine in Edelgard’s hair, but she allows Edelgard to part from her with no resistance. A little confusion, perhaps, but no resistance.

“The peerless emperor and her blade,” Edelgard says softly, despite her slightly-battered lips. “We need only keep one another from becoming mere weapons.”

Byleth rests their foreheads together again, and Edelgard adds, “Now if only you were an axe-”

The swordsman’s laughter borders on hysterical, and Edelgard, finding that she can’t help but laugh right along with her, can only hope that the two of them aren’t so loud as to wake poor Dedue next door.

He seemed like a nice fellow, and had to deal with Prince Dimitri all the time – awkward, leering Prince Dimitri. Hoping for him to get a good night’s rest was probably the actual least she could do.

She decides to go above and beyond the call of duty tonight, and quiets her partner with her mouth.

Let none say that Edelgard von Hresvelg isn’t a woman of the people.

* * *

Byleth is the sort of woman to giggle at the word ‘smooch’, if the mood strikes her.

She’s also the sort of woman to prepare a group of teenagers (or young adults, or whatever they were) to face a civilian militia, justifiably raised and poised to fight for their beliefs and ideals. Just like she and Edelgard and Hubert will be by this time next year.

“In your defense, ‘smooch’ is a very silly word,” Sothis, lounging in midair, comments. “And it’s not as though we have a choice– even if Lonato is ‘one of ours’, so to speak.”

“I’m supposed to be a mercenary or an esteemed retainer to the imperial princess,” Byleth thinks at her companion, “murder isn’t supposed to be in my job description.”

“And yet, now that you’ve added ‘Professor’ to the list, it seems we are expected to do murder for the Church.”

“I know I should hate the institution, not the people following the faith, but sometimes, knowing it’s truly false, and about – and putting words into the mouth of – what is quite possibly my dearest friend… it becomes more difficult.”

“If I am to speak truly, I cannot blame you,” Sothis admits airily. “It bothers me, to hear ‘my will’ bandied about so freely. And I’m still not convinced-”

“Sothis. I know you don’t want to believe it, but-”

“… I know. Of course I know.”

There’s silence between them, for a time.

“I appreciate you helping me learn to brew tea and bake sweets,” Byleth says, at length.

Sothis only laughs.

“Consider my aid in seducing your Edelgard with sinful delights like hot leaf-water and sweetened baked dough nuggets my paying you back for, oh, say, being my earthly vessel? And for your companionship besides.”

“But of course. As you well know, mortal women are terribly susceptible to such earthly pleasures as the leaf-drink and the sweet-nugget,” Byleth giggles.

“Indeed, I’m sure she’ll be so overcome by lust that she’ll be upon you like a starved wyvern before you’ve even brought out the jam.”

“I fear I may perish in the struggle, my friend. If I do, I beg you – send my remains… to Hubert.”

It’s Sothis’ turn to giggle, now, and the pair grow quieter as they reach the lecture hall.

Not for Byleth’s lessons, this time, but for Linhardt’s.

Byleth’s apparently got something of a budding talent for white magic, and, as it turns out, the Black Eagles’ young healer has a knack for instruction himself. Their little lessons have grown beyond the two of them in the past week, with Annette of the Blue Lions (the adorable one, with the ginger hair and the energy), Lysithea von Ordelia of the Golden Deer (the other adorable one, with the white hair and the pink eyes and the grumpy magical prodigy thing going on), and even Dorothea joining them.

They’re just on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a few hours after classes, and largely an informal affair – in exchange for lightening Linhardt’s workload (he wouldn’t do it anyways), he teaches these.

Which is why it’s something of a surprise when Prince Dimitri (a fellow messy hair haver, gods love’im) and Professor Hanneman approach her as she’s seeing herself in.

“Ah, Professor Eisner,” Dimitri calls, and Byleth pauses. Is she meant to bow to him? sh*t-

Fortunately, he seems to pick up on her predicament; his blue eyes alight with mirth, and he holds up a hand to stall any formalities.

“Please, Professor,” he says, “be at ease. You have served my sister for over a year, now, if I’m not mistaken, and saved her life at least once. You need never bow to me.”

“… Your- your sister?”

Dimitri grimaces. “Ah, has she not mentioned? Edelgard and I are step-siblings. We met only briefly, as children-”

Ah.

“Oh, little prince,” Sothis groans, “you poor fool.”

“… Have you brought this up to her, Dimitri?” Byleth asks, and when he shakes his head, sheepish, she sighs.

“You’ll have to forgive my lady,” she says gently, slipping into the role of retainer as easily as she slips into her boots, “but much of her memory is… clouded. I- well, I must confess, we’ve been rather unnerved by your behavior towards her.”

“Oh.” Dimitri breathes, and it seems to dawn on him that, absent that information, he’s been acting very strangely indeed. “Oh.”

Despite herself, Byleth laughs.

She lays a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder.

“I’ll speak with her about it this evening. For now-” she glances between the prince and his professor, flashing them a small smile, “-did the two of you need something?”

“That was smoothly-handled, my dear Byleth,” Sothis remarks. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Thank you, Miss Beginning,” Byleth replies, “or is there a Mister Beginning-?”

“I’ll send you to hell,” Sothis threatens, but she’s holding back laughter, too.

“We were wondering, since your mission this month should involve little combat, and you’ll be accompanying Thunder Catherine,” Hanneman says, “if you might be willing to lend Professor Jeritza to the Blue Lions for our upcoming mission? I may be a more than passable spell-caster, but I’m hardly a frontline combatant.”

“Thunderbrand is a mighty relic indeed,” Dimitri adds, “and its wielder only mightier.”

Byleth inclines her head. “I’ll have to discuss it with him, but I don’t think there should be any issue– he’d probably just get antsy on our mission anyways.”

The pair thank her, Dimitri quietly suggests she tell Edelgard that ‘Dee wants to know if El is still cutting her own path’, and then they leave.

“… Edelgard still has a sibling,” Sothis mutters as Byleth enters the classroom. “Do you think this means Dimitri might be convinced to join our side of the war?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Byleth cautions. “The Kingdom is in dire need of reform. It may come down to ensuring their neutrality and then negotiating for systemic changes– we could certainly offer them favorable trade deals, if nothing else. But they’d first need to see that, more than anyone else, they’re suffering under the very system they uphold and perpetuate.”

“… My, but you have grown rather astute, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been with Edelgard and Hubert for a year,” she replies, as though to dismiss Sothis’ words, but she still flushes a little at the praise.

“Professor Eisner,” Linhardt calls, “how many times can you cast Nosferatu before running out of juice?”

Byleth thinks for a moment. “About a dozen? As of my practice yesterday, that is.”

There’s a bit of surprised muttering from the others, and Byleth has to fight not to lower her head in embarrassment.

“Should I be able to do more?” she asks, a little more quietly than she means to, and Linhardt laughs.

“Most of us can only do six, Professor.”

“Perhaps you’re casting for two?” Sothis suggests, and Byleth manages to shrug at Linhardt’s words rather than giggle at Sothis’.

Dorothea in particular is gawping at her, and the attention only makes Byleth blush harder.

Fortunately, the day’s lesson is relatively easy, and she can get by only mostly paying attention.

* * *

It’s some hours later that the triumvirate of Hubert, Byleth, and Edelgard convenes, and Hubert is lounging in the grass, enjoying the evening sun on his pale face, as Lady Edelgard and Byleth take tea.

He himself prefers coffee, after all, and he had a lovely cup earlier with Miss Arnault, who is rapidly becoming one of his most reliable sources of information.

It helps that it’s more than obvious she’ll be happy to side with them, when the time comes, but, more than that, Dorothea is a multi-talented individual, a fellow mage, determined and intelligent– he’s proud to consider her a friend and comrade, and the fact that the woman has so quickly befriended Lady Petra is a shining mark in her favor. What’s more, she’s been helping Byleth learn to brew tea in preparation for Lady Edelgard’s rapidly-approaching birthday– and has even solicited Hubert’s help in doing so, as, being a lifelong retainer to a princess, he’s rather adept.

“I spoke with Prince Dimitri and Professor Hanneman today,” Byleth says, and Hubert doesn’t have to look to know Her Highness will be raising an eyebrow at that.

“They asked if they could borrow Jeritza for their upcoming mission – I’ll ask him if he’s amenable tomorrow morning – and- well, I learned something interesting about the Prince.”

“Oh?”

“He claims to be your stepbrother,” Byleth says gently, and Hubert sits up abruptly, his eyes shooting open.

“He what?!” He and Lady Edelgard exclaim as one, and Byleth, chuckling elaborates, though Hubert can tell she’s a little uncertain about all this herself. She just knows that so long as one of them keeps relatively composed, the others are more easily brought back down to that baseline.

It’s when she relays Dimitri’s suggested message that Lady Edelgard outright curses.

The two are holding hands across the table, as unbearably in love as ever, and it’s only a moment before their lady laughs.

“Goddess help me, what are the chances?” she says, exasperation clear in her voice. “It really must be him.”

“… Sothis says that she doesn’t know,” Byleth helpfully provides, “but that fate can be ‘a real bitch sometimes’.”

Even Hubert has to snort at that.

“We’re a bit uncertain of the political ramifications,” the swordswoman adds, glancing around to double-check there’s no-one else around. “I think it might put us in a better position to negotiate for reform and Faerghan neutrality – perhaps favorable trade deals on the import of food – but Sothis is still somewhat optimistic about the prospect of an alliance.”

“Helping to feed the Faerghan people would certainly be a good way to ingratiate ourselves to them,” Hubert muses, “and to prove that Adrestian promises are made good on, and that our intentions are truly as we claim.”

“That does leave the question of where our enemies would go,” Edelgard says, “and what they might do.”

“I don’t think Dimitri would be willing to maintain neutrality if the Church threatened reprisals,” Byleth says, and Hubert chuckles.

“I’m inclined to agree, Eisner,” he says, “but I think such a threat would turn him against his former masters, not us.”

Understanding lights up in Byleth’s eyes, and she asks a question he hadn’t anticipated.

“Should I begin to get to know some of the Blue Lions, then?”

And, after a thoughtful pause, Lady Edelgard nods.

“You know, my blade,” she says softly, “I think you should.”

“Especially if Her Highness is to meet with Dimitri,” Hubert adds.

Goddess help them, what other secrets is Byleth liable to stumble upon, here?

Hubert von Vestra isn’t certain, and, though that inspires a bit of a nervous pit in his stomach, he can’t deny that he’s curious to find out.

* * *

Chapter 7: On High; Brought Low

Chapter Text

“Oooh Edie~!” calls a singsong voice, and Edelgard von Hresvelg freezes in the middle of her sword forms. It’s a free day today, and the Black Eagles will be setting out for Gaspard lands in only a few days– thus the training.

It’s been a busy month so far, but Edelgard and her retinue have adjusted, just as they always do, and things seem to be going uncommonly well. If that’s a sign, well, she’s not certain whether it’s a good one or a bad one.

“Dorothea,” she replies, lowering her blunted practice blade and turning to meet the cheery brunette’s emerald-green gaze. As she does, she finds that Petra is there, too, and tries not to let her face light up at the presence of her old friend.

Thankfully, if Dorothea notices, she doesn’t say anything.

“Ah, good afternoon, Petra,” Edelgard, with a respectful dip of her chin, greets the girl, and Petra beams at her.

“Greetings, Edelgard!” Petra, enthused, replies, and the Adrestian royal can’t help but blush a little.

Petra is an effusive girl, as astute is she is personable – if the people of Brigid are even half as friendly as their future queen, Edelgard thinks, then their culture must surely be a fascinating one. She can only hope that is so, and that the Brigidfolk will prove a good influence on the people of Adrestia– and, indeed, the people of Fódlan at large.

“Sooo, Edie,” Dorothea continues, sauntering across the training yard like it’s the stage at the Mittlefrank Opera House, “Petra and I have noticed-”

Edelgard’s heart sinks.

“-that you and Professor Eisner have been extra… hands-on, lately.”

The songstress’ suggestive eyebrow-waggling is almost as frustrating as Edelgard feels, sexually.

So, taking a page from her beloved retainer’s book, she says simply, “We’re fighting.”

Dorothea blinks, stunned, and Petra co*cks her head.

“You and Byleth are being bunkmates, are you not?” her fellow princess asks, confused. “You seem much less tired, now, than you-”

Petra scrunches up her nose.

“Than you… were once being?”

“Than she used to,” Dorothea provides, and steps forward to sling an arm around Edelgard’s shoulders.

Before she knows it, they’re walking.

“Even Hubie seems better-rested, lately-” she begins, and, perhaps despite herself, Edelgard laughs.

“Yes, because he trusts I’m safe with Byleth enough to let himself sleep properly,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “After coming here, they weren’t able to take shifts like they were accustomed to, with lectures and such– obviously Byleth is a veteran mercenary, but I think it was really starting to wear on poor Hubert.”

Dorothea hums.

“You know, I asked our dear Professor if she’d ever… shared a bed before-”

Edelgard’s ears perk up, and it’s obvious her companions have picked up on the sudden reinvigoration of her interest, though they thankfully refrain from calling attention to it.

“-and, you know what, she has!”

Edelgard’s almost taken aback by this.

“She has?”

Dorothea nods sagely.

“She has, once,” Dorothea smiles. “Apparently it wasn’t all that great, and neither was her partner, whoever they-”

“She, I’m sure,” Edelgard says, “or, at least, I hope. Between the three of us, Hubert’s the one who seems most open to the company of menfolk, so to speak, and Byleth…” she shakes her head fondly, faint amusem*nt on her lips. “My blade hasn’t once expressed interest in anybody of the masculine persuasion.”

She glances sidelong at Dorothea, who, in leaning over like she is (she has to, a bit, to drape that arm about Edelgard’s shoulders) has now made her cap almost level, even at the jaunty angle with which it sits upon her head. It’s probably the closest the thing’s ever been to being parallel with the ground.

“And even Hubert isn’t quite so enthused about them as you.”

Dorothea laughs brightly, and Edelgard leans in close to whisper into the woman’s ear:

“If I ever find you’ve used any of this to hurt them, or disparage them in any way…”

And Dorothea, rather than expressing any sort of concern at the threat, seems only to light up a little further.

“Hey, I think we could use a gay future Empress,” she laughs, and Edelgard reddens.

“Gods’ blood, Dorothea, I’ve not already decided to marry her-”

Dorothea blinks at her, and Edelgard stops, mid-sentence.

“I meant you, Edie, darling.”

“Ah,” Edelgard breathes. “Of course, I-” she laughs at herself a moment.

“I decided long ago that I will be Emperor,” she explains, “so-”

“So the Empress will be being your wife!” Petra chirps, and Edelgard nods.

“Indeed. Assuming I take one, of course.”

It’s at about this point that Edelgard realizes Dorothea’s been leading them somewhere.

“And that’s a question because you and Professor Bluey are ‘fighting’?”

Pale purple eyes roll of their own accord, and their owner groans.

“Dorothea, you were literally present for our first kiss. We’ve been ‘fighting’ the past few weeks because she has a hard time expressing herself sometimes, and needs a way to say ‘no’ to certain advances of mine without worrying she’s hurt my feelings or made me feel rejected, because it makes her deeply uncomfortable to even contemplate sleeping with me before I’m strictly of age in the eyes of Adrestian law.”

“… Well, you are the Crown Princess, Edie,” Dorothea offers, and, actually, that’s rather a good point, and goes some way towards soothing her frustrations.

“That, and she’s twenty,” Edelgard says. “If we were both seventeen, there would be no issue-”

“Edie,” Dorothea says softly, “you’re not seventeen anymore.”

And then Petra pushes open the doors to the Black Eagles’ classroom, and the whole gang choruses, “Happy Birthday, Edelgard!”

And Edelgard blinks, her face flushing red.

“… We don’t have any exams or anything tomorrow, do we?” she whispers to the woman beside her, and Dorothea grins, impish and knowing.

“Not a damn thing, your Highness,” she coos, and doesn’t even ask any sort of teasing question about any long nights Edelgard might have planned.

Instead, she leans close to whisper in return, “Hubie and I made sure you lovebirds will have protection, and… medicinal tea for tomorrow morning, for when-”

Edelgard plants her palm on the woman’s face, and Dorothea dutifully quiets.

“Thank you, Dorothea.”

“And Hilda’s sleeping over with Marianne, so you should be safe to-”

Edelgard can feel the heat in her cheeks spreading up to her ears. Hilda has the room next to hers, and hers is the only room to share a wall with Edelgard’s, which, being the first on its landing, is therefore physically separated from its other neighbor.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” she repeats, and the songstress presses a chaste kiss to the palm of the gloved hand still splayed over her face.

“You’re our leader, Edie,” Dorothea says softly, wrapping her arms about Edelgard’s waist in a bit of a silly, sidewards hug, “and you’re not a dickhe*d like Claude, or a 24-hour dild* like Dimitri-”

Edelgard sputters, and Dorothea quickly explains, “He’s got a stick up his ass, but he’s a nice enough boy-”

“So it must be a more pleasant sort of stick,” Edelgard, choking down laughter, concludes, and Dorothea giggles directly into her ear.

Edelgard can only hope she’ll be able to avoid thinking of this moment when she meets with her stepbrother, the poor fool.

“Exactly. So we’re grateful it’s you – and Byleth and Hubie – leading the charge. We love and adore you, Edie, every one of us. Even Lin. Probably.”

As if on cue, the rest of the Black Eagles, denied their class leader for long enough, come crashing noisily into them, crushing the pair in a brutal group hug pile-up.

(All of them except for Linhardt and Hubert, at any rate.)

Caspar hoots and hollers, Bernadetta squeaks and latches onto Edelgard in terror as soon as she realizes the situation she’s in, Ferdinand makes some grand proclamation that she can’t really hear (but which sounds rather nice, for once, something about the quality of the day?), and Dorothea and Petra simply laugh joyously.

Eventually, they disperse, giving her some space, and settle casually about the classroom.

Hubert bows deeply to her and presents her a book of strategy he and Byleth have annotated in tandem – which is frankly an incredible resource – and Dorothea likewise gives her a book, this one on poetic language, speechcraft, and… reason magic?

“Reason in general,” Dorothea clarifies, “it ties into the whole system and theme– though I suspect you might have a knack for reason magic anyways.”

“Ah. We’ll see if anything comes of that, then,” Edelgard says thoughtfully.

Byleth gives her a bouquet of red flowers, admitting that she hadn’t been able to find carnations or their seeds for the life of her, and the whole thing is just so sweet that Edelgard kisses her then and there, earning cheers from Caspar and Dorothea and polite applause from… Ferdinand? How queer.

Speaking of Ferdinand, he gives her a beautiful tea set and a healthy supply of leaves, including the Hresvelg Blend (which she thinks may be Byleth’s favorite, actually, or at least one of them) and, of course, Bergamot.

Caspar gives her a beautiful axe – apparently their local weaponsmith, having worked for Count Bergliez for so long, has become something of a master of the craft of forging axes – and a fierce hug, and Petra gives her a leather bag she’s clearly made herself– not for lack of quality, but for its unusual styling and folded porcupine-quill decoration. Probably the princess hunted the beast herself, if Edelgard had to guess.

She thanks the both of them profusely– even Ferdinand receives a hug in thanks.

Bernadetta gives her a shield she’s painted with a shrieking eagle, gold on black (and asks not to be kissed, the poor thing), and Jeritza wordlessly hands her an uncommonly-fine arming sword, its scabbard black and gold to match the academy’s uniform– a more practical sidearm for her purposes than the largely-decorative saber she’s otherwise been wearing.

She supposes she has her kit for the expedition to Gaspard, then.

Linhardt meanders up and hands her a list– a glance reveals it’s a list of ways to manipulate his father, which is at once thoughtful, hilarious, and potentially very useful.

The ten of them spend some time together – a few hours, perhaps – before they begin to disperse, various Eagles going their own way. Bernadetta isn’t the first to go, but she is the second, after Jeritza, and soon enough, they’ve all made their excuses and said their good-byes.

All except Byleth and Edelgard herself.

Hubert is the last to go, and whispers something to Byleth before he leaves– whatever it is, Edelgard is sure she’ll never know.

Byleth, seated atop her own desk, smiles sheepishly.

… and asks her to tea.

It’s a little late for that, but she’s not about to deny the woman.

And so they go.

* * *

Edelgard watches fondly as Byleth sets about preparing the tea– smiles at the way her blade hovers nervously over the pot, or timidly presents the sweets she’s baked for the occasion. They’re delicious, of course, and it’s fairly obvious the woman’s been practicing for this.

She really is almost unbearably sweet.

Almost.

When she eventually serves the tea, it’s something sweet and floral Edelgard can’t quite place.

Byleth sits across from her, then, and they speak of everything and nothing until the sky turns, and they realize the sun has begun to set.

They scramble to pack up before the light leaves them, and then they part ways. Byleth makes to return things to the mess hall; Edelgard, on the other hand, hasn’t had the opportunity to bathe yet, having been brought to their little celebration straight from the training yard, and she sorely wishes to correct that. Especially considering her intended evening activities.

Especially given she needs to give herself as much confidence as possible, if she hopes to properly bare herself to her lover.

* * *

When Edelgard returns to her quarters, she finds Byleth already there, dozing lightly in the chair at her bedside, and smiles.

She shuts the door behind her and makes doubly sure to lock it– she will not be interrupted lightly, and if she is… someone had better be dying, lest she ensure it herself.

Crossing the room, she takes a seat on her bed and simply watches Byleth nap for awhile, content to observe her woman comfortable and at peace. For a time, at least.

Eventually, she rises, and leans down to whisper in the woman’s ear.

“Tired, my blade?” she coos, and, to her credit, Byleth blinks to alertness in no time at all.

Perhaps not so tired, then.

“A nap is a good way to make sure Sothis gets to sleep,” she says softly. “She wants to watch us have sex about as much as we want her to, so- it seemed prudent.”

“… I think having the creator goddess watch us, even setting aside the discomfort, might just give me performance anxiety.”

Byleth leans up to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“She says happy birthday, by the way.”

“That’s sweet of her.” Edelgard remarks, and sits in her blade’s lap.

“So- how shall we go about this?”

Byleth almost seems to turn green.

Grimacing, she asks, “… are condoms really made of-”

Edelgard nods, sharing in the expression, and thinks for a moment.

“Today should be relatively safe, and I’ll take the tea in the morn.”

Byleth meets her eyes. “Are you sure?” she asks, and Edelgard smiles at the poor, nervous woman.

“Perfectly.”

For a moment, Byleth’s blue gaze searches her for any signs of uncertainty.

Then, satisfied, she sighs, and begins working at her belt.

“Sexy as it is,” she says dryly, “do you think we should ditch the brace?”

Edelgard wriggles playfully in her lap, relishing in Byleth’s… reaction.

“Has your knee been bothering you today?”

“No, but- I’m not sure I’ll ever live it down if I exacerbate it in bed.” she admits, and Edelgard giggles into her shoulder.

“We’ll get you undressed and then put it back on, then,” she decides, “until we’re more familiar with the stresses and strains.”

“Seems fair enough to me,” the older woman decides, and sets about undressing herself, only to pause as Edelgard begins to do the same.

“I- you don’t have to fully bare yourself,” she says gently, “if you don’t want to. I understand, and I certainly won’t mind, or hold it against you.”

And Edelgard smiles.

It’s that attitude that makes her feel like she can bare herself. Scars and all.

The idea that such a gentle, caring woman must also feel as though she is death given flesh, the physical manifestation of cold, methodical violence… it’s a travesty. Perhaps one day they can forge a world in which that is no longer the case– or, at the very least, in which such things are no longer merited in future generations.

It’s a few minutes later, when she’s just finally got to the part where she pushes Byleth down, that there’s a knock at the door.

Edelgard doesn’t scream, manages not to scream, but she does snap, “What?!”

It takes her a second to recognize the voice at the door as belonging to the Faerghan prince.

“I came to wish you a happy birthday, Edelgard-” the boy, clueless, says, and Byleth laughs beneath her.

“Now’s not the best time, Dimitri,” she calls.

“Oh.” He says.

There’s a moment’s pause.

“Oh.”

Edelgard wants to die.

“My apologies, Professor, Edelgard. Have a wonderful evening.”

They hear his hurried footsteps vanishing down the hall, and Byleth laughs again.

“I’m glad you find this so funny,” Edelgard grouses, and her sworn sword reaches up to clasp her hands together behind the princess’ neck, careful not to tug on any strands of soft, Crest-bleached hair.

“It’s hard not to smile, considering,” Byleth says happily. “You’re a treasure, Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

“Your treasure,” Edelgard insists.

Byleth smiles.

“My treasure,” she agrees.

Edelgard reaches up to undo the buttons on her blouse, and Byleth’s eyes bore into her more now, with their open care and concern, than the Ashen Demon’s ever could.

She almost bites out something sarcastic, but instead opts to look down at what she’s doing, so as not to fumble with the buttons and feel a fool.

Byleth watches with rapt awe, and then dawning horror, and then anguish and fury as the blouse comes off, and Edelgard tries not to read the pitiful noise she makes as pitying. It’s likely the deliberateness of the scars, the realization that they’re surgical, precise, that really galls the poor girl. All up and down her belly and back– the undersides of her arms, too. The scars on her legs are lesser; by the time they’d got them, they’d improved their technique, and knew she was their prime subject, and had taken to the Crest of Flames, so the scars only follow her femoral arteries. A small mercy, but, in this situation, one she’s thankful for. Thighs criss-crossed with scar tissue, she imagines, mustn’t be nearly so soft.

“… It was a joke before,” she says softly, “but you can kill Rhea if I can kill the bastards who did this to you.”

Edelgard raises her gaze to meet the woman’s eyes, watches the fury blazing in them, and, despite herself, smiles.

“We’ll kill them together, my sweet,” she says, and leans down to kiss the fool.

They part, and Byleth bites her lip.

“… I can do together,” she says, and Edelgard laughs like she isn’t straddling the woman– like she hasn’t been frustrated awaiting this very moment for almost a month.

“You truly are a wonder, Byleth Eisner, my blade.”

She takes a moment to admire Byleth’s scars– the pale, stretched one over her heart, where the Crest Stone of the goddess herself had been sequestered away into her breast the day she was born. The myriad nicks of blade-bites, the rounder marks where she’d been pierced by arrows and their larger, lance-given counterparts. There were a number of splotches of discoloration, magical burns from black – anima – spells, fire and ice and thunder (wind magic, of course, cuts), particularly on her torso.

More importantly than any of that, Byleth is… breathtaking.

Edelgard rocks back to sit on her heels and take in the sight of the woman before her– beneath her. (Goddess, but does that thought send a shiver up her spine.)

“You’re gorgeous, my dear Byleth,” she breathes, and reaches down to palm one of the woman’s ample breasts.

“And you’re beautiful,” Byleth huffs quietly, clearly unaccustomed to such comments– and playing it off as petulant.

She turns up her nose a little, even, and Edelgard takes the opportunity to plant kisses on the woman’s neck, eliciting a fair variety of delightful gasps from her.

It is by sheer willpower alone that the princess resists the urge to leave hickeys too high up on her sworn sword’s neck, and it’s a close thing.

When she pulls away, she does so wearing a wolfish grin, and they both know there will be no further delays.

* * *

Considering it’s a Monday – Edelgard’s birthday having fallen on a Sunday this year – Byleth wakes substantially late. In hindsight, it seems they’ve failed to properly consider the logistics of love-making of that sort, at least in terms of time investment and scheduling.

… But Edelgard is snoozing so sweetly in her arms, and there’s a lightness in Byleth’s heart (Crest Stone?) that simply can’t be overstated.

Frankly, she feels kind of… great.

Edelgard stirs, squirming a little against Byleth’s frame, and, after a moment, yawns.

She watches purple eyes blink open and greets them with a smile, receiving one in turn.

“Good morning, my blade,” Edelgard says, and Byleth leans in to press a kiss to her delicate little nose, earning herself a giggle that only further buoys her heart. Heartstone?

“Morning, Edelgard,” Byleth replies, and the princess blinks at her.

“El,” she says, and Byleth blinks right back.

El… like what Dimitri had called her?

“When it’s just us,” Edelgard elaborates, “you can– no, in fact, I’d prefer it if you could call me El.”

“El,” Byleth repeats. “Like the letter?”

Edelgard giggles, and the sound only sends Byleth’s borrowed heart soaring to even greater heights.

“It’s what my parents and closest sisters used to call me when I was little,” she explains, and grins broadly. “I imagine it came about because Edelgard isn’t the easiest name for a young child to pronounce.”

Her expression darkens.

“My sisters are gone, now. The only people left who call me El are my father and, I suppose, Dimitri.”

Her gaze dips, but she quickly meets Byleth’s eyes again, and smiles.

“As for you, well… I think I could allow it,” she teases, and, catching the playful pout Byleth offers in reply, kisses it away.

“In all seriousness,” she says softly, baring her proverbial belly, “it would mean a great deal to me, my blade.”

“Very well, El,” Byleth says, and Edelgard rolls her eyes, but kisses the swordswoman nonetheless.

“Come on,” she breathes, when finally they part, “we’re several orders of magnitude beyond fashionably late.”

* * *

Of course, they both quickly bathe before even contemplating heading to class, using teamwork to speed the process along, and Edelgard has to take her medicinal tea, but they do make it to class before ten in the morning.

It’s when they enter and find Seteth and Flayn lecturing on tactics and tutoring the mages, respectively, that Byleth doesn’t know what to do.

Flayn brightens visibly when Byleth enters, chirping an excited, “Hello, cousin!” her pale-green hair bouncing ecstatically, and Seteth simply nods at the two latecomers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Professor,” he says, “Edelgard.”

He gestures for them to take their seats – that is, he gestures at the table where Edelgard sits, and clearly wants the both of them to take a seat – and they do so, equal parts grateful and confused.

“We’ll switch over after lunch,” Seteth says once they’ve settled, and continues with his lesson, which appears to center primarily around the interplay between light and heavy aerial cavalry, and their respective roles in supporting the infantry’s ability to take and hold ground.

It’s really quite insightful, and using a historical event rather than a personal experience (unless he was there for it, which Byleth’s pretty sure is a distinct possibility) offers a different sort of insight as a result of differing and more detached perspectives. Byleth learns a few things about combating wyvern riders that she hadn’t known before, in fact, and, as a seasoned wyvern rider, Seteth is able to impart some interesting and valuable lessons to a less-seasoned flier like Byleth.

Meanwhile, Flayn seems to be some kind of white magic prodigy, and seems to be keeping Linhardt intellectually-engaged with whatever it is they’re discussing– Dorothea looks halfway between ‘completely lost’ and ‘on the verge of a breakthrough’, and it’s really quite endearing (which Byleth feels comfortable admitting because, from the glances she’s stolen, it looks like things are going to swing towards the latter).

Sure enough, the bells for the lunch hour ring, and most of the class shuffle out, though Hubert, of course, lingers in the shadows. Just in case.

(Naturally, Edelgard doesn’t abandon her, either, but that ought to go without saying.)

She’s just risen to talk with Seteth when Flayn rockets into her, wrapping her tiny arms around the swordswoman as they do a little half-spin to bleed off momentum, and Byleth idly pats the oddly-affectionate young girl’s head, pretending not to hear Edelgard’s barely-stifled laughter.

Byleth doesn’t quite know what to say in the circ*mstances, but, fortunately, Seteth steps forward, hands behind his back, and regards her firmly.

“Professor Eisner,” he says, nodding to her, and she addresses him in kind.

“I would like to apologize,” are the next words out of his mouth, and Byleth finds herself perhaps a little more stunned than is polite.

“I had no idea you had never been given a choice in teaching here, and, in light of that, your efforts and enthusiasm in guiding your students have been beyond commendable.” He bows stiffly. “What’s more, you are family, and, as my sister-” he glances at Flayn, and Byleth realizes those two are siblings rather than father and daughter, and. Wow. “-reminded me, we have little family left. Which makes it all the more appalling that Lady Rhea has failed to treat you as such.”

There’s a scowl in his stern gaze.

“It is not a mistake Flayn and I will be repeating.”

Flayn, meanwhile, is almost vibrating with pent-up enthusiasm, and is gazing up at Byleth, a question burning in her green eyes.

“Yes, Flayn?”

“What was your mother like, Professor? Was she pretty? How did she meet the Blade Breaker? How did they fall in love? Did fate conspire to keep them apart-?”

“My mother – Sitri – died in childbirth,” she says gently. “I don’t know about that other stuff, but– yes, I think it would be fair to say that fate conspired to keep them apart.”

A pair of arms snake around her from behind, clasping over her navel.

“My blade…” Edelgard says softly, and Flayn looks like she wants to cry, and, goddess, did she say something wrong?

Flayn sniffles, her eyes wet with unshod tears, and, like an eagle swooping down to her rescue, Edelgard steps around her and says, “As tragic as the tale of Sitri Eisner is, would you like to hear the story of how Byleth and I first met?”

The little Nabatean’s face lights up so brightly Byleth almost fears for her eyes, and, as Edelgard leads the younger girl – she looks, what, fourteen? Fifteen? Maybe? – to another table to regale her with probably unembellished tales of adventure and romance, Byleth turns to Seteth, who smiles warmly.

“If you are wondering whether I intend to censure you for your relationship with Edelgard, the answer is no. Each of you has power over the other, but your friends and comrades all agree neither of you is exploiting the other. As to you being a teacher in a relationship with her student, well – you were not exactly given a choice, were you? And, what is worse, you are not even on the official payroll.”

“I’d noticed that,” Byleth admits, suddenly feeling more than a little sheepish, “but, honestly, I was much too terrified to bring it up.”

“Considering you likely know who and what Lady Rhea is, I think your fear is completely understandable.”

She nods, and, after thinking about it for a moment, he lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Byleth,” he says, his tone softer than she’s ever heard it before, “I want you to know that love, young or otherwise, is a precious thing. Hold on to it – and her – with all your might. You never know if or when life might take her from you, so live and love to the fullest so that, should the unthinkable come to pass, you will not bear so many regrets through the rest of your very long life.”

Something – everything, actually – about the way he says this makes Byleth feel and think that he’s experienced exactly that, and, to their mutual surprise, she hugs the poor man. Part of her wants to insist it’s to escape the sorrow in his eyes, but such lies are unbecoming; she wants only to ease the man’s woes, if only a little bit– if only for a little while.

… Goddess, but this is going to make tearing up the Church of Seiros by the roots awkward.

“She took you on a romantic pegasus ride?!” Flayn exclaims behind her, and Byleth can already feel the heat rushing to her face.

“It wasn’t romantic,” Byleth calls back, “it was normal!”

“It’s normal for such a thing to be seen as romantic, my blade,” Edelgard interjects, and Flayn lets out an adorable little squeal at the epithet, prompting both the princess and Seteth to laugh.

And there’s something almost terrifying about hearing Seteth laugh. Like it shouldn’t be allowed.

Thankfully, Hubert seems to sense her distress, and comes to rescue the poor swordswoman from her newfound family– and her own awkwardness.

* * *

There’s not much you can do to prepare a gaggle of fifteen- and twenty-year-old kids to cut down militiamen. In their minds, Byleth is certain there’s something that seems wrong about the very concept of civilian combatants– commonfolk who have organized and taken up arms, galvanized by some cause or another.

Byleth sees the humanity of it– of men pushed too far and driven to desperation, banding together because they would rather fight and die standing than live under the yoke- or worse.

These militiamen have a better reason than she ever did.

To fight and die for better lives…

The people of Faerghus have a fixation on chivalry and honor– on fighting and dying for one’s master, like a true knight. The nobles especially.

Byleth wishes they could see how much more noble these peasants are than they.

And still she cuts them down.

Unlike last time, she doesn’t need to expose everyone to the feeling of taking a life for the first time– so she can shoulder this herself, with Hubert and Edelgard at her side.

She understands when Dorothea screams because she’s just emerged from the fog to put a length of steel through a farmer-turned-spearman.

If she weren’t a demon, perhaps she’d be screaming, too.

Hubert is convinced the unseasonable fog shrouding Magdred Way is unnatural, the work of magic.

Byleth simply guides their force toward what he believes to be the epicenter, splitting off to leave Edelgard in command when they draw near enough for the Ashen Demon to hunt on her own.

Hopefully the students don’t mind too much. They were ambushed, after all.

It isn’t their fault.

She hopes they know that.

She hopes she can convince them of that.

“… This is dark magic indeed,” Sothis mutters, appearing by her side, and points Byleth directly towards the source.

It’s not fifteen seconds later that Byleth has opened the throat of a black-robed mage in a long-beaked mask, and she immediately hears Hubert shout his approval– that the mage is gone, the fog lifting.

When visibility improves, the wooded road reveals itself to her, and she’s able to directly observe Catherine’s prowess as a tactician, the woman and the knights under her command being several dozen meters off to the left for some reason, while the Black Eagles are the same distance off to her right, engaging with the enemy.

She’s not certain whether the incompetence of the Knights of Seiros should reassure her or not.

Or how to feel about it in general, really.

Unfortunately, her Eagles do seem to be in the thick of the fighting– she’s sure most or all of them have had to bloody their hands, and she almost considers rolling back time to try and spare them that fate, only to have Sothis stop her.

“You cannot shelter them forever, Byleth. Especially if we are to make war as we’ve planned.”

“This is what El means when she complains about Hubert always being right, isn’t it?” Byleth laments.

“I’m afraid so, my friend.”

She rushes to her students’ aid, and Sothis, perhaps naively, asks how she’s feeling.

“I am death incarnate, so long as that is what they require.”

“And after that?”

“I will be a teacher and a friend and a lover.”

“Are those in any particular order?”

Byleth crashes into a pikeman, tackling him to the ground, where Ferdinand quickly skewers him with a decisive thrust of the lance.

“Broad to narrow. I am a teacher to all of them, a friend to most, and a lover to one. And, when they need it, I am violence given flesh.”

“You understand why these things you say worry us so, yes?”

“Yes. In truth, it amuses me, on some level.”

She’s found her feet by now, and receives a cut from a swordswoman as she moves to lay a healing hand on a lightly-wounded Caspar.

Dorothea incinerates the woman, and Byleth lashes out at another man with white magic, sapping his essence with Nosferatu and allowing it to ease her wound.

Presently, Edelgard is leading the Eagles towards a stone pavilion, under which shelters a mounted knight and a company of professional-looking infantry; the man looks old and weathered, and tired even beyond his years, and Byleth and Sothis are both immediately certain that this man must be Lord Lonato Gaspard.

They approach carefully, mowing through ill-equipped and ill-trained militia as they go, and, thankfully, Catherine appears to have the good sense to keep on her course to try and flank their quarry.

“You know,” Sothis says, “I’m almost surprised your princess didn’t try to-”

“Sothis.” Byleth interrupts.

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to tease me about sex, please wait until my duty is done. I would appreciate if we could keep the bloodshed and the intimate aspects of my relationship separate.”

The tiny goddess reddens.

“I- that is more than fair, yes, My apologies.”

“All is well.”

“Eisner, Hresvelg!” Catherine suddenly calls. “The footmen!”

The knight makes to charge Lonato and his formation, and her order is clear – she wants the Black Eagles – Byleth and Edelgard in particular – to occupy Lonato’s infantrymen while she goes for the man himself.

Naturally, Byleth wordlessly complies, and sets about taking little bites out of Lonato’s line like a child eating something new and strange for the first time, and the experienced resistance almost doubles when compared to the untrained militiamen.

It feels good to fight actual soldiers again– unlike bandits and militia, they actually fence with her, using the reach of their spears properly to cover for each other and force her back.

She’s glad she left Leraje back with the supply train, she thinks– she’s far more experienced fighting on foot, after all, and a far better swordswoman than she is a spearfighter.

Off to her right, Edelgard calls her name, and Byleth, seeing her lady rushing toward the formation, casts a bolt of fire ahead of her to distract the spearmen and clear her approach.

(Fire is about all the more black magic she’s learned, but it’s quite useful, especially for the simple utility.)

Fortunately, their little maneuver works, and Edelgard slams into the line of Faerghan regulars like a raging storm, hewing into men all about herself with great, sweeping strikes.

Byleth feels the thump in her chest as Edelgard activates her Crest of Flames to cleave through one man and into another, the head of her axe passing just shallowly enough through his chest to kill him horribly without impeding the weapon overmuch – and the fact that the human ribcage is only a mild impediment before Edelgard’s overwhelming might is as horrific as it is admirable – before carving itnto the side of the man to his left.

Byleth, in turn, activates her own Crest, and takes a woman’s head from her shoulders in a single swipe of silvered steel.

“For Lord Lonato!” someone cries, and, distantly, Byleth registers that she’s been hearing a fair bit of that, today. The people of Gaspard must hold Lonato in high esteem.

Hubert kills someone with unspeakable magic, cackling for effect, and Caspar and Ferdinand follow in Edelgard’s wake to prevent her being boxed in.

“They’ve gotten quite good,” Sothis says, and Byleth hums her approval.

The Eagles fight on, and then, with remarkable suddenness, Catherine is upon Lonato like lightning, her relic weapon alight with an angry red glow.

Thunderbrand, one of the Heroes’ Relics… a vicious-looking blade with six hooked branches, Lonato fends it off admirably, even as it crackles with lightning and takes gouges out of his shield and the haft of his lance like they’re nothing.

Catherine wields it like a human whirlwind, and eventually she parries one of Lonato’s thrusts, steps forward, and, in a single upward stroke, decapitates his horse.

It’s at about that point that Byleth realizes just how powerful these relics are.

Lonato and Catherine share an exchange– Lonato on the ground, one leg pinned beneath his dead, collapsed horse, and Catherine standing over him, her sword at his neck.

Byleth doesn’t really catch anything they say, but she does watch Catherine kill a defeated old man rather than even consider taking him prisoner, which is. Interesting.

She turns back to her work in time to see Edelgard catch an arrow in the eye, watches the princess, her princess, drop dead in an instant.

As she falls, her remaining eye – and it’s empty, emptier than Byleth’s could ever be, because she’s dead – turns to stare at Byleth, pale purple and empty and dead, and Byleth, for the first time, truly feels nothing.

She wonders if it should feel liberating instead of hollow.

Reality shatters around her as the Eagles begin to react, and she takes the opportunity to pinpoint the arrow’s origin before winding back time.

Sothis is speaking in her ear, her words and tone soothing, but Byleth- Byleth doesn’t really hear any of it. Instead, she mutely walks over to Edelgard and shoves her aside, watching the confusion and momentary flash of anger in those lovely purple eyes before the arrow streaks by between them.

Then there’s terror in those eyes, and the arrow carries on, like nothing ever happened, and grazes Ferdinand in particularly-nasty fashion.

Byleth turns to heal him. She’ll thank him later, maybe.

She’s just finished her simple healing spell when an arrow buries itself into her left shoulder from behind.

Numbly, she turns to stare at the offending archer – it’s the one who just killed her El – and begins stalking toward them.

If they weren’t afraid after Byleth pushed Edelgard out of the way, they’re certainly afraid now, and the poor fool stands there for a moment, frozen in place, before dropping their bow and trying to run – but they’re in range of Byleth’s magic, now, and she hits them with a Nosferatu, sending them sprawling to the ground.

Then she hits them with another, and another.

And another.

Again and again, and again once more, until all that’s left is a dessicated husk, and her flesh has healed itself so aggressively that it’s forced the arrow from her body, catching and tearing muscle and skin in the process – per its cruel design – before that, too, heals.

She moves on.

Someone calls out to her.

It’s fine, she lies. She’s fine.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, and she activates her Crest to pull free– and they activate her Crest to hold on, because it’s Edelgard’s gloved hand on her shoulder, Edelgard’s terrified look in Edelgard’s terrified eyes.

It’s fine, Edelgard. Nothing happened, and you have both your eyes, and they’re fine, because it’s fine and you’re fine.

And it’s the strangest thing, but even to Byleth’s own ear, her voice doesn’t… sound right.

There’s a lot of, “Byleth, it’s okay,” and “I’m here,” and “I’m okay,” and “You did it, you saved me, it’s okay.”

And that all sounds pretty nice, but Byleth can’t come to the door right now, sorry.

And then Edelgard’s dragging her aside as the rest of the Eagles finish up, pulling her into a copse of trees so they can be alone enough for her to ask if Sothis is there.

And Sothis asks if she can take the reins, so to speak, and Byleth tells her that’s fine, and lets her.

Byleth is busy thinking about what happens to a person when they die – probably nothing – and what happens when someone dies and she turns back time (again, probably nothing; they’re simply gone, and then they aren’t).

Sothis and Edelgard are talking.

“She’s never been like this before,” Sothis is saying, “I don’t-”

Byleth wonders if this is why her father drinks.

… Is Sothis crying?

That’s unusual.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

“No,” Sothis sniffles, and meets Edelgard’s eyes. “She asked if I’m alright.”

“Well,” Edelgard says, and Byleth can tell she’s forcing herself to remain composed, “that’s a step towards normalcy.”

“Do you need me to take the reins?” Byleth asks.

“… I think that may be wise,” Sothis says quietly, and then Byleth is Byleth again.

… Goddess, her cheeks are wet. What a strange feeling.

She wipes them dry, grimacing in spite of herself.

“I’ve never seen Sothis this upset,” she says, her affect near completely flat. “It’s very disconcerting.”

Edelgard nods and leans forward to cup the swordswoman’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, my Byleth,” she says gently, and Byleth blinks.

“I don’t think you caught that arrow with your face on purpose, my l- my lady.”

“No,” she concedes, “but because of me, you had to experience something… very unpleasant, and, seeing how it’s affected you…”

“I just wish I knew how to help,” she says, at length, and Byleth tries her best to smile a her.

“You are good to me,” she says simply, and the princess emits a breathless laugh.

“I certainly try to be.”

She gives Byleth’s cheek an affectionate rub, and the swordswoman leans into her touch a little, just enough to make it known that it’s appreciated, and hums.

They stay like that for awhile, and Byleth looks into Edelgard’s eyes until she no longer sees the empty, arrow-laden corpse-stare in her gaze.

“Please don’t die, El,” she whispers, at length, and guilt floods through her heart as she watches something in her lover’s expression break.

Tears well in the woman’s eyes, and she manages a quiet, “Oh, my Byleth,” before they begin to roll down her pale cheeks, wetting a patch of dried blood on the left side.

The sight prompts Byleth to crush her fears underfoot as mercilessly as she stole a woman’s head from her shoulders mere minutes earlier, and she leans forward to cup Edelgard’s cheeks, brushing away tears with the pads of her thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, El. I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

Edelgard is crying, and it’s her fault.

Hubert would be furious. Worse than that, he’d be disappointed.

“Cease your perseverating, you stupid child!” Sothis snaps, her tone as irritable as Byleth has ever heard, and some part of Byleth jolts to attention at the implicit authority in the little goddess’ tone.

“It’s not your fault, and it’s not hers either. It’s unfortunate and upsetting, and you are reacting as humans – and people more generally, in my experience – tend to. So stop kicking yourself and comfort her. And, in turn, allow her to comfort you. Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Sothis sniffs. “… I’m sorry I called you stupid.”

“It’s okay.” Byleth tells her, and gives the sniffling Edelgard in her hands a gentle little kiss.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, aloud and to her lover. “We’re okay.”

And, slowly, Edelgard nods.

“We’ll go find Hubert,” she says, forcing the tremor from her voice as she goes, “and we’ll speak to your father when we return to the monastery.”

Ah. Smart.

… Especially since her father happens to be several centuries old.

She’s still not sure what to make of that, really.

“Hey,” calls a familiar voice – Catherine, affable and a little concerned – from over her shoulder, “You two alright?”

Edelgard takes the lead, bumping their foreheads together and taking Byleth’s hands into her own before looking up at the approaching Knight of Seiros.

Byleth half-turns to look at her, and finds that the woman’s about as covered in blood as she is, her breastplate, once gleaming silver, now matte with gore, mud, and just general smearing.

“We’re okay,” says El, “we just- I narrowly avoided an arrow through the eye at her intervention, and-”

Something in Catherine’s face grows strained, like her soul’s been pulled taut.

“-and she’s seen more than enough to know how that looks,” the knight finishes, her eyes meeting Byleth’s.

“I looked her in the eye until I stopped seeing her corpse,” Byleth confesses, and Catherine ambles over to pull her – and Edelgard – into a hug.

“Hey,” says the knight, and her tone grows firm, almost instructive. “You saved her, alright? Your girl? She’s alive and well, and right here with you, right by your side– right where she belongs.”

She sets her forehead against Byleth’s, holding her by the collar and staring her in the eye until she’s convinced the message has sunk in.

Then, she steps back.

“I-” she swallows. Turns her head so as not to look at them. “I’ve been there. There was this asshole – it must have been a year and a half ago by now – almost gutted Shamir with a billhook. And- I was sure she was dead. I knew in my heart that Shamir was f*cking dead, and it was my fault, same as Christophe–” she jerks her chin in the direction of the pavilion where they’d faced Lonato and his men. “–and his old man.”

She shakes her head. “I still see her like that in my nightmares, sometimes.”

There’s a far-off look in the knight’s eyes, and suddenly Byleth realizes- she recognizes it.

She steps away from Edelgard and, albeit a little hesitantly, wraps the larger woman in a hug.

“Heh. Thanks, kid,” Catherine huffs, a little gruffly, and part of Byleth notes that there’s something very attractive about her voice when it gets that way.

She pats Byleth on the shoulder and steps back to flash the two younger women a lopsided grin.

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” she says, jerking a thumb in their comrades’ direction, “your little friends were worried sick after you turned that guy into a raisin and the princess dragged you off.”

Byleth turns to Edelgard, and they share a nod.

“Alright,” she says, and they follow the woman back to the others.

And, for the time being, it is.

Alright, that is.

* * *

Chapter 8: Mice and Men

Chapter Text

There had been, much to Catherine’s alarm, a very particular letter on Lord Lonato’s person. A letter discussing plans for an assassination attempt on Archbishop Rhea on the day of the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth, an important ceremony among the followers of Seiros. Edelgard had known all about it, of course. She’d been the one to deliver it to the poor man, after all.

This was the plan – for Lonato to sacrifice himself, more or less, with the letter on his person for the Knights of Seiros to discover – and now, Edelgard thinks, they’ve nothing left but to go through with it.

A good man led his people into death for the sake of this plan, all to allow men of the Western Church – a rival faction within the Church of Seiros, in essence, located in Western Fódlan (thus the name) – into the so-called Holy Mausoleum, open only one day of the year…

All so that the casket of Saint Seiros can be opened and revealed to be empty.

All to undermine the Church of Seiros by proving the depths of its deceptions.

She hadn’t considered the toll it would take on her fellow students. Not that it would’ve stopped her, of course, but– still.

Supreme excellence in war means breaking one’s enemies without fighting, she knows. That’s an ideal, and rather out of reach, but shattering the public’s trust in the church will certainly prove a good start.

Byleth, at her own insistence, doesn’t know the specifics of the operation – she considers herself to be a poor liar, and believes she’ll act more convincingly-ignorant if she truly is at least partially in the dark.

… and that’s sweet of her, but Edelgard feels like she could use the woman’s input and tactical-and-strategical support.

Perhaps she can convince her lover to reconsider.

For now, they’re marching home, back to the monastery, and Hubert and Ferdinand are doing an excellent job of keeping their classmates’ minds off of the recent battle at Magdred Way, arguing about Hubert having named his riding horse ‘Ferdinand’.

(She swears, the more she sees them interact, the less certain she becomes as to whether or not they’re flirting.)

Her horse, meanwhile, is called Coriander.

She reaches down to pap the beast fondly.

At least summer is mild in Faerghus, even on its southern end– the air is no more than pleasantly-warm, the breeze refreshing as it rustles the trees. And there’s little dust, as the climate is damp enough, and the trail well-traveled enough, for the road to be well-packed and firm. Gaspard really is beautiful territory, Edelgard decides.

Beside her, Byleth hums.

“These used to be Imperial lands, you know,” she tells her paramour, more for the sake of casual conversation than anything. Better trivia than dwelling on how shaken their comrades are. “400 years ago, upon completion of the fortress-city of Arianrhod, just north of here, the Count Rowe of the time defected to the Kingdom, taking the city and its surrounding lands along with him.”

“… And Arianrhod is the one that’s never fallen?” Byleth half-offers, half-asks.

A smile tugs at Edelgard’s lips.

“It is, my blade.”

Byleth laughs.

“You sound impressed,” she says. “Are the standards of a besotten historian so lax?”

“No,” Edelgard replies, managing not to snort, “they are simply modulated in accordance to the individual.”

“Right, so while you’re pleased when the ignorant mercenary girlfriend can recall a simple fact, it’d be a public scandal if Ferdinand von Aegir didn’t know such things.”

“Precisely,” she says, and looks sidelong at her so-called ignorant mercenary girlfriend. “Besides, math’s more your forte.”

“Mm, that’s fair.”

There’s a brief lull, then, before Byleth asks, “What’s it mean when someone talks about your musk?”

Edelgard shoots her a questing glance, one eyebrow raised. “… Has someone-”

“I read it in a book,” Byleth interrupts, and the princess nods.

“Ah. In that case, it’s my understanding that one’s musk is their natural scent.”

“Body odor,” her sworn sword deadpans, and Edelgard has to bite her lip.

(She snorts anyways.)

“Body odor before too much buildup of sweat and filth,” she agrees, “while it’s still pleasant.”

“So like when you’re unwashed, but not unwashed. Your scent when you’ve been physical.”

“Exactly.” Edelgard nods. “I happen to find your scent rather soothing, you know.”

“Hm.”

“And my-”

“I wouldn’t describe you as having a musk outside of certain contexts,” the princess admits with a tilt of her head, “though, yes, I find that pleasant as well.”

A devilish grin spreads across Byleth’s ashen features.

“And by certain contexts, you mean-”

Edelgard cuts her off.

“The fact that you seek to tease me about it more than confirms that you know precisely the contexts I mean, yes.”

They laugh – at themselves and at each other – and ride on interrupted for another few minutes.

Eventually, Caspar rides up alongside them.

He’s visibly shaken, and Edelgard doesn’t have to look to know that Byleth’s sea-blue gaze regards the boy with worry.

“Are you alright, Caspar?” Byleth gently prompts, and he gives a most unconvincing nod.

“I- yeah, I’m fine, Professor,” he says hoarsely, but he hangs his head, too, and it’s a little heartbreaking to watch.

“I just…” he deflates, then frustration bubbles up from within, and he thumps the thickest part of his saddle with a fist.

“Damn it!” he snaps. “I’ve never seen so many people so utterly heartbroken, and for what?”

There’s a tremor in his voice, and Edelgard’s throat feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton.

“They fought because they believed someone needed to stand up to the Church of Seiros,” Byleth says softly. “And perhaps because, even if they knew their efforts were probably doomed, they felt it was important to show others that they are not alone in feeling the same way.”

“… You think they sacrificed themselves to- to inspire others,” Caspar says. It’s not quite a question.

“No,” Byleth says, “not as such. Not so directly as that, nor so unanimously.” She’s smiling softly, Edelgard knows. “But it would have been a consideration– one motivation among several, for some; for others, a reassurance, a…”

Byleth seems to be struggling with her words, and Edelgard steps in. “An assurance that, even should they fail, the fact that they tried still matters – that even just the demonstration of defiance matters, and sends a message to others. For some-” she doesn’t specify whom, but it’s hardly ambiguous, “-one of hope. For others, a reminder that their dominance shall not simply go unchallenged– that it has not gone unquestioned.”

Caspar shivers.

“… Anybody who can call what we did to those people justice doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” he says, at length.

Edelgard smiles, and, when Byleth looks her way, she’s positively beaming (by Byleth standards, at any rate) with pride– Edelgard can see it in her eyes.

“Exactly right, Caspar,” she says, and something causes him to look at her strangely, his gaze flitting briefly to catch Edelgard’s eye before settling properly on Byleth.

“… You’ve seen this before, haven’t you, Professor? That’s why you were able to…”

Even from behind, she can tell just from the movement of Byleth’s head and shoulders that she’s blinking, taken aback.

“Yes,” she says, after a moment, “I have, albeit on a lesser scale. Peasants rising up against lords, or lords raising militias and rising against their direct superiors– not like this. Not against the Church.”

“And you were hired by those lords, weren’t you?”

“In the majority of cases, yes. But that was our lot – to be used by those in power to exert or consolidate that power – and we needed to eat. This wasn’t an isolated incident, and it wasn’t unique.” She shakes her head. “Power… is a corrupting influence. It compels those who have it to seek out more, and more and more and more. Little spots of power prey on smaller pockets or are preyed upon by larger ones, until the heads of nations stand as such colossal concentrations of power that the very power they’ve amassed has its own internal ecosystem, its own internal dynamics of power.”

“The Church is unique,” Edelgard supplies, “in that its power comes not from holdings, but from its influence, and the force the Knights of Seiros can project.” She shakes her head. “An uprising like this poses a direct threat to the Church and how it is perceived, and must be ruthlessly crushed, lest it call into question their legitimacy…”

“… Did they send us to the Red Canyon because they needed those bandits to seem beneath the Knights?” Caspar asks, his brow furrowed, and Byleth shrugs.

“That’s a possibility I hadn’t considered,” she says simply, “but that could certainly go some ways toward explaining the peculiarities of this system of sending students out on missions.”

“f*ck,” Caspar breathes, and runs a hand through his sky-blue hair.

Despite herself, Edelgard grins.

“You said it, my friend.”

He rasps out a laugh and turns to look his future emperor in the eye again.

“This…”

“No, Caspar,” she assures him quietly, “this…” she inhales. “This won’t be allowed to stand– cannot be allowed to stand.”

“What can we do, Edelgard?” he whispers, and offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

“For now? Study. Train. Grow strong. And trust in myself and our beloved teacher.”

“Be ready when the time comes,” Byleth says, “and keep believing in justice, and all that you believe is right.”

“… Got it,” he says, and there’s a quite determination in his expression as he glances back at the rest of the Black Eagles. “Is there a plan? Do the rest of them know?”

“There is,” Edelgard assures him.

“And Hubert knows,” Byleth continues.

“We have every intention of bringing those we can trust into the fold, so to speak,” Edelgard says, and notes the surprise in his eyes as he realizes he’s essentially the first to have earned that distinction.

“… I won’t let you down, Edelgard, Professor,” he assures them.

“We know you won’t,” Byleth says, “you don’t have the heart for it.”

The two share a laugh, and Caspar slows his horse to join back up with the other Black Eagles.

“Well, sh*t,” Byleth says, after a minute, “that went well.”

* * *

It’s well into the night that Byleth awakens to the sensation of something tickling her cheek.

Eyelashes, perhaps?

… No. Too straight.

A feather, then.

It brushes down her cheek, across her jaw, and then up over her ear, and she groans, squirming under the sensation, and opens her eyes.

The shaft of an arrow protrudes from Edelgard’s eye and through the periphery of her vision, its fletching tickling her ear.

And Edelgard stares at her from the bedroll, a singular lavender eye boring into her everything.

“Byleth? Is something wrong?” Edelgard’s corpse gently inquires. And there’s such tenderness in her voice.

Byleth’s heart doesn’t beat, but her pulse hammers in her veins, and horror claws at her gut, desperate and hungry.

Even in the dark, she can see Edelgard perfectly clearly.

Her lover. Her lady.

Edelgard’s corpse props herself up on an elbow, then hauls herself into a sitting position. Her hair, ordinarily pale as the moonlight shining faintly through the fabric and flap of their tent, is stained a rich, delicate pink with the blood of armed farmers and bakers and tanners, all sacrificed in the name of their greater good.

“You failed her,” Sothis whispers in her ear, and Edelgard’s corpse grimaces.

“It’s not your fault that you failed me, my blade,” she reasons, calmly. “You know I would never hold that against you.”

It’s funny, but the forgiveness makes it far, far worse.

“Besides,” she continues, “I’m still here, am I not?”

She moves to straddle Byleth’s waist.

Sothis whispers something terrible, something so dreadful it doesn’t even register to Byleth’s mind as a string of words – in fact, she’s quite certain they aren’t words – and a drop of blood runs down Edelgard’s arrow-shaft and splashes onto he cheek.

Edelgard’s corpse leans forward, laying her hands on Byleth’s chest.

“Shall we make love, my Byleth?” She croons. “I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

Byleth doesn’t realize she’s screaming until she registers that she can’t understand what Edelgard’s panicked voice is saying to her – because of all the screaming – and she doesn’t manage to stop screaming until Hubert is there, holding her and brushing his fingers through her hair.

Petra follows shortly after, bursting into the tent with her dagger drawn, and Edelgard is talking to her, she can hear her voice, but her face is buried into Hubert’s collar, and she’s far too afraid to turn and look.

Hubert is speaking as well, to her, Byleth, and she realizes after a moment that she doesn’t understand a word. It’s all just noise.

And Sothis is so quiet Byleth doesn’t even realize she’s there.

Behind her, she recognizes the sound of Edelgard crying and afraid, and she pulls away from Hubert to help her–

And it’s Edelgard’s corpse, crimson dribbling from her arrow-eye to match her tears.

… and Byleth nearly snarls inwardly, as if internally snapping her jaws, as she fights to master herself.

She stares at Edelgard’s corpse, meeting her dead gaze, and reaches out to touch the arrow.

And, for a moment, it’s tangible. Blood-wetted wood and fletching.

… but then it’s gone, and she’s so very tired, and Edelgard looks so very distressed.

“Shall I take the reins?” Sothis gently prompts her, and Byleth shakes her head weakly.

“No. No, I-” she swallows. “I’m fine.”

Petra’s looking at her like she’s gone mad, probably because she appears to be talking to herself.

That’s probably fine.

A few more Black Eagles come rushing to the tent– she can hear their voices outside.

Worried. Afraid. Alarmed.

“… I’m turning back time,” she says – still aloud, but that’s fine, Petra won’t remember – and Sothis nods.

But Edelgard reaches out a hand to cup her cheek, understanding in her eyes, and says, “Godspeed, my blade.”

And then Byleth tears at the fabric of reality with a terrible claw, ripping away the what-was to make room for what will be.

* * *

Byleth awakens to the sensation of something tickling her cheek.

This time, she keeps her eyes firmly closed.

“El?” She whispers, and her lover makes a little half-formed noise of inquest.

The fletching tickles her ear.

“Could you turn over for me?”

Edelgard shifts against her, waking up enough to ask, her voice hoarse with sleep, “… Li’l spoon?”

“Little spoon,” Byleth agrees, ignoring the arrow-shaft brushing against her cheek.

“Okay,” Edelgard says softly, and rolls over, pressing herself backwards, further into Byleth’s embrace, and tucking her head beneath the larger woman’s chin.

“Thank you, El,” Byleth says, as warmly as she can manage, and presses a kiss to the crown of her princess’ head.

“Mmh,” Edelgard mumbles. “Love you.”

Byleth freezes, but only for a moment. The last thing she wants to do is leave room for doubt to seep into the other woman’s heart and mind.

“You too,” she says, in a voice far too small to belong to a hardened mercenary, and her lover wriggles against her for a moment before finally getting comfortable.

“Goodnight, El,” she whispers, as the woman goes still.

Edelgard, before she falls asleep, manages something that has the cadence of a ‘goodnight’, at least.

Goddess, but this girl was dangerous.

The goddess, meanwhile, is content to simply hover nearby, keeping an eye on her poor host.

* * *

Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg rises from a small folding chair, setting her hairbrush aside (atop her pack), and sets about tying purple ribbons into her hair. A half-formed memory tickles at the back of her mind, and she glances over at the hunched-over form of her lover, curious.

“… Byleth, did you ask me to turn over last night?”

Byleth, glancing up from her boots, nods.

“I’ll explain later,” she says. “If I can’t, or don’t, you have my permission to ferret it out of Sothis sometime.”

The future emperor pauses, placing her hands on her hips, and gives Byleth an unimpressed look.

“Byleth, are you… being evasive?”

“… Yes?” Byleth tries, uncertain how she ought to answer, and Edelgard raises an eyebrow.

“Byleth, my blade,” she begins, intending to gently probe the woman, only to be forestalled s Byleth holds up a hand.

She seems to think for a moment. Considering how to broach a subject, perhaps.

Then she explains, “You had an arrow in your eye. It was tickling my face.”

A pang of guilt sours Edelgard’s stomach, and yet…

“That sounds awfully composed, even for you,” she says, and Byleth nods soberly.

She then proceeds to relay the events of an absolutely horrific waking nightmare, and how she screamed and screamed and awoke the whole camp, bringing many of their friends running, and how awful she felt about it… and how she wrenched that fate from the hands of time itself and dashed it upon the anvil of her will. How she avoided the situation by simply asking the princess to shift sleeping positions.

Even as her stomach ties itself in worried knots, Edelgard can’t help but think that, goddess, she adores this woman.

“Oh, my blade,” she laments as the swordsman finishes, and falls to her knees to embrace her poor, overtaxed lover.

She’s dirtying the knees of her scarlet stockings, she realizes – the tent has no floor, after all – but she hardly cares.

Her Byleth is…

Edelgard tells her how it gets better. That the dreams and memories are far, far worse in the first few days than they’ll ever be again. That it gets even easier when you aren’t alone – Byleth smiles at that, having been easing Edelgard’s burdens this way for some time now – and that her El will be with her, always.

She doesn’t know it yet, but in a few hours, that last promise will really start to eat at her.

For now, though, she hugs and kisses and loves her swordsman’s woes better, until Byleth’s nuzzling into her neck, happy and contented.

* * *

It’s just after noon when the party arrives at Garreg Mach, and there’s nary a cloud in the sky. Makes for a rather pleasant day, all things considered.

Which is why it’s such a shock – if not a surprise, per se – when, halfway through the village of Garreg Mach itself, a shrouded figure signals Hubert from the shadows of a narrow alley, and he’s forced to make his excuses to his fellow Eagles and meet with his beckoner, alone and in the dark.

The figure draws back her cowl, and, recognizing her as one of his informants, he motions for her to go ahead and give her report.

“Lord Vestra,” she bows. “The Lord Regent arrived at the monastery this morning.”

Hubert scowls.

“He’s made inquiries regarding the locations of Lady Edelgard and the Blue Lions,” she continues, “as well as a number of inquests regarding Professor Eisner, her status and accomplishments, her mercenary career, and whether the rumors of her relation to the Archbishop are true, and has since been seen conversing at length with Tomas, the librarian.”

Lord Volkhard von Arundel… Thales…

“Hmm. What’s his game, I wonder?” He muses aloud. There’s little chance the worm knows about the goddess dwelling within her, but perhaps the combination of her ‘unknown Crest’ – which Solon almost certainly recognized, even from the limited picture Hanneman’s machine provided – and her heritage (which those who slither in the dark would most certainly know the deeper implications of) had caught the bastard’s attention.

“He’ll want to see Lady Edelgard, milord,” the woman says. “Have you any particular orders?”

Hubert strokes his chin thoughtfully, considering his options.

“Keep an eye on the meeting,” he decides. “Otherwise, carry on as usual.”

“Yes, Lord Vestra.”

She bows again, and Hubert tries very hard to decipher the particularly-foreboding feeling in his stomach as he turns and re-mounts his horse, Ferdinand.

* * *

They meet Arundel in the library. Probably so Solon, in the guise of doddering old Tomas, can keep their privacy. And listen in himself, of course.

“Lord Regent,” Byleth greets him, meeting his lavender eyes – the same color as Edelgard’s, stolen from her real uncle – and bowing deeply to the man.

Hubert told her and Edelgard that she seemed to be a major point of inquiry and interest for the bastard – warned them, really – and she’s terribly aware of the man’s borrowed eyes upon her, even with her gaze fixed firmly upon the floor.

“Uncle,” Edelgard says, as Byleth straightens, “what brings you to Garreg Mach? And on such short notice?”

“Well,” he says, eyeing Edelgard, now, “I had business regarding a bit of a mishap near the Kingdom-Imperial border, and I thought to stop by Garreg Mach and visit my dear niece…”

His gaze drifts to Byleth, and something changes in his voice, his tone growing more openly-sinister.

“And what else did I discover but that your mongrel hound was actually a divine mutt all along?”

She keeps her expression deliberately neutral as he steps closer to her and lifts her chin, turning her head this way and that.

He towers over her, moreso even than she with Edelgard– if her El is 5’2” and she’s five or so inches taller then her, Arundel must have half a foot on Byleth, and, what’s worse, it means she’s eye-level with his terrible, pencil-thin facial hair.

“Tell me, girl,” he says, guiding her eyes to meet his, “you were unaware of your heritage until recently– have you ever transformed?”

He leaves the ‘into a dragon’ unspoken.

Byleth shakes her head.

“No, Lord Arundel.”

There’s a sad*stic gleam in his eye.

“Would you like to?”

Byleth freezes.

The answer, she realizes, is yes– and the potential of such an ability to be useful to her lady-friend certainly doesn’t escape her.

She stares up at him, wide-eyed.

“What are you suggesting, Uncle?” Edelgard demands, her voice taking on a dangerous edge, and Arundel chuckles to himself as though oblivious to any sort of threat Edelgard might pose. An obvious power play.

He releases Byleth’s chin. “Lend me your hound for– oh, let’s say two weeks, and I will return her to you a dragon.”

Edelgard opens her mouth – Byleth amuses herself by imagining she’s going to tell him to go f*ck himself – but it’s Byleth who speaks first.

“What do you propose?”

He smiles down at her.

“Does your heart beat, girl?”

“No, lord.”

“Has it ever?”

“It has not.”

“Then you are Nabatean enough to possess a Crest Stone. It will not take long to synthesize-”

“Byleth, are you truly considering this?” Edelgard interrupts.

“I am, my lady.” She says simply. “Do I get a say?”

The princess meets her eyes, and Arundel watches with keen interest.

“I- of course you do, my blade,” she sighs, “but-”

There’s so much worry in her eyes, and it makes Byleth’s unbeating heart ache.

“Will the process or its results end in me losing myself, Lord Arundel?” Byleth asks.

“No,” he says, sounding well-pleased with himself, “unlike the more common beasts, warped into draconic form, you already possess what makes a true dragon– you need only be provided the means and the impetus necessary to change your form.”

“And I’ll be able to change back to my natural form?”

His smile grows wider.

“Yes. You will change as any full-blooded Nabatean might, with all that entails.”

And she nods, and looks to Edelgard.

“Then, if you can satisfy whatever conditions my lady proposes, I am willing.”

The worry in Edelgard’s eyes hardens to determination, and they spend the next hour and a half negotiating, Byleth mostly providing input here and there.

Ultimately, they agree to leave after Byleth and Edelgard have given their report to Rhea.

The pair depart the library, and Edelgard pulls Byleth aside, into the one of the protruding, windowed dead ends of the second floor halls.

“You’re doing this for me,” she says, boxing Byleth into a corner. It’s not a question.

“Mostly,” Byleth admits, “but when he asked if I wanted to…” she grimaces, trying to pin down the feeling.

“I knew, immediately, that the answer was yes.”

Edelgard stares at her levelly, scrutinizing her with careful concern.

After a moment, she offers a minute nod.

“… Very well, my blade,” quietly relents, though the furrow has yet to leave her brow.

Something vulnerable seeps into her voice and bearing, and she sets one fist against Byleth’s chest, the other following shortly thereafter.

“Promise you’ll come back to me,” she says, and Byleth kisses her.

“I swear it,” she whispers as their lips part, meeting and holding her lady love’s gaze.

“… and that you’ll take care of yourself,” she adds, and Byleth grins.

“I swear it, El.”

“… Whatever happens, my Byleth,” the princess says softly, “don’t let it change you.”

“Except into a dragon,” Byleth quips, and Edelgard snickers in spite of herself.

“Except into a dragon,” she agrees. “So long as you are my dragon.”

Byleth, hesitating briefly, goes to open her mouth, and Edelgard says, “That’s a mutual possessive, I didn’t mean for it to sound like ownership of an animal in the slightest.”

“Okay, good,” Byleth says, letting out a breath she hasn’t realized she was holding. She shifts gears back to playful with little issue, however.“I’ll look forward to ‘my dragon’ as a new term of endearment.”

Edelgard, of course, reddens, and buries her face in Byleth’s chest.

Byleth wraps her arms around her, and they stay like that for a time.

But they have to move eventually.

“C’mon,” Byleth nudges her lover, “let’s go talk to Granny Rhea and Uncle Seteth. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can get it over with.”

“… Very well, my blade,” sighs Edelgard. “I’ll keep an eye on the Black Eagles while you’re gone.”

Byleth kisses her again. She most certainly appreciates having a trustworthy eye on the rest of the eaglets.

“Thank you, El,” she says, hoping to share the warmth burgeoning in her breast, but her darling princess can only nod.

Hopefully the next few weeks won’t be too hard on either of them.

* * *

The debriefing begins with some lip service towards Lonato and his militia, and Rhea seems almost to empathize with the students who had a difficult time killing armed civilians – though she immediately concludes that she hopes they’ve “learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens”, which almost seems rather typical, now that they’re hearing it again. Like the outrage has melted away to a resigned acceptance that, ironically, Rhea will not be learning any lessons about this. Even Seteth seems displeased with her.

Their primary concern, of course, is the letter with the outlandish assassination plot against the Archbishop, and the plot to target her on the day of the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth.

“I would like for you and your students to help with security on the day of the ritual,” Seteth says, and Byleth nods her assent, and, sensing her opportunity to interject, speaks up.

“Another matter, Lady Rhea, Seteth,” she says, “It seems I will be absent from the monastery for at least the next two weeks– I would have prepared for this in advance, but I was only informed of my leave of absence earlier this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid my Lord Uncle-” Edelgard manages to remain in control of herself enough to not spit the title like a curse, “-has requested that Byleth accompany him for the next two weeks. And, given his authority as Regent…”

“You fear he may simply take her if you do not comply,” Seteth says, and the princess nods grimly.

“It’s probably mostly a power play on his part anyways,” she admits, “he’s trying to remind me that anything I have – including anyone I care about – can be taken away from me, and that he has the power to do so.”

Rhea’s lip curls in disgust.

“What a loathsome man,” she mutters, and looks to Edelgard. “If he troubles you or oversteps, please, do not be afraid to come to us.”

Seteth, meanwhile, simply gives her a firm nod.

“You are family, here,” he says softly, and Byleth barely keeps herself from flinching.

“… Thank you both,” Edelgard says, but Byleth is fairly certain she’s looking more at Seteth than Rhea, “that’s very kind of you.”

Seteth turns to Byleth, then.

“As for you,” he says, stepping forward to her with a stern expression, “… be safe in your travels, and return to us alive and well.”

“Of course, Seteth,” Byleth says.

“May the goddess watch over you,” Rhea intones, and Byleth resists the urge to shrug, instead inclining her head.

“Thank you, Rhea,” is what she says, but what she’s thinking is that it’s odd that Seteth and her girlfriend wished her safe travels and bade her take care of herself and the like, but all Rhea had to say was… that.

“I’ll brief you on the Rite of Rebirth – and any developments – when you return,” Seteth says, and, glancing at Rhea for confirmation, gives the two young women a dismissive wave of the hand.

“That will be all for today,” Rhea says serenely, and nods to Byleth and Edelgard in turn. “Go- make ready for your journey. The world is seldom kind to the unprepared.”

* * *

It’s another day or two before the Blue Lions finally return from their own mission, the suspicious one Edelgard and Byleth had been told about before, with a pair of injured-but-freed prisoners in tow (so to speak). Their rescuees are taken straight to the infirmary, but the imperial princess barely pays them any thought.

She’s doing what she does best in times like these– that is to say, keeping busy so she doesn’t have time to sit and stew and worry. She helps with classes. Helps Caspar train with the axe, more or less recruits Dorothea to the cause. She carries books for Lysithea, of the Golden Deer, with whom she feels a kinship for the obvious reason that both bear two Crests, their hair turned white by the process of their ‘making’. She looks after Leraje at the stables, and meets Marianne von Edmund, also of the Golden Deer, who speaks in low tones, gentle and sweet, to animals – and apparently shares an empathetic bond of some kind with them, for they whisper back to her, as the girl demonstrates when she informs Edelgard that Leraje vouches for her, and has told her the tale of Edelgard and Byleth’s romantic first flight (which is incredibly embarrassing).

Marianne also informs her that Leraje is worried about his mistress, and Edelgard can only hug the pegasus’ neck as best she can.

Because she’s worried about Byleth, too.

In her sworn sword’s absence, she has to cuddle a stuffed bear to try and ward off the nightmares, which, spurred by her memories, encroach all the more quickly– and even an armored bear stuffy can only hold a breach for so long.

Hubert takes to dozing in a chair by her bedside, as Byleth used to, and, thankfully, they both start sleeping better after that.

On the bright side, they’re very productive.

It’s just over a week later that Hubert receives a letter bearing the seal of House Arundel.

* * *

Byleth Eisner, meanwhile, is having a very peculiar time.

Blood and tissue samples, doses of strange potions, a number of ‘stress tests’ to see if she could be made to “express” naturally…

She doesn’t quite know where she is, really. Probably somewhere in Adrestia? She’s not been locked up or even deprived – there’s a spartan little room, like the churchly kind of ‘cell’, and she’s fed quite well, and they even give her some medicine one night when she wakes up screaming. Wherever she is, Thales – Arundel – warped them here directly, and it’s not as though those who slither in the dark are known for being especially forthcoming with information, so she mostly focuses on trying to do what she’s here for.

After three days, they start synthesizing little trinkets for her and sending her into a slightly-peculiar sort of arena, which seems to be both underground and above-board (it’s a shame nobody’s here to appreciate her comedic genius), mostly against beasts or strange automata, but occasionally against a genuinely ash-pale human.

On the fifth day, one of the trinkets does something, they don’t know what, and the whole rest of the day is spent homing in on that.

On the sixth day, she kills a greatwolf with her terrible claws, sinks her fangs into its neck-

-and then she’s herself again, sprawled out on top of a dead, monstrous wolf with bloody fur in her mouth.

On the morning of the seventh day, she’s given an injection of some kind– and she swears her vision sharpens just the tiniest bit.

By noon, they’ve given her a peculiar stone, sent her to the arena, and told her to use it.

She’s not sure how, and obviously they aren’t either, as they have no advice for her, but then a giant wolf comes bounding across the sand, snarling at her with wild fury, and slams into her with the kind of force to be expected of a creature many times her size– and then Sothis whispers in her ear, and she realizes they haven’t spoken since the nightmare she turned back time for, and it’s the strangest thing, but suddenly Byleth is very, very large.

She snarls at the giant wolf, and it scrambles to get away from her, whimpers, and flees.

Something breaks, then, though she doesn’t know what, and she roars her triumph, her tail thrashing to and fro–

–and then she’s so very small, and so very confused, and there’s a broken stone in her hands, and Sothis has this conflicted look on her face, like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Two days later, they give her a new stone.

* * *

Chapter 9: Inroads

Chapter Text

After the first full transformation, it comes easier.

She even transforms without her stone, once.

When she regains her senses, Sothis is screaming, and fifteen men lay, strewn and sundered, at her feet, and she can taste their blood on her tongue.

She and the researchers – they speak often of ‘Agartha’, which she takes to be their home, so perhaps they are best called Agarthans? – agree that perhaps she ought to keep the stone on her person at all times, maybe. Just as a thought.

They’ve taken to calling the synthetic stones ‘Dragonstones’.

They hang one on a pendant and bid her give it to her ‘master,’ whom they primarily refer to as ‘The Flame Emperor’, and inform her they’ll be keeping several extras in storage, for research (hardly unexpected) and in case of emergency (which, given the incident the previous day, seems only prudent).

It’s only after the kinks have been hammered out that Arundel comes to her and puts her to work – and, almost bizarrely, it’s not even objectionable work, just clearing out a few infestations of demonic beasts in secluded portions of the Empire. Probably Hrym, at the country’s easternmost extent, and Arundel, on the Faerghan border – both of which are, to her knowledge, under Arundel’s control. Work of mutual benefit – she gets to practice fighting in draconic form, he gets to be rid of some very difficult to dislodge ‘pests’, and she even gets to roast and eat a whole deer, just with her breath.

Perhaps, she thinks, as she tears into the seared haunch of her prey, Arundel is trying to ingratiate himself? To give her positive memories tied to him in her mind, lest she turn on him later?

It’s probably easier than abusing her into submission, given the short time-frame and the fact that she’s a grown woman and hardened warrior rather than a terrified little girl-

The mere thought of what he’d done to her beloved is enough to send a wet, rolling growl tearing from her throat, and she snarls into the flesh of her meal.

“He won’t regret this,” she decides, “because I’ll kill him human.”

“You would deny him the satisfaction of feeling vindicated in his last moments?” Sothis muses, quiet, but not fully subdued. “I like it. Slay him as one of those whom he would gladly oppress, with cold, singing steel, that he might die not as a victim of a monster, but as a monster himself.”

“Sothis!” Byleth enthuses, her eyes opening wide, and, letting the morsel in her maw fall to the dirt, shakes out her mane to roar her joy to the skies.

The floating form of the creator goddess herself appears near Byleth’s head, raised high itself by the sinuous length of her neck, and giggles as the newfound dragon bumps her head into her belly.

“I did not realize that you would miss me so,” she says softly, and gently pets the ridge above one of Byleth’s massive blue eyes, “but, yes, I am returned.”

“Where were you?” Byleth asks, and raises her head to take in her surroundings for the first time in awhile. It’s grown darker – evening, then – and a cool breeze blows through the trees and across her membranous wings, which she ruffles instinctively at the pleasant sensation.

“I must confess that your night-terror a few weeks past left me… somewhat diminished.” Byleth bumps her again, and she offers up a distant smile at the apologetic whine which escapes the dragon’s throat.

“It is not your fault, little one,” she soothes, and her smile grows broader, more present. “… it has been some time since I have been in this position, you know.”

“ You remember something?”

“Vaguely. I recall little ones, hatchlings, just as affectionate as you. All bumping and nuzzling like housecats…” she shakes her head, something warm and fond in her eyes.

Then, she pauses.

“… have I always been able to touch you, Byleth?”

Byleth shrugs as well as a dragon can– which is to say, not all that well.

The little goddess rolls her eyes.

“Thank you for your insights,” she deadpans, but she’s smiling still. “Perhaps we never tried, but- I feel as though we’ve somehow grown closer, and I can’t but think this is related.”

“Because I can turn into a funny little dragon, now?” Byleth asks. “Or because of the night terror?”

“I have no idea,” says Sothis, and reclines in the air, lacing her fingers behind her head, “but enough of this– eat, girl. Your ‘venison’ shall get cold.”

And Byleth does, humming all the while, a sonorous tune rumbling deep in her chest.

This has been a worthwhile endeavor indeed.

* * *

The letter reads simply,

“Success.

I will be retaining her services for the remainder of the agreed-upon period.

Look forward to her triumphal return, dear niece.

I trust you will see the value in our continued cooperation.”

The words draw forth a peal of relieved laughter from Edelgard’s lungs.

Her Byleth lives.

That is all that matters.

Beside her, Hubert bears a far more conflicted expression, his mouth a thin, thoughtful line.

“I suppose we can only hope the worms manage not to drag our dear comrade too deeply through the mud in which they squirm,” he drawls, and Edelgard cants her head at him.

“Indeed,” she agrees– businesslike, now. “For now, we must trust in her ability to take care of herself, and turn our minds toward our own circ*mstances…”

Hubert conjures a flame in his hand, and she passes the letter to him for incineration. He takes special care to render the wax seal completely impossible to identify, melting it into a nearby bin.

It feels a little odd, using Byleth’s office to meet without Byleth herself being present, but it’s private, unlike the library, and means actual chairs rather than someone having to sit on a bed.

Besides, Byleth’s chair – and the spare coat draped from its back – carry the woman’s scent, or so Edelgard imagines (perhaps it’s a bit of both), and the simple proximity sets her heart just that little bit more at ease.

“You still intend to have tea with Prince Dimitri tomorrow, yes?” Hubert asks as the last of the thick letter-paper turns to ash.

“I do.”

“Then I shall make my inroads with Dedue while the two of us supervise.”

Edelgard smiles.

“Excellent,” she says, and leans back in Byleth’s chair, lacing her fingers together and stretching her arms above her head.

She looks around the room, taking in her swordsman’s working space. A few weapons hang on the walls here and there, and tomes on white magic – and even a little black magic – have worked their way onto her shelves in recent months, joining the treatises on tactics and the mathematical sciences that she’d brought with her to the monastery. (The cookbooks, she keeps in her quarters, along with books she’s currently reading. Edelgard doesn’t know much about white magic, and she’s still very much unclear on what ‘calculus’ is, aside from a recent Morfian invention, but she knew Byleth was as excited about it as she might be to receive a new book of history or strategy, or perhaps a good novel, and that’s more than enough for her. So long as it keeps her blade happy and enriched, she doesn’t need to understand – and putting the woman in touch with some of Duke Gerth’s people at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs back in Enbarr was practically a public service. If a tome on mathematics from Morfis caught her blade’s eye, then it was well-worth acquiring copies for the libraries of the imperial capital, that imperial scholars might keep up with the best of the world.)

Aside from weapons and books, most of the decoration consists of things she’s been given, either by Edelgard and Hubert or by the students at the academy. Flowers, a potted plant from Bernadetta, a nice rock from goddess-knows-who.

She wonders, for a moment, whether anyone would care if she slept in here for the night.

It takes her all of three seconds to realize her girlfriend has her very own sleeping quarters.

“I miss her as well,” Hubert says, and, by this point fairly well-accustomed to the man more or less reading her thoughts, Edelgard nods.

“I think I’m going to sleep in her quarters tonight, Hubert,” she says.

“Of course, Lady Edelgard.” He stands up and bows to her. “Should I check in, or?”

She shakes her head.

“Thank you, Hubert, but if her scent doesn’t keep the nightmares away, I’m sure Dedue will hear and check in on me himself.” She smiles at the man. “And to see me so vulnerable and human as that– well, it’s a good way to form a bond, don’t you think?”

* * *

“You favor the axe, Edelgard, do you not?”

The princess nods. “I do. And you the lance– fitting, perhaps, for one so straightforward.”

Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Faerghus co*cks his head slightly.

“Oh?” he asks, and Edelgard grins over the lip of her teacup.

“The axe cleaves indelibly, requiring foresight, strength, commitment to one’s course of action; the hammer is a simple weapon, easy to use, with which the most heavily-armored of lords can be brought low by even the lowliest peasant. The sword is swift and precise, versatile and easily-carried– as quick to react or adapt as its wielder allows. A swordsman must be as flexible as their blade, lest they, like a blade of poorer steel, break rather than bend. And the lance and spear typically rely on one’s horse or one’s comrades to reach their fullest potential, and serve to keep one’s enemies at bay and punch through armor.”

Dimitri blinks at her, and, after a moment, nods.

“And would you say that, in choosing our arms according to what suits us best, whether consciously or no, we prove that the mind is the greatest weapon we possess?”

“I think I might,” Edelgard says.

A small smile alights upon Dimitri’s face, and his blue eyes seek something in her own gaze as he very daintily picks up his teacup, very obviously being especially careful not to break it (which is rather endearing, really).

“I notice you had a fair piece to say about the sword,” he begins, and Edelgard, divining his intentions, rolls her eyes.

“Yes, Dimitri,” she sighs halfheartedly, unable to entirely hide a hint of wry amusem*nt at being so quickly seen through, “I imagine it does probably have something to do with my relationship with a certain multi-talented swordsman.”

His smile broadens a little.

“Professor Eisner seems like a remarkable woman,” he says. “You have both seemed troubled at times– it gladdens me to see how happy you make one another.”

Edelgard smiles slightly, placing a custard tart onto her plate. “Thank you, Dimitri– and I assure you, she is. I’ve…” she sighs, a little more dreamily than she intends to. “I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“Except for her,” he jokes, and she snorts.

“Listen here, you towheaded prince,” she mock-threatens, and his eyes dart upward, at his slightly messy blond hair.

And then he frowns, and his eyes drift up, to the top of her head.

“… Your hair,” he says softly. “I didn’t recognize you at first because of it, but-”

“Would you believe me if I told you I dye it?”

He considers that for a moment.

“No,” he decides, “the El I knew was far too proud of her hair to solicit an apothecary just for the sake of changing its color– and especially the sorts of chemicals one might use to bleach it.”

That sounds about right, she thinks.

“That being said,” he says, “… what happened?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Perhaps we can discuss that another time,” she suggests, “I’m sure I’d be more willing to broach such topics when we know one another better, or when I’ve my emotional support retainer on-hand. Ideally both.”

Her attempt at levity takes, and Dimitri, chuckling, nods. “Of course, Edelgard.”

Their conversation moves to easier places from there– lighter, safer topics. They discuss tea, and the odd obsession with saffron among those desiring to flaunt their wealth; the deprivation of the common man, and the value of his labor. They even speak of the difficulties of… contending with a terrible regent, and the gross degeneracy of noblemen who treat those living on their lands as little more than property themselves.

And they discuss the dagger she still carries, and how Dimitri still cannot dance.

They talk about their retainers and their virtues– their patience and strength of character, their wisdom and prowess, and their careful consideration. Dedue and Byleth’s gentleness and abilities in the kitchen. Hubert’s unshakable loyalty and talents as a spymaster. They speak of their lesser-appreciated facets: Byleth’s relative candor, Dedue’s fondness for flowers and gardening, Hubert’s conscientiousness and oft-missed disdain for injustice, and the like. They laugh and giggle about the stark contrast in the ways Hubert and Byleth attempt to support their friends and classmates, and soberly discuss the prejudice Dedue faces– how it manifests and who to look out for, sharing information on who they know to have shown their true and disappointing colors to Dedue or Petra, that the other might better avoid mistreatment by the ignorant and the cruel.

It’s when they realize the sun has set that it strikes Edelgard that she’s had fun, and, goddess, but is that a nice change of pace.

They bid one another farewell– Edelgard more simply, but Dimitri says,

“Goodnight, Edelgard. I hope you do not miss Professor Eisner too sorely– I’m sure she will return soon.”

And, damn it, is she really that transparent?

* * *

When Byleth returns, she does so shrouded in night’s shadow– her arrival at the prearranged meeting point betrayed only by the fiery red flash of one of Arundel’s peculiar warp spells. When that fades, all that gives away her person is the gleam in her wide eyes, the light produced by the town of Garreg Mach and its monastery shining back through her irises in a way that reminds the princess of the eyes of a predator lurking in darkness.

Her coming is a weight off of Edelgard’s shoulders, yet it, and the chosen location – in the forest, well outside the monastery – intrigue.

“My blade,” Edelgard breathes into the night, “you’ve returned to me.”

Amid the relief and the fondness, there’s an undercurrent of almost surprise in her voice, one Edelgard herself doesn’t catch.

“I have indeed,” her beloved smoothly intones. “Come – Edelgard, Hubert – let me show you what I have learned.”

At her side, Edelgard can sense that Hubert is scrutinizing the woman, seeking to determine whether or not she’s another impostor wearing a familiar face, and she decides to save him the trouble. (And the heartache, loathe as he’d be to admit to such.)

She calls upon her Crest of Flames, and Byleth half-misses a step and turns. The harmonious tones of Crest Resonance reverberate in Edelgard’s veins, thrumming with life, and it warms her heart to know her Byleth must surely be experiencing much the same thing.

“El?” the swordsman asks, confusion readily evident in her tone, and Edelgard laughs.

“I was just ensuring you were you, for Hubert’s sake,” she explains, and pats the gloomy fool’s arm fondly.

“You used your Crest, I presume?” Hubert asks, moving to follow after Byleth as Edelgard does, and the Princess nods.

“I did. It’s her, Hubert.” She nudges him with an elbow as he conjures a flame for light.

The flame sends long shadows dancing amidst the trees, their ligneous fingers and darkened greenery, backed by blackness, carrying an ominous and foreboding quality characteristic of wild places at night.

But this, Edelgard knows, is a managed wood – a source of lumber, forage, and game for the township. There are no wolves here, no bears or big cats. Nothing stalks this night, certainly nothing even a fraction as dangerous as any one of them.

… And yet, Edelgard realizes, the chirping and chittering of the bugs and the other small creatures goes quiet as Byleth passes.

As they would at the passing of a predator.

Goddess. They really had done it, then, hadn’t they?

Shamefully, the thought excites her somewhat. Her Byleth…

… Yes, the thought of the woman looming over her, more powerful than ever… it certainly titillates, if nothing else. Sends an electric feeling right down her toes, and arcing up her back.

Part of her hopes Byleth might become a little more outwardly possessive of her, a little more territorial.

That’s not to say her lover isn’t terribly attractive already, or that her more earnestly protective nature doesn’t impress or endear, of course. Just that Edelgard would find it a little more… exciting, is all, for her gentle, caring lover to show such a side.

Perhaps if she lets Byleth know about it, the woman will be happy to oblige– or, better yet, reveal that she has long wished to act thus, to step in front of Edelgard in a manner that suggests not only the desire to protect, but a sense of fierce refusal to give her up. To defend her, not merely because she is her princess, but because she’s her princess.

Perhaps Edelgard simply wishes for her girlfriend to do things which she not only finds sexy, but which make her feel as though she belongs. As though she is wanted – no, needed – on a strictly-personal level. Not as Crown Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire, but as Edelgard von Hresvelg, the woman.

Whatever the case, Byleth leads them into a clearing of fair size, continuing onward until she’s taken her apparent place in its center.

Then, as if she’s forgotten something, she goes, “Ah.” and beckons for Edelgard to come closer while approaching herself, producing what looks like a simple pendant as they cross the moon-scented grass.

They meet halfway, and Byleth first embraces her, wrapping her in strong, well-toned arms and whispering, her breath tickling Edelgard’s ear, “I’ve missed you, El.”

“And I you, my Byleth,” Edelgard replies, and gives her sworn sword a quick peck on the lips.

Byleth smiles, all world’s warmth and love in her eyes, and ties the strange pendant around Edelgard’s neck, tucking the strange, smooth stone hanging from it into her blouse.

“What’s this, my blade?” Edelgard asks, and Byleth kisses her again.

“The Agarthans – Thales’ men, I mean – took to calling it a dragonstone.” she says softly. “It helps me remember myself, when I transform.”

She smiles reassuringly. “I only transformed without a stone once, and it was-” she clears her throat. “It was bad, El.”

“… How bad?”

Byleth swallows. “I don’t really know what happened, but when I came to, it seemed an awful lot like I’d killed fifteen men or so.”

Edelgard squints. She’s holding something back.

“And?”

Her blade sighs. “There was blood in my mouth, and it wasn’t mine.”

“Ah.”

Byleth nods, and holds up her own dragonstone. “They insisted my ‘master’ have one herself, just in case,” she says, grinning at the title, “and I can’t help but agree.”

“I’ll keep it on my person or near at hand at all times,” Edelgard says, and Byleth kisses her again, smiling against her lips.

“And I’ll be doing the same with mine,” she says, and bumps their heads together affectionately. “Thank you, El.”

She takes a step back, then, and makes a shooing gesture.

“Now go on, git,” she teases, and Edelgard obliges.

As she arrives back at the edge of the clearing, Hubert greets her with a smug, self-satisfied grin, and she tells him to shut up before he’s even spoken.

He laughs darkly.

It’s a reassuring sound, because that just seems to be what wholehearted laughter sounds like for Hubert, as odd as it – and he – is.

Byleth looks at them, her eyes shining brightly against Hubert’s conjured flame, and, smiling, she clutches her dragonstone to her breast.

A brilliant white light envelops her and expands in a flash. Edelgard blinks away her temporary bedazzlement, and, as she takes in the sight for the first time, her breath hitches in her chest.

Byleth has vanished, and in her place stands– well, obviously she’s still Byleth, but usually Byleth isn’t a towering, pale blue dragon, which makes it a bit of a surprise when she is. When she is that.

She’s more gracile than the drawings they’ve seen of the Immaculate One, longer and slenderer of snout, her head, narrower and frilled, poised at the end of a long, sinuous neck. She’s also much smaller than Rhea – Seiros, the Immaculate One, however one wishes to refer to her – being half, or perhaps two-thirds the size (it’s fairly hard to tell the Archbishop’s true size from just the drawing, with the single human silhouette for comparison).

Her arrowhead tail is similarly long and sinuous, the weapon at the end appearing perfectly deadly, and the spines along her back are much less prominent, while her chest appears deeper, proportionally, and her torso hasn’t the same level of vespine narrowing at the middle. There’s more meat on her bones overall, so to speak, and she looks… rather healthier than the diagrams make Rhea look, in hindsight. Like her skin isn’t clinging so tightly to the musculature beneath as to make it so visible as it appears to be – or have been – in the Immaculate One.

Her wings are vast and membranous, and she has four legs rather than two, distinguishing her very strikingly from a wyvern; her scales glitter beautifully in the firelight, her claws are sharp and prominent, and, as she yawns, it becomes clear that her teeth are much the same.

She’s far cuter than the Immaculate One, Edelgard thinks, and only half of that is personal bias. The other half is her tiny horns, which, compared to those of the Immaculate One – two curving and two straight back – are positively adorable.

“You’re magnificent,” Edelgard breathes, and Hubert hums beside her.

“Yes, she does have a sort of majesty about her, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, you two,” Byleth says softly – which is quite bizarre, coming from a dragon – and pads over to them, lowering her head to peer at them with big, blue eyes. (Some things never change, Edelgard supposes.)

… and then she nudges the princess with her head, like a cat, and curls up before them, resting her chin on her pa- forelegs.

Mercifully, she even manages not to bowl Edelgard over with the head-bumping– and it strikes Edelgard that, wait, actually, Byleth does that normally, is that just a Nabatean thing? Or a Byleth thing?

Maybe they’ll find out from Seteth or Flayn, she supposes, and reaches out to lay a hand on Byleth’s snout, prompting the dragon to nuzzle into her touch, humming happily– a sound that resonates deep within her colossal chest, warm and affectionate.

A terrible, villainous look crosses Hubert’s features, and he goes to scratch behind Byleth’s ear– and, honest to goddess, Byleth begins to purr.

“… Can we keep her, Hubert?” the princess jokes, and Byleth gives him the puppy-dragon eyes for effect.

Hubert, good sport that he is, plays along.

“Fine,” he says “but she sleeps in your room.”

They can’t manage to reign in their laughter long enough for Edelgard to get to the ‘Yay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ portion of the bit, but, really, that just means that it’s already done its job.

Eventually, it occurs to Edelgard to ask, “Can you fly, my blade?”

“I can,” Byleth hums, “but it would be very foolish to do so here, now.”

“Indeed.”

Byleth lifts her chin from the ground and, rising to her feet, reverts to her human form. Human enough form? Regardless.

“Come on, you two,” she says, “let’s get back to the monastery. I’m exhausted, and I’ve got the strangest urge to cuddle a princess-”

Edelgard punches her in the arm, but they go nonetheless, and Edelgard’s never been so glad, so relieved to have someone come home to her.

She gets the feeling Byleth feels much the same.

* * *

That night, Byleth has an arrow dream again, but- it’s not quite so bad, this time.

It does wake her, though, and that wakes her El, which makes it hard to forgive.

Edelgard has enough trouble resting as-is.

* * *

Byleth, waking Edelgard to inform her she’s leaving – to have the girl wake up to an empty bed after a two week absence the morning following her subsequent return… well, she wasn’t about to do that – adjourns to Seteth’s office earlier than usual, before the kitchens are even ready to serve breakfast. He’s been teaching the Black Eagles in her stead, after all, goddess love him, and that means she needs to catch up on what he’s covered, what he hasn’t, and also her profuse apologies and thanks.

He looks up from some paperwork of some description when she knocks on the frame of his open door, smiling when he sees her.

He goes to open his mouth, but pauses.

“… Professor?” He asks, after a moment, “Has-”

His brow furrows in consternation.

“… Would you close the door?”

Byleth hesitates only a moment before obliging him, and, when he beckons her forth, sits in the chair across from him.

“He can absolutely tell, huh?” Sothis muses, and, a moment later, Seteth confirms that outright.

“You’ve… changed, Professor Eisner,” he says tactfully, and offers a small smile.

“I was given some medicine to improve my eyesight during my time in Arundel,” she says innocently. It’s technically true, after all. (At least, she thinks it is.)

“Do we just tell him, you think?” she asks Sothis.

“Perhaps ask him if he trusts us? If we can trust him?” The goddess hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps we tell him, then ask if he’s willing to hear us out as to why you distrust Rhea? To listen and keep an open mind? He is not an unkind man, I think– and that we are Nabatean ourself should make it easier to convince him that our cause is not anti-Nabatean, but for the liberation of the oppressed, the downtrodden, and the people of Fódlan as a whole?”

“Hmm. Likewise, we are family to him, too. If it comes down to protecting his family… will he side with we who are right, or Rhea and the old order?”

“… Professor? Byleth?” Seteth prompts gently, and Byleth blinks at him with a start.

“Sorry, what?”

He grimaces at her, and she figures she and Sothis probably missed whatever he said in response. (Sorry, Seteth.)

“In truth,” she says, at length, “I was wondering whether or not to tell you I’ve worn my second skin.”

Seteth’s dark green eyes light up with excitement, and, for just a moment, he looks as though he wants to jump up from his desk and cheer, or perhaps embrace her.

Instead, he masters himself, and smiles.

“That’s wonderful news, Byleth,” he says, his sentiment genuine as far as Byleth and Sothis are aware. “Was there any particular catalyst for it, or…?”

Byleth pauses.

“I-” her lips press into a thin line. “I don’t think that’s something I can discuss with you,” she says, finally, and, though his smile falters, he nods.

“… You have at least made your lover aware, yes?” he asks, and immediately she nods.

“I wonder if he realizes how many points that just won him,” Sothis cracks, and Byleth reminds her that if they can make physical contact now, that means she can eat her.

“Absolutely. The first thing I did upon my return was show her,” she says, unaware of her own, (moderate) preening.

“I take it from the obvious pride in your voice that it went well,” he says, and again she nods, quite happily.

“Well, if you ever have any… dragon problems,” he says, unable to keep himself from smiling a little at the phrase, “know that you are more than welcome to come to me about them.”

“If I do, I probably will,” she admits, and pauses. “Have there- have there been other half-Nabateans?”

He laughs heartily, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Oh, plenty,” he says, “especially long ago. It’s part of why I mention ‘dragon problems’ – those among them who could transform typically needed assistance in some way, though I admit I’m not clear on the details.”

“… Like a funny rock to help them keep their senses?” Byleth offers, however hesitantly, and Seteth gives her a Look.

“In fairness, I needed it to transform in the first place,” she says diplomatically, and, heaving a sigh, he nods.

“That is outside of my experience, but doesn’t sound too far-fetched,” he admits, and leans over his desk a little. “I think it goes without saying that we will want to keep this from Lady Rhea, yes?”

Byleth blinks at him, somewhat taken aback, and he frowns at her.

“I cannot claim to know what is going on between the two of of you,” he says, “but it is abundantly clear to me that Lady Rhea cannot be trusted to have your best interests at heart. The fact that she openly admits you have plenty reason to be upset with her, but refuses to divulge why…” he shakes his head. “That only adds to my certainty on the matter.”

“I’ve decided I’m taking credit for this one,” Sothis states lightheartedly, giving her bare foot a tiny stamp as if to emphasize the declaration.

“… You haven’t been with the church for all that long, have you?” Byleth asks, and Seteth shakes his head.

“No– Flayn was in slumber for most of the last millennium, and I kept watch over her.”

“You had no hand in its formation, then, nor its policy,” Byleth says, more to herself than him, but he nods anyways.

“That is correct.”

“… How do you feel about the system of aristocracy the church endorses and perpetuates, and the value placed on Crests to the detriment of all else, including the station of women and young nobles in society?”

She asks this almost automatically, so much so that it sends Sothis into a fit of titters.

He blinks at her, and, after a moment, says,

“You think the Church of Seiros is responsible for the current state of affairs in Fódlan.”

“I don’t think it, un- Seteth, I know it.” Byleth says, and she’s perhaps a bit more passionate in her speech than she realizes, because he not only glosses over her nearly calling him ‘uncle,’ but regards her as though reevaluating her somehow.

“I admit,” he says, “I have my share of doubts about the organization, but…”

“The Church of Seiros claims as part of its doctrine that Crests are gifts from the goddess herself,” she insists, and his frown grows. “Rhea – Seiros – has ensured that certain noble bloodlines have claim to the divine right to rule, and-”

She sighs.

“Edelgard would be able to explain this better,” she says, her confidence waning, and Sothis pats her head reassuringly.

“I see what you mean, however,” Seteth admits. “But what would you do about this? What would you have me, or any of us do?”

Byleth swallows.

This one may need a rollback.

“And if I told you the answer was revolution?” she folds her hands in her lap for lack of anything to do with them. “If I told you I mean to kill her?”

Seteth pales.

“How easily you say that,” he mutters. “Have you- no, I am sure you and your lady have considered alternatives, I will not insult you by asking, but–” he swallows, “are you sure you understand what you- what the path you speak of truly entails? The cost of it all?”

It’s Byleth’s turn to grimace.

“Uncle,” she says, and doesn’t bother to correct herself this time, “I was raised amid a band of mercenaries. I grew up by the battlefield until I was old enough to grow up on the battlefield. I’ve been killing since as long as I can really remember.” She stares him right in the eye. “Not only do I know full well what battle – and, in fact, war – look like, I-”

She shakes her head. “When Dagda and Brigid invaded, we fought. Before and after that? We fought.”

Beside her, Sothis wears a grimace to match her own.

“If you believe there’s peace in Fódlan, you’re blind, a fool, or indifferent to the suffering of thousands, and I don’t want to believe you’re any of those.” She folds her arms across her chest. “As a mercenary, I had constant employment all across the continent. Even if we were to say nothing of the deprivation of the commonfolk and the de facto trade in Crested noble children, of the women cast aside, murdered, or-”

She hesitates to say the word, but Seteth swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down, and nods.

He understands the one she means, and why she does not wish to speak its name.

“Being a father of a young girl will do that to you,” Sothis supposes, and Byleth’s stomach lurches painfully.

“Even if we were to say nothing of all of that, Fódlan has not known peace for as long as I’ve lived, and long, long before that besides. To wage war now, for the sake of the lives of untold future generations? It is the only choice.”

He steeples his hands in front of his chin.

“And if I were to tell Rh- Seiros of this?”

She swallows and looks away, but she can’t hide the flash of terror in her eyes, the worry – for her loved ones, for her students, for the starving children in Enbarr and the people who died so the Agarthans could ‘create’ Edelgard – that pulses through her, shaking her to her very marrow.

She can say nothing, and she’s certain she’s ruined it all– that it’s hopeless, and Sothis’ dominion over time is all that has kept her from destroying everything Edelgard and Hubert have worked for for years, and where would she be if not for that gift? What would she be?

… Well, dead, she supposed. Perhaps that was her fate, to die for some girl she barely knew, and all that’s come after-

“Byleth,” Sothis says, and she’s gentle, deliberately gentle, despite the frustration Byleth can sense from her, can hear in her voice. “This was part of the plan. Taking risks we couldn’t otherwise justify, just like Hubert said. It is no failing of your own-”

Across from her, Seteth swallows thickly.

“You’re truly terrified of what she might do,” he says quietly. “To you. To those you love.”

Her eyes shoot up from the floor to meet his.

“It… it is very familiar to me,” he says. “The fear in your eyes. It reminds me of us, long ago.”

There’s a deep sorrow in his eyes, and it hurts to meet them, to hold that mournful gaze.

“What have you seen, child?” he mutters, at length. “What terrors have you beheld…?”

“Have you truly no idea of the monsters the church has allowed to slither in the dark?” Byleth asks, and, despite herself, she’s almost incredulous.

“… Do you speak of Abyss?” He asks, looking a little unnerved, and she stares at him blankly.

“I don’t know what that is,” she says flatly. “I refer to the men of Agartha.”

Seteth’s eyes go wide as saucers.

“Where- where did you learn that name?”

“I picked it up about a week ago,” she says. “From the Agarthans who helped me to be able to transform. The monsters my lady is forced to work with in secret, to combat the festering abomination that is this damned church! The face-stealing snakes who have replaced your librarian, replaced her uncle – who killed every child of the Hresvelg line but her, all for the sake of giving her a Crest to match mine.”

She nearly spits the word ‘Crest’; Seteth outright flinches at the mention of the librarian.

“Unlike Rhea, Uncle,” she hisses, “it’s not as easy for them as simply moving the goddess’ Crest Stone from the breast of one dying vessel to another– to the breast of her stillborn child.”

“Byleth…” Sothis soothes, and the swordswoman dutifully takes a deep breath to try and calm herself.

Seteth, meanwhile, looks like he’s gong to be sick.

“All this,” he says, “and you do not even know of the city below…”

His voice sounds so hollow. So harrowed.

“What else do you and I not know?” he breathes, and Byleth, despite herself, laughs.

It’s a cold, cruel sound that leaves her throat, so much so that she doesn’t initially recognize it as her own.

“Would you like to know a secret, ‘Uncle Seteth’? There is no assassination plot. We merely needed an opportunity to open the tomb of Seiros – to reveal to the people of Fódlan that the church is so debased as to lie about so simple a thing.”

She scowls.

“She could simply have claimed her remains were lost to time, you know. But no – Rhea would rather concoct an elaborate lie than admit the half-truth that Seiros’ remains are simply nowhere to be found.”

“… Byleth?” Sothis asks quietly.

“ Yes?”

“ May I speak to him? You are growing rather… heated, and I think I might have better luck.”

“… Very well. Shall I announce you?”

Sothis smiles. “Be my guest.”

“Would you like to know the great irony of it all?” she asks, and doesn’t even pretend to wait for an answer. “For some reason, I, the unintended one, am the vessel that finally worked.”

Seteth looks terribly overwhelmed.

Sothis steps up to the reins.

“Behold, child,” she says unenthusiastically, “I am returned.”

She blinks with Byleth’s eyes.

“Ah, and the little one wished to thank you for taking over lectures on such short notice. I trust you have taught our little Eagles well?”

“I-” Seteth stammers, his brow furrowing in sheer puzzlement, “Yes, I’ve been instructing them in leading small units of men, but- I-”

“I may have forgotten you,” Sothis pouts, folding her arms, “but I was- asleep? You, on the other hand, have no such excuse-”

“You were dead, mother,” he says softly. “Butchered.”

Sothis blinks, and feels more than a little stupid.

“That seems obvious now that you have said it,” she admits, “but. Goodness.”

She shakes her head.

“Whatever the case, I have half a mind to kill Seiros myself for the simple fact of what she has done.” She rises to her feet, hands on her hips. Byleth’s hips. Whatever.

“So, child, tell me– are you with us? Against us? Or are you willing to, at the very least, beg your neutrality?”

Her tone makes it very clear which option she holds in the most contempt, which Byleth thinks is a little unfair-

“He is involved, you softhearted child,” Sothis chides, “and we are desperate for true, reliable allies. If he, who has lived over a thousand years, is so craven as to flee rather than fight for what is right, then he is more than worthy of my contempt.”

“… I suppose. It just feels so harsh when you do it-”

“ Because you, for all that you must play at being shot through with steel, for all the anger you might manage to muster, are soft at heart– and it is your very nature to be thus. I must therefore sometimes be harsh to protect you, and I am happy to do so.”

She does her best to project a smile inwards.

“You are a frightened child, Byleth Eisner, and I am a furious and disappointed goddess.”

* * *

The Black Eagles are abuzz with excitement.

… All except for one.

Even Professor Jeritza seems pleased, in his own, quiet way.

Monica von Ochs, however, is mostly just… curious.

In the week since her (re?)introduction to her new class, she’s heard Professor Eisner mentioned seventy-one times by the Black Eagles alone– not counting the seventeen occasions where Princess Edelgard has mentioned a theoretically-ambiguous ‘she’ or ‘her’ in such a manner as to obviously refer to her lover, that very same Professor Eisner.

What’s more, things have been tense from the moment she returned to Garreg Mach, and that uneasy atmosphere only got worse when she told the Blue Lions and the inquiring Knights of Seiros that Tomas, the librarian, had been the one to kidnap her. The fact that he has yet to return from some outing certainly doesn’t help, nor does the air of secrecy…

And Shez, the strange mercenary who had first come to her rescue– she’d been beaten quite badly by that Kronya witch and her stooges before being captured herself, and Monica’s worried about her. She’d been sure to tell Lady Rhea of the woman’s good deed, and of her bravery and valor, and Sir Seteth had suggested they offer her – Shez – a spot in one of this year’s classes, but… she’d chosen the Blue Lions who rescued her. Of course she had. She hardly knew Monica, after all.

…

Shez wasn’t much of a knight in shining armor. More of an idiot with purple hair and a sword, really. But she tried to save Monica when nobody else had, and the Blue Lions had made it apparent that it was Shez’s battle with her captors that drew the church’s attention in the first place.

She owes Shez her life.

Stranger still, Professor Eisner is terribly late by this point– and the other Eagles have insisted on her punctuality.

“She woke up early today to go and see Seteth before classes,” Lady Edelgard had said, but that was… what, thirty-something minutes ago, now?

Nevermind how the princess knew that. Such things are hardly Monica’s business, after all.

It’s not when the Professor herself enters (and she’s rather pretty– big, blue eyes, charmingly-messy hair of the same shade, supple curves and sleek muscles…) that it clicks in Monica’s head, but when Lady Edelgard addresses her – “You’re late, my Byleth! We were beginning to worry!”

Professor Eisner, the beloved teacher, and Byleth, the retainer Lady Edelgard had mentioned so fondly in their correspondence, were the same woman.

It certainly makes the relationship make more sense. Quite how the princess’ beloved retainer had ended up teaching here at the officer’s academy, she hadn’t the foggiest, but, hell– she’d been (almost) rescued by a mysterious mercenary swordswoman of her own. Who was she to judge Lady Edelgard’s (lover’s) unusual circ*mstances?

Professor (Byleth) Eisner walks to the front of the classroom as best she can, impeded by every other Black Eagle accosting her along the way. Eventually she reaches Monica’s row (and, of course, passes with no issues from Monica herself), and meets the young noblewoman’s eyes.

She’s… kind of intense, this Professor Eisner.

Still, there’s a warmth to her expression, a gentleness to the small smile and nod she offers – as if to acknowledge that she and Monica don’t know each other (at least not really), and assure her ‘new student’ that she’ll visit with her as soon as she’s addressed the class as a whole.

Miss Eisner moves on without issue, and Monica props her head up on an elbow and sighs dreamily.

Shez had been so gallant…

She remembers every detail of her hero’s valiant rescue attempt – the crack of her blades like thunder, heralding the streaks of lightning-purple hair as the woman flashed about like a whirlwind…

Goddess, and how her heart had ached when that Kronya wench struck a pommel-blow to her hero from behind– how Monica had cried out for her as the mystery woman was brought to her knees…

“Monica,” a familiar voice speaks, dragging the charmed young mage from her recollections, “are you-”

The speaker – none other than Lady Edelgard – pauses, a knowing smile creeping across her pretty face.

“Ah,” she says, her tone warm, “I know that look.”

Lady Edelgard’s eyes flit over to rest on her strange mercenary – who was presently occupied writing on the blackboard with admirable precision and focus – before returning to settle on Monica once more.

And something in her expression softens considerably.

“I hadn’t thought I’d ever see you again,” she says, and then, most alarmingly, Lady Edelgard apologizes.

“I’m sorry, Monica.”

Monica nearly reaches up to check that her hair is still the same red as her eyes.

Instead, she manages to sputter a confused, “What? Why?”

Lady Edelgard leans over Monica’s desk, and, lowering her voice, explains.

“Because if it weren’t for me, none of this would have ever happened to you.”

The sorrow in Lady Edelgard’s voice is obvious, and yet…

“H-how can that be so?” Monica squeaks into her hands, and she can see the guilt flooding her lady’s gaze as she recoils, leaning away from the princess she’s long idolized.

“Because I allowed it to happen, Monica.” Lady Edelgard breathes. “I was fully prepared to sacrifice your life for the sake of my goals.”

There’s regret in the princess’ pale purple eyes. Shame and a familiar pall of self-loathing. She’s telling the truth, and all Monica can think as the betrayal burns in her breast is that Shez would never-

… and that she suddenly feels rather faint.

* * *

When Monica awakens in Byleth’s arms, she quietly tells the former mercenary that she’d like to transfer to the Blue Lions, and Byleth nods her understanding.

“To be with the girl you were rescued with and the class that rescued you, yes?” she asks, and the tiny, redheaded girl in her arms can only nod.

“That sounds nice,” Byleth admits, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone. “I’ll meet with Professor Essar and bring you the paperwork this afternoon, after lectures conclude– in the meantime, I’d like you to stay in the infirmary and get some rest, okay?”

The poor girl seems so frail, so fragile as she nestles into Byleth’s body, and… well, whatever she’d discussed with Edelgard, it clearly hadn’t gone over very well.

“That seems like an understatement, given the fainting,” Sothis comments.

She knew what Byleth meant.

“ I do, but look at the poor dear. I never imagined the confident girl with the eidetic memory Edelgard spoke of being so…”

“Delicate?” Byleth offers, and Sothis, floating overhead, nods.

“Yeah… ”

She shoulders open the infirmary door as they arrive at it, and greets the nurse on duty politely and by name, laying Monica in one of the beds at the professional healer’s direction.

Why the infirmary was on the second floor and had only one doorway, she’ll never understand.

“ Yet more church incompetence?”

She supposes.

She helps the mage under the covers and, taking note of the bump on the poor dear’s head, incants a healing spell to address it, the glow of white magic steady in her palm. (Thanks to Linhardt and his lessons.)

The girl sighs and leans into her touch, and guilt floods the swordswoman’s breast.

“I can’t say I understand the situation,” she whispers to her, kneeling down to lean close, “but if you ever need to talk, whether in confidence from Lady Edelgard or not, you’re more than welcome to come to me about it– should it please you.”

Using a title for Edelgard feels almost as strange as not using one, at this point.

Monica flutters her eyelashes at Byleth in what seems to the swordswoman like surprise – what else would it be? – and stares at her with deep crimson eyes.

“… Thank you, Professor Eisner,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

Byleth nods, and, rising to her feet – taking it a little carefully, so as not to put too much stress on her knee – she reaches down to brush a few stray hairs from the girl’s face before turning to leave, utterly clueless as to the fascination with strapping young mercenary swordswomen she’s just helped to stoke within poor the poor scion of House Ochs.

When she returns, her announcement to the class is simple:

“Monica von Ochs will be transferring to the Blue Lions – I’ll be meeting with Professor Hanneman and bringing her the paperwork this afternoon. She wishes to be closer to the new student and the class who rescued them both.”

Her eyes pass over the classroom.

“I ask that you support her as needed in this transition,” she says, and lets her expression harden a fraction.

“Should any word of any of you giving her trouble over this reach my ears,” she continues, “you will answer to me– and then to Professor Jeritza.”

From his note-taking position behind the lectern, Jeritza cracks his knuckles helpfully.

Thank you, Professor Jeritza.

The threat, she thinks, should prove more than sufficient.

… she’ll have to meet with El and Hubert this evening. Granted, she would have anyways, she loves them, but– after this and what happened with Seteth, she has to.

* * *

Hubert goes with Byleth to find and file Monica’s transfer paperwork, and Edelgard recognizes the thoughtfulness of the gesture for what it is.

She’d really f*cked that one up, hadn’t she?

Granted, she’d simply told her old friend the truth, as she’d resolved to do, but– still. It hurts to be reminded how monstrous she can be, how monstrous she felt she had to be, once.

Goddess, but- where would she and Hubert be, if not for Byleth?

Part of her wants to think that, even had they not come across the Eisners when they did, she and Byleth’s paths would have inevitably converged, and part of her wants to think that they’d inevitably align, but she knows that’s just her feelings for the woman speaking. Perhaps, in another world, Byleth would be their teacher and not her retainer – an odd thought, and yet also more or less what she and Hubert had been planning for before Byleth traipsed on into their lives (and saved Edelgard’s).

Perhaps, in another world, Byleth would be her enemy.

The thought stokes anxiety in her belly.

Could she even fight Byleth, truly fight her, if necessary? Even if they weren’t a pair? Could she kill her?

Something tells her the answer is no. No, no, and a most definitive no.

Then again, it’s just as impossible to think of fighting and killing Hubert, though they’ve known one another since she was practically a toddler.

“Edelgard?”

The princess raises her gaze to peer up at the princess addressing her.

“Yes, Petra? What is it?”

“You and Monica were having- were being friends, no? Are you feeling sadness at her class-changing?”

Edelgard smiles at her Brigidian friend.

“A little, I suppose,” she admits, “but mostly for the fact that I pushed her away– by my own hand has Monica von Ochs’ trust in her princess been dashed upon the rocks.”

Dorothea appears, as if from nowhere, to giggle at the sense of drama she seems to see in Edelgard’s every word (though she suspects it’s more a sense of poetry, in the case of what she’s just said?), but takes her place at Petra’s side without a word, offering her support with a look from those green eyes without ever interrupting.

Petra’s brow furrows even as the songstress settles in beside her, their shoulders touching as they stand. “What happened, Edelgard?”

Edelgard has to think about that one.

“I showed her the truth about myself,” she settles on, at length, “and… she didn’t like what she saw.”

Petra’s expression sours, and she steps forward to wrap Edelgard in a hug.

“She is having the hom*ophobia?” she says, and her tone is so earnestly concerned, so sweet, that Edelgard can’t help but laugh.

“No, Petra, not like that,” she says, being rather certain herself that Monica is anything but heterosexual, and it’s amazing how she can hear the smile in her own voice.

“Ah,” Petra says, after a moment. “It is not hom*osexuality, but bi-”

“Not like that, either,” Edelgard giggles into the younger girl’s collarbone, only barely managing to raise her gaze to meet Dorothea’s.

“You showed her a part of yourself you don’t like, either,” the songstress says, and Edelgard, gathering herself, retrieves her face from Petra and nods.

“And what would our dear Miss Eisner think?”

Edelgard smiles ruefully.

“She would be painfully understanding, Dorothea.”

“Is that what you need right now?”

“No,” she admits, “it would only make me feel worse– that’s why Hubert’s gone with her, to give me space.”

“They are caring about you,” Petra hums contentedly, and Edelgard nods.

“They are,” she agrees, “and I love them both dearly. I just…” she trails off.

Dorothea raises an eyebrow, and Edelgard shakes her head.

She won’t be elaborating on that.

To show a little weakness is one thing; to admit to longing for ‘normalcy’, entirely another. Such complete vulnerability is… dangerous. Incredibly so.

She will lead this continent to war; having the friends she makes here accompany her is already more than she ought to hope for (and yet…).

“Honestly, Edie,” Dorothea says, accepting her refusal to elaborate without so much as a mention,” I’m just glad not to have to watch you suffer and pine anymore.”

She shakes her head, a fond, sad smile in her eyes. “You’d never been apart from her for any length of time, had you?”

A grimace flits across Edelgard’s features at being so easily read, but a rueful grin replaces it as she nods.

“A day or two, here and there, but never for two weeks on-end, and certainly not after we started courting.”

“The feeling of being away is… painful,” Petra says knowingly, and the sympathy in her voice breaks Edelgard’s heart.

What does she know of that pain, compared to Petra, stolen from her home?

She squeezes the Brigidian tightly, and Dorothea piles on, hugging Petra from behind as well.

“… Thank you, you two,” Edelgard says after a moment, and the other two girls simply squeeze her that little bit extra.

Petra cards fingers through the full length of her unnatural white hair, and if Edelgard lets herself cry a little, well, who’s to say?

They are the last three in the classroom, after all.

* * *

Edelgard is the last to join them in Byleth’s quarters, and, pausing only to lock the door behind herself, she wastes no time in crawling onto the bed and laying her head in Byleth’s lap.

“I take it Monica was displeased to hear we had every intention of letting her die?” Hubert inquires, and Edelgard sighs, and leans into the calloused hand rubbing circles into her scalp.

“That is indeed what I told her, Hubert, yes,” she deadpans. “I was prepared for her to hate me, but I didn’t expect her to faint.”

“She idolized you, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says unhelpfully, and Byleth hums soothingly, seemingly to counteract the obvious discomfort a statement such as that would inspire in the present circ*mstances.

“I realize she has no way of knowing what we intend,” Edelgard says, “but it still feels like-”

“Like she’s turned against us and the Empire,” Byleth provides, and Edelgard hums an affirmative.

“I’ve been looking into this ‘Shez’ of hers,” Hubert says, “and, while she’s generally something of an enigma-” he utters the word with a familiar air of frustration that brings the faintest curve of a smile to Edelgard’s lips, “-it appears as though she was a member of a band known as Berling’s Mercenaries, which had something of a disastrous run-in with the mercenaries under the command of one Jeralt Eisner some time last year, in the heart of western Adrestia.”

Above her, Edelgard knows Byleth is blinking, processing this information, and she’s grateful when Hubert clarifies, “This would have been some months after your signing on with us, my friend. You should have little to fear with regards to the Blue Lions’ new purple mercenary friend.”

“… D-did you used to think of me as your blue mercenary friend?” Byleth asks, her tone hesitant, and Hubert laughs.

“Used to?”

Byleth gasps in Completely-Genuine Outrage.

“Dorothea refers to you as ‘Professor Bluey’ sometimes,” Edelgard confesses, glancing up at her dragon in time to catch her adorable pout.

“You even turned into a blue dragon yesterday evening,” Hubert says.

“That’s it, I’m moving to Brigid,” Byleth huffs.

“Brigidfolk are completely capable of recognizing the color blue, Byleth,” Hubert quips.

“Yes, but I won’t understand when they call me blue.”

Edelgard titters, and stops when Byleth says, “Ah. Seteth knows I’m a dragon.”

“What?”

“He could tell, apparently. Right away, in fact.” Byleth explains. “I stepped into the room, and he took one look at me and asked me to shut the door behind myself.”

Edelgard does her best to choke down her instinctive panic; her blade has the goddess Sothis in her- well, in her heart, she supposes, just more literally than religious folk might use such a phrase. But she digresses– if things went poorly, she’d have turned back time, and she’d tell them so.

“We spoke of the church, and- and of a great many secrets, if I’m honest,” Byleth admits. “Those who slither in the dark and what they’ve done, how Rhea made me, and why–” her voice changes, then, and it’s the now-familiar voice of Sothis speaking.

(How strange, to think she of all people would come to be familiar with the voice of the goddess.)

“And I spoke to him as well.”

Sothis pauses a moment. “You would be proud of her– she was very impassioned.”

And Edelgard, belatedly realizing this is not presently her girlfriend’s lap she’s laying in, sits up, raising an eyebrow and trying to quash the flush of mild embarrassment bubbling up within herself.

“Was she, now?” the princess asks, her tone half-teasing (mostly for the benefit of her Byleth, who she’s vaguely aware is listening).

“She was! And I do believe she got through to him~!” the goddess preens, satisfaction evident in her tone.

Hubert leans forward, his fingers steepled.

“Did she, now?” he drawls.

“Admittedly, I was the one to tell him he needed to choose a side,” Sothis says.

“And?”

The progenitor goddess grins.

“And now we have a man on the inside, of course.”

* * *

Chapter 10: The Flame Emperor and the Sword of the Creator

Chapter Text

Cross-training with the other houses is… interesting.

The three classes are out on the training yard, with several pairs of students sparring at once– Byleth stands with the other professors, watching with perhaps a little too much amusem*nt as this ‘Shez’, a girl about her size, sweeps Ferdinand’s legs out from under him with the practiced ease of a veteran fighter, all to the cheers of one very excited Monica von Ochs.

On her left, Professor Manuela’s focus seems to be on coaching Claude, who is presently doing his very best not to find out if Edelgard von Hresvelg can decapitate a man with a wooden training axe, but Professor Hanneman chuckles at Shez’s swift handling of the young von Aegir, shooting Byleth a sidelong glance.

“I don’t think Miss Shez has much to learn from most of her fellow students,” he admits, “and she’ll have plenty of opportunities to spar with Prince Dimitri-”

Byleth lays a hand upon her chest, playing at being aghast. “Are you suggesting I spar with her, Professor Hanneman?” she gasps, and he laughs again.

“Why, I do believe I am, Professor Eisner,” he says, and, in a dastardly act, places a hand on her back and nudges her forward under the pretext of giving her a friendly pat.

The scoundrel.

“Fine, fine,” she laughs, “but don’t expect me to go easy on her, alright?”

She snatches up a training sword from the nearest rack and crosses over to where Shez and Ferdinand are chatting amiably, the swordswoman having been nice enough to help the poor fool up, pausing when she realizes Shez is explaining to the redhead what he could have done better in their bout.

When she finishes, Byleth lays a hand on the lad’s shoulder and jokes, “Don’t worry, Ferdinand, I’ll defend your honor.”

Shez’s purple eyes – well, the visible one, she’s got the other hidden behind her bangs – light up with excitement, and she brandishes her pair of wooden swords more eagerly than anybody’s been to spar with Byleth in quite awhile.

“Professor Eisner, right? You’re the other merc?”

“Former, technically,” Byleth admits, as Ferdinand goes to join Monica in what is apparently the cheerleading section for this bout. “I’m a retainer to Lady Edelgard– like Hubert, if you’ve met him, but more fun. And with better hair.”

Shez snorts and twirls her sword, but there’s something intense in her eye as she regards her opponent, and Byleth is far from blind to it. “And you’re the Blade Breaker’s daughter?”

“I am,” she says, and raises her sword to parry a blow that comes at her like a flash.

Monica cheers as the purple-haired student swings her off-hand weapon at Byleth’s side, and Byleth leaps back to avoid it, kicking the girl in the stomach when she follows.

She hears the air leave Shez’s lungs, but she keeps her feet, to Byleth’s pleasant surprise, and Byleth strikes at her belly, forcing her on the defensive. Ferdinand applauds politely, and Monica redoubles her efforts to cheer her would-be-rescuer on.

It’s a simple matter to drive Shez toward the wall, dictating the rhythm of combat through careful timing– a steady series of strikes and feints never allowing Shez the time to recover and seize the initiative.

“Bitch,” the young mercenary hisses, and, in an unexpected move, casts one of her swords at Byleth’s feet, forcing the half-Nabatean to jump over it on reflex– and yelp when she lands awkwardly in the sand, pain shooting up her left leg.

Monica’s cheering stops as Byleth’s knee gives out beneath her, but Shez doesn’t. Byleth catches a slash aimed for her throat on her crossguard, and, her Crest seemingly activating of its own accord, surges to her feet, meeting Shez with a headbutt as she rises– forehead to nose.

Shez dances away, bloodied, and Byleth levels the wooden tip of her sword at her to underpin an oceanic glower.

“Go on,” she says mirthlessly, doing her best to ignore the pain in her knee. “Try it.”

Shez takes a step forward, scowling, and a few things happen in rapid succession.

The first is that a whorl of wind magic scythes into the ground at Shez’s feet, launching a spray of sand into the air, and especially into her face. The second comes in the form of a gauntleted hand seizing the girl by the arm and hauling her back, its owner – Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Faerghus – barking something Byleth can’t quite catch. That’s because the third occurrence is a fresh wave of agony hitting Byleth like a jolt of lightning, sending her to a knee in the sand once more.

A pair of arms hook under her own – Ingrid Brandl Galatea of the Blue Lions on her left, Ferdinand on her right – and help lift her up off her knee and onto her back; Linhardt and that pretty Marianne girl Edelgard’s spoken with a few times quickly set about their healing, apparently rather alarmed about her knee giving out on her.

Linhardt is as awake and focused as Byleth’s ever seen him, and bellyaches about having to work while he diligently works to remove the armor from her knee, and Marianne – von Edmund, was it? She’s a Golden Deer – is carefully healing her, white magic pouring forth from her fingertips as she murmurs, “Oh, you poor dear,” like Byleth is a wounded deer, or perhaps a bird-

Well, she is a Black Eagle, isn’t she? Hm. That’s fair play, then, really.

“How are you feeling, Professor?” Linhardt asks calmly, and Byleth stares at him.

“My knee hurts,” she says, her tone flat.

“Good,” he retorts, “then we won’t have to amputate.”

That gets a laugh out of her.

“Honestly, Professor,” Linhardt says, green bangs hanging down to bracket her knee as he gently probes her injury, “maybe I should have just thrown that spell at her, if that’s how she’s going to respond to an injury.”

Byleth tries not to let her surprise at hearing that Linhardt came to her aid show, and, thanks to her tenure as a demon, manages to do a fairly good job of it.

The healing starts to hurt after awhile, and when she bites down a whimper as something snaps wetly back into place, Marianne reaches over and begins petting her hair.

“You’re doing great, Professor,” Marianne says, and she’s so quiet that part of Byleth wishes to pick her up, but she instead focuses on not purring. She doesn’t know if she even can in her human skin, but she really doesn’t want to find out right now.

Instead of purring, (and if she thinks that way, it has to help, right?) she tells the soft-spoken healer, “Marianne, if you keep petting me like that, I might fall asleep.”

“In that case, keep going,” Linhardt says. “The more relaxed the professor is, the easier our job is.”

And, woefully, Marianne heeds him, and keeps on stroking her hair.

Byleth can only pout mightily at this indignity.

* * *

Hubert von Vestra is at something of a loss.

He’s standing outside of the infirmary, face to face with the Archbishop herself.

A thousand-year-old warrior saint.

“With respect, Your Grace, the physicians insist Professor Eisner be left to her rest,” he lies through his f*cking teeth.

Byleth is fine, Professor Manuela and a few of the healers are just trying to figure out if they can’t do anything to help her knee hold up better in the long term– shockingly, the medical staff at Garreg Mach Monastery are something of a cut above whatever help a band of mercenaries could scrounge up in whatever backwater village had seen his friend injured.

Byleth is fine, but the last thing they need is for Rhea to stroll in and immediately see that she’s advanced from a mere half-Nabatean to a half-Nabatean who can turn into a giant, fire-breathing cat.

Rhea smiles– patiently, beatifically. “I merely wish to see my granddaughter,” she says, “I hear she was injured upon the training grounds.”

Hubert bristles.

Is there anything worse than a person who can’t hear the word ‘no’?

Aside from a person of unimaginable power who can’t hear denials, that is.

“Have you considered, Your Grace, that your granddaughter doesn’t wish to see you?”

Rhea’s face contorts in anger, there’s a rush of wind as her hand whistles through the air, and then Hubert’s staggering against the door-frame, stars dancing in his vision.

Inwardly, he observes that Saint Seiros has slapped the sh*t out of him, and, musing that he’s likely lucky to be alive, he wonders if this is what disprivileged women forced by circ*mstance to interact with aggressive noblemen have to deal with on a daily basis.

If so, perhaps he should apologize to Dorothea for not killing more noblemen than he has.

… Honestly, he should probably do that anyways, just as a matter of principle.

There’s a rush of warmth as white magic pours through his frame, and as his eyes regain their focus (had they lost that? Good goddess help him, he hadn’t even noticed.), he finds himself looking up at the now-shamefaced Archbishop, her hands practically ablaze with holy light as she heals what is probably a concussion.

He blinks at her, and realizes he feels rather a lot like he’s going to be sick– a moment later, the woman is leading him into the infirmary, and he can hear her talking to someone, but he’ll be damned if he can keep track of their words.

Perhaps telling the dragon older than the empire he serves to f*ck off, however politely, is something he ought to avoid in future.

Ah, but they put him in the bed next to Byleth’s.

Hello, Byleth.

There’s a funny look in Byleth’s eyes, and then there’s flame conjured in her hand to match the fire in her eyes as she stares daggers at Archbishop Rhea.

…

Goddess, but his head hurts.

* * *

Edelgard steps into the infirmary, sees Hubert half-conscious on one bed and Byleth pioneering a violent equivalent of undressing someone with her eyes in the next, recognizes she’s staring at Rhea, and that Professor Manuela and the medical staff look stunned and terrified, respectively, and wonders just what the hell she’s gotten herself into.

She suppresses the instinct to draw her sword, however, and instead calls out to her lover, who holds conjured flame in her hands.

“Byleth, my darling, what are you doing?”

“She hit Hubert,” Byleth replies simply, narrowing her eyes at the woman who made her mother, and Edelgard draws her sword.

Manuela, however, proves to be the scariest woman in the room by far.

“Both of you put those away right now,” she snaps, and Byleth hastens to obey; Edelgard takes a second longer, but only a second longer, to sheathe her sword.

The physician-professor-songstress turns her light brown eyes upon the archbishop and scowls.

“And you,” she says, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Striking a student? Really?”

Rhea’s eyes fall to the floor like those of a scolded little girl.

“He was keeping me from visiting my granddaughter,” she says, and Manuela laughs – it’s an angry, terrifying sound.

“And I can see why,” she laughs, anything but delighted, “Can’t you?!”

Rhea’s quiet, “Ah.” would seem to indicate that she can.

“Get out of my infirmary. Now. Before you create another patient.” Manuela gestures roughly toward the door. “Edelgard, make sure she stays out.”

Edelgard barely resists the urge to blurt out a, “Yes, ma’am!”

And there’s something terribly thrilling about the authority Manuela wields.

… Why is it she can’t keep a partner, again?

She escorts a red-faced Rhea out of the room and promptly slumps against the wall to the right of the door, the Archbishop taking the left. Edelgard thinks maybe she’s red-faced, too.

For a few minutes, they’re silent.

Then, Rhea speaks.

“That was…” she trails off. “She really can’t keep a man?” she says at length, her tone incredulous.

Privately, of course Edelgard had been thinking the same thing.

But she also hadn’t struck Hubert to force her way into the infirmary.

She considers telling Rhea off. Telling her they are not friends, and that she knows what the other woman is. Knows her heart doesn’t beat.

But then something strikes her.

The Heroes’ Relics are powered by Crest Stones.

Crest Stones are the hearts of dragons– like Rhea and Byleth.

So- what the f*ck are the relics, that they’re embedded with the hearts of dragons? Of Nabateans?

… She knows that they were-

Oh goddess.

The Heroes’ Relics were made by the artifice of man.

With the hearts of dragons.

That’s-

That’s a whole story in and of itself, isn’t it?

Oh, she’s going to be sick.

“… Rhea,” she says quietly, “what happened to the rest of your people?”

She swallows so thickly she thinks she might choke.

Mere feet away from her, the Saint jolts.

“Why, whatever could you-”

“You made my beloved to be one of you,” she hisses. “Where are the rest? What happened?”

Edelgard balls up her fists, grateful for the layers of cloth her gloves place between her nails and her palms.

“What the hell are the Heroes’ Relics?”

Rhea looks at her – really looks at her – her pale green eyes boring into the princess’ soul.

“They’re corpses, my child,” she whispers, almost inaudibly, and Edelgard can feel the strain in the woman’s throat. “They’re our corpses.”

Edelgard’s stomach lurches, and she has to fight to keep the world from spinning.

“Why do you have a tomb, Seiros?”

Rhea covers her mouth and laughs– at herself, by the tone.

“In truth, child? I could think of no better place to hide the Sword of the Creator.”

Edelgard freezes.

“Byleth’s heart-”

“I reclaimed it from that wretched blade, yes.”

Edelgard lets out a shuddering breath.

“I’m going to be sick,” she says, and the twelve-hundred year old archbishop moves to hug her, to rub soothing circles up and down the Hresvelg heir’s back.

Neither of them realize, of course, that a young man is stood right around the corner, listening intently.

Neither of them realize just how many pies the man wearing the skin of doddering old Tomas the librarian has his fingers in.

Neither of them realize, that is, until they hear Seteth’s voice as footsteps approach.

“Good afternoon, Claude,” he says, suspicion evident in his tone. “May I ask just what it is you’re doing, skulking around like that?”

Edelgard feels Rhea stiffen against her, and knows she’s done the same.

Claude von Riegan laughs nonchalantly.

“Oh, nothing much,” he says, his tone casual. “Just didn’t want to interrupt Lady Rhea and the Princess’ little moment – the Archbishop’s got the patience of a saint, but Her Imperial Highness might just kill me.”

Edelgard and Rhea stare at one another.

A moment passes in silence, and Edelgard extricates herself from Rhea’s grasp, turns, and pushes open the infirmary door.

“Byleth, my blade?” she calls, never taking her eyes off of Rhea. “Could you do your thing? Claude was listening in on a private conversation between myself and your grandmother.”

Rhea looks befuddled, but that’s fine, because soon this will never have happened anyways-

* * *

Edelgard didn’t quite know why Byleth had sent a nurse to tell her and Rhea to take their conversation to Rhea’s private quarters before she’d actually started it, but the fellow had told her that she had ‘done the thing’, which she imagined could only mean Byleth had needed to turn back time for some reason. Whatever the case, she certainly hadn’t expected to find herself vomiting in a spare chamberpot in Rhea’s room, the Archbishop holding back her hair, rubbing soothing circles up and down her back.

But here she is, bonding with her grandmother-in-law over the horrors of this damnable world.

“I’m sorry, child,” Rhea whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Edelgard spits, disgusted– but because she’s just thrown up rather than because Rhea’s apologized. “I’m beginning to think the men who killed your family and the ones who killed mine may just be the same men.”

Rhea hums uncomfortably.

“Perhaps we should speak of lighter subjects– I could smell that Byleth has transformed, now. Has she shown you-”

“She has,” Edelgard coughs, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand as she sits back on her knees. “She was… beautiful. Had the same big, blue eyes… and she purred like a housecat.”

Rhea chuckles.

“Ah,” she sighs, nostalgic, “they never expect the purring.”

Edelgard certainly doesn’t expect to wake up three hours later, her head pillowed in the Archbishop’s lap, as the woman sings to her and gently strokes her hair.

It kinda makes her feel like she’s cheating, honestly.

… This sort of thing is really going to make the war more heartbreaking than it needs to be.

* * *

“I fell asleep in your grandmother’s lap earlier,” Edelgard confesses, later that evening, and, to her surprise, Byleth … growls, and hauls the smaller woman into her lap.

Then she bumps her head insistently into Edelgard’s shoulder; nips at her pale neck, eliciting faint moans from the poor, confused princess.

“My Byleth?” she murmurs, and the woman twines strong arms about her torso, grasping her own wrists to hold her tight, like she’s something precious, something others might try and steal away.

And, goddess, these were supposed to be fantasies, now that it’s happening it’s a little overwhelming, and-

As Byleth comes to rest in her own arms, she stills, and, after a moment, Edelgard realizes she can hear, ever-so-faintly, the woman purring in her embrace.

It makes sense, she supposes– if the eye-shine carried over, surely other things would as well. But for the purring to be among them?

Byleth suddenly bites her neck, suckling carefully at the spot to ensure a mark, then repeats the process on her collar, and, opening her shirt, on one of her breasts.

And it strikes Edelgard that perhaps this is to do with the fact that it had been with another dragon? Was this territorial behavior specifically? Would spending too long in Dorothea’s company for an evening earn this sort of… marking behavior?

… She can’t quite bring herself to dislike the thought, and lets out a gasp as her blade’s hands start to roam… rather adventurously.

It takes all of a minute for her to decide that this is great, actually.

“My Byleth,” she moans, and, quite abruptly, Byleth goes rigid.

“… My Byleth?” she asks, twisting to peer at the woman, and finds her face quite red.

“I-” Byleth clears her throat. “I can smell your… excitement,” she says, and Edelgard decides that, nevermind, she’d like to die, now.

“I- I mean, I’m not that excited,” Edelgard lies, and lets out a throaty moan the instant Byleth’s teeth are upon her again.

Perhaps, she thinks, this was all a scheme by my ‘uncle’ to lower my guard by tricking me into having amazing sex with a dragon-

The thought makes her laugh so hard she snorts, and Byleth, perhaps misunderstanding her mirth, nibbles at her ear – which, in fairness, does elicit its own sort of laughter from her – and hooks a leg around one of Edelgard’s, which is honestly just cute.

She begins to fiddle with Edelgard’s belt, then stops, and leans back.

“El?” she asks softly, fixing the princess in place with those big, blue eyes, seeking explicit permission to continue, and– goddess, she’s so sweet.

“Please, my dragon,” Edelgard whispers, “continue.”

Byleth takes this as her cue to take her belt in both hands and physically snap it in two, and oh f*ck yes.

… Thank Sothis the girl’s teeth aren’t too sharp. She might be dead if they were.

Which, speak of the devil, Byleth positions herself to nip at Edelgard’s throat, and her breath hitches audibly, eliciting a pleased hum from her rather eager lover.

The swordsman’s fingers pluck deftly at her buttons, and, when Byleth shifts again to sink her teeth into Edelgard’s neck, she moans, heated, into the evening air.

“My Byleth,” she gasps, and the half-Nabatean kisses her as she pulls off her blouse.

“My lady,” Byleth husks, “My flame, my emperor, my love.”

Edelgard inhales sharply, and Byleth manages to tear the princess’ uniform bottoms off without destroying them.

Then, a loud knock comes at the door to Byleth’s quarters, and the woman freezes. Her eyes dart to the offending portal, and a wet, leopard growl escapes her throat, low and warning.

“P-Professor Eisner?” stammers the unmistakable voice of Flayn, “Auntie Rhea said not to bother you, something about being territorial with Lady Edelgard and a ‘show of good faith’? I… do not really understand what she was trying to tell me, to be honest, but is it true that you’re one of-”

Outside, the girl squeals in surprise, and the only one quicker to react to that than Byleth is Edelgard herself, who snatches up her sword from beside the bed. If she needs to kill some fool in her smallclothes to protect Flayn, she most certainly will-

“Claude!” The girl squeaks, “how very rude!”

If Byleth were truly a cat, Edelgard thinks, her ears would be pinned back against her head. That’s what she sees in the tension of the woman’s body-language, at any rate.

She rises from their bed – or, her bed, really – and, scowling, shoots Edelgard a Look.

Stalking over to the door, then, she opens it enough to stick her head out and growl, “Eavesdropping again, von Riegan?”

Edelgard can hear Claude laugh something off, catches the moniker, ‘Teach’.

“First the Archbishop and my lady, outside of the infirmary,” she says, “and now Flayn and myself, outside my quarters…”

She shakes her head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve taken an interest in my kith and kin.”

Claude says something else, and Byleth laughs.

“If you seek secrets,” she says mildly, “then perhaps you should prove yourself trustworthy rather than constantly demonstrating the opposite.”

He make some sort of quip.

“Everyone here knows you have Almyran heritage, Claude. The fact that you keep such an obvious ‘secret’ from your friends and comrades will only ever make them feel untrusted in turn. Come back to me when you’ve confided in your friends– been confided in. When you’ve demonstrated you’re actually interested in friendship. Then we’ll talk. Until then…”

“… You promise, Teach?”

Hm. Claude must have stepped closer at some point.

“I swear it,” Byleth says. “I don’t dislike you, Claude von Riegan. And I don’t know what you’ve been through. But we all have our secrets to share, and mine can be dangerous indeed.”

“… Alright,” Claude says, after a moment. “Alright.”

Byleth slips an arm outside, presumably to shake his hand, and, judging by Flayn’s adorable little squawk, place her hand atop the young – youthful? – girl’s head.

“As for you: yes, one of those very dangerous secrets is precisely the one you meant to ask about.”

Flayn gasps. “I knew it! Oh, I just knew it!”

Edelgard can hear the heels of her boots clacking on the pavement as she jumps up and down in pure, childish glee.

The girl’s such a precious little angel, she almost makes Edelgard wonder if perhaps…

Well, Byleth’s… anatomy… should allow them the opportunity, should they ever decide to pursue it. That’s nice to have on the table.

“For now, Flayn,” Claude says, “I think we’re interrupting Teach’s romantic evening.”

“Yes,” Byleth confirms tiredly. “Very much so.”

Judging by the sound, Flayn covers her mouth and squeals.

“So what say we go get some peach sorbet at the dining hall and get out of their hair, eh?”

Flayn deliberates for a moment before agreeing, and Claude calls out, “Sorry, Princess!” as they turn to leave, just to f*ck with Edelgard.

Byleth closes the door, slowly and deliberately – presumably consciously not slamming it – and, bolting it shut, turns to return to Edelgard.

“You didn’t kill him,” Edelgard teases. “I’m proud of you, my-”

Byleth is upon her before she can finish– needy, hungry, and aggressive.

It seems the frustration has only intensified her need– her want.

She cries out involuntarily as teeth and nails and heated breath dance upon her flesh, and she really hopes they don’t make enough noise to bother Dedue tonight.

* * *

When Byleth wakes, she’s got Edelgard pulled in tightly against her, their bodies pressed closely together, and she hums at their closeness, drowsy and content.

Smells like Edelgard, she thinks.

Her girlfriend shifts a little in her arms, and, rather abruptly, Byleth realizes she’s still inside of her, which- well, really, it just feels very intimate. It’s kind of nice?

She blinks sleep from her eyes and nuzzles her beloved, idly noting all the little marks she’s left on the woman – Flayn had mentioned something about being territorial last night, and, squeezing her lady a little closer, she thinks there may just be something to that. Maybe.

There’s a dull ache in her knee, but the pair’s combined warmth beneath the blankets keeps it from bothering her too much, and, given it gave out on her (and was further ‘repaired’) the day prior, she’s not really sure what else she can expect from it.

A little green-haired gremlin manifests across the room, laying on her desk, and yawns, stretching out her scrawny little limbs.

“Good morning, Sothis,” Byleth says softly, and the goddess grumbles at her.

“Mmhhh,” she groans and grouses. “’m neepy.”

Byleth eyes the girl as she stretches, blinking as she realizes– Sothis doesn’t seem to have hair under her arms?

It seems odd not to, really, but then, Sothis doesn’t have to move around or worry about chafing the way Byleth or Edelgard do, so there’s not really any reason for her to need any, she supposes?

Edelgard begins to stir awake, and Byleth nuzzles into her, kissing and smiling against her neck.

“Good morning, my princess,” she hums, and Edelgard nuzzles her right back, her eyes fluttering beneath their lids.

She groans what Byleth thinks is a ‘my blade’, and the swordswoman giggles into the meat of her shoulder, giddy with her fondness.

She mutters something else, then, something probably not appropriate for Sothis’ ears-

“ I may have lost much of my memory, Byleth, and much of what I am, but I also made children of my own, and, while sex holds little interest and would have little purpose for me, I did not create sexless children– or did you think Flayn came from anywhere but the union of Seteth and her mother’s loins-?”

Byleth, in the face of this chiding – and the horrors of the information it contains – can do little more than cover her ears in vain.

“ In fact, I would wager that Seiros would have spent far less time causing trouble for the world had she simply bedded some fool as she so clearly wanted to-”

“Sothis, I will f*cking eat you.”

“Oh?” the goddess mocks. “Do you intend to do that whilst still penetrating your lover, or will you wait until after-”

“El,” Byleth whines, and the princess cracks a lavender eye open to peer at her.

“What is it, baby?” she asks warmly, rubbing a hand up and down one of Byleth’s forearms.

“Sothis is talking about sex,” she says, and Edelgard, even half-asleep, laughs at her plight.

“Sothis, my friend,” she says to what she perceives as the empty air, “it took me three weeks of ‘fighting’ to get my Byleth to sleep with me.”

Well, now, that’s hardly a fair assessment of the situation.

“So please try not to spoil this for her, and myself by extension. I shall be rather cross with you if you do.”

Sothis cackles, rolling over onto her back to kick her feet in the air.

“Oh, very well, Princess,” Sothis finally relents, “but only because you’ve amused me so.”

Byleth lets out a sigh of relief and nestles back in against her lover.

“Thank you, El,” she breathes, and the girl in question laughs breathlessly.

“Of course, my blade,” Edelgard says, and twists to glance at the window.

“… You know,” she adds, her voice taking on a suggestive edge, “it looks like it’s still quite early. We could-”

“Uuuuugh,” Sothis groans, “Fine, I’m leaving. I’ve no interest in watching the two of you … rut, and I see that this is karmic retribution for earlier-”

“Goodnight, Sothis,” Byleth giggles, and runs a hand down Edelgard’s toned stomach, her fingertips searching for wisps of curly white hair…

* * *

“Aw, Hubie, what happened?” Dorothea coos, and Hubert chuckles despite himself.

His head still aches, and, casting his gaze about the Black Eagles’ classroom, there seem to be a fair number of concerned glances turned his way. Byleth, Edelgard, Linhardt, and Caspar have yet to arrive, but the rest are here, as is Lysithea von Ordelia, the only other dark mage attending the Officers’ Academy at Garreg Mach this year.

“I prevented the Archbishop from entering the infirmary to see our dear Professor,” he says, “and she struck me for it.”

Ferdinand gasps loudly; Dorothea bites out a disgusted, “That bitch-”

“She healed me directly after,” he continues, “and Professor Manuela said I’m quite fortunate for that– as a result, I’m only lightly concussed.”

“Then maybe I’ll only lightly toast her ass,” his fellow mage scowls, lightning dancing across her fingertips, and again, Hubert chuckles.

“Patience, Dorothea,” he soothes. “I’m given to understand she and Lady Edelgard had a remarkably productive discussion afterward, so some good may come of this yet.”

Dorothea crosses her arms, jostling the sleepy Petra leaning into her side, and frowns.

“Fine, then,” she huffs, and turns her gaze toward the front of the room. “Ferdie, are you down to kick the Archbishop’s ass with me?”

Ferdinand sputters. “I- while I am most certainly offended she would lay a hand on our friend Hubert, I am not certain it would be wise to risk the ire of the Knights of Seiros-”

“We could ask Claude about poisonous plants,” Bernadetta suggests, her messy purple hair bearing as much resemblance to fire as the look burning behind her stone-gray eyes, “s-something from the greenhouse, maybe, so they never know it’s us!”

“Bernadetta!” Dorothea gasps in surprise, and the mousy archer squeals and tries to disappear into thin air as the songstress claps her hands together and chirps, “Keep thinking like that and you might just make our Hubie proud!”

“Admittedly,” Hubert drawls, “I am already rather proud of her– to grapple with anxieties such as hers is no small thing. The mind for murder can only add to that.”

Byleth enters as Bernadetta quails with fright, this time without Lady Edelgard hanging off of her (thank the goddess– too much of that, especially coincident with any difference in her ordinary routine, and people might start to think her unprofessional, perhaps unfit for her position), and, laying a soothing hand atop Bernadetta’s head, smiles at the class.

“Lady Edelgard will be along in a minute,” she says to Hubert, and he nods.

They have a system in place at this point– if Edelgard gets into any sort of trouble, she’ll activate her Crest, Byleth will feel the resonance, and she’ll roll back time. Simple, but effective, and it helps them all rest easier giving Lady Edelgard her moments of privacy.

“Good morning, Professor,” Lysithea says, a little more sheepishly than Hubert thinks he’s heard from her before, and Byleth smiles at her in that way only Byleth can.

“Good morning, Lysithea,” she hums in response. “You’ll be sitting in on our lecture for the day, correct?”

“That’s right,” is the girl’s firm reply.

“Oh?” Ferdinand perks up. “Are you looking to transfer, Lysithea?”

The Ordelia girl nods, if a little hesitantly.

“Tentatively, yes. Not that there’s anything wrong with Professor Manuela’s teaching, but I’ve heard Professor Eisner offers a much more focused and driven curriculum.”

Byleth, arranging her things on her desk, blushes faintly at the praise, and hums a happy little tune to herself.

Hubert grins.

At least she isn’t one of those suitors that would make him ask himself what it is his lady sees in them– Lady Edelgard sees more or less what everyone else does, albeit more closely and more consistently. She just seems to be especially… in-tune with it. Like they march to tunes of similar or compatible rhythm, or some such poetic nonsense.

Whatever the case– while the rest of them certainly appreciate their friend and teacher’s little quirks and eccentricities, her little ways of showing her joy and frustration, Lady Edelgard seems almost to luxuriate in them at times, like they’re ambrosia, a balm to her heart and soul.

It’s aggressively sweet, just like Lady Edelgard takes her coffee on the rare occasion she happens to do so.

… Speak of the devil and she shall come, Lady Edelgard enters the classroom, books in-hand, and strolls right up to their mutual comrade, popping up onto her tiptoes to give the woman a peck on the lips like she’s returning home to her wife (Hubert resists the urge to roll his eyes, lest he be seen and subsequently struck down) before dropping into her seat, humming to herself all the while.

Heaving along-suffering sigh, Hubert rises to his feet and goes to his lady’s side, bending down to speak to her.

“Lady Edelgard,” he says, “do you still intend to meet with Prince Dimitri this afternoon?”

She looks up at him, meets his eye. Her smile fades, giving way to a rather more serious expression.

“I do, Hubert. He and I have much to discuss, I think. And much to plan.”

“Very well, my lady,” he says, and bows. “I shall let my opposite know.”

Happily, Dedue was a competent man, even-tempered and possessed of more than his fair share of good sense. A joy to work with, really, simply because it was never any trouble, never any headache.

He’s not entirely sure what it is Lady Edelgard and Prince Dimitri are plotting and planning, but he knows he’ll be informed when he needs to be, same as Byleth.

… Who, speaking of, is walking over to him– she lays a hand on his head and the warm glow of white magic suffuses his being, easing his headache somewhat.

It doesn’t vanish entirely, of course, but he still leans into her touch, letting his eyes drift closed.

“If she ever lays a hand on you again, Hubert,” Byleth murmurs, leaning in close so as not to be overheard, “I’ll have her skull for your mantelpiece.”

He laughs darkly.

“I appreciate that, my friend,” he says, and, as the warm, healing flow of the healing magic fades, she pats him on the shoulder and directs him to sit down.

“Get some rest, Hubert,” she says softly, “Sleep, if you can. I’ll wake you for the lesson proper, okay?”

He opens his eyes to stare at her, and she stares back with an intensity he can’t quite match, holding his gaze until he submits to his fate.

“… Very well,” he relents, and she pops up onto the tips of her toes to give him a kiss on the forehead.

“You’re no use to anybody if you can’t think straight,” she says, her tone growing yet gentler, and he scoffs.

“It’s never stopped you,” he quips, and she slaps a hand over her mouth so as not to laugh in his face.

Considering his headache, it’s rather thoughtful of her.

Byleth Eisner, he thinks, is a good friend.

* * *

The Black Eagles cut through the interlopers of the Western Church with ease; with Byleth, Jeritza, and Edelgard at the van, few can hope to stop them, and they tear their way into the Holy Tomb with ruthless efficiency, passing through the central aisle without issue. There are two rows of stone sarcophagi on either side of the broad central path, and their enemies primarily dart out to attack from the shelter of either side. Usually either to be cut down by the blade or brought low by an arrow or a bolt of magic, but those who avoid such a fate find themselves impaled upon the lance or else beaten down by the first; whatever their fate, none of them survive more than a few moments.

The Eagles crest a short stairway in the central thoroughfare, crowded with hundreds of visitors for the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth visitation just this morning, and, seeing a lone figure before the lone casket of Saint Seiros, come to a stop.

The figure wears black armor, thick and heavy, with thick fans of scarlet feathers on their spaulders and a molded white-and-red visor upon their helm. A black-headed poleaxe rests in their hand, its butt rested upon the stone floor, and a peculiar plume-holder rises some inches from the peak of their crown to trail a drooping, ruby-red tail some feet behind it as they turn to face their guests.

The Flame Emperor, of course, knows full-well who and what he is.

“Ah,” he intones, “Professor Eisner and the last Lady of Hresvelg. I appreciate you not keeping me waiting.”

He offers a sweeping, theatrical bow, his thick cloak billowing in the wake of his outcast arm.

“Who are you?!” the red-haired boy – Ferdinand, he thinks? – cries out, brandishing his lance, and the Flame Emperor chuckles.

“I am the Flame Emperor!” he declares. “It is I who will reforge the world.”

Professor Eisner looks confused, and Princess Edelgard takes her hand. How darling.

“Tell me, Professor,” he says, “I know your little lover has discussed the matter with our dear Archbishop, but what do you believe lies within the casket of Saint Seiros?”

Byleth, as expected, says nothing– only stares at him with big, blue eyes, her face fixed in a neutral expression.

The Flame Emperor chuckles. Shakes his head.

“Now Edelgard,” he tuts, “should the future Emperor of Fódlan really be keeping secrets from her future Empress?”

Edelgard scowls at him, lavender eyes staring right through his mask, and he gestures behind himself, where, upon the raised dais, a mage works at the supposed coffin of the saint.

“Very well, then, I shall tell you.” he says smoothly. “It is a weapon that only one woman can wield– and it is your birthright, Byleth Eisner: the Sword of the Creator.”

A few of the Black Eagles gasp at his words, and he smiles behind his visor.

“The Church of Seiros has no right to keep it from you, Professor, and I will return it to you – on one condition.”

Byleth steps forward, silvered sword held at a low ready. Even from some meters away, she radiates the poise and strength of a deadly combatant– one misstep, he knows, and he might well lose his head to that length of ringing steel.

There’s chatter behind him, but he ignores it for now. It doesn’t require his attention.

“And what would that be?” Byleth calls, and the Flame Emperor takes a single step forward.

“Show us – all of us – your true form.”

Professor Eisner winces, but doesn’t take so much as a single step back.

“This is my true form,” she says resolutely, and he realizes that perhaps he’s miscalculated a little with his query.

“Hmph!” he laughs. “That is fair enough– your other form, then. Your second skin.”

A short girl steps forward, white-haired like Edelgard, and shouts, “f*ck off! Leave her alone!”

After a moment, he’s able to place her as Lysithea von Ordelia, one of the Golden Deer. Or, she was, at any rate. Perhaps she, like that von Ochs girl, transferred to a different class?

“… Do you swear it will stay between us?” Byleth asks, laying a placating hand on the Ordelia girl’s head, and the Flame Emperor nods solemnly.

“I swear on my life, Lady Eisner, it will not leave my lips.”

She turns to her class, then, and, at Edelgard and the Vestra man’s gentle encouragement, the rest of them chorus their agreements.

“If you betray me, it will be your head,” Byleth says, and the Flame Emperor again nods.

“For a secret so precious as this, that is more than fair,” he agrees, and gestures to the open expanse of tile between them. “Now, if you would…?”

She eyes him for a moment, then steps out into the center of the area, pausing only to press a quick peck to the princess’ temple.

Eisner sheathes her sword, then, and retrieves a peculiar stone from her pocket.

A bright light envelops her, and then fades, leaving in its wake a tremendous, frost-blue wyrm, four-legged and sinuous, her broad, elegant wings, translucent in the well-lit catacombs, spread out to her sides.

Flame flickers in her nostrils as she snorts, and an arrowhead tail flits from side to side, its keen edge catching the light like the blade it is, forming a sharp contrast with the twinkling of scales which accompanies her every subtle movement.

Her head is level with him, rising up to the height of his raised vantage easily, and she peers at him with large blue eyes, intelligent and inquisitive.

“Goddess,” he breathes. “You truly are magnificent.”

“I’m afraid I’m also taken,” she deadpans, and the Flame Emperor laughs despite himself.

“Indeed.”

She takes an enormous step toward him, and he bows.

“You have upheld your end of our agreement,” he says, turning to look at the mage behind him and gauging the man is almost done, “and in a moment, I shall uphold mine.”

“How did you know?” Byleth asks, and he smiles behind his visor once more.

“You are the scion of Nabatea,” he says, “the inheritor of the goddess. The first dragon born in a thousand years. I know what you are because I know what Seiros is; because I know why her bones do not rest in this coffin.”

“Hm.” the dragon hums. “And why Emperor? I can tell from your stature alone that you are not Ionius IX, father of my partner.”

There’s a threat in her voice, and he chuckles.

“Worry not, Lady Eisner,” he intones. “I have no designs on the Adrestian throne; I seek true and meaningful change. My empire will be the flame itself– temporary. Transient. The catalyst for that change.”

The mage finishes opening the casket, producing a peculiar, single-edged sword of bone and umbral steel, its spine notched, its blade segmented. A hole gapes in its crossguard, yawning in the absence of the Crest Stone of Flames.

The mage kneels and presents it to his Emperor, and the Flame Emperor hands the man his poleaxe and accepts the weapon in both hands, overcome with a sense of reverence even he hadn’t anticipated.

Another flash of light, and the Professor’s humanoid form reappears; they approach each other at a careful, nonthreatening pace, and, when he comes before her, he, in turn, kneels, offering the blade up to its rightful owner, his head lowered.

“Your birthright, Lady Eisner.” he says solemnly, and, as she hesitantly takes it from his hands, looks up at her.

“Please– take this accursed blade and, with it, carve your own path.”

And, in a burst of red light, he vanishes.

That, he decides, went remarkably well. Especially for his first performance.

… now he just has to go and meet with his uncle.

* * *

Byleth Eisner is f*cking stumped. Or a stump, as a surprised Petra had once asked.

“El, I thought you were the Flame Emperor,” she says, looking at the terrifying glowing sword in her hands, and Edelgard heaves a sigh.

“I am,” she says. Her brow furrows. “Or- I was?”

They’re walking some distance behind the rest of the Eagles, who are being led by Catherine, wielder of Thunderbrand, the only sword more terrifying-looking than this one – Byleth’s, apparently – toward some destination. Probably the audience chamber.

“… and you don’t know anything about this?”

Edelgard reaches up to caress her cheek – meets her eyes.

“I won’t lie to you, my love,” she says quietly.

Byleth squints at her.

That’s…

Her unbeating heart aches in a funny sort of way.

“But you won’t be telling me?”

Edelgard contemplates this for a moment – as though considering it for a fourth or fifth time and arriving at essentially the same conclusion.

“No,” she says, finally. “At least, not now.”

“… Okay.” Byleth sighs, taking a second to internalize and accept this. Her thoughts leap back to that statement just a minute ago, and a few more utterances they’ve made of late.

“I love you, El,” she says, hoping that adequately conveys not only its own truth, but that she means to do her best not to hold this against her partner, and radiant joy dances in Edelgard’s eyes as she looks up at her, smiling broadly.

“I love you too, my blade,” she whispers, and leans into Byleth’s shoulder. “So, so much.”

Byleth hums warmly.

“Do I need to kill this new guy?” she asks, and Edelgard stifles a laugh.

“Please don’t.”

“Hm. Alright.” Byleth shrugs. “I guess he seemed nice enough?”

“Did he, now, Lady Eisner?”

The swordswoman grimaces.

“Was that because I’m Rhea’s granddaughter, in theory?”

“That, or because you’re Nabatean,” Edelgard says, “I’m honestly not sure which.”

“… Does Hubert know who this guy is?”

“Hubert knows even less than you, my darling blade.”

“Oh. sh*t.” She blinks. “I- has that ever happened before?”

“With something like this? I don’t think so, but- honestly, I lose track.”

Byleth hums thoughtfully and turns her attention to the rest of the Black Eagles.

Lysithea looks completely unruffled, and seems to be discussing things with a similarly-unfazed Hubert; Dorothea is hanging off of Petra’s tanned, muscled arm (understandable, honey) and chatting with Bernie, who looks pale as a sheet, but only in the usual way. Jeritza is walking with Catherine, neither of them appearing especially chatty, which is entirely normal for the former and a little unusual for the latter.

Caspar and Ferdinand speak loudly of justice, and though blood lingers on both fellows, it’s clear from the air about them that they’re glad to have slain anything other than civilian militiamen. It almost seems like Caspar is obliquely hinting to the taller boy that perhaps the system under which they live is flawed? Ferdinand is speaking of the education nobles receive – an important factor of their success, naturally – and Caspar interrupts to ask why they can’t just educate everybody. Ferdinand starts to argue, then stops, glances back at Byleth and Edelgard… and then Linhardt traipses by on his rounds, healing an arrow-nick in Caspar’s ear.

Petra withdraws an arrow from her quiver to twirl thoughtfully betwixt her fingers, and something lurches in Byleth’s stomach.

Edelgard notices immediately, of course, probably from a change in her body language.

“My blade?” she asks gently, and, when Byleth refuses to turn to look at her, commands the swordswoman to bend down a little.

Edelgard kisses her on the cheek, fluttering her eyelashes against her face, and, goddess love her, she’s realized Byleth’s issue and proven no obstructions in her eyes in one go.

Byleth turns to face her beloved and, blinking, smiles.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, and Edelgard shakes her head.

“You’re fine, Byleth.” the princess soothes. “It’s not your fault, and you’ve done nothing wrong.”

She offers a small, reassuring, and slightly-goofy smile.

“I’m just glad there’s some rational part of your brain that’s so deeply-set that mere touch can dispel such illusions.”

“It… doesn’t always,” Byleth admits, and, unbeknownst to her, something unspoken clouds her deep blue eyes, prompting the future emperor to lean up and kiss her.

“It did this time,” she says simply, and Byleth nods.

She looks down at the strange relic in her hands, suffused with its scarlet glow.

“A strange and terrible weapon,” Sothis yawns, and Byleth feels obliged to agree.

The Flame Emperor’s words echo in her mind.

“ Please– take this accursed blade and, with it, carve your own path.”

“… He was awfully presumptuous, wasn’t he?” Edelgard muses, wry amusem*nt coloring her tone and bringing a smirk to her lips. “My ‘future empress’ indeed.”

“Well,” Sothis says, “he didn’t feel like a time traveler, so I’m confident in saying it wasn’t Edelgard from the future, flirting with you.”

“Good to know,” Byleth dryly replies.

Sothis huffs and begins to explain why that’s a legitimate concern, considering their own abilities, Catherine leads the procession into the administration building, and Byleth braces herself to meet with her grandmother once more.

Hopefully she won’t… hiss at the woman, or anything like that.

… and she’s really not looking forward to the deluge of questions that’s sure to come as soon as the Black Eagles have a moment to themselves.

* * *

It’s just the four of them – Seteth, Rhea, Byleth, and Edelgard herself – in the audience chamber, and it’s awkward, but Rhea has no fury for them, and decides for herself to entrust Byleth with the Sword of the Creator. The only toll she exacts upon them is the gaze of her sad, doleful eyes… until the survivors of the raid on the Holy Tomb are brought in, and she insists Byleth be the one to execute them.

Edelgard and Seteth’s gazes meet, and they both see it for what it is– a test of loyalty, or an attempt at one.

Byleth looks to Edelgard for her permission, and, reluctantly, Edelgard nods.

Her love’s eyes don’t go blank, but her expression hardens, and, when Catherine and her dark-haired Dagdan partner – the former mercenary Shamir – have lined up their captives, Rhea gestures for them, as well as Edelgard and Seteth, to retreat towards the back of the chamber. It seems odd, at first, and Shamir in particular seems utterly puzzled, but then Byleth rears back with the weapon forged from the goddess’ own backbone and it flexes in preparation.

She swings it, a simple horizontal cut, and its segmented blade extends into a series of burning flanges, shearing through flesh and bone the way she imagines a similarly-flaming blade might carve through a block of cold butter, the thick cable connecting each length of bone ablaze with an unholy crimson glow beneath the flame engulfing the entirety of the blade.

In one stroke, she cuts them down, and blood and smoke and flame follow in her wake as eight men cry out in terror and are swiftly silenced.

And there’s no blood. Only smoke and the stink of burning hair and flesh as the blade contracts into a mere sword once again.

Byleth wipes it clean upon her sleeve and, in the absence of a scabbard in which to place it, adopts a two-handed low ready with the blade.

Edelgard looks at Rhea, whose expression is unreadable.

In this moment, she can’t help but think that this woman really does need to die.

* * *

Chapter 11: Learning

Chapter Text

Monica von Ochs plants her hands on her hips.

“Shez,” she says firmly, “why did you hurt Professor Eisner?”

The purple-eyed mercenary looks up at her, hands clasped together, elbows on her knees, and says something that sounds an awful lot like she’s trying to give two excuses at once.

Something like ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her-!’ and ‘Her father wiped out my old unit!’

As if she can’t decide on – and therefore isn’t sure of – what her motive was.

Which, in Monica’s experience, is perfectly normal. Nobody (but her) ever seems to remember why they did something, and when asked later, they can only work backwards from what happened and try to extrapolate their own reasoning– or justify their own actions, as the case may be.

Monica co*cks her hips, and Shez shrinks a little in her chair.

… But then the swordswoman gives her the puppy-dog eyes, and Monica forgets what she’s doing for a minute.

She’s pulled from her mercenary reverie by the cacophony of a number of Black Eagles coming down the hallway, following on the heels of a very confused Professor Hanneman. He appears to be explaining to them, alongside Linhardt von Hevring, that Professor Eisner possessing the Crest of Flames is indeed extremely unusual and unexpected, but her ability to wield the Sword of the Creator, the Crest’s associated Relic, proves it to be true.

Lysithea von Ordelia appears to be with them, oddl– wait.

Did they replace her with another mage?

“… Monica?” Shez asks, after a moment, and the young mage starts, jumping in place and prompting the swordswoman to reach out and take her wrist.

“Whoa, hey,” she soothes, “you okay?”

Her hand is so warm, her skin so soft against Monica’s– her callouses defined locuses of rougher texture, her grim calm and steady against the relative frailty of Monica’s wrist, and the mage feels her heart race.

“Listen, Monica, if it worries you that much, I’ll stay away from her, but-”

Shez’s brow furrows, and she lets go of Monica’s wrist and takes a step back.

“… What is she to you, anyway?” the mercenary frowns. “Why do you care?”

… Shez is terribly transparent, Monica thinks, and the idea that she’d get jealous over someone like her is… intoxicating.

“She was kind to me, Shez,” she says, after a moment, “and she certainly didn’t kill your friends. She’s been with Lady Edelgard for over a year, now.”

“I know that- well, I mean, I didn’t know that, but I didn’t see here there when we tangled with the Blade Breaker. But-” Shez sighs. “I mean, now that I’m thinking about it, hurting her because he hurt me through others sounds like a stupid thing to do, but she was so… smug.”

“… When you sparred?”

“Yeah.”

“Shez, she was trying to be friendly, she’s just a little strange.”

Shez blinks up at her.

“Wait, really?”

Shez buries her face in her hands and groans, “Fuuuck, I must have looked like such an asshole-”

“Maybe we can go apologize to her together,” Monica gently suggests, and Shez’s eyes light up.

“For real?” she asks, almost leaping out of her seat, and Monica nods, squeaking when the mercenary sweeps her into a hug.

Maybe the Eagles really did replace her with the Ordelia girl, but… well, maybe that’s just fine.

* * *

The Black Eagles’ first lessons for the Verdant Rain Moon are ones of survival. Byleth takes her eaglets on a brief expedition, leading them on a half-day’s march away from the monastery (and, rather deliberately, into Imperial territory) before finding a nice clearing in a nice little wood in which to set up camp. She gives them their orders, sending them about various tasks, sometimes in groups delegated to their own leaders – Petra to take a team hunting, Hubert to direct the establishing of the camp itself, and Lysithea to direct the gathering of resources – and flits about, advising where needed, while Jeritza ensures Petra’s hunters can kill anything they come across.

When all have returned, she has them light the fires without magic, simply because it’s an important skill, and, leaving them under the tripartite supervision of Jeritza, Edelgard, and Hubert, assumes her ‘second skin’ and slips into the forest to hunt for herself, apparently with a happy little flick of her tail.

Sothis awakens as she stalks the brush, and guides her in her own hunt with surprising alacrity, as though she’s hunted this way herself many times before– which they agree she probably has, whether she remembers it or not.

They hunt well, and ultimately return with another deer to offer up to their humans, happy to find that Petra has begun instructing those who wish to learn in the dressing of an animal, while Hubert has taken the mages off to discuss goddess-knows-what. They do appear to be making cordage from the inner bark of trees while they discuss, though, so her lessons have taken root…!

“I’d suggest he’s teaching them how to get a beautiful woman to slap them senseless,” Sothis says, “but Linhardt’s there, and I find it hard to believe Hubert would bother to lecture what I’m sure is a true expert in the field-”

Byleth snorts and deposits the additional carcass by Petra’s group, then pads to the empty section of the clearing Hubert thoughtfully included for her purposes, curls up, and watches her students.

After a minute or two, Edelgard comes over to sit with her, leaning up against her body and relaxing. Byleth purrs beneath her, of course, and quickly grows drowsy, whereupon the goddess speaks to her.

“Go ahead and take your catnap,” she says gently. “I’ll keep an eye on the little ones, and I or your princess shall surely wake you should anything untoward come to pass.”

They have a wordless exchange about the fact that Sothis can do that, now – Sothis showing her a memory of her having done it before, in fact – and, satisfied, Byleth rests her head near Edelgard and naps warmly, happy and content.

Some time later, she awakens to the Eagles all gathered before her, as intended; Linhardt is asking what’s probably his seventeenth question, and Edelgard goes to answer before realizing Byleth has awoken and smiling at her oh-so-sweetly.

“Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, adoring, and Byleth raises her head to nuzzle into the woman affectionately, eliciting a delightful peal of giggles from her.

“Look, Lin!” Dorothea says with fake enthusiasm, “dragons can be gay!”

Linhardt just fixes her with the tiredest stare.

“I knew that,” he says, and, pausing, corrects himself: “Or, rather, I assumed that, I suppose, based on the fact that our Professor is the first one I’ve ever seen.”

He returns his gaze to Byleth, then, blinking. “Ah, good morning, by the way, Professor.”

Some part of her is almost surprised that he doesn’t seem bothered at all by her having napped through part of the discussion– but then, not only is it Linhardt, who does the very same, but he’s also one to encourage others to nap as well. In his eyes, she realizes, this is her getting the rest she needs rather than denying herself.

“Good morning, my Eagles,” Byleth yawns – exposing her really quite tremendous teeth – and begins to purr again as Edelgard’s weight, now in a standing lean, once again settles against her.

“As you can see,” Edelgard says, “Byleth in this form is still the same woman we know. She’s still our Byleth, still my Byleth, and, most frighteningly of all, she’s still the Byleth the kitchen staff speak of in hushed tones-”

This earns the princess a respectable harvest of laughter, and Byleth turns up her snout with a delicate “Hmph!” that only seems to stimulate more.

When the laughter subsides, Caspar, recognizing an opportunity, thrusts his hand into the air.

“Yes, Caspar?” Byleth, amused, asks.

“Can you fly, Professor?!”

“I can.”

“Are you able to be breathing fire, as Edelgard says?” Petra asks, leaning forward in evident excitement, and Byleth responds simply by breathing a gout of flame straight up into the air.

“More importantly,” Dorothea coos, her tone dangerous in that particularly Dorothea way of hers, “would this have anything to do with why our Edie’s been all chewed-up and covered in hickeys lately?”

Edelgard squeaks, mortified, and Byleth, on reflex, curls protectively around her.

A low, involuntary growl escapes her, and Dorothea stares at them, eyes wide, and fans herself a little.

Byleth only realizes she’s sequestered Edelgard away behind a wing when the poor girl taps the membrane gently, and, upon her release, the princess steps away from her side to lay a hand on her snout, eliciting another bout of purrs.

“My apologies,” Edelgard says, “she’s just as protective as ever, but it’s begun to manifest in slightly-different ways since her change.”

Dorothea lets out a little ‘whew’ noise, continuing to fan herself. “We can tell, girl,” she enthuses, and Jeritza heaves a tired, uncomfortable sigh.

“Please, girl,” he intones, “the bedroom activities of your princess and professor are no business of yours, and it makes me uncomfortable to see you bother them about it. If you wish to know, bed them yourself so the rest of us don’t have to hear it.”

Dorothea reddens; Petra cackles.

“Professor,” Lysithea interjects, “Edelgard said you weren’t naturally like this, but refused to elaborate further out of respect for your privacy-”

“My mother was some kind of construct, made to be a vessel for the goddess, with the Crest Stone of Flames implanted into her breast; when I was born, my heart did not beat, and my mother, herself on the verge of death, begged Rhea, her maker, to place the stone into me. She did, and it gave me life. Crest Stones are the hearts of dragons, and those who turn into them – Nabateans, the children of the goddess – and mine, the Crest Stone of Flames, was initially taken from the Sword of the Creator.”

“… You weren’t born with your Crest, then,” Lysithea prompts, and Byleth blinks at her, for Edelgard is still at her head.

“I was not.”

“… Professor,” Ferdinand asks quietly, “if Crest Stones are the hearts of dragons, and yours came from the Sword of the Creator…”

Dorothea gasps, and Hubert finishes, “Then it only follows that the strange material from which the Heroes’ Relics are made is dragonsbone.”

Edelgard sighs, and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Byleth’s snout.

“Rhea confirmed as much to me in private,” she admits, “but I hadn’t wanted to tell…”

She swallows thickly, and Byleth realizes she’s speaking to Byleth more than to the others.

“Well, anyone, really, but especially you, my dragon.”

Sothis, floating near her head, looks like she’s going to be sick.

Byleth simply feels empty inside.

“Then upon my hip, I wear…”

“The spine of the creator goddess herself,” Edelgard confirms dolefully.

She sighs and looks up at their comrades and classmates, gently petting Byleth’s head.

“The Relics were made by human artifice,” she says, “wrought from the corpses of their Nabatean contemporaries and passed down by the Ten Elites just as surely as their Crests.”

“The Ten Elites…” Byleth breathes, and Edelgard again kisses her snout.

“The ancestors of the major houses of the Kingdom and the Alliance, yes,” she says softly.

“… To be gifted Crests by the goddess, only to then turn around and butcher her children…” Ferdinand seethes, quiet sorrow eating at his very core, and Sothis laughs in Byleth’s ear.

“I don’t think I gave them the Crests at all,” she says bitterly. “Recall your father’s Crest. The Major Crest of Seiros… he received it from Rhea. From her blood, I think.”

“… I think the Crests were stolen, too,” Byleth relays. “From the Nabateans’ blood, their Crests. From their bones, the Relics. From their hearts, the Crest Stones.”

“And the Saints?” Linhardt asks.

“Freely given,” Sothis, through Byleth, answers. “The Saints themselves were Nabateans; whether they had children with humans or simply gave the gift of their blood, the result is the same.”

“Byleth’s father, Captain Jeralt, bears a Major Crest of Seiros he was given, rather than born with,” Edelgard says, and projects her Crest of Flames into the air above her palm, prompting Byleth to do the same with her snout, “and I, as a result of cruel experiments performed in my childhood, am the only other bearer of the Crest of Flames.”

“Blood reconstruction,” Lysithea breathes, and stands up abruptly to join Byleth and Edelgard before the others.

“I was born with the Minor Crest of Charon,” she says, “and ‘gifted’ the Crest of Gloucester by mages from the Empire.”

She projects the imbued Crest to demonstrate, and Byleth, feeling a sudden surge of protective instinct, sweeps her tail around the girl and pulls her close to herself, whimpering into the evening air.

“Professor…” Lysithea says, and gently pets Byleth’s tail, still pressed against her, however lightly.

“I was likewise given the ability to transform by ‘mages from the Empire,’” says Byleth, “though I volunteered for it when presented with the possibility.”

“These mages,” Hubert adds, rising to his feet, “along with the corrupt Church of Seiros,” he hardly needs list any examples, “are our true enemies, and already we conspire against them.”

“I’ll kill them all,” Byleth says softly, and Edelgard does her best to hug her dragon’s neck.

“We’ll destroy them together, my love,” the princess soothes, and Byleth purrs again.

“Together,” she agrees, and turns her gaze onto their comrades.

“Hubert and Edelgard are better at explaining the politics than I am,” she says, “but… things are bad. The system is broken, and we, the people trapped within it, are left to suffer and die in the name of its works, cast aside unless we are useful for its purposes…”

Byleth whimpers, and Hubert steps up to explain… everything.

When he’s done, Bernadetta squeaks up.

“Professor? Are you okay?”

Byleth almost wants to laugh.

“No,” she admits, “but that’s the beauty of having all of you– I don’t always have to be.”

Bernadetta looks up at her with pleading gray eyes, terrible in their understanding, and the dragon lets out a low whine.

“I’m going to eat your father,” she decides, and Bernadetta yelps in terror, muttering something frantic about having turned their professor into a man-eater, and ‘Oh, you’ve really done it now, Bernie.’

“Bernadetta,” Edelgard calls, firm but gentle, and the diminutive archer snaps to attention.

Granted, she squeals rather than utter any sort of ‘Yes, Lady Edelgard’ or what-have-you, and it’s very cute.

“Byleth doesn’t eat people,” she assures their friend, and, turning to glare at Byleth, says – rather more sternly – “Whether or not it’s strictly cannibalism, it’s not moral, and we don’t know what manner of illness you might risk in doing so.”

“… I bet Rhea would let me eat people,” Byleth teases, and Edelgard swats lightly at her snout.

“Rhea is a monster, you silly lizard,” she says, and, raising her gaze, addresses the rest of the Eagles. “The Archbishop had my Byleth use the Sword of the Creator to execute the prisoners the Knights captured in the Holy Tomb,” she says, and Ferdinand scowls.

“Did they not even question them?”

“Of course not,” Hubert scoffs. “The church has no interest in such petty things as truth.”

Byleth doesn’t bring up how easy it was.

They don’t need to know that she’s a monster, too.

Perhaps hers would one day be the black wings of death; perhaps her breath would one day raze whole cities as she’d dreamt months earlier.

Demons and dragons are dangerous enough on their own. For one to be both?

She hopes her love won’t come to regret tolerating her.

* * *

Lady Edelgard seems to sense something troubles their esteemed, draconic friend, and, once she’s human again, drags the woman off to their tent to rest– thankfully, by the quiet, it appears they are indeed resting, which, while expected, Hubert can’t help but think of as a small mercy.

His tent is next to theirs, after all.

It’s funny, really– one would tend to think the Princess’ tent the largest simply because of her position, but, no. In their case, the stand-out shelter is simply a two-man tent.

Regardless.

In the absence of Lady Edelgard and her lady, it falls to Hubert – and, to a lesser extent, Jeritza – to field questions, explain the situation and their plans, and so on.

He kept the specifics of his comrades’ traumas vague, of course, but if they are to show the rest of the Eagles the truth, then he shall show them the truth.

The existence of Sothis in Byleth’s heart, he keeps to himself. That’s… a little much, for now, he feels.

And he isn’t really sure how to handle Ferdinand at the moment, either. It’s to be expected, really, but learning of the Prime Minister’s true colors has had anything but a positive impact on the dastard’s poor idiot son.

It’s all of two minutes before Petra stands up, pads her way over to where Byleth had been laying, and plops down into the flattened grass, sprawling out onto her back. She lets out a contented sigh, which Hubert takes to mean she’s found whatever she sought in her endeavor? She doesn’t make him wait overlong for an explanation, at least.

“Ah, I was thinking correctly,” she happily reports. “Dragons are being very warm.”

Ah, Hubert thinks. Of course. She merely sought to luxuriate on the dragon-warmed grass. Only Petra would think to take advantage of such a thing.

Naturally, Linhardt follows shortly after, and, upon finding the dragon imprint to be as warm as Petra indicated, immediately dozes off.

Typical, really.

Dorothea raises her hand, and Hubert’s about to tell her it’s not necessary when he recognizes the mischief written plainly across her face.

He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Dorothea?”

“So, just so we’re clear, we’re really going to start a revolution?”

There’s hope in the songstress’ eyes – hope and ambition, and the burning desire to make better a world which has paid so many of them so much cruelty – and it brings an admittedly-sinister smile to Hubert’s slightly-chapped lips.

“That is the plan, Miss Arnault, yes,” he says.

“And Edie, our Imperial Princess, and her dragon girlfriend, our professor, are going to lead it?”

“Well, I won’t be doing it, and they certainly seem keen enough, don’t you think?” Hubert says dryly.

“And the whole religion of the Church of Seiros is fake?”

Dorothea speaks with an edge of unusual glee to her voice, and Hubert’s smile only widens. He certainly knows the feeling of elation of one’s first time being vindicated in one’s disbelief regarding the teachings of Seiros, after all.

“I would not say the whole of it is,” he admits. “There are grains of truth embedded here and there, but much of what would otherwise be true has been twisted to suit the church’s desired narrative. Insofar as I understand, in any case.”

Hubert shrugs. He’s hardly an expert on theology, here.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand calls, and the mage stiffens.

Here we go, he thinks, and directs his gaze to the troubled redhead.

“Yes, Ferdinand?”

“Every time I challenged Edelgard to some competition or another… every time I bandied about my family name in front of her…”

Hubert co*cks an eyebrow.

“Surely you didn’t believe your father was a good man, Ferdinand,” he says, and Ferdinand shakes his head.

“No, my father has always been a weasel, a small, pathetic man, but-”

“But you were never knowing he could sink to such depths of the evil?” Petra supplies.

“Yes, exactly that,” Ferdinand says. “Thank you, Petra.”

Hubert fights down the urge to sneer.

“Unfortunately, some of us knew very well,” he says, instead.

Anything more he could say would be… unproductive. So he abstains.

Rather belatedly, he realizes Caspar’s been awfully quiet, and he almost worries- until, looking about, he sees the damnedest thing.

The boy is sat, legs crossed, in the grass, taking careful notes.

What the f*ck had Byleth and Lady Edelgard said to him?

* * *

Byleth dreams of cutting down Brigidfolk.

She’s cut down far, far fewer people from Brigid than she has sons and daughters (and otherwise) of Fódlan, but the Dagda-Brigid war sticks out in her hazy memory. It was… good, for them. The mercenaries. Stable, steady, well-paid work. Barely any politicking between minor lords.

When Adrestia was at war, Jeralt and his band never once went hungry for want of coin. They never starved, of course; Jeralt the Blade Breaker is a living legend, and, in a place like Fódlan, there’s always work for a hired sword or two… but they had marched on meagre rations, gone to bed hungry, wintered primarily on hard-tack, and so on.

The fact that she’s now the lover of the crown princess of the Adrestian Empire is… mind-boggling, to say the least.

Her dreams shift, fluid and cruel, toward an imagined confrontation with the Immaculate One.

The giant, ancient dragon overpowers her easily – gouges one of her wings, breaking the leading bone, pins her to cobbled ground with her terrible fangs on Byleth’s neck, and tears at her ribcage with wicked claws, as though seeking to reclaim her Crest Stone.

And all the while she roars. Even as she crushes Byleth’s throat in her jaws, Seiros screams about the goddess, about her mother, about Zanado and the Nabateans. Screams and roars and crushes the smaller dragon into the paving-stones of Garreg Mach Monastery, breaking her again and again until the breakages pile up, and the black begins to take her.

Even in her dreams, Edelgard screams for her. Cries out for her sworn sword.

But, deep down, Byleth knows she shouldn’t.

… Even in her dreams.

She stirs awake to find Edelgard held loosely in her arms, reading a book she’s got laid against Byleth’s chest, and, goddess damn her, it’s like every silly little thing this woman does drives her a little bit more crazy, makes her fall a little bit more in love with her.

“Sleep well, my Byleth?” Edelgard inquires, darting forward to give her a peck on the lips, and Byleth can only stifle a rueful chuckle.

“What do you think normal people dream about?” she asks instead, and Edelgard blinks.

“… I haven’t the slightest clue, my darling,” she confesses, “but, whatever their subject, I hope their dreams are kinder than ours. I’d like to think they must be, really.”

“Mmh.” Byleth hums, and turns her thoughts to other matters. “Fair warning, El– come morning, I’m going to have the class set out first thing. We’ll be eating on the march, or not at all.”

“That’s why you had them smoke the meat.”

“Indeed.”

Edelgard giggles. “Still- quite the taskmaster, aren’t you? This may just be the harshest lesson you’ll have imposed on us thus far.”

“Probably,” Byleth agrees easily enough, “but the only commoner in my class is a diva. If they’re going to be soldiers, it’s an important lesson to learn– sometimes, through the indifference of either circ*mstance or your commander, you’re going to be roused at four in the morning and told to march.”

“In which case the only thing you’re going to be eating is whatever you’ve already got prepared.”

Byleth loves watching her lover work through a problem– she swears she can almost see the keen intellect at work behind those sharp lavender eyes.

“And of that, only what can be carried.” Byleth adds. “Soups, stews– maybe you can grab a bowlful, but beyond that, you’re left to turn out the pot and move on.”

Edelgard hums, thoughtful. “If one was needful enough, a mage could probably conjure flame to heat a pan.”

“Sure, but even that’s fraught, especially if your mage is tired or cranky or just plain ill-tempered– assuming they’re not hungry themself.”

They chat like this for some time before retiring once more– as it turns out, one of the skills shared by revolutionary princess and soldier alike is that of being able to squeeze in a bit of sleep wherever possible. That, or Edelgard’s still working off a sleep debt. Byleth isn’t really sure, but if there’s one thing this whole dragon situation’s made her better at, it’s sleeping.

She’s pretty sure Sothis still has her beat, though.

* * *

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is hurrying.

Tomas – the librarian, and the man who Monica von Ochs identified as her kidnapper – is finally returning to Garreg Mach.

And he hasn’t seen Monica yet today.

Dimitri is hurrying, but he also happens to be worrying.

Especially because he knows who and what Tomas truly is.

El, his sister, told him. Step-sister. Doesn’t matter.

“His true name is Solon,” El said. “He, like our dear uncle, and that Kronya girl you encountered, is one of those who slither in the dark.”

“And these men,” Dimitri asked, “they are the ones responsible for the Tragedy?”

“I believe so, yes.” El said, “If not, then they’re certainly eager to claim credit for it.”

Dimitri scowled, and she continued, her eyes lighting up as though an idea had struck her, “… You know, if you would like to hear it from ‘Uncle Arundel’s’ mouth, there is something I could use your help with…”

And he had indeed heard it from Thales himself– and, knowing what El had told him about these men, had stayed his hand. For the time being.

Whispers scratch at the back of his mind as he hustles up the second floor hallway, and he pushes them down.

His sister and her beloved, the unusual-but-not-unkind Professor Eisner… they’re both killers.

“The same as you, Dimitri.”

Yes. He doesn’t need to be reminded.

And yet – and perhaps like him – both are victims of circ*mstance. They were thrust into the role, both as children – he suspects El was forced to commit murder by their ‘uncle’ at least once – and now they have come to believe they must kill for the sake of their ideals.

And their ideals are good. Their cause is righteous and just!

But he has to show them that there can be another way– and if there is not, and he is proven wrong, and the cost of his folly is paid in blood, then he will kill with them.

If peace isn’t an option, then killing is probably all the prince is good for anyways.

El thinks him naive, he’s sure of it, and maybe she’s right.

But he has to try, goddess damn it all! He has to try.

He arrives at the door to Monica’s quarters and, hands shaking, gently knocks on the door.

“Monica?” he calls. “Are you in?”

The door swings open, and a head of purple hair peeks out, slightly-disheveled and not quite managing to conceal a matching eye.

Thankfully, when he catches a glimpse of the girl’s shoulder, just past the gap between door and frame, it’s clothed, so he’s not interrupting anything.

“Oh, hey Dimitri,” Shez greets him nonchalantly, and opens the door further, revealing a book on reason magic held in one hand, a finger holding her place midway through, “What’s up?”

“Tomas is returning to Garreg Mach,” he says. “Is Monica-”

The look in Shez’s eye hardens.

“She’s here with me, yeah,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Tomas is- he’s the bastard who kidnapped her, right?”

“Yes,” Dimitri answers simply. “Thus my concern.”

A head of brilliant scarlet hair emerges from behind the mercenary, and burgundy eyes peer out from around Shez’s arm with quiet alarm.

Shez turns around and heads deeper into the room, leaving Dimitri and Monica both somewhat taken aback.

“Are you doing alright, Monica?” Dimitri asks, rather than focus on Shez acting strangely – she’s always acting strangely, after all, as is the case with so many of his fellow students at the officer’s academy.

“I’m- I’m doing perfectly well, Prince Dimitri,” Monica half-lies, but Dimitri knows what she means and why she does it, and merely nods.

“Mon,” Shez calls, “C’mon, help me with my armor.”

Monica turns to the other girl in alarm.

“What?”

“We’re gonna gank the f*cker, aren’t we?” Shez says expectantly, and Dimitri sighs.

Admittedly, that is kind of the plan– or, the backup plan, rather, should the Knights of Seiros fail or need assistance.

“I- potentially, yes,” Dimitri confesses, and Monica curses under her breath and sets about gathering up her rather unique spell tome (is it bound in mithril? Dimitri can’t help but be a little impressed, really.) and pulling on a pair of boots, then hurries to help Shez into her breastplate.

Dimitri, realizing he’s not prepared himself, bids them an admittedly-temporary farewell and rushes to his own quarters to fetch a lance and pull on his armor– within a few minutes, Monica and Shez have come to speed along the process, and it’s all very expeditious from there. (He thanks them for their thoughtfulness, of course.)

They go and fetch Mercedes, Ashe, and Dedue, then, as the trio of Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix joins them– Shez asks if they can ‘rope Edelgard and her blue girlfriend-professor into this’, to which a very chipper Annette (when did she arrive?) informs her that the Black Eagles are out on survival training.

Apparently she’d learned this from Lysithea von Ordelia, the tiny mage and recent transfer to El’s class.

All told, it doesn’t take the Blue Lions all that long to rally – maybe half or three-quarters of an hour? – and, soon enough, they’ve mustered at the entrance hall, armed and ready.

… and, soon enough, he comes.

Tomas, the doddering old librarian.

Slow and plodding.

A Knight of Seiros approaches him.

The Blue Lions watch from some distance away.

The two men, knight and librarian, exchange words.

The knight grows agitated, and the old man laughs.

Then the librarian raises his hand, and a horrible purple miasma erupts from his fingertips, lancing through the knight like he isn’t even there– let alone his armor.

The knight falls to the ground, dessicated and gaunt, his skin stretched paper-thin on his sunken face, and Dimitri steps forth.

Shez, he realizes, is with him.

A dependable woman, her.

Tomas is laughing again, and he turns to face them as more Knights of Seiros flood in, boots pounding on the stone floor.

His eyes widen with appreciable interest when they fall upon Shez, and, in a flash, the face of old Tomas is peeling away from Solon’s pallid flesh, his uncannily-distended forehead standing proud as the old man – and he is still an old man, hunched-over and frail-looking – levels his empty-eye gaze again upon the Knights of Seiros.

There must be a dozen, perhaps fifteen men approaching him, yet Solon appears unfazed.

Dimitri has time to think he recognizes a woman in their ranks before dark magic scatters them – no, their bodies – to the wind, a fusillade of black spikes flinging themselves into the formation from above, piercing through flesh and steel alike, and detonating upon contact with the stone floor.

It is a massacre, and the few knights who survive the mass mutilation of their comrades wisely retreat.

Dimitri doesn’t even process the screaming.

Not the ghosts’, and not that of the voices behind him.

Shez and Dimitri fall upon the dark mage like thunder and lightning, only to find their weapons rebounding, like the hammer from the anvil, as they strike a magical barrier encompassing the old man’s person.

Solon sneers. Says something mocking.

Dimitri focuses on trying to put the head of his lance through the man’s neck, watching carefully when the light-shimmer barrier manifests visibly before his blows, carefully probing for a weakness as, for some reason, the man seems to turn and address Shez.

Shez pauses in her strikes, panting.

From somewhere off to Dimitri’s left, an arrow streaks by, glancing off of Solon’s bizarre ward, and Dimitri reckons that must be Ashe lending him a hand.

Good old Ashe.

Shame the Church had to murder his father.

Dimitri calls upon his Crest – Minor, Blaiddyd, borne by blood, cruel and arbitrary – and the unnatural strength it grants him, pouring it all into an overhead stroke of his lance-

Solon’s barrier shatters, and Dimitri’s lance shatters in turn.

A blinding, blazing light flares from the point of contact, and Dimitri feels that he’s left his feet, and he can’t taste the blood on his tongue because he can’t taste anything, but he can smell it, can feel the heat of it, and he can feel himself land on his neck and shoulders, feel the smashing-ache of slamming bodily into thankfully-smooth stonework, feel his vision fading even as he regains it.

He can see a burning orange smear striking out at where Solon is-and-then-isn’t. And then, with stark, jarring clarity, he sees a single eye, blazing orange, as it turns to look upon him.

And then he sees nothing, because he isn’t conscious enough.

* * *

Monica von Ochs can do little more than scream.

She has seen death.

She has killed– put bandits to rout, shed blood with spell and sword.

But she has never seen anything like this, and all she can do is scream.

The bodies.

Oh, goddess, the bodies.

And she can’t forget. She’ll never be able to forget. Not ever.

She recognizes some of their faces.

Remembers how they looked when they smiled, when they laughed, when they were afraid or eating something they didn’t especially like-

Monica screams.

She screams after Solon disappears.

She screams after Shez, with eyes like fire and strange marks on her face, sweeps her into her arms.

She screams until Shez hugs her close, pressing Monica’s face into her shoulder, and several of the other Blue Lions crowd around to comfort her.

She stops screaming, but she can still see their faces. Still see exactly how their limbs scattered, how one man’s ribcage gaped open, its contents mostly gone, its bones having peeled back somewhat, like fingers.

She can still see what became of the face of that nice guardswoman who stood watch at the mess hall on the morning shift.

She can see it all, and, for the first time in some while, she wishes very much that she could not.

* * *

Chapter 12: Ripples and Wakes

Chapter Text

It’s as she clings to Byleth’s arm, marching down the road back to Garreg Mach, that Edelgard realizes something.

Eternity and afterlives are the solace we take in losing things such as this.

In losing warmth and love and knowing that its source is dead, gone forever, never to grace your life or your heart or your mind ever again…

She hopes to meet another ten Hresvelg children, after the end. Not because she has any real reason to believe she will, though the goddess in her girlfriend may well be a contra-indicator on this front, but because she longs to see them again. Even when she’s forgotten their faces. Forgotten their names.

She can look up their names, at least. Write them down. Remind herself.

But what did they look like, before-

Before?

If she lost her Byleth, well and truly lost her – would she long for an afterlife? Surely she would. How could she not?

She would hope against hope, even knowing and holding her doubts.

Anything – anything to be with her again. To never lose her again.

Perhaps, when her work was done, she would… speed the process along.

It isn’t as though she’s never had the thought before.

If Byleth died… if Hubert died…

… if she lost both of them, she thinks, she’d surely-

Byleth gives her an affectionate squeeze, and she remembers– she’s the one who’s gone and died on her love, not the other way around.

Goddess.

Is this what Rhea went through? All that?

Is this what Seiros feels? What motivated her to create the vessel Sitri, anon Sitri Eisner, to play host to her departed, murdered, slaughtered, butchered and defiled mother?

It must be, she supposes.

Seiros has decided to fight the world for the return of her mother. To damn Fódlan, create children who grow into women, just to die and be replaced by subsequent attempts.

Byleth hands her a hunk of smoked, dried jerky.

“Eat,” she commands simply. “You’re starting to wilt over here.”

Edelgard does as her beloved tells her, tearing off a strip of meat with her teeth and devouring it with a hunger she hadn’t yet noticed.

Perhaps, she decides, Rhea is fighting for her happiness.

That makes sense.

Happiness is something that has to be fought for.

But that doesn’t mean they can just let Rhea have her way.

Rhea fights against the fate of a goddess slain a thousand years ago.

They will fight against the reign of a dragon more interested in the fate of a goddess slain a thousand years ago than in bettering the lives of the people of Fódlan.

She bumps her head into Byleth’s arm, and the older woman hums affectionately.

(Oh goddess, now she’s started doing it, too.)

* * *

The last thing she expects to see upon their arrival at the monastery is a scene of blood and gore, but, as she and Byleth step into the entrance hall, that’s precisely what they see.

Mercifully, Byleth has the presence of mind to call the other Eagles to a halt; it would be a shame if they had to walk in on such a scene unnecessarily, especially when they’ve already been put through so much in such a short period of time.

“… Lord Vestra,” Byleth calls over her shoulder, beckoning him forward, and it’s rather revealing, at least to Edelgard, that she would slip into that old habit. Implies, to the princess, that even her sworn sword is shaken at the sight, “I’d appreciate your aid, but I must warn you, it’s… unpleasant… in here.”

Obligingly, Hubert comes forth, cursing as he enters the room.

The fact that there aren’t any Knights of Seiros around is. More than a little alarming, given the circ*mstances.

“Hmm,” Hubert hums, taking in the situation, and turns to address Edelgard.

“Shall one of us-” he gestures between himself and Byleth, “-scout ahead, Lady Edelgard?”

The thought sends a shudder up the princess’ spine. In any other circ*mstance? Yes. In this one…

“Not alone,” she says and her retainers exchange a Look.

They won’t leave her unattended.

Edelgard peeks back out through the door, careful not to let any of her fellow Eagles see in.

“Professor Jeritza,” she says sweetly, “would you keep an eye on the rest of the class? There may be trouble up ahead, so the three of us are going to go investigate.”

“Of course,” Jeritza says – almost sighs – and Edelgard pulls the door shut behind her as she retreats.

Byleth offers her a weak smile, and she tosses her hair as if to clear away the pall of the blooded entrance hall.

The swordsman draws her blade, recognizes she wears the Sword of the Creator on her hip – now holds it in her hand – and flinches bodily, nearly dropping it on reflex.

Edelgard takes a step toward her love as the woman doubles over, laying a hand on her shoulder in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture.

Byleth whispers a few words to Sothis, a half-silent exchange, and, ultimately, straightens, evidently assured by the goddess within of her worthiness to wield that blade– her forgiveness for its very construction, perhaps, or her encouragement to use it, macabre as it is, and take proper advantage of the power it provides.

Whatever the details, they’re between her love and her divine friend, and that’s fine by Edelgard.

“I’m okay,” Byleth says, at length, and Edelgard plants a kiss on her cheek.

“You’re okay,” she softly affirms, and, when the doe-eyed swordsman gives a determined little nod, the three of them press on past the massacred knights, Hubert making a quiet noise of distaste as they pass.

The Sword of the Creator pulses with angry red light.

Idly – partially to distract herself from the pooling blood at her feet – Edelgard wonders if the glow of that blade might not keep time with Byleth’s pulse. It is powered by her heart, after all.

Perhaps she’ll ask Hubert to put men to the task of tracking down other arms of legend? No weapon can match up to the sheer destructive power of a Hero’s Relic (and they now know very well the reason why), but there are a number of ‘sacred weapons’ out there as well– surely some swordsman of yore bore a blessed blade at some point, right? And, really, who better to wield a sacred weapon than her beloved, she who shares her skin with the very goddess herself?

The Sword and Shield of Seiros are probably off the table, for obvious reasons, but her Byleth doesn’t typically fight with a shield anyways, save for on horseback.

Hell, even just a nice mithril sword– anything to keep her love from feeling obligated to using that backbone blade at all times, really.

They quickly come upon the scene of a confrontation between the Blue Lions and the Knights of Seiros in the courtyard adjoining the officers’ academy.

The trio of Felix Hugo Fraldarius (the unsociable swordsman), Sylvain Jose Gautier (the philanderer), and Ingrid Brandl Galatea (the handsome pegasus knight) appear to be guarding the entrance to their classroom, denying entry to a group of agitated-looking Knights of Seiros. Felix’s sword remains in its sheath, and Sylvain and Ingrid’s lances remain upright, held at their sides, and the knights are similarly avoiding doing anything to provoke the Lions, leaving the two groups more or less at a stalemate.

Edelgard and Byleth exchange a glance, and, with a minute nod, the princess cedes control of the situation to her retainer, taking up a position flanking her as Hubert moves to do the same.

The swordsman stalks forward, her shoulders tense, and Edelgard can just about picture the fire in her eyes as she stares the two groups down.

“Professor!” Ingrid, the first to take notice of their approach, calls, and one of the knights echoes the sentiment.

“Ingrid,” Byleth says calmly, “Felix, Sylvain.”

She glances at the knights, then returns her attention to the students.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, and the trio of Lions exchange looks before Ingrid opens her mouth to speak- only to be interrupted by one of the knights.

“Professor-”

The Sword of the Creator, held idle at her side, snaps up to point at the man who speaks, its tip stone-steady in the air.

“I was talking,” Byleth says quietly, “to my students.”

Edelgard can see the working of her jaw.

She tries to convince herself it’s not ‘hot’, so to speak. (Goddess, is there something wrong with her? Or is it just the… intensity? Perhaps that, actually.)

“Is everything alright, Ingrid?” Byleth tries again, and Ingrid swallows thickly, green eyes wide.

“I’m not upset with you,” the swordsman says gently, “I promise.”

Ingrid swallows again, but this time less thickly than her braid.

“W- we’re fine, Professor,” she says, and, glancing at her comrades, adds, “Though we could use a little help.”

“Anything urgent?”

“No, Professor,” Felix says, confident and composed despite the tension in his body, and Byleth smiles at him, grateful.

And then she turns to the knights, eyes blazing.

“Why are you bothering my students?”

“Th-they’re– but you teach the Black Eagles-?”

“Did I ask for your opinion, soldier?” Byleth snaps, her voice taking on a cold edge which betrays her past as the daughter of a mercenary captain, “Or did I ask for a f*cking reason?”

The poor footman stammers out some explanation about Shez and Tomas and a transformation, going on to babble something about Dimitri (which sends a pang of worry through Edelgard’s heart, though the knowledge that his Blue Lions think the situation under control quickly soothes it), and, when he’s more or less finished, Hubert steps forward to stand at Byleth’s side.

“Now that our friend here mentions it,” he drawls, “the…”

He inhales through his nose.

“The scene we beheld earlier does align with what might be expected of very powerful dark magic– powerful enough that even a mage of Lysithea von Ordelia’s caliber will require some months to master it.”

“… She’s only a few months off of something like that?” Byleth asks quietly, and Hubert chuckles.

“She is a rare combination of one who has not only started out gifted, but who possesses the drive and ambition to push beyond that natural talent and become truly skilled.”

(Edelgard can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks.)

“It is true that she has much to learn, but she has much to teach as well.”

The Blue Lions, Edelgard realizes – with no small amount of amusem*nt – appear stunned to hear Hubert, the legendarily-grumpy retainer to the imperial princess herself, praise someone so openly.

Still, it’s clear Byleth’s gotten a little derailed, so Edelgard steps forward as well.

“If I’m understanding correctly,” she says, regarding the knights with a level gaze, “you’re suspicious of Shez after she displayed some kind of transformation, and, as one of the Blue Lions, her classmates are sheltering her from you? Is that an accurate assessment of the situation?”

A good way to help calm a situation is to make it clear you’re listening – repeating what has been said and established back to a frustrated party and asking if your interpretation is correct (‘Let me make sure I understand,’ in essence) both shows you’re listening and provides opportunity for clarification and communication. Oftentimes, just making someone feel as though they’re being listened to is enough to help them simmer down, and then actual resolution can come into play.

“Er- yes, your highness,” one of the knights says.

“I don’t mean to undermine you, or to detract from your efforts, but if the rest of the Blue Lions are sheltering Shez without issue, wouldn’t that seem to indicate the matter isn’t so pressing as to necessitate showing up in force, leaving the entrance hall unguarded for anyone to wander into?”

“I-”

Byleth singles out one of the lankier looking soldiers and points at them.

“You,” she says, “go and summon for me the first of Lady Rhea, Seteth, or Captain Eisner that you encounter.”

They hesitate as she moves on to giving orders to another pair of knights, only to snap to attention, clasp a fist over their breast in salute, and dash off as soon as she spares them a second glance.

Addressing the next two, she says, “I want the two of you to secure the entrance hallway.”

“And you, I want to fetch the Black Eagles and inform them all is well, and that they should hang a right and head directly to the classroom to discuss the results of our survival training among themselves.”

She carries on like this, sending knights off to tasks that need doing, until only five remain, whereupon she indicates the lot of them.

“You five, on me. We’re going to check in on the Blue Lions, make sure everything’s okay.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Hubert says, glancing sidelong at Edelgard as if seeking permission, “if dark magic is involved, my expertise may prove useful.”

Edelgard nods at him.

“I’ll remain here and await whichever authority that fellow finds, then.”

Reluctant as her retainers are to leave her by her lonesome, with both of them being nearby enough to potentially hear a scream, they can at least trust in Byleth and Sothis’ ability to turn back time to save her.

(Grimly, she notes that, while part of her wants to dismiss that as unnecessary, Byleth has had to watch her die. It’s hard to fault them for their caution, in light of that.)

* * *

Hubert observes, as they enter, that the Blue Lions appear to be somewhat in disarray.

Dedue, standing watch, greets them calmly.

“Professor Eisner, Hubert,” he says, nodding to each of them in turn.

“Dedue,” Hubert and Byleth reply, almost in unison, and share a brief look at the occurrence.

Mercedes appears to be tending to Prince Dimitri, whom they have lain out on a desk near the front of the room.

A low tension simmers in the air.

The last few Lions crowd around Shez, that strange – and dangerous, Hubert thinks – mercenary woman who had caused such trouble the other day. The very girl who had hurt his dear compatriot.

He scowls.

The girl doesn’t know what it means to be broken– to stand up not merely despite it, but because of it.

Vengeance for a mercenary company… tsk.

She doesn’t know the shame of knowing one is broken, no matter how overwhelming the odds against them. Byleth, Lady Edelgard– it would be impossible to come out of what they’ve been through without something breaking. In such environments, something inevitably has to give. Steel can’t simply refuse to liquefy in the crucible, no matter what one does to it. Yet the shame burns in their hearts all the same.

Shez carries no such shame; he can tell simply by looking at her.

What her true motivations are, then, is a mystery to him.

And that makes her very dangerous indeed.

“What’s the situation?” Byleth demands, her voice – and the authoritative tone it carries – drawing Hubert from his thoughts.

The tiny redheaded mage girl, Annette, hurries over to explain the situation with Tomas, how Shez and the prince, in the wake of the massacre, fought him and were defeated– Dimitri beaten back by his own shattering of the mage’s barrier, Shez left to cleave through naught but air following her transformation. The rest of the Lions had taken them and fallen back to home territory to regroup (rather prudent, really); they’d just gotten situated when the Knights came knocking. Tensions rose when the knights made demands the shaken Faerghans refused to submit to, including that they turn over their casualties and remain in place.

The Blue Lions weren’t willing to hand over their own, of course, especially not their prince, not when they now knew men like Solon could wear the skins of others– not when they couldn’t trust in the church’s ability to handle such matters in the first place.

A part of Hubert reels at this.

We really are going to recruit the Faerghans, aren’t we? he thinks. The Faerghans, of all people!

Shez is seated on a table, one leg up – an arm resting on its knee – and the other dangling freely. Monica leans against her, eyes closed and breathing slow – either asleep or at rest – and the mercenary’s expression is downcast, the downward cant of her head shrouding part of her face in shadow, and Ashe, the earnest adopted son of the late Lord Lonato, is speaking to her in soothing tones.

Hubert turns his attention to Byleth.

She looks… frustrated; eventually, she sighs.

“You alive over there, merc?” she calls, and Shez stirs slightly– looks up and, after a moment, nods.

“Still got all your faculties?” she continues.

“Near as I can tell,” the sellsword dryly retorts.

“I show you my back, you gonna put a knife in it?” Byleth asks, and Hubert finds this ‘mercenary’ mode of speech quite fascinating.

Shez tenses, then, a few moments later, sighs.

“No,” she admits, her tone almost reluctant, and Byleth smiles.

“Good,” Byleth says simply. “I look forward to working with you.”

Shez stares at her, and Hubert finds his reaction is similar, if more subdued.

“…You’re not gonna ask about your old man?”

Byleth answers simply, “If you tried to kill Jeralt, you’d die.”

With that, she moves to assist Mercedes with Prince Dimitri, ordering the knights accompanying them to relieve Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain, and Hubert follows Byleth over to the prince to see if there’s anything that might require his expertise before he slips out.

Spymaster or no, it hardly pays to be a shirker– especially where (potential) future foreign heads of state are concerned.

* * *

“Mmh,” a tiny goddess yawns, “Good morning, Byleth.”

“Good morning, Sothis.” comes the girl’s prompt reply.

She stretches her diminutive limbs, making note of the gentle breeze caressing her hair, and, after rubbing at them a bit, finally opens her eyes.

The clamor of steel reaching her pointed ears probably hastens that last part, though.

They’re in the training yard, dancing about in the sand – Byleth and that Shez girl appear to be sparring with… half of each the Blue Lions and the Black Eagles? A coalition of all their melee fighters, led by Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg herself.

Edelgard, Petra, Ferdinand, and Caspar she knows; then there’s Dedue, the huge guy from that one place, and Ingrid, the pegasus knight, Felix (the grumpy one), and… the slu*tty one. Silver? No. Sil-something.

Sotha- no.

“Sylvain?” Byleth offers, amused, her concentration seemingly unaffected as she slips past the head of a lance and tags its wielder with blunted steel.

“Sylvain! That’s the bitch.”

“I’d argue, but…”

Shez sweeps by, a blade in each hand, darting low to exploit the opening Byleth has made by striking down poor Ferdinand, and Sothis takes a moment to marvel at their apparent coordination. Byleth lays poor Ingrid low with a series of feints, drawing her – and the head of her lance – just enough out of position to snatch the weapon’s haft and give it a sharp tug, pulling the poor girl off-balance enough for Byleth to pretend-take-her-head.

“… If you are not careful,” Sothis cautions, “you may just make your beloved jealous.”

Byleth huffs a laugh, and Sothis, taking advantage of her unparalleled vantage, floats up to spy their Edelgard fending off Shez with axe and shield, working in tandem with grumpy ponytail sword-boy Felix Hugo Fraldarius to keep the purple dervish at bay and even strike back at her– and for a moment, it seems like they might overwhelm the strange girl, and Sothis can’t help but cheer (“Sorry, Byleth, but they’re still the underdogs.”) as the pair slowly position themselves to finish her.

… At which point Byleth calls Shez’s name and introduces herself to the melee with the casual ease of a trained dancer trading partners. Shez slips away in the confusion, darting towards poor, innocent Caspar with a ‘Thanks’ that Byleth only just barely catches.

“Hello, my blade,” Edelgard sighs, frustrated and very transparently in love with this blue swords-goober, and Felix adopts a different guard, his eyes sharp and his excitement obvious.

“Professor,” he says, and Byleth smiles at them both like she’s not about to thrash them.

“Highness, Felix.”

This is all the more greeting she spares them before she drives the heel of her right boot into Edelgard’s shield, and, when the princess braces to defend herself, her guard too solid to be so easily broken, Byleth strikes at Felix’s midsection with a thrust he only just manages to parry.

“Are you toying with them?”

“No,” Byleth laughs, “I needed an opening, so I made one.”

Dedue comes thundering toward her, and, alerted by a quick burst of some… mercenary cant from Shez, Byleth rolls out of the way, forcing Edelgard and Felix to scramble out of the giant’s way or risk being trampled.

This separates the duo enough for a cavalcade of blows to ring out as Felix crosses swords with Byleth, only for the former mercenary to lock blades with him and, much to his surprise, bodily shove him into an approaching Edelgard.

And then she bolts across the field, toward where Shez contends with Petra, Caspar, and Sylvain.

Her leg, much to Sothis’ relief, seems to hold up fine– perhaps whatever treatment she’d been given the other day had been at least somewhat effective?

Whatever the case, the girl swiftly sets to fencing with Sylvain, preventing him from running interference for Petra and Caspar, the latter of whom quickly goes down to the swift bite of Shez’s paired blades.

Sylvain seems to see his opening, or else realize he needs to take a risk, and thrusts at Shez, who captures his lance between her weapons and opens him up for Byleth to put a sword to his neck.

The others have crossed the yard by this point, and Petra darts back, keen to remain on the side opposite her comrades and force the mercenary pair into exposing their backs to somebody.

Felix joins Petra in circling the pair as Edelgard and Dedue cautiously advance, and it’s only now that Sothis realizes: Rhea – Seiros herself – is amid the handful of spectators, watching with keen interest as the bout approaches its conclusion.

Shez and Byleth have another largely-impenetrable discussion, and then, all at once, they explode into movement. Byleth rushes toward the armored bearers of shield and axe, the largest and smallest of the participating combatants, and Shez keeps her back to the bluenette, doing her level best to fend off Petra and Felix at once as they close in on her from either side. The latter trio quickly devolve into a whirlwind of blunted steel, swift and hard to follow, their swordsmanship unquestionable.

Byleth, meanwhile, simply turns her sword the wrong way ‘round and begins probing at Dedue and Edelgard’s shields, hooking and pulling them here and there, searching for an opening. Her efforts aren’t immediately rewarded, but when they are – when she manages to pull Edelgard’s shield one way while the woman is stepping the other, eliciting a yelp – she capitalizes immediately, discarding the sword and tackling her lover to the sand.

Edelgard, flat on her back, yields, and Byleth snatches up her axe, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as she rolls away from an impending blow from Dedue’s own weapon. He quite expertly stops it when his target moves – rather than strike the supine princess’ armored belly, that is – and, being a far more experienced axeman than she, easily parries the axe-blow Byleth directs his way.

She disengages quickly, slipping away to relieve poor Shez, taking Petra from behind with her axe and relieving her surprised student of her sword.

“Thanks, Petra,” she says quietly – she’s certainly not going to kiss the girl! – and, casually casting the axe aside, goes at Dedue once more, this time circling him freely.

Shez seems to thank Byleth in that mercenary-speak, unless words simply mean entirely different things in it (which they very well may!), and sets about dueling Felix.

While skilled, the boy isn’t (yet) a career swordfighter, and he’s slowing down more than Shez is; eventually, he makes a mistake, and graciously accepts his defeat with a sword either side his neck.

Byleth, meanwhile, is simply faster than Dedue, and eventually manages to disarm him with a tricky little flick of her sword, whereupon he, evidently seeing no need to prolong this, yields.

There’s a strange hush in the air when Shez and Byleth approach each other, dripping with sweat (and with sand sticking to them as well, oh dear) and panting heavily– then Byleth holds out a hand, palm up, and Shez very rudely slaps it?

But then Shez mirrors the action, and Byleth slaps her palm, and then they… very softly punch each others’ fists?

They seem to sense most everyone’s befuddlement at this display, and, as if in deference to a local culture, one different to their own, make a show of shaking hands.

“You’re not half bad,” says a smirking Shez. “Y’know, for a big titty weirdo.”

Byleth gets as far as, “Yeah, well,” before giving up on any sort of retaliatory remark, and the time for such things swiftly passes as a number of students swarm the two.

“Hmm,” Sothis hums. “They are rather big, aren’t they?”

“Do you want to find out how much progenitor goddess can fit in my second skin’s mouth?” Byleth threatens, and the goddess cackles gleefully.

Her mirth subsides after a minute or two, however, and, as Byleth is doing the thing where she teaches her students using the bout they’ve just had as an example, Sothis gently asks where Dimitri and Monica are, the way she does when asking permission to peek at memories.

“Go ahead,” Byleth says quickly, and returns her focus to her beloved students, doling out perhaps a little too much praise, considering the way they all got their asses handed to them-

“They’re learning!” Byleth says defensively, and Sothis blows a raspberry at her.

Poking into Byleth’s recollection, she’s immediately greeted by Monica screaming.

The redhead seems to scream and scream until she’s ultimately sandwiched between Shez and Byleth, much as her head is sandwiched between those two little hair-buns, both murmuring gently to her, progressively calming her down until she mutters into Byleth’s breasts that she can remember everything.

The gruesome image of the entrance hall flashes before her eyes, and Sothis grimaces. She and Byleth have maaaybe seen worse? But not by much, and not often.

Ultimately, they send the girl to the infirmary (where the healers can keep an eye on her) and order a pot of soothing tea brought up to her.

Sothis peers further back, to Seteth arriving to dismiss a gaggle of church soldiers, with Rhea in tow. Rhea suggests a group exercise, a demonstration of the two mercenaries’ prowess at arms, and the two agree as Dimitri’s sleeping form is carried out of the Blue Lions’ classroom to be brought to the infirmary.

The notion of the Blue Lions probably benefiting from a bit of reprieve – and Shez benefiting from demonstrating that she’s perfectly in control of herself, despite whatever happened earlier – passes through past-Byleth’s thoughts, and Sothis supposes it makes sense enough.

“It’s also given Hubert more time to skulk about,” present-Byleth says, and Sothis emits a little ‘Ahhh,’ of understanding.

“What do you think is going to happen, now that Tomas has performed an atrocity in the entrance hall?” Sothis asks eventually.

“I have no idea,” Byleth says, “and I don’t know what to think.”

“Perhaps your lady love or Hubert will have some idea as to what’s going on?”

“Goddess, I sure f*cking hope so.”

* * *

Chapter 13: Changes in Circ*mstance

Chapter Text

Dimitri awakens to the sounds of quiet conversation – soft voices, all of them familiar to a greater or lesser extent – and a persistent ache between his temples. He groans and opens his eyes, squinting through bleary eyes to try and understand what these blurry green and white shapes above him are, only to have a small and very firm hand on his chest hold him down as he goes to sit up.

“Good evening, Dee,” says El’s voice – probably that’s what that white woman is, then, his step-sibling – and the hint of relief in her tone shifts to something more mischievous as she adds, “I admit, I hadn’t taken you for a layabout.”

The green shape titters gleefully, a high and happy tone, and Dimitri tentatively identifies her as young Flayn.

“Professor!” the girl who is probably Flayn calls, “Prince Dimitri has awoken!”

A calm voice, then– deeper, but unmistakably a woman’s, smooth and confident.

“That’s excellent news,” she says. “Thank you, Flayn.”

It’s Professor Eisner, Dimitri thinks; El confirms this a moment later when she addresses the woman as ‘my blade’– a sweet pet-name, he feels. Noble in that it is dignified, and speaks to a sort of loyalty only love (though not usually romantic) can inspire, without invoking undue privilege or pretension.

“Shall we send for Professor Manuela, my blade?”

“It shouldn’t be necessary for the moment,” the professor answers. “Between Flayn and myself, we should be more than equipped to handle things, and we’ll certainly know if we’re out of our depth.”

Edelgard hums an affirmative, and, removing her hand from Dimitri’s chest, stands. “Here– let us switch seats for the moment, then. I’ll keep an eye on Monica while you and Flayn look over our towheaded friend, here.”

“Mmh, just be careful not to wake Shez. She just fell asleep a little while ago– I think she feels bad for having fun with that bout while Monica was laid-up in the infirmary?” There’s an exasperated lilt to Professor Eisner’s voice. “Nevermind the fact that taking everyone’s minds off of things was part of the idea.”

El huffs a laugh.

“I imagine you’d feel much the same way, my Byleth.”

“Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have allowed myself to be separated from you in the first place,” Professor Eisner admits, “but– our relationships are different anyways. You’re my liege and my partner; they’re still just…”

“Mooning over each other?” El offers as the professor sits down at Dimitri’s side, and the older woman chuffs.

“They’re sweet,” says Byleth, and gently lays a hand on Dimitri’s forehead to check for fever. “It’s just also mortifying to think we were like that for… at least half a year?”

“I think Hubert would say nine months, minimum,” El says, and the prince, noting fondly the similarities between his sister’s brooding retainer and Dedue, even as he catches the look of utter fascination on young Flayn’s face, can’t help but snort.

He can practically see the stars in the diminutive healer’s eyes.

“You wear your enthusiasm on your sleeve,” he comments, and the girl vibrates with enthusiasm.

Across from her, Professor Eisner grimaces slightly.

She glances at Shez and Monica, confirming the two are asleep, and, quickly casting her gaze about the room, likely just to assure herself she hasn’t forgotten any other present parties, speaks.

“Between flying on a pegasus, flying myself, my knee, and what happened on Magdred Way, I think I’ve begun to develop an aversion to arrows,” she says, “but somehow, Flayn, seeing that look on your face makes me more nervous than a flight of bodkins.”

Flayn has the decency to look embarrassed, but Dimitri frowns.

“… What happened at Magdred Way, Professor?” he asks, gently as he can, and the swordswoman shudders visibly.

“El avoided being shot in the face by inches– a mere hip-check.”

“It’s okay, my love,” El softly calls to her, “I’m okay.”

Beside his bed, Byleth nods, half to herself, and he can see the darkness haunting her deep blue eyes. Recognizes it.

“Professor…” he breathes, “… you can see it, can’t you?”

She nods.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t have- I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“Sometimes,” Flayn says suddenly, “people make light of terrible experiences they have had, thinking they are funny– only to realize they are not when they see the reactions of those around them.”

“Ah,” Dimitri blinks, “I’ve done that.”

More than his fair share, in fact.

“As have I,” El admits, her tone soft, shifting to more soothing as she addresses Byleth in particular: “It’s alright, my blade. You’re already doing so much better than you were.”

The professor inhales deeply through her nose and, after a moment, nods.

“Yes,” she says, “you’re right, all of you. I- Thank you.”

She raises a hand over Dimitri’s chest and begins channeling faith magic.

“… Let’s make sure you haven’t managed to break anything, you big lunk,” she jokes, and Flayn quickly raises her own hands to join her.

“… I just can’t believe I’m really more afraid of Bernie than she is of me,” the professor mutters, and Dimitri laughs so hard at the mental image that he wakes both Shez and Monica.

Shez’s start is mostly visible in the subtle jerk of her shoulders – she raises her head from the side of Monica’s bed and manages a disoriented, “Bwuh?”

Her hair is an unruly mess of purple, at least in the front, and Monica clings to the mercenary’s arm desperately, her burgundy eyes as wide as saucers as they dart about the room.

“It’s okay, Monica,” El says softly, and there’s a hint of guilt to her voice that her brother doesn’t miss.

Fortunately, her voice seems to snap poor Monica out of her state of quiet alarm, and the girl’s gaze locks onto the Adrestian princess with a look Dimitri can’t quite identify.

“Lady Edelgard,” she sniffs, and, even in profile, the pained look that crosses El’s face is plain as day. Monica, meanwhile, turns up her nose. It’s rather a cute gesture, and reassuring, in a way, given what they’d seen and dealt with earlier that day.

“Professor,” Flayn whispers, “Prince Dimitri is fine.”

She needn’t hint further, fortunately. Byleth rises, giving Dimitri’s head a rough pat (and what a strange woman the professor is to do so, and in such a manner– Dimitri thinks he can understand why she fascinates Edelgard so, at least in part) and pausing to address young Flayn.

“You don’t have to call me Professor, you know,” she says. “We’re cous- or, no, Seteth’s your brother, isn’t he.” She grimaces. “… Are you really my aunt?”

“I am not sure that my brother is even your uncle,” Flayn admits, “I think we are best served ‘going off of vibes,’ as Claude might say.”

Byleth, crossing the room to embrace Edelgard, blinks at the girl, shooting Monica a frown as she pulls the princess into an embrace.

“… You hang out with Claude?” the professor asks, almost incredulous, and Flayn bobs her head exuberantly.

Shez and Monica are speaking to one another quietly as this goes on, and Professor Eisner gently cards her fingers through El’s hair.

“I do!” Flayn says. “He is very nice, when he is not being a big dumb jerk! And he has been doing better listening to others about when he is being one ever since Lysithea joined your class!”

At that, Byleth chuckles, and plants a kiss on the crown of El’s head.

“Good for him,” she says. “I was almost worried the princess here was going to end up strangling him after catching him infantilizing poor Lysi one too many times.”

El snorts into the woman’s neck.

“And I worried you were going to punch him, my darling hand.”

Byleth laughs at that, then grimaces.

… and then laughs at herself again.

“Goddess,” she breathes, “I’m gonna have to start having training sessions with Bernie and Leonie just… shooting at me until I’ve worked this archer anxiety out, aren’t I?”

“Hm,” Dimitri muses, “I’m sure Ingrid would be more than happy to train with you to that effect, Professor– she is always bemoaning her lack of opportunities to train with you, especially as our only pegasus-certified instructor. And I’m sure Ashe would be happy to join your compliment of archers.”

“Heh.” El laughs weakly, “We could make an event out of it.”

“Wait,” Shez interjects, “can’t Professor Manuela fly?”

“Only as a medic,” Byleth says, “and even then, only for mobility. The church doesn’t seem to fancy the idea of aerial mages– even I’ve yet to find any manuals or instruction for such.”

“And she’s been looking,” Edelgard teases.

“Hell, I’ve had Linhardt looking,” she says. “There’s even less on the subject than they have on-”

Byleth pauses.

“Hey, Shez?”

Dimitri’s classmate glances over from Monica’s side.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not the only one who transforms,” she says, and Dimitri watches Shez flinch.

“Yeah,” she says flatly. “We saw Tomas.”

Byleth blinks.

“Aside from the evil bastard men, I mean,” she clarifies, and starts again, only to almost immediately pause. “I-”

“My blade?” Edelgard says, raising her head, and Flayn looks a little alarmed herself.

“Shez,” Dimitri calls, “Monica – if Professor Byleth tells you this, can you promise me you’ll keep it to yourselves?”

Monica nods immediately, and, seeing her willingness, Shez follows suit.

Byleth shoots Dimitri a thankful look, and he offers a weak smile in response.

It’s genuinely the least he could do.

“So, funny story,” Byleth begins, kissing El on the nose to assuage her obvious concerns, “but it turns out I’m kind of a dragon?”

* * *

Funnily enough, the first thing Monica thinks is, ‘Oh goddess, I really do have a type.’

She does her best to quash that thought immediately.

No-one can ever know of her apparently extremely-specific penchant for strong mercenary swordswomen with soft hearts who apparently transform-

Goddess, what does that even say about her?

“Wait,” Shez, at her bedside, intones. “You turn into a dragon?! That’s bullsh*t, I just. Glow?”

“Yeah, well-”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you have a little guy in your head, too,” her purple idiot sulks, and as surprising and alarming as that statement is, it’s only rendered so much moreso by the way Professor Eisner stiffens at her words. Lady Edelgard visibly tenses in those strong arms, presumably aware of whatever it is Miss Eisner has going on that made her go still at Shez’s words, and a part of Monica worries over what it means that Shez had made no mention of anything of the sort to her.

What’s worse, g oddess help her, is that that’s another troubling commonality-

“What the f*ck?” Shez blurts. “For real?”

“Shez,” Monica whispers, “you’re making her uncomfortable.”

Indeed, Byleth looks positively mortified.

Fortunately for all involved, Flayn changes the subject.

“Pro- Byleth?”

The professor blinks and looks over at the tiny girl.

“What’s your other form like?”

She’s touching her fingertips together and making puppy-dog eyes at the woman, and it appears to work somewhat, because the professor laughs a little and says, “I think you’d have to ask Edelgard to get a real picture.”

Flayn’s eyes turn to Lady Edelgard, who sighs.

She can’t tell, looking at the back of the princess’ head, but she expects Lady Edelgard is probably wearing one of those soft, fond smiles.

Hmph.

She turns to look at her- at Shez, who looks… troubled.

She’s staring off into space, even, her brow furrowed, and she starts when Monica gives her a gentle prod.

Worrisome, Monica thinks.

Far moreso than any kind of transformation ever could be.

Across the way, Flayn looks to be listening with rapt attention as Lady Edelgard waxes poetic about her (and their, really) probable future empress and the apparent magnificence her draconic form.

Beside her, in his bed, Prince Dimitri wears a rather grim sort of expression, as though he, too, is troubled by something.

Does he transform as well? Or (apparently secretly) hear voices?

Goddess, she hopes not.

The last thing she needs is for her class leader to attract as much attention as Shez and Professor Eisner seem to.

Well, no. The actual last thing she needs is to have a run-in with the likes of that Flame Emperor fellow the Black Eagles encountered in the Holy Tomb, or, worse still, that bastard ‘librarian’– and, goddess, she can still see them. The bodies. The process of them becoming bodies.

A warm hand slips into her own, its firm grip pulling her up from the pits of recollection.

It’s Shez, of course. Looking at her with a tired purple eye, her gaze brimming with worry; with gentle care and concern.

Even if the Blue Lions run into some awful monster, Shez will be there to protect them. To protect her.

If they must come, then, hell– let them.

Monica von Ochs is no slouch herself.

* * *

“Shez.”

Byleth utters the name and no more, pinning the swordswoman who bore the name against the brick wall of one of the administration building’s second floor hallways. She tries not to do so too roughly, but it is imperative that they speak…

“Whoa, hey now,” Shez says, the way one might when attempting to soothe a horse. There’s a hint of levity to her voice that implies she’s not afraid, at least, which is reassuring.

Byleth stares at her, uncertain of how to begin, and Shez gently places a hand on her sternum to push her back a step.

“Listen, Professor, you’re pretty and all, but- I’m taken.” She pauses. “I think.”

Sothis laughs overhead, and Byleth feels her cheeks flush a little.

“I’m not here to f*ckin’. Claim you,” she says, grimacing, “I’m here to ask about what you said earlier, in the infirmary.”

“… You really do have a little guy in your head?” Shez whispers, her visible eye wide, and Byleth sighs.

“Do we tell her, and just run things back if it goes poorly?” she asks Sothis, and the little goddess appears beside the slightly-smaller swordswoman, one hand over her heart, the other held up as if to swear an oath.

“You have my vote,” she says with mock solemnity.

“I do,” Byleth admits. “Do you not?”

“I do!” Shez blurts excitedly, and leans closer. “Is yours…” she makes a vague, uncertain gesture. “I dunno, sassy?”

“Exceptionally,” Byleth says dryly. “She’s a real little gremlin at times.”

“Oh, she sounds energetic. Mine, they’re… laid-back, I guess? Very calm.” Shez taps her chin. “Like you, I guess. Maybe that’s why yours is like that, and mine is like they are?”

“Oh, phooey!” Sothis protests. “As if I need the likes of you to temper me as her spirit must her!”

She crosses her arms and pouts, and Byleth tries not to smile at her.

“You got her real riled up with that,” Byleth says, biting down on her lips to ensure she doesn’t giggle as the goddess grows progressively more indignant.

“… Honestly,” Shez says, glancing off to the side, “mine’s… getting kinda weird about this.”

Something about that sentiment sets Byleth a little ill-at-ease.

“… Do you need any help?” she asks quietly, and Shez thinks for a moment.

“I don’t think so,” she says, and, after another moment’s pause, asks, “Does the name ‘Arval’ mean anything to you?”

“Not a damn thing,” Sothis and Byleth reply in unison, and Shez nods.

“Right.”

She pauses again, and, quietly, says, “She’s not our ‘rival’, partner. Hell, if I stick with Mon, we’ll probably end up working in the Empire– she might even end up being my boss, come to think of it.”

Ah, yeah, that might well turn out to be the case, Byleth muses, especially if Monica finds herself working at the Imperial Palace in Enbarr.

“… What the hell would I even be your rival in, anyways?”

And Shez grimaces. “No clue,” she says, and again faces off to the side. “Whaddya want me to do, murder her? ‘Cause that’s not happening.”

She goes pale, then, and Byleth can’t help but wear a slight scowl.

“Arval, are you- what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Sothis, do you know how to kill a… spirit, or whatever he is?”

“No,” Sothis frowns, “and I must confess, I am beginning to regret it.”

“I think my spirit might be racist,” Shez says quietly. “They’re… kind of fixated on the idea that you aren’t human.”

“I’m half human,” Byleth confesses, “but- they’re using ‘human’ like it and ‘person’ are perfect synonyms, aren’t they?”

Shez blinks at her. “… Yeah, I guess you would be, huh? How’s that work?”

Byleth checks that the coast is still clear, and, satisfied, answers:

“Apparently half-Nabateans used to be a thing, back when Nabateans – the dragons – themselves were? When I left a few weeks ago, it was so the Agarthans could help me to be able to transform. It seems like a lot of half-Nabateans couldn’t change forms unassisted, maybe?”

She produces her dragonstone, and Shez eyes it curiously.

“They like that,” she says faintly, and Byleth blinks.

“Really? Why.”

“No f*ckin’ clue, Blue.”

“… So-” Byleth pauses. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” Shez gives a dismissive wave of a hand. “Think about it – both of you, I mean. Say we killed you or whatever. Caught you unawares or something. Either we die quickly or we’re never safe again– because we murdered the lover of Edelgard von f*cking Hresvelg, the future emperor.”

She shoots a dirty look at an empty space beside her.

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” she says flatly, and folds her arms across her chest. “Besides, Monica likes Professor Eisner over here, and we like Monica.”

This seems to remind her of something, and she glances back up at Byleth. “Thanks for being nice to her, by the way.”

“Oh, no problem. She seems like she’s had a rough time– it was the least I could do, really.”

“See, Arval? Bluey’s cool. Maybe you could learn from her.”

“Oooooh,” Sothis hisses, covering her mouth daintily, and Shez grins.

“Watch this,” she says, and meets Byleth’s eye. “Whaddya think of arranged marriage, Prof?”

Byleth doesn’t bother to hide her scowl at the mere mention of the practice.

“The obsession with Crests and the bearing of children for political power alone, the noble willingness to sell their own children off to suitors they seldom even know, the compulsory heterosexuality and the frequency with which it sees young women beaten and-” she swallows. Shakes her head. “It’s degenerate.”

She pauses, then, and adds, “…If anyone ever tries to arrange an unwanted marriage for you or Monica – or any of your own – you need only let me know– I will happily put them to the sword.”

At this, Shez’s cheeks redden a little, which is frankly an extremely bizarre response to such a statement, near as Byleth can tell, but what the hell isn’t a little bizarre these days? She’s a dragon courting a princess, with a goddess in her head and a continent they intend to plunge into war. Her grandmother is the millennia-old archbishop of the Church of Seiros, her mother was a homunculus, and Byleth herself is a mercenary-turned imperial retainer turned imperial retainer and professor, and everybody seems convinced she’ll one day join her lady as her empress.

“Little one,” Sothis says, not unkindly, “if your silly little princess suddenly spurned your affections, you’d fly away, curl up in a cave somewhere, and sleep for three months, or perhaps a few centuries.”

Byleth bristles internally at the implication.

“I would never abandon my duty to her,” she says, her ‘tone’ as harsh as a rusted blade, sharply-edged and almost warning. “If she hated me so deeply she couldn’t stand to see me, I would ensure I did my duty unseen. If she wished for my death, I would ask how she wished me to accomplish it, and whether or not she would have it turned to any sort of productive end. I would live for her. I would die for her. Anything.”

And Sothis, queer as she is, laughs.

“Ah, but you are a dragon after all,” she giggles, “and a human, too. Fierce and loyal… a terrifying combination.”

“Um, Byleth?” Shez says quietly from where Byleth once again has her pinned to the wall, “can- can I go?”

She’s only that much redder in the face, and Byleth hastens to apologize as she releases the poor girl, explaining she was arguing with her spirit jester.

Shez, to her credit, listens to these, and forgives her before darting off.

* * *

“Ooooh Eeeedie~” calls a sing-song voice, and Edelgard von Hresvelg stirs in her lover’s arms.

It’s a Sunday – the 3^rd of the Verdant Rain Moon, their first day off since the Blue Sea Moon last month – and it’s just past sunrise, if the early morning light filtering in through the windows of Byleth’s quarters is any indication.

“Dorothea?” she croaks, half sitting up, and Byleth whines, arms about her waist, and tugs her back down.

In truth, the warmth of bare skin under the covers is terribly tempting, but surely Dorothea wouldn’t bother them like this, this early, unless it was important.

“The very same,” Dorothea calls. “It’s important!”

Edelgard sits up, nudging Byleth awake.

“Did Hubert send you?” she inquires.

“He sure did!” Dorothea replies. “Meet us in the classroom, ‘kay?”

“Ellll,” Byleth groans, and the princess can’t help but laugh.

“We will, Dorothea,” she assures the songstress, and climbs out of bed – and the cloying grasp of a sleepy dragon – to pad across the room, bare feet on the hardwood floor, and dig some clothes from Byleth’s dresser.

Just the fact that they keep clothing in each others’ quarters makes Edelgard feel warm and fuzzy inside.

She dons smallclothes and, not hearing a second set of foot-on-wood sounds, half-turns to look at her beloved, who lays still in bed.

“Rise, my blade,” she commands, however gently, “we have need of you yet.”

Just the tone of her voice is enough to tickle some soldierly part of Byleth’s brain, and her eyes blink open, bleary and blue as the ocean depths.

“… My princess?” Byleth murmurs, and Edelgard nods.

“The very same,” she says, smiling inwardly. “It’s important.”

Her beloved growls quietly in irritation – involuntarily, if she had to guess – and hauls herself out of bed, her gaze regaining its usual clarity in the span of three blinks of her eyes.

Edelgard directs her smile at her beloved, then, and goes back to dressing herself.

Byleth joins her at the dresser, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and promptly follows suit.

“Good morning, baby.”

“Morning, El.”

They dress quickly, Edelgard taking her morning tea and Byleth her gendering medicine, and depart within a few minutes. (Though Byleth does take a moment while the tea brews to daub some of the salve from a vulnerary onto a spot on Edelgard’s shoulders where teeth had broken through the skin, which the princess certainly appreciates.)

“… You smell mostly like your hair stuff,” Byleth explains as they near the Black Eagles’ classroom, “and Hubert smells like coffee and a little bit of ink gall. Caspar smells like chalk from dusting his hands, Linhardt smells like grass, Dorothea wears a floral perfume…” she pauses as they arrive at the door. “Bernie smells different depending on the day, but she always smells like Bernie under it. Petra smells like the woods, and wood-smoke, and Lysithea smells- Lysithea smells like paper, old books, and a little bit like cake?”

Edelgard laughs and pushes open the doors.

“And Ferdinand?”

“He smells like tea and soap.”

They immediately come face-to-face with an impish-looking Dorothea, her cap perched at an ever-so-slightly jauntier than usual angle upon her head, her brunette curls perhaps slightly less coiffed than usual.

“So,” the songstress coos, her green eyes alight with naught but mischief, “what do I smell like, Professor?”

She leans in close, as though Byleth needs to give her a sniff to tell, and Edelgard watches with some amusem*nt as her lover blinks at the woman and says, “You know that perfume you wear?”

“Yes?”

“That’s how you smell,” Byleth says simply, and Dorothea stares at her for a moment before descending into a fit of giggles.

Edelgard joins her, and she can tell Byleth is fighting a smile as she steps inside, seeming to meet Hubert’s eyes from across the room.

“Good morning, you two,” he drawls. “We have information on our next assignment, courtesy of Byleth’s dear old uncle.”

Edelgard’s eyebrows jump. Was that connection already paying dividends? Goodness.

“Oh?”

Hubert reaches over and slips an envelope from where it rests atop Byleth’s desk.

“Indeed, my lady,” he says. “A proper dossier, no less.”

He hands it to Byleth, who immediately scowls.

“Brother Gilbert… Annette’s sh*tty dad?”

“The deadbeat knight, yes,” Hubert confirms, his tone and expression those of open disdain.

“I’d take Shez – just Shez – over Gilbert and a company of knights,” Byleth says. “Hell, I’d take Claude and Leonie and one horse between them over Gilbert and company.”

Edelgard co*cks her head, and Hubert explains, “We’re being sent to recover the Lance of Ruin from a bandit, Miklan, formerly of House Gautier of Faerghus. Apparently the mission is considered dangerous enough for us to receive direct support from the Knights of Seiros.”

Thoughtfully, Dorothea closes the doors as they speak.

“And we’re being sent with Gilbert?” the songstress scoffs. “What, are we not good enough for Alois? Catherine? Shamir? Our professor’s literal father?”

“There’s more,” says Byleth. “Miklan Anschutz Gautier was disinherited because of his lack of a Crest– so in addition to wielding a stolen Hero’s Relic, we, according to what Seteth’s written here, have to worry about the stupid bastard turning into a demonic beast if he uses it.”

Edelgard feels an awful lot of things all at once.

“… I suppose this must be something to do with their origins,” the princess sighs, and, Dorothea in tow, crosses the room to join her retainers up front.

Her sworn sword seems surprised by her sudden embrace, but returns it after a moment of confusion.

“El?” she asks, her blue-lined brow furrowing, and gives the princess a squeeze.

“I’m sorry I kept that from you, my blade,” she says quietly, and Byleth bites out a half-hearted laugh.

“No, I think I’d vastly prefer I didn’t know,” she counters. “Especially given we can’t afford to spurn the Sword of the Creator’s power on the battlefield, nor the questions its absence would invite.”

“If it helps,” Edelgard offers, “I think that, if there’s anyone she’d want wielding it, it would be you.”

Byleth kisses her head, nuzzling her nose into her hair affectionately.

“I think you’re absolutely right, my love,” she says quietly, “and I think that if we keep up with the lovey stuff, Hubert’s gonna gag before we can finish with this dossier.”

Edelgard giggles into the taller woman’s embrace.

Goddess, but she loves this fool. This woman who can lighten the mood, just like that, and for whom she can do the same.

Her Byleth.

* * *

“Hesitation,” Byleth instructs, her expression as stern as her tone is firm, “is death. In a fight for your life, you must never hesitate. Mercy is a beautiful thing, but only rarely does it have any place on the battlefield.”

A vision of dragon’s-fire dances behind her eyes, and some part of her – deep within her soul or her heart or perhaps her brain – quails at the fact that the Ashen Demon, of all people, is a dragon. Has been given that power, that terrible strength.

It’s no coincidence, of course. She knows that. Probably they all do.

Edelgard thinks it likely she could tear a man in half with one swipe of that tail-weapon of hers; privately, Byleth has the sinking feeling that she’s seen it do three.

And Seiros, the Immaculate One, is twice her size.

She can’t even imagine what such a creature might be capable of.

Is it better or worse, she wonders, that Rhea isn’t empty like she is?

Perhaps it is both.

“You are a troublesome child,” Sothis’ tired voice calls, “you know that?”

“Professor?” Ferdinand asks, halting and hesitant. “Are you sure it is wise to kill without hesitation, as you say?”

Byleth looks at him.

“No.” she says mildly. “It is neither wise nor healthy, as I’m sure Hubert and Edelgard will happily attest, but it is far healthier, and, arguably, far wiser than allowing yourself – or one of yours – be gutted as a result of some failed attempt at mercy on your part.”

She shakes her head. “If it doesn’t weaken you to do so, doesn’t threaten your position or your person, then, by all means, show mercy.”

She meets Hubert’s eye and smiles.

“If it helps, imagine how much worse I would do, were one of you to be harmed by one you sought to spare.”

Bernadetta shudders visibly.

“Well, dear Bernadetta seems to understand, at least.” Sothis sighs.

“It cannot be overstated that a man like Miklan will not show you mercy. If he was a merciful man, there would be several more villages in northern Galatea than there are today.” She lets her gaze sweep across the class. The region of Faerghus the Blue Lions’ Ingrid calls home is especially poor, and she expects most here know that– likely better than she does, in fact.

“They didn’t show their captives any mercy, and you are all aware of the… spoils… brigands like this often avail themselves of.” She shakes her head in disgust. “These are not civilian militiamen or idiot ruffians and bandits. These are dangerous men under a dangerous commander, and I expect you to sweep them aside without remorse.”

Edelgard stands, joining her at the front of the classroom, and Byleth, teasing, offers a slight bow and steps aside.

“Enemy soldiers are to be shown respect and ruth, as our teacher says,” their future emperor says, “but if you hesitate before brigands like Miklan’s men, they will kill you. Consider this training for the future, if you wish,” she lets the unspoken plans they now share in go unspoken, for she knows their Eagles understand, “but do not risk your lives over men who rape and pillage as they please. Cut them down without a second thought, my friends, for they will spare you no less than the same courtesy.”

By the sidelong glance of pale purple directed her way, Byleth can tell her flinching at that particular four-letter word hasn’t escaped her lover’s notice, but she trusts Edelgard understands it’s less personal experience and more a matter of-

“One of the realities of soldiering as you have is the fear of capture,” Sothis soothes, “and all that it might entail.”

“Especially as a young woman.” Byleth agrees.

“Especially as a young woman whose gendering-circ*mstances are as your own,” Sothis agrees further. “Humans are a strange lot, don’t you think? Capable equally of deeds both great and terrible.”

“I’d like to think they trend towards good,” Byleth, her eyes darting over Edelgard and Dorothea, ghosting over Petra and Bernadetta, “that they can be put through so much, suffer so dearly, and still muster the strength to fight against bitterness and pain, to sink fang and claw into the hope for a brighter future… I think that makes them wonderful, don’t you?”

Sothis floats into view, smiling with faint pride.

“I do, little one,” she says, and her grin turns impish. “I used to think that of you as well, but now I suppose I must halve that estimation-”

At the back of the room, one of the doors opens, just enough to permit Jeritza entry as he steps inside. A few heads turn at his arrival, but their focus quickly returns to what Edelgard is saying, and Jeritza makes his way to the front of the room quietly, only stopping on the way to his own desk to wordlessly hand Byleth an envelope.

Two envelopes stuck together, actually– folded letters, the wax seal of the second tacky enough from the (admittedly mild, up in the Oghma Mountans) summer heat to stick to the back of the first. The first bears the Crest of Seiros as its seal, is addressed simply ‘Byleth’, and signed, ‘Rhea’.

She glances up at the class, her friends and comrades – her students – watching her with curiosity as she examines the still-sealed letter.

“… Byleth?” Edelgard prompts, and Byleth flashes a weak smile.

“It’s from Rhea,” she says, loud enough for all of the Eagles to hear – they’ll more or less understand the significance, after all – and leans over to give her beloved a kiss on the cheek.

“Can you-”

Edelgard laughs and gives her a gentle push towards her desk. “I can handle a few more minutes, my teacher,” she says, and they stare at one another for a moment as that last phrase leaves her mouth.

Byleth blinks, clears her throat. Nods to her liege and slips into the chair behind her desk, carefully prying the letters apart and cracking the seal on the first, unfolding it and immediately grimacing at its contents.

It starts with ‘Dear Child,’ and only gets worse from there.

(At least ‘dear child’ is endearing. It’s only uncomfortable because it’s Rhea.)

The saint-turned-archbishop’s handwriting is perfectly neat, as Byleth supposes ought to be expected from someone who’s been writing for a thousand years, and the contents of the letter itself are twofold.

First is the official orders regarding Miklan and the Black Eagles’ mission; second is-

“f*ck.” Byleth says aloud, and when the class’s eyes turn to her, she explains: “She says-”

The swordswoman sighs.

“The Archbishop has formally recognized me as her heir,” she says breathlessly, “that I am the scion, through my mother’s adoption, of the saintly line of Seiros, and ‘entitled to all the rights and privileges thereof’, and-”

She looks up from the pretty lettering to meet the concerned gaze of a pair of lavender eyes.

“She doesn’t say it directly, but she notes that I ‘may no longer be subject to any oaths sworn or vows undertaken prior to the recognition of my lineage and status’-”

Edelgard barks out a laugh.

“She thinks to steal you away from me– to free you from your oath, whether you like it or not, and try and bind you to the Church instead.”

“How distasteful,” Jeritza sighs(?) airily. “Do the depths of that woman’s arrogance know no bounds?”

Byleth thinks that’s the most offended she’s ever heard Jeritza get, and it’s… honestly, it’s a little touching.

“Evidently not, Professor,” Hubert snorts derisively, and Dorothea looks like she wants to scream.

“… Pardon my language, Professors, Edelgard,” Ferdinand says, rising to his feet, “and understand that I would ordinarily never say this, but that I lack the vocabulary to phrase this otherwise…”

Byleth gestures for him to go on, and he nods, and does so.

“Has the archbishop always been this much of a c*nt?”

Lysithea’s eyes go wide, and it takes all of a wing’s-beat for her to double over in gleeful laughter, cackling until she’s red in the face.

Byleth grins, fond, and then glances down at her desk again and freezes.

The other envelope is addressed, ‘To the newly-minted Lady Byleth Eisner,’ which is odd, but it’s the signature that that worries her– stuns her.

For it reads, ‘Lord Regent Volkhard von Arundel’.

* * *

Chapter 14: Monsters

Chapter Text

Byleth, watching as drops of water flicked into her pan only just barely sizzle, grimaces.

“Come on,” she urges the shallow vessel, shifting it upon its bed of coals.

Beside her, Catherine chuckles.

“Relax, teach,” the knight says, and Byleth shoots her a sidelong look.

“… Catherine, you’re with Shamir, right?”

“I- yeah?” the larger woman replies, blinking.

Byleth nods to herself.

“Good,” she says, resolute, “I don’t even know how I’d feel if you hooked up with my grandmother.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’d say no-”

Byleth covers her ears, and rocks with the amused slap upon her back as Catherine laughs.

She glances over, meeting the knight’s pretty blue eyes, and, seeing she’s not talking, removes her hands from her ears.

Catherine seems to take this as her cue to stand, and rises from the fireside to bow, deep and overly-dramatic, snatching up one of Byleth’s hands and pressing a kiss to her fingers.

“Forgive me, Lady Eisner,” she drawls, smirking.

The mercenary noblewoman sighs, a pale flush dusting her cheeks, and looks over to see a very amused Edelgard watching her interact with the knight.

“She’s only teasing you, Byleth,” the princess laughs, and Byleth directs a vicious pout her way before standing, deciding she’s going to seek out their guest for this mission.

It doesn’t take much wandering around the camp to find the man– a shock of messy, vivid red hair by the lance-racks can only really be one fellow, and it is indeed the Blue Lion she seeks.

“Sylvain,” she greets, prompting him to glance up from the war-lance he’s honing, flashing a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his amber eyes.

“Hey, Professor,” he says. “Thanks again for bringing me along– I can’t help but feel responsible for Miklan, y’know? Half-brother or not.”

Byleth nods, examining him closely.

“Are you gonna wanna talk to him, or would you rather we just kill the sunnuvabitch?”

Sylvain laughs, but seems to consider the question, his eyes drifting down to his work for a moment.

“I think I’d like to try and talk him down, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, and Byleth simply nods.

“Of course.”

She stoops to check her own lance, then– to make sure the leather band for the lance arret is nice and secure, the haft isn’t split, the head is sharp…

There are more spears than proper lances upon the racks, and Byleth has mixed feelings about that. Mixed feelings on a lot of things, really. Her students beginning to lead small units of men, as is their intended role as officers, and, while they’ve been training – and training under her, no less – this will be the first time most of them take a leadership role in actual combat.

She supposes it’s a mercy, really, that Edelgard is about as practiced a commander as she is, and Hubert not so terribly far behind. Lysithea’s got a talent for it as well – wields authority as easily as she wields a sword, certainly – but Caspar, Ferdinand, even Petra?

Dorothea’s a better leader than any of them, probably just from her experience at the opera, and it’s a little terrifying that the former diva is probably her fourth or fifth best officer.

At least Linhardt only has to lead a corps of healers.

“… Your brother, Miklan,” Byleth says. “He was disinherited because he didn’t have a Crest.”

Sylvain, looking up from his lance, nods.

“Sure f*cking was, Professor.”

She sighs, shaking her head.

“Even the nobility are slaves to power,” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear it. “Even the royals– even Rhea.”

Sylvain laughs, loud and bitter.

“Either you have a Crest and you’re a breeding stud or broodmare, or you don’t, and you get jack sh*t– or worse, if you’re a Gautier.”

“Repulsive, isn’t it?” says Byleth.

“Utterly f*cking repugnant,” Sylvain agrees. “You oughta see how desperate Ingrid’s old man is to sell her off. Anything to save his family and his people, right?” He snorts in open disgust. “Anything except doing something other than trying marry his daughter off to some rich asshole, that is.”

Byleth chuckles darkly.

“But Sylvain,” she mock-whines, “what else is a poor, helpless Lord to do? Broker trade deals or agreements with other houses? Request aid from his liege? Find crops that will grow locally and trade them for food and anything that might help fertilize their soil? Surely the correct solution here is to simply wait for twenty years for his daughter to be wed!”

“Right?” He laughs again. “Funny how the old bastard’s willing to seek aid when it’s a brigand’s blade at his neck, but not when even his family can barely afford to eat.”

Byleth shakes her head, her brow crinkling with concern. “… How is Ingrid, anyways? She’s been a huge help with the aerial training the past few weeks, but I can’t say I know her all that well– does she need help dealing with her old man?”

Sylvain hesitates to answer, and Byleth patiently watches the gears turn behind those amber eyes, curious.

“… She might,” he decides, “not yet, but– if you’re serious about that, the day may come when we have to convince her to take you up on that offer.”

Byleth nods.

“She may not be a Black Eagle, but she’s one of my students nonetheless, and being able to train with her has been a big help already.” She grins. “And, given I’m not exactly quiet about my political views, I’d be a huge hypocrite if I didn’t at least offer.”

He chuckles, and, after a beat, grins back at her, his eyes softening somewhat.

“I realize we’re, ah, riding for the same team, so it’s not a surprise or anything, but- it’s nice being able to talk to a woman who just… gets it.”

“Honestly, I’m not convinced you’re not trying to put out as many red flags as possible on purpose,” Byleth admits. “But- I dunno, haven’t you considered just… wearing a wig or something when you’re first courting? Something to take the knowledge of your Crest out of the equation?”

Sylvain blinks.

“I-” he blinks some more. “Honestly, Professor, I hadn’t. That’s… sh*t.”

Byleth laughs.

“Happy to help,” she says, and, noting the rumbling of her stomach, rises to go and see about some food.

Surely that damn pan’ll be hot enough by now-

* * *

“Lord Arundel has asked for my cooperation in the matter of… ‘monitoring the activities of our mutual foe’,” Byleth had said, looking up from her letter. She’d handed it off to Hubert since– and, indeed, he now scowled at that very same sheet of paper.

No threats.

No veiled insults.

An offer of compensation, even – the suggestion that a ‘weapon she might find less distasteful’ might be tendered, noting her preference for hand-and-a-half- and longswords.

What the hell was Thales’ game?

The idea that the man was trying to get his claws into Hubert’s comrade was… disquieting and infuriating, and left Hubert and Edelgard with a conundrum:

What were they to do about it?

He doubted Byleth would act without their (Edelgard’s, really) express permission, not in a matter like this, but… what was their play?

The dark mage massaged his temples.

They’d be deployed to deal with Miklan and his band of brigands, soon.

Sylvain Jose Gautier, the younger brother of Miklan, had asked to join them on their mission, and Byleth and Edelgard had agreed to his request easily. Byleth in particular seemed to sense some sort of potential in the philandering fool, and Hubert knew better than to interrogate the woman’s intuition overmuch at this point– the recent discovery that the progenitor goddess herself dwelt within her heart had only further cemented that understanding.

… he had to think.

What could they gain by working with Arundel? By refusing?

He had to admit to himself that some part of him wished to shield Byleth from the Agarthans as much as possible – he was sure Edelgard felt the same way about him and Byleth both – believing, on some level, that it would be ideal to limit her exposure to them and their deeds, but…

Was that truly realistic? Hell, was it fair to her?

She surely worried about himself and their lady as much as they about her.

“Dammit,” he breathed, and folded the letter, setting it aside on his desk.

He needed to focus elsewhere– on this, they had time. Perseverating about it would do him, his liege, and his partner little good.

Perhaps he could go find Ferdinand and torment the poor fool by drinking coffee in his presence.

That was what they called ‘stress management,’ he thought.

* * *

“How’s she taking this whole…” Catherine makes a vague gesture. “‘Successor to the Archbishop’ thing?”

Edelgard huffs out a laugh.

“I’ve never seen her so offended as she was at the implication that her oath to me was made under false pretenses,” she explains. “She- it was like the longer she sat on it, the angrier she got.”

“Huh,” Catherine says. “I would’ve thought she’d mostly take it in stride, especially since it easily has the potential to legitimize your relationship in the eyes of just about anybody.”

“I think swearing herself to my service was one of the first decisions she ever really made for herself,” the princess says, thoughtful. “Though I must admit, I wonder myself if that legitimacy wasn’t the Archbishop’s angle– especially if she wishes to mend the relationship between the Empire and the Church.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “From that perspective, she’d be a fool not to take advantage of my romance with Byleth.”

“Right? You two are inseparable– it’s almost enough of a coincidence that it seems like fate,” Catherine laughs, “for the imperial princess and the archbishop’s granddaughter to form a relationship without ever knowing…”

It’s Catherine’s turn to shake her head.

“That’s fairy tale sh*t, y’know?”

Edelgard stifles a laugh with white-gloved fingers.

“I imagine emperors and archbishops must make for strange bedfellows,” she jokes. “Unfortunately, I fear Lady Rhea has a better relationship with me than with Byleth. I can’t imagine her accepting the position, that being the case.”

“Hmm. You religious, Princess?”

That gives Edelgard pause.

“I… used to be, when I was a little girl,” she says, and catches her eyes drifting toward a returning Byleth as she speaks. “For years, I believed in nothing, but…” she shakes her head, a small smile crossing her face. “My Byleth keeps the faith, I think, in her own way, and I suppose she’s begun to rub off on me-”

Catherine snickers, because of course she would, and the princess rolls her eyes, exasperated.

“Listen, it’s sweet that your girlfriend’s restored your faith in the goddess and all – I can’t say I believe in her much myself – but you can’t expect me to hear that phrase and keep a straight face.”

“I’d pray for your soul,” Edelgard quips, “but I’m afraid the goddess might hear me.”

Catherine slaps her knee and doubles over with laughter, and a very puzzled Byleth rejoins them, holding a hand over her pan to check that it’s hot.

“Finally,” she says quietly, “little bastard.”

It’s unexpected enough that Edelgard herself can’t keep from joining Catherine in her mirth.

* * *

It begins to rain that night, and little do any of them realize it won’t be letting up until long after their business at Conand Tower has concluded.

The sky’s tears beat a steady beat upon the roof of Edelgard’s tent, and Byleth’s princess huddles against her, nestled into the warmth of her arms to fight off the chill of the Faerghan night. Between their bedrolls and their shared body heat, they barely notice the chill, and Byleth cards fingers through snow-white hair contentedly, a faint purring rolling in her breast.

“My Byleth,” Edelgard breathes, “can we really drag them into this?”

Byleth blinks her tired eyes, examining her lover’s face in the unlit gloom. That her vision now cuts through such darkness (however partially) is still an unusual feeling, but even the faded colors of night allow her to Edelgard’s pale countenance more than well enough.

“Can we bear to involve them, even if we don’t ‘drag’ them, so to speak?”

The swordswoman sighs.

“We could do it ourselves, potentially,” she offers, after a moment. “You, me, and Hubert. Kill Rhea, hunt down the Agarthans… we could leave them all behind.”

“Leave them all to lead safer, happier lives,” Edelgard breathes, wistful, and Byleth nods seriously.

“I doubt all three of us would make it out unscathed, but-”

“But what are three lives in the face of the cost of war or the current status quo?” Edelgard finishes, and Byleth hums.

“Maybe the world would be better off without people like me in it anyways,” she says softly, and her princess kisses her sweetly.

“There are no people like you, my blade, and there are a dozen reasons why.”

Another kiss.

“You are a singular individual indeed, and your every movement, your every word holds my attention like none other. No woman in Fódlan can catch and hold my eye as you do.”

Another kiss.

“To me, my love, you are not only supreme, but sublime.”

Byleth squeezes her eyes shut.

“I love you so much, El,” she says quietly. “So much more than I know how to express.”

Laughing faintly, she presses a kiss to Edelgard’s pale neck.

“Were we given the option,” Byleth says, “I would make love to you until the end of time.”

She smells Edelgard’s reaction to that.

It makes her laugh just a little bit harder.

“Sorry, I meant that to be romantic,” she says, and it’s El’s turn to laugh.

“It was, my blade,” Edelgard says, voice warm with fond exasperation, and Byleth realizes consciously something she’d unwittingly known about her lover for some time, now.

Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg is a dyed-in-the-wool romantic.

They kiss, and Byleth smiles against the other woman’s lips.

“… you think we could get away with it, El?” she asks softly. “Taking it all onto ourselves?”

Edelgard thinks, humming softly in her arms.

“… No,” she says, at length. “Our comrades would never let us. Nevermind forgiving us if we succeeded– they’d stop us dead in our tracks. Haul us right back into the fold we ourselves created.”

She chuckles, the sound warm and a little rueful.

“We’ve made our bed, then?” Byleth, finding a bit of that shaded mirth of her own, asks.

“We have, my darling dragon,” Edelgard agrees, “and I fear they shall be expecting us to lie in it, lest they grow terribly worried for us.”

“A shame,” Byleth says, mock-pensively, and bumps their foreheads together affectionately.

Privately, she wonders if Arundel – Thales – was right. If her El might not lose her nerve…

It’s not pleasant, keeping something from El and Hubert, but…

Well, she’ll do what needs to be done.

It’s her duty and her desire– and she’ll see it through til the end.

Even if she has to do it alone.

* * *

Byleth had been surprised when she returned to her quarters to find a third missive slipped under her door – the one with the actual request, the specifics. With the appointed date and time, the location of their meeting, and the promise of an offering of goodwill: a mithril axe. Labraunda, a sacred relic tied to the Crest of Seiros.

A gift for her beloved.

Nothing that could truly compare to the Heroes’ Relics, but only the next step down. And not made of the bones and hearts of her deceased kin, which Byleth, personally, considered to be something of a plus.

Frankly, if someone were to interface with the Agarthans… well, Byleth is pretty sure it ought to be her.

More specifically, it ought to be the Ashen Demon.

* * *

It’s not her Byleth, but the empty-eyed Ashen Demon that Edelgard speaks to at the base of Conand Tower.

And she’s initially a little puzzled when the woman orders the gathering of firewood – especially given the unremitting downpour – until, with Catherine and her knights standing guard at the ramp leading up into the rest of the tower, she had the Eagles stockpile that wood in the middle of the vacant first floor.

Scouts had confirmed that the tower, despite being designed as a stronghold and watch-post, was only manned starting a few floors up. It was an interesting strategy, forcing their enemies to come to them, but… frankly, it made it very obvious that Miklan had never dealt with the likes of Byleth Eisner.

Edelgard almost feels bad for the fool as Byleth dispassionately directs the Black Eagles in the construction of the pyre. Almost.

They’d passed two of the villages these bastards had sacked on their way through northern Galatea, burned and abandoned, their few remaining inhabitants seeming more to haunt the ruins than anything, and it had gone a long way towards hardening the Eagles’ hearts to the coming bloodshed. Caspar would call this justice, and Edelgard finds herself inclined to agree.

When they’ve amassed quite a pile of fuel, she notices Byleth taking Sylvain aside and confirming that he wishes to try and speak with Miklan, blank-faced and monotone. And when answers that, yes, he still wants to try, her Byleth turns and catches her eye almost immediately.

‘I suppose she must have known I was watching,’ Edelgard muses, schooling her expression into a mask of neutrality so as not to start at the sudden and uncanny eye contact.

Leave it to the terror lurking within her beloved to notice such a thing so easily.

“Edelgard,” the Demon calls, beckoning her over, and Edelgard heeds her.

When she’s within comfortable speaking distance, Byleth says, “Take a few men and establish defensive positions outside. Stakes, barricades, trenches– whatever you deem appropriate. I have faith in your judgement.”

“Of course, my teacher,” Edelgard says. “You intend for them to be funneled into our defensive line, yes?”

“I do.” she says simply. “We’re going to burn them out.”

There’s something terrifying about the way she can say that so easily.

But then, Miklan and his band had happily burned those villages. Perhaps this was fair play– the consequences of their actions, come back to bite them.

“I shall see it done,” Edelgard says, earning a nod and an almost-smile from her soul-suppressed love, and turns on her heel to make it so.

* * *

The blood roars in Dimitri’s ears, his pulse hammering, frantic and furious, in his veins. His lance bites deeply into the breastbone of a Western Church axeman, red spatter kissing his cheeks as he wrenches the weapon free from its victim, and the spirits urge him on.

A chorus. Distant, quiet.

But there. Undeniably there.

“Rip and tear,” they whisper. “Rip and tear.”

Dedue chops a woman’s arm off at the shoulder with a single, all-cleaving stroke of his axe.

“Your highness,” he says simply, and Dimitri manages a nod.

“Rip and tear,” the spirits whisper. “Rip and tear.”

The prince opens a man from shoulder to side with a great, hewing slash of his weapon, finishing the fellow off with a swift and pitiless thrust into his heart, the links of his byrnie no match for the superhuman might of a bearer of the Crest of Blaiddyd.

“Rip and tear,” the voices insist, “Rip and tear!”

He backhands a mage who strays too close before he can tear his lance free of its last victim, sending her sprawling, terrified and dazed, in the wake of his gauntleted hand.

She screams and casts a fell miasma upon him, cloying and terrible, and the anger swells in his veins in conjunction with the rising chant of the disembodied chorus at his back.

Rip and tear. Rip and tear. Rip. And. Tear.

He falls upon her with all the mercy of a boar, not even bothering with his lance, and he can feel her jaw breaking beneath his fist with the very first blow he delivers.

RIP. AND. TEAR. RIP! AND! TEAR!

The voices are so very loud, now.

But are they really even there?

Or is it just him?

They chant unabated.

RIP AND TEAR! RIP AND TEAR! RIP AND TEAR-!

The mage buries a dagger in his shoulder.

He gouges out her eyes.

Somewhere, he can hear Annette screaming, but when he crushes the woman’s windpipe and whirls around, wild eyes seeking the mage – she must surely be in trouble! – all he sees is Felix’s look of abject disgust, his sword raised, his pommel-

Felix strikes Dimitri about the head, and the sunlight seems to dim.

Nightfall already?

Odd.

* * *

The first three brigands to burst from the doors of Conand Tower, coughing and wheezing amidst a pall of smoke, meet their ends under the lash of the Sword of the Creator, its angry red blade carving them in twain in a single stroke. The stone foundation beneath their feet, slick with rain, runs red with their blood.

The Ashen Demon notes with quiet pride that none of her students cry out at this. She can see them, stern and steady – standing firm – from her position to the side of the great wooden doors.

An armored footman emerges as she’s reeling the unholy dragonbone lash back in, brandishing his axe at what is, from Byleth’s perspective, precisely the wrong moment.

Then a jolt of lightning meets the raised head of his weapon, arcing across the haft and into his gauntlet before coursing through his body and into the wet and bloody stone beneath his feet. He staggers, losing his momentum, and Catherine darts forward from the lines before he can recover, Thunderbrand glowing that same wicked crimson as she opens the man – and his breastplate – from hip to shoulder.

“Well done, Dorothea,” the Demon calls, speaking up to be heard over the rain, knowing full well which of her students calls on lightning with such aplomb. That being the very same woman who has taught her the most basic of lightning magic, of course.

Weather aside, the tower, being stone, is at no risk of burning down– in fact, it heats up precisely the way an oven does, which, combined with the rising smoke, is what they’re counting on to force the bandits either up or out.

The next few handfuls of brigands come out unarmed, hands and voices raised in surrender, and are swiftly captured and led away by some of Catherine’s knights.

After these, however, no more come, and the whole of the party knows this means their duty will not be so easily seen through.

Questioning their prisoners about their former comrades’ remaining numbers is easily enough done; Catherine and Hubert make for an excellent team in that regard.

Edelgard vaults over one of their stacked-log barricades and approaches Byleth at her door-side position – they still have to hold the entranceway, just in case – to speak with her; even with her heart and soul tamped-down and packed nearly underfoot, she regards the young woman fondly, an ember of warmth finding its way into the slight smile she offers in greeting.

“My teacher,” she greets – distant, for her own sake – a hard look in her lavender eyes, “this means Miklan and his remaining forces will have fallen back to the roof and the top floor, correct?”

Byleth nods.

“He’ll have rallied them there, yes,” she says simply. “Assuming he has any sense.”

She glances upwards, faintly enjoying the sensation of raindrops on her cheeks.

“Given this is a defensive structure, they’ll certainly have easy access to the ramparts–” the Demon lets her gaze drift back down to her beloved. “–I confess, I know little of the history of this place, but it was built to stand against Srengian invasion in centuries past, yes? Both from the Ailell Bay to the east and any raids that might sneak down the Fraldarian coast from the north.”

“As well as being a stronghold and fallback point in a now-defunct system of defense-in-depth,” Edelgard agrees.

“Are the Sreng-” she pauses, realizing she has a veritable expert on the subject of Sreng, and calls Sylvain over.

To his credit, the man quickly complies, joining the two women in only a few moments. Soaking wet like this, his hair looks a little silly – dampened to a darker shade of red and weighed down from its usual debonair mess – but he’s calm and focused, his grip steady on the haft of his lance.

“Professor?” he says, his tone questing, and Byleth points upwards, obliquely indicating the top of the tower.

“You’re our local expert on Sreng,” she tells the fellow, “and you-” she turns to Edelgard, “-are our resident scholar of history.”

Again, the Demon looks up.

“Are the Srengi particularly reliant on fliers? And were they when this place was built? I’d like to know what sort of aerial defenses to expect up there.” She regards them both once more. “Before I go look for myself, if possible.”

“Almyran wyverns have been prized in Sreng for some time, I believe,” Edelgard offers, and Sylvain nods.

“It’s too arid in a lot of places to really support pegasi – not enough graze-land – but wyverns do alright. Still, not a lot of them. Maybe five camels to every wyvern, being generous, and five or ten light infantrymen to every camel?”

“Not a lot of fliers, then,” Byleth decides, and nods to the two students. “Thank you.”

She turns and leaves without another word, intent on fetching her lance and her horse– the former just in case.

It’s been too long since she’s ridden Leraje into battle anyways.

* * *

Byleth and Leraje circle up the tower, their ascent slow and easy – no less so for the rain soaking them both to the bone, the cold and cutting wind whipping at hair and mane alike as they climb higher and higher.

Were she wearing a cloak, the gale would pull it taut about her neck– maybe even threaten to drag her from the saddle, were she not strapped in.

A cry goes up as she crests the battlements, and after a few seconds of surprise and confusion, an arrow whizzes past, then another, and another.

There are indeed brigands on the roof.

Leraje protests, making his opinion known to his rider, who simply guides him into a roll away from the tower and her parapets, nosing him over until his instincts kick in and he tucks his wings into a dive. They hurtle back to earth, accelerating rapidly, and hold steady even as the wind tries to batter them off-course like a cat batting at a hanging bit of yarn.

Leraje pulls up sharply at the end of their dive, powerful wings flaring out to arrest their momentum as they near the ground, and they land, unharmed, amid the grass and mud of the surrounding fields.

A few comrades come rushing over, Linhardt in tow (sweet of them), and when they’re close enough to speak, she speaks.

“Would you let Lady Edelgard know there are indeed men – and archers – upon the rooftop?”

“Yes, Lady- Professor,” one of them, a young Knight of Seiros, answers, and even the Ashen Demon can’t ignore the slight sinking feeling that ‘Lady Professor’ might just end up adopted as a new moniker for her.

‘Damn you, grandmother,’ she thinks flatly.

* * *

It’s funny, Edelgard thinks.

Before, when she was more ignorant, she would have thought of Byleth’s draconic ‘second skin’ as monstrous. Did think of the Immaculate One as monstrous. Granted, Seiros was still plenty monstrous in her own right, given the unhinged zealot lurking beneath the gentle, motherly archbishop, whose coming cast aside the kind and loving woman she clearly wanted to be like she was nothing more than a guise, a mask–

… Sympathizing with the archbishop is all well and good, but that warrior-priestess lurking within is dangerous, and the woman herself… suppressive? Smothering? To the people of Fódlan. Intent on stifling any innovation, any deviation from what the church proscribes.

The monsters lurking behind human faces aren’t dragons. Aren’t Nabateans.

The monsters are the likes of the Ashen Demon, and the war-saint simmering along beneath Rhea’s skin. The likes of Edelgard herself– the likes of Miklan’s band of thieves, of those who slither in the dark.

Thales has implied to her, on occasion, that true monstrous strength lurks within her – deep within her dual-Crested blood, waiting to be called upon and unleashed – and she believes him.

Almost knows it to be true, in fact.

An ice mage from Catherine’s men snuffs out the remains of their fire with the mighty, frigid blast of a Fimbulvetr spell in preparation for their advance. Linhardt’s wind magic is more than enough to drive the lingering smoke up the ramp-ways and into the higher floors, and the church’s ice mage is more than able to ensure their path up the tower is cool enough to crossed safely.

Caspar bounces on his heels at Edelgard’s side, amping himself up in preparation for their looming clash with Miklan’s remaining men; Byleth stands on her other side, nostrils flaring slightly as she sniffs delicately at the air. Edelgard hefts the lovely axe Caspar had given her for her birthday – two months ago, now – and rolls her shoulders, checking that there’s no stiffness in her shield arm in particular.

(Goddess, have she and Byleth really been together – together together – for a quarter of a year, now? It’s almost hard to believe that it’s been that long already, and, conversely, that it’s only been three months.)

Catherine and Ferdinand stand at the ready next to those at her sides, Petra and Bernadetta, bearing bows, behind them, along with the mages. Dozens of men bulk out their formation, of course– Knights of Seiros, mercenaries, detachments of the Imperial army… an assortment of elements of the respective commands of Catherine and the Black Eagles, united as one in all their motley glory. It’s not all of their forces, of course, but the rest remain behind – some to keep the camp, some as a rearguard. A simple arrangement, not unusual in the least.

“The order is yours to give, my lady,” the Ashen Demon intones, the yawning ocean depths within her gaze seeming almost to drag Edelgard’s soul toward the abyss beneath as their eyes meet.

She tears her gaze away easily, however; her will is not so frail a thing, her spirit far from that of a mere moth, flittering toward a flame.

“Of course, my teacher.”

She raises her axe overhead, and, drawing on some reserve deep within herself, raises her voice in command.

“All Eagles, advance!”

* * *

The Black Eagles and Knights of Seiros surge forth with all the inevitability of the tide, black and crimson and silver flowing up and around the tower until they finally meet their first resistance on one of the upper floors. And that first resistance offers little in the way of its namesake, being an obvious picket or screening force, few in number and only supported by a handful of archers on the floor proper, shooting down on the Eagles upon the ramp below.

Counter-fire from their own archers and mages prevents the brigands above from firing on them as freely as the Demon is sure they’d like to, and the steel in their comrades’ hands avails them not, the menacing of poor peasants proving itself poor practice as for facing prepared foes in proper combat.

Their line is sloppy, and Byleth is confident she and Catherine alone could take these fools down.

It’s almost disappointing, really.

The archers flee before them as they cut through the brigands’ line; there’s little hope of catching up with them, less she wishes to reveal her second skin over so minor a complication, so Byleth simply makes a note of it and presses on, careful not to stray too far from her lady’s side.

The advance continues, the casualties being quickly addressed by their healers– those who can walk but not fight taking care of those who can do neither. There are two of those, Byleth thinks. Whether they’re dead or simply heavily wounded, she knows not. It’s not her concern; hers is to win the battle, and do it with as few of those as possible. Focusing on them is a fool’s error, she knows – a distraction, and a potentially fatal one at that. For herself and her comrades.

The Ashen Demon calls the heavier infantry forward, shield-bearing armor units forming a line at the fore in anticipation of an ambush as they round the corner onto the ramp leading up to the next floor.

As expected, the archers and some of their comrades from the floor above launch a volley into the Eagles’ ranks as they round the corner. There’s little more to be done about that– Conand Tower was built for defense, after all. No, all they can do is trust in their armor and shields to absorb the initial volley before their own ranged fighters can shoot back– and they do that well, weathering the angry swarm of arrows and spells with relative ease. The second volley are bodkins, made for punching through armor, and a number of the shield wall take arrows as they hold their ground.

That second volley is traded for the Eagles’ own, however, and theirs is far more devastating, with Hubert and Lysithea’s dark magic wreaking particular havoc.

Byleth charges forth in its wake, Edelgard and Catherine not far behind, and they fall upon the brigands like thunder, cutting them down without mercy as Caspar, Ferdinand, and Sylvain follow suit.

Distantly – on the other end of this floor – Byleth hears the clamor of armor and boots heading up and away from their position.

“They’re falling back to the top floor,” she reports simply, and her lady, wrenching the head of her axe from the ruins of a woman’s face, acknowledges her with a nod.

Their march continues, much as before, but this time Byleth herself takes the lead.

“They’ll not have many archers left,” she explains, and Catherine attaches herself to her left side, so to speak, while Edelgard does the same on her right.

And it’s interesting as she rounds the next corner– the smoke, barely noticeable on the previous floor, is increasingly thick up above, and a red-haired man with a wicked scar across his face stands behind a row of barrels laid on their sides, men poised at the ready behind each of them. The redhead is tall and broad, and stands behind the center-most barrel, a horrific-looking relic lance in one hand, his stance seeming to indicate he’s got one boot on the barrel.

Miklan, Byleth presumes. Miklan Anschutz Gautier.

The spear in his hand is… grisly, to say the least. How men could look at this weapon for a thousand years and not recognize it for what it is, she doesn’t know, but the expertly-crafted head and Crest Stone-bearing socket sit just above a collection of eight or so twitching fangs and claws. Sitting at the ends of little ‘fingers’ of umbral steel, the teeth and nails of her kin are attached to the haft in-line with the blade, such that it can be laid flat, and serve – genuinely – no clear function or purpose. One could parry with them, certainly, but that’s plainly not why they’re there, and they’re not especially well-situated for lateral attacks. They’re not for hooking, as they’re all angled forward, even those which are swept back having their inner curves facing forward.

The only real answer seems to be intimidation, and probably they work for that, but all the Ashen Demon feels is what she eventually identifies as a distant outrage at the flagrant, needless, senseless defilement the damnable thing embodies.

Miklan shouts an order and kicks his own barrel onto the slope of the ramp in conjunction with his men; they make it halfway before Byleth destroys them with a simple horizontal sweep of the Sword of the Creator.

The disgraced noble’s eyes go wide, and Sylvain steps into view from behind the bend, sending them immediately a-narrowing as an ugly scowl crosses his… slightly less-than-plain features.

“Why have you come, you Crest-bearing fool?” he snarls, his hatred for his younger brother undisguised– and evidently not unexpected, as Sylvain doesn’t even flinch to hear it.

“I’m hear for the Lance of Ruin, Miklan,” he says levelly, his head held high. “Hand it over – I don’t want to humiliate you, but I will.”

“Hmph!” Miklan sneers. “Hurry up and die already. If not for you-”

The air leaves his lungs as the harsh white glow of Byleth’s Nosferatu tears vitality free from his mortal frame mid-sentence, and the Ashen Demon steps in front of her student, her displeasure – even muted – more than evident in her expression.

“I am Byleth Eisner,” she says, her tone un-affected and even, “daughter of Jeralt, the Blade-Breaker.”

She points her sword up at Miklan’s breast.

“You may know me as the Ashen Demon.” A gasp runs through Miklan’s ranks, quiet, but audible– to Byleth’s Nabatean ears, at least. She allows herself the ghost of a smile, figuring it’ll add to the effect as she continues, “Lay down your weapons or lay down your lives– the choice is yours.”

Catherine steps forward, taking her place at Byleth’s side.

“And if you haven’t heard of her, you will have heard of me-” she brandishes Thunderbrand. Flashes a co*cksure grin. “You face Thunder Catherine of the Knights of Seiros.”

One of the bandits casts down his spear in evident surrender– and is promptly impaled by a disgruntled Miklan, his body crumpling to roll down the ramp when the Lance of Ruin is torn free of his flesh.

She hears Sylvain curse behind her, and watches Miklan rally his terrified troops, urging them forward, bellowing something about ‘killing the bitch’ that Byleth doesn’t pay much mind.

A line of bandits rush for her, and, like the barrels, she takes a step forward and cuts them down with a single stroke of the sword wrought from Sothis’ spine, its whiplike blade burning as red as the blood it spills.

Catherine raises Thunderbrand and surges forward with a roar, and Byleth silently follows suit as the mages and archers begin laying into Miklan and his men, the former group focusing primarily on the former fellow.

Edelgard crashes into the line beside her, axe rending flesh and steel alike with every brutal, bloody stroke.

The Ashen Demon singles out Miklan in particular, her corpse-blade meeting his corpse-lance, and drives him back and back and back as her comrades cut down his men, maneuvering him toward the top floor proper.

He curses her, spits vile nothings into her face when their weapons lock, and she all but ignores him. Her blade speaks quite clearly, she feels, and she’s content to drive him back, away from her comrades, her students, her friends.

If he’s going to turn into a demonic beast, as Seteth warned, she isn’t going to let him do it anywhere near her Eagles.

At least he’s interesting– he appears to have recognized he’s outmatched, and, more impressively, picked up on her left knee as a vulnerability, unless he’s directing particular attention to the joint for some other reason. His strikes are powerful, but relatively slow; she’s dodging as often as she is parrying, and he’s making it difficult to find the opportunity to slip past his defenses without exposing herself in return.

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to– Hubert eventually circles around and blasts the fool with one of those dark magic spells (‘Mire B’, maybe? They have such strange names.), opening him up for Byleth to open him up.

Blood spatters the Lance of Ruin as he staggers back, the Sword of the Creator having carved a rent into his breastplate at a rising diagonal, right-to-left, and, despite his lack of a Crest of Gautier, the relic lance begins to glow that eerie red.

And then a horrible tendril of black-blood sludge oozes from the Crest Stone, spilling down the haft and onto Miklan’s gloved hand. It clings to him with purpose, snaring his arm, and in his alarm, he manages only a simple, “What the hell?”

He claws at it wit his free hand, tries to tear it away from his arm, but it only grows more aggressively, snaring the other hand, too. Soon enough it’s up to his shoulders, engulfing his body, crawling up his neck, pouring into him– into his mouth, into his ears, into his eyes- it seeps especially-eagerly into the open wound upon his chest, and the Crest Stone thrums with crimson light as the man begins to scream.

With the substance crawling down his throat, however, his screaming quickly stops.

Byleth hears someone scream behind her, maybe a few someones. She has more important things to be worrying about than the number of screamers in attendance.

The black mass begins to congeal into a tremendous quadrupedal form, larger in the body than Byleth’s second skin, though lacking in length of neck and tail, being relatively squat, and it has no wings.

It sort of… pulsates, then, a fully-formed demonic beast bursting forth as though explosively moulting, the emerging creature sending tattered black particulate scattering in its wake. Horned and spiked, its hide covered in armor-like scutes of something Byleth can’t begin to identify, with empty sockets surrounding its actual, glowing-red eyes, set into smaller, circular sockets on either side of its head. The spines along its back are disproportionately tall, really, as is the horn upon its nose, and its teeth wiggle in its slavering jaw, fluttering out horizontal before righting themselves again, the movement propagating down the jaw in a wave.

It’s a far cry from any demonic beast she’s encountered before, and it may just be the worst thing the Ashen Demon has ever seen.

“That form… oh my.” comes Sothis’ voice, not nearly so sleepy as it usually would be, and that speaks volumes in and of itself. “Be careful, Byleth. That black beast is no mere aberration…”

She trails off, troubled.

“Is this the true power of a relic?”

“Such is the fate of one whose life is corrupted by a Crest Stone…” Edelgard muses behind her. “How pitiable.”

Her princess raises her voice, then. “Eagles, to me!” she calls. “Let us end his suffering!”

Byleth turns her head to tell them to stay back, and the Black Beast rises up on its hind legs and swats her aside with a great, clawed forelimb.

She goes sprawling across the stone floor, the Sword of the Creator clattering to the tile near her starting point – several meters from where she’s ended up – and something in her snarls.

Her hand finds its way to her dragonstone, and, in a blinding flash of light, the Ashen Demon calls upon her draconic heart and dons her second skin.

“Stay back,” she warns, and shakes out her azure mane, flame flickering in her nostrils as she stretches her wings, sets her limbs to pounce, bares her fangs.

Plenty of room in here, at least, though not enough headroom to fly.

“Professor, what the f*ck?!” Catherine shouts, and Byleth snorts.

“Ask Rhea,” the Demon says, and yelps when a church archer sends an arrow through her left and nearest wing.

She nearly misses Ferdinand breaking the woman responsible’s nose.

“Attaboy,” Sothis says, and Byleth, muted or no, is inclined to agree with the sentiment.

A warmth washes over the wound torn into the membrane as Linhardt channels a prompt and welcome Physic to heal it at-range, and she thanks him even as she and the Black Beast begin circling one another, the creature having mostly overcome its initial surprise and fear at her transformation and presence.

The Ashen Demon draws her head back, spreads her wings, and braces herself. Flame flickers in her nostrils and within her throat, and she extends her neck, straight and parallel to the floor, and unleashes a withering torrent of flame from her razor-toothed maw, maintaining the stream for several seconds as the Black Beast screams and roars in pain, blistering and recoiling as fire bites at its flesh, ravenous and all-consuming as only flame can manage.

But it still stands when the gout of fire stops, and, snarling, pounces, snapping at her neck as she withdraws her head.

“It’s faster than I expected,” she muses, and Sothis hums, disquieted, in agreement.

It presses its advance, tearing at the dragon’s breast with terrible claws, and Byleth rakes its side with her own talons in turn, green blood running down her blue scales while a sickly-black ichor oozes from the Black Beast’s dark, green-gray hide.

She doesn’t comment on the discrepancy, and neither does Sothis.

Instead, she tries to get her jaws around the ugly beast’s squat little neck, taking full advantage of her long, (relatively-)flexible neck. It’s too wide, however, and the beast too… rambunctious. It tries to gore her with its horn, a sloppy and unavailing move that lends itself only to her snatching the weapon up in her maw and snapping it off halfway up the shaft, casting the stolen end vaguely in the direction of her comrades with a flick of her neck and head.

Maybe it’ll be useful.

The beast, of course, is far less pleased with this, and screams in pain.

It also slams bodily into her, and, being somewhat larger, finds success in the maneuver, knocking her off-balance. Pressing its advantage, then, it rushes past her, raking the spines on its back against her side and nearly knocking her over – onto her other side – in the process.

Byleth twists away from it, bleeding now from her right flank, and, as they move past each other, latching onto the base of its tail with her jaws, holding it in place, her fangs tearing flesh and spilling foul-tasting ichor onto her tongue as they struggle against one another.

She hears her students cheering for her, perhaps recognizing the position her foe has found itself in, and a woman buried deep within her feels her heart, however numbed, soar with pride.

Her arrowhead tail, sharp as a sword and situated at the end of one of the most powerfully-muscled parts of her body, makes for a terrible weapon, and she lashes it against her opponent, the length of her tail leaving most of the blows to cut into its shoulder and side. Its head would be more ideal, of course, but carving great gashes into its shoulder and side is far better than nothing, especially seeing as, held in place by its tail, it can’t reach her tail with fang or claw– leaving the Ashen Demon with free reign to maul it in this way for as long as she pleases.

It can, however, rear back onto its hind limbs and claw at her flank and threaten her wing-

She snakes out of the way, of course, but something seems to pulse through its body, a shudder she feels in her teeth, and a number of voices call out to her all at once.

She recognizes Sothis and Edelgard’s voices as shouting ‘Byleth!’, and a few others crying out to her as ‘Professor!’, but that obviously doesn’t give her much to go off of. By the time she’s had any chance to process the situation and realize what’s got them so concerned, it’s far too late, and the Black Beast is unleashing the dragon-rending power of the lance, Ruined Sky, upon her, conjuring forth a thousand tiny flechettes of umbral steel from somewhere deep within itself and sending them screaming through the air between them.

The pain is tremendous, the black needles punching through her scales like they’re not even there, perforating her right wing and embedding themselves inches-deep into the same side, scraping against her bones and goddess-knows-what-else.

Time shatters and the world goes still as Sothis manifests before her, fear in her bright green eyes, and cups her- cheeks(?), her tiny hands trembling in quiet terror.

“We’re going back,” she says firmly, as though expecting an argument to be made, and Byleth quietly acquiesces.

“You have to let go of his tail and get the hell out of there!” the goddess insists, and the Ashen Demon can only hum her understanding.

Time rolls back, the shattered-purple world tracing events in reverse until there are no tiny spines in her flesh, until the thrumming of the Black Beast reverberates backwards though the roof of her mouth and into her teeth.

Time resumes, the beast thrums, and she twists out of the way, tears her jaws free of its tail – keeping her maw clamped somewhat so as to do some damage even as she relinquishes her hold on it – and this time she watches it whirl around and unleash its attack again, this time some meters distant, and feels substantially fewer bits of metal skewer her, her wing only relatively-lightly shredded as most of the projectiles miss their mark or merely glance off, or embed themselves harmlessly into her scales.

There’s a war-cry, then, and a peal of thunder as a dragonbone blade wreathed in lightning carves into the Black Beast’s back leg.

“Professor!” she shouts, and, as the beast rounds on the woman, dropping to three legs to bat at her with a fore-claw, Byleth bounds towards it, lowering her head and driving her diminutive horns into its belly as she flips it onto its side, its own weight and momentum parting its flesh in the wake of her horns as they come free.

She buries the claws of her right – is it a hand? Is it okay to call it a hand? She doesn’t know – into its underbelly, pins its back left leg with her forward left, and latches onto its foreleg with her jaws to provide Catherine safe access to its throat.

They make eye contact, though Byleth can only look at her with the one big blue eye, and Catherine, without hesitation, takes a step forward, Thunderbrand raised high over her head, and brings it down on the Black Beast’s neck. The blow is so mighty as to carry on through and into the floor, and the beast… evaporates – or, sublimates, actually, she’s pretty sure she read it’s called sublimation when a solid ‘evaporates’ – into thin air, leaving behind only Miklan’s corpse and the Lance of Ruin.

Byleth, only now realizing how winded she is, raises her head to the stone sky and roars her triumph, exhaling a gout of flame partly for the triumph and partly to burn that awful-tasting ichor out of her mouth, and Catherine raises her evil sword and gives a slightly-squeaky, “Woo!”

The dragon releases her hold on the Ashen Demon – or is it the other way around? – though it was already tenuous, as the roaring likely demonstrates, and, lowering her head, nudges the little Knight of Seiros affectionately, eliciting a cute little squeal from the woman.

“Thank you, Catherine,” she says softly, and lowers her belly to the ground, feeling her limbs trembling and opting to lie down rather than fall down.

“I- er, no problem, Professor,” the knight manages, and laughs sheepishly, her free hand drifting to the back of her head. “I should’ve rushed in to help way earlier– I’m sorry for leaving you hanging like that.”

She lays a gauntleted hand on Byleth’s snout, and the dragon chuffs under her touch.

“I seem to recall a dragon suddenly appearing and telling you all to stay back,” she says. “I think it’s understandable you followed that order for a minute.”

Edelgard comes running, her axe and shield abandoned, and half-crashes into Byleth’s neck, hugging her fiercely.

“Hmhm. She was worried about you,” Sothis comments, half-teasing, and Byleth doesn’t need to verbalize her response– Sothis already knows.

Linhardt comes along next, almost-surprisingly, with the rest of the Black Eagles in tow, and begins giving orders like a proper healer, directing Bernadetta and Petra to focus on certain delicate wounds he indicates to them, circling them on her hide with a marking device of some sort. He sets Ferdinand and Caspar to removing the shallow flechettes, particularly the ones stopped by (and in) her scales, has Lysithea and Dorothea healing her tattered wing, and leaves Hubert in charge of ‘everything else’.

Sylvain gathers up the Lance of Ruin and bundles it up in cloth, shooting Byleth strange looks for some reason, and Catherine awkwardly pets Byleth’s snout.

“My Byleth,” Edelgard softly coos, “my blade…”

Byleth pulls away from Catherine’s petting, licks her entire arm in thanks, and gently wriggles free of Edelgard’s neck-hug so she can interface with the woman properly, rather than having her beloved a few feet behind her head, where she can’t possibly reach.

“It’s okay, El,” she murmurs. “I’m okay.”

She yelps, then, as a particularly-recalcitrant barb has to be shimmied free of her poor, abused haunch.

“S-sorry, Professor!” Bernadetta calls, and Byleth turns her head to stick out her tongue at the girl, earning a short burst of titters from Dorothea.

She bumps her head into Edelgard again.

“We may have to go out monster-hunting more often,” she says, thoughtful. “I need to practice fighting in this form, I think.”

Edelgard looks up at her injured wing and laughs mirthlessly.

“You could certainly stand to let our enemies maul you less,” she agrees.

Byleth harrumphs with fond indignance.

“I’ll have you know my scales are usually far more protective. The Lance of Ruin is simply an instrument of dragon-slaying.”

Edelgard goes rigid against her, and she nuzzles the younger woman gently.

“In hindsight, it seems obvious,” she says, “but we had little way of knowing.”

The dragon lowers her voice.

“The first time,” she whispers, trusting Edelgard to pick up on the weight of those words, “it got me up close with those barbs. It’s like-” she pauses. “I could just tell, at some point, that that was the bite of a weapon magically-engineered to kill us, cut through dragonscale like butter.”

She huffs a laugh. “Now I know how monsters must feel when some asshole shoves a blessed spear into their side.”

“… I suppose in your case, you’ve just experienced precisely the inverse,” Edelgard murmurs. “The effect of an unholy weapon on a divine being.”

Byleth shudders bodily at that, all the moreso because it is – as far as either of them can tell – true.

'“… Perhaps we ought to have me fitted for armor,” she says, rather than deal with the notion of her own divinity, and Edelgard laughs.

“So long as we make sure to call it barding and not a harness,” she says, “lest people get worse ideas about us than they already shall.”

Byleth pauses.

“You know, if you wished to ride me into battle, I- I mean, I’d allow it.”

“… Only if Seteth confirms it won’t be so culturally-insensitive as to incense your living relatives,” the princess decides. “I’d prefer we didn’t galvanize the Children of the Goddess against us over so simple a misunderstanding.”

“Unfortunately, the dirty jokes will write themselves,” Byleth hums, “but, on the other hand, imagine how awesome a sight we’d make.”

“An Emperor astride her Dragon Empress…” Edelgard shakes her head, sighing, fond and exasperated. “I fear Dorothea may yet be right about the operas.”

Byleth rumbles with laughter.

“Perhaps. Maybe they’ll find another Nabatean to play the dragon.”

“Maybe Dorothea will con you into doing it.”

“Perhaps,” chuffs the dragon, and bumps her head into her princess once more. “You’ll need to train in flying, but, once you do, we’ll– so long as we’re together, we’ll always have the option to just… soar away from it all.”

Edelgard hums thoughtfully.

“… Perhaps one day,” she says, soft and vulnerable until her heart hardens over with determination once more, “when we can do so knowing we fly into the dawn of a new Fódlan, a new hope for both our peoples. Until then…”

“Until then,” Byleth finishes for her, her tone as warm as the dragonsfire in her breast, “we’ll face the future head-on, with purity of purpose and clarity of vision.”

“Even if we have to drag this world into the light with our teeth at its neck,” Edelgard whispers, stroking her snout, and Byleth smiles as best a dragon can.

“I’ll snare the sun for you, my love,” she half-jokes. “So we can meet halfway.”

And Edelgard giggles, so sweetly that Byleth doesn’t know what to do about it.

“And Hubert and the Moon shall watch us, that they might tell our children what grand fools we were,” she titters.

“Hubert can write your biography, and I’m sure Dorothea will take the opera, but I shall make Bernadetta and Monica collaborate to be my biographers.”

“And why them, my blade?”

“Because I think it’d be funny to watch them work together.”

They both laugh at that.

It’s a welcome distraction from all the poking and prodding of steel-sting wounds that’s going on behind them.

* * *

Chapter 15: With an Eye to the Future

Chapter Text

“Hubert,” Byleth, hesitant, begins, “do you ever worry that our lady might… lose her nerve?”

Hubert regards her coolly.

“You mean to say you fear she might go soft on us?”

Byleth, in turn, eyes him carefully.

“Perhaps,” she allows, and he nods.

“I must confess that I do,” he says. “If only occasionally.”

The half-Nabatean casts her gaze around the empty library. It’s funny how little difference it seems to make, overall– the lack of a librarian, here. Granted, it’s a relatively compact space, and monks and other such monastery-folk tend to be known for their diligence in the maintenance of such things, but still. The False-Tomas’ absence has only improved this place, ‘eased the vibes’, as it were.

“Would it be wrong of us to plan for such an eventuality?” Byleth asks, open and earnest. “Would it be a betrayal?”

She pauses, scrunching up her nose.

“Treason?” she adds, as though genuinely unsure.

“Insubordination, perhaps,” offers Hubert, a wry twist tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing too outlandish for either of us, really.”

Byleth gasps in mock offense, splaying a hand over her unbeating heart.

“Why, whatever are you implying, Lord Vestra?”

“That perhaps we should plan to account for our lady’s gentle heart, Lady Eisner.”

They offer slight smiles at one another, mutually-appreciative of their title-teasing.

Then, growing serious, Byleth offers Hubert her hand.

“I will not break,” she says, her voice soft, her tone firm. “I will see our duty done.”

He takes her wrist, gasping it firmly, and she, to him, does the same.

“As will I,” he says, and a smirk tugs again at the corner of his lips. “We shall see this burden through, then. Together.”

“Together.” Byleth echoes, resolute.

“Now then,” Hubert drawls, producing a simple journal from within the confines of his robes, and Byleth fetches a quill and inkpot from the center of the large wooden table.

“What eventualities must we consider? What are our acceptable outcomes?”

Byleth grimaces. “I’m willing to die, if need be,” she admits, “but I’d prefer that we live.”

Hubert smirks, properly this time.

“I feel much the same way,” he says, and they both know their lady does as well. That is, in part, why they all know to say they prefer they’d all live, rather than simply the other two– for they know full well by now that neither would accept such a thing lightly.

“We have to be ready for her to sympathize too strongly with Rhea to do what needs to be done,” Byleth says quietly, and Hubert nods, writing it down.

“What will we do, should she side with the Archbishop?”

“… That depends on when it happens,” Byleth decides. “If-” she swallows down a lump in her throat.

“If I am Empress, then it will be simple enough to rally the army under our banner as if nothing has changed.”

Hubert nods.

“If not,” he says, his pen moving near-automatically, “then we shall likely need to flee, and do our work from the shadows.”

“We might find ourselves needing to work more closely with the Agarthans,” Byleth muses, and Hubert, again, nods and makes a note.

“… Actually, Hubert,” she says, after a moment, her tone softening with quiet guilt, “I- I actually received two letters from Arundel. They wish me to be a source of information for them.”

“By your tone, I take it you’ve agreed.”

It isn’t a question.

“I have,” she confesses, blue eyes falling to the table, hair pooling around her shoulders.

“They can supply us with arms and equipment not made from the defiled corpses of Nabateans,” she says. “I’m not sure if they really think of me like Edelgard’s dog or if they’re just being nasty for the sake of it, but– I get the feeling they also see the value in a good dog, so to speak.”

Hubert snorts derisively at the thought, but composes himself quickly.

“Very well,” he says, that rich undertone of dark amusem*nt still lingering in his voice. “Should you ever need assistance with them, you need only ask.”

Byleth bobs her head agreeably.

“What will we do if, rather than standing with Rhea, she orders us, and the army, to stand down?”

Byleth sighs.

“We could go to Dimitri,” she says. “I believe he’s committed to the cause– and to ideals of justice in general, if nothing else.”

“Indeed,” Hubert hums, rolling the quill back and forth between his finger and thumb in thoughtful contemplation. “Possibly we could induce a schism within the church itself, as I believe Sothis once suggested to you.”

“A plan like that might even go relatively peacefully, if we’re lucky,” Byleth says, considering. “Between Seteth and my father, I think we could probably manage it.”

“From there, we’d need to use the Church’s power base to spread reform… it’s an option, but would present a whole host of its own issues,” he decides, at length, and Byleth dips her chin in agreement.

“That power would still remain centralized, and prone to corruption. Not to mention the time it would take, and…”

She sighs. “That route really does come with a whole slew of problems, doesn’t it?”

“Hm. There’s also the possibility of you accepting the mantle of Archbishop, unifying the Church and the Empire through marriage, and fighting for reform through purely-political means.”

Byleth straightens in her chair.

“War is political,” she intones, and Hubert smiles despite himself.

“Yes, yes,” he mock-sighs, “but you understood what I meant.”

They both know full well that the waging of war is but one item in the political toolbox, and that it doesn’t mean the end of negotiations. Quite the opposite, in fact.

… Assuming competent and properly-invested statesmen, at any rate.

“Honestly, if it weren’t for-” Byleth gestures vaguely around them, indicating the consequences of her possible ascendancy to the church’s leadership, “-you know,” she decides, “I’d like the idea.”

Hubert nods. “It’s certainly appealing, especially with Dimitri on our side– and I imagine Claude harbors his own sympathies as well.”

Their eyes meet. Distantly, Byleth thinks she hears something.

Interesting.

“… I don’t like it,” Byleth half-clarifies, half-reiterates, “but if it comes down to it, I’ll do it. I’m willing.”

She smiles sadly. It’s a slight expression, as ever, but almost all the more communicative for it.

“It would likely be a peaceful solution,” Hubert admits. “I know you’re the mathematician, but…”

“Yeah,” Byleth says soberly. “If we take it at face value, assuming no complications… it’s the misfortune of one, maybe two people, as weighed against… well, any of the other costs we’d be willing to pay.”

She sighs, taking in an unfamiliar scent n the inhale, and makes a mental note of what that likely means.

“Selfishly, I’d rather martyr myself than deal with the cruel irony of a political marriage to the woman I love,” she says quietly, “but- if it becomes our only, or even merely our best option, I’ll…”

Hubert places a hand on her shoulder.

“If it comes to that,” he says, gentle as can be, “then we’ll teach you long-range warping magic. You’ve the potential to be more than strong enough to manage it twice a day, so long as it’s just you, and just from here to Enbarr– especially if we establish infrastructure…”

She smiles softly at the notion, and the way he slips off into the contemplation of magical theory for a moment, running whatever calculations such magics require, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

It really does ease the burden on her unbeating heart to consider things might not be quite so terrible, were they to fall prey to such a fate.

“You’re a saint, Hubert,” she says. “Knowing I wouldn’t need to travel days by carriage just to see my beloved is- honestly, it’s a huge f*cking relief.”

He chuckles, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Of course, my lady,” he jests, and she punches him in the arm.

“… Also, just. Goddess, but am I not ready to get married half a year into a relationship, or- whenever it’d be.”

Hubert laughs some more.

“Maybe we’ll prove fortunate,” he offers, mirthful in that slightly-subdued way of is (perhaps they really birds of a feather), “and Professor Casagrande will win your grandmother’s heart, and help shape her into a better leader.”

Byleth blinks.

“… You know, I could do worse, as grandmothers go,” she says, and after a few moments of sinking-in, the two descend into laughter.

If nothing else – if all else fails, even that which they hope beyond hope will not, even if the woman to whom they have both gladly sworn their lives deserts them – they will have each other.

Comrades ‘til the end, then.

There is, Byleth doesn’t-quite-think, a kind of solace to be taken in that.

If they are to die, they will not do it alone.

“… if we should lose our lives in the pursuit of this,” Byleth says, at length, “then let us turn them over together.”

“Of course, my friend,” says Hubert, “but know that I will not die so easily.”

“Nor shall I,” Byleth assures him, and pauses to glance over her shoulder.

“I know you’re there, Claude,” she calls, “just as I’m sure you must know by now that I’m not (fully) human. You’re quiet, but I heard you earlier, and I can smell you.”

Hubert gives her a meaningful look, questing, but she’s quick to assuage him with a wink and a lopsided smile.

“sh*t, Teach,” Claude says, slinking out from behind a bookcase on the far side of the room, his keen green eyes evaluating, sizing her and Hubert up carefully, an easy smile on his face, “does that mean you let me listen in?”

“Think of it as… an investment of trust,” she says, at length. “Trust is mutual, cooperative. A shared relationship that grows between two parties. I’ve simply planted the seeds.”

The young Almyran sighs as he saunters over to their table.

“… So Rhea’s really your grandmother, not your mom? I was sure she was your dad’s ex, given their…” he gestures vaguely, as if to indicate ‘everything’, “y’know.”

“She was my mother’s adoptive mother, yes,” Byleth says. “How closely they were related is unclear to me– I know next to nothing about the process of creating a homunculus. Perhaps my mother had some of her blood or somesuch? But she did not birth her.”

“… So your dad had a kid with a dragon homunculus?”

“Pretty much,” Byleth admits, shrugging, and Claude whistles.

“I dunno what I was expecting the truth to be, really, but it sure wasn’t that,” he admits, rocking back in his chair.

“… If you knew I was listening in,” Claude says, at length, glancing back and forth between Byleth and Hubert, “was-” he allows himself a grimace.

“How much of that was real, and how much of it was…”

“Carefully-cultivated lies?” Hubert offers.

“Yeah, that.”

Byleth stares into Claude’s eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you none of it was? Lies, I mean.”

Claude takes a deep breath.

He muses on that one for a bit.

A simple, slightly-dissatisfied, “… Maybe.” is the answer he eventually settles on.

“And if we told you it was all lies?” Hubert asks.

“… No,” Claude decides, much more quickly this time, and Byleth smiles at him.

“… And if I told you it hadn’t occurred to me to lie in the first place?”

Claude stares at her.

Byleth giggles, perfectly innocent, and something seems to click into place behind Claude’s gaze.

“… Y’know what, Teach? Yeah. I think I would.”

“Oh?” Hubert says. “Do elaborate.”

“You’re… honestly dishonest,” he says, after a moment. “You rely more on controlling the flow of information than direct deception. Like you’ve got a philosophy of lying without lying.”

Hubert grins.

“It has been said that I’m remarkably honest for a spymaster-to-be,” he demurs, making a show of almost preening about it.

Taking this in, Claude turns his attention to Byleth, and the half-Nabatean merely smiles enigmatically.

He sighs.

“Maybe it’s fate,” he tells himself, and Byleth co*cks her head curiously.

“The only fate is that which we make for ourselves,” the older woman says. “The rest is circ*mstance.”

Claude regards her oddly, and, not for the first time, Byleth is struck with the notion that she’s perhaps a little strange.

* * *

Edelgard looks up from her tea. The Hresvelg blend.

A cup of tea prepared for her by Saint Seiros herself.

The very saint who now sits across from her at a little tea-table on the star terrace, who looks at her with warm, sad eyes as she not-so-subtly waits for her own glass of tea to cool off.

The young Hresvelg supposes she must simply be sensitive to temperature.

Which, in hindsight, seems rather an odd thing for a dragon to be, though, for all she knows, they might not all breathe fire. It isn’t as if she’s asked.

“Rhea,” Edelgard begins, and hesitates when the woman’s attention fixes on her just that little bit more, when the woman makes to actively listen to her.

She swallows, and the saint co*cks her head slightly, curious. It’s a familiar sort of gesture to say the least.

Perhaps she and Byleth truly are related, Edelgard thinks, inwardly amused.

“Yes, child?” Rhea intones, after a moment, and Edelgard swears there’s worry in her eyes, in the slight wavering of the perfect, motherly mask the Archbishop is forced to wear.

“Do you regret-” she swallows again, takes a sip of her tea to ease the tight feeling in her throat. “Do you regret allowing the church to become what it is today?”

Goddess, she’s so stupid. If she wanted to commit suicide, there are easier ways to do it-

She was foolish to have done this, and she still is foolish for it, and to do so without Hubert or her girlfriend on-hand…

It’s irresponsibly dangerous, to say the least.

“I do,” Rhea says, so quietly that Edelgard has to do a double-take to be sure she really even heard the words, “I do, Edelgard. Every day for… well, centuries, now.”

A rueful chuckle slips from the woman’s lips.

Edelgard can only stare.

“Every day I feel more as if Fódlan lays in ruins at my feet,” she continues. “And I have been the one to guide it to this place. I, and I alone, am to blame. It weighs on me, little Hresvelg, and it is a heavy burden indeed.”

Edelgard, despite herself, reaches across the table to take the woman’s hand.

“What if you could fix it?” the princess asks, quietly, simply, and Rhea looks at her like she’s grown a second head and suggested something that she can’t tell whether it’s impossible or simply never occurred to her. Likely from the mouth of that second head.

“My child?” Rhea breathes, and Edelgard looks her in the eye.

“I know Byleth doesn’t trust you,” she admits, “and I must confess I don’t entirely trust you either-”

“But?” Rhea provides, her eyebrows raising, and Edelgard again swallows.

“What if you could fix it? Make things right? Abolish the aristocracy, feed and educate the poor. Tell the world what you have done, and why, and let history be the judge of us all?” There’s a fire blazing behind her eyes, lavender-hued and intense. “Would you fight for it? Would you tear down your own church and build something new in its place? Would you go to war for the sake of your ideals?”

Realizing she’s leaned forward quite a bit, the princess settles back into her chair.

“Our peoples deserve to be free, Rhea– Seiros. They deserve to know the truth.”

“Do you expect they would even believe me, child? And if I adopted my other form to prove it– do you believe they would not fear me? Attack me? Butcher me for my goddess-given power?”

“Byleth transformed to fight Miklan when the Lance of Ruin turned him into a monster,” Edelgard says softly. “In front of a whole gaggle of assorted soldiery– Knights of Seiros, Imperial Army, and mercenary alike. One woman shot an arrow at her in her surprise, and Ferdinand broke her nose over it.” She smiles gently. “Catherine, after overcoming her initial shock, rushed to my Byleth’s aid, and they slew Miklan together. She even apologized, and petted her a little.”

Wide green eyes gaze down at her, and Edelgard gives the holy woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“A thousand years ago, things were different,” she admits, “but now- now the church has taught, for a thousand years, that the Immaculate One was a messenger of the goddess, a divine being, an angel sent down from heaven – and her form adorns the shields of the famed Knights of Seiros. They will be afraid, of course they will. But how can we ever know whether or not they could ever overcome that fear if they’re never given the chance to?”

But the fear still lingers in the ancient woman’s eyes.

“It’ll be especially easy if you let them hear you purr long before they ever hear your roar,” she says lightly, hoping to both give helpful advice and introduce some levity into the conversation. “The Immaculate One will become very difficult to fear when the people have seen her taking a nap beneath the midday sun, probably being crawled all over by a dozen children all the while.”

She smiles. “I realize that, as a lover of cats, and the lover of a dragon, I may be biased, but it’s hard to be afraid of a timid housecat, even if she happens to be the size of a house. Or three.”

“… I wish very dearly to see Byleth’s second skin,” Rhea admits, and Edelgard nods.

“I can’t promise you that. I can’t promise you she’ll ever forgive you, ever trust you.” She swallows. “But I know her, too. If you prove to her, through your actions, that you wish to change, and wish to change the world for the better… my Byleth will begin to find it increasingly difficult to resent you.”

Now, again, she smiles.

“She’s very softhearted in that way, you know.”

* * *

“Ah, and about that letter you sent her-”

Rhea blinks.

“It should be sufficient to legitimize your courtship, yes?” The archbishop frowns slightly. “You know as well as I do that I hold little sway in the courts of Adrestia, as it has been for six fifths of a century, now, but she is my granddaughter. They cannot deny her that.”

“Indeed not.” Edelgard agrees, and notes that Rhea now sips at her tea more happily – it has to be rather cold by now, doesn’t it? How odd indeed.

“Of course, my reasons were not entirely selfless,” Rhea says, half-smiling. “I’ve been running this church for a thousand years, yet still I feel ill-equipped for the role. Byleth, even in seeing through me – taking me to task for my wrongdoing, standing up to me without fear and holding fast to her ideals – makes a far more worthy successor than the precursor I have been.”

“Unfortunately,” Edelgard says, her own expression taking on a wry twist to match what she now recognizes as such in Rhea’s, “I don’t think my Byleth is especially keen on becoming Archbishop, and I fear some among our number may harbor a different set of regal aspirations for her future.”

“It would be politically-expedient,” Rhea points out, and Edelgard nods.

“It certainly would, but neither of us wants our relationship to be political in nature,” she says, and pauses. “More importantly, if we’re to be wed, I don’t want to live several days away from my wife. That’s rather the opposite of what I want out of a marriage, in fact.”

(The former reason is certainly easier to admit to, Edelgard finds.)

Rhea hums, and Edelgard thinks for a moment.

“… You know, if you’re really set on looking for a successor- why not Flayn?”

Once again, Rhea looks at her like she’s said something utterly mad.

“Perhaps it is simply the doting aunt in me speaking,” she admits, a pleasant hum in her voice, “but I don’t believe our dear Flayn should have to work a day in her life.”

Edelgard hesitates.

It’s hard to disagree, really.

“I would argue that she’ll do great things as a healer, but-”

“Ah, I see what you mean, little Hresvelg,” Rhea says warmly. “Yes, healing is one thing, but to be burdened with leadership? Unacceptable.”

“Indeed. I fear the sight of a jaded Flayn would bode ill for the prospects of… goodness,” Edelgard concludes, struggling somewhat to express just what, exactly, that would presage.

“That is how we will know we have truly failed,” Rhea says, rather definitively, and Edelgard, brushing a stray lock of cloud-white hair behind her ear, nods.

“Like seeing my Byleth despondent,” she offers.

“Or you dispassionate,” Rhea counters, playful, and the princess chuckles.

“You know, I hadn’t considered it before, but– Hubert and Flayn aren’t nearly so unalike as they seem, are they? For them, hope springs eternal…” she shakes her head. “If only we could all be so irrepressible.”

“And they certainly share a penchant for mischief, do they not?” says the archbishop. “I have seen the way gloomy Vestra teases the von Aegir boy.”

Despite herself, Edelgard snorts. “When that stops, we’ll truly know there’s no hope left for humanity.”

Rhea, smirking, sips her tea, and Edelgard daintily pops a sweet biscuit into her mouth.

“…It’s a unique and terrible burden, isn’t it?” she asks, after a moment. “To fail and know we’ve failed.”

Rhea laughs ruefully.

“I fear mother would have accepted nothing less,” she says, and smiles, nostalgia faintly fogging her divinity-green eyes. “She wanted very dearly for people to have the capacity for growth. For all of us, each and every one, to have the ability to hope, I think.”

Edelgard, too, cannot help but smile.

“… You really are a charming woman, you know that?”

Rhea chuckles. “I could say the same of you, child. It warms my heart to see you and my granddaughter so happy together.”

The princess blushes faintly at the praise. The latter point in specific.

“Likewise, I… find that I am glad to be proven wrong about you and your people. You are far from the irredeemable monsters I was led to believe.”

“Well,” Rhea laughs, her voice once again taking on a rueful hue, “that holds true for some of us, at any rate.”

Edelgard stands.

“I find I have to believe you redeemable, Lady Rhea,” she says, at length. “For it gives me hope that I might one day be forgiven as well.”

She bows, however shallowly, to the much taller woman, who looks a little taken aback.

“We should do this more often, I think,” she says, “wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would and do,” Rhea, blinking, answers, and frowns.

“Child, the scents of blood and death do not cling to you so strongly.” She shakes her head. “Whatever you have done– whatever you will do… it pales. In comparison and otherwise.”

She, too, rises, and, shockingly, returns the bow in kind with a delicate curtsy.

“We shall do this again,” she declares. “I fear you may need it as much as I, dear girl.”

Edelgard huffs a halfhearted laugh.

“You may be right,” she admits.

“I’m afraid I’m something of an expert on the topic,” Rhea says. “Go, little one. I have kept you long enough for today.”

“I’ll give Byleth your regards.”

Rhea smiles sadly.

“Only if you believe they will not trouble her overmuch,” the ancient dragon says, and it’s for precisely that reason that Edelgard knows full well they ought to be delivered.

“I know my lady quite well,” Edelgard replies placidly, making the effort to mask her own amusem*nt at referring to her reluctant lover as such.

“Good day, Rhea.”

“Fare thee well, Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

And, just like that, she departs.

* * *

Edelgard shifts under the covers of her lover’s bed, closing her novel on a finger to keep her place with one hand and reaching the other under herself to straighten out a slightly-uncomfortable fold in her nightgown where it rests beneath her left buttock.

Byleth glances up from her impenetrable book of mathematics and gives her a funny look, equal parts puzzled, charmed, and amused, the candlelight dancing beautifully in those big blue eyes of hers. Unfair, is what it is. No one woman should possess such power, Edelgard is certain of it.

“… El, what’re you doing?” she asks, not-quite-laughing, and simply takes a moment to watch her princess struggle.

Their ankles are hooked together under the blankets, Edelgard’s over Byleth’s, and they recline side-by-side, dressed-down and simply taking a moment to relax. It’s warm, but not unusually so – it’s a Wednesday, the third of the Horsebow Moon, and, with the passing of the Verdant Rain Moon and the transition from summer to fall, the rainy season has finally ended – and soon the days will begin to cool and shorten, and Edelgard fears she shall become exponentially… snugglier the closer winter draws.

“My nightgown bunched up under my butt, dear,” the princess huffs, rolling her eyes at the teasing in the woman’s tone, and pretends not to notice (let alone be affected by) the lascivious smile growing on her lover’s face.

“Oh?” Byleth hums, blinking lazily. “Shall I remove it for you, then?”

Edelgard turns her head and simply Does Not Look at her beloved as she settles back down against the bed, the fell crease having been dealt with to her satisfaction.

She’s not quite sure why, but she’s decided that she won’t be seduced by her ret- by her former retainer tonight.

It’s a little sad to think that. Former retainer…

“No need, my lady,” she says, mustering all the courtly elegance she can manage in this situation, and her dragon leans over to nip at her shoulder affectionately.

“It doesn’t sound so bad, coming from you,” Byleth admits. “If I am to be anyone’s lady, I would have it be yours.”

Edelgard chuffs, smiling faintly.

“I’m glad to hear it, my love,” she says, and turns to look her sworn sword – officially or otherwise – in the face.

Byleth grins at her, batting her eyelids again, and hums warmly– not quite purring, but not terribly far from it, either.

“… I’ve been having tea with your grandmother, you know,” Edelgard tells her, and the swordsman she loves so dearly sighs.

“I know, El,” she says softly, and the imperial princess raises an eyebrow.

There’s something unreadable in her expression, something Edelgard can’t quite place.

“My Byleth?” she breathes, and the bluenette (damn you, Alois-) chuckles halfheartedly.

“Hubert and I have decided to do our best to support whatever… peaceful overtures you choose to make,” she says. “We’ll be doing what we can to prepare for the worst in the meantime, so that, if and when the time comes that we must make war, we – and the Imperial Army – will be ready.”

Edelgard feels something sink in her stomach.

“… You fear I’ll lose my nerve, don’t you?” she says, soft and almost-accusing, and Byleth laughs, hollow and… almost distant-sounding.

“I fear a great many things, El.”

Her voice is quiet. Dreadfully so.

“… My Byleth,” Edelgard says softly, and hesitates for a moment.

“You mistrust me?” she eventually asks, and Byleth regards her strangely.

She calmly marks her place in her tome of mathematical knowledge, sets it upon her bedside table, and, making direct eye contact, produces a dagger from somewhere beside the bed. She bares the blade, turns the tip towards herself. Presses the hilt into Edelgard’s hand and brings it to her throat.

Edelgard thinks, staring into her lover’s eyes, that she can almost see the woman mastering the instinctive fear that comes with a blade at one’s throat. Crushing it for the sake of this mad demonstration.

The message is clear, of course.

Byleth trusts her with her life.

“Then why?” the princess manages. Her throat feels tight for some reason, her eyes unusually… dry, perhaps.

“Because-”

The swordsman folds her arms across her chest and sighs, her expression growing faintly pained.

“Because if we must work in the dark to see your vision through – if we must go behind your back and stain our hearts and souls for duty and for love…”

She bites her lip.

Edelgard stares at her.

“If it costs me my beloved and my dearest friend,” the princess says quietly, “then I would sooner-”

She hesitates.

Forces herself to, really.

“You wouldn’t,” Byleth says. “You wouldn’t choose to make war simply for the sake of us personally. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it? That you’d sooner wade through a river of blood and be damned with us than know we two are doing it in secret, and for your sake?”

The doe-eyed ex-mercenary shakes her head.

“You wouldn’t. That’s why we trust you, El.” She smiles sadly. “Because, as much as you want to tell me it wouldn’t be worth it, you know otherwise.” She rubs her forearm.

“If doing what we must means I have to be archbishop, I’ll do it. I’ll be f*cking miserable, but I’ll do it. And if it means cutting down everyone who stands in your way-” she chuckles. “Well, I’ll do that, too.”

“Byleth…”

“I’ll live for you, El. Die for you. For the cause.” Again, she shakes her head. “Whatever it takes.”

Edelgard realizes she’s still holding the dagger. It’s not at Byleth’s throat anymore, but it’s there, clutched in her shaking hand.

“… And if I gave you an order?” she asks. “If I told you, as your princess – or even as your emperor – to stay by my side? No matter what? That to betray my trust in your shadows would be treason? Would break my heart?”

Their gazes meet again, and there’s a sad look in Byleth’s eyes, quietly pleading.

Edelgard can’t even begin to imagine what Byleth must be seeing.

“Don’t put me in that position, El,” the swordswoman asks, her voice suddenly small. “I-”

She laughs at herself.

“I wouldn’t know what to do,” she admits, and leans closer, reaching out to cup Edelgard’s chin.

Despite the situation, Edelgard relaxes a little into the touch, and Byleth brings their lips together, kissing her sweetly.

Their lips part, if only barely, and Edelgard rests her forehead against her lover’s.

“And if I were to ask you? To plead with you, as my empress?”

Byleth freezes.

“I-” she swallows thickly, and her breathing quickens slightly.

“You- you can’t propose to me until you’ve graduated,” she decides. “It’s not allowed.”

Edelgard smirks and kisses her.

“Marry me,” she teases.

“No,” Byleth desperately refuses.

“Marry me,” Edelgard says, kissing her again.

“No!”

“Marry me, my Byleth, my dragon,” she husks, and Byleth puts a hand on the princess’ face and pushes her, giggling, away.

“You can’t marry me until you graduate,” the woman says, almost petulant.

Edelgard hums with amusem*nt.

“Is that so?”

“… I’ll ask your father to make it a law,” Byleth pouts. “He likes me, he’d do it.”

“… He probably would, at that,” Edelgard admits. It’s a funny feeling, fuzzy and warm, to think that her father, Emperor Ionius IX, approves of her Byleth. She’s certainly right about him liking her. They’ve oddly-similar senses of humor, those two. Two peas in a pod, giggling at phrases like ‘two peas in a pod’ for reasons beyond mortal comprehension.

“Which I suppose means it would be either until my graduation or my coronation, whichever comes first,” she says, and Byleth gasps in playful shock, her mouth making a little ‘o’.

Giggling, she leans in to kiss her beloved once more.

“My Byleth?” she says.

“Yes?”

“Will you at least promise me that you’ll let me know, should you ever need feel the need to… act of your own accord?” She brushes scarred fingers through Byleth’s deep blue hair. “Inform me, if not involve me in the process?”

“… Unless it’s absolutely necessary not to,” Byleth offers, and Edelgard, smiling, kisses her again.

“I can accept that.”

Byleth hums happily, and, as Edelgard leans into her warmth, begins to purr quietly.

(After a moment of this, Edelgard, coming to her senses, makes her beloved put the dagger back… wherever it belongs, lest they fall asleep with a naked blade in bed with them.)

The pair sleep peacefully that night, safe and comfortable in the way only a knifeless bed can provide.

* * *

Chapter 16: Into the Wolves' Den

Chapter Text

“Hey, uh, Teach? We’ve got a situation, here.”

Byleth looks up from her papers – she’s taken to grading assignments with Jeritza, lately, and they’ve stayed in late to catch up after celebrating Petra’s birthday earlier in the afternoon – and her co-professor follows suit, their eyes settling on the form of Claude von Riegan in the classroom doorway.

There’s a strange look in those dark eyes of his, like something’s genuinely got him a little bothered, and she and Jeritza exchange glances.

“Go,” he says, “you were almost finished anyways.”

She nods and stands. “I’ll treat you to some ice cream in town sometime,” she says to him, and he nods appreciatively.

The fact that this man – stoical on one side and violence incarnate on the reverse – harbors a love of sweets will never cease to amaze her.

Maybe he and Edelgard are distant cousins or something.

“What is it, Claude?” the swordswoman asks as she moves to join him at the door, and he flashes a fake, co*cksure grin.

“Me and Leonie here-” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the ginger-haired aspiring mercenary captain waiting behind him, “-saw some weird-ass dude disappear into a secret passage over by the graveyard, and we wanted to investigate, but…”

“But you understandably wanted backup,” she finishes, and he nods.

“I figured we couldn’t do much better than you, Professor,” Leonie says, and Byleth practically beams at her.

Leonie reddens.

“Th-the Captain’s away on an assignment,” she blusters, “so-”

“I’m glad you thought of me, Leonie,” Byleth says, and steps out of the Black Eagles’ classroom, checking to make sure her scabbard – and the length of silvered steel within – are properly secured.

“Right,” she says, “let’s go.”

They head that way, straight across the academy courtyard, and bump into Edelgard and that Marianne von Edmund girl (a fellow blue hair-haver, though hers is more the color of clear skies) in the middle of the entrance hall, the two headed on their way back from the stables.

It’s the weekend, after all – the first one this moon, in fact – so it’s hardly strange to see the pair out and about, even this relatively late into the evening.

Some small, dragon-shaped part of Byleth feels a weird little jealous-possessive pang at seeing them out together, but the way her beloved’s eyes light up at the sight of her breaks that little dragon-part’s tiny, metaphorical skull.

“My teacher,” Edelgard, sticking with the ‘public’ pet-names, greets her, and nods at each of her companions in turn. “Claude, Leonie.”

“H-hello, Lady Eisner,” Marianne, curtsying, stammers. The dark bags under her chestnut eyes feel almost like a badge of camaraderie– there were many nights where she, Edelgard, and Hubert looked much the same, and they only really avoid it now with a medicinal salve (cream?) that helps to mitigate those not-quite-bruises. That, and more rest than they’ve ever really been able to get before, of course, but Hubert and Edelgard both will continue to bear them for some time, even if they were suddenly able to rest perfectly and consistently, as she understands it. The debts of missed sleep, piled up over months and years…

Marianne’s a few inches taller than Edelgard, and a few shorter than Byleth – if she were born female, perhaps she’d be about Marianne’s size? Five-foot-four or so.

Claude’s got over half a foot on Edelgard, and nearly that over Marianne; Leonie’s about the same size as Byleth, probably? It’s actually a little hard to tell, she finds. Perhaps if one’s eyes were at the top of their head, such estimations would be easier.

There comes, as she’s contemplating such mundanities, a sound from beyond the edge of space and time, and it sounds very much like a tiny goddess yawning.

“Good evening, Sothis.”

Sothis babbles something unintelligible to mortal minds, and Byleth decides to simply pretend it means, ‘Hello! Good morning!’

Recruiting Edelgard and Marianne to their cause is easy enough, and, carrying on, they quickly run into the towheaded Faerghan prince, accompanied by none other than Monica von Ochs.

They all exchange their greetings, and Monica doesn’t appear to respond too negatively to Edelgard’s, which is nice, and probably good for El’s heart.

The two join them, of course, when the situation’s explained, and, as they’re making their way to the graveyard to investigate, Claude opens his big dumb mouth.

“Y’know, Teach,” he says, hands laced together behind his head, eyes alight with undue mischief, “You’d think that, with the blue eyes and blue hair, you’d have joined the Blue Lions.”

It’s a dumb joke – and barely even that – but Byleth bristles nonetheless.

“I assure you, Claude,” she says quietly, her jaw taking an unamused set, “for most of the people I’ve met, I’d imagine I’m far more closely-associated with the color red.”

Edelgard takes her hand, gives a gentle squeeze. Byleth tries to project her gratitude into the smaller woman’s mind, and, surprisingly, it almost appears to work.

“She also wears black almost exclusively,” Dimitri adds, helpful and informative, and Byleth puzzles at how he can simultaneously be a reasonably-intelligent young man and also very clearly have precisely no thoughts going on inside his head.

Then again, she’s fairly certain that’s actually pretty universal. Just part of the human (humanoid?) condition, she supposes.

She’s thankful when Monica starts to change the subject, only-

“Professor, it’s your birthday this month, right? The twentieth?”

Byleth doesn’t answer right away, of course, but Edelgard, being the merciless little woman she is, does so for her.

“It is, in fact,” her princess says with a smile and a taunting look. “Perhaps I’ll appeal to Lady Rhea to ensure Captain Jeralt isn’t away on assignment that day.”

“… It’s Catherine’s on the fifteenth,” Byleth says, in a weak attempt to change the subject, and Edelgard laughs.

“Of course, my blade,” she says smugly, “but I’m not courting Thunder Catherine.”

“Ah, if only you could deflect by mentioning that it is my birthday as well,” Sothis’s voice teases in her ear.

The little goddess is laughing. Byleth’s being teased by the crown princess of the Adrestian Empire, and she’s laughing.

“I’ll eat you,” Byleth replies, trying not to let either the blush Edelgard’s words threaten nor the mild irritation at Sothis’… Sothistry show on her face.

The goddess laughs even harder at this.

“Ah, am I a Sothist, now?”

Byleth pouts, inside and out.

“Prince Dimitri would be proud to see that you’ve internalized a word he taught you, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll try to use it in front of him, should the opportunity arise,” Byleth allows, “so long as I actually remember to.”

Sothis laughs some more. “Goodness. We make quite a coterie, do we not? You, myself, and Edelgard. We’re fortunate Hubert has a memory like a steel trap.”

“We’re fortunate to have Hubert in general, I think.”

The goddess hums her agreement.

The six of them- no, seven. Byleth has to count herself, that’s important.

The seven of them arrive at the graveyard, and, thanks to Claude’s acumen and Byleth’s excellent night vision, find a(n admittedly very suspicious-looking) secret passage in short order. Thankfully, it’s set into the side retaining wall, the passage leading in the direction of the entrance hall, and so doesn’t interfere with any of the graves, instead passing under the pathway above.

A simple press of a hidden button and a rather impressive display of sliding brickwork leads to a looong stairway down, dimly-but-consistently lit by a series of oil lamps on the wall, connected by thin piping of brass or copper.

“Hm,” Dimitri muses, inspecting the lanterns. “A clever mechanism.”

“Indeed,” Edelgard calmly intones. “The street-lamps in Enbarr operate under a similar system.”

Claude sends a glance Byleth’s way, and, meeting her eyes for a moment, seems to nod to himself.

“It’s pretty much the same in Almyra,” he admits, stroking his chin as he bends down and checks the underside of the nearest lamp, and Byleth realizes she’s seen this sort of thing used as an example of flow rates in one of her math books. “But these don’t seem to have the same kind of self-lighting doodad as the Almyrans use…”

“Meaning somebody has to come around and light them,” Leonie concludes.

“Normally, I’d say that means this place has to be frequented,” says Edelgard, “but, being underground like this, it’s possible they simply leave these on at all times, replacing wicks or mantles as needed.”

“… Could this be something to do with that ‘Abyss’ Unc- Seteth mentioned to us, way back when?” Sothis muses, and Byleth thinks back to the conversation.

She’d mentioned ‘monsters who slither in the dark,’ referring to the Agarthans, and Seteth, looking quite disturbed, had asked her if she spoke of ‘Abyss’.

“Hmm. He did look rather uncomfortable, as if the prospect of you speaking of the people he thought you were as ‘slithering monsters’ was deeply alarming to him.”

Perhaps a refuge of some sort, then.

… a secret settlement of Nabateans?

“Oh goodness. As much as I would be pleased to see such a thing, I can also only hope, for our sakes and his, that it is not so.”

“It would be neat, though,” says Byleth.

“It would indeed, little one,” Sothis agrees, and Byleth can tell a part of her hopes, for Byleth’s sake, that they might truly run into at least one other Nabatean down in these passages.

After a few minutes of inspecting lanterns and discussing the situation – what they might find, what they ought to be prepared for, what purpose these passages might serve, and so on – they all sort of silently agree that they ought to press on, and Byleth marshals them into a simple marching order. Even with the passage opening up fairly wide – enough for three people to walk comfortably abreast of each other – it’s still a restrictive space, and they’re still venturing into the unknown.

What’s more, while Claude and Leonie had time to stop by their rooms and arm themselves more properly before they came to Byleth, the rest carry only swords – Edelgard the arming sword she’d received for her birthday, the rest of them their ‘an officer is required to carry a sword, so here’s a technically-not-decorative saber as part of your uniform’ sabers. Byleth, as always, wears a longsword at her hip, and hopes that perhaps at least some of these goofballs will learn to arm themselves properly at all times.

Claude and Leonie both have their bows, along with full quivers, and Leonie has a short spear on a sling which she happily relinquishes to Dimitri.

“Dimitri, on my left. Marianne, I want you behind us, with Monica behind you; Claude, Leonie, you’re on either side of them. Edelgard, you’re our rearguard.”

Dimitri chuckles, and Edelgard rolls her eyes at him.

“Of course, my teacher,” she says, and with a forced, fake sigh, adds, “and, yes, Prince Dimitri, I’ve guarded more than my fair share of Edels in my time.”

Byleth snorts, and Dimitri reddens, presumably at being read so easily– Claude seems to laugh at that moreso than anything else.

“It’s true,” Byleth says, and starts them moving once they’ve adopted the formation. “I happen to be one of Fodlan’s foremost experts on the subject.”

“The subject of Edel Guarding,” Leonie deadpans, and Byleth snickers.

“I’m sure it’s not common knowledge or anything,” she jests, “but I was a professional Edel Guard for just over a year, you know, right up until the Archbishop decided I wasn’t.”

“In fairness to the Archbishop,” Edelgard says, “I haven’t allowed you to renew your vows, either.”

“That’s just you taking advantage of the situation to legitimize your courtship, Your Royal Highness,” Claude counters, “and that’s still making the best of a bad situation.”

“Believe it or not, I have spoken to her about it,” she says, “and, while it’s certainly true that I don’t completely trust her-” Byleth almost snorts at the understatement. “-she’s also had me completely at her mercy.”

Dimitri stiffens a little. “Oh?”

“We discussed some deeply disturbing subject matter in her quarters, once,” Edelgard explains. “It was… quite harrowing, and managed to make me feel so physically ill as to upend the contents of my stomach into a chamberpot. Lady Rhea held my hair and, rather than planting a dagger in it, rubbed my back.”

She gestures at Byleth, then.

“We talked about Byleth after that, and I fell asleep for a few hours and woke up with my head in her lap.”

“Nice,” Leonie whistles, and Byleth balks at her.

“She’s my grandmother,” the swordswoman protests.

“Your grandmother is a very beautiful woman, Lady Eisner,” Marianne says, in that tiny, gentle voice of hers, and something about it – or perhaps her, or her words – seems as a balm to Byleth’s heart: soothing, almost healing. Even the use of the title doesn’t bother her, coming from Marianne.

“How strange,” Sothis muses. “I find myself experiencing the same thing. Perhaps this is an effect of some Crest she bears, or simply the power of a woman nearing the upper bounds of achievable gentleness?”

“Hmm. She is a healer – maybe it’s part of a magical aura ‘putting off good vibes’? Or some lingering, very faint healing effect?”

Sothis merely thinks, and Byleth does the same.

“…You know, Edelgard says she can talk to nonhuman animals,” Byleth says, at length, “and shares some sort of bond with them.”

“And you have phrased that in such a way because you believe it may apply to us, as Nabateans? Or. As a Nabatean and the creator of Nabateans, I suppose?”

“That is why I did that, yes,” Byleth replies simply, and Sothis gasps in mock outrage.

“Why, the cheek of you! To sass the progenitor goddess herself… incorrigible!”

A private smile crosses Byleth’s lips, and she returns her (conversational) attention to her companions and students, glancing over her shoulder to give all their faces a quick study for anything requiring her attention.

Finding no such trouble, she notes that the human conversation seems to have moved on whilst she and Sothis were having Nabatean Time. Nabatime-

“No.” says Sothis, firmly, and Byleth calls her a coward and moves on.

Like how the conversation did. The humans’ conversation, that is.

Presumably they finished discussing Rhea’s motives, as they’re mostly quiet, now. And making pretty good time, too. Even with the dim lighting, the stairs are consistent enough that they don’t pose a problem, which is nice.

“Professor Eisner?” Monica asks, “Sylvain mentioned one of the Knights shot you with an arrow on your mission last week, but refuses to elaborate. You don’t seem injured, but- are you okay? What happened?”

Byleth blinks.

She’d sort of just assumed the cat was out of the bag – surely at least one among the dozens they brought along let slip or gossiped about her transformation, right?

She glances up and back, meeting Edelgard’s eye, and her princess seems to think it over for a minute before shrugging helplessly.

‘It’s your secret,’ she mouths.

Monica, just a little to the side in her field of vision, watches her with big, burgundy eyes.

f*ck it, Byleth decides.

“It’s fine, really,” she says. “She got spooked, loosed a shot. It stung like a bitch, but it was a clean passthrough of my left wing, and the healers took good care of me after.”

“And our very own Ferdinand broke the woman’s nose,” Edelgard says, her tone warm with open, fond amusem*nt.

Byleth notes that Dimitri is staring at her with concern, Marianne and Monica with confusion; Leonie’s looking at her like she’s crazy, and Claude looks– well, speaking plainly, Claude looks f*cking shook.

“You’re sh*tting me,” he says, in utter disbelief, and his words herald the group coming to a halt. “You’re f*cking with me, Teach. ‘Not entirely human’ is one thing, but-”

He stops. Stumped, maybe? His expression is a little difficult for Byleth to identify.

Monica grimaces. “Is this about those nasty rumors about Professor Eisner being a monster? I’ve heard at least three variations on the tale just this weekend.”

Marianne, meanwhile– there’s a look in her eye, a gleam, like a glimmer of sudden understanding as she regards the swordswoman.

She reaches out a hand, tentative, and says, oh-so-very-softly, “… You’re not like us, are you, Lady Eisner?”

Byleth doesn’t shy away from her hand, nor from her touch when it comes to rest atop her head.

“I’m half-Nabatean,” she says, “if that means anything to you.”

Marianne simply shakes her head, indicating that, no, it doesn’t.

“I thought I was just seeing things, but your eyes flash in the light, don’t they?” Marianne asks quietly, and gently pets Byleth’s head.

“They do,” Edelgard confirms, being rather more qualified to answer that particular question than Byleth herself; the swordswoman, for her part, closes her eyes and leans into Marianne’s hand.

She begins to purr, to Marianne’s apparent delight (if her quiet gasp and redoubled ministrations are taken as any sort of indication), and Dimitri sighs.

“It’s true,” admits the prince, “Lady Byleth can take the form of a dragon– I have seen it with my very own eyes.”

Byleth groans at the title, but Marianne, sensing her shift in mood, whispers soothing assurances to her, and the dragon finds it hard to be upset at such a small thing.

“I believe it may be more accurate to say that Byleth is a dragon,” Edelgard interjects, and Byleth cracks an eye open to catch her lover gesturing at her, “and that, as such, she has two forms, each of them as true a part of her as the other– despite the second one having needed to be coaxed out, so to speak.”

“Then-” Claude manages, “is Jeralt-?”

“My father is human,” Byleth says, rather languidly. “My mother was Nabatean.”

“… Your mother was Lady Rhea’s daughter,” Monica says quietly, and Byleth opens her left eye fully to regard the girl.

“Her adoptive daughter, to be clear,” she says smoothly, the words rolling casually off her pointed tongue-

Was that like that before?

… It’s not so much a lie as it is giving the others the opportunity to misinterpret the situation. Deception and misdirection rather than a simple untruth, she supposes.

“Ah,” says Monica. “It’s true that you don’t look much like her, after all– your facial features are completely different!”

Claude says something else, but Marianne is asking, “How big do you get?” and Byleth feels far more inclined to listen to her than to him.

“Pretty big,” she says, “but nowhere near as big as-”

She stops herself, but only just.

Marianne hums, as if to assure Byleth she isn’t frustrated with her, and Byleth hums back– hums and purrs, purrs and hums, her thoughts turning towards nicer things. Edelgard. Hubert. Sothis, and the Black Eagles. Her father, Seteth, and Flayn. The way Catherine apologized to her last week – she hadn’t been sure what to think of Catherine, at first, but now… now she thinks they might be friends. It’s a nice thought.

Friends are a nice thing to think about.

She thinks about shared evenings with her lover, the simple, warm contentment and safety of togetherness. About the easy days, when she and Hubert and Edelgard can all relax for once. About sharing in passionate political discussion, talk of history, or – more in her wheelhouse – of strategy and tactics.

Unsurprisingly, Edelgard is present – or completely makes up – a lot of these thoughts.

Marianne giggles into a loose fist.

“You’re thinking about Lady Edelgard, aren’t you?” she asks, happy and warm, and Byleth nods.

“I can tell,” she says. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“Mmh,” Byleth hums. “I owe her – along with a few others – all that I am. And more.”

Marianne giggles again.

“I don’t think she would agree with that, Professor.”

“No,” she agrees, grinning, “probably not. But she’s also a hopeless romantic-”

And then she smells something she hadn’t been smelling before (cologne?), somewhere further down the stairway, and whips around in place, her eyes shooting open as a low growl escapes her throat.

Her eyes flash in the dim glow of the lamplight, and she draws her sword, pointing it at the intruder she can’t yet spot. Perhaps deeper in the gloom, or in some shadowed alcove…?

“Name yourself,” she demands, and a masculine voice calls back.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, little lady,” it says, and a big mountain of a man eases into view from an unseen alcove, albeit nearer than she’d expect simple shadow to suffice as concealment– meaning it probably wasn’t simply hidden in shadow, but actively concealed. His hands are raised in a placating gesture, palms towards the party, but he isn’t cowed or afraid, and, bizarrely, he appears to be bare-chested beneath his open jacket. Coat? Whatever it is.

“Name’s Balthus, the legendary King of Grappling,” he says, and Byleth takes this as an indication that they are to exchange titles.

“I am Byleth Eisner and the Ashen Demon, sworn blade of Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

She doesn’t lower her sword.

“She’s our professor,” Claude says, glancing up at Edelgard behind him. “Sort of, anyways.”

He takes a step forward. “Up at Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy.”

“The Academy, huh?” Balthus strokes his chin. “What brings a bunch of students and their teacher all the way down to Abyss?”

“We’re following a suspicious-looking fellow our friend here-” he tilts his head towards Claude, “-observed creeping around the monastery,” Dimitri says.

Byleth catches another scent. Tea and books, perhaps?

“Who’s your friend?” she asks plainly, and Balthus seems to start at that.

A hand comes to rest lightly on her shoulder, and Byleth lets out a long, deep breath.

“It’s okay,” Marianne soothes. “If they try to hurt us, you’ll be ready, I know you will. You’ll keep us all safe. But if you frighten them…”

“They’re more likely to respond aggressively in kind,” Byleth murmurs, and, with another deep breath, sheathes her sword. “Thank you, Marianne.”

Balthus seems to let out a breath of relief, and his posture relaxes considerably, his arms coming to rest folded across his chest.

“I’m always ready to brawl, but- let’s not turn things into a bloodbath, here, yeah?”

Byleth nods.

“Sorry,” she admits, “you just startled me.”

A woman’s laughter rings out from Balthus’ hidden alcove.

It has a particular cadence to it, one Byleth tentatively places as probably being the dignified laughter of a noblewoman. Something like, “Ah-hahaha!”

It’s cute, at least.

A blonde woman steps out to stand alongside Balthus, wearing a lovely dress and with fancy, curled side-locks framing her face– all of which seems odd, considering the locale.

“Your words may fool the fool, but I cannot be so easily deceived! Do you truly claim to serve the Imperial Princess whilst also invoking the name of a mercenary legend and being outed as a professor at the Officer’s Academy? I, Constance von Nuvelle, doubt that very much-!”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Edelgard says dryly, stepping forward to stand alongside a slightly-bristling Byleth, “because she is, in fact, all of those things and more. Aren’t you, my blade?”

She slips her hand into Byleth’s, and the swordswoman accepts and reciprocates the gesture almost automatically, even as she’s nodding her affirmative.

Constance von Nuvelle blinks.

Her eyes are oddly-colored, Byleth thinks. A very pale purple, maybe? Nuvelle is in Adrestia – Western Adrestia, even, neighboring Arundel – so perhaps purple eyes are a trait that runs in the noble families of Western Adrestia?

Then something strikes her, and Byleth finds herself blinking right back. “… Isn’t House Nuvelle- that’s the one that fell in the Dagda-Brigid war, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Edelgard confirms, and glances over her shoulder. “Monica, you wouldn’t happen to recognize her, would you?”

“I-” Monica hesitates. “It’s been years since I last saw Constance von Nuvelle,” she admits. “I remember her clearly, of course, but- I remember a little girl.”

“How strong is the resemblance?” Byleth asks.

“Incredibly,” she answers immediately. “Were it not for the circ*mstances and our experience with Solon, I would have no doubt in my mind that this woman is that girl.”

“Monica von Ochs… hmph!” Constance turns up her nose as if offended. “If you would truly claim to be the missing daughter of Baron Ochs, then surely you would recall-”

Monica slips past the frontline, between Edelgard and Dimitri, and, positioning herself two steps below them, holds out her hand, palm up, and manifests the glowing image of her Crest of Macuil.

Constance, seeing this, steps forward and does the very same. Byleth swears she can see unshod tears glistening in the woman’s eyes.

“Son of a bitch,” Monica breathes. She’s quiet enough that only Byleth catches it, and the swordswoman is almost certain she picked up the curse from Shez.

An amusing thought to be sure.

And then Monica darts forward, and Constance von Nuvelle meets her.

The two embrace, and Byleth can almost sense a thought crossing Edelgard’s mind – in reality, of course, it’s likely some minute, unconscious movement or the like, but it does feel some kind of way to look over at her girlfriend’s face and see that the woman is clearly thinking something.

Edelgard turns her head, meeting her gaze and indicating Constance and Monica with a flick of her eyes – the briefest of glances in their direction.

Bringing her lips to Byleth’s ear, then, she whispers, “I don’t want to interrupt them, and I especially don’t want to ruin another reunion for Monica, but… in truth, my love, I fear we’re terrible pursuers.”

Byleth manages to withhold her laughter at the thought, but only barely, and not for long.

“I don’t think Claude’s going to be able to believe you about your second skin until he sees it for himself,” she adds, a moment later. “Oh, and- good job with that misdirection about Rhea. That was well done.”

Byleth, unable to whisper back into Edelgard’s ear without them shifting their faces around, simply hums a happy little, ‘Huh-hmm,’ in response.

She catches Constance looking up from Monica’s shoulder – the two are hugging and talking and crying a little here and there – and presumably realizing the women she’s looking up at are indeed the Imperial Princess and her sword girlfriend, because her eyes widen and cheeks flush a little pink.

And then Byleth picks up another person’s scent. Two, maybe, in fact.

Yes.

Perfume and… sage?

How queer.

And to ambush them… how foolish.

White magic flares to life in her hand as she turns to greet the flanking newcomers, pale sparks dancing between her fingertips.

This was neither a healing spell nor a simple Nosferatu.

“Lady Byleth Eisner,” a young man’s voice almost purrs – ironic, given her own penchant for it – from some hidden alcove behind their party, “I must admit, despite all I’ve heard, I hadn’t expected we’d be welcoming you to our… humble abode.”

“I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, friend,” Dimitri calmly intones, laying a hand on Byleth’s shoulder.

She hadn’t even realized she’d stepped past poor Marianne.

“… and if you know of Professor Eisner,” the Crown Prince of Faerghus continues, “then I’m sure you’ve heard of how… protective she can be.”

Byleth hums in acknowledgement of the threat.

She’ll happily back it up. He put it more nicely than she would have anyways.

“Sothis,” she calls out mentally, earning a familiar yawn in reply. “Watch my back.”

“Very well,” the goddess sighs. “I must confess, I was drifting off anyways.”

The stranger laughs.

If Byleth wasn’t sure about which spot in the wall he was hiding behind before, she is now. It’s a patch of brickwork maybe five meters back, slightly discolored compared to the surrounding wall. Barely-noticeable even now, when she knew where to look – it was hard not to be a little impressed.

“I think you should speak with Prince Dimitri,” she suggests, letting the incandescence in her hand flare up with her words, visibly brightening their surroundings, “lest I interpret this as the ambush it was so clearly meant to be, and we all find out what a casting of Aura will do to fancy stonework and the two fools hiding behind it.”

There’s almost a moment’s pause, but the voice behind the wall laughs again, confident as ever.

“Two?” he laughs, and Byleth sneers, glancing at Dimitri to her side. The stranger is a fine actor, if nothing else – his feigned incredulity would certainly have fooled her, were it not for her ability to smell his compatriot.

Floral perfumes and herbs smelling so strongly as sage were poor choices of scent even when sneaking up on humans– their naïveté in underestimating Byleth’s party spoke either to inexperience or unpreparedness, and she knew not which was more damning.

“Unless you expect me to believe you both wear perfume and burn sage,” she says plainly, “there are two of you behind that little patch of wall.”

But she remembers Marianne’s words, and, recalling their wisdom, she takes a deep breath, quelling her own frustration.

Between Balthus and Constance’s evident friendliness – cautious as the pair’s initial disposition might have been – and a number of other details (like that they hadn’t simply attacked outright, that the two behind had been late to arrive, that none of them had simply turned tail at any point, and so on) led her to believe, thinking rationally, that this wasn’t exactly a traditional ambush.

Dimitri seems to notice her self-soothing, and offers a small, reassuring smile. He appears almost proud of her, and, in the back of her mind, Sothis echoes the sentiment, hovering overhead.

“Of course he’s proud of you, fool. Recall what we know of his experiences of being ambushed, and what the Fraldarius boy mutters about him. He, too, must certainly feel the call to violence, even if not now. Perhaps his composure in this moment is true, and he is simply proud of you for fighting it as he has done himself in the past; perhaps his composure is forced, and seeing another – one he must surely look up to, no less! – not only feel as he does, but reel herself in from nearer to the edge than he has come today is an inspiration to him. A reminder that, even so close to the precipice, one may not be too far gone yet.”

“If you aren’t gonna come out and talk,” Leonie calls, blunt as a stone, “then run, you stupid bastards.”

Sothis, for her part, giggles.

“Oh, I like this one. She’s saucy.”

“She’s certainly got guts,” the swordswoman agrees, watching, with some surprise, as the fake brickwork shifts and slides open, disgorging a lilac-haired twink of ambiguous gender (presumably the young man, or the one who spoke like one) and a young woman with red hair and an awkward hunch to her posture. The former was fair-skinned – notable in that, rather than simply looking as pale as one might expect of one dwelling underground (or even a man of Agartha, which, from what she could tell, was like double living underground) his complexion appeared rather healthy – and the latter was darker in complexion, and while Byleth already found her rather pretty, she felt something about the tone of her skin made her the color of her hair ‘pop’ somehow.

That’s how Dorothea would describe it, anyhow. Popping. And, given Dorothea was Dorothea, Byleth was more than inclined to believe she was, at minimum, an expert on such topics.

Then again, maybe she just thought the woman was pretty, and unconsciously found a reason for it, fulfilling some need to justify it somehow. She found it hard to say.

“Yuri Leclerc,” said the-

Byleth was pretty sure he was a man, but he was also more femme than she was herself, and, given her own gendering circ*mstances, she wasn’t inclined to simply trust her gut one way or the other (or any number of completely independent and slightly more difficult to quantify ways).

-fellow, offering a grandiose, half-mocking bow. “At your service.”

The girl simply gave a little wave.

“I’m Hapi,” she said, and Byleth smiled at her.

“Hello, Hapi,” she replied politely, and gestured at the… sassy lilac fellow.

“Does the dramatic one have any particular pronouns?” she asks, and the girl – Hapi – stifles a little laugh.

“Yeah, Yuri-bird’s a man kinda guy,” says Hapi, and Byleth nods.

Byleth, letting the magic fade from her hand, folds her arms across her chest and turns to face the young gentleman.

“Mr. Leclerc,” she says evenly, and the fellow almost flinches, though a smile tugs at the corners of his oddly-pretty lips.

“Goddess,” he drawls, “you really are a schoolteacher.”

It’s that remark that makes her really take in his attire– his uniform, really. Similar in style to the (admittedly fairly well-varied (which, for the record, was a good thing in Byleth’s eyes, as it seemed to allow the students a fair amount of leeway to express themselves)) uniforms of the Officer’s Academy above, only in shades of gray rather than black and gold – darker accented by lighter. And, like the three class leaders accompanying her today, he wore a capelet over one shoulder, his being a pale, ashen gray.

“And you,” she says, hesitant, “dress an awful lot like a student.”

… he has purple eyes as well, though not quite the same sort of pale as those of Edelgard and Constance. Part of her thinks his hair and eyes are about half as purple as Shez’s, and entertains the thought, however silly, that perhaps he and Shez are therefore half-cousins or somesuch.

It’s also at about this point that she realizes Claude has slipped away somewhere – somehow – while Marianne stands with Edelgard, the pair conversing quietly in the middle of this odd situation, watching Monica and her apparent old friend catch up. Balthus, similarly, leans against a wall and watches, and Byleth gets the idea the big lunk is perhaps more shrewd than he appears. (Good on him!)

Her eyes return to Yuri, by far the most suspicious of the funny little bunch, who grins at her.

“That’s because we’re the Ashen Wolves,” he says, and it strikes Byleth that the only reason the Eagles probably get Adrestian red is that black doesn’t really stand out from, well, black.

“Yeah,” Hapi adds, “we’re kind of a secret fourth house in Abyss.”

“A-ha!” Sothis cheers. “So this does have to do with Seteth’s Abyss!”

“Hm,” Byleth says, halfway-echoing Sothis’ sentiment. “Uncle Seteth did mention a place called Abyss to me, once.”

Yuri raises a light purple eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Oh? And what, pray tell, did he say?”

Byleth chuckles.

“Well, I made mention of monsters living in the dark below the earth, and he looked really f*cking uncomfortable and asked if I meant Abyss. I told him I didn’t know what the hell Abyss was, of course.”

From behind her, Balthus pipes up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” he calls, “I thought you were a teacher. You can’t swear!”

A beat.

“…Can you?”

Byleth shrugs.

“My youngest students-” she catches herself. Petra’s sixteen, now!

“Sorry, Petra’s birthday was today,” she corrects, “so it’s just Lysi that’s fifteen-”

And, realizing she’s derailed herself, she starts again.

“My youngest student is fifteen, and all of my students have killed. If they can’t handle me cursing, then they won’t make very good officers in the first place. Enlisted men love little so much as they do inventive swears.”

She pauses.

“Anyway, he looked at me like I’d said something truly vile. Like when you run into some old Faerghan in a bar somewhere and overhear his horrific opinions about the Tragedy of Duscur.”

Beside her, Dimitri flinches, and she shoots him an apologetic look.

“Sorry,” she says, “if it helps, that type usually end up in Leicester if they aren’t working for House Kleiman. Most Faerghan and Adrestian houses have at least some standards, so it’s only in the Alliance that they can really slip through the cracks and worm their way into steady employment.”

House Kleiman, of course, being the lords the Faerghans have given the fief of Duscur– now ‘Kleiman’, after its so-called keepers. A reward for leading the charge in the perpetration of the Tragedy itself, naturally. Nobody respectable accepts work with House Kleiman– no merc with any sense wants a cut of that sh*t, nor the reputation that comes with working as an enforcer for scum like them.

“…And you called him ‘Uncle’ Seteth?” Yuri interjects, and Byleth simply nods.

“If he looks like an uncle, and he acts like an uncle, and Rhea is my grandmother,” she says, as though she’s not corrupted the old idiom, “then it just sorta feels right to call him ‘Uncle’.”

“… Yuri, are we really gonna give these guys trouble?” Hapi asks, and Yuri pretends to consider it a moment before shaking his head.

“No,” he says firmly, faux-relenting. “You guys can head on back topside – the one you were chasing was one of ours.”

Behind the pair, Claude relaxes and steps forward to stand between them, draping his arms across their shoulders and giving them a well-deserved start.

“Well then,” the Riegan heir says, beaming – quite genuinely, this time, evidently very satisfied with his own display of stealth and skulduggery – his bow still clutched in one hand, “why don’t we all find someplace to sit down and have a nice chat about just what it is that’s going on, here.”

Byleth offers his maneuver a little applause.

“Top marks, Claude,” she says, unable to keep a grin from her face. “I’m impressed. I’ll mention your performance to Manuela, see if I can’t swing you some extra credit.”

Beside her, Dimitri chuckles. “I barely even noticed you, Claude. I doubt the Professor could even see you, given her height.”

Byleth punches him in the arm and steadfastly refuses to give any indication of the fact that she hadn’t seen Claude at all. Though she also hadn’t been looking, she supposes. Anything beyond that would probably just be her coming up with excuses, though, so she refrains from doing so.

Instead, she says, “I’d quite like to meet your professor, if at all possible,” and Hapi laughs.

A little too hard, in fact.

“Oh, Chatterbox,” she says, and keeps her tone neutral despite Byleth’s natural expectation of a sigh to follow such words, “if only you knew how little the Church really cares about us down here.”

“You-”

Something inside of Byleth, deep down, trembles with outrage.

Sothis curses the name of the Archbishop.

“You don’t have a teacher?”

“Not a one, Teach,” Yuri quips, his tone dry, and Byleth finds her fists clenching involuntarily.

“There are four professors at Garreg Mach,” she says through gritted teeth, and Claude and Dimitri both balk at the realization.

There are four professors teaching three classes.

And one ‘class’ with none.

She bows to the two neglected students before her, deeply enough to stare at the steps in front of her, her arms ramrod straight at her sides.

“Please accept my deepest apologies,” she says quietly, and, when she straightens, turns to glance at Edelgard, who has come up behind her.

“My teacher,” she says softly, and Byleth shakes her head.

She’s going to ask that she be allowed to talk to Rhea instead. Byleth knows that full well.

“You are far too kind to that woman,” the swordswoman says, perhaps a little more harshly than she intends, “I will be gathering my uncle, my father, and perhaps the other professors, and we are going to talk.”

She half-turns and presses a gentle kiss to her lover’s brow, then returns her gaze to an unfazed Yuri Leclerc.

“If you would show my students to this ‘Abyss’ of yours, I will return to the Monastery and… intercede on your behalf.”

Yuri eyes her carefully for a moment.

Then, he steps forward, extending a hand, which she shakes.

“You plan on coming back down after?” he asks, and she nods.

“Then I’ll have a man topside to show you a quicker way down in…” he thinks for a moment. “Say, three hours?”

“Make it four,” Byleth says, “I wouldn’t want him waiting overlong, and I don’t intend to let my dear grandmother off lightly.”

The young man grins.

“Deal,” he says, and she turns to her students.

“Edelgard, you’re in charge. Dimitri, keep her safe for me.” She turns to the heir to the Leicester Alliance. “Claude, I want you watching their backs – I trust you to spot any funny-business.”

She turns back to the others again. “Leonie, stick to Marianne like glue, and would one of you let Monica know she’s my eyes and ears once she and Constance are done reuniting? I’m loathe to interrupt them.”

“I’ll keep them alive, Professor,” Marianne says, as quiet as ever, and Byleth nods at her.

“I know you will,” she says simply.

The rest dutifully accept their roles, and Edelgard, grabbing Byleth by the collar, excuses them for a moment and drags the swordswoman into the alcove from which Yuri and Hapi had emerged earlier, the others clearly picking up on (and presumably respecting) the Imperial Princess’ desire for privacy.

Edelgard gives it a ten-count before she hauls Byleth into a proper kiss, fists bunched up in her collar. The taller woman happily reciprocates, and, when their lips part, Edelgard leans against her, tucking her head under Byleth’s chin.

“Please, my Byleth, my blade,” she says softly, “Please try not to cause too much trouble.”

Byleth holds the woman loosely, relishing in her El’s presence, her warmth.

“Of course, El,” she says, and breathes in her lover’s scent. Her hair stuff really is nice. “You keep yourself and the others safe, alright?”

“I will,” El agrees, and laughs through her nose. “It’s a little surprising, but I’m pleased to see you trust Dimitri – and myself – enough with my safety to leave me unattended by yourself or Hubert for some hours.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t sending Hubert down,” Byleth counters, and her El hums against her.

“You didn’t,” she agrees, “but only because it hadn’t occurred to you.”

“Oof,” Sothis intones. “Hit the nail on the head with that one, didn’t she?”

“Quiet, you gremlin-goddess,” Byleth mutters, and Edelgard giggles into her collarbone.

“Hello, Sothis. Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

“But of course, little one,” Sothis, softening in an instant, replies, and Byleth relays the message.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Byleth says smugly, sticking her tongue out at the diminutive floating goddess, only to grow serious again when Edelgard balls up her fists around handfuls of Byleth’s top.

“I’m beginning to believe we have a genuine shot at changing Fódlan with- with minimal violence,” she says. “Please don’t sabotage that, my Byleth.”

“Of course not,” Byleth says, gentle she can manage. “As nice as a unified Fódlan sounds, I think it’s probably best we do what we can to avoid centralizing power over the continent the way the church has.”

Edelgard hums. “That’s probably wise,” she admits, “but we should still be prepared to do what we must.”

“I completely agree,” Byleth intones, and gives her beloved a firm squeeze.

Edelgard pops up onto the tips of her toes and kisses Byleth again.

“I love you,” she breathes. “Be safe, listen to Sothis, turn things back if they go too poorly, and don’t go looking for your father– he’s away on assignment, I realize you forgot earlier. Maybe seek out Catherine instead? The two of you seem to get on well.”

“Ah, sh*t,” Byleth replies. “I really had forgotten. Thank you, El.”

She gives Edelgard another kiss. It’s nice to have an excuse to do so– not that she really needs one, but still. It’s nice. The princess regards her with pleading eyes, and she grins.

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

She bumps their foreheads together, gentle and affectionate.

“… And I love you too, Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

Edelgard takes a step back and straightens her collar for her, quickly combing silk-clad fingers through her hair to correct some issue Byleth herself isn’t aware of, and rewards the swordswoman with a sweet, genuine smile, small and colored with lingering worry, but there, and real, and for her.

How did she manage to be so fortunate?

“Go on, get,” her El playfully dismisses her, and she cups the woman’s cheek, meets her eyes for a moment.

“I’ll be back,” she says, “and I promise not to kill the Archbishop unless she really deserves it-”

It’s a dumb joke, and it earns her a halfhearted swat on the arm.

But Edelgard’s pure, unfiltered laughter fills her ears and her heart in kind, and, in that moment, she feels as though it’s all she really needs.

When she leaves, she does so with lavender eyes on her back and poison on her tongue.

She tries not to wonder if she could get away with killing the Archbishop.

* * *

Chapter 17: Beautiful

Chapter Text

For once in her life, Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg is well and truly at a loss for words.

What is there to say?

‘I’m sorry the Church of Seiros has seen fit to banish you to this glorified cistern beneath the foundations of Garreg Mach Monastery itself’?

No.

Fortunately, Leonie Pinelli speaks up as they enter the main chamber of Abyss, giving voice to the words Edelgard can’t seem to find.

“What the f*ck.” the aspiring mercenary breathes, running a hand through her short, carrot-orange hair. “It’s a slum. Underground.”

And, indeed, squalor abounds.

The people are poor. Thin and clad in patchwork clothing. Ramshackle constructions speak to the depths of human (humanoid?) ingenuity and perseverance, scrap wood fashioned into stalls for merchants and more, and it strikes Edelgard as they look around from the main landing that this is only one portion of the place – one section among what must be several, judging by the bridge to their right, stretching out into cavern and gloam.

And then she sees something that truly makes her blood run cold.

“There are children down here,” the Princess breathes, and it’s all she can do not to gasp or point or draw her weapon and march into the main cathedral to demand the heads of all responsible-

She clenches a fist. Takes a deep breath.

Watches as two young children run around and play, a dog barking happily as it bounds around and between them. They can’t be older than five or six years.

So why are they here? Why are they deep down below, in Abyss, dirty-faced and living in obvious poverty and even exile?

“Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Claude says, somewhere behind her, and she turns to regard her companions.

Dimitri looks… almost pleased.

“It’s… almost beautiful, in a way, is it not? To see those who have faced oppression on the surface find sanctuary here, of all places…”

Edelgard stares at him.

“… Dee, this is oppression. These people are exiles, cast out and pushed aside until a cistern shantytown is their only refuge.”

He hums.

“I realize that, I merely-” he pauses. “I think Professor Eisner might say that it is the humanity here, the spirit. Even forced into this place, they find a way to live and even build a community. That indomitable spirit… it gives me hope, I think.”

After a moment, Edelgard nods.

“I suppose I can understand your reasoning, at least,” she says. “Personally, this…”

The princess sighs and shakes her head.

“This place makes some long-suffering part of my soul long to cry out for justice– for liberation. To rise in defiance because I would rather die with a snarl on my lips and a curse upon my tongue than lend my meek compliance to my would-be masters.” She gazes out over the stone structures that comprise the town, then meets her brother’s eyes, her brows furrowing in some mixture of frustration, consternation, and the hopeful sort of disbelief.

“Can you truly say you do not feel the same? I realize not all of us spent part of our childhoods in chains, but- surely it must still claw at you.”

She ignores the looks her classmates give her as her words sink in. She doesn’t need or want their pity, she needs them to understand.

“Edelgard…” Marianne says softly, and reaches out for the princess. Edelgard allows the woman to touch her– to lay a gentle hand on her cheek.

They’re friends, after all, aren’t they?

The girl doesn’t say anything more, just… looks at her; regards her with tired, almond-brown eyes.

She lays a gloved hand atop the one cupping her cheek.

“I’m okay, Marianne,” she assures the healer, managing a half-smile and about as much of a chuckle.

“… If you say so,” Marianne demurs, and Edelgard gives her hand a little pat-pat.

“I do, my friend,” she says, and turns, bobbing her head in the direction Yuri had told them to head once they’d ‘finished gawping’.

“Now come, everyone. Let us see what so troubles these ‘Ashen Wolves’ of ours.”

* * *

“ Little one, is this wise?”

“f*cked if I know,” comes her partner in crime’s terse reply, and it sets the little goddess ill-at-ease.

They watch as Rhea fidgets before them, discomforted before Byleth’s withering, deceptively-empty stare.

“Go on.” Byleth says firmly. “Tell us of Abyss.”

Seiros flinches, and Sothis – knowing, intellectually, that this woman is her very own daughter – feels a pang of guilt in the unbeating heart she and Byleth share.

“… She’s afraid, Byleth.”

“Good,” Byleth almost sneers. “If a living goddess can be murdered by the hands of mortal men, then where does that leave her?”

Behind them, Seteth stands with Professors Hanneman and Manuela, flanked on either side by a Knight of Seiros– Catherine on the left, Shamir on the right.

Byleth stares into the saint’s mint-green eyes.

“And be warned, grandmother: I shall soon enough see it with my own eyes.”

And so it is that Rhea begins to tell them.

* * *

It’s deep into the evening by the time the ten of them – Edelgard, her five compatriots, and the four Wolves – find themselves in an ancient and beautiful underground arena, readying themselves for battle. Yuri claimed to have learned of this place from someone back in Abyss proper, and had dedicated some of his men (and his own time) to clearing the ruin and its entrance of debris, and Adrestia’s Crown Princess couldn’t help but appreciate the foresight.

The stone floors here stood at three heights: tallest were the broad walkways surrounding the arena, a great square with an entranceway at each corner; from the perspective of the lowest level, these appeared more like great, imposing walls, at least five or six meters high, penning one in, and a square central platform rose a few meters above the ground floor, providing a relatively-defensible island in the middle of the arena itself.

Perhaps most impressive was that the Abyssians had managed to smuggle a few horses and even a midnight-black pegasus into the old coliseum, and had a reasonable armory from which they were all able to arm themselves for the coming battle. Hapi seemed more comfortable atop her pale horse – gray in color, but not a gray horse – and Dimitri and Leonie both seemed appreciative of the animals they were loaned, while Constance mounted the pegasus with all the confidence of a woman who fully believed in her ability to cast and fly simultaneously, laughing boisterously up at the room’s high, vaulted ceiling.

Edelgard was just glad for a shield, war-axe, and not-entirely-ill-fitting armor. Vambraces, breastplate, greaves and chausses, all over a borrowed gambeson– compared to the full harness she’d been training in, this ‘stripped-down’ arrangement felt downright light.

It’s little wonder this is all the more armor her Byleth would ever wear, really– with the importance the woman places on speed and movement, she must find anything heavier than this utterly unbearable. Especially since, for her, it would likely feel much heavier than it does for Edelgard – she’s used to wearing heavier, after all, and the swordswoman far lighter.

They prepare their defense at the central platform, of course; between archers and mages, they’ve more than enough long-ranged firepower to deal with whatever the encroaching mercenaries might bring, and the stairways connecting the central platform, ground floor, and raised walkways will severely limit the enemy’s approaches.

Dimitri, leading his horse by the reins, joins Edelgard at the edge of the platform and chuckles.

“How does that saying go? The one about the grains…”

* * *

“… and,” says Byleth, only barely managing to maintain a calm tone of voice through her own bristling, “despite knowing of its presence for years – decades? – you never once thought to help these people. Am I understanding you correctly?”

Rhea’s gaze falls to her feet, and Byleth sighs.

She’s so, so tired.

She glances up at the goddess hovering beside her, the troubled expression on her youthful face.

“I wish you could see how the Goddess looks down upon you, Rhea,” says the swordswoman, and shakes her head. “Even I must admit things would not be nearly so bad as they are now had you only been able to see her– to speak with her, as I do.”

The room goes quiet, and Byleth chuckles.

She stares Rhea in the eye.

“I know what you wanted of my mother,” she says, and Rhea flinches, and the guilt and shame written across her face are exactly what Byleth needs to see.

“… and I know that, despite your initial intentions, you came to love her as your own child.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Byleth…” Sothis whispers, and Byleth doesn’t even pretend not to look up at the diminutive goddess.

“We are kin, Rhea,” she says – not softly, but something approaching it – and lays a hand on the taller woman’s shoulder, “but we are not family. Not yet. Edelgard, Catherine – Flayn and Seteth – they see kindness in you. Goodness.”

She takes another deep breath, this one slightly shuddering.

“If you want true kinship,” she says, “show it to me. Show it to the world.”

Rhea’s eyes glisten with unshod tears, and Byleth does her best to smile.

“Show us, Seiros. Show us that you can change. Prove it to your mother. Prove it to your granddaughter. Prove it to all of Fódlan.”

Abruptly, Rhea pulls her into a bone-crushing hug, and she feels hot tears on her neck.

Behind her, she hears the slight shifting and crunching of mail as Catherine stirs.

“… Lady Rhea,” the knight calls gently, “did your dragon granddaughter just call you Seiros?”

* * *

Yuri had already sent his man to await Byleth by the time the mercenaries – their business in Abyss unclear and, for now, unimportant – came pouring into the arena; he reminds them now, as Edelgard cuts down man after man, her borrowed shield slowly being painted the proper Adrestian red, that she had asked for four hours. That it would only be a matter of minutes, now, before backup arrived.

To her left, Dimitri fights dismounted, his lance biting human flesh again and again, his hair damp with sweat, and she has to remind herself that he, too, has more than his fair share of experience with the spilling of blood.

The mercenaries come in waves– staggered, unprofessional. Were they to coordinate, Edelgard is certain the students’ position would be overwhelmed, for their numbers are truly prodigious. Small mercies, she supposes.

And for them to fight to the death with such tenacity is… unusual. Whether it’s greed or desperation or zeal that inspires this in them, she can’t be certain, but it bothers her. Are these men truly mere mercenaries? They shout and coordinate and cry out like ordinary men, at least, so there really must be something driving them– she just can’t figure out what.

Overhead, Constance von Nuvelle spurs her pegasus into a dive, and, sweeping low over the heads of the massed enemy, unleashes a rather-literal maelstrom of ice magic, a devastating Fimbulvetr tearing through their ranks with bone-chilling winter winds, piercing, battering hail, and terrible flurries of razor snow.

Edelgard shivers from the mere proximity, a blast of frigid air washing over her face and soothing her heated limbs– anything cold enough to freeze a man’s blood before it hits the ground, she decides, is nothing she wants anything to do with.

“Ah-hahahaha!” Constance laughs, and Edelgard tries to appreciate the enthusiasm. She’s doing the same thing Edelgard and her brother are, after all, just- well, just more efficiently.

… And these men have been terrorizing her home of late.

An orb of purple-black miasma hurtles over Edelgard’s shoulder, and a quieter voice – Hapi, the valkyrie, the Ashen Wolves’ dark mage – softly calls, “Don’t worry about Coco, Princess. She just barely ever gets to fly down here, so…”

“Ah,” Edelgard breathes, “I understand. Thank you, Hapi.”

“No problem, Eddy.”

Beside her, Dimitri snorts.

Edelgard cuts down another mercenary swordsman.

“I must admit, that’s a new one,” she says, and Hapi calls upon a swarm of insectoid motes of dark magic to savage some fool cavalier who had just managed to get his horse down the narrow staircase across the way.

“Remind me sometime, Miss Hapi,” Dimitri calls, “and I’ll tell you the story of-”

He buries his lance in a man’s thigh, and Leonie gallops by to shoot the poor bastard in the chest, not even slowing down as she passes.

“-how the imperial princess showed up to lunch a week into the school year with the pattern of her retainer’s tights imprinted on her face.”

Edelgard, reddening, hits another sellsword with a basic Fire spell, sending him to his knees to be finished off by a burst of Hapi’s dark magic, and makes a mental note to thank Dorothea for that book on poetry, speaking, and reason magic.

She hasn’t often trained for it, but she actually seems to have more of a natural aptitude for it than Byleth does, which – perhaps for sappy couple reasons – gives her a sort of satisfaction beyond simple competitive drive. Maybe she ought to gather Dorothea and Lysithea for magical study sessions?

“Y’know, I might just hold you to that, Didi,” Hapi says, and, were it not for the tide of men coming to kill them, Edelgard thinks she might’ve fallen over laughing at the nickname, the shift from her brother embarrassing her to being embarrassed himself simply too much to handle.

* * *

“… As such, while the Ashen Wolf house was not meant to be a true house of the academy, I will not protest their absorption into other houses for the sake of education, should they so wish it.”

Byleth nods, shoots Jeritza a look.

“I think Professor Jeritza and I can handle two more,” she half-says, half-asks, and glances at Manuela and Hanneman. “If you each can take on one extra?”

“Of course, dear,” Manuela says, her tone warm and supportive, and Hanneman, stroking his bushy, steel-gray moustache, nods along with her.

“I think we can certainly manage that, Professor,” he says, ever the jovial scholar.

Byleth smiles at all of them, noting the way Shamir – the only non-Fódlaner in the room – regards them all with complete bemusem*nt, keen and clever and utterly f*cking stumped as to what the hell is wrong with the people of this continent.

Catherine’s expression, behind the faint awe in it, is difficult to discern more deeply; possibly she’s found her faith? Or realized she was very obviously infatuated with Saint Seiros herself?

Byleth thinks she may have figured out that Rhea probably is indeed a dragon, just like her granddaughter, given the woman’s age. (Twelve-hundred, apparently. The number sparked some sympathy in Byleth’s heart – she had been young, quite young, when everything had gone to sh*t. Less an ancient schemer and more an ancient warrior, trapped with her own immortality and left to pick up the pieces of a broken world, lest it fall apart even further.)

“I imagine Constance von Nuvelle may want to join the Eagles,” she says, glancing at her co-professor. “As for the others, I… honestly can’t say.”

She shrugs at the near-surprise on her colleagues’ faces

“I’ve only just met them,” she says, feeling almost defensive. “I defused their ambush and came right here, you know.”

She turns up her nose, pouting, and Jeritza chuckles – Jeritza! – and lays a hand atop her head.

“There, there, Professor.” he intones. “Only you could turn assailants into potential students. Especially perfect strangers.”

Her pout lessens.

It sounds kind of impressive when he puts it like that.

She’s not sure she likes it.

* * *

The battle wears on.

A number of relatively-minor wounds – a cut on the arm, the hip, the cheek – sap at Edelgard’s strength, and she can tell Dimitri is flagging beside her; Marianne, Yuri, and Balthus have had to begin rationing out their healing spells, keeping them in reserve for major wounds, and it’s quickly become a battle of attrition.

Things only get worse when an enemy mage strikes Edelgard with thunder magic, the lash of conjured lightning wracking her body with spasms and pain and causing her to freeze up for several seconds. It’s an opening the mercenaries are far too opportunistic to pass up, and she falls to a knee under the crushing blow of a warhammer, its pronged head mangling her right shoulder with ease. Her axe clatters from her hand, limp and useless, and she curses herself as, finding a reservoir of strength deep within, she forces herself back to her feet, her shield-arm still strong.

Blows rain down upon her own personal rampart, jarring the arm beneath terribly, but she holds fast.

Her love should arrive any minute, now. All she has to do is hold this position– defend her comrades.

“Lady Edelgard!” a quiet voice calls out to her, and suddenly she feels the familiar agony-relief of bones unbreaking themselves.

“Thank you, Marianne,” she calls back, drawing her sword and swiftly striking down the hammerman who had dealt her the wound in the first place.

Thank the goddess she actually wears the sword Jeritza had given her for her birthday; those little sabers are near-worthless, at least in her hands, but the humble arming-sword is a weapon she’s well-familiar with. Trained by Byleth herself, in fact. She’ll always be best with an axe, but her skill with a sword easily exceeds that of the majority of those who wield one.

She parries a lance-blow with her shield and, rather than step forward to cut him down, casts a bolt of fire at the spear’s wielder, sending him staggering back into the unwashed mass of his comrades.

Then a fireball explodes against her breastplate, its heat searing and overwhelming, and, to her left, a hand-axe gashes Dimitri’s upper arm.

They’re going to be overwhelmed. She can hear her fellows struggling similarly, occasionally crying out involuntarily in response to some injury or another.

She tries not to linger on how pathetic it’ll be for the Emperor of Flames to die to mere hired muscle, in an underground arena connected to a sewer-town, how much she deserves this fate–

There comes a familiar cry from atop the walls, and a lash of scarlet flame sweeps through the air as a figure vaults over the railing of the upper walkway, carving through a dozen men at a downward angle before retracting into itself – into the familiar form of the Sword of the Creator.

“My Byleth!” Edelgard calls, joyous, and then an enemy halberdier jerks her shield aside with the hook of his weapon, and a javelin from somewhere punches through her breastplate– and herself.

She staggers and again drops to a knee, calling on her Crest of Flames to little avail.

“El!” Dimitri cries, and she realizes she won’t be recovering from this, Crest of Flames or otherwise.

And so she calls upon the Crest of Seiros for strength– pushes herself back to her feet as her vision dims. Breaks off the lance in her chest, just to have the haft out of her way.

Will Byleth rewind this? Can she?

If she does, Edelgard will never know – so she resolves herself to treat what might be her last moments with the weight they deserve.

So she fights, cleaving through one man after another, chopping off the hand of a woman threatening Dimitri – Dimitri, her brother – as blood slowly bubbles out around the head of the javelin still embedded in her breastplate, running down the armor in addition as her own scarred skin, front and back.

At least it forms clean rivulets on the face of her breastplate; beneath, it simply soaks her blouse and gambeson, making them cling to her belly and back, heavy and wet and, quite unnervingly, warm.

She dashes a young rogue’s skull open upon the rim of her shield, runs a mage through with a blow so vicious her crossguard impacts his stomach.

She can hear her Byleth calling for her, but she can’t make out the words.

They’re indistinct. Cloudy, like her vision.

She lashes out at enemies, determined to at least die giving her friends and comrades a chance, and then a hammer smites her upon the breast.

Edelgard falls.

And as she does, she laments that she couldn’t quite manage to die standing, and that she’s going to hurt the woman she’s certain is her one true love.

… But there’s nothing more she can do about that, now.

It’s… peaceful, really.

She barely even feels herself hit the stone stairs she’d just advanced down.

There’s nothing more she can do about anything; it’s no longer her responsibility.

She can rest.

She can rest, truly rest, and then, when she goes to sleep, she can do so knowing she’ll never again be awoken by nightmares, never again awaken to a busy day of secrecy and planning and work.

…

But she’ll never wake up next to her Byleth again, either.

The thought is heartbreaking, moreso even than the weapon she’s fairly certain has actually broken her heart, but… what can she really do about it?

She calls upon her Crest of Flames; feels the tug in her stomach as Byleth responds in kind.

Right by her side.

“My Byleth,” she rasps, reaching up towards a beautiful smear of blue she now realizes is her beloved, “My love. I’m sorry. You must lead the others onward-”

She feels herself fading away, falling away, everything becoming so distant…

Far away, she hears the anguished cry of her love. That tears at her heart more than anything ever has before– and more than anything ever will, because she’s dying, now.

There’s nothing else. Only her.

Even that fades away into the distance.

She hopes, with all of her mind’s last gasp of intelligent thought, that her Byleth will be okay.

And then everything goes dark.

* * *

A fireball explodes across Edelgard’s breastplate, and, at her side, a hand-axe tears a gash into Dimitri’s upper arm – and then there’s a brilliant flash of light from somewhere up above and to the right of her, where a magnificent blue dragon takes form, already on the wing.

“My Byleth!” Edelgard cries, elated, and the dragon roars, howls as if in anguish and in fury and bathes the teeming mass of mercenaries below in a torrent of flame, seeming to devote special attention to one especially-burly man with a quiverful of javelins at his hip.

Byleth slams, bodily, into the burning mercenaries, claws and teeth tearing into them with unusual ferocity before bounding off over Edelgard and Dimitri’s heads, her work done. She pauses only for a moment, and only to meet Edelgard’s gaze, something in her posture seeming to relax when the princess beams at her.

It warms Edelgard’s heart a little to think that she can calm her beloved so.

(Truthfully, she finds it more than a little romantic.)

Prince and Princess, by unspoken agreement, lean against one another, exhausted, and wait for Byleth to return.

“That was… close, I think,” Dimitri says, breathless and panting, and Edelgard nods.

“It was,” she agrees simply, and sheathes her sword before casting her shield aside so she can massage her broken-and-repaired right shoulder.

Goddess. It still feels like they’ve just barely made it.

At least there don’t seem to be any more reinforcements coming for the enemy.

* * *

Byleth’s claws run red with blood, her unbeating heart burning in silent anger.

They’d killed her El.

She can feel a tremor in her wings– it must be the equivalent of shaking hands, she supposes, taking a man into her jaws and shaking her head from side to side until something cracks and he stops squirming. The taste of human blood on her tongue hardly even bothers her anymore. It’s probably a good thing, really, but it’s still also a terrible thing. Just- a helpful one.

Perhaps, in a different world, this wouldn’t be so. Perhaps none of this would be so.

But it is, and it is, because the Fódlan she calls home is a violent place.

For now, at least.

Clearing out the rest of the invading mercenaries is nothing – less than nothing – in this combination of circ*mstances, and Byleth is sure to kill them all. None escape her fire and her claws, and as her fury fades, she circles back around to her El.

She and her brother are leaning on one another, exhausted, and Byleth, without really thinking about what she’s doing, nudges Dimitri with the tip of her snout and channels healing magic into him – casts Recover, in fact, a quite potent healing spell – before doing the same to her love.

Edelgard blinks, laughs, and steps forward to wrap her arms about Byleth’s head in a hug, pressing a kiss to her… cheek? It feels like a cheek, at any rate.

“Thank you, my dragon, my blade,” she coos. “You came just in the nick of time.”

Byleth starts to tell her she was late, but Sothis shushes her.

“You’ll only worry her more, little one,” says the goddess. “Especially if she starts to think of herself as always dying on you. You know as well as I do that if one fears themselves a liability, they are all the more likely to find that they have become one.”

“The prophecy that fulfills itself,” Byleth says, and Sothis nods emphatically.

“ Yes, precisely!”

“I’m impressed you can still use magic in that form, Professor,” says Dimitri, and Byleth hums.

“I was surprised myself,” she murmurs, not wanting to open her mouth too widely and disrupt Edelgard’s precious embrace.

She tries not to remember holding the woman in her arms, mere minutes ago, as her last breath rattled free from her lungs, taking her life right along with it.

The dragon finds moderate success, really, but she’s sure the sight of her beloved with a broken-off spearhead in her chest will work its way into her dreams, if nothing else.

People like us, she realizes, will never know peace. Not really.

It’s a bit of a glum thought to say the least, but– there’s nothing else for it but to accept that fate and move on.

So, rather than dwell on it, she turns her attention to nuzzling into the girl she loves. Her partner.

Edelgard rewards her with joyful giggles, and Byleth, still standing in and on the corpses of dozens of freshly-slain mercenaries, purrs for her.

“Her future empress indeed,” Sothis chuffs, echoing Edelgard’s words from the aftermath of the Holy Mausoleum situation, and Byleth frowns inwardly.

“… You said, then, that the Flame Emperor didn’t feel like a time traveler-”

“I’m almost certain time travelers aren’t real, let alone any kind of concern for us,” Sothis laughs. “It was mostly a jest, though, yes, I suspect I – possibly we – would be able to sense such a thing, even if only obliquely.”

“Hm… Alright.”

Over the course of a few minutes, the rest of the students – including the Ashen Wolves, of course – amble over, some of them more wary of the blue-hued divine beast than others, and Edelgard releases her hold on Byleth’s head (giving her another kiss on the cheek as she does so) as they themselves migrate toward the center of the platform.

Byleth lays down, and Edelgard promptly leans against her shoulder, humming warmly as Marianne and Monica approach in particular.

“You’re beautiful, Professor,” Marianne enthuses in that tiny voice of hers, and lays a hand further up on Byleth’s snout than most have done before, somewhere closer to the bridge of her nose. “Such healthy scales…”

Byleth is all too happy to press her head against the girl’s hand, it it strikes her that maybe she really is like a cat. sh*t.

Monica, meanwhile, stops a few paces away and gawps.

“I knew, intellectually, that you were… a dragon, as you say,” she says, “but- to see you take the form of such a magnificent creature, Professor, is… bizarre, to say the least.”

Byleth hums along, keeping tune with Edelgard’s song.

“Thank you, Monica, Marianne,” she says, her voice richer than she realizes, and, feeling a hand on her side, up near her shoulder, snakes her head around to peer at its owner.

“Dimitri,” she hums, and he offers her a tiny little smile.

“I meant to say so earlier, but– you have my thanks, Professor. You truly did arrive just in the nick of time.”

She bumps him with her head, and he laughs.

And then the shifty lilac twink comes over.

“I am not so certain you should simply assume he is a twink as you do,” Sothis cautions, “for all we know-”

“He paints his eyelids, Sothis.”

“ Mascara, little one. He wears mascara.”

“I bet he knows that,” Byleth huffs.

“I am the disembodied spirit of the progenitor goddess and even I know that, Byleth.”

“First off, goddesses don’t count anyways, and second off, he knows that because he’s a f*cking twink-”

“He could be straight!”

Byleth returns her head to Marianne’s ‘grasp’ and watches as Yuri and Monica stand and watch her.

“Hey,” she says. “Yuri, right?”

“That’s me, big gal,” he replies.

“Are you straight?”

His incredulous laughter is more than answer enough.

“Why do you ask?” he inquires, once he’s regained his composure, and strikes a sassy little pose? It’s a little odd, but. She’s a dragon, dating a princess, and so on and so forth. Weird posing is hardly off the table, especially given how dramatic the lad seems to be.

“Oh, just winning an argument for later,” Byleth explains, making zero effort to hide the wry amusem*nt in her tone. “‘He might be straight’ indeed.”

She shakes her head.

“I like your eyelid paint,” she says, and he chuckles.

“Eyeshadow, friend. It’s called eyeshadow.”

“Huh.” Byleth says, and Edelgard lays a hand on her neck.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Cichol…” she says, as though reciting a line from one of those plays she and Dorothea enthuse about, and Yuri finishes for her.

“… than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Claude chooses this moment – probably deliberately – to saunter over, with the big fellow, Balthus, in tow.

“Jeez,” he says, bow draped casually over his shoulder, “high-society types, am I right?”

Byleth can tell from the way he withers beneath Yuri’s glare that Edelgard – outside of her field of view – is probably regarding the lad with similar irritation.

She notes with some amusem*nt that Sothis has gone very quiet ever since Yuri corrected them both on the actual name of the stuff ladies paint their eyelids with.

“Balthus, come here,” she calls, and, to his credit, the enormous slab of human-stuff hesitates only a moment before stepping past Claude and approaching her.

“Uh- what’s up, teach?”

“You have blood in your hair,” she explains. “Hold still.”

And she grooms him with her tongue, nudging him with her nose when she’s done.

“There you go,” she says softly. “All clean.”

“Uh,” he manages, nonplussed, and then some strange (and strange-smelling) man appears, and Byleth curls protectively around whatever students she can, a low growl ripping from her throat.

“Name yourself, interloper, or die by tooth and claw,” she snarls.

Hapi rides forward to lay a hand on her face.

“Whoa, there, Chatterbox,” she soothes, as one might a horse, “easy. That’s Elfie. He looks after us.”

‘Elfie’ appears to be a priest of some sort, now that she looks at him. Robes of black and red, long, brown hair and eyes– he looks older, but not old. He could be forty, maybe?

“A divine beast…” the priest mutters, awestruck, and, as if remembering himself, bows.

“I am Aelfric Dahlman,” he says. “As Hapi says, the church has granted me custodianship of Abyss.”

“Do you do so alone?”

“Indeed,” says Aelfric. “And despite my responsibilities, I am but a humble monk.”

Byleth hums, displeased.

Damn the church, she thinks, and Sothis speaks up to offer her agreement.

“ Indeed.”

“I am sure you have already been made aware of Abyss’s… unique situation,” he says, picking his way over to the central platform to converse with them more easily, “Dagdans, Almyrans, the poor and the sick – as well as any other unfortunate souls who might suffer persecution on the surface or simply find themselves with nowhere else to go… I count them all among my flock, and consider it my sacred duty to provide for them all I can.”

“That is virtuous,” says the dragon. “The church could stand to have more men like you.”

Claude steps forward, unimpressed.

“That’s nice and all, but the poor and the sick living in a sunless crypt helps them… how?”

“Enough, Claude,” Dimitri says. “Please, forgive our friend, Aelfric. We would be happy to hear more.”

“Your friend is right,” says Aelfric, “and I dearly wish I could provide a better life for my flock. But it appears that Her Grace and most of the church consider Abyss to be… something of a nuisance.”

Byleth bristles, feeling as thought he hairs of her mane are standing on end in agitation. “Is that what they think? They look upon a town of refugees and see a nuisance?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aelfric sighs. “The ranks of those who would see Abyss purged swell by the day.”

“That sounds like the church,” Edelgard laughs bitterly, and Hapi bobs her head.

“Exactly. They make a big fuss about helping the helpless… when it suits them.”

“And their image,” says Yuri, his tone as dry as the winter air in Faerghus.

“Then they are degenerate, debased, and corrupt,” Byleth growls, and, realizing she may be scaring the others, lowers her head, almost whimpering at her own tone.

“… I have already made the first steps towards advocating for Abyss,” she says quietly. “Rhea is my grandmother, and has become friends with my beloved– she will bring these fools to heel, and if she cannot, if they still pursue this act of murder, I will put them to the sword myself.”

There is a moment of silence.

And then it is broken by Balthus’ enthusiastic, “Hell yeah!”

He pumps his fist. “I knew I liked you, Teacher-Lady.”

Aelfric smiles.

“You are Sitri’s daughter, aren’t you? Professor Byleth Eisner?”

Byleth nods.

“She had that same fire. I am glad to see it in you as well.”

“I quite literally have her heart,” she says, bringing a claw to her breast. “She gave her life so that I might live– for the sake of one she loved. I cannot begrudge her that.”

Aelfric regards her strangely for a moment, almost as though she had revealed some great, long-sought truth to him – and, indeed, perhaps she had – before they get down to brass tacks and begin discussing the future of Abyss, the Ashen Wolves, and the children here and on the surface who need education.

All the while, Edelgard hums against her side, warm and lovely, and Byleth can practically feel the pride radiating off of her as she watches Byleth doing… leader stuff, or whatever this sort of thing is called.

Indeed, a number of her students seem to take to leaning into her body, Leonie even laying back against one of her forelegs and taking a nap.

She’s pretty sure she and Leonie are about the same age, but she can’t help but feel that it’s positively adorable.

Doubly so when Hapi joins her, laying back against the other leg.

Nobody comments on the blood on her scales, on her claws, on her face.

And nobody knows that Edelgard died tonight.

She resists the urge to arch her neck around and lay her head at her beloved’s feet.

They have leader stuff to do.

* * *

“Seiros has been acting strange, lately,” Byleth reports neutrally. “I’ve begun working my way into her good graces, and I must say– I can’t tell whether Edelgard’s befriending her was folly or genius, but it’s certainly made things easier.”

Thales, wearing the face of Volkhard von Arundel, chuckles.

“Sometimes, girl, folly and genius are all but indistinguishable from one another.”

“Hm. Whatever the case, I’m well-enough embedded that she has little recourse to maneuver against either of us politically, especially having officially recognized me as her heir.”

“I must confess,” the Agarthan says, a wicked smile curling his lips and coloring his lavender eyes, “I never anticipated a demon being a capable agent, let alone that our little El might recruit a Child of the Goddess.”

Byleth smiles. “She’s full of surprises, isn’t she?”

A rustling of bushes, a whiff of sandalwood on the night air.

The swordswoman perks up. Nobody should be in the gardens at this time of night – that’s precisely why they’re using it as a meeting spot, after all.

“… It’s rude to eavesdrop, Prince Dimitri,” she calls, not unpleasantly. “Come– I’m sure your uncle will be happy to see you.”

Unsurprisingly, Dimitri emerges from behind a hedgerow some ways away and strides over, tension obviously coiling in him like a spring.

Byleth turns to meet his eyes for a moment, just long enough to give him a meaningful look, and smiles again.

“Apologies, Professor, Uncle,” Dimitri says, his words as stiff as his back. “I couldn’t help but be curious what you two might be discussing so late at night.”

Byleth meets Arundel’s eyes next, and shoots him a little wink.

Dimitri hadn’t gotten close enough to clearly hear them.

“Politics, mostly,” she lies, just like Hubert’s had her practice, “in light of my background and unanticipated rise in status, I fear myself ill-prepared to walk in such circles. Your Lord Uncle has kindly taken it upon himself to offer his private counsel whenever he happens by Garreg Mach.”

She bows to him.

“Once again,” she says, “you have my thanks, Lord Arundel.”

Arundel chuckles, waves a hand dismissively.

“Oh, think nothing of it, child. The partner of my niece is my niece as well-” he shifts over to nudge her with an elbow, “-not to mention our potential future Empress.”

It’s obvious that Dimitri can tell they’re up to no good, but Byleth is fairly certain he trusts her well enough to play along– that is, not to declare her a traitor on the spot, or wring her neck with the tremendous strength his Minor Crest of Blaiddyd grants him.

“… of course, Professor, Uncle,” the lad says, nodding to them in turn. “Should you ever need an outside perspective, I’d be happy to help, Professor.”

Byleth beams at him.

“Of course, Dimitri. My thanks.”

“I suppose I’d better get to bed,” the towering prince says, and Byleth nods and bids him farewell.

Once he’s out of earshot, Arundel smiles and says, “A lie with an eye towards the future. Good work, Lady Eisner.”

She snorts.

“Gods’ blood, Lord Arundel, must you tease me so?”

He chuckles darkly.

“You have exceeded my expectations, girl. Note that I shall adjust them accordingly.”

“Hm. So long as you’re aware that infinite growth is unsustainable.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“So long as your growth functionally tends to infinity,” he says, “then you shall continue to impress.”

She blinks at him, wide-eyed.

“Did- did you just-”

He hums, a deep and sonorous sound.

“I’m given to understand you’ve something of an interest in mathematics…”

She nods, and he chuckles again.

“Let us know when you’ve mastered your Morfisian Calculus,” he says, “and we’ll see about having a book on advanced mathematics sent your way.”

Byleth knows her eyes have lit up, damn them, and Arundel smirks.

“For now, continue to monitor and report on the archbishop.”

He gives her an almost-mocking bow.

“I expect this relationship shall prove most fruitful,” he says. “See to it that you do not disappoint.”

And then, in a column of red light, he vanishes.

Byleth promptly returns to her quarters and, after stripping back down to her smallclothes, slides into bed alongside her beloved.

Edelgard seems to have been squirming in her absence, discomfited, and stirs when Byleth settles in against her, skin on skin.

“… My Byleth?” she murmurs, half-awake, her dazey gaze struggling to meet Byleth’s eyes, and the swordswoman chuckles.

“Sorry, El,” she whispers, brushing a lock of hair behind her princess’ ear and giving her a quick peck, “Just had to relieve myself. I’m here, now.”

Edelgard pulls Byleth closer to herself with by-now-unsurprising strength, tangling their legs and tucking her head under Byleth’s chin. Her incoherent, half-voiced murmuring as she does all this is incredibly cute.

“… I’m here,” Byleth hums.

Somehow, it feels as though she’s saying that more to herself than to her beloved.

She wonders if perhaps people like her don’t deserve to know peace.

* * *

Chapter 18: The Burning One

Chapter Text

On the 20^th of the Horsebow Moon, Byleth Eisner receives a package. Several, in fact.

The first two, though, are there when she and Edelgard wake up – sitting in long, heavy-constructed wooden cases beside the door to her personal quarters, their delivery indicated by a note slipped under the door.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Edelgard murmurs as they sit on the bed, boxes freshly dragged inside, and presses a slightly-dry kiss to the swordswoman’s cheek.

It’s a Saturday, so they’ve slept in a little (the luxury!), but, reading the note, there’s no sleep left in Byleth’s limbs.

“Your payment, for services rendered.

And a gift, aptly-timed.

The latter is the axe Labraunda, as promised.

The former, we call ‘Lightbrand’.

You shall soon see why.

– V”

El snuggles into her side – it’s beginning to cool down, after all – and Byleth, to the younger girl’s delight, begins to purr.

Ironically, the gift is for her princess, rather than her, but, frankly, giving her girlfriend a Sacred Relic – a proper artefact weapon, forged of mithril and resonant with the Crest of Seiros – is a pretty good present in and of itself.

“One of these is for you, my love,” she says, tapping the bottom case – which is rather broader than the other – with her big toe.

Edelgard furrows her brow.

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” Byleth hums, and hefts the narrower box up and, bearing it across the room, onto her desk.

Flipping a pair of latches, she cracks open her own ‘gift’ and finds a sheathed hand-and-a-half sword on a bed of some soft material, wrapped in its own belting.

Even at a glance, the leatherwork is… beautiful. She turns the weapon and its scabbard over and finds it’s not even laced together up the back – it doesn’t have a laced-up backside like most do. Both sides are the pretty side, and it’s… bizarre, and striking. The belt, too, is immaculate – its edges perfectly straight, every hole perfectly round, every buckle perfectly symmetrical…

It’s almost alien.

Byleth wets her lips.

Lifts the whole package out of the box and, almost hesitantly – she can already see the hilt, pommel, and crossguard, after all – draws the blade.

The Crest of Flames is etched into the center of the crossguard, as well as on the uppermost metal band of the scabbard, and it’s- it’s perfect, and each little crest is perfectly-identical to the next.

The blade glows white in her hands, dull gray steel turning luminous seemingly unprompted, but it, too, is unerringly perfect. No imperfections, no… no signs that it’s been made by human hands at all. The fuller is perfectly straight, and perfectly even on both sides. The edges are pristine and unerringly straight. The point is exactly centered, the pommel exhibits perfect radial symmetry, the hilt’s wrappings maintain a precise twist all the way up, the quillons are symmetrical both above and from the side, there are no gaps between the blade and the crossguard at all…

It’s incomparable, genuinely, to anything she’s ever seen before.

More importantly, it doesn’t appear to be evil, or made out of the bones of her ancestors.

In fact, it almost seems… holy?

Perhaps this, too, is a sacred weapon.

She slips it back into its scabbard and places it back onto its bed for now.

Somehow, she gets the feeling this thing beats the absolute hell out of Nosferatu.

Turning, she finds Edelgard positively enamored with a gleaming, double-bitted (why, though!) axe – and, unlike Lightbrand, Labraunda looks to have been made by a person.

She starts to open her mouth, only to pause as she scents someone nearby.

Whiskey and horse sweat– that’s her father, surely!

There’s a knock at the door.

“A minute, Papa!” Byleth calls, and opens the drawer for Edelgard as she scrambles across the room to get dressed.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” El demands, half-joking, and Byleth leans over and kisses her.

“I only smelled him just before he knocked, El,” she says, “I promise.”

Edelgard makes a show of pouting as she pulls on her blouse.

Byleth would tease her, but she has to get dressed, too.

All she can really do is giggle at Edelgard’s endless supply of red hose. Or- tights? Leggings? Whatever.

(Byleth, of course, has diversified her legwear portfolio ever since that time Edelgard ended up with an imprint of a certain retainer of hers’ patterned stockings on her face. She also just has more clothes than she used to, which helps. People look at you a lot more kindly when you wear a blouse and a skirt, or a tunic and leggings, she’s come to realize, and some people get very cross when one starts to ‘show too much skin’.)

(Byleth still doesn’t understand what is and isn’t ‘too much skin’. It seems like sometimes it means any amount of skin exposed whilst also being a woman? People get less upset about it than they do about her wearing a sword, though, and that’s certainly not going to stop anytime soon.)

“… My blade,” Edelgard says, pulling on a pair of shorts, “what are we to do if you ever-” she swallows. “Should you ever fall, as I have?”

Byleth blinks at her.

Thinks for a moment.

“… If you wish to turn back time? Take the stone from my breast and place it into your own,” she says, “I don’t know it’ll work, but if it will, then you’ll need to be quick about it. A few minutes – maybe ten or fifteen – will be all you can manage.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

Byleth cups her cheek. There’s an odd fear in those lavender eyes.

“Then I’ll be dead, and you’ll have done all you can and more.”

She offers what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

“And you’ll have Sothis with you, maybe? Maybe if you take my blood as well…? I-”

She trails off.

“Hopefully you’ll have Sothis with you. Even if I’m gone, and you can do nothing to bring me back – even if Sothis can’t come up with any way to help – if she’s with you, then at least you won’t be alone.”

A yawn.

“Foolish child,” Sothis chides, “tell her to take your body someplace safe and wait.”

“… Why?”

“… I do not know,” Sothis admits. “Only that it is so. Should you- should we ever fall… Hm. Perhaps it would be wise to consult with Seiros on the matter before such a thing has occurred.”

“Sothis disagrees with me, actually,” Byleth says, and moves to the door to let (drag) her father in. “She thinks you should take us someplace safe and wait. She can’t explain why, either, but thinks Seiros can.”

“Then I’ll speak to Lady Rhea about it,” Edelgard decides, and gives Jeralt a little wave. “Hello, Jeralt.”

“Hey, Princess,” the towering man grunts, ducking through the doorway as Byleth hauls him inside by the arm, “Hey, kid.”

Byleth pulls the man into a hug.

“Hey, Papa.” she says softly.

“I hear you outed the Archbishop as a twelve-hundred year old saint to Catherine, Shamir, and the other Professors,” he says conversationally, wrapping his arms around her, and Edelgard laughs.

“Goddess, but I love you,” she says.

Byleth snorts into her father’s chest.

“Gay bitch,” the swordswoman intones, and her beloved gasps in mock horror.

There’s a moment of silence before they break out into laughter, and Jeralt – Father, Papa – chuckles, fond and exasperated.

“Do you have any idea how it feels to say to yourself, ‘f*ckin’ kids these days,’ every twenty years for three centuries?”

“If you give me a couple hundred years I can find out,” Edelgard says.

Byleth can hear the smile in her voice.

“f*ckin’ kids these days,” Jeralt grumbles halfheartedly, and Byleth laughs until her stomach hurts.

When she’s calmed down, he prises her off of him and lays a meaty hand on her shoulder.

“Happy birthday, kid.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

He tousles her already-messy hair, and she, feeling the beginnings of a dull ache in her knee, crosses the room to sit down on her bed so she can don her brace.

“While we have you here, Captain,” Edelgard says, coming over to kneel before Byleth to help with the brace, “I believe we’ve a great deal to get you caught up on...”

* * *

“… And do we know why these mercs were f*cking around in Abyss?” asks Jeralt, and Edelgard grimaces.

“No,” she admits, “we don’t. That’s the most troubling detail, really. Neither we nor any of the Wolves have the slightest clue.”

“Unless one of them’s lying to you,” the knight-captain answers, and Byleth, stroking her chin, nods, bouncing a little on her bed.

“Yuri,” she says, rather definitively, and Edelgard can’t find any reason to disagree.

Jeralt strokes his beard, the same motion his daughter had made just moments earlier.

“You think it’s worth squeezing answers out of him, kid?” he asks.

“It’d be easy enough, especially for me,” she admits. “He’s seen what my claws can do.”

She sighs, and drags her blue-eyed gaze up to meet Edelgard’s eye.

“What do you think, El? I can’t say I feel it’s worth the trouble, at least right now. Let alone the harm.”

Edelgard smiles softly.

“We’ll leave it for now, my blade,” she decides, “and have Hubert and Seteth monitor things.”

“I imagine that’ll help keep the Abyssians themselves safer, too.” Byleth nods. “Hubert’s people are good at what they do.”

Edelgard hums and leans over to give her beloved a quick peck on the cheek, noting that her lips are quite dry this morning as she does.

Jeralt, sitting backwards in Byleth’s desk chair, scratches at his beard.

“I can talk to Aelfric myself,” he says, at length. “He and I go way back-”

Suddenly, Byleth stands.

“Papa,” she says, and holds out a hand. “Sword.”

He takes up the sword and scabbard from her desk and tosses it to the swordswoman without a second thought.

Edelgard, in turn, snatches up Labraunda from its case and rises to her feet, the weapon setting her blood a-singing simply by being held.

“My Byleth?” she says quietly, and the swordswoman sniffs the air, looks upwards as if in thought, and, after a moment, seems to relax. The sight of the tension draining from her beloved’s shoulders sets Edelgard at ease as well, and, judging by the creak of the chair off to her left, Jeralt seems to have the same experience.

(She’s glad he knows his daughter so well; it’s sweet, she thinks.)

“I smelled a bunch of humans,” she explains, taking the opportunity to don her new sword-belt as she stands by the door, “and heard nervous chatter outside the door.”

She glances over her shoulder to flash Edelgard a rueful grin. “But it’s just our Eagles.”

“Ah,” Edelgard says, a smile growing on her face, “I suppose they’ll be here to see you, then, hm?”

She sets down her axe, and Byleth shoots her a Look.

“Oh, please,” says the princess, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair, “that was barely even teasing.”

Byleth sticks out her tongue, and Edelgard laughs in spite of herself.

“Go on, my love,” she says, making a shooing motion with her hands, “see to your students and their birthday greetings. I’ll finish catching your father up on recent developments– I need to find some lip balm anyways.”

She glances over at her beloved’s father, meeting his eyes for a moment; thankfully, he gives a curt nod of understanding and makes a similarly dismissive gesture at his daughter.

“Go on, kid,” he says, “go and see to your brats.”

Byleth squints at them playfully, finishes with her last buckle, and slips out the door.

An audible swell of enthusiasm follows, excited voices greeting their beloved professor in what isn’t quite a chorus.

Edelgard puts her ear to the door and listens for the sounds to retreat and taper off, giving it a minute or two after the group ceases to be audible before she speaks.

When she turns around, she finds Jeralt looking at her expectantly, one eyebrow raised, and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Byleth’s been working with the Agarthans, lately,” she says. “Out of necessity, of course, but…”

She folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the door.

“… that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“What kinda work, kid?”

“Informing on the church, as I understand it,” Edelgard says, “perhaps Rhea in particular.”

“Ah.” Jeralt grimaces. “She’s been keeping the details to herself, hasn’t she?”

The princess flashes a bitter grin. “She sure has, Captain.”

She jerks her chin towards the desk behind him.

“There was a note that came with-” she kicks the wooden box at her feet, “-these boxes, this morning. Is it still on her desk?”

Her girlfriend’s old man (genuine, in his case) turns around with a grunt and, after a moment, produces a slip of paper. When he settles back down into the chair (the wrong way, again, that is) he reads it aloud, and there’s not a smile in the house.

“I don’t like the idea of them getting their hooks into her,” Edelgard says, and Jeralt nods.

“I’m not too thrilled about it myself,” he says gruffly. “You got a plan or anything?”

She shakes her head.

“I think we’re just going to have to trust her,” she says, obviously far from pleased with the idea of simply trusting her beloved to navigate Thales’ bullsh*t all by her lonesome.

Jeralt grunts and produces a wooden flask, swiftly taking a pull of the whiskey therein.

“sh*t, Princess,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, “I love the girl half to death, but how the hell can one woman find as much trouble as she does?”

Edelgard chuckles dryly.

“Well, if you can handle loving her halfway, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage the other half. Perhaps then, once we’ve loved her to death, she’ll finally be defeated, and we’ll finally know peace.”

Jeralt laughs in turn– a low, hoarse, almost scratchy kind of sound.

When he calms, he asks, “You get her something real corny for her birthday?”

“Oh, I most certainly have,” she assures him. “Part of me wants to think it might even make her cry.”

That makes the old man throw his head back in laughter.

“Princess, if you can make that kid shed so much as a single happy tear, I’ll pay you to marry her.”

… And now she’s laughing, too.

* * *

Hubert smiles at the endlessly-strange enigma of a swordswoman he counts among his closest friends and companions, grasping her wrist and pulling her into a one-armed hug.

“Remember, Byleth,” he whispers into her ear, “the blood of the covenant runs thicker than the water of the womb. No matter what you are or where you’ve come from, you’re one of us. I don’t care if you suckled at the teat of Seiros herself– you, my friend, are family.”

The former mercenary coos his name, lifts him into the air – with one arm, mind – and gives him a little spin.

Dorothea titters nearby, and Hubert simply does his best not to let his embarrassment show on his face.

After a moment, Byleth sets Hubert down, releasing him from her grasp and giving one of those modest smiles that, for Byleth, means she’s positively beaming at him.

“I haven’t even given you your gift yet, Professor,” he teases, and, chuckling at the mock affront blooming across her face, reaches into his bag and produces a fine cloth pouch.

Byleth, of course, being a housecat given human intellect, seems pleased enough with the idea of a soft bag, which, while endearing of her, isn’t quite why this is the gift he’d procured for her.

Other than being of a fine fabric, and a little wider and a little shallower than is perhaps typical, it certainly appears to be a fairly ordinary sack.

Which is why he demonstrates by shoving his entire arm inside of it.

(He still doesn’t manage to reach the back.)

“It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside,” he explains dryly, and she almost squeals with excitement.

“Hubert, I won’t have to wear the Sword of the Creator anymore!” She enthuses, and he simply ruffles her hair and grins.

That had, of course, been half of the reason he’d sought out such a gift in the first place.

The other half was simple general convenience for herself and Lady Edelgard – Byleth would most assuredly carry at least one axe for their lady at all times, even if at her own insistence – and, frankly, the better-prepared Byleth is, the better-prepared their lady is. And that’s a boon to all three of them.

He gives his blue-haired friend a kiss on the forehead – as is most appropriate for embarrassing her – and steps aside, allowing the rest of the Black Eagles to swarm their dear friend and professor with gifts and well-wishes, as has become tradition with their class. This time, being out on the lawn, under the light of the sun and outside of the confines of the Black Eagles’ classroom, they’re even joined by a handful of students (and faculty) from outside of their own house.

Even Hubert has to admit, it all makes for quite an enjoyable morning.

It’s only when Ferdinand mentions he hasn’t seen Professor Jeritza – and everyone he asks echoes the sentiment – that Hubert begins to realize that something might be wrong.

The thought is absinthe-bitter and bites like a dagger left out in Faerghan snow, and it pulls at his gut until, able to ignore it no longer, he slips away from his compatriots in search of the missing heir of Hrym.

* * *

Byleth lifts Edelgard up into her arms as soon as she and her father emerge from their- er, her quarters and join the rest on the Academy lawn, giggling and unburdened; her mirth proves contagious when her Papa picks them both up at once, spins them about, and sets them down like they weigh nothing at all.

… At which point Prince Dimitri barrels into them and repeats the maneuver, as if participating in some bizarre event.

He bids her a happy birthday, and ruffles his elder sister’s hair when Byleth finally lowers her to the ground, earning himself a halfhearted thump on the chest from the bottom of a white-gloved fist.

“Dimitri!” Edelgard protests, and Sothis manifests herself nearby just to laugh fondly.

“ Well, those two have certainly figured out how to act like brother and sister, have they not?”

“It would seem so,” Byleth agrees. She doesn’t bother to hide her grin. “It’s sweet; I’m glad they’ve both realized they have family left, even after everything.”

“As am I, little one,” hums the goddess. “… Or should I call you Burning One? This will be your first birthday since becoming a ‘funny little dragon,’ as you might put it.”

Byleth blinks.

“Why Burning One?” she asks, furrowing her brow, and Sothis, again, laughs.

“ You are a source of warmth and a force of destruction, Byleth. Your elemental affinities lie almost entirely with fire. You bear the Crest of Flames, and are the lover of she-who-will-be the Emperor of Flames, whose soul hearkens to fire and to darkness as yours does unto fire and light. You are a passionate lover and protector, a mentor who forges and tempers her beloved students like steel, and a raging inferno that will see the old order burned to ash for the sake of her righteous cause. I spake of you, once, as ‘you who bears the flames’, did I not? It is true. You are ablaze. Aflame, within and without– Burning One.”

“I-”

“You are the very essence of fire itself,” Sothis insists, fists clenched, pouting and stamping her foot, “and bear its emblem upon your very heart. Fire within, fire without! You burn, Byleth.”

Byleth glances over at her beloved, who appears to be scheming with Dimitri in some way, if their proximity and furtive glances at Byleth herself are any indication; when the two catch Byleth looking their way, they both blush, and, almost shooing each other, split off. Edelgard slips away from the impromptu gathering while Dimitri turns and approaches her, oddly nervous-looking.

“I suppose I’ll tell the others my second skin has a name, now, then,” Byleth acquiesces. “I’ll let El and Hubert know you named me thus– they’re both clever enough to spread it from there. Probably El will call me that in front of the others when an opportunity presents itself-”

“-and the others,” Sothis continues, “taking it to be a name bestowed upon that form by your beloved, will accept it without needing to be told about the goddess in your head, or, worse, put in a position to assume you’ve chosen the name yourself.”

Byleth laughs inwardly.

“That only ever works out when it’s a gendering issue,” she agrees.

“… Did you ever change your name?”

“Nope. I realize it’s not the normal experience, but- I like my name just fine, and I always have.”

Byleth raises an eyebrow at Dimitri as he closes to speaking distance.

“ Oh, and Sothis?”

“ Yes?”

“ Happy birthday.”

Sothis snorts in most unladylike fashion.

“ You too, thanks.”

“Professor!” the Faerghan Prince greets. “Hello! I’m-”

“Definitely not here to distract Teach?” the familiar voice of Claude von Riegan butts in, the man himself following suit a moment later as he gives his Faerghan counterpart a playful hip-check.

Despite himself, Dimitri chuckles.

“Precisely, Claude,” he says, and it’s refreshing to see mirth in those blue eyes of his (he gets bonus points for being a fellow blue eyes-haver) as he teases his absent step-sibling, “I would never act as a distraction on my elder sister’s behalf, especially not for a reason so silly as her having left a gift for her beloved professor in her own quarters, which, for some reason, she never returned to last night-”

Claude pantomimes fanning himself like a scandalized maiden.

“Why, whatever could inspire such a scandalous accusation from Your Highness, least of all against a bastion of purity and faith such as Her Highness?!”

The funny accent he adopts as part of the affectation is especially amusing.

The two carry on with their banter – maybe they’re flirting? Byleth, at this point, hasn’t the slightest clue how men flirt, and she’s almost afraid to find out, having only become less and less certain about it over time – but Byleth’s attention has already drifted elsewhere. Primarily because she’s picked up an all-too-familiar scent of fruit and leather, colored by undertones of sweat and the faintest hint of-

Goddess, is it as easy for humans to tell when someone smells like sex as it is for her?

Does everyone know when they’ve slept-together slept together? Or just the Nabateans-

Oh goddess, Rhea knowing is bad enough, but this means Flayn can tell, too.

Normally they bathe after, at least, or try to–

… The fact that she hadn’t noticed this before is…

Surely she and El aren’t the only ones f*cking, right?

Somebody else has to be getting laid.

Well, aside from Professor Manuela.

“… Sothis, do we need to do a seminar on-”

“-Sex Education?” Sothis laughs.

Then she frowns.

“… Goodness, maybe we do.”

“Surely somebody else here is- Mercedes! I bet Mercedes could get all kinds of ass.”

Sothis doubles over at this, laughing so hard it seems almost like it must hurt– can Sothis hurt? She is incorporeal, after all.

“ Is- is that a mercenary expression, my friend? To ‘get all kinds of ass’?”

“I-” Byleth blinks. “I suppose it might be. Though it’s more of a turn of phrase?‘To get some ass’– something like that.”

“ Hm. And Mercedes is the soft one, yes?”

“Mhm. Soft-spoken, soft-bellied. Soft… haired? And older than me and Jeritza both, I think.”

“Looking at her makes me sleepy,” Sothis confesses. “She feels very pillowy.”

“No, I agree. Maybe it’s just a dragon thing, but I would nap on her so peacefully nobody would ever be able to muster the heart to wake me up and free her.”

“… Byleth, I hate to say this, but– I think you, among your kind, are… singularly-feline. My memories are… more like impressions, really, but while there is a catlike aspect to all Nabateans, much as there is a reptilian aspect to them, you…” the goddess pauses, evidently choosing her words carefully– lest she be scratched, perhaps, or bitten.

“I can picture other Nabateans, I suppose. Some have feathers and beaks and birdlike feet. Some resemble turtles. Some are long and almost serpentine…”

“And I’m a cat.”

“… And you’re very catlike.”

“Consider this: has Flayn even once purred in your presence? Rhea and Seteth not doing so is understandable, but sweet little Flayn would most certainly have done so, were she able to, let alone prone to it.”

“I can’t believe you’re attacking me like this. My own heart-partner. The indignity of it all…”

A familiar pair of arms drape themselves about her neck, followed shortly thereafter by a familiar pair of lips pressing themselves to hers, and all thoughts of Sothis’ felinid betrayal are promptly set aside.

“My Byleth,” the interceding Edelgard coos.

Now that she’s closer – as close as close can be, in fact – Byleth can smell the medicinal-herbal fragrance of the morning tea on Edelgard’s breath. It’s faint, but there, and she can’t help but be glad her beloved has the presence of mind when she doubts she herself would.

Purring so softly she herself isn’t aware of it, Byleth bumps their foreheads together and hums contentedly; the by now familiar action elicits a giggle from her beloved, sweet and warm, and it sets the swordswoman’s unbeating heart just that little bit more at ease.

They separate, Edelgard releasing Byleth from her grasp, and the princess presents her sworn sword with a small, narrow wooden box, perhaps the length of a feather pen, and smiles dazzlingly.

“For you, my blade.”

“Ooo, you know I love boxes,” Byleth teases, and then Edelgard opens the box.

The princess’ expression turns somewhat smug as Byleth, eyes widening, lets out an audible gasp at the treasure within.

A pendant, wrought in the shape of an Adrestian double-headed eagle, lies within the box on a bed of velvet. Its eyes are tiny, glittering red gemstones, the eagle itself forged from some beautiful black metal. The detail is impressive (and clearly the work of a person, bearing the subtle marks of its maker’s process), the craftsmanship excellent, and, she realizes after a moment, it has a peculiar, particularly-shaped inlet in its back side…

“… El, is this…?”

“For your stone?” Edelgard finishes for her, a proud, triumphant gleam in her lavender eyes.

Byleth appreciates her discretion in dropping the ‘dragon-’ bit– it’s probably not necessary, really, but a little informational security never hurt anybody.

Well, unless they’d been hurt and maintained informational security, at any rate.

“Is it?” Byleth asks, and El nods.

“It is. Try it and see.”

And Byleth does, slipping her dragonstone from the pocket in which she keeps it and pressing it into the dragonstone-shaped dragonstone slot– the one for the dragonst-

“Byleth, I swear on my alleged home star-”

“Sorry,” Byleth says.

She lies as easily as she breathes.

To her delight, the stone fits beautifully, the pendant obviously having been made specifically to accommodate it. She gives it a shake, then a thump– the stone seems entirely secure. It’s honestly impressive.

“How’d you manage this, love?” Byleth asks, at length, and Edelgard smiles.

“I took an impression of the stone while you were asleep – you reacted a little when I put mine on your stomach, so I’m sorry if you had some sort of strange dream because of that – and then we cheated a little, the jeweler and I.”

Her expression takes on a mischievous cast.

“It’s a little undersized – the slot, I mean – with little lips and tiny leaflet-springs to hold the stone in place.”

Byleth blinks at her.

“That’s… that’s gotta be some fine work,” she says, a little awed. “I hope you paid the craftsman enough for them to afford the eyeglasses they’ll need if they keep doing such intricate pieces.”

Edelgard laughs.

“Oh, I paid him well, my blade, and the prestige of being the first to make bespoke jewelry for the future empress will certainly help his business in the years to come.”

Byleth swallows.

“Goddess,” she breathes, “you’re really gonna do it, aren’t you?”

The princess raises a white eyebrow. “Make you mine? My wife? A Hresvelg?”

“They’re gonna call you dragonf*cker-”

Edelgard barks out a laugh.

“No, dear, they’ll call me dragon rider, and only future historians and the truly innocent will fail to grasp all that it means.”

Byleth drapes the pendant over her neck and kisses her beloved.

“In another life,” she says softly as their lips part, “perhaps you’d be a historian, clueless that those women buried hand-in-hand were, in fact, not cousins.”

“Mmh,” El hums, pressing a finger into Byleth’s chest, “and perhaps you’d be the one to… demonstrate to me the folly of my ways.”

Byleth reddens– only the ringing of the morning ‘get to class’ bell rescues her from that voracious princess and her dastardly wiles.

Of course, being the bastion of responsibility that she is, Byleth herds her students into the classroom and sets about beginning her lecture, her pendant tucked safely into her blouse so as to remain warm against her skin. She wouldn’t dream of removing it even if it weren’t her new dragonstone-holder, so it’s quite the agreeable arrangement, really.

They get a whole five minutes into class before it seems to dawn on everyone that Jeritza and Hubert are both absent.

f*ck.

* * *

“If I was a worm,” Byleth says conversationally, “would you still love me?”

“You’re already a wyrm, my dear,” Edelgard replies.

“Edie, Professor,” Dorothea sighs, “not that I don’t appreciate you two trying to lighten the mood, but-”

“But our dear friends Hubert and Emile are missing!” Constance interjects, and Byleth, at the head of the pack, grimaces.

“Constance,” she says through gritted teeth, “Professor Jeritza has asked you multiple times not to call him that. I don’t care if that’s his mystical True Name, given to him by the goddess herself– call him that again and I’ll double your physical training regimen for the rest of the year. Understood?”

“Y-yes, Lady Eisner,” the girl laughs nervously, and Byleth can just hear her hiding her embarrassment behind that sunhat of hers.

Beside the disgraced noblewoman, Hapi snickers.

“You really had to choose the trans professor to pull that with, huh, Coco?”

“Hm?” Constance replies. “I don’t understand what you mean, Hapi, my friend-”

Byleth, eyes still forward as they move down the Knights’ Hall in search of Jeritza’s quarters, can’t see Hapi leaning close to her friend to explain, but she can hear the quite susurrations of the young woman’s voice as she (presumably) explains all manner of things to poor Constance.

At least the girl is cute. And charming. And brilliant.

Lets her get away with a lot, really.

They bump into Shamir – Catherine’s girlfriend, the Dagdan mercenary with the sideswept hair and the cool jacket – and Yuri – the lilac twink – as they round a corner.

Shamir, unflappable as ever, greets Byleth with a simple, “Oh, hey, Professor.”

“Hey, Shamir.”

She and Yuri exchange glances.

“Have you seen Shez? None of the Blue Lions have seen her since last night.”

“Not even Monica,” Yuri adds.

Byleth and Edelgard, in turn, exchange glances.

“No,” says Byleth. “Have either of you seen Jeritza or Hubert?”

Yuri curses, and Edelgard leans into Byleth’s shoulder.

“I mislike this, my bl- my teacher,” she says softly.

Neither of them wants to suggest the possibility that Jeritza’s… having a bad mental health day, so to speak, let alone give voice to it in front of others.

Frankly, Byleth had kind of been hoping the medicine was doing him some good. Then again, maybe it is, and the Death Knight just sort of… breaks through, sometimes?

“We were going to investigate Jeritza’s quarters,” Byleth says, “see if we can’t find anything there. Would you care to join us?”

Shamir nods curtly.

“We’ll help,” she says, and tilts her head towards Yuri. “Professor Hanneman and Prince Dimitri are…”

“Not handling this the best,” Yuri offers, being the more tactful of the duo, and the pair fall into formation as they all make their way down the hall.

“So, Yuri-bird,” Hapi says as they walk, “how’re the Blue Lions treating you?”

Byleth arrives at Jeritza’s door, which, rather unnervingly, slightly-ajar, and pushes it open.

“Pretty well, all things considered,” Yuri muses. “I’ve already got Sylvain questioning his-”

He seems to lose his train of thought as he rounds the corner, because whatever he’s about to say is set aside in favor of a simple,

“-son of a bitch.”

It’s understandable, Byleth thinks, given Jeritza’s quarters, spartan as they are, appear to feature a secret passageway behind his slightly-askance bookshelf.

“Shamir,” Byleth says, drawing her new sword, “fetch your bow. Dorothea, Hapi, Constance, would you find the rest of the Black Eagles and have them equip themselves for battle and join me here?” She glances at Edelgard and smiles grimly. “You go fetch your axe and your armor.”

“I’ll play messenger for Hanneman, Dimitri, and the others, then,” Yuri offers, giving a roguish little bow, and Byleth nods.

“Excellent, thank you.”

She turns to peer down the descending passageway, slightly thankful everyone’s focused enough not to stop and ask about the new sword.

“As for me… I’ll make sure nobody gets in or out without our knowing.”

“I hope we don’t have to kill your friend,” Sothis murmurs. “He seems like a nice man.”

“ Yeah, well, if he’s hurt Hubert… ”

* * *

Behind his painted mask, the Flame Emperor works his jaw.

The scene before him is… difficult.

The unconscious bodies of Hubert von Vestra, retainer to the sole remaining Imperial Princess, and Shez, mysterious swordsman of the Blue Lions, are straightforward enough, insofar as they are present and unconscious. Makes it clear enough they’re not active players in the situation, at least for now.

It’s Solon, Cardinal Aelfric, and the so-called ‘Death Knight’ – a towering, scythe-wielding figure in spined black armor, a sneer on his skeletal mask and malice in the gleaming red eyes disguising his own – that make things complicated.

Hubert was brought down here this very morning by the Death Knight himself, as the Emperor understands it; Shez, meanwhile, has been here all night, or so he infers.

None of the three conscious figures paid him much mind when he warped in– merely greeting him with varying degrees of respect and carrying on with their business.

For the Death Knight, that business was – and continues to be – primarily sitting astride his black warhorse, itching for battle and bloodshed.

For Solon and Aelfric, it appears to be some manner of transaction, and discussion thereof.

“And you’re certain this Crest Stone will work?” Aelfric asks, holding the heart of some poor dragon in both hands with reverent, terrible awe, and Solon bobs his misshapen head, almost giddy.

“It most certainly should, Cardinal,” the Agarthan enthuses. “If not, we may pursue alternate avenues – perhaps other stones, or other means altogether. Whatever the case, you simply must keep me abreast of your research-”

Why one of the secret Cardinals of the Church of Seiros and the outed Agarthan have gathered here in this secret chamber beneath Garreg Mach to gossip like a pair of grandmothers having a lively discussion about their quilting, the Flame Emperor isn’t quite sure, and most of what they’re chatting about goes over his head.

Perhaps Edelgard would know more?

He can can hear her and Professor Eisner outside of this central room, fighting and shouting orders. Judging by the Death Knight’s fidgeting, so can he.

Does he fear them? Or is he looking forward to-

The Flame Emperor spins on his heel as another individual warps in behind him, and can’t help but stare, his shock thankfully hidden behind his mask, at the form of Yuri Leclerc, a sly grin on his face and a sword at his hip.

“Hmm,” the Flame Emperor intones, composing himself quickly. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

“Yuri,” the young man provides, raising an eyebrow. “And you are…?”

“The Flame Emperor. He who will reforge the world.”

“Ooh,” Yuri coos, “dramatic. I like it.”

He jerks at thumb at Cardinal Aelfric.

“I’m just here to keep an eye on the bossman,” he says, as though the two of them aren’t equally aware of the tension building up behind this scene.

“… You ready to go, Boss?” Yuri calls, after a moment, his eyes darting from the Flame Emperor’s glowing red glower to the anxious ‘bishop’ he’s apparently come to collect.

“Ah-” stammers the priest, and, tucking the Crest Stone away into a pocket of his robes, gives a jerky little nod. “Of course. Let us depart.”

And, in a simultaneous pair of red flares, they do, warping away to goddess-knows-where.

Once they’ve left, the Flame Emperor rounds on the weaselly Agarthan mage.

“Solon,” he scowls. “What is your business here?”

Solon sneers at him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Princ-”

The door to the chamber bursts open, and several things happen in rapid succession– almost all at once.

Solon glances at Shez and, evidently opting not to risk his life for whatever it is he seems to be having second thoughts about, warps away.

The Death Knight spurs his horse onwards, roars something about the promise of a ‘sporting hunt’ in a distorted, inhuman voice, and immediately catches a crescent of white magic in the chest. The attack seems to slow him only fractionally, and the Flame Emperor watches, dumbstruck, as the fool charges out into a barrage of magefire and a hedge of waiting blades.

It almost makes him wonder if this is what he’s like when the voices of the damned spur him into a fury.

(Goddess, but he hopes not.)

“Death Knight!” the Flame Emperor barks. “Cease this at once!”

The Death Knight ignores him.

Pretending he can’t hear the order, perhaps. It isn’t as though the Flame Emperor can follow him, after all.

Whatever the case, his apparent rampage doesn’t last too long– there’s a horrible hissing sound and the scream of a horse, then a nightmarish rending of flesh as something explodes, and the Death Knight cries out as he’s forced back into the room with his master.

The Flame Emperor makes note of the blood clinging to the blade of his scythe, but says nothing. What can be said? He knows not.

“You…” the Death Knight growls, “That sword…”

He narrowly avoids a vicious downward stroke of a mithril axe, leaping backwards and attempting to counterattack with his scythe, only to catch another crescent-moon blast of white light in reply.

The Knight staggers back a step, and Professor Byleth Eisner follows, entering the room. Blood and sweat mingle upon her brow and run into her left eye from a wound on her forehead, and she clutches at a gash across her chest with one hand, clutching a gleaming white blade in the other.

“Flame Emperor,” she coldly intones, her single unbloodied eye never leaving her opponent.

“Lady Eisner,” the Flame Emperor replies, bowing slightly. “I see you have met my subordinate, the Death Knight.”

She looks lovely, really, even in battle. Something about the way her hair looks even bluer when wet, maybe? The gleam of sweat on her limbs?

The Flame Emperor isn’t quite certain, but it’s easy to see why his sister is so enthralled with the woman. Human, dragon – she has a magnificence to her in either form.

It troubles him a little, however, to see her wielding some… other sword.

“I sure f*cking have,” the Professor replies dryly as the two stare each other down.

It’s… rather clear to him that she isn’t especially pleased with the situation.

Then again, neither is he.

“He is rather troublesome, isn’t he?” The Flame Emperor shakes his head. “Death Knight, retreat.”

This time, the horned reaper obeys, and vanishes in a familiar, columnar flash of red light.

“Hmph. So now he follows orders,” says the man in the mask, folding his arms across his breastplate. “I apologize for the trouble– I suspect that Solon dastard may have promised him blood-shed in exchange for his assistance.”

Princess Edelgard steps into view beside her former retainer, her armor gouged and battered and flecked with gore, her axe smeared with the stuff.

“And what, pray tell, was Solon doing here?” she demands, her lavender eyes as unyielding as steel.

The Flame Emperor thinks for a moment. Are the rest of the Black Eagles listening, just outside the room? He wonders.

“Hmm… I shall tell you, Lady Edelgard, Lady Eisner,” he says, “should you tell me why it is you bear that strange blade rather than the Sword of the Creator. A fair trade, is it not?”

The princess and her beloved share a look.

“That sword is made of the bones of my kin,” says the Professor, “and this one is forged of mithril, and was created for me personally.”

“Hm. Very well. Solon was here with the priest Aelfric, discussing some kind of research. Aelfric was exchanging this girl-” he gestures to Shez, doing his best to appear dismissive of and unconcerned with her plight, “-for a Crest Stone. He left before you arrived, and Solon left – without his prize – as soon as you opened that door.”

“And what’d he want with Shez?” Byleth asks.

The Flame Emperor can do little more than shrug.

“I asked, but received no useful answer– your arrival coincided with a limp attempt at mockery on his part, more or less.”

“Why was Hubert taken?” demands the princess, and the Flame Emperor chuckles, grinning behind his mask.

“I believe the Vestra boy simply stumbled upon this place and was captured, though I cannot truly be certain.”

Professor Eisner sighs and summarizes the situation with a quiet,

“Son of a bitch.”

* * *

The Flame Emperor warps away, of course – as is his wont – and leaves Byleth with two unconscious students and an open chest wound.

Happy birthday! Byleth thinks irritably.

Edelgard sits her down and calls over a healer, taking the opportunity to wash the blood and sweat from the swordswoman’s eye with cloth and canteen before bandaging the cut on her forehead.

She leaves the gash across Byleth’s chest to Linhardt, thankfully.

“Well, Professor,” says the green-haired mage, “the Death Knight’s birthday gift was certainly unique, wasn’t it?”

Despite herself, Byleth snorts. (It hurts to do so, but not too terribly.)

“Sure was, Lin.”

She rolls her shoulders as Linhardt finishes up, and, finding his work satisfactory, stands and moves to help Shez even as Lin goes to Hubert.

Aside from a few welts in the crook of her elbow where it looks like blood’s been drawn, the younger mercenary appears to be fine. No lumps on her head, a strong pulse…

“I think Shez was probably drugged,” she says, and hoists the girl onto her shoulders. “I’m gonna take her to Manuela. Can the rest of you take care of Hubert and yourselves?”

Shamir steps into the doorway and nods firmly.

“I’ll keep an eye on them, Professor.”

Byleth smiles at her.

“Thank you, Shamir.”

With that, she heads off.

* * *

Edelgard finds her beloved leaving the infirmary, just as youn- youthful Flayn comes crashing into the poor woman at full tilt, nearly bowling poor Byleth over in the process.

“Happy birthday, Professor!” the diminutive Nabatean exclaims, latched firmly onto her cousin’s waist, and Edelgard has to stifle a laugh at the sight.

“Now, Flayn,” she says sternly, “Professor Byleth is freshly-returned from battle. You should be careful not to hurt her.”

Flayn’s eyes shoot open, and, from her position hugging the Professor’s waist, she stares at Edelgard with wide eyes, seemingly taking in her battle-worn appearance.

She releases her grasp on Byleth, steps back, and gasps.

“Oh my goodness! What has happened to the two of you?”

Byleth half-turns to flash Edelgard a tired, grateful smile.

“Well,” Byleth begins, leaning into Edelgard as she joins her at her side, “a couple of our friends were kidnapped earlier this morning, so we had to get the dastards who did it all… sorted-out. Right, El?”

Edelgard resists the urge to roll her eyes, if only just.

“They were also wearing stolen Imperial uniforms,” she adds. “If the abductions hadn’t made it personal, that likely would have.”

She can’t feel it through her armor – breastplate and gambeson have a way of dampening subtle sensations – but she can hear it as Byleth, petting Flayn’s hair, begins to purr.

“You murdered them?” Flayn asks quietly.

Byleth lets out an odd, mirthless little laugh, one that isn’t quite so familiar to Edelgard’s ear as the swordsman’s usual fare.

“One isn’t said to murder a rabid dog, little one,” she says. “Perhaps I have murdered, long ago, sometime deep in the fog of my memory, but…” she shakes her head. “The woman you speak to now is no murderer.”

She glances sidelong at Edelgard, a small smile on her face.

“I imagine you can say much the same, no?”

Edelgard hesitates to answer, but, ultimately, nods.

“I would say I have murdered, yes,” the princess admits, “but only once, and not by choice.”

Flayn detaches herself from the half-Nabatean and regards her with wide, innocent eyes.

“Lady Edelgard…” she says softly, and the scion of all Adrestia bristles beneath her pitying gaze.

“Please, Flayn,” says Edelgard, and it’s all she can do to keep herself from snapping at the poor girl. “I would sooner forget such crimes as I was fain to pay forward than wallow in them.”

She’d only been a child at the time, after all, and the circ*mstances had been life or death– kill or be killed.

In hindsight, of course, she’s sure they’d not have killed her over so relatively small a failing, but the man would have been killed regardless, and she’d have been made to do much worse as punishment.

No, little Edelgard had little choice in the matter; she understands that, now, moreso even than she had then.

Seteth arrives, the fall of his boots ringing out proudly as he comes down the hallway, and his somber expression belies his unenviable position as none other than the bearer of bad news.

“Happy birthday, Professor,” he says weakly, and, taking in the three before him, sighs.

“… I’m afraid Professor Jeritza is nowhere to be found.”

Edelgard schools her expression into a mask of indifference, but beside her, Byleth exhales.

To Edelgard’s ears, the utterance that follows – a quiet, “Damn it,” – reads as equal parts curse and lamentation, as though even Byleth’s heart doesn’t know how it feels, how it ought to feel.

The princess lays a gauntleted hand on the small of her lover’s back, rubbing slowly up and down.

“What a shame,” Edelgard murmurs. “He seemed to be doing so well.”

“He was,” Byleth says, massaging her forehead, “and, frankly, I’ve come to rely on him– I’ve got, what, eleven students?”

She sighs.

“Even setting aside that he was an expert weapons instructor and could easily handle half of the class at a time during training, he was way better at grading and paperwork than me-”

“Oh! Oh! I could be your assistant, Professor!” Flayn chirps, and Byleth stops and blinks down at her.

Honestly, it seems like a pretty good idea to Edelgard, and she says as much.

The littlest Nabatean beams at her, and, between the two of them, it really doesn’t take all that much convincing to get Byleth and Seteth to agree to a simple, noncombat arrangement.

Seteth ushers the girl off for paperwork (and probably to help her orient herself at Jeritza’s old desk in the Black Eagles’ classroom), and Edelgard and her blade opt to report to Rhea sooner rather than later.

It only takes a few minutes to fill the warrior-saint in, and the look on her face as they explain Aelfric’s trade with Solon is equal parts troubling and terrifying– just seeing shock and alarm on the woman’s face is unnerving enough, but for that to mingle with fear and fury, outrage and disappointment and disgust…

The experience is truly unsettling.

“… Meet me again tomorrow afternoon,” Seiros says, once she’s finally composed herself. “I will need to deliberate on this matter.”

She regards them for a moment, the audience chamber falling silent until she speaks once more. “For now, the two of you are fresh from battle, and should divest yourselves of blood and steel – Byleth, your father was looking for you, and-”

Seiros reaches into her robes and produces a glassy, fist-sized stone, its heart comprised of a strange cluster of colorful crystalline structures.

“A gift,” she says, smiling beatifically. “I made it myself.”

Byleth accepts it, however hesitantly, and regards the woman with utter bemusem*nt.

“I- you- what?”

Edelgard swears Seiros’ smile turns smug for a moment.

“I made it myself,” she reiterates. “With my hands.”

Edelgard doesn’t think she’s ever seen Byleth look so afraid of anything in her life.

It’s actually pretty funny.

* * *

Byleth finds her father outside, in the Monastery’s graveyard, kneeling before a stately, weather-worn headstone at its southwestern-most corner.

It is, he informs her, her mother’s grave.

Sitri Eisner.

She kneels before the stone and inspects it carefully. The date of birth and death, the epitaph…

“Resting in the warm embrace of cherished memories,” Byleth reads, finding her voice uncharacteristically soft, and Jeralt chuckles halfheartedly.

“So it says, kid. So it says.”

And those dates…

“1139-1159… she was my age, when she died,” Byleth muses. “Younger, even.”

Jeralt grunts an affirmative.

“A little fatherly advice: don’t let that princess of yours die, alright, kid?”

Byleth tries not to think about the fact that she incredibly has.

Instead, and hoping to lighten the mood, she says, “If she doesn’t outlive me, I’ll kick her ass.”

Jeralt laughs through his nose.

“Attagirl,” he says, and gestures her over.

He smells like whiskey – a little moreso than usual – and something Byleth can’t quite place. Sadness, perhaps?

It doesn’t seem correct that she could smell sadness, but- it does feel right?

Maybe it’s a mental thing.

Whatever it is, she allows it to fall by the wayside as her father produces a cloth pouch from a pocket and presents it to her.

“This,” he says, as Byleth loosens the drawstring and peers inside, “was your mother’s ring.”

Byleth stares at the little silver band, unmoving.

“Someday, I want you to give it to somebody you love as well as I love her.”

Byleth looks up at him, eyes wide.

“I know we both know that’s probably gonna be your princess, kid,” he says, “but if it isn’t, that’s fine too. I don’t want you feeling pressured about it either way, alright?”

A moment passes.

“… You look a little overwhelmed, kid.”

Byleth swallows.

“This ring,” she begins, “belonged to my mother.”

She examines her father’s face. The scars, the stubble.

“The woman you loved. A woman I’m apparently very much like. And yet- I don’t know her, and I never will. She’s been dead for as long as I’ve been alive.”

Jeralt lays a hand on her shoulder and gives her room to speak.

“… Her heart pumps my blood, in my chest. And I don’t even know what she looked like. How she spoke. If I met her, I wouldn’t recognize her scent as her scent. I-”

Byleth clutches the ring to her chest.