The Lion's Seduction

by thepinkbunnywrites

Summary:

Loosely follows the ending of the Azure Moon route, with Byleth marrying Dimitri.

Dimitri wrestles with the intensity of his lust for his virgin bride, forcing himself to refrain from consummating the marriage lest he lose control.

But little does he know that Byleth is awakening as a woman, eager to explore the delights of the marriage bed.

AKA: Dimitri wants to bang but is scared of hurting virgin!Byleth. She, in turn, wants to have kids but doesn't know how. Hilarity ensues.

Chapter 1: The Conjugal Embrace

Notes:

Hey, lovely readers! Reading your comments, suggestions and random bits of feedback is the lifeblood of this fic, so I hope you continue to share them. I prefer interacting with you, so hope you continue - just so I get a pulse as to how you guys feel about the story thus far. Feel free to drop one below! ☺️

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10th day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Garreg Mach Monastery

 

Sunlight streamed into the newly renovated room, bathing it in its delicate warmth. Byleth couldn't resist striding towards the open window, enjoying what little time she had with the warm sun before winter claimed its dominance over Fodlan once more. There was already a pervasive chill in the air, she noted, breathing in the sweet scent of autumn flowers. But at least it was not as bad as the weather in Fhirdiad.

Her gaze turned to the wooden writing desk next to the windowpane. There was the usual clutter on it: quills that were long past their prime, their tips already blunt with overuse; intimidating Church ledgers that refused to balance; and, a stack of documents outlining the reforms that she and Seteth have been working on for the past fortnight. But there was something else, something that commanded the attention of her sea-green eyes: a letter bearing the Blaiddyd coat of arms and Dimitri's distinctly elegant handwriting.

My dearest wife, it began, and the simple endearment still sounded foreign to Byleth despite having been married to him for two months now. It was definitely a strange turn of events, them falling in love with one another, but stranger things have happened—her very existence owed itself to such an anomaly. She's just grateful that the hands of fate led her to this path, one where she could tie her life with Dimitri's, first as an instructor, then as a comrade, before becoming his equal in love. She refused to think about the alternative, a world where she had chosen differently. 

A world where she wasn't there to be with him when he was at his lowest. Byleth suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Instead, she traced his handwriting, the corners of her lips rising in a soft smile. The letter recounted his day-to-day activities as the new king of Faerghus, and spoke of the progress of their joint restoration efforts across the now-unified Kingdom. It was more of a status report than anything else, but it was so like Dimitri that she couldn't help but find it endearing.

I just hope he's not overdoing it, she thought, making a mental note to remind him in her next letter.

A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her guests. She gave the letter one last look before replacing it inside its envelope.

"Professor, we're coming in," said a muffled feminine voice. A second later, the heavy oak door opened with a loud creak, revealing the newly-minted Countess Gloucester and Duchess Aegir. To Byleth, though, they were simply Marianne and Hilda, former students turned beloved friends.

"Oh, Professor, it's been so long," Hilda exclaimed as she rushed toward her. While Marianne was dressed in a conservative gray frock that no doubt restricted movement, she donned a pink gown with a questionable slit running up to her thigh, letting her advance across the room with ease.

She gave Byleth a quick hug before saying with mock-reproach, "I can't believe you missed my wedding. Not only mine, but Marianne's too! How cold, Professor. Here I thought we were close."

Byleth was used to her teasing by now, knowing full well that the exaggerated pout directed at her was meant in jest. Regardless, it was still true that she had missed out on what could possibly be her friends' single most important event of their lives. She wore an apologetic smile. "Sorry. The orphans and the poor needed immediate aid."

True enough, she and the Knights have spent the past two months establishing clinics and orphanages in Enbarr, Deirdru and places ravaged by the war. This was, admittedly, a small step towards healing, but a step nonetheless.

"Aww, shucks, when you put it that way, I guess I have to let you off the hook."

"But really, Professor, it's alright. We understand." Marianne's gentle voice was barely above a whisper as usual. "Lorenz and I"—she blushed at this—"we're also focused on rebuilding our territories. We're thinking of helping the people re-establish the industries made superfluous by the war. Farmers, milliners, artisans—they could go back to their crafts now that the fighting has stopped, as long as the proper economies are in place."

"I'm impressed, Marianne. You know so much about these things," Hilda said.

Marianne blushed more. "U-um, my adoptive father has been teaching me. Oh, and Lorenz, too."

Byleth motioned for them to sit on the simple chaise lounge that now adorned her eastern wall. "Isn't he meeting with Seteth today?"

Marianne nodded, graciously accepting the teacup that was handed to her. "Yes, along with Ferdinand. Lorenz mentioned about forming a trade council to address the volatile prices across territories."

There was a hint of wifely pride in her statement that didn't escape Byleth's notice, and the former teacher was hard-pressed not to tease her about it. To think that this was coming from the same girl who thought she was cursed and didn't deserve to live, let alone be happy.

Hilda seemed to have noticed it, too, but she merely gave her friend a fond look, before taking a tentative sip of her chamomile tea. "Ah, so that's what Ferdie's been up to. He's been very enthusiastic about his duties lately, more so than usual." She set her cup on the small table beside her. "You know, I think my brother would be interested in joining that council. He's always going on about wanting to help out more. Silly man, that's why people have such high expectations of him."

Marianne's eyes lit up. "Lord Holst would? Lorenz would be delighted."

"Sure, let me recommend that to him next time I get the compulsion to write home. Better him than me, that's for sure. Especially..."

In the process of pouring herself a cup, Byleth's hand stilled. She didn't know why, but she was sure something significant has happened.

"Especially...?" repeated Marianne, her delicate brows meeting in confusion.

Hilda dropped her gaze, almost shyly. "Promise you'll keep this a secret?"

The two nodded.

"You must keep quiet about this, because even Ferdie doesn't know yet." Then, she lifted her eyes, which were glistening with happy tears. "I-I'm pregnant. I'm having a child."

This was met with an uncharacteristic squeal from Marianne. "Oh, Hilda," she sniffed, eyes misting. "That's beyond wonderful! I'm so happy for you."

Reaching over to give her friend's hand a loving squeeze, Byleth offered a warm "Congratulations." Yet as she did, her mind began to unearth questions that have long been buried. The very same questions her father never gave answers to.

What does it mean when people say they became pregnant? How did that happen? How did they manage to put a baby inside a woman's stomach?

She recalled how Jeralt broke out in a fit of laughter at the last question, startling the members of their mercenary group who were going about their own business. After recovering, however, his face wore an uncomfortable expression, and brushed her off, stating that she didn't have to think about such things yet. He would tell her when the time was right. And Byleth did as he said, and never gave the matter another thought; she had no reason to.

Until now. But her father was gone, taking his knowledge with him.

An unfamiliar sense of dread snaked down her spine as a thought hit her. What if she never figured out how? What if she never learned the steps to beget a child? Sure, the idea of becoming a mother never occurred to her, but now that it has... she couldn't turn back. Her entire being rebelled at the prospect of a life devoid of golden-haired, blue-eyed children that she and Dimitri would teach swordplay to, read to, and care for.

It was the first time she felt this yearning. She was unprepared for it and for the unsettling realization that there was something she wanted more than anything—a family with the man she loved.

She eyed her friends, barely listening to their exchange about potential names for the baby. And then, she decided to get her answers.

"Hilda?"

The lady in question was in the process of taking a bite of cake, her fork pausing in mid-air. "Yes, what is it, Professor? Don't tell me you zoned out again," she teased.

Byleth shook her head. Then, taking a bracing breath, she said, "I was wondering how a person gets pregnant."

The fork fell onto the dessert plate with a sharp clang. Utter silence descended on the room; Hilda's and Marianne's faces were pictures of confusion.

What was it about the subject that provoked such a weird reaction from people? Byleth contemplated with a frown.

It was Hilda who broke the silence first. She looked at her former teacher uncertainly. "Er, what do you mean, Professor?"

"I want to understand how someone gets pregnant, like you have. What did you do?"

Again, an uncomfortable silence fell heavy on the air. Byleth, unnerved by this, added, "Jeralt never explained."

Marianne's face flushed furiously, as though suddenly scorched. "Oh, my," she spluttered, covering her cheeks with trembling hands.

Hilda cleared her throat. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but... does that mean..." Her gaze flickered at her friend curiously. "... you've never..."

Byleth raised a quizzical brow. "Never what?"

"Er, lain with someone? You know, shared your bed with anyone?"

Byleth blinked. Dimitri had asked something similar that night. Were sleeping arrangements important to the creation of children? "I've slept alone my entire life, except that one time after my wedding. I had to travel back to Garreg Mach the next day. It has been two months since."

"And during the wedding night... what exactly happened?" Hilda probed.

"Stop, we shouldn't pry," Marianne pleaded. It was obvious that the entire situation made her terribly uncomfortable. "Oh, dear, this is embarrassing."

Why was it embarrassing? Intrigued, Byleth answered before Hilda could retract her question. "I was told that the tradition was to sleep together on the same bed, and so we did." There was the issue with her bridal wear, though. The flimsy garment did nothing dispel the chill of the night. 

"Then?"

"We talked for a while, before Dimitri blew the candles and bid me goodnight."

That was clearly not what Hilda was expecting if her stunned expression was anything to go by. "That's it? He didn't kiss you, or—"

"Oh, he did. He kissed me goodnight." A sudden wave of awareness warmed her body at the memory of the strange kiss. It had been open-mouthed and wet, and definitely longer than the chaste peck of lips they shared during the wedding ceremony. It gave her the strangest urge to run her hands through the panes of his back and pull him closer. She never had that urge before. How odd.

"And then?" came Hilda's follow-up.

"I fell asleep, and he followed suit."

"That's strange. Lorenz definitely..." Marianne didn't complete her sentence, but threw a speaking glance at Hilda, who nodded in response. 

"Ferdie, too," Hilda murmured. 

This exchange did nothing to assuage Byleth's curiosity, which was now skirting around the border of impatience. "I still don't understand. What's wrong?"

Hilda sighed in resignation. "I guess it's up to dear ol' me to explain, then." She made a show of smoothing her skirt, as though unsure with how to proceed. "You see, there's a special... er, embrace that a couple needs to do to get pregnant."

Embrace? Was it that easy to get with child?

Hilda continued, her cheeks turning the same shade as her hair. "It involves them being unclothed—"

A choking sound erupted at the last word. It came from Marianne, who has apparently averted herself from their general direction, her hands still shielding her face.

"—then, they embrace each other, skin to skin as an expression of their feelings. You, er, never did this on your wedding night?"

Aware of the deep flush that crept up her neck, Byleth shook her head. Now she understood why it was such a delicate subject—it involved getting naked, of all things. She felt the heat rising up to the roots of her hair as the inevitable image of her and Dimitri naked together entered her mind. 

"That's the strange part, though. It's usually the man who's eager to do this, especially when they're in love with a woman."

Marianne finally had the courage to chime in, "And it's obvious that Dimitri loves you deeply."

"So, why hasn't he done this yet?" Hilda tapped her chin pensively. "Though... I suppose there's no reason why you can't initiate it, Professor."

This drew a shocked gasp from Marianne. "B-but that's—"

"What? Dimitri's clearly too much of a gentleman, or too slow for his own good. If the Professor says she's ready, there's nothing wrong with her giving him the proper encouragement."

Byleth didn't know how to respond to this, the mental image of her and Dimitri unclothed was still doing unusual things to her body. Things that she was ill-equipped to identify. 

But one thing she was sure of: she wanted to have children. Their children. And if she had to take the initiative, she would.

Leaning forward, she wore the determined look she always had before a battle. "Tell me, what should I do?"

Hilda's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well, you have no choice but to seduce him."

Chapter 2: The Beast

Notes:

Hey, lovely readers! Reading your comments, suggestions and random bits of feedback is the lifeblood of this fic, so I hope you continue to share them. I prefer interacting with you, so hope you continue - just so I get a pulse as to how you guys feel about the story thus far. Feel free to drop one below! ☺️

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12^th day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Blaiddyd Castle, Fhirdiad

 

To call Fhirdiad cold would be a horrible understatement—almost like an insult to its infamy, as though it was something a simple change of clothes could resolve. No, the weather was a more ruthless mistress, its frigid fingers unforgiving as they scraped against exposed skin, and greedily seeped into layers of clothing to claim the bodies beneath. It heeded no season nor master, and gleefully laid siege over the city all year long.

Thankfully, the mortal body was a resilient thing, and centuries of living in these conditions have taught the residents how to withstand the hellish chill. It was rather unfortunate that the same could not be said about foreign visitors, though, Dimitri thought wryly.

He suppressed a wince as another explosive sneeze came from the new Queen of Brigid, who shivered alarmingly beneath her green, wool cloak.

“I-I-I am s-s-s-sorry f-for my l-lacking of m-m-manners,” Petra muttered in sync with the chattering of her teeth, her trembling hands rubbing against each other in a futile attempt for warmth. “A-a-as I w-was s-s-saying, w-we—ACHOO!”

It was the first time that Dimitri has seen her this helpless. Leaning against his velvet high-backed chair, he let his gaze flicker from Dedue in the seat to his left, to Sylvain, Ingrid, Felix and Annette on the middle settee, before landing on Ashe, who sat next to Petra in the other—all of them had the same concerned look, albeit in varying degrees.

There was a knock on the parlor door.

“Ah, finally,” Dimitri exclaimed, as servants came in with the tray of tea he had asked for. He signaled to one to distribute the tea cups, while another added more wood to the fireplace.

Turning to Petra, he said, “Please, drink it while it’s warm. It should help with the chill.”

“Th-th-thank you v-very m-m-much.”

Arm draped protectively around his companion, Ashe helped steady her hands as she took a generous gulp of the warm drink. The intimacy of the action was not lost on the group, and Dimitri saw Annette blush from the corner of his eye.

It had been a big surprise to many when Ashe announced his decision to serve the young queen after the war. After all, he had been poised to become a lord as Lonato’s sole survivor, and this drastic change in fortune did not come easily to many men. It had appeared unwise and even ungrateful to pass up on such a rare opportunity in order to pledge servitude to someone else. But Dimitri had seen the fleeting glances the two had shared, the extra fierceness with which they had fought when the other was in peril. That was why he already expected Ashe’s decision, and he couldn’t be prouder of him for it.

“Thank you for receiving us, despite the lateness of the day, Your Majesty. We had planned on arriving earlier, but the journey to Fhirdiad hadn’t exactly been kind.” Ashe rubbed Petra’s back as a cough rattled through her frame. “We weren’t interrupting dinner, I hope?”

Dimitri shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a warm half-smile. “No, we had just finished when you arrived. But, come now, Ashe, there you go being formal again. Be careful, or else I would assume you did not think of me as a friend.”

Ashe colored beneath the slight tan that now covered his features. “Oh, sorry, I—”

Sylvain chuckled. “Yeah, Ashe, it’s only been what? Two months? It hasn’t been that long since we were fighting side-by-side on the battlefield. Don’t you know you usually wait for at least half a year before you could treat others like strangers?” He winked. “For girls, though, it’s normally longer.”

This earned him a glower from Ingrid.

“It was a joke,” Sylvain raised his hands in defense.

Felix heaved a sigh of exasperation. Looking at Ashe, he asked, “So, how can we help Brigid? I assume you two didn’t travel all this way to listen to this fool.” He pointed to Sylvain.

Dimitri heard Petra say something, but did not have a chance to process it. He closed his eye and braced himself as his heart began its quick, inevitable crescendo at the reference to the war. From somewhere far away he could hear them coming—the familiar chorus of bloodcurdling screams. The metallic clang of swords. The coppery smell of gore and death. They were growing louder and louder with every breath. Getting closer and closer until they surrounded him. Goosepimples covered his skin. The screams loud against his ear.

DIMITRI! DIMITRI!! DIMI—

No, I will not succumb anymore. He knew what he had to do. With every ounce of willpower, he forced his body to block off the swirling abyss that threatened to encroach him. He guided his shaking hand to his waistcoat pocket and grabbed onto the small leather pouch inside, as though it was the only thing that tethered him to his sanity. Beads of cold sweat formed on his upper lip with the effort it took to control the shudders that ran through his body.

A few deep tumultuous breaths later, the darkness finally started to recede until the screams were only a faint sound from afar.

He felt a surge of pride at yet another successful attempt at controlling his lapses. It was a slow progress, for sure, but there seemed to be hope for him yet.

“Your Majesty?” came a low whisper from his left.

Dimitri opened his eye to see Dedue’s face made even more grim with worry. A quick scan of the others told him that they were too engrossed with the conversation to notice. Relieved, he answered in an identical whisper, “I’m fine, Dedue. Truly.”

His friend gave a small nod, and quickly went on as if nothing happened. He knew how much Dimitri disliked attracting unnecessary attention to these occurrences.

“Thank you,” Dimitri silently added. He slowly released his grip on the leather pouch, chagrined to see his fingers were still shaking. Blotting the sweat with his sleeve, he shifted his attention to the discussion before him.

“… In that case, Ashe, I would gladly help you establish the first Order of Knights in Brigid,” Ingrid was saying, her green eyes twinkling under her blond fringe. “As the Sword of Faerghus, I would be honored to contribute to this endeavor.”

“Really? That would be great, Ingrid!” Ashe looked so excited he almost fell from his seat.

“I-I knew I could b-be counting in y-your help, Ingrid.” Petra said, in between sniffles.

“That is, if His Majesty is okay with this.” Ingrid suddenly glanced at Dimitri, the rest following suit.

Still a bit dazed and disoriented, he could only nod his assent. It was fortunate he had joined the conversation when he did.

Ingrid beamed. “There, that’s settled, then. Let me know when you plan to depart, so I could—”

Sylvain bolted upright at this. “Wait, wait, wait. Slow down there, oh mighty Sword of Faerghus. Aren’t you forgetting something here? Like, maybe talking to your husband first—"

“Fiancé,” Ingrid corrected.

“Fine, fiancé… for now,” Sylvain muttered, raking a hand through his ruddy hair. “Still, shouldn’t we talk about this first, before you go ahead and agree to an expedition to the South?”

“What’s there to talk about? The King has given his permission."

“Well, for one, by the time you finish there in say, four to six months, I’d probably be off to Sreng territory to initiate peace talks.”

“Yes, there’s nothing strange about that. I’d be doing my job as the Captain of the Kingdom Knights, and you’d do yours as the Margrave Gautier.” Ingrid crossed her arms primly in that way she always did whenever she had scolded Dimitri, Sylvain or Felix as children. “Just as we agreed, right?”

“B-but—the wedding—”

“The establishment of the Brigid Knights would no doubt solidify the country’s independence. Surely, that takes precedence, right? Sadly, I have no choice but to postpone the wedding until both of us are back.” Ingrid gave her fiancé a slow, teasing smile, and it became clear that she knew what waiting would do to him. It was almost as if she was finally getting back at him for all the times she had cleaned up after his mess.

Sylvain looked momentarily speechless, and it was so comical that Dimitri laughed despite himself.

Annette giggled, setting down her teacup. “I can’t say you don’t deserve it, Sylvain.”

“Waiting would do good for a libertine like you,” Felix smirked, his hand casually cradling Annette’s, their wedding bands gleaming in the firelight.

“Hey, retired libertine, mind you. And, okay, fine, what’s a few months, anyway? She and I would be done with our tasks in no time.”

“Actually, Sylvain, if you calculated it, it would be around a year or so before everything settles down,” Annette enumerated her points with her free hand. “Ingrid goes to Brigid for four to six months. You go to Sreng and do your dealings for around four to six months, as well. That totals to around eight months to a year.”

Sylvain looked slightly deflated. “Huh.” He raised a brow at Ingrid’s direction. “Do you think you could survive without me for almost a year? You could barely keep your hands off of me as it is—”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Sylvain.”

“—Try not to cry when you miss me too much. I’ll write you every day and fill my letters with kisses.”

“Sylvain.”

“Spare me from this pointless conversation, will you? If everything’s settled with Brigid, I think we’re done here.” Felix scowled. He stood up abruptly, and locked eyes with Dimitri. “Annette and I will be leaving for home before sunrise tomorrow, so we’ll be turning in for the night. Make sure you don’t get yourself killed on your way southward.”

“I will definitely try.”

Annette gave everyone a round of goodbyes, before she suddenly pivoted towards Dedue. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she handed over a small, slightly crumpled envelope from her pocket, “Would you please give it to Mercie? I’ve missed her so much.”

“Of course.” Dedue nodded.

“Thanks… and good luck.” Annette smiled meaningfully, before making a beeline towards Felix, who was waiting at the doorway, his eyes never leaving hers.

Dimitri could have sworn that Dedue just blushed at Annette's words. Fighting back a telling grin, he directed his gaze at his guests. “Petra, Ashe, I’m certain the long journey to Fhirdiad has been tiring, so I’ve arranged for your rooms in the West Wing. We will be leaving for Garreg Mach tomorrow, but please, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like. ”

“T-thank you, Dimitri. B-Brigid w-will be r-returning this g-generosity in kind w-when you visit,” Petra stood up, a trembling hand outstretched. “P-Please be s-sending my h-hello to the Professor.”

“We took a detour so we weren’t able to visit the Monastery on our way here, but we will definitely visit on our way back.” Ashe said. “Please extend my warm regards to the Professor, as well, Your Majesty.”

It was amusing that no one called her the Archbishop; it seemed that she would always be the beloved professor to them.

Except to me—she’s my Queen now. She’s mine.

Giving himself a slight shake, Dimitri tried to reel in the possessive thoughts as he crossed the room and accepted Petra’s handshake.

“Your Majesty, let me direct them to the West Wing.” Ingrid said, extracting herself from the settee. “There are some things I would like to discuss about the plans for Brigid.”

“I would appreciate that. Thank you, Ingrid.” Dimitri’s eye flickered to Dedue. “My friend, I hope I could burden you with making one of your tonics for Petra. I want to make sure she doesn’t take ill from the weather.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The four of them left the room without ceremony, the halls suddenly filled with the excited exchanges between Petra, Ashe and Ingrid. However, Dimitri didn’t miss the cursory glance that Dedue gave him and Sylvain before leaving.

“Astute as always, that Dedue,” Sylvain said, leaning back on the settee, arms crossed. “Do you think he noticed?”

“Perhaps, but knowing him, his curiosity mostly stems from worry than from anything else.” Dimitri walked towards the fireplace, hoping the warmth would cast away the mortification he felt from what he was about to share. “…I assume you’re wondering why I asked you to meet with me. I apologize for the lateness; I had thought we would get an opportunity to talk after dinner. I hadn’t expected visitors.”

 “Well, it’s not every day I receive a note from my King, asking me to ‘see him for a discussion of utmost discretion.’ You really know how to make someone curious, don’t you, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri couldn’t find it in him to reciprocate Sylvain’s lighthearted tone. Instead, he reached inside his waistcoat pocket, hand grasping the leather pouch. “I need your advice.”

“Advice? About what?”

Goddess preserve me. “About… intimate relations.” Inhaling sharply, he blurted out, “Byleth is a virgin.”

When there was no response, Dimitri turned around to see Sylvain’s confused expression.

Sylvain said uncertainly, “You mean, she was a virgin, right?”

“No, she still is. I… did not touch her during our wedding night.”

“Why not?”

“I—I did not know how to. I would not risk hurting her, lest I do something wrong.” There was another reason, but Dimitri didn’t dare open that part of him to anyone else.

Sylvain’s brows shot upward as realization dawned. “You mean, you’re also—"

“Of course. You know it’s not honorable to partake in that certain pleasure before you’re married… Though, I guess I would be the last person to talk about honor given the wretched things I’ve done.” His hand gripped the pouch tighter. “But even as I had descended into madness, even as I had killed and tortured, it has always been her. It could never be anyone else.”

He had spent five years as a lunatic, an empty husk fueled solely by blind hatred. But one look at Byleth back in the monastery had been enough to revive the stirrings of desire that he thought died along with his humanity—feelings that he had tried his best to push away, as he feverishly pursued his futile campaign against Edelgard. But soon enough, they had proven to be too strong, strong enough to overpower the black fury that had corrupted him.

“Yeah, you’ve always been in love with her, have you? Even before the war, it was obvious to anyone with eyes how you were head over heels for the gorgeous new teacher. I can’t blame you, almost half of the male population in the monastery wanted her, too.”

A violent surge of jealousy almost made Dimitri reach out and throttle his friend at the remark. “Does that include you or Felix?” He demanded.

Sylvain chuckled. “Goddess, no. I hated her back then. Or rather, I hated how she was using a crest without having to pay for it, unlike us. It was stupid and misguided, of course, and I know that now; just because I never saw it, doesn’t mean she never suffered for the power she was given. But I was young and too consumed in my own affairs to think through my feelings.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “For Felix, I think he really just admired her skill and power, nothing more.”

“Oh,” Dimitri turned away, embarrassed at his jealous outburst. His cheek felt scalding beneath his eyepatch. “In any case, how can you help me with my… predicament?”

“… There are certain oils that you could use to ease the discomfort of her first time. There’s a vendor selling them near a village in the outskirts of Charon. Since I’ll be accompanying you to Garreg Mach, anyway, I could get them for you.”

Dimitri eyed Sylvain suspiciously. “How do you know this?”

Another chuckle. “Make up your mind, Your Majesty. Do you want me to help you or not?”

Dimitri sighed. “Fine, yes, I would appreciate having those at my disposal. But… how about the rest? How do I make sure I do it properly?”

Sylvain’s ocher eyes were warm with brotherly affection. “You just follow your instincts. You should be alright.”

 

***

Just follow my instincts? If you only know what my instincts are telling me, Sylvain, you would think twice before saying that again.

Sighing, Dimitri leaned against his bed, but found no comfort in the column of pillows at his back. His body was too agitated, the ends of his nerves straining at some potent force.

He knew what it was—what his body craved. He has been like this every night for the past two months.

Byleth…

Sylvain must have thought that he was an innocent. It was true that he was inexperienced, that he has saved that part of himself for Byleth, but he was no innocent. Far from it.

He looked into the dimness of his bedroom, which was illuminated by a low candlelight. His pulse quickened as he focused his gaze at the doorframe to the left of the unlit fireplace, directly across the bed. Her connecting room was just beyond it.

“Dimitri?”

He turned at the sound of her voice. And in a split-second, he felt as if something knocked all the breath from his lungs, with so much force that his heart was left careening against his ribcage.

He could see Byleth’s entire body underneath her silk chemise. It was a sorry excuse for a garment that covered only up to the middle of her supple thighs, leaving her arms and legs exposed. But it was its thin, diaphanous material that really caused his downfall.

Holly hells, he could see the dusky rose of her nipples, and his mouth watered with the need to taste them.

He imagined ripping the chemise until it was a discarded pile of cloth at their feet. He would lift one heavy globe in his hand, testing its large weight, and lean forward to capture a nub. She would feel glorious in his mouth, he was certain of it, and he would let his tongue swirl around the nipple, tease it, until it became pert from his attention. Then, he would suck it. Over and over again until she was writhing against him. He would suck on it so hard it would turn pink and raw from the force of it. The beast inside him needed to imprint his caress onto her body. There should be no question as to whom she belonged to.

She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s mine.

With unsteady hands, Dimitri unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. His breath hissed as he took the already-pulsing weight of his cock in a tight grip.

After he had his way with one breast, his lips would do the same to the other. He wouldn’t leave the previous one alone, though. No, he wouldn’t be that kind. His fingers would continue his assault—grazing, twirling, lightly pinching, all in sync with his tongue. He would continue mercilessly until she was a whimpering mess in his arms, her beautiful face drunk with the beginnings of pleasure, and yearning for something she would not understand—something that only he could give.

He started ramming his fist up and down his hard, throbbing cock, while the other held the sheets against it. Shame crept its way in his foggy mind, but it was a weak, ineffectual thing compared to the roar of lust in his veins.

He would lay her on the carpet, like a pagan sacrifice waiting to be consumed. It would be so easy then to part her legs and penetrate her, to finally claim her as his own, but he had dreamed of this for so long that he would be damned if he didn’t take his time.

He would lick his way from her chest, down to her soft, flat stomach, reveling in the silky texture of her skin, before continuing downwards.

Would she resist? Would she cry out in embarrassment if he spread her thighs apart and nestled his face in between? Would she gasp in shock if she felt his tongue there, at that forbidden place that no one else has touched?

Dimitri bit out a curse. The surge of possessiveness he felt almost brought him over the edge. A long, thick line of his seed trickled down his fist, and he willed himself to slow down his tempo. He couldn’t climax yet.

He would make love to her with his tongue. He would find that fabled woman’s part, that little nubbin that was said to house a woman’s pleasure, and he would be relentless in his ministrations. He would not stop until she moaned his name in that way that he had never heard of. Until her thighs convulsed as she broke apart under him.

Until she finally experienced ecstasy for the first time.

And then, only then would he rise on his knees and start to enter her.

It was at this point that he let himself go. His fist pumped from his thick shaft all the way to the bulbous tip in rapid succession. Streaks of sweat traveled from his forehead down to the fabric of his blue banyan shirt. Tension was coiling in his belly, his balls already drawn tight.

He would break her maidenhead in one swift stroke. He would kiss the tears from her eyes, would murmur whispers of apology in her ear. But he knew that he could not go slow once he has entered her slick, virginal heat. The hot, white pleasure would be too great for him—it would shatter his control.

It would not be long before the beast took over. And he would be single-mindedly focused on one thing: impregnating her.

The room would be filled with the sounds of flesh colliding with flesh as he rode her without mercy, without thought. Moans and pleas would both fall in deaf ears. Nothing else would matter to the monster but the stroke of his greedy cock within her sheath. The pleasure that was building up in his groin.

He was going to fill her with his seed.

He was so close.

So close. So—

“Byleth—!!!”

Dimitri threw his head back as he roared his wife’s name into the night. He stopped breathing; his body suspended in a solid arch against the crumpled sheets, held in place by one straining hand. Sheets that were now ruined with his sticky seed, his cock still pulsating with the remainder of his orgasm.

At some point, he had collapsed in a supine position, limbs numb and lifeless. He couldn’t remember how long he stayed that way before his consciousness returned in slow degrees.

He has had the same fantasy for over two months now—the fantasy of how he had wanted his wedding night to go. Instead, he had blown out the candles, waited for his wife to fall asleep, before taking his pleasure with his hand in the comfort room.

Pathetic though it may seem, it was better this way. He couldn’t risk showing his wife the extent of his depravity. There was no guarantee that he would not hurt her once the beast took control. She has already gone through so much for his sake; he couldn’t bear the shame of hurting her more than he already has.

Letting his head roll to the side, he saw the brown leather pouch on the nightstand. It had her sea-green locks inside it, a memento he had asked for before she went back to Garreg Mach. A lucky charm, he had said.

If only that lucky charm was enough to shield her from his savage desires.

Chapter 3: The Shopping Trip

Notes:

Hey, lovely readers! Reading your comments, suggestions and random bits of feedback is the lifeblood of this fic, so I hope you continue to share them. I prefer interacting with you, so hope you continue - just so I get a pulse as to how you guys feel about the story thus far. Feel free to drop one below! ☺️

16^th day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Garreg Mach Monastery

 

Shopping was apparently the first step in the process of seduction. And this, Byleth thought sleepily, was exactly why she now found herself all dressed up in her traveling clothes on a day off, even though dawn was still hours away. 

She recalled what Hilda had said days ago, when she and Marianne had bidden her goodbye. “Anything worthwhile always starts with a bit of shopping, my dear Professor.”

Then, as promised, Hilda had handed over two notes that bore her horrendous handwriting. The first one was a short shopping list, while the second was a missive audaciously entitled, ‘How to Seduce Your Husband: A Guide by Hilda Valentine Goneril Aegir.’

If Byleth weren’t so groggy, she would have laughed at the memory. Instead, she gave a loud, unladylike yawn, and moved towards the wax candle that was perched on her writing desk. She picked up the list right next to it, and angled herself so she could get enough light to read it again. 

 Available at Severin’s, located at the Leige Town, County of Charon. (Look for a small shop with a red roof and a big sign. Near Tuttlebuck’s Tavern.)

1. Rouge for cheeks
2. Perfume --> Recommended: ‘Orchid’s Whisper’ ‘Lavender’s Caress’
3. Tint for lips
4. Rose soap
5. Silk chemise --> At least 3, preferably red or violet
6. 1 jar of bridal oil --> Keep near your bed in case of a successful seduction (Dimitri should know how to use this.)

Her gaze lingered on the last item on the list, the bridal oil. Supposedly, it was only available at this specific shop, and was the sole reason why she had to brave what would undoubtedly be a cold, uncomfortable flight to Charon.

She never really liked riding a wyvern or a pegasus, having preferred the land over the skies, but she didn’t have the luxury of choice. Hilda had been adamant that she bought this, even though the rest of the items could easily be procured in the town near Garreg Mach.

“You need it for, you know, for the act. When you two—” Hilda had gestured vaguely with her hands. “—finally do it.” She had leaned a fraction of an inch forward, her tone suddenly mirthless. “Seriously, Professor, promise me that you’ll buy it. It’d be so much easier for you, and you might even end up liking your first time.”

The prospect of a greasy hug hadn’t appealed to Byleth one bit, even if it was with Dimitri. She had difficulty wrapping her head around the fact that couples actually performed this weird, embarrassing ritual willingly. But if that’s what was needed for them to have children, then so be it.

With an air of resignation, she had promised Hilda that she would, indeed, make the journey to Charon for this mysterious oil, to her friend’s palpable relief.

Which brought her to the present.

I guess I’ll find out what’s so important about it soon enough, she thought. She folded the piece of paper and placed it in the pocket of her cloak, making sure that she buttoned it closed. Taking the candle, she padded her way to the oak door, and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, effectively obscuring her face in the shadows. She had to be careful; no one should know that the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros was traipsing around Fodlan in search for intimate wares. Poor Seteth would expire on the spot.

She smiled at that, and slowly pushed the door open.

It opened with a low, rumbling creak, cutting through the silence of the night like a rapier. The autumn cold immediately clung to her the second she set foot out of her room, and she regretted not wearing something more substantial than her usual black square-necked bodice, riding trousers and a brown wool cloak. She should have added another layer of clothing, she realized, but it would be too late to go back now. She had to leave if she were to get back before mid-day; anything later than that would alert people of her absence.

Wrapping her cloak tighter against her body, she hastily forged on, the heels of her ebony calfskin boots making a rapid staccato on the rough, cobblestone path.  It wouldn’t be the first time she had gone out at an ungodly hour, but it still unnerved her how the shadows seemed to dance about, as though they were spirits summoned by the glow of her candlelight.

I’m starting to sound like Ashe. Giving in to an amused grin, she turned right towards the dormitory, which now served as a temporary shelter for displaced orphans. She could hear the soft snores of some of the children as she strode past the rooms, and without even looking at the nameplates, she knew who occupied which, could imagine their faces as she recited their names in her head—Rhys, Julian, Win, Kev, Aline, Vincent, Sebastian, and her favorite, Evie.

They would greet her with their usual bright smiles and burst of energy when she visited them later that day, and Byleth felt her chest tighten with affection. It was the best thing about her work as Archbishop, having the power to preserve these smiles and give them the opportunity for a better future.

Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes, she leisurely wondered what specialty sweets could be found in Charon. It would be the first time she’d go there. Some glazed strawberries would be nice, though she guessed anything with chocolate would be a safer choice for the kids, especially for the younger ones who haven’t developed a taste for fruits yet. She could imagine Kev and Julian’s nose scrunching up at a box of strawberries. 

Chocolate it was, then. 

With this in mind, she went left just before reaching the way to the greenhouse, sweeping past the small, wooden shack at the fishing docks, only pausing when she saw the unmistakable glow of another candlelight from the distance.

He was early, Byleth thought, feeling a bit guilty at making her friend wait in the dead of night. Not to mention in this cold.

“Alm,” she whispered the instant she got within earshot. “How long have you been standing there? Sorry, am I late?”

The former gatekeeper turned, his face splitting into his usual sincere smile. “Greetings, Professor—Oops, I mean, Archbishop. Sorry, force of habit.” He gave a sheepish look. “Don’t worry, I just got here, actually. You’re right on time.”

It’s been a month since he was promoted to the position of the Archbishop’s personal guard. Someone had to the fill in the role, as the former one had dutifully followed Rhea in her retirement. It was a need borne out of tradition rather than necessity, sure, but Byleth was more than happy to recommend Alm for it, knowing full well the increased benefits it entailed.

Without the helmet, her companion’s dark green hair looked almost black in the dim lighting. It fell over his forehead, despite his efforts at keeping them tucked behind his ears, making him look positively boyish. Byleth was finding it hard to believe that he was almost twice her age.

Alm took her candle and put off his own, so that there was only one light burning faintly around them. Starting towards the stone-walled path leading to the stables, he whispered, “You’re not bringing the Sword of the Creator, Archbishop?”

“Please, I told you, ‘Byleth’ is fine. And no, it wouldn’t be wise. People would immediately recognize me if I brought it along.” Byleth patted the small scabbard on her hip, which was visible through the opening of her cloak. “I have a dagger with me, though.” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose that would be a dead giveaway.” Releasing a small chuckle, Alm guided her around a nondescript crack on the ground. “As your guard, I swear on my sword that I’ll keep you safe… is what I should say, and something I would sincerely mean, but we all know you could outpower me and your foes combined with a single swing of your dagger.”

Byleth wasn’t sure of that, sliding him an assessing glance. He was only slightly taller than she was, with a frame that would be considered regular and unremarkable, but there was no mistaking the latent power she had sensed from him from their first meeting. “Alm, you said you’re not from Fodlan, right? I don’t think I’ve asked before, but what brought you here?”

His shoulders stiffened ever so slightly that she wasn’t sure if it was merely a trick of the light. She didn’t even think he’d heard her question, until he suddenly spoke, his voice holding a wistful tone that she’d only ever heard after her father’s death. “Yes, I’m from… outside of Fodlan. Years ago, a great war ravaged my homeland in a way not too different from what happened here. So many lives cut too short. So much blood needlessly spilled. My cousin was among those who perished.” His voice cracked a bit, and he was silent for a few seconds before adding, “He was a prideful man, but I couldn’t fault him for wanting the things he did. He simply tried reaching farther than the gods allowed.”

She didn’t say anything, but merely waited for him to continue.

“Immediately after the end of the war, my wife and I discovered the existence of a newborn he’d conceived with his betrothed. But it was too late. She’d already been smuggled out of the country by then, most likely by one of his advisors or men. I ventured out to search for her.”

Byleth staggered to a stop. All these years, she’d never known any of this, much more the fact that he had a wife in some foreign land. He had simply been the gatekeeper, greeting her in that lighthearted way she’d grown accustomed to.

She hesitated to probe further, feeling like a voyeur peeking into something that was clearly not intended for her, but it was too late to rein in her curiosity. She blurted out, “Smuggled? Why would anyone do such a thing?” 

“I can’t pretend to understand, even now. But what I do know is that the baby and her captor somehow found their way here, where she was raised as an orphan. After years of piecing together hints and leads scattered throughout Fodlan, I found out that she was given a Crest through some sort of experimentation.” He motioned for them to continue walking.

Lysithea… Edelgard…

Byleth felt her hands tighten into fists at her sides, her temper flaring at the idea of yet another life pointlessly ruined by Crest experiments. She quietly swore to put a stop to them once and for all. 

Alm must have sensed her anger, because his tone was considerably lighter when he said, “Please, there’s no need to be incensed on my behalf, Professor. She turned out fine, and has recently married well. From the looks of it, it even appears to be a love match.”

She let out a shaky breath, but her heart still pounded in beat with her step. “Did she ever know about her family? About you?”

He shook his head. “No, she has no knowledge about any of this, nor is there any need to burden her with it. She’s happy now, and that’s all that matters. Joy is so fragile, after all. Who’s to say I would be robbing her of it with the truth?” 

Byleth was about to question that, when the tell-tale smell of earth and animals heralded their arrival at the stables. A frisson of alarm shot through her system the instant she saw light emanating from the entrance door that was left slightly ajar. Her hand flew to the hilt of her dagger, and she saw Alm echoing the motion from her periphery. Female whispers, too softly spoken to be deciphered from where they stood, flowed from the room, accompanied by a set of loud neighs.

They exchanged nods, and let their feet carry them silently towards the doorway.

 “Oh, come now, don’t nibble on my hair like so, Luna. You’ll ruin it.”

That voice—

All tension left Byleth’s body in a fierce whoosh of her breath. What in the world was she doing here?

Without warning, she pulled open the door, earning her a sharp gasp from Flayn, who’d been absorbed with caressing the muzzle of her favorite pegasus. The rows of other pegasi, wyverns and horses skittered nervously in their stalls, whinnying their surprise at the sudden entrance.

Flayn’s eyes were luminous green saucers as she thrusted her Caduceus Staff defensively in front of her. Why was she on the offense?

Byleth called out uncertainly, “Flayn?”

A spark of recognition, then a flood of relief crossed the girl’s face.

“G-good heavens, Professor, you frightened me! I daresay, I thought you were a ruffian with the way your face is hidden underneath your hood.” Visibly shaken, Flayn’s chest rose and fell with her quick breaths. She loosened her hold on her staff.

Byleth felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to completely erase the accusation in her question. “Sorry, but why are you here?”

“A-apologies, I… I overhead you talking to Alm yesterday afternoon, before I came in for tea. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but when I heard you mentioning a trip to Charon, I could not help myself.” Breathing still shallow, Flayn lowered her eyes demurely to the ground. “I would very much appreciate it if you let me accompany you. I’ve never been to Charon, you see.”

Ah, so, that was why she’d behaved strangely all afternoon. “Why didn’t you mention it yesterday?”

Flayn hesitated for a heartbeat. “I thought I had a better chance at convincing you to bring me along if I did it now.” Her eyes met Byleth’s and she could have sworn there was a mischievous gleam in their depths. “Was I correct?”

Byleth sighed, fully aware that Alm was controlling a chuckle next to her. “What about Seteth? There’s no way he’d be okay with this.”

“Well, I left him a note, saying I was accompanying you and Alm on a shopping trip outside of Garreg Mach. I… may have left out the detail of how far from the Monastery we would actually be.” Flayn gave an impish grin.

Byleth’s gut was saying that did not bode well, but if Flayn was willing to go to such extent, then she must have really wanted to come with her.

She capitulated with a nod.

“Yay, splendid! I’ve already prepared our mounts, Professor. I’ll be taking Luna, and I assume Cerulean and Stygian would do for you and Alm?”

Again, another nod.

Indeed, Luna, Cerulean, both pegasi, and Stygian, Seteth’s favored wyvern, were already outfitted with the standard saddle, noseband and reins. Byleth would have voiced her admiration of Flayn’s handiwork if only she didn’t feel hoodwinked into this. 

Alm spoke up, amusement laced with every word. “Please, ladies, you can wait outside. I’ll bring our mounts there.”

They did as he suggested, Flayn practically skipping out of the door. Her excitement for this trip was very contagious, and it didn’t take long before Byleth also found herself thinking of all the snacks she would buy, and the accessories she would try out. Surely, Severin’s had those, as well.

In a few minutes, they flew off, and just in time for sunrise to break through the darkness of the night. It was quite a lovely sight, like one of Ignatz’s paintings—splashes of pink, yellow and orange blending in perfect harmony across a pastel blue canvass. It almost distracted Byleth from the biting cold that ate away at every exposed inch of her skin.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” Alm bellowed from her left.

“I’m fine,” she shouted back, “just freezing!”

Flayn’s gleeful squeal floated from behind, “This is so much fun! Professor, look to your right! I see Gronder Field!”

And they went on as such, with Flayn and Byleth occasionally noting some of the places they’d been to during the war, and Alm sharing the path he’d taken before arriving at Garreg Mach years ago. The cold gradually became bearable as the sun settled on its rightful position high above the sky, but they still shivered every now and then, whenever a particularly icy gust of wind assailed them.

Approximately an hour would pass before they caught sight of the Oghma Mountains, signaling their close proximity to Charon.

“See that break in the mountain range there?” Alm pointed at the low point in the cluster of mountains in front. “According to the map I read, we have to pass through that to  arrive in Charon! Leige should be somewhere to its south!”

Trepidation thrummed through Byleth’s veins as she guided Cerulean to where Alm pointed. It was a steep clearing, she noted, compelling her to shout a warning to her companions.

“Don’t worry, Professor! It’s wide enough to accommodate us!” Then, without preamble, Flayn accelerated with breakneck speed, and expertly swiveled Luna sideways. She passed through the clearing with ease.

A laugh bubbled from the back of Byleth’s throat while she and Alm copied the pivot with their respective mounts. If Seteth were to see this, he’d faint on the spot.

In a matter of seconds, they were greeted with a breathtaking view of Charon. Most of the roofs of the houses and commercial structures were painted from different shades of blue, no doubt in honor of the Kingdom, and this made the entire County look like a big body of water three times the size of Garreg Mach.

They started their descent towards the small town to the south. The nearer they got, the clearer everything became—the small forms of the residents as they went to and fro the streets; the wooden carts bearing a variety of produce and goods scattered here and there; and the presence of animals, ranging from cats and dogs to horses, lending the surroundings a homely, provincial feeling.

It was easy to locate exactly where Severin’s was—it was the only establishment with a blatantly red roof—and was perfectly situated near the only grassy field in the town, making landing very easy.

Byleth made sure her hood was pulled over her head as she alighted from Cerulean, and handed over its rein to Alm, who tethered it, along with their other mounts to a nearby wooden log.

“Goodness, I am beyond excited! Where should we go first? Shall we go buy snacks? Oh, how about clothes?” Flayn’s gaze flitted animatedly from one shop to the next, as she clearly couldn’t make up her mind.

Alm sidled up next to them, and pointed at Severin’s. “That’s where we’re going, right, Professor?”

Byleth nodded, and prompted her companions to follow her to it.

“Severin’s Secret Specialty Shop.” Flayn read the sign as they stopped at the storefront. “Ooh, this definitely sounds more interesting than Loretta’s Assorted Goods. There must be some rare items here!”

“You two ladies take your time inside. I’ll stay out here and keep watch,” Alm said.

“Are you sure?” Byleth asked, her hand pausing at the brass handle. 

“Yes, don’t worry about me, Professor. I used to be a gatekeeper, and keeping watch for any sign of danger is what I’m good at.” Smiling, he firmly planted himself on the side of the entryway. “Just yell if something’s wrong or if you need anything.”

Thanking her friend, Byleth went inside, a curious Flayn at her heels.

A small bell attached to the door clanged obnoxiously, drawing the attention of the shopkeeper. She looked considerably old, perhaps around six or seven decades in age, if her thinning white hair, abundant wrinkles, and thick spectacles were anything to go by. She gave a feeble “Welcome,” before dozing off again at her seat behind the counter.

Wooden panels filled with different merchandise—perfume bottles of different sizes, cakes of soap,  jars, accessories, make-up—lined the walls of the small enclosure. Baskets holding sets of silk clothing festooned the space in front of the counter, and Byleth didn’t waste time ticking off items from Hilda’s shopping list.

“Oh, Professor, look,” Flayn suddenly exclaimed from the corner. She held up what looked like a stone replica of a large cucumber.

“What’s that?”

“It’s, uh—” Flayn glanced back at the shelf to read the handwritten label. “It’s an olisbos.” She turned to Byleth’s direction, her eyes shimmering with barely-restrained elation. “I once saw this in Manuela’s room, and she said that it’s a charm that is supposed to bring you luck in love and fertility. It’s your dream to have children, yes? Perhaps if you had one, it could help you achieve your goal faster.”

Byleth stared at the oddly-shaped statuette and noticed that the cucumber had a rounded top, almost like a spherical hat. She's never seen anything like it. It must be a symbol of some sort, or a deity of a foreign religion. Regardless of what it was, she decided she wouldn’t lose anything by believing in it. In fact, she needed all the help she could get.

“Okay, I’ll get it,” she smiled, taking the olisbos and placing it on the counter, next to the bridal oils and other purchases.

The first phase of seduction was now done, she thought happily. Onwards to the next.

Notes:

Hi, everyone. I really wanted to give a nod to an interesting theory about Marianne, in that she could be a daughter of Berkut and Rinea from Echoes: Shadows of Valentia. Berkut is one of my favorite villains of all time, second only to my lovely Sepiroth from FFVII, so you could only imagine my delight at the idea of his daughter being a part of Three Houses. I understand that it's rather far-fetched, but I tried to come up with ways on how it could be possible, which I've laid out in Alm's dialogue with Byleth in this chapter.

And yes, an olisbos is a dildo. LMAO.

Chapter 4: The Night in the Woods

Notes:

Hey, lovely readers! Reading your comments, suggestions and random bits of feedback is the lifeblood of this fic, so I hope you continue to share them. I prefer interacting with you, so hope you continue - just so I get a pulse as to how you guys feel about the story thus far. Feel free to drop one below! ☺️

22^nd day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Latten Forest, Oghma Mountains

 

“Whose bright idea was it to camp out in the woods again and pass up on a perfectly comfortable bed in Chatteris’s mansion?”

Sylvain had said this jokingly, but Dimitri noted, with no small amount of guilt, that there was a tone of exhaustion that accompanied the remark. The days of pitching tents and sleeping on hard ground had finally taken their toll on his friend.

Should I really have accepted the offer?

Lord Chatteris, the Earl of Charon, had insisted that they stay in his residence as they made their way southward, but Dimitri knew too well what that entailed: diplomatic calls to lesser lords, a grand tour of the estates, and, goddess save him, a bloody banquet. Basically, unnecessary things that would have derailed their journey for a good four to five days.

Up to this point, Dimitri had been successful at dodging these offers from other lords, and Lord Chatteris had been no different. Sure, one might argue that these were rightfully expected from the King, and under different circumstances, he would have found it inside him to push through with the political requirements of his station. But he had already gone through over two months without seeing his wife, and he would be damned if he would let anything—anything—delay him further.

Another four to five days without Byleth? Ridiculous.

Not to mention just downright unbearable.

With this in mind, he had firmly turned down the Earl’s offer, and boldly declared that the group were to travel from Charon down to the Oghma Mountains, after a very brief respite in the city. There was said to be a shortcut in the mountains that would lead them directly to the outskirts of Garreg Mach once crossed.

It had seemed like a reasonable decision at the time, and the group did find the shortcut. However, the path had stretched farther than they had initially thought, and they quickly realized that it would be beyond the realm of realism to expect that they would arrive at the Monastery by nightfall.

No, they would have to spend the night in the woods.

Again.

Dimitri shifted on his seat and gave his surroundings a wry, cursory glance. They had been too exhausted to put up tents tonight, and merely laid out their makeshift beds fashioned out of some extra cloaks around the small campfire.

To his left, he could see Sylvain yawning in the dim light, his back against a tree trunk for support, and legs sprawled gracelessly about, clearly oblivious to the fact that his ruddy hair was sticking up in all directions.

Dedue, on the other hand, looked marginally better. His usual rough-hewn features looked calm and collected, but the unmistakable slouch in his posture as he sat across him betrayed his fatigue. Dedue never slouched.

And he? At the thought, Dimitri ran his hand across his face, suddenly conscious. He was chagrined to feel the rough patches of hair that covered his entire jaw, his cheeks, upper lip, chin, stretching down to his upper neck. He frowned. These were definitely days’ worth of growth. Another look at his friends told him that they apparently had the decency to shave during their travels, while he had been too focused at getting to Garreg Mach as fast as possible. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

He looked down and even in the faint lighting, he could see dark splotches of dirt decorating his cloak and breeches, along with an inch thick of mud caking his boots. Brows furrowing, he took a tentative sniff of his cloak.

His wrinkled his nose in disgust. He positively reeked of dried sweat and horse dung. Good gods, what was he thinking going to Garreg Mach like this?

“Your Majesty, there’s a lake at the foot of the mountains. It’s connected to the one that runs up to the village near Garreg Mach, so villagers often go to it. But if we go there before sunrise, we should be able to use it without being interrupted.” Dedue said, observant as always.

“That’s a relief. I desperately need a bath and a shave.” Dimitri shrugged his cloak off and reached for a fresh one in one of his satchels.

“We need a bath,” Sylvain corrected, leaning away from the trunk and turning to his companions. “Pardon my bluntness, Your Majesty, but we stink. It’s been three days since we left Ingrid’s estate in Galatea and we haven’t stopped to bathe since. A change of clothes could only do so much.” Planting his elbows onto his knees, he chuckled. “Earlier, old lady Severin actually looked disapprovingly at me when I was about to pay – and she’s more than seven decades old! If she was able to smell me, then I must have stank indeed.”

A corner of Dimitri’s mouth quirked up. “Sorry about that, Sylvain. In my haste to go to the Monastery, I forgot to check if we were even fit for polite company. I should have made sure we passed by a lake on the way to Charon.” Admittedly, he only factored distance in his choice of route; the shortest, fastest way was chosen. His grin vanished when he realized something. “How did Lord Chatteris react? I admit my mind was preoccupied with charting and planning our way through Oghma to pay attention to our brief meeting with him.”

“Oh, the Earl was political through and through. He didn’t let on much, not even a twitch of the brow, but the Countess wasn’t as masterful, I’m afraid. She looked scandalized the second she met us, and couldn’t resist remarking about an earthy scent. I suppose she’s gossiping with her lady’s maid as we speak, and going on about how inappropriate the King, the Margrave Gautier and the Ambassador of Duscur appeared.”

Dimitri frowned. “I must learn to be more sensitive to things like this from now on. As the king, I’ll need to be more careful.”

“Nah, don’t be too hard on yourself, Your Majesty. You’re their king; if they know what’s good for them, they won’t make an issue of this. What would’ve been a disaster was us arriving at the Monastery today.” Sylvain seemed amused. “I’m saying this because I care for you two like brothers, okay? But seriously, if I were the Professor or Mercedes, I would be running to the opposite direction the moment I see either of you.”

Dedue was expressionless. “Mercedes hates running.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Both the Professor and Mercedes have seen us in worse condition,” added Dedue, his face as matter-of-fact as ever. “We had to go through weeks without any thought to hygiene in several of our campaigns against the Imperial forces. Not once did they complain.”

“But that was different, Dedue. Rules of courtship and romance take secondary priority during war, of course, but you can’t expect that to be the same during peacetime. Women have certain expectations.”

Dimitri caught the concerned glance that Dedue gave, and tried to reassure his friend with a small nod. Yes, his chest had instantly tightened at the mention of war, but it was manageable. He could already feel himself relaxing, the hitch in his breathing gone as fast as it had come.

His gaze fell onto the small pouch he hadn’t realized he’d taken out of his coat pocket. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude swelled in his heart as he turned it over his fingers. He gazed at its brown leather and its simple yellow stitching, and marveled at the fact that such an ordinary-looking thing bore two of his most treasured possessions – locks of his beloved’s hair, and his wedding ring. Two things that symbolized her presence in his life.

Byleth.

She who found him when he had lost himself inside the prison of his mind, with only the corpses of his fallen family and friends to keep him company. She who stubbornly held onto his hands even as he tried to plunge himself into the very mouths of hell. She who loved and accepted him regardless, wretch that he was.

Thank you, my beloved.

Resisting the temptation to press it against his lips, he carefully placed the pouch back into his pocket, then raised his head to see Sylvain and Dedue still in conversation. He was sure that they both noticed his silence—it would be impossible not to, since they were only three in the group—but none of them pried about it. There seemed to be an unspoken rule among his circle of friends to not draw attention to his lapses, as they must have sensed that they were a delicate topic to him.

The goddess has blessed him quite well, indeed. Not only in love, but in friendship. All the more reason why he must try harder to atone for his past.

Dedue appeared to be considering whatever Sylvain just said. He stewed on it for a few seconds before murmuring, “I believe you are right, Sylvain. What would you suggest I do, then?”

“The first rule in asking for a lady’s hand in marriage is you have to make sure the setting is perfect. It has to be romantic. I’m talking about candle lights, a meadow of flowers, or a place of significance to both of you. It can’t just be anywhere, or else you’re setting yourself up to fail.”

To his surprise and amusement, Dimitri saw Dedue actually retrieve a small sheet of parchment from his satchel and began scribbling on it with a piece of clay stick. From where he sat, Dimitri could see ‘Find perfect setting for proposal’ written in big, childlike letters.

This definitely encouraged Sylvain, because he leaned forward with the excited air of a teacher who was asked to explain his favorite subject matter. “The second rule is that you have to put an effort in how you propose. Make sure you have the basic essentials: the ring, a bouquet of her favorite flowers, and your secret weapon.” He suddenly paused. “You do have a ring already, don’t you?”

Dedue nodded in a way that was almost shy if it weren’t for his perpetually furrowed brows.  He prodded, “What is this ‘secret weapon’?”

“A poem. I can guarantee you, Dedue, that no woman can resist a poem, even someone as practical as Ingrid. Of course, it goes without saying that it has to be sincere and heartfelt. So, if you want a foolproof plan, make sure you have it in your arsenal.”

A flash of alarm passed through Dedue’s face, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. A frown formed in its wake, pulling his thin lips into a deep hyphen. “I… do not know how to write a poem.”

“Don’t worry, it only seems hard at first. You just—Oh, I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“You can tell me what you want to say, and I can help you arrange it in a traditional structure. Just imagine I’m Mercedes.” Sylvain ocher eyes glowed with mirth.

 “No, that would not be necessary,” Dedue replied a little too quickly.

“Or you could just give an honest declaration of your feelings. It doesn’t have to be a poem,” offered Dimitri who was trying—and failing—not to smile at his friend’s obvious discomfort. He would never say it out loud, but Dedue’s flustered face was quite endearing. Who would have thought that he was capable of looking so bashful?

Sylvain gave a dismissive wave of his hand, too absorbed with the discussion to notice the impropriety of the action. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Come on, just imagine saying something like, ‘Oh, my dearest Mercedes. Your hair glistens like threads of moonlight. The touch of your skin ignites the flames of passion fro—”

Dedue stood up so quickly that his satchel and the parchment he was writing on almost toppled over onto the campfire. Thankfully, reflexes honed in the battlefield enabled him to catch them just in time.

“I will go check the horses,” was his clipped excuse as he set them safely onto the ground and swiveled towards the thicket of trees.

But not before the two caught a glimpse of his blushing face.

“Well, off he goes. I guess I teased him too much,” said Sylvain once Dedue was out of sight, sounding not the least bit apologetic.

True enough, he had a wide grin on his face when Dimitri turned to him. He reckoned he had one, too. “Was that truly necessary?”

Still grinning, Sylvain raised a shoulder in a shrug. “He needs to loosen up. And besides, if there’s one thing I learned growing up with you and Felix is that teasing someone is the best way to bolster relationships. Which is why,” he suddenly stood up and grabbed the two cloth bags that were on his bed—Dimitri recognized one of them as their medicine bag—”I’ll absolutely enjoy your reaction when I show you what I bought earlier.”

Oh… gods. Dimitri already knew what some of the items were, had seen glimpses of them during the ride to the mountains. But while his gut reaction was to dissuade Sylvain from what was definitely going to be a mortifying discussion, he surprised himself by not saying anything. Instead, his attention was captured by the other bag. It looked considerably heavier, and…

Wait, what are those… strange bulges?

Curiosity won.

Sylvain continued until he sat down a foot across him, placing the bags between them. He opened the medicine bag first, and picked up two jars filled with a white gelatinous liquid. “These are the bridal oils I mentioned before, the holy grail of lubrication. Just make sure you get a handful of this before—"

“Yes, yes, I know how it’s supposed to be used. You don’t need to go on the specifics.” Dimitri felt his cheeks burn. Oh, yes, this was definitely going to be mortifying. “But why did you buy two jars if I would just need a handful?”

Sylvain gave him a mischievous wink. “Who knows how many times you would need it during your first night?”

Dimitri should ignore that remark. He should disregard the hot stab of lust that shot to his groin at the idea of making love to Byleth multiple times in one night. Embedding himself deep within her so many times that there would be no doubt about his possession. Loving her body with all the hunger and need that had accumulated over the years.

Yes, he  should definitely shun the image of her naked on a bed from his mind. Her large alabaster breasts and rosy nipples raw from his touch. His love bites decorating the column of her lovely neck. His hand prints on her parted thighs. His seed dripping from her core, mixing with the oils that he had used to ease his ravenous thrusts.

Goddess save him, but he was getting hard. With Sylvain in front of him.

He stifled a groan. Could he be more hopeless?

Good thing Sylvain was too busy explaining to notice. “—and that’s what makes it so good at preventing friction. Good thing, too, because some women require the use of it even after the first, er, encounter.”

“What are the rest?” Dimitri quickly put the medicine bag on his lap, painfully aware of the tightening in his breeches. He sifted through it with unwarranted eagerness, browsing through small packets of Morfis seeds, some Magred Kirsch and premium herbs, until his hands came upon a suspiciously large pouch filled to the brim with purple leaves that he had never seen before.

“That, Your Majesty, is the most potent aphrodisiac in all of Fodlan, Amor Folium. One-eighth of that pouch is enough to last you the entire night. And only for fifteen golds! You can count of Severin’s to give you a good deal.”

Dimitri groaned audibly now. “I assure you, Sylvain, that I have no need of this.”

“You say that now, but I tell you, every man is always at a risk of needing a little bit of help. You never know when nature would fail you.”

Dimitri’s erection would beg to differ, but he wisely kept quiet about it. Instead, he arched an eyebrow at the direction of the other bag. “What’s that?”

For the first time tonight, Sylvain looked uncertain, which fueled Dimitri’s curiosity even further. It didn’t help that his friend started with the following disclaimers, “Look, before I show you, promise me that one,” he held up a finger, “you would keep an open mind, and two,” another finger, “no violent reactions, okay?”

What was in that bag?

“Show me,” Dimitri said, reaching for it.

Sylvain kept it out of reach. A series of metallic sounds came from the bag as it skidded against the hard ground. “No, promise me first. I know you, Dimitri. You have a devil of a temper when it comes to Byleth, and I don’t want to bear the brunt of it until you let me explain. Unlike you, I still have to marry the love of my life, so I’d appreciate keeping my head until then.”

Dimitri sighed. “Fine, I promise, Sylvain. Now would you please show me what’s inside before I expire of too much curiosity?”

And so Sylvain did.

Huh? What  in the world?

Questions exploded in Dimitri’s mind, but all he could do was stare at it, lest his eyes were playing tricks on him.

They were not.

He managed to blurt out, “W-What would I use that for?”

“This is more for the Professor’s benefit than yours, really.” Sylvain’s relief was palpable. He had evidently expected a more aggressive reaction from him. “Let her explore. There are women who like having the freedom to do so. And since you have such ungodly strength, I assumed that it would help a great deal.”

It took Dimitri a few seconds to absorb this. Now that he thought about it, this could help solve one of his problems, unorthodox as it might be. “I’ll… think about it.”

“Good. Because I tell you, this didn’t come cheap.” Sylvain’s grin returned, and he looked at Dimitri in that warm, sincere way he always had since childhood. “Trust me. It’ll be fine.”

Dimitri smiled in return, shaking his head at the level of absurdity that could only happen with Sylvain.

 

They waited for Dedue to return before they retired for the night. It would be the last night they spend camping in the woods, for tomorrow, they would surely arrive at Garreg Mach.

Chapter 5: The Master Plan

Notes:

Hey, lovely readers! Reading your comments, suggestions and random bits of feedback is the lifeblood of this fic, so I hope you continue to share them. I prefer interacting with you, so hope you continue - just so I get a pulse as to how you guys feel about the story thus far. Feel free to drop one below! ☺️

23^rd day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Garreg Mach Monastery

 

It took Byleth approximately seven seconds to realize three things upon waking up:

One, she had somehow fallen asleep on her wooden writing table while reading Jeralt’s journal.

Two, over the course of the night, she had drooled like a child, as evidenced by the thick crusting at the side of her mouth, and the fact that the page she had been reading was stuck to her right cheek as she straightened up. Thankfully, she was awake enough to understand the need to detach it from her before she managed to rip the thin paper. A look at it showed that aside from the dark, circular stain in the middle, and some smudges here and there, the writings were mostly legible.

She sighed in relief.

And then gasped in pain. Which brought her to her third realization: she had a massive crick in the neck, which was probably her body’s way of showing its displeasure at being forced into an unnatural position for an entire night.

Camping around Fodlan with her father, and later on, with her own students made her no stranger to body aches like this; you had no right to be picky about lodging when your mind was centered on the mission ahead. But goddess, this really took the cake for being the worst cramp she’s ever had. The entire column of her neck felt like a thick log that throbbed defiantly whenever she moved it.

Wiping away the traces of her drooling, Byleth then persisted with a series of head rotations, grunting indelicately at the taut pull of her muscles. A few more and she felt them loosen up a bit, a small victory considering how bad the cramp was. Satisfied by this, she extended her arms upwards in a wide stretch, yawning loudly into the room.

That’s a bit better. Now, where was I?

Her gaze dropped towards the open journal, seeking out the last paragraph she could remember before drifting off to sleep. A pang of agony seized her heart as she read:

Lilith talked about having six or seven children. She said it’s her dream to have a big family, and I joked that we should focus on starting with one first. From what I’ve heard, I think childbirth is going to be an extremely painful business, and I told her this. As I expected, though, this just earned me a glare and she guaranteed that she won’t change her mind on the issue. Damn, how could she look adorable and stubborn at the same time?

In any case, I have my work cut out for me, for sure. A big family means more mouths to feed, after all… but I don’t mind it since it’s with her.

A big family.

The words weighed heavily in her chest, making it almost impossible to breathe without feeling the oppressive pounding of her heart. It thudded with unspoken questions and unshed tears for a mother she never knew. For a father taken away too soon.

And for a future that was unfairly stolen from them.

She let a trembling finger glide over Jeralt’s handwriting, unexpectedly needing to connect to him, to any part of him, somehow. Regret was bitter in her tongue as it occurred to her that she never told him how much she loved him. That he was a good father, despite the clumsy way he had raised her.

He never knew how safe she had felt with him at her side, guiding her. And now it was too late.

No, she shook her head, catching herself. She shouldn’t feel this way. If Jeralt were still alive, he would pinch her cheek and laugh at her in his usual awkward way, his hazel eyes sparkling for a second before looking away.

‘Silly girl,’ he would say, just as he had on several occasions, ‘thinking like that is a waste of time. You should just focus on more important things.’

This brought a soft smile to her lips. More important things.

Her finger lingered on the passage she just read, eventually resting on the three words that reverberated inside her head like church bells signaling the start of the day.

A big family.

I want one, too.

She looked at the journal fondly, trying to imagine this mysterious Lilith who gave birth to her, a woman who was capable of bending the Blade Breaker to her will, and warmed at the knowledge that she shared more than just flesh and blood with her. She shared her dream, as well. And she was going to fulfill it for the both of them.

Right, she had to seduce Dimitri no matter what.

Closing the journal, Byleth stood up from her chair and made her way towards the bed, feeling a level of excitement and determination that was normally reserved for a crucial battle. It might very well be considered as one, too, given that Dimitri was clearly too gentlemanly to initiate the process, as Hilda pointed out, and she would have to properly strategize to get things done.

Byleth padded her way to the side of the bed and looked at the headboard where the olisbos proudly stood, its elongated form propped up high by the two circular shapes at its base. It cut an interesting contrast to the headboard, black marble on cedar wood, reminding her of the statuettes of the Four Saints on the Church pews.

Clasping her hands together, she closed her eyes and bowed, or at least tried to, before settling with a low tilt when her neck protested. She uttered a silent request to whatever deity the olisbos was supposed to glorify, and hoped that Flayn had been right in saying that it was supposed to help in fertility.

Whoever or whatever you are, may you help me get pregnant soon.

An amusing thought suddenly fluttered through her mind: Seteth stumbling across her like this – discovering the Archbishop of Seiros, praying to a different entity. He would be scandalized. Appalled, even. There would be an audible gasp, and then an icy glare that would carry the promise of at least a year’s worth of reproach from her stern advisor. But Byleth never pretended to be religious, nor did she delude herself into thinking that Sothis was the only god out there. There could be many, like the Duscur people believed, and she was well aware that the tides of victory could easily be swayed by an external force.

Sometimes, a secret weapon was all it takes to win a war, she thought, her Sword of the Creator coming to mind. You take help wherever you can.

She was drawn out of her thoughts by a series of knocks against her oak door.

“Professor—I mean, Archbishop, it’s me! Sorry to disturb you on your free day, but could I speak with you?” a familiar voice said from the other side, sounding somewhat out of breath.

What could that be about? “Yes, Alm, coming.”

A few quick steps and she was opening the door, finding Alm in his usual attire. His thick green hair was now concealed within a metal helmet, which, along with the rest of his armor, gleamed under the early morning sun. The rapid rise and fall of his chest and the sweat trickling down his face suggested that he just ran a good distance.

But what for?

The question was on her lips, but Alm answered before she could even ask.

“T-the king is here. He just arrived, along with the Margrave Gautier and their friend from Duscur.”

Byleth’s heart leapt to her throat. He was too early. He wasn’t supposed to arrive until four more days at best, or a week and a half more at worst, if she were to add the transit time from his last letter. He had mentioned he would be travelling on horseback. How did he manage to get here so fast, then?

She wasn’t ready yet.

“Only the three of them?”

Alm nodded.

“Where are they now?” she asked, relieved to find her voice calm despite the sudden chaotic feelings swirling inside her.

Alm wiped his brow with the back of a gloved hand. “They were in the Grand Corridor with Professors Manuela and Hanneman when I left. King Dimitri was looking for you. I think he expected that you would be in the former Archbishop’s room, because he was on his way there at first.”

Byleth’s pulse raced. “At first? Where is he going now?”

“Presumably he’s on his way here. I ran the moment I realized this, to warn you. What should I do, Professor? Should I still follow your instructions?”

Byleth automatically half-retreated back inside her room, her eyes quickly scanned the courtyard. Good. He hasn’t reached this part yet. If she was lucky, he might even get waylaid by other people, thereby buying them more time to deliberate on how to proceed.

Turning to Alm, she said, “Yes. Please tell Dimitri I’m still asleep – Wait, what time is it?”

“Sunrise was just a little over an hour ago.”

“Perfect,” she said. “You can tell him that I was working late last night. I still need to prepare before I meet them. In the meantime, you can follow as planned: direct them to their rooms in the second floor dormitory and ask them to rest there for a bit. I’m sure they’re tired.”

Alm nodded, then looked down, shifting his weight on his feet. “I didn’t bring this up because it’s not my place, but I’m sure they’ll ask about the sleeping arrangements. Or at least wonder about it. After all, you two are already married.”

The unspoken question hung between them: Why are you two sleeping apart?

The answer was simple: It’s part of the plan.

But Byleth hasn’t shared any of this seduction business to her friend; it was too private.

So, instead, she gave his arm a reassuring pat, and said, “My bed is too small for two people, unfortunately. It’s barely wide enough for me as it is. It’ll be better for both of us to sleep separately while I wait for a bigger replacement. You can tell them that if they asked.”

Alm looked unconvinced, but nevertheless smiled in response. “I see. You can count on me, Professor.”

A flutter of movement in her periphery alerted her, and she spun her head towards its direction, causing a spark of pain to course through the column of her neck.

She hissed through her teeth, but was relieved to see that her plan hasn’t been foiled; it wasn’t Dimitri, but merely one of the priests that attended the Monastery.

“Are you okay, Professor? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry, Alm, it’s just a cramp,” she said, while she massaged the side of her neck and re-entered the room completely. “I should close this before he gets here and sees me awake.”

Satisfied with Alm’s answering nod, Byleth closed the door a little too quickly than she’d intended. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and released the breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

No, no, no.  

She wasn’t ready to face Dimitri yet. She needed more time to prepare, to practice what she needed to do. She barely had time to do so the previous days, since every second of her waking hours had been devoted to her duties: discussing the doctrinal reforms she was leading with Seteth and other elder priests; meeting with the Knights regarding their ongoing investigation on Solon’s mysterious origins; making rounds in the neighboring towns to bolster their faith in the new Church; and regularly ensuring that everyone in the Monastery, especially the children and orphans, were taken care of.

This was why she had put off studying Hilda’s seduction techniques until her free day—today—with blissful confidence in her estimation that Dimitri wouldn’t arrive in a few more days.

Apparently, she had grossly underestimated his speed. How he managed to get here so early on horseback from Fhirdiad, though, she had no clue.

Now’s not the time to be idle. Byleth shook herself out of her thoughts. Focus.

The first order of business was to get a hold of Hilda’s letter, which was easy because she knew exactly where she placed it. Without even thinking, she made her way towards the side of her bed and kneeled, reaching beneath to find the small keepsake box Marianne had given her as a wedding gift. It was where she placed all her important correspondences, seeing as it was big enough to house them and simple enough to go unnoticed, its cedar build blending perfectly with her new brown carpet.

Sitting on her bed, she unlatched the copper lock with ease, and opened the box to reveal the letter in question laid on top of a pile that was mostly from Dimitri, and some from Annette, Marianne, Bernie, and Lysithea.

The letter was comprised of two parts written on separate sheaths, the first being the shopping list she had used a week prior, and the second one had ‘How to Seduce Your Husband: A Guide by Hilda Valentine Goneril Aegir’ written on top in her friend’s distinctly messy script.

The cheeky title always succeeded in bringing out an amused reaction from her, despite having read it on several occasions in the past weeks. And just as she had rolled her eyes and started on the first paragraph, she was interrupted by a loud knock on her door.

She froze.

Did Dimitri decide to check up on her? What should she do? Pretend to be asleep and ignore the knocks?

The voice of reason in her head agreed, since she knew she was severely unprepared to face him, but her heart rebelled – she couldn’t do that, especially when he was making an effort in spite of the fatigue from days of travelling.

It was an immense relief, then, when instead of Dimitri’s, it was an animated female voice that called out from the other side of the door. “Professor, it’s me, Flayn. I saw Alm on my way here, and he said that you’re secretly preparing here. May I assist you in anything?”

Still holding the letter, Byleth wasted no time opening the door and was able to usher in a very excited looking Flayn within seconds.  

“Where are Dimitri, Sylvain and Dedue now? Did they see you?”

Flayn plopped unceremoniously on the bed, her eyes shining like newly-polished emeralds. “No, Alm was already leading them to the second floor dormitory when I left the corridor. They wouldn’t have seen me go here.” Then, she bobbed up and down so that her curls bounced in sync. “Oh, Professor, this is it! This is the day we have been waiting for. What do we do first? How can I help?”

Byleth sighed. “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t practiced at all.”

“Practice? What is there to practice?”

“You might as well read Hilda’s letter.” Blushing, Byleth handed it to Flayn, and watched as her friend burst out in giggles upon seeing the title.

“’How to Seduce Your Husband: A Guide by Hilda Valentine Goneril Aegir,’” Flayn read aloud after recovering, “’First and foremost, seduction is a game of mystery. The fundamental rule is to provoke a man’s possessive nature by being out of his reach. He won’t chase after you if there’s no distance to overcome.’” She suddenly gasped and glanced at Byleth, realization dawning in her expression. “Oh, is this why you asked to sleep in separate rooms, Professor?”

“Yes, I was following exactly that.”

Flayn cocked her head to the side. After a thoughtful hmm, she asked, “But I thought you wanted him to give you that special embrace? Wouldn’t that make it more difficult if you’re staying in different rooms, Professor?”

“I thought about that, but it might end up just last time if I don’t seduce him properly.” Byleth sat down next to Flayn. “He might just fall asleep without doing anything.”

“Oh, that’s true! Hmm, now what’s next? ‘Make sure you dress to conceal. Inspire his imagination, and don’t show the goods right away. Make him work for it first.’ Er, Hilda certainly has a unique way with words, doesn’t she?”

Byleth couldn’t help but laugh. They were both beet red. “Yes, she does.”

“Though I’m not quite sure I completely grasp what she meant by this, Professor.”

“It’s probably best not to linger on that.” Or else, Seteth would kill me.

“Okay, then. Moving on: ‘Push and pull. Flirt and then pull back. Make him wonder. Make him fight for your attention, and don’t be an easy conquest.

Second, in terms of how to act sultry, you must follow three things: one, use a lower voice than normal’—Oh! I’ve seen Dorothea do this before, when she talked to men! And Manuela, too!”

“So, it is a technique, then. I thought it was a bit silly, so I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes, Professor. It seems like it. Why don’t you try it out?”

Byleth still wasn’t entirely convinced, but she obliged, lowering her voice a bit. “Like this?”

“Hmm, I think it’s a bit lower when Dorothea did it. A bit more airy, too.”

Airy? “Uh, like this?”

Flayn’s eyebrows puckered together. “It’s hard for me to say. Perhaps it would be better if you said something you would actually tell Dimitri? Oh, like ‘Hello, Dimitri’.”

Though slightly embarrassed, Byleth still followed through and repeated the sentence in a lower pitch, drawing out the ‘h’ sound in an attempt at an ‘airy’ effect.

“Oh! Yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Flayn. “That’s perfect! Now let’s see. There’s only two more tips left: ‘…two, pucker you lips in a small pout and combine it with three, look up from lowered lashes.’”

“That’s a bit easy. I’ve seen Hilda do that all the time, whenever she needs a favor from unsuspecting boys. I just need to practice to make them all feel more natural.”

Flayn grasped Byleth’s hand, her face erupting in a determined smile. “Don’t worry, Profesor, I’m here, and I’ll practice with you. With Hilda’s guide and some practice, what could go wrong?”

Byleth never liked that phrase, but quickly brushed it off. She had to focus, because in an hour, she’d have to go see her husband.

And hopefully seduce him.

Indeed, what could go wrong?

Chapter 6: The Homecoming

Notes:

As usual, I highly encourage y'all to drop comments below!

*

Sorry for the delay with this latest chapter. November was a very challenging month for me, because of a lot of work-related drama. Needed to get away for a while to get a breather, so I took a trip with the fam. I feel a bit better now, so I'm expecting the next chapter to release within the month.

Thanks for reading! <3

I’m back.

Dimitri paused at the threshold of what used to be his dormitory room, taking in the familiar surroundings—the varnished wooden walls and floorboards, the small bed, the wooden desk and accompanying chair, and the blue velvet draperies. For one staggering breath, he thought he had gone back in time.

But when his gaze wandered over to the right wall, he saw the unmistakable evidence of the past five years on it himself. There, the new coat-of-arms of the Unified Kingdom of Faerghus proudly hung, the dragon and the lion intertwining around the heart of Fodlan,  a symbol of harmony, strength… and peace.

Peace.

No matter how many times he encountered it, the word would roll of his tongue without fully registering in his mind. As though it was an obscure term encountered in a foreign tome, and it might as well be one for him, having spent a majority of his life living underneath the twin shadows of war and death.

He had never experienced true peace, until fairly recently. Oh, his demons were still there, existing in some secret corners of his mind, but they did not rule over him like a jealous master anymore. He had changed in some undefinable, fundamental way, and finally—finally—he had gained control of his fate.

He had finally broken free from the shadows, and had stepped into the light.

Into her light.

Predictably, he found himself conjuring an image of Byleth’s lovely smile, taken from the collection of memories he had painstakingly etched into his mind over the years. Rare, fleeting moments when joy made her eyes so luminous he fancied he could see into her soul. Or when a particularly clever—or in Alois’ case, terrible—joke tugged her lips upward, making his fingers tingle with the violent need to trace it and capture it with his own skin.

It was all because of that smile.

Seeing it for the first time had been his downfall.

He could remember it with great clarity. How she had positively glowed with relief after rescuing Flayn from the Death Knight, her cheeks flushing prettily above her curving lips. How he had stood motionless, utterly mesmerized and barely breathing—afraid that one slight movement would steal this moment away from him.

And so he stood there for Gods knew how long, just greedily drinking in the vision of her, his heart thundering against his chest so hard it was a miracle he hadn’t cracked a rib.

That was when it happened. For the first time in his short life, Dimitri had felt his soul utter the words with all the passion that his body could muster: I love you desperately. And this singular moment had cleaved his life into past and present—into life before, and after her.

Almost immediately after that, he had discovered that love and greed came hand-in-hand. The beastly part of him had come into form, and it screamed—demanded—to be the recipient of her attentions. That smile she wore on her lips should be directed to him, and only him, and so he had babbled on, words of admiration and silent yearning spilling forth from his mouth in quick succession.

“Hey, Professor. Can you make that expression one more time?”

“Heh, I apologize. I’ve forgotten myself and come dangerously close to teasing you.”

“It’s just… I’ve never seen you look so happy before. It’s downright mesmerizing.”

Dimitri flinched when he suddenly felt a pat on his back.           

He turned around to see the hand belonging to Sylvain, who, together with Dedue, had managed to return to the corridor from their rooms without him noticing. Behind them, Byleth’s personal guard stood, his helmet tipped upwards, revealing eyes that were equal parts curious and uncertain.

Drat, he completely forgot about him. The guard must have thought him odd for staring mutely into an empty room.

“You alright there?” asked Sylvain, one ruddy brow raised.

“Yes, apologies, I’m afraid I was woolgathering. Are you both settled already?”

“Yeah, it was easy since almost nothing has changed in my room. It’s almost like I just took a short vacation. I can’t believe my dating book is still where I left it. I half expected someone would have published it by now.”

“I won’t even ask what a dating book is,” Dimitri shook his head, suppressing a grin. He ushered Sylvain and Dedue inside, carelessly dropping his satchels onto the wooden floor. “But please stay inside first. It wouldn’t do well to crowd in the corridors.”

Not waiting for a response, Dimitri turned to the guard. “Thank you for directing us to our rooms, and helping with our bags, uh… Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“No need for apologies, Your Majesty. It’s Alm.”

What a foreign-sounding name. “Alm, would you know what time my wife is supposed to wake up today?”

It was embarrassing how his heart still fluttered when he called Byleth ‘his wife’ out loud. One would have expected him to get used to it by now, since he had used every opportunity to do so ever since their marriage.

Gods, it’s been two months, Dimitri. Get a hold of yourself.

“I believe she should be ready in about an hour, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri felt his shoulders droop, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut. “An hour?” he asked again, making sure he simply hadn’t misheard.

But alas, Alm nodded, his brows drawn together, looking perturbed. “Er, yes, that’s usually the time she rises during her days off, Your Majesty.”

An hour.

It might not seem such a long time, but for Dimitri who hadn’t seen his beloved for over two months, he felt as though Alm had told him to wait a year. His body vibrated with the knowledge that she was so close to him, yet he would have to wait for a cursed hour before he could see her.

And to think that he had practically moved heaven and earth, had pushed himself and his friends nearly to the point of exhaustion, just to arrive at Garreg Mach this early… Only to be told to wait.

No, I must be patient. It’s unbecoming of a king to be so greedy and childish. Patience, Dimitri, patience.

But even as he told himself that, Dimitri’s words basically dripped with disappointment as he replied, “I… see. Well, that would be all then.”

“If there’s nothing else, I will take my leave, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri nodded his dismissal, and saw the apologetic look that Alm shot him before the guard disappeared from view upon descending the polished marble steps of the staircase.

“Well, feeling bad about things won’t change anything. The wisest thing to do is to brush it aside,” he mumbled to himself as he smoothed the black-and-white feathers of his cape, needing an excuse to stay in the corridor for a few seconds longer. He managed to curb his feelings of dismay enough to wear an impassive expression when he returned to his room.

“Man, they really did a great job reconstructing the Monastery. Not a stone or a drapery out of place. I’m impressed.” Sylvain said, oblivious to Dimitri’s dampened mood. He had taken the liberty of sitting on the bed, while Dedue contented himself with standing near the window, seemingly absorbed with the view. “Though it kinda feels surreal, you know? It’s almost like we’re students again, with missions, papers, and—Heavens forbid—exams.”

Grimacing, Sylvain punctuated his statement with an exaggerated shudder.

Dimitri scoffed incredulously. “Not that you let such things stop you from having fun. Remember Seteth’s practicum on lance techniques? You almost got yourself skewered trying to impress that girl from Kleiman.”

“Hey, I would have you know that I was trying to build a strategic connection there. Tabitha is Duke Kleiman’s only daughter, and you know how influential they were in the North at the time.”

“Uh-huh, and forming this ‘strategic connection’ couldn’t wait until you were done with your practice fight with Seteth?” Dimitri closed the door behind him and made his way to the wooden chair in front of his desk. “You were winking and posing at her a majority of the time. It was a miracle Ingrid didn’t storm in and cut you down herself.”

“Look, a fight is the perfect opportunity to showcase these fabulous muscles. I couldn’t very well flex them randomly in the corridor, could I? I would look like a narcissistic fool.” Sylvain winked and raised his left arm, bending it at the elbow until the beige fabric of his shirt stretched around said muscle, looking exactly like a narcissistic fool.

“Ah, how anyone would mistake you for that is unfathomable to me,” Dimitri rolled his eye heavenward, but couldn’t stop a grin from forming. He crossed his arms and settled on a more comfortable position on the chair. “And how about the time you slept through Hanneman’s exam on Crest History because you had spent the previous night carousing with women? Ingrid and I had to convince him to give you a make-up test. Otherwise, you would have failed that subject.”

“There you go again, Your Majesty, with your assumption that my carousing involved women. There was only one, I assure you, as it’s a personal rule of mine to flirt with no more than one at a time.” Reclining further onto the bed, Sylvain nodded sagely to himself, as though he was imparting some sacred knowledge. “You see, that’s the golden rule of skirt-chasing: Never bark on two trees at once; otherwise, you risk invoking the dreaded Female Ire.”

Dimitri would bet a considerable sum of gold that Sylvain just made that up. “Oh, so the accounts of you cheating on women were all false, then?”

“Cheat? Me? Do I look like the kind to cheat? What a preposterous notion, right, Dedue?”

The man in question simply grunted, his gaze still plastered onto the sight below.

“Does a grunt in Duscur mean yes?” Sylvain asked.

“A grunt in Duscur means that I am polite enough not to comment,” came Dedue’s somewhat distracted reply.

“You wound me, you two. Really. My fragile sensibilities weren’t ready for this betrayal. Oh, if I die tonight, let it be known that I did so because of a broken heart. Let my epitaph read, ‘Here Lies the Honorable and Very Handsome Margrave Sylvain Gautier, Who Passed Away from Betrayal of the Highest Order.’” Sylvain bent his head and clutched his chest dramatically, grabbing a fistful of his beige shirt. “Oh, my poor, poor heart.” He extended his hand as if reaching for something. “Wait, is—is that a pool of light I see? Saint Seiros, is that you?”

“Maybe a knock on the head would help you see clearly, Sylvain. I would gladly volunteer on Ingrid’s behalf.” Dimitri said, and, as if to prove his point, he stood up and shortened the distance between them until he was at the edge of the bed, the hem of his long blue cape almost brushing Sylvain’s calfskin boots.

Sylvain bolted upright, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m kidding. Geez, with your strength, a knock on the head would really do me in.”

“You exaggerate. It would give you a concussion, at best, but surely not instant death.”

“Well, I’m not exactly eager to test that out, Your Majesty,” Sylvain laughed.

Then, to Dimitri’s astonishment, his friend sobered abruptly, and he could see an expression of fierce sincerity cut through his face like a stroke of an arrow, leaving it bereft of its previous playfulness.

“Seriously, though, I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, no matter what the rumors say, and I would be damned if I start now. You know how much I love Ingrid,” continued Sylvain in a grave tone so rare that it even stole Dedue’s attention from whatever it was he was looking at through the window. “I would rather die than to hurt her emotionally or physically. I hope you know that.”

Dimitri knew this, of course, but hearing the words straight from his friend’s mouth caused respect and pride to swell inside him. This was the man he had always known to be lurking beneath all the jokes, all the misguided flirting.

The true Sylvain.

“I do, but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t worry about you before. Your resentment towards Crests had almost rivaled my thirst for revenge, but you have changed just as I did. You’ve stepped up in your role as Margrave Gautier, as Ingrid’s fiancé, and have made me so incredibly proud.” Dimitri laid a gloved palm on Sylvain’s shoulder. “My brother. For that is what you, Felix, and Dedue,”—his eye briefly flickered to Dedue—“are to me. Brothers by honor. Ingrid, Annette, and Mercedes could not find finer husbands in all of Fodlan.”

Dimitri saw the impact of his words almost instantly—Sylvain and Dedue actually blushed in unison, their eyes flashing with surprise at his sudden words, then with genuine warmth, while an awkward silence fell around them. If he weren’t embarrassed himself, Dimitri would have laughed at their expressions.

Sylvain reacted first, rubbing his eyes, which had misted though he would never admit it. “Damn it, don’t make a speech like that from out of the blue, Dimitri! Have a care for our manly pride, will you? At least warn us next time. Gods.”

Leaning on the wall next to the window, Dedue’s rough and scarred face was illuminated by the glow of the morning sun, but there was no mistaking the glimmer of brotherly affection in his gaze and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Placing a fist on his chest, right above his heart, he bowed. “Thank you. I vow never to make you regret that trust, Your Majesty.”

Was it the exhaustion from days of travelling that made them sentimental? Well, whatever it was, Dimitri needed to change subjects fast; otherwise, it would be his turn to tear up.

“Ahem, right, thank you, Dedue, Sylvain.” Giving the fakest cough he had ever heard, Dimitri scrambled to think of a topic to dispel the awkwardness in the air. He mentioned the first thing that came to mind, moving toward the windowsill with unwarranted speed, “I wonder if there’s something we could do downstairs to pass the time. Didn’t something catch your eye earlier, Dedue? You were looking down at the courtyard so intently.”

A glance at Dedue showed that his blush only grew deeper at this remark, and it was enough to give Dimitri a hint on what awaited him when he looked down at the courtyard.

Ah, so that’s what he’s been looking at.

As expected, Mercedes’s familiar form was visible from Dimitri’s vantage point. She appeared to be holding a thin tome while conversing animatedly to a group of small children in the newly-reconstructed courtyard, wholly unaware of the attention directed her way. Dimitri was gratified to see that his suggestion to install more benches was heeded by the Knights, and was now being put to good use.

“I want to see, too,” Sylvain said. A few seconds later and he was beside Dimitri. “Oh, so that’s what you’ve been up to, Dedue. I can forgive you for ignoring me now.”

“Those must be the orphans that Byleth has mentioned in her letters,” said Dimitri.

Dedue nodded, then, said, “Kev Ruso,” pointing to a brown-haired boy who looked no more than eight—“Aline and Winnifred Bisset,” twin girls with waist-long blond hair—“Rhys Caron, the oldest of the group at thirteen,” a lanky boy who was almost as tall as Ashe, with dark, curly hair—“Sebastian Brodeur,” a charming blond boy with an unfortunate bowl cut—“Julian Mercier, and Vincent Fournier,” two brown-haired boys who were nodding off on a bench behind Mercedes—and lastly, “Evangeline Chastain,” a little girl around the age of ten with curly strawberry-blond hair, who sat ramrod straight next to Mercedes, absorbing every word with rapt attention.

 

 

Evie—she’s secretly my favorite, because she reminds me of you, Dimitri.

So, that’s what you meant by that, Byleth. Dimitri smiled. Although, what if you found out that I wasn’t such a model student like young Evie, but merely a young man in love with his professor?

“Wow, Dedue, how do you know all this?” asked Sylvain.

“Mercedes writes about her charges most of the time, and I find enjoyment in reading about them.”

“It was definitely the right choice to have you and Mercedes lead the rebuilding of Duscur then. She’s going to be perfect as head teacher of its academy, and you as the Kingdom’s Ambassador to Duscur.” Sylvain reached over to give Dedue a friendly pat on the arm. “I’m gonna miss you, though, buddy. The food in Faerghus will never be the same with you and Ashe all the way in Duscur and Brigid.”

“Please do not say such things yet. It is too early, since that plan would only work if she agrees to marry me. As you recall, I have yet to ask her.” Dedue said.

Dimitri turned to Dedue to find him frowning, and he recalled that it was considered unlucky in Duscur to jump into conclusions, or, as the adage went, to ‘count one’s eggs before they hatch.’ “What’s your plan, Dedue? Can we help you in any way?”

Dedue took out a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his tan breeches, and Dimitri recognized it to be the one he had scribbled the previous night.

“For the setting, I am considering the Goddess Tower or the Church Cathedral. I can’t write a poem—”

“—But I gave you—” Sylvain protested.

“—and I refuse to use one that was not written by my hand. I would rather ask her directly, using my simple words. Hopefully they would be enough.”

Dimitri nodded. “I agree, and I believe that whatever you do will be enough, knowing Mercedes. When are you planning to do it?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Good luck then, my friend,” Dimitri held out a gloved hand. He saw the apparent hesitation in Dedue’s face, but he persisted, extending it further so he had no choice but to accept, knowing fully well that doing so would forever alter the dynamic of their friendship—that there would be no going back. He was releasing him as a servant, and welcoming him as an equal.

As a friend, just as they had agreed many moons ago.

Dedue’s hand trembled slightly as they shook hands. “Thank you… Dimitri.”

The solemnity of the moment was suddenly broken when Dimitri felt it, a bolt of awareness that speared through him until the fine hairs of his neck stood on end. His heartbeat instantly escalated to an ungodly tempo, and he found himself striding toward the door, his body outpacing his brain.

He was a foot away when the knock reverberated throughout the room.

She’s here, his soul whispered. She’s finally here.

A second later, and there she was.

Byleth.

She was… more beautiful than he remembered. She looked like pure beauty spun into form.

Her hair, which was normally an indeterminate shade of ash and teal, was made silver as it caught bits of the morning light. It looked longer, too, as it gently reached below her shoulders. Dark-fringed eyes mesmerized him on spot. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to look into them forever, to lose himself in their depths.

He would have done so if it weren’t for her lips, which beckoned him with memories of their previous kiss, causing his every cell in his body to scream for a reenactment.

But he couldn’t move. He was too overwhelmed to do anything but look at her, to look at this woman who held his heart at the palm of her hand.

“Welcome home,” she said.

And yes, he was home.

Finally.

Chapter 7: The Reunion Part 1

Notes:

Wishing everyone an advanced Merry Christmas!

Get ready. Things are getting... spicy.

In truth, Byleth’s first thought had been: What was that loud crack? She had heard Flayn’s soft gasp, and her instinct had immediately kicked in. She had stepped back, angled herself in front of Flayn, with her fingertips already brimming with magical energy, ready to release a blast of fire.

Given her reflexes, though, Byleth had only taken half a second to establish that the sound was due to the oak door being yanked clean from its hinges, and that it was apparently Dimitri who had done so. He became visible as he held the sorry piece of fixture to the side like it was made of paper, and it was so amusing that she felt herself relaxing at the sight.

The funny thing was, he hadn’t seemed to notice anything—not the dislodged door, nor Flayn’s gasp of surprise, nor her defensive reaction; instead, he simply stared at her, and while he wasn’t exactly smiling, his cobalt blue eye shone brilliantly, as though all the world’s supply of joy was trapped in it.

As a wave of happiness spread through Byleth, she realized that she was also experiencing the same feelings just from being reunited with him after more than two months of separation. Was this how it felt like to wait for someone important to come home?

The thought barely crossed her mind when she blurted out, “Welcome home.”

“Yes, it’s good to be back,” he replied.

Dimitri let himself smile now, and it was a rare one, the type that reached his eye, causing it to crinkle at the corner. He didn’t flash his teeth—he never did—but his mouth made a familiar lopsided curve, pushing out a small dimple on his left cheek, and it always gave Byleth the compulsion to even it out, to see if there would be a mirroring dimple on the other side. Would there? It hardly seemed fair for nature to bestow it on a lone cheek, but not the other.

Or perhaps nature had known that he would be too charming for his own good otherwise. Because despite the uneven smile and its singular dimple, the disheveled golden hair that fell on wild tangles over his forehead and shoulder, and the black eyepatch that spoke of a past riddled with violence, he was undoubtedly a beautiful man.

She was aware of this, certainly. Had been aware of this even years before, when she was simply known as the Blue Lions professor, and he, the Crown Prince of seventeen, with a rather questionable haircut. Barely a day had passed by without someone commenting about his strong jawline and handsome face, or a young girl cooing over his towering height and muscular build.

The years of fighting that came after hadn’t changed them. Instead, they seemed to enhance them, sharpening his features so he looked every inch a virile male. Strikingly so.

Wait, why am I feeling like this?

Subconsciously, she pressed a hand against her stomach to quell the series of strange flutters she felt. Was she nervous all of a sudden? No, there had been only a handful of times when she felt nervous in her life, but they were enough for her to know that this wasn’t the cause. It was close, though. How strange.

But why was she getting this reaction from a mere exercise of observation, of cold scrutiny? It wasn’t any different than what she had done countless times before—however, there wasn’t anything cold about how she was feeling now.

The hem of her long-sleeved dress fell onto the floor, covering her in swathes of dark blue muslin, and it had been perfect to dispel the chill of an autumn morning. But now, an unexpected heat crept up her neck, up to her cheeks, and her attire felt unbearably hot. Indeed, there was no doubt that she was even blushing. The rouge that Flayn had dabbed onto her cheeks at the last minute was definitely unnecessary, in hindsight.

It was a good thing, then, that Dimitri’s attention had diverted to the door in his hand as this happened. “What—Oh gods, did I—? Did I do this?”

Byleth smiled. “Yes, just now.”

“Oh, Dimitri, you surprised me. I had thought something happened. I’m glad that wasn’t the case.” Flayn then waved to the group from Byleth’s left. “And it’s so nice to see you all again.”

“Hi, Professor. Hey, Flayn. Always good seeing you two lovely ladies.” Sylvain stepped forward until he was beside Dimitri, then whistled as he contemplated the door. “Gosh, Dimitri, if I didn’t personally witness you overturn a wagon one-handedly, I would have been surprised to see what you did just now.” He leaned forward, eyes glued to the brass hinges that were hanging limply on one side. “Wrenched clean in one swing of the wrist. Impressive.”

Dimitri didn’t seem to think so. Frowning, he placed the disengaged piece of wood perpendicularly against a nearby wall, mumbling, “I was not even aware that I did so.” He slid an apologetic glance at Byleth. “Apologies for causing you trouble. You already have so much on your plate as is, without me destroying doors.”

Again, there was that annoying flutter in her stomach. “No, it’s alright. I’ll have Cyril look over it, and talk to the carpenter. He’s been a great help with the restoration, so he knows what to do.”

“I can personally help out if needed. It’s my fault for breaking it, after all,” offered Dimitri.

Leaning away from the windowsill, Dedue interjected, “No need to trouble yourself, Your Majesty. I ask that you and the Professor let me handle this if additional assistance is needed.”

“You are not my vassal anymore, Dedue. I shall not rely on you regarding such things.”

“Please, there’s no need—” Byleth was about to shake her head, when her neck protested, sending little darts of pain through her. She still hasn’t recovered from the cramp she had earlier, it seemed.

Her small moan didn’t escape Dimitri’s notice. He swiveled to her and gave her a swift scan, from her feet up to her face. It remained there with startling intensity. “Are you alright? Are you sick? You appear to be a bit red. Perhaps you’ve been pushing yourself too hard with work?”

A denial was at the tip of Byleth’s tongue, but at the last second, she remembered Hilda’s words: Seduction is a game of mystery.

Oh, right. Seeing Dimitri again had momentarily taken her out of sorts—which was the only reason she could come up with for the strange feelings she had earlier—but she was here for a purpose, and she needed to focus on the task at hand.

Time to set this plan into motion.

Byleth looked back at him with lowered lashes in what she hoped to be a good imitation of how Dorothea did it, and spoke in a deliberately lowered voice, “Maybe? My days have been quite busy lately.”

“Oh, yes, the Professor has been quite busy, indeed,” echoed Flayn, who shot Byleth an approving glance. “Such is the life of the Archbishop, I suppose.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy at all,” Sylvain remarked.

Dimitri’s mouth was a grim line. “No, it doesn’t. What has been keeping you busy? Maybe I can help?”

“Oh, just this, and that. Simply things that need to be done, people to meet. Nothing more than my fair share of work, I guarantee you,” said Byleth, wishing that her response was vague enough. “But in any case, we actually came here to tell everyone that we’ve arranged breakfast out on the gardens. None of you have eaten yet, have you?”

As if on cue, a chorus of rumbling noises reverberated in the room, originating from Sylvain and Dedue’s direction.

Flayn giggled. “There, it would seem you have your answer, Professor.”

“Oh, wow, sorry about that,” Sylvain mumbled sheepishly. “I guess we’re a lot hungrier than we thought, huh, Dedue?”

Dedue flushed in embarrassment, but merely grunted a reply.

“How about you, Your Majesty? Surely, you’re hungry, too. We haven’t eaten since last night,” said Sylvain.

A glance at Dimitri showed that he was still fixated on Byleth, his forehead creasing where his brows were drawn together. He nodded silently as he replied, “Yes, I’m a bit hungry, as well. It would be wise to take a break now.”

He doesn’t look like a man seduced, Byleth thought, deflated. Maybe I didn’t do it properly? Oh, well. There’s no use dwelling on this. I just have to try harder.

“Good, then, let’s all proceed to the gardens, shall we?” Flayn clapped her hands excitedly, and basically bounced at the balls of her heels. The large curls of her hair bobbed charmingly around her, making her look like a child. “Oh, I hope the Cook made Grilled Herring! It’s the perfect season for herrings, right, Dedue?”

Dedue nodded. “Yes, herrings are very fat this time around, and grilling them would be the best way to prepare them, since their natural oils would be enough as seasoning. Grilled Herring would be most enjoyable.”

“Oh, my, imagine if there was also Pheasant Roast with Berry Sauce! Or Cabbage and Herring Stew! Or Peach Sorbet! Goodness, my mouth is watering,” exclaimed Flayn, looking like she wanted to bounce out of the room and go to the gardens right away.

“Stop, you’re making me hungrier. But I guess there’s no reason to dawdle here when there’s a scrumptious meal waiting.” Sylvain made his way towards the door, and asked Dimitri, “Well, shall we go?”

To everyone’s surprise, instead of answering, Dimitri padded towards Byleth until he was only one foot away. “Byleth, may I ask for a moment of your time before we head to the gardens? There is something I wish to say to you in private.”

Byleth had no idea what he would want to discuss, but the intense expression he wore made her pulse jump for some reason. “Yes, of course.”

Seemingly satisfied by this, Dimitri turned to Sylvain. “Please go ahead. We would not be long, but you may start eating if you wish to do so.”

If Byleth’s senses weren’t as sharp, she would have missed the look that the two exchanged. It was gone in a blink of an eye, but it definitely happened. What was that about?

“Okay, kids, you heard the man. Time to go eat.” After basically pushing Dedue and Flayn out of the room, Sylvain went to grab the oak door—and swayed forward. “Ah, gods, this… is… heavy.”

“Do you need help?” Byleth started, but stopped when Sylvain shook his head and wobbled toward the threshold, arms straining, trembling, but still managed to maintain a somewhat stable hold on the heavy door.

“I… got… this… Professor…” Sylvain said in between grunts.

“Are you sure, Sylvain? You don’t look very convincing,” Flayn laughed.

“I… told… you… I’m… okay…” Sure enough, a few steps more and Sylvain was outside the threshold. Before fitting the door back into place, he panted empathically and said, “Phew. Well, see you later, you two.”

Byleth didn’t have the opportunity to respond when the door closed—or rather, was forced back—with a decided thud. She could make out bits and pieces of the muffled conversation that ensued on the other side, but they quickly grew distant, before disappearing completely.

Leaving her alone with Dimitri in the room.

They had shared many tête-à-têtes before, most of them within closed doors, but they had felt normal, natural. Just two friends talking about war and life, and most parts in between.

The last time they had been alone, though, was their wedding night, and it had been starkly different. They had crossed a point from which they couldn’t return—they had kissed, and somehow, Byleth realized, this had changed everything.

It was the only reason she could think of for her strange reactions to him. Even now, she felt the air between them quiver with some unknown force, felt herself squirm beneath his stare. She wasn’t sure how she knew because she had averted away from him, but she could feel it traveling over her body, skimming over her skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

She needed to move. Impulsively, she let her feet carry her to the desk in front, and she hurriedly scrambled for something to say. Anything just to get rid of the oppressive silence, and to distract her from her thunderous pulse.

“Oh, no,” Byleth made a show of wiping the surface with her sleeve, coating it with a thin layer of dust. “This is dreadfully dusty. I’ll ask one of the servants to clean up here while we go eat in—”

The words died in her lips the moment she felt two strong arms enclose her waist. Her heart leapt to her throat as she was suddenly clasped against a hard, male body.

What surprised her the most was that she hadn’t even sensed him approach.

“D-Dimitri?” She hated how shaky she sounded.

“I beg you, Byleth, would you permit me this liberty just once?” Has his voice always been this warm? Like it was honey heated over an open fire?

Without thinking, Byleth placed her palms on the arms that encircled her. The muscles quaked beneath her fingertips, and began to pull back, perhaps interpreting her action as a rejection. She pressed down, stopping them in place.

“No, i-it’s okay,” she said. As if to prove her point, she forced herself to relax against him, letting her back mold onto his torso, soft skin on solid muscle. Even through the layers of clothing separating them, she was acutely aware of the firmness of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach, the scorching heat of his skin, the incessant pounding of his heart.

She found some solace in the fact that she was not the only one affected by this intimate embrace.

“Thank you, my beloved,” Dimitri said. “I’m afraid I can’t help myself. I’m too worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?”

“You sounded like you were in pain earlier. What happened? Are you sick?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. Unlatching one arm from her waist, he placed a hand on her throat, gauging her temperature. “You’re too warm.”

It's because of you.

“Yes, I feel a bit hot, but it’s probably nothing. The pain earlier was because of a neck cramp I had this morning. I had fallen asleep on my desk.”

Dimitri cradled her throat with such delicate care that surprised Byleth, his thumb grazing its length in a featherlight touch. “Does it hurt here?” He pressed gently on the tight knot of muscles there, then ran his thumb in small circular motions, relieving some of the tension.

 “Yes,” said Byleth, though it came out as more of a sigh than an actual statement. “But you don’t have to do this, Dimitri.”

He stilled. “Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t want to burden you.”

“You’re never a burden to me, Byleth. Never, ever think that. I want to do this. I’ve missed you,” he rasped hotly against her ear, making her toes squirm in her shoes.

Goddess save her.

She swallowed. “I-I’ve missed you, too. I actually thought you would arrive a bit later. How did you manage to get here so early?”

He dropped his lips on the spot that he had massaged. “I wanted to see you. I… couldn’t bear not seeing you for another day.”

He’s—he’s kissing my neck!

Byleth closed her eyes, and relished on how he felt on her. She had never experienced this, and it was so… exhilarating. Exciting.

And dangerous.

 When she didn’t respond, she felt his lips make a slow, deliberate descent down, her stomach fluttering and her breath catching with every stroke of his hot tongue.

Byleth bit her lip to stop a gasp from escaping, but failed fast when he reached the part where her neck and shoulders met, and sucked—sucked!—on the sensitive skin there. “Dimitri!”

He kissed his way to the hollow part at the base of her neck, to her shoulder, then moved up to her ear, capturing her lobe between his teeth, each nip sending shivers down her spine.

Byleth was lost in a sea of sensations. Her pulse screamed wildly in her veins, and she saw the room whirling around her. And… there was something else. Something foreign. Something she had never felt before.

A strange, dull throbbing between her thighs.

“Byleth,” Dimitri rasped, pinning her to him so much that she felt the hard form of his scabbard on the small of her back. He dipped toward her neck again, and this time, sucked harder, invoking her name like a prayer.

The throbbing intensified.

Heavy-lidded and dazed, Byleth pressed against his shoulder, feeling the black-and-white feathers of his cape graze her cheeks and nose with every movement he made.

They grazed her again.

Oh, no.

And again.

No. No. No.

“Byleth, turn around, I beg you,” came Dimitri’s hot plea.

Please. NO.

Her hand flew to her mouth, just as she found herself pivoted around in Dimitri’s arms.

Then… it happened.

She gave the biggest sneeze of her life.

“ACHOOOO!!!”

Chapter 8: The Reunion Part 2

Notes:

You asked, and I delivered: Here's the chapter where Seteth and Dimitri find out about the olisbos.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Byleth’s eyes stung with tears and her nose felt like it just exploded. And it might as well had, given how loud the sneeze was. Her ears still rang with it.

She suddenly felt the weight of Dimitri’s head on her left shoulder. Good gods, did she sneeze into his eye? His remaining eye? She had tried to cover her mouth, and while the hand she had used was now disturbingly wet, she probably didn’t catch everything.

Spurred by this, she quickly recovered herself. However, she couldn’t see his face, given the way he was positioned. “Dimitri? Are you okay?” Placing her other palm on his shoulder, on top of a tuft of black-and-white feathers—those cursed feathers—she felt him stir.

Was he… shaking?

Good job, Byleth. Not only have you blinded your husband completely, you even managed to break him.

“Are you okay?” She tried again, with a more pronounced tone, letting her fingers travel onto the mass of golden silk on his head and began to caress it awkwardly. Alas, it only made the tremors worse.

How was she supposed to react now? There was nothing in Hilda’s guide about sneezing at the man you were supposed to seduce. Probably because it was such an improbable scenario that didn’t warrant any thought. It was simply her luck then that it had happened to her.

“Dimi—”

Laughter, as loud as it was unexpected, erupted from Dimitri in a series of glorious peals. It sounded deep and powerful, the kind that came from the stomach and resonated with the entire body, from one’s head down to the toes.

“Haha—Oh, Byleth—You are hilarious—” he broke off and gave into another round of hysterics, his body shaking so much he had to hold onto Byleth’s arms, as if to keep himself upright.

It was incredibly infectious, too, and didn’t take long for Byleth to chuckle along with him, despite the initial mortification she had felt.

“You made me worry. I thought that I had somehow sneezed into your eye and blinded you,” she said half-jokingly when their laughter had subsided.

Dimitri straightened up, and she saw that his eye was crinkling at the corner again. She liked that. “That would be quite an interesting story, wouldn’t it? Though blinding one’s king would warrant a severe punishment, I believe.”

“Ah, but not when the Archbishop does it. I’m sure it’s part of the Articles of Immunity somewhere.” She continued with her best Seteth impersonation, “‘The Archbishop shall not be held liable if he or she accidentally sneezes into the King’s eye and blind him,’ or something along those lines.”

This earned her a wide, lopsided grin, and a glimpse of that devastating dimple. “That was actually very good. Aside from having impeccable fighting skills, my wife apparently has the gift of impersonation. Why am I just discovering this?”

“Well, you never gave me an opportunity to perform,” said Byleth, smiling.

“My apologies. It would seem I’ve been neglecting you and your talents.”

“Oh, that was just Seteth. If you want to see real talent, you should see my impression of Dedue.”

“I can’t say if you’re jesting, but goddess save me if I start imagining Dedue whenever I’m with you.” He chuckled again, giving her arms a playful squeeze. “You are quite possibly the most adorable creature in Fodlan.”

He looked exceedingly handsome himself, but she couldn’t very well tell him that. Instead, she teased, “Just in Fodlan?”

 “In the world.” His left hand rose to caress her cheek, his thumb brushing her lower lip. He continued in a distinctly lower tone, “I’m a lucky man.”

This was all it took for the troubling feelings that had overwhelmed Byleth earlier to resurface, changing the air of good humor that had settled between them into something more electric yet again.

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and her skin warmed up with the knowledge of how it felt on her. The parts of her neck that he had kissed were still sensitive. Was he going to kiss her on the lips now?

A delicious heat pooled low in her belly at the thought. She glanced up at him again and found herself trapped in his fierce gaze. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that,”—he placed his thumb between her lips, opening them— “there is no way,”—his face drew closer—“that I could possibly,”—he was now so close she could feel his breath on her—“imagine you as Dedue, no matter how good of an impersonator you are.”

Huh?

Before Byleth could absorb this, she saw him lift his head instead, and placed a kiss on her forehead. He drew her into a light hug, much different than the passionate one he had given her earlier.

“I jest. But in all seriousness, I… want to apologize for my conduct just now.” He pulled back slightly, enough to reveal a frown. “I admit I was overcome with emotions. I have no excuse aside from the fact that seeing you for the first time in a while had overwhelmed me. I’ve missed you. Tremendously.”

“I feel the same way. “ Byleth felt her cheeks flush. “There’s nothing you should apologize for. I was surprised, yes. But I… liked it, I think.”

“Oh… Good.” He turned red, too, and briefly looked away. When he glanced back at her a second later, his face was surprisingly somber. “If I ever do behave in a way that makes you uncomfortable, or hurts you, don’t hesitate to stop me. Know that it’s never my intention to do so.”

 “Hurt me? I don’t think you could ever hurt me, Dimitri.”

“Still. I beg you, promise me you would stop me. You can fight back, even. Or—"

“Or sneeze at you?” she added, trying to ease his frown.

It worked. His grin returned. “Yes, you may even sneeze at me.”

“Okay, I promise, even though I still don’t believe you’re capable of doing so.” Byleth said, just as a familiar loud melodic clanging filled the room. She widened her eyes. “Oh, it’s been an hour already? We should go to the gardens. The others must be wondering where we are.”

“We should.” Yet, he didn’t move.

“Dimitri?”

“I can’t let us leave until I’ve told you what I wanted to say in private.” He bent over and captured her lips in a brief kiss. Fleeting though it might be, it was enough to make Byleth’s heart pound. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Her stomach fluttered again, but it no longer came with an undercurrent of panic. This was Dimitri, she reminded herself, and there was nothing to be unnerved about.

 

 

Byleth had let Dimitri hold her hand all the way to the courtyard. The priests, maidens and servants they had passed along the way greeted them with the usual reverent friendliness, but would get embarrassed whenever they sighted their joined hands.

“I believe we’re scandalizing the Churchgoers,” remarked Byleth, as she and Dimitri strode past yet another flustered priest.

“I can sympathize with them, somewhat. It’s the first time the Archbishop of the Church had a relationship beyond what could be considered platonic and spiritual. Rhea, in my knowledge, never had a lover, or anything even close to that.”

Byleth considered this for a few seconds as she let Dimitri guide her through the hedges. “You’re right. Plus, to think that it would be with the King, making it a literal marriage between the Church and the State.”

“Yes. One could only imagine their confusion now, with so many gray areas brought about by our marriage.” He shot her an assessing glance. “Are you bothered by it? Do you… regret it?”

If she hadn’t known Dimitri, she wouldn’t have sensed the vulnerability hidden behind the seriousness in his façade. But it was there, manifesting itself as a glint of uncertainty in his gaze, as a crease above his strong brow, as a steady tic in his jaw. It warned her to be careful, and at the same time, told her that she had power over him—that his heart was laid bare for her to either cherish, or to hurt with just a single word.

Is this what love does to a person?

As a reply, she squeezed his hand. “No. Things are different now. I’m not Rhea, and while I may be the Archbishop, I’m also your wife. The sooner the people adjust to this, the better.”

Truth be told, she was also part of those who needed to adapt to their new relationship. While she had meant every word, she knew that they had teetered dangerously close to hypocrisy, considering that she had no clue how to be a lover, much less a wife. How could she, when her existence prior to coming to the Monastery had been merely a sum of brief interactions with people she would never see again? The missions had been the priority, and attachments were simply in the way. They weighed you down.

So dealing with things like love and marriage was like being asked to paint a picture when one was blind. Nothing could be farther from what she had grown up with. But despite this limitation on her pat—despite the fact that the change in her relationship with Dimitri was so new to her, she liked it.

It felt right. Like pieces of a puzzle finally joining together.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen these flowers. They’re quite unique; it’s autumn and yet they’re still in bloom,” said Dimitri, suddenly pausing in front of a row of tall bushes leading to the gardens’ new gated entrance. “What are they called?”

“They’re pansies and Michaelmas daisies. Cyril managed to get a good bargain from a merchant from Deirdru. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” With his free hand, Dimitri plucked a purple pansy from a nearby bush, and pinned it behind Byleth’s ear. “Beautiful.”

Byleth wound her fingers more intimately through his, and shared a smile with him. For a split-second, her breath caught thinking he was going to kiss her again, when Sylvain’s voice floated from somewhere behind the bushes.

“Hey, I think I heard them.” Then, in a louder voice, “Your Majesty, Professor, are you guys there? Dedue won’t let us start until you get here. He keeps on saying it’s not right to take you up on your offer of starting without you two. I swear I’ll end up eating Flayn’s hair if I have to wait a minute more.”

“Really, Sylvain! Leave me out of this, please. I’m also hungry, you know,” was Flayn’s exasperated reply.

“It’s not my fault that your curls look like these sweet buns. How do you even make them that circular, anyway? That can’t be natural.”

Byleth couldn’t hear what Flayn retorted, but would bet that it wasn’t complimentary in the least. Giving Dimitri’s hand a gentle tug, she said, “We should go. We wouldn’t want Sylvain to carry out his threat, and end up on the other end of Seteth’s lance.”

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, really,” Dimitri sighed, leading her through the newly installed gilded iron gates.

A blend of delectable smells hit them the instant they stepped inside, even before they were able to locate the table where Sylvain, Dedue, and Flayn sat albeit rather grumpily. It was filled with almost every kind of dish that Byleth had seen in the Mess Hall menu, and there were even some that she was encountering for the first time. What was that plate of brown dessert? And those sticks of multi-colored balls?

Her stomach rumbled. She now understood her friends’ ill-temper. If she were asked to wait with all these before her, she would’ve reacted the same way.

“Ah, finally,” exclaimed Sylvain, who wasted no time plowing into a succulent well-roasted pheasant. “I was beginning to think you two forgot about us.”

“Yes, Professor. What were you two doing?” Flayn asked in between bites of a whole plate of herring, seemingly grilled to perfection.

It was an innocent question; Flayn couldn’t have known what had happened inside dorm room. Yet, Byleth’s appetite vanished, replaced by the treacherous heat at the thought of what happened. She immediately let go of Dimitri’s hand as if burned.

“We talked,” she answered lamely, accepting the seat that Dimitri held out to her, not quite meeting his gaze.

Flayn titled her head. “Talked? For that long? What about?”

Sitting down beside Byleth, Dimitri said, “Concerns of a private nature could, er, take quite a long time. Adult matters and such.”

To Byleth’s relief, she saw Flayn nodded, either satisfied with this answer, or deigned the issue not worth the attention when a good bowl of stew was in sight.

Sylvain, on the other hand, remarked in a strange tone, “Hmm, adult matters, indeed.” His ocher eyes darted between Byleth and Dimitri, before taking another generous bite of pheasant meat.

Does he—does he have an idea about… about the kisses!?

Then, Sylvain continued, swallowing audibly, “I suppose you two discussed about the subsidization of the Officer’s Academy. I know all about that, too, and I think it’s a great idea that should’ve been in place earlier. Thank you for proposing that, Professor.”

Byleth relaxed immediately. He was clueless, after all. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she said, “Thank you. I can’t take the credit, since it was Mercedes’ suggestion; I just created the official proposal,”—Dedue almost dropped a piece of fish dango onto his bowl of stew—”but I agree that it should’ve been done before. Making tactical education free for all those who possess the aptitude for it would strengthen the Kingdom considerably.”

“Annette, Dorothea and Mercedes had to go through hoops just to enter the Academy,” Sylvain chimed in. “What if they didn’t persist to join? I can’t imagine facing what he had faced without them on our side.”

Oh, no.

The reference to the previous war alerted Byleth. She swiveled to Dimitri, expecting a sign of a relapse, but was stunned to see him bite on a strip of dark brown jerky without so much as a frown.

He was getting better. She hadn’t doubted it, but seeing his improvement firsthand gave her a different level of joy she had never experienced before this.

Picking up a slice of Gautier cheese, Dimitri said, “That’s one reason to support the proposal. The other argument for it, of course, would be that it gives the children an equal opportunity, whether or not they’re wealthy.”

“Or whether or not they have a Crest,” said Sylvain.  

The two carried on, while on the other side of the table, Flayn and Dedue could be heard talking about food—or more precisely, Flayn was extolling the many qualities of herring, with Dedue occasionally voicing his approval as he carefully scooped spoonfuls of his stew.

“Isn’t the broth just divine?” Flayn accompanied this with a spoonful of her own. “Mmm. The slightly sweet taste of the cabbage balances out the bitterness of the herring. But... there’s an undertone of something I can’t quite make out. What is it?”

“Definitely parsley. Plus, a dash of olive oil.”

“Oh, yes! That’s it.” Flayn contemplated her bowl as if it was the breakthrough of the century. “I’ve eaten this dish enough to know that the Cook has never prepared it this way before. I can’t believe it, but it’s more delicious now.”

Dedue dabbed his mouth with napkin, apparently done with the meal. “Ashe must have shared his recipe with her.”

“That must be it.”

“Speaking of Ashe, he and Petra are in Fhirdiad now. Did you know, Professor?” asked Sylvain.

Byleth just shook her head; her cheeks were stuffed with meat pie. Ashe couldn’t have received her birthday greeting if he was in Fhirdiad, then.

“Forgive me, I forgot to include that in my last letter. Petra is planning on establishing Brigid’s very first Order of Knights, and—apologies, let me,” Dimitri broke off and wiped the corner of Byleth’s mouth with his gloved thumb. It was stained with the meat pie’s brown sauce, much to her chagrin. He shook his head dazedly. “Sorry, where was I?”

Sylvain chuckled. “You were explaining why Petra and Ashe are in Fhirdiad, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Turning to Byleth, Dimitri continued, “Petra has requested aid in its establishment, a task which Ingrid wholeheartedly volunteered for.”

“A task, which, might I add, would require her to stay in Brigid for around six months,” muttered Sylvain.

“Six months? But isn’t your wedding supposed to be in two months, Sylvain?” asked Flayn.

“Yes, it was. Not anymore. Since I’m leaving for Sreng in a while after that, I’d say it won’t be a year or so before we can get married. My darling fiancée apparently takes joy in torturing me.”

Flayn giggled. “Well, considering how you’ve made her life difficult with your shenanigans, I would hazard to say that you’re only getting what you deserve.”

“Flayn is right, Sylvain. It’s not torture; Ingrid is only meting out justice.”

“Your Majesty, I beg to disagree. It’s not my fault that so many girls fall for me. With my handsome face? I would fall for me, too, if I were a girl.”

This was met with groans from Dimitri, Flayn, and—to Byleth’s amusement—Dedue.

Before anyone could say anything else, though, someone shouted within earshot, effectively cutting the flow of conversation.

“Flayn! There you are!”

It was a good thing that Byleth had already swallowed the meat pie she had been enjoying; otherwise, she would have definitely choked on it. She turned in her seat sharply, finding her usually composed advisor rattled. Tendrils of his hair were plastered to his face, while beads of sweat decorated his forehead and nose. He had been running. “Seteth? What happened? Are you okay?”

“No, I am not.” Wiping his face with a nearby napkin, Seteth grimaced in Flayn’s direction. “I’ve been looking for you, Flayn.”

Flayn mirrored his expression. “I can’t imagine why. I believe I had left you a note, Brother.”

“Yes, a note saying ‘I am meeting the Professor.’ I’ve seen Shamir write longer and more specific ones.” Seteth said. “When no one had answered my knocks in Byleth’s quarters, I had assumed the worst.”  

“You’re overreacting, Brother. As usual.”

“Overreacting? What if you get kidnapped again? Or have you forgotten that those of the Death Knight’s ilk are still at large?”

Flayn looked upset. Byleth knew it was time to intervene. “She was with me, Seteth. You know I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Come now, let us be rational about this. The fact is Flayn is safe, as you can see, and is enjoying a fine meal with us,” said Dimitri in his most conciliatory tone.

“I have an idea. What do you say you join us? We just finished, but I bet there’s still room for a round of chamomile tea. A cup would do you good.” Sylvain had already reached for teapot, and was pouring a cup.

Seteth could barely refuse now. “I… I suppose that wouldn’t hurt.” Heaving a defeated sigh, he sat on an empty chair towards the end of the table.

Sylvain handed him the teacup. “You should really loosen up, though. How else would Flayn get a boyfriend if you’re hovering around her like a hawk?”

“B-B-B-Boyfriend?!”

“Sylvain is joking, Seteth.” Byleth said immediately. She didn’t like how the cup and saucer rattled dangerously in her advisor’s hands.

“Yes, a poorly one at that.” Crossing her arms, Flayn directed her glare at Sylvain. “You mustn’t tease him so. You must know he’s liable to harass some poor unsuspecting boy for this.”

Sylvain grinned apologetically, refrained from talking while he handed out tea to the rest.

“Are you okay?” Byleth asked. Seteth had fallen suspiciously silent.

“I’m sorry. I admit, I may have overreacted,” Seteth said, after taking a fortifying sip. “But you shouldn’t make this a habit, Flayn. Why, just over a week ago, you wrote the same thing, but had failed to indicate that you were going to Charon with Byleth and her guard.”

 “You were in Charon?” Dimitri and Sylvain asked in unison.

At the corner of her eye, Byleth caught the look that Flayn gave her.

It’s a good thing she insisted we prepare an excuse for our abrupt trip to Charon. Good idea, Flayn.

Taking a bracing breath, Byleth placed her cup on its saucer. She wasn’t going to lie; she was merely going to share part of the truth. “Yes, we were there. I had learned about the famous sweets there and thought about buying some for the children. I had let Flayn tag along because I thought it would be a good opportunity for her to broaden her horizons, so to speak.”

“It would have done you well to run it by me first, Byleth.” Seteth sighed. “Though… I suppose I wouldn’t have agreed to it had I known beforehand.”

“Which was why I concealed it from you. It was my idea to hide it; not the Professor’s. I take full responsibility. But don’t you see, Brother? You didn’t have anything to worry about.” Flayn finally smiled. “I don’t want to live my life missing out on so many things out of fear. That is not living at all.”

“You are right, of course. I… will try my best to remember that, Flayn.”

“Thank you, Brother. You know, I was so happy discovering things that were previously unknown to me. Like those little web-like ornaments you put above your bed to protect you from nightmares.”

Sylvain poured himself another cup. “You mean a dream-catcher?”

“Yes! That’s what they were called. Do you know about them?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some. Dream-catchers are usually made in Brigid. The people there believe that everything has a spirit, and those little webs are supposed to trap the evil ones that cause bad dreams.”

“That’s impressive, Sylvain. Would you, er, know about the olisbos, too?”

CRACK!

PFFFFFT!

In a span of a second, Sylvain sprayed the tea he was drinking—thankfully, he had enough of a mind to avert himself towards the hedges, and away from the table; Dimitri broke the teacup he was holding into little pieces; Dedue’s eyes widened with so much horror that Byleth fancied he had seen the very gates of hell themselves; and Seteth… Oh, there was no singular word to describe him. His face turned three shades paler, as if drained of every drop of blood. His eyes, too, had widened with horror.

What in the world was wrong with them?

Byleth looked at Flayn. She was also at a loss.

“Er, don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous,” Byleth said when silence still ensued, gesturing animatedly with her hands. “It’s just this wooden artifact that resembles a cucumber with some sort of a small hat. We just saw it in one of the shops.”

She heard a choking sound, and realized it came from Dimitri. He covered his face with his hands, while the three other men continued to gape dumbly at her.

“Professor Manuela told me it was a good luck charm. She has one in her room, you know, so it can’t be that bad,” Flayn said, not even bothering to cover the defensiveness in her tone.

“Professor… Manuela… told… you…?” Seteth finally managed to say in between gasps. Good gods, was he hyperventilating? He was even turning purple, too.

Without another word, Seteth stood up so quickly he knocked back his chair. He barely gave it so much as a glance, though, as he strode angrily back to the Grand Hall, all the while muttering about the many ways he was going to reprimand Manuela.

Alarmed, Flayn scrambled to her feet and ran after him. “Wait, Brother! Why are you so angry?”

What… just happened?

Byleth stood up with every intention to go after them, but was stopped by Sylvain. Dimitri still held his face in his hands, while Dedue had gone from pale to deep scarlet.

“I… think it’s better to give Seteth some space for a while. The worst he could do is to argue with Manuela, so you don’t have to worry about that.” Sylvain said in a strangled voice.

“Someone needs to explain what is going on,” Byleth said, returning to her seat.

Seconds ticked by until Sylvain finally asked, his face unreadable, “Professor, have you ever seen one like the, er, olisbos? Anything that had, er, a similar form or shape?”

A similar form or shape as the olisbos? “No, never.”

There was another choking sound again. What was happening to Dimitri?

“Okay, so what’s your understanding of this olisbos?” Sylvain’s mouth trembled and his face was pinched. He looked like he was going to sneeze but couldn’t.

“It’s a good luck charm, isn’t it? For fertility, or something?”

“No, Professor. It promotes the exact opposite.”

It was Byleth’s turn to go pale.

Chapter 9: The Elephant in the Room

Dimitri’s mind went completely blank. There was now a dark void where his brain used to be, and it sucked in all semblance of intelligent thought. Everything was in complete suspension, except for one thing—a sound that played repeatedly:

“...It’s just this... cucumber with some sort of a small hat...”

A cucumber with... a small hat.

A cucumber…

… with a small hat.

Like a burst of fireworks, an image formed from the void. It was of Byleth showing the olisbos off to Flayn, before placing it on a table in the Monastery Receiving Hall. A handwritten sign that said “Cucumber with a hat, a statuette” was placed on the polished surface.

Good gods, he was done for.

He inhaled sharply through the gap between his palms, hunched forward, and steeled himself as laughter inevitably bubbled up from his stomach.

“Hahaha—Oh, gods—I just—Hahaha!”

His chest labored with every heave of breath he managed to squeeze in between laughs, which were louder and more forceful than the ones from earlier that morning. Clutching his midsection, he doubled forward even further until his fringe lightly grazed the table.

He could hear the ensuing conversation between Byleth and Sylvain die instantly.

“Uh… Dimitri? Are you okay? You’re laughing pretty hard there.” Sylvain said in a tone usually reserved for someone experiencing a mental breakdown.

Dimitri opened his mouth to reply, but only more laughter escaped. The dam, it seemed, had been broken, and there was very little he could do to stop the tides of mirth that flowed through him in relentless waves.

“Come on, breathe, Your Majesty.” Sylvain reached over the table and patted Dimitri’s curved back.

“Haha! I-I’m sorry, it’s just—Hahaha!—So funny!” An errant tear slid towards his bowed forehead.

“I... don’t understand what’s so funny,” came another comment from Dimitri’s left.

Even without raising his head, he immediately sensed the embarrassment in Byleth’s voice, along with perhaps a smidgeon of confusion and hurt, and it was more than enough to force him to get his wits together.

Once he managed a few sobering breaths, he swiftly straightened up, ignoring how the muscles on his back and stomach complained at the motion. He needed to make sure he didn’t offend Byleth—this was his sole thought as he turned to her… only to be met by a sight that caused his breathing to become uneven once more.

His wife, apparently, was still so beautiful when mortified. Her cheeks were dusted by a charming shade of pink, and her eyes were bright with emotion, almost as if someone held out fragments of green glass against the brilliant sun. To make matters worse, she pouted, which pushed out her lower lip forward, and he burned with the knowledge of how it felt on his mouth earlier. He burned even more to do it again, propriety be damned.

How could she affect him like this with so little effort?

More importantly, how in the seven hells was he ever going to stop wanting her enough to stay sane?

Realizing that he was staring, he blurted out, “F-forgive me, Byleth. I was surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised? You weren’t surprised. You were laughing at me.”

“I assure you I was not laughing at you, but rather at the situation.”

There was that cute pout again, but this time it was accompanied by a small tilt of her head as she considered what he just said. “What about the situation is so funny?”

“I think it was the… rather interesting description you gave.”

“What description? Of the olisbos? That it’s a wooden artifact?” Byleth crossed her arms under her wonderful bosom, pushing them upwards. The creamy mounds of her breasts peeked out from underneath the neckline of her blue long-sleeved dress.

Dimitri’s mouth went dry, while something other than the olisbos was becoming rather... wooden. “No, you said something else,” he croaked.

“Oh… that it looks like a cucumber? Is that it?”

“Yes, it’s, er, a rather unique way of describing it.” Dimitri replied distractedly, as he skidded his seat further into the table in order to hide his growing erection.

“Not to mention downright hilarious,” Sylvain chimed in with a broad grin.

“But it really does look like one.” Byleth shook her head. “It’s strange if you ask me. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered it before.”

You don’t have to look far—just check under the table, my love, Dimitri thought wryly while he pretended to contemplate the remaining slices of cheese on his plate. He was fully erect by now, and definitely tenting against his breeches.

All because of a quick glimpse of her bosom.

He really was beyond help.

“What was it anyway? How does it cause infertility?” Byleth asked.

Dimitri’s fork grated against the porcelain plate. Holy hells. What was he supposed to reply to that? “Well...”

His panicked gaze jumped to Sylvain, who, goddess bless him, seemed to be ready with an answer.

Sylvain placed his elbows on the table, taking care not to touch any of the shards from what used to be Dimitri’s teacup, and weaved his hands together. “Sorry for the confusion, Professor. I didn’t mean to insinuate that it causes infertility. I merely meant that it’s not really used for the creation of children, so to speak. You see, an olisbos—“

Dimitri tensed. Wait, was he really going to—

“—represents an entirely different deity in Duscur.”

Dimitri’s mouth dropped. The utter surprise of it all knocked the lust from his veins in one single statement.

“What? Duscur?”

“Yes, Professor. Actually, the term olisbos means vessel in Duscur.”

“Oh? Is this true, Dedue?” Byleth turned to the man in question.

Whatever Dedue felt about this sudden turn of the conversation, he hid it well. His face held only its usual seriousness when he nodded.

“I didn’t know that. But I suppose it’s my fault; I hadn’t really gone out of my way to study about other cultures.”

No, you didn’t know about it because it’s not true. Dimitri stifled a groan. Where’s Sylvain going with this?

Byleth reached out for a piece of sweet bun, clearly absorbed with the conversation. “So what deity is it supposed to represent?”

“Lidi, the god of cooking, which, you must admit is very far from fertility or love. Hence, the cucumber, you know?” Sylvain replied with no trace of hesitation at all.

Another lie. Dimitri had to admit, it was quite amazing how Sylvain could come up with a strong excuse in a short span of time. All those times breaking the rules were serving them well now, it seemed.

“I’m sorry, Dedue, I didn’t know. I hope I didn’t offend you by getting something as important as this all mixed up,” said Byleth before taking a huge bite of the sweet bun.

Dedue grunted something too low to be heard, and promptly averted his attention to a nearby pot of plant.

“That’s why Seteth was so angry at Manuela,” Sylvain added. “Imagine working for the Archbishop of Seiros while glorifying a different god.”

“And to expose his dear sister to such a thing,” Byleth nodded after absorbing this for a few seconds. “I think I see what you mean. No wonder he was livid.”

“Right?” Sylvain’s ocher eyes positively gleamed with satisfaction.

Byleth sighed as placed the remainder of the bun on her plate. “But it has to be an honest mistake on Manuela’s part. She couldn’t have known. In any case, this is a serious matter, so I would appreciate it if no one breathed a word about this. If the priests or nuns find out, there could be trouble.”

Sylvain’s mask finally slipped at that remark. “Er, trouble? What do you mean?”

“What kind of trouble?” Dimitri asked.

“This is a possible cause for excommunication according to the Articles of the Church.”

Dimitri stilled, and caught Sylvain’s alarmed look. At the corner of his eye, he could see Dedue’s grim frown.

“That’s grave, indeed.” Dimitri said after a moment. There was no way he would let Manuela bear the consequences of this foolish misunderstanding. “Byleth, the thing is—“

“Professor! Professor!”

As if things could not get worse.

Dimitri didn’t need to turn around to know who the distinctly melodic voice belonged to. When he did, however, he saw that Manuela wasn’t alone as she strode angrily across the gardens. A similarly irate Seteth and a very distressed looking Flayn were with her.

“Manuela—” Byleth stood up, surprised.

“Manuela, really, I don’t see the need to make a bigger deal out of this. You’re attracting unwarranted attention,” Seteth interjected, before anyone else could get a word in. “I merely did what I had to do.”

Stopping a foot away from the group, Manuela whirled at Seteth, giving him an accusatory glare. “Really, Seteth? I’m making a big deal out of this? I wasn’t the one who barged into my colleague’s room with my lance in hand and sliced her personal belonging from out of the blue.”

Flayn panted as she came next to Manuela. “Yes, Brother... That was... crossing the line.”

“It’s my duty as Flayn’s brother to protect her from sinful things. I refuse to stand by while some people corrupt her.”

Manuela rolled her eyes and scoffed dramatically. “Why not just throw her inside a barrel and keep her in your office forever if you’re so adamant about ‘protecting her from sinful things’? It’s called living, Seteth. Flayn is a tough girl, and it’s time you let her actually grow and live.”

“Yes, Brother,” Flayn said. “I… don’t want to continue living like this—so overly sheltered from the world. If you have an ounce of trust in me—“

“It’s not you I don’t trust, Flayn; it’s the world,” Seteth bit out.

“But the world is not all bad, Brother. Look around us now. I have people who take care of me. I will not be alone.” Flayn reached out and took her brother’s hand within hers.   “We’re not alone anymore."

“See, Seteth? Flayn’s a wonderful girl who deserves to experience what life has to offer. You shouldn’t be too scared,” Manuela said, albeit in a softer tone.

Seteth frowned at this, but looked considerably calmer. The tic on his jaw was nowhere to be seen. “That still doesn’t excuse you for using that—that thing.”

“Pray tell why? Whatever I do or use in my personal time is up to me.”

There seemed to be a strange look in Manuela’s eyes when she said this, and Dimitri would have waved it off as nothing if he didn’t see Seteth’s responding blush.

“I—You—Y-You are a teacher at the Monastery, and thus, have a responsibility to be a good role model to the children.”

“They’re hardly children, Seteth. You know that as well as I do.”

Sylvain snickered in the background, earning him a glower from the advisor.

“Still, Manuela, I-I forbid you from using that!”

“Forbid me? Well, I never—“

To Dimitri’s horror, Byleth finally joined in. “Please settle down, you two. Can't we all discuss this like adults?”

"I can, if Seteth apologizes for breaking something I own."

"Me? Apologize? I did the right thing!"

Byleth laid a hand on Manuela’s arm and spoke in a lower tone, perhaps so the other priests could not overhear. “Manuela, I'm sorry, but I would have to side with Seteth on this. You probably shouldn’t use the olisbos anymore.”

Manuela’s cheeks turned red with indignation. “Excuse me, Professor, but like I told your advisor here, what I do on my personal time is mine alone.”

“No, you don’t understand. The olisbos, it’s not what you think."

All three pairs of eyes shot to Byleth, obviously impervious to what she meant.

Dimitri instantly shot up from his seat. “Byleth—“

“Right,” Sylvain suddenly exclaimed, and shot Manuela a look from behind Byleth. “The truth is, the olisbos is not a good luck charm for fertility like you thought, Manuela. Instead... It's a graven image representing the Duscur god of cooking.”

Complete silence.

“The Duscur god of cooking,” Manuela repeated dumbly.

“Oh, my,” murmured Flayn.

“Yes, isn’t that right, Dedue?”

A grunt was the only answer they got.

Byleth nodded. “See, Manuela? You have to get rid of it. Otherwise, it could get you in trouble. Seteth and I are only forbidding you out of care for your welfare.”

“Uh, yes,” Seteth said, his eyes darting from Sylvain to Dimitri uncertainty.

“Yes, I... can imagine this is quite a shock to you, Manuela,” Dimitri managed to say through his embarrassment.

“It is, indeed.” Manuela gave Dimitri a meaningful look. “Let’s say I’m realizing so many things that are shocking me.”

“Right, so that’s all there is to it. It serves us all to not talk about this anymore.” Byleth crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m really glad the truth is among us. Had it fallen with the wrong people, it would have been disastrous.”

Oh, if she only knew.

One look at the adults in the group told Dimitri that the only truth that came out was that he had failed to bed his very innocent wife.

But how in the goddess's name was he supposed to do that now?

Notes:

Thank you so much for waiting for this. I'm not exaggerating when I say that your wonderful comments were a big motivator for me to write this update, and definitely a primary reason why this fic is alive. The past three months have been quite hard for the world, but I hope that you all stay safe and stay happy. :)

Chapter 10: The Special Tea

Later that afternoon

 

 

 

Dearest Mercie,

How are you? It still feels strange to ask that through writing, even after two months since the war ended (or three, depending on how fast this letter reaches you). I’m embarrassed to say that I’m still adjusting to not seeing you everyday, and here I thought things would be easier this time around since we’ve gone through it once during the war. I guess missing your best friend is not something that you simply get used to.

Wow, did this start out with a downer. Sorry about that! I just… really miss you, Mercie. And your homemade cookies. But mostly you, I promise.

I’m happy to report that I’ve finally settled down here. Sorry if I worried you with my last letter with all that talk about self doubt and stuff. I think the fact that Felix adjusted so well and so quickly to his new role did put a lot of pressure on me. For all his talk about not knowing a whit about leadership or managing an estate, he’s done tremendously well in the rehabilitation efforts here. I felt overwhelmed, like I had a lot of catching up to do, but you were right when you told me to be honest about it. So, I decided to talk to Felix, and he’s been very supportive. He personally asked his Aunt Nessa (the one with the tabby cat that I mentioned) to tutor me on my new responsibilities. She’s been doing so for over two weeks now, teaching me the basics of running a household, and I am so proud to have gotten the hang of it! I especially enjoy accounting, and could spend the entire afternoon crunching numbers in Felix’s study.

The mouthwatering smell of buttered fish wafted through the kitchen and broke through Mercedes’s concentration. Glancing up from Annie’s letter, she relished the little jump her heart made as she settled on Dedue deftly maneuvering in front of the brick stove.

He was serious as usual, but there was that rare joyful quality to him that always made his eyes turn into a dazzling turquoise hue, and made his mouth curve slightly at the corners in a shadow of a smile. He could never be considered classically handsome with  his angular face, and scarred skin, true, but Mercedes saw something that was far more important: a fiercely loyal and gentle heart.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help cooking dinner? I feel bad just sitting here while you do all the work.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been tending to the children and the churchgoers the entire day; you deserve some rest. Besides, this is just a simple dish. I can manage it,” replied Dedue.

“Oh, okay, then.” Mercedes couldn’t help but admire how the fresh cotton shirt he had changed into clung onto his broad shoulders and arms, effectively outlining every sinewy muscle that flexed with every flip of the pan. She might never get used to how giant of a man he was.

Dedue sprinkled some chopped basil leaves and continued flipping the pan. “Are you finished with the letter?”

“No, not yet. The delicious smell distracted me,” Mercedes admitted sheepishly.

“This should be finished in a few minutes. Please, don’t worry about me.”

Mercedes nodded and went back to what she was reading.

 

 

You asked me how married life has been now that I’m two months in, and oh, Mercie, I’ve never been happier. I’m almost too shy to write these down, but… Felix has been a wonderful husband. He would never say it out loud, of course, but he takes really good care of me, and makes sure that I’m never wanting. I know he secretly asked the servants to change the carpets because I kept on tripping on the old one, and just yesterday, he left a box of chocolates that I was craving on our bedside table under the pretense that someone just gave it to him. He’s really the sweetest, whether he admits to it or not. I wish he could be a little more honest, but we can work on that.

But enough about me. I’m dying for your updates! Have you and Dedue finally kissed??? I know I keep on bringing this up every time I write (whether or not Dedue is even with you), but I’m so excited for you, Mercie. Tell me all about it when it happens, okay?

“Oh, Annie,” Mercedes mumbled with a small shake of her head. Her cheeks were definitely red now.

 

 

How are your students? I hope little Kev is feeling better. I brought you some herbs that are supposed to be perfect for curing persistent colds in little kids. Effective but mild. You can ask Dedue for it—they should be the ones wrapped in blue cloth.

About Sebastian teasing Evie all the time, I have a hunch that it could be case of puppy love. When does he tease her most? Does he get mad when she talks to the other boys? I think we just have to make sure he doesn’t go overboard, like cut her hair or something.

Oh, Mercie, sorry, I have to cut this short. I’m actually writing this the night before we head to Fhirdiad to meet Dimitri and the others. They’re leaving the day after, and Felix really wanted to meet with him about something. Sounds serious, but I have no idea what that’s about.

I’ll be turning in now. Please take care, Mercie. I miss you!

Love you always,

Annie

There was a cute drawing of two girls holding hands at the lower right end of the page, with one seemingly taller than the other. Tracing a finger on the haphazardly drawn lines, Mercedes smiled. I should write her a reply tomorrow. I’m sure she’d love to hear about the goings-on here, especially the announcement of Hilda’s pregnancy.

Pregnancy… Yes, it would be about time that her married friends get with child.

The nuns at the Monastery had remarked that marriages borne out of love tend to bear fruit earlier and more frequently, and given the obvious intensity of their husbands’ feelings, Annie and Byleth were surely pregnant by now, whether they knew it or not. Soon enough, there would be miniature versions of them running amok in the world, a little Annie and a little Byleth wreaking havoc. Mercedes couldn’t wait.

“It’s done.”

She leaned back just in time as Dedue placed two plates on the table in front of her. The Caledonian Gar and Albinean Herring were sautéed to perfection, the strips of their white flesh made golden by the butter and made more fragrant by the chopped basil leaves that decorated the dish.

“Wow, that looks amazing, Dedue,” Mercedes said, securing Annie’s letter in her dress pocket. She closed her eyes and breathed in, allowing the delectable aroma to travel through her body like some therapeutic medicine. Her stomach growled immediately, making her blink open and laugh at herself.

Dedue was smiling at her. Not the small tug at the lips he had whenever he was pleased, but the one that stretched over his face and eased the sharp edges of his eyes—the kind that seemed to say that he was truly, genuinely happy. It always made her heartbeat race a little.

“Thank you for this, Dedue. I’ve missed your cooking very much. No one can ever come close to the dishes you make.”

Dedue lowered his eyes, but the smile remained. He started putting the metal cutlery on either sides of each plate, starting with Mercedes’s. “You’re welcome. You should eat it while it’s hot.”

“You know, I’m relieved you can eat dinner with me. When I heard you had a late brunch today, I’d expected you would still be full. Thank goodness that’s not the case. It’s been a while since we ate together.”

Dedue’s hand stilled in the middle of setting his fork. “I… had very little appetite.”

“Oh? Why? Are you sick?” Mercedes placed her palm on his forehead before he could resist. “You do feel a bit warm, but not unusually so. How long have you felt like that?”

“Just this morning. It could have just been the fatigue. It’s been a… trying day.”

When she withdrew her hand, Mercedes heard a growling sound in front of her, louder and longer than hers minutes ago. She giggled. “Well, at least you have your appetite back.”

Dedue blushed and started with his meal.

“Oh, this is scrumptious,” Mercedes sighed right after swallowing the first bite of an artfully seasoned strip of fish. “The texture is so unique; everything just melts in your mouth. It’s a pity that Dimitri and the others can’t eat this sooner.”

“His Majesty is training, and will most likely eat with the Professor in his quarters later tonight. Sylvain retired to his room to write to Ingrid.”

“Sylvain is writing to Ingrid?”

“Yes, everyday.”

“You know, I’ve always believed the flirty attitude was a facade for something. It’s good that he finally came into terms with whatever it was, and realized his feelings for Ingrid. I’m happy to see him so devoted.”

Dedue nodded, pouring her a glass of water from a nearby pitcher.

“Thank you,” Mercedes said, accepting the glass. “But does that mean Dimitri is training alone now? Isn’t he exhausted from traveling?”

There was something strange with the way Dedue averted his gaze. “His Majesty asked to be alone. I believe he said he needed to think, and training is normally a good outlet for him.”

Mercedes’s eyes widened. “Is everything alright with the Kingdom? Annie did mention something serious that Felix needed to talk about.” Trepidation crept up her spine as she caught hold of an idea. She hastily put the glass down and reached for Dedue from across the table.  “It’s not… another war, is it?”

Dedue enclosed her hand inside his. “Don’t fret, it’s nothing like that. Felix did report about hearing some unusual activities in the East, but they’re nothing serious as far as we know.”

“The East? You mean Almyra?”

“Correct.”

Having her hand held by her dearest should have calmed her, but Mercedes couldn’t shake off the anxiety. It’s only been 2 months since the war ended, and now this? Oh, goddess, the children, the civilians—everyone has suffered enough. “Are you sure?"

“Yes, the Kingdom’s spies have said that whatever happening there has nothing to do with us.” Dedue ran a calloused thumb over her soft, white skin. “His Majesty… is dealing with something else.”

“Something else?” Mercedes shivered slightly when he started drawing circles at the back of her hand.

“Yes,” Dedue hesitated. “Something… personal.”

Mercedes gasped. It concerned the Professor? “Is it good or bad?”

“I’m… uncertain.” His hand halted, but still cradled hers. “But it doesn’t seem to be negative.”

Judging from how he kept looking away, and how his cheeks turned slightly red, Dedue was clearly uncomfortable talking about the topic, as he usually was when it involved Dimitri. Mercedes understood him; his loyalty was one of the reasons she loved him so much, after all.

Mercedes tilted her head, catching his gaze. “I just realized we’re not eating. It’s going to get cold at this rate. Shall we continue eating?”

The relief was obvious on Dedue’s face. “Yes, you’re right.”

They turned their attention to their meal, sharing updates about their other friends, until their plates were empty.

Dedue carried their plates to the sink before Mercedes could object. “Sorry, I have to go check up on our horses and supplies now. Before I forget, His Majesty requested if you could make a herbal tea for the Professor? He brought some premium herbs from Fhirdiad. They should be in a purple pouch in the medicine bag.”

Mercedes nodded absentmindedly.

He’s leaving already? Mercedes thought, her heart sinking a bit. They only managed to steal a little over half an hour together, and who knew how long they would stay in the Monastery.

She was so absorbed with her thoughts that she didn’t notice Dedue making his way back to her until he was a foot away.

“Oh!” Mercedes cried, as she found herself enveloped in his embrace. This only lasted for a second before he parted from her as if he was burned.

“I-I-I’m sorry for touching you inappropriately,” Dedue stammered. “Y-you looked sad, so…” He shook his head. “I was asking if you’re free tomorrow night.”

Her heart still pounding from the short-lived contact, Mercedes could only nod.

Dedue seemed to be extremely happy about this, because he once again had that rare smile on his face before nodding goodbye and vanishing behind the door.

Oh, Dedue. Mercedes’s skin still tingled from where he touched her, and it was all she could think about as she padded towards the sink where the medicine bag was placed. She sifted through its contents distractedly until her hand rested on a large gray pouch overflowing with purple leaves.

“Oh, is this it?” She asked, picking up a leaf. It was shaped like a clover with a violet hue so vibrant one would think it was made of amethyst. It must have been a very premium herb for her not to know it. Maybe only kings and upper nobles can afford it?

While she was admiring them, she noticed something, a purple pouch tucked with the rest, almost beyond her view. She furrowed her brow, trying to remember which was which. Did Dedue say use the purple herbs or the ones in the purple pouch? 

As was in cases like this, she decided to go with her gut. Grabbing a handful of the purple leaves, she put  them inside the teapot, feeling confident in her choice. They were so pretty, after all, and very premium looking.

There was no way she could be wrong.

Notes:

Hi everyone! It's bunny again, here with a surprise update. Thank you all for your kind words and comments - I'll make sure to reply to them one by one.

So I really did plan for a chapter centering on Dedue and Mercedes frankly because (1) I love them both so much, and they're so underrated, and (2) I wanted to flesh out their relationship more. Their supports in the game ended with them getting close as friends, so we never really got to see them as lovers. Here I wanted to showcase that relationship, and explore how they've changed and how they've stayed the same (aka Dedue still being shy and awkward).

I really enjoyed writing this. I hope you like it!

P.S. Yes, there's something special about that tea. If you forgot, go back to Chapter 4. (evil laugh)
P.P.S. That bit about Almyra? Oh, ho, ho. Something's definitely brewing (get it, get it)

Chapter 11: The Dinner Date

Dimitri just managed to slip on the last touches of his evening wear when he heard the knock on the door. It could be from the way the person had knocked, or how there was a lack of the soft pitter-patter of footsteps that matched Byleth’s gait, but he instinctively knew that it wasn’t his wife that awaited him on the other side.

Brushing off a twinge of disappointment, he called out, “Yes?”

“Your Majesty, I-I brought your supper. M-May I come in?”

Ignoring his damp hair, Dimitri gave his black long sleeve shirt, equally dark breeches, and blue cape a cursory glance and deemed himself presentable enough. He strode towards the door, and this time around, made sure to keep his strength in check as he opened it. It wouldn’t do to wrench it off its hinges again, especially after the trouble that Cyril had gone through to restore it on such short notice.

Dimitri stepped aside and let the maid scurry across the room with a long cart. Four—no, five dishes were on it, properly covered by metal domes, and judging from the delicious smells emanating from them, they were all Byleth’s favorites. Just as he asked.

He knew, of course, that good food was merely a small consolation for what was going to be a very uncomfortable discussion over dinner. How was he supposed to inform his wife that she had just made a fool of herself in front of her friends for mistaking a sexual tool for a deity? Hells, how was he supposed to explain the topic of sex in the first place?

These questions had plagued him for a majority of the day ever since the ill-fated luncheon, but he still found himself none the wiser. Training hadn’t helped, unfortunately; his thoughts remained muddled even as he had exerted himself to the point of exhaustion.

How did things get so wrong?

He shook his head and directed his attention to the maid, who just finished setting the cutleries onto the cart, turning it into a makeshift dinner table. “Where is the Archbishop?”

The maid bobbed an exaggerated curtsy, keeping her eyes down. “S-She’s in h-her r-room, Your Majesty. I believe she has been resting there after her afternoon tea with Ms. Mercedes.”

Dimitri nodded, remembering how Byleth seemed unwell earlier this morning. He was pleased that Mercedes was able to carry out his small request. There was one thing that went right today, at least. “She’s been resting, you say? Is she asleep?”

“Er, I-I’m not sure, Your Majesty. Would you want me to check up on her?”

A quick look at the timepiece on his desk told him that there was still twenty minutes before their designated meeting time. I should probably let her rest until then, he thought.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you for bringing the food here.”

“Y-You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” the maid said, curtsying again, before hurrying towards the door.

Dimitri was about to close it when Sylvain came into view.

Sylvain had also changed into fresh clothes, but his blue silk banyan shirt and breeches were already for sleeping. He broke into an amused smile as he took in Dimitri’s attire. “Well, don’t you look regal tonight, Your Majesty.”

“Is there something wrong? Do I look weird?”

“For an official function? No. But for a simple dinner with your wife? Yes.” Sylvain laughed. “You look like you’re about to give a speech addressing the nation. I feel pressured to straighten my back just by looking at you.”

“No cape then?”

“Definitely no cape.”

Dimitri nodded, unhooking the offending piece of clothing from his shoulder. Discarding it onto a nearby chair, he straightened and faced his friend again. “Er, is this better?”

“Much better.”

“Thanks, Sylvain. Would you like to come in? There’s still some time before Byleth gets here.”

Sylvain closed the door, and leaned against the doorframe. “I just wanted to check up on you. What’s the plan? Are you going to tell her the truth tonight?”

Dimitri turned toward his windowsill where a candle burned brightly. His reflection greeted him in the glass pane, the expression on his face conveying every ounce of apprehension he felt. “I have to. She deserves to know the truth, not just about the olisbos, but also about everything else. But I’m finding it so difficult.”

“Yeah, I know. Pardon the impertinence, but you don’t really have a choice, Dimitri. This is the only way to move your relationship forward, and seeing how innocent she is, the Professor is going to need your guidance. And it has to be you; you’re her husband. Why did you think I came up with all those lies earlier? I didn’t want Manuela or anyone else to have the privilege of educating her about this.”

“I know. I know that, believe me. I’ve known that ever since the wedding night, but…”

“But there’s something holding you back, isn’t there?”

Dimitri didn’t reply right away. He couldn’t. The answer was on his tongue, begging to be shared to his closest confidant, but his pride wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

And so, instead, he walked over to the bed and sat on the mattress, trying to gather whatever courage he could with every second that ticked by.

“I’m… terrified, Sylvain. I’m terrified of somehow making a mistake and ruining all of this.” He cradled his head in his hand, and closed his eye, as if in doing so, he could shield himself from the vulnerability brought about by his words. “I know what it feels like to lose everything. I’ve lost my family, my friends—hells, I’ve even lost myself and my sanity at one point. Nothing in this world can describe that kind of pain, Sylvain.  Nothing. So you can just imagine the idea of losing Byleth—of losing this one good thing that makes living worthwhile—it’s unbearable.”

“Thank you, Dimitri, for telling me this,” was Sylvain’s quiet reply. “I don’t pretend to have suffered the way that you have, but I do understand what you’re saying. I know that taking bold steps can be terrifying… but you have to put your faith in your partner and in yourself. Otherwise, is it really love to begin with?

Look, you know this as well as I do that I’ve messed up so many times I’ve lost count already. Up until recently, I had lived as a misguided fool who blamed others and the Crests for all the bad things that happened to me. Not once had I taken accountability for my actions. I was everything that Miklan told me to be—an undeserving loser, a fake, and I wasn’t even aware of it.

But Ingrid… She never gave up on me. She accepted my past but made sure that I take accountability of my present. She’s an amazing woman, and I had been a blind ass not to have fallen for her earlier than I did.

Was I terrified of changing our friendship by courting her? Yes. Was I terrified of getting rejected? Damn right I was. And it hurt like hell when it happened. I proposed the courtship to her twenty-two times and twenty-one times she rejected me. But what I was terrified of the most was not fighting for the woman I love and losing the chance of being happy with her.”

Silence stretched into minutes, until Dimitri finally sat up straighter and caught Sylvain’s gaze. “When did you become so wise?”

Sylvain grinned. “Oh, you’re only realizing that now?”

Dimitri smiled, but it vanished almost instantly. He looked at his hands. “There’s… also something else.”

“What is it?”

“I… want her. So much so that I ache with it.”

“Oh, I know. I would bet good money that Dedue does, too.”

Dimitri stilled. “What?”

“I’m a man, too, Your Majesty. One look at you when the Professor is around is enough to show me how much you want her. You practically vibrate with it.” Sylvain said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It would be a cause for concern if it was the other way around.”

At that moment, Dimitri happened to look at the timepiece and realized that Byleth was late.

Sylvain seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he said, “Isn’t it time for the Professor to get here?”

“She must still be sleeping. I’ll go check up on her.” Then, without preamble, Dimitri stood up and walked over to the door. “I’ve… decided to move forward. Thank you, Sylvain.”

“Anytime, Your Majesty. Good luck.”

 

*

 

Good luck.

This echoed in Dimitri’s mind the moment he stepped into Byleth’s room.

And saw her on her bed, looking like sin incarnate as she writhed incessantly in her sleep. Clad only in a thin silk chemise.

Then, as if directed by Fate itself, the candlelight died, having consumed the entire wick, plunging him along with everything else into darkness.

Notes:

Hi, everyone! Next chapter will be longer, I promise. :)

Chapter 12: The Awakening

Notes:

IT'S TIME TO EAT, KIDS.

*

This chapter is lovingly dedicated to my loyal readers and commenters who have consistently supported me every chapter:

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The fever had come from out of nowhere.

Byleth had just returned from her afternoon tea with Mercedes when she first felt the stirrings of heat in her blood. Her pulse had noticeably sped up, despite the fact that she had simply walked from her friend’s room like she normally did. Nothing strenuous, and certainly nowhere near the level of physical activity she would normally subject herself to.

Her reaction had seemed strange, then, but she quickly brushed it aside in favor of focusing on the next task on her to-do list, which was to respond to letters she had recently received. Linhardt had actually taken the time to write to update her about the improvements in Lysithia’s health, a rarity in and of itself, albeit being a short note; Dorothea had somehow gotten wind of Hilda’s pregnancy, and had requested for “the full scoop”;  and Ignatz had happily accepted Dimitri’s offer to paint the royal portrait—their portrait, much to her initial embarrassment—and confirmed that he would be on his way at her behest. There were other letters, as well, mostly reports from the Knights of Seiros on the rehabilitation efforts across Fodlan. She had been looking forward to writing her replies to all of them before her dinner with Dimitri.

At least, that had been the plan.

But in the span of time that it had taken her to reach her writing desk, the unusual feeling had morphed into the worst fever she had ever experienced. Sweat had beaded on her forehead and upper lip, and her breaths had turned into shallow pants as her lungs struggled to take in as much air as possible. To her alarm, she noted how the burning sensation had already spread throughout her body.

What’s… happening…? I… was fine… just now… so… why?

She had begun to feel lightheaded, the edges of her vision turning white. Pressing a supporting hand on the wall, she had twisted weakly towards the direction of her bed. It had been no more than ten feet from where she stood, but with the ground spinning beneath her feet and her heart beating wildly in her chest, she could not remember a more daunting task.

Step by agonizing step, she had walked forward, her sweaty palm on the wall, her form occasionally swaying.

“Come… on…” She had wheezed. “Just… a… bit… more…”

After what had seemed like an eternity, she had finally reached the bed, and unceremoniously threw herself on top of it. 

Whatever relief she had felt was short-lived as a wave of pure, white heat coursed through her body like a gush of molten lava. She had gasped, gooseflesh rising all over her. She had never experienced this before—this overwhelming mixture of pain and rawness, as if every nerve in her body had gone into overdrive. Her skin had felt hot and utterly sensitive, and she had become aware of every texture, every sensation that she came in contact with. The rivulets of sweat dripping down her forehead and neck. The wild tendrils of her hair sticking to the sides of her face. The cotton material of her long-sleeve dress clinging onto her body. The additional layer of her silk chemise encasing her torso like a chest piece made of hot metal.

There had been no doubt in her mind that she needed to remove her dress or she was going to expire from the heat. The problem had been unfastening the rows of buttons that ran from her nape down to the small of her back. As muddled as her thoughts had been, she hadn’t deluded herself into thinking she had the time nor the flexibility to actually unbutton them one by one, so she did what she had to do. She had mustered whatever strength she had left, grabbed the neckline on both sides and pulled until she felt the buttons pop free behind her. Eventually she had managed to loosen the fit enough to writhe her way out of the dress, before sagging onto the bed sheets, her chest rising and falling rapidly from exertion.

“Ah… fin… ally…” she had mumbled, enjoying the touch of cold air on her skin. She had half expected it to sizzle with how hot it had felt.

Was… I… poisoned?

Am I… going… to die?

No sooner had she thought this that another wave of heat assaulted her senses, this time hotter and fiercer than the first.

Her consciousness had begun to slip away from her.

The last image in her mind had been her and Dimitri in a meadow, laughing and playing with the blond-haired children they never had.

 

*

 

Byleth dreamed that she was being cradled.

A muscular arm encircled her waist tightly, fastening her against a hard body on the bed. Her head was on the chest, and she could hear the heartbeats directly against her ear, thudding in a hurried, irregular rhythm.

Cool fingers caressed her face. They traced the slope of her cheek, the line of her jaw, before resting on her lips. They lingered there, skimming over her lower lip, then the upper, before repeating the cycle. The touch was so light that it tickled.

She let out a giggle.

The fingers withdrew. “Byleth, my love, can you hear me?”

Dimitri?

Byleth opened her eyes slowly.

Everything was dark—almost pitch black, if not for the slant of light piercing through the gap in her curtains. Even through the darkness, though, she was still able to make out her husband’s features. The strikingly blue eye. The wide mouth. The strong jaw. The strands of his hair that sparkled like gold as it caught bits of the moonlight.

She ached to run her hand through them.

And so she did. This was her fantasy, after all.

“Yes, I can hear you,” came her drowsy reply.

Dimitri’s throat bobbed uncertainly. “Are you okay? You’re too warm.”

Warm.

She blinked. He was right; she was just warm. It could be because this was a dream, but the heat she had felt had dissipated into something manageable—comfortable, even.

“I’m fine, I think,” she said, distracted by the feel of the silky tresses through her fingers. They were slightly cold, as though chilled by the night air. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”

“I-I was worried,” he blurted out quickly. “I know this is going to sound like an excuse, but I didn’t mean to take liberties without permission. I merely wanted to stay with you to make sure you were okay.”

“I… should give you some space,” Dimitri continued quietly, though he made no move to separate from her. The question was clear in his words, hanging over them like an unspoken whisper:

Should I go?

Acute regret gripped Byleth at the idea of him leaving and this dream ending too early. She recalled the misery she had felt at the prospect of dying without having a chance to build a family with him. The utter loneliness.

Even if this wasn’t real and she would wake up tomorrow with no recollection of it, or if she had truly died and some god had given her this one moment of respite, she was determined to make the most of it.

No what-ifs. No hesitations.

She withdrew her hand from his hair. “No, I don’t want space.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to stay with me.”

Facing him had been difficult lying down, so she raised herself from his chest, and sat up.

His breath caught audibly.

Curious at his reaction, she looked at his face and saw that he seemed to be staring at something with a dazed expression. Following his gaze, she gasped.

The low neckline of her chemise had shifted to the side so that one breast had popped free. The impulse was to cover herself or adjust it, but Byleth found herself transfixed, even as the pink nipple hardened in the cold air.

She had never understood why her breasts had gathered the attention that they did, nor why she had always felt embarrassed by them. Whenever she had worn anything that showed her cleavage, she had been beset by subtle—and sometimes, not-so-subtle—glances from men. She had always wondered why. Sure, they were definitely larger than most women’s, but weren’t they just as much a part of the human body as arms, hands and feet? What determined which body part should be covered, and which could remain exposed?

But she understood it now. She saw it in the way Dimitri’s cheeks blazed bright red even in the dim lighting. How his nostrils flared with the ragged breaths he took. How his gaze shifted in and out of focus as if spellbound.

And she felt it in the way excitement raced through her like little sparks of electricity, ultimately pooling low in her belly.

It all became clear to her now. The attention from others, her own feelings of embarrassment—they were because of one thing:

Desire.

Dimitri desired her, even if this was simply an illusion. It was a thought both thrilling and nerve-racking at the same time.

“Dimitri,” she called out, loving how his name felt on her mouth.

He looked up abruptly, his eye still heavy-lidded.  “Yes?”

“Will you stay with me?”

He snapped back to himself. Suddenly sitting up, he whipped his head to the side, his face a mask of guilt.

“Byleth, I-I can’t stay here,” he said hoarsely. His hands clutched the bed sheets tightly on his sides. “But that’s not important. You should set yourself to rights now. I promise I won’t look. Just let me know when you’re done.”

“…Why not?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you stay?”

Dimitri turned to face her, but averted sharply again when he saw she still hadn’t covered herself. “That’s just—It’s impossible for me to do that. There are things you don’t know—Things that I haven’t been able to tell you,” was his choked response. “Just trust me when I say that I can’t stay here. Not when you—Look, I’m a man, Byleth. I can’t—I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

Byleth placed her palm on his cheek and motioned for him to look at her again. Then, with a brazenness that she would never allow herself in reality, she asked, “What if you don’t have to control yourself?”

Dimitri looked as if he had stopped breathing. He seized her wrist. “Do you—Do you understand what you’re saying?”

“Hilda’s letter—Well, she told me everything I need to know, I think,” she looked at his hand enveloping her wrist, noting how it trembled around her. “At the very least, I understand enough to know I want this.”

No response.

She lifted her gaze. “I love you, Dimitri, and… I want you to embrace me until I’m sure I’m bearing your child.”

His eye widened.

And in that instant, Byleth saw his control shatter.

It was like a switch had been turned on somewhere in his brain. Dimitri’s expression changed. It now held a savage desperation that she had never seen before, a ferocity that reminded her of a starving animal who had just sighted its first meal of the day.

“Gods, Byleth, how you torment me,” he growled.

His arms enclosed her before she could react and pinned her roughly against him, flattening her breasts against his hard chest, practically forcing her onto his lap. A peculiar tension came over him at the contact, and he let out a choking sound.

“Am I too heavy?” Byleth asked, keenly aware that she was sitting on top of him. She had never done this, and for good reason, it seemed. It wasn’t very comfortable, especially with how she was getting poked in the navel by something—his scabbard most likely.

Concerned that she was crushing him, she tried to anchor herself on her knees to better support her weight, but that only managed to settle him even further between her thighs.

“Gods,” he bit out. He placed his sweat-slicked forehead against hers as though he couldn’t hold it up, his hot breath fanning her face. “Don’t move.”

“Why? Does it hurt anywhere?”she asked.

He looked like he was in pain. But instead of replying, he leaned forward and kissed her.

A delicious shiver chased down Byleth’s spine the moment their lips met. It was so different from the brief kisses they had shared earlier that morning. While those had been sweet and gentle, this was demanding and intense. There was nothing gentle with how his mouth moved over hers—there was only possession.

And in this dream, she wanted to be possessed.

She felt his tongue trace the seam of her lips, and she recognized the silent request in it. He wanted her to open up to him, just as he had taught her during their wedding night. Before she could, however, she already felt his hand on her cheek, his thumb impatiently coaxing her lips apart.

“Mmm,” she moaned, that first stroke of his tongue sending shocks all the way to her toes.

Dimitri must had been encouraged by this, because he wasted no time tasting her more thoroughly. He tilted her head to gain better access, giving her several urgent caresses in quick succession, each one eliciting sounds of pleasure.

I… want to taste Dimitri, too, she thought as she absentmindedly slid her hands around his neck for support.

This wanton thought motivated her to do what she had never done before: she licked him back. Shyly, at first, but at Dimitri’s appreciative groans, became bolder and more confident.

Oh gods. She never knew kisses could be this all-consuming. She had been so swept away by them that it had taken her a while to notice the hand traveling to her exposed breast.

Dimitri cupped her, his thumb grazing her nipple.

Byleth broke free from the kiss with a gasp as a small rush of pleasure washed over her. Her body jolted, her hip rising briefly, her pulse skipping. If it weren’t for her hands around Dimitri’s neck, or his arm around her waist, she would have been dislodged from his lap completely.

What—?

“You’re so sensitive, my love,” Dimitri murmured hotly against her forehead. “All that from a light touch.”

“Is—Is that a bad thing?” Byleth asked dazedly.

“No, it just makes me want to devour you more.” With this, Dimitri pushed her down  on the bed.

Byleth gave a sound of surprise, somehow finding herself on her back now, shaking with the mattress. She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but was silenced by another searing kiss before she could get the words out.

Without breaking their connection, Dimitri used one hand to pin her wrists above her head, while the other adjusted her so that he was firmly cradled between her thighs.

Byleth didn’t understand why, but having his weight there in that place made her heart pound harder, an unfamiliar throbbing beginning low and insistent in her stomach. Even through the thin material of her chemise and his breeches, she felt the hard press of his scabbard directly against her. She must have truly lost her sanity because it started to feel so exquisite now, when it seemed so uncomfortable when she was sitting just a while ago. It was becoming hard to lie still.

“You… drive me… crazy,” Dimitri said, coming up for air, panting. “You… make me want to… do things I shouldn’t.”

As if to prove his point, he bent over the place in her neck where her pulse throbbed and he sucked. He sucked so hard that pain bloomed from it.

The sting did not quell Byleth’s excitement, though. Maddeningly enough, it only heightened it even more.

She had to bite her lip to stop herself from moaning.

“You’re mine,” he said over and over as he repeated the process on the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, on her length of her neck, on the hollow spot at the junction of her collarbone and shoulder.

Leaning back, he ran his gaze over her body, his chest heaving, his forehead trickling with sweat. The darkness did nothing to conceal the flare of hunger in the blue depths of his eye. Nor did it soften the harsh lines of his red face. No, it only accentuated the madness in him, making him look positively feral, like a creature of the night who had come to consume her.

“It’s… not enough,” he scowled. “I need… to claim more of you.”

Still clasping her wrists in a firm grip, he lowered himself over her chest and used his free hand to forcefully pull down the neckline of her chemise, finally freeing the other breast from its confines.

“So beautiful… So perfect,” he mumbled almost to himself, as he molded his palm over one ivory globe, his outstretched hand barely covering the large expanse of flesh. He cursed under his breath. “It… won’t even… fit my hand.”

He led his thumb and forefinger to her pert nipple and pinched.

“Ahn!” Byleth whimpered.

“More. Let me… hear more,” he commanded.

He started making circular movements with his thumb.

Another whimper, louder now.

And then another.

And another. Over and over until she had lost count.

She hadn’t realized she was closing her eyes until she heard him say, “Byleth, look at me.”

She did as he asked, only to be greeted by the sinful sight of his face hovering over one breast as his hand held the other, his warm breath puffing over her naked, sensitive skin.

“I want you… to watch me… take you in my mouth,” he said darkly. Staring directly into her eyes, he stuck out his tongue and licked the hard nub, while his hand played with the other.

A broken sob erupted in Byleth’s throat. Her mind was so awash with pleasure from his mouth and hand that she could only watch blankly as Dimitri continued with his onslaught.

“You feel… as glorious as… I imagined you to be.” Giving the now-swollen nipple one last lick, he guided his tongue to the valley between her breasts. “I need to… mark you here as well.”

He sucked hard on the delicate skin there.

Once again, Byleth encountered the familiar sting. This mix of pleasure and pain was starting to make her dizzy. She barely even noticed how her hips had begun moving on their own, undulating wickedly against Dimitri’s, evoking a gasp from him.

“Byleth—” He groaned against her breast, responding with his own urgent thrusts. “You… feel… so good.”   

There were no words to describe the friction they created. Both their mouths could only form moans and grunts.

Too much… I can’t… take it anymore.

Something strange was happening to Byleth. An unknown tension was unfurling inside her and was becoming more and more intense with every kiss, every touch, every thrust. A flood of incoherent sounds spilled from her lips, but she wasn’t capable of hearing anymore. Her mind was going blank, her entire world reduced to the toe-curling sensation building up inside her.

Her body tensed like a bowstring.

 

Then it happened.

The coil of tension snapped, flinging her from a summit she had never known before.

Sparks of white color exploded between her closed eyelids. Jerking her head back, she jolted into a sharp arch beneath her husband, shuddering uncontrollably from head to toe.

It seemed like an eternity before she collapsed onto her back, every inch of her feeling exhausted and lifeless. The throbbing between her thighs was still there, but was a lot calmer now. 

That was…

Her eyes flew open.

Oh gods.

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods.

This… isn’t a dream, is it?

The experience, whatever that was, had been too raw, too acute to be a mere illusion.

She was still wrapping her head around this—around the fact that she did and said what she had—when she felt the pronounced wetness on the sheets beneath her bottom.

She stopped breathing.

The wetness… was trickling from her. From there.

Did she… just soil herself?

Shame and panic flooded her instantly. She couldn’t bear to see the disgust in Dimitri’s face if he found out what had happened.

“Byleth, please.”

Lifting her panicked gaze, she saw Dimitri spreading her legs further apart, one hand pulling the hem of her chemise over her knees.

He’s going to—

“NO!”

Dimitri froze.

“Stop, please.”

Time had ceased flowing between them.

Byleth wasn’t sure what happened next, her mind was a haze of confusion and shame, but she was sure of one thing: the flash of hurt in Dimitri’s eye as he hurried out the door.

Notes:

Phew, that was quite the chapter. Writing it was challenging; I revised it so many times, because I just wanted it to be perfect. It had to be perfect, since it's such a crucial scene. Anyway, I thin it turned out well. I'm glad that I managed to execute according to my vision. I really wanted to show the duality of Dimitri's character here: the gentle prince, and the savage beast. We all know for a fact that he will always have a dark side in him, and that's definitely extended within the bedroom.

Byleth's experience with the tea is actually based on my own experience accidentally drinking an... erm, questionable drink. (Let's leave it at that.) It wasn't fun, haha.

Hope to hear your reactions on this chapter. See you in the next one!

Chapter 13: The Unexpected Detour

Notes:

Hi, everyone! I promise to reply to all your comments in the previous chapter. Apologies for the delay; things have been weird with the quarantine and stuff, and staying motivated has been hard. Hope y'all stay safe, and enjoy the latest update!

The next day

24 th day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Somewhere in the Vernier Forest

 

It was getting dark.

Pulling back the edge of his hood, Sylvain glanced up, above the dense thicket of trees, to see the telltale hues of orange and red spilling across the heavens in generous streaks. The sun had settled low in the sky and was already hidden from view, and he calculated that it would be no later than half an hour before total darkness would descend on them.

Before he could do anything else, he was struck by a memory of Ingrid in his private drawing room, back in the Gautier mansion. She had been seated on the plush velvet settee in front of the fireplace, her perfectly oval face tilted at him, her lovely green eyes reflecting his flustered face. Her blond hair had glowed around her like a halo of orange and red, as if it was feeding on the embers of the fire, making her look like an ethereal being.

In response to his question, her expression had turned vulnerable for the first time—a look that she would later on reserve only for him—and he had known that his persistence had finally borne fruit. She had finally become his.

“Yes, I will marry you,” she had said, and, with just those five words, had filled him with a surge of joy so overwhelming that it had threatened to break his soul in two.

‘Break my soul in two?’ Look at me, getting all poetic. Sylvain rolled his eyes derisively at thought, but damn it, he missed her so much that it was an actual physical ache at this point.

He gave his head a small shake, and regarded his shadowed surroundings with renewed wariness. This wasn’t the time for fanciful thoughts, not when they were still in this particular forest with the threat of nightfall.

The Vernier Forest, situated between Remire and Magdred, west of the Monastery,  was infamous for its long stretch of tall closely-packed trees that was so conducive to ambushes, assassinations and clandestine activities.

Which was why he was here in the first place. It had been the ideal location to meet with Crow, one of the best among his spies, who had spent the past month doing reconnaissance in Nuada, the Sreng capital. Early yesterday, he had sent Sylvain a raven, committing to the rendezvous despite the schedule being earlier than expected as a result of the party’s premature arrival at the Monastery.

And so Sylvain had prepared for departure before daybreak, as planned. What hadn’t been part of the plan was being greeted by the sight of Dimitri, already clad in his black riding habit and equally dark cloak, standing outside his door, looking like he hadn’t slept the entire night. He had insisted that he accompany him, his brittle tone brooking no room for arguments or questions.

Sylvain had to be honest; for a split second there, he had almost dropped his candle, his stomach giving a nervous leap at the thought that his friend had somehow fallen into madness again. But he quickly realized that this hadn’t been the case, thank the goddess. Unlike before, there had been nothing wild or vicious in Dimitri’s gaze.

Only hurt and self-loathing.

That was when he knew that something must had gone drastically wrong with Dimitri’s dinner with the Professor. There could be no other reason; she was the only one who had the power to affect him so deeply, hurt him so thoroughly.

And judging by the Professor’s laughable lack of knowledge, and Dimitri’s ridiculously intense level of ardor—the poor guy could get turned on by the Professor’s sneeze, for goddess’s sake—Sylvain had been certain that whatever misunderstanding had ensued had something to do with the marriage bed.

If that’s the case, he had thought as they had made their way to the stables, Dimitri must need this time away more than he could say. As colossally stupid and misguided as this is, I guess I have no choice but to go along with it. Sometimes, a man just needs time to gather the pieces of his pride and honor.

Sylvain just had to be extra careful. Thankfully, the journey to Vernier had been uneventful, and the short meeting with Crow had gone smoothly.

Now all they needed to do was to exit the forest before the impending darkness could turn it into an assassin’s playground, and a tactician’s nightmare.

A rustling of leaves on a far left bush caught Sylvain’s attention, and he instantly raised his hand which was already glowing bright red at the fingertips, ready to blast a ball of fire at whoever was on the other side. To his right, he saw Dimitri swiftly raise his lance in standby.

The rustling was coming closer.

There.

Sylvain leaned forward, eyes locked in the potential entry point on his left. The steps were light, so it must be a very small bandi—

A fawn colored hare bounced out before he could even finish the thought. It stopped a few feet away, its head tilting, ears twitching, before speeding off into the opposite direction.

Sylvain exhaled the breath he had been holding. Okay, it’s definitely time to go.

The sudden tension had unsettled Lulu, the chestnut akhal-teke that Ingrid had given him, because she whinnied nervously, prompting Sylvain to briefly ruffle the mane on her crest the way that he knew she liked. This earned him an appreciative snort.

He turned to Dimitri whose empty, dismal expression hadn’t changed for a majority of the day, even in the face of a potential attack moments ago. Heck, even Eisner, his black thoroughbred stallion looked detached, as if he didn’t care what happened to them.

Completely mirroring his master’s mood.

Just what the hell happened last night, Professor?

“We should hurry, Your Highness. We don’t have much time before night sets in, and we both know it’s a bad idea to be here when that happens.” Sylvain said in a low voice, his brows knitting together. “But if we go through the same route, we most certainly won’t be able to get out in time.”

“So what would you suggest?” came the listless reply.

What, indeed? Sylvain’s grip on Lulu’s reins tightened. Then, as if by divine providence, he suddenly recalled one particular trip he had made through here years before. He had been courting a girl from Magdred and had concocted a stupid plan of surprising her on her birthday in an ill-advised attempt at gaining her favor. Against his common sense, he had sneaked out one late afternoon, had ridden from the Monastery with nary so much as a thin wooden lance, and had immediately gotten lost in the forest. He had been stupid as stupid could be, and had honestly thought he was going to die here, when he saw an opening…

Yes, that could work. It was a gamble, but they didn’t really have much of a choice.

“I know a detour,” Sylvain said excitedly, spurring Lulu on with a gentle nudge to the flank. “Follow me. Ya!”

Their mounts lurched forward with their own animated neighs, before breaking to a gallop.

For the next minutes, Sylvain led Dimitri through a narrow, winding clearing, almost perpendicular to their original path. They rode in silence, with the thundering of hooves and the occasional snap of fallen branches serving as background noise.

They saw the glade eventually widen, until, after a few more minutes of riding through the dark clusters of trees, they finally reached the edge. It was just on time, too, because the sun had apparently decided to completely disappear at that moment, right when they emerged from the forest.

Sylvain slowed down to a stop, with Dimitri following suit. A quick look ahead revealed a small town a few yards from where they were. Women were lighting the candle-lit lamps outside their cottages, most likely to provide illumination to the men who still tended the fields. Some could already be seen retiring, groups of men, both young and old, capping off the day with a few laughs and playful jibes.

“Where are we?” Dimitri asked.

“It’s a small town called Blightwood, Your Majesty. We can pass through here on our way to the Monastery, which should be one town away. I’ve been here once, when we were students, and I remember it to be relatively safe. I guess it’s close enough to Garreg Mach to dissuade most brigands from attacking.”

“How did you end up here? This is too far for rule-abiding students to be about.”

Sylvain didn’t miss the admonishment underlying in Dimitri’s question. Well, if he has the energy to scold me, then he must be feeling better. That’s good. “I got lost in the woods on my way to Magdred, and ended up here by chance.” He shot his friend a sheepish look. “I’d been courting Elzay Moreau and wanted to surprise her on her birthday party.”

“A party which she hadn’t invited you to, if I recall,” Dimitri pointed out wryly.

Sylvain winked. “Right, well, I’d never claimed to be the smart one in the group.”

He couldn’t say for sure, with the way Dimitri’s face was hidden in the shadows because of his hood, but he could have sworn he saw a glimpse of a small grin.

“Still, I can’t believe you had snuck out on your own, knowing how dangerous the Vernier Forest is. You could have at least told Felix and I.”

Smiling, Sylvain guided Lulu to a slow trot towards the fields. “And what? Have you and Felix berate me for being stupid?”

“As they say in the Alliance, if the shoe fits…” Dimitri led Eisner to trot beside him.

“Ouch, color me offended.” Sylvain placed a palm on his chest dramatically. When this got him a small chuckle from Dimitri, he straightened and continued in an equally jovial tone, “Besides, if you think about it, I was actually doing the goddess’s work. Those poor, lonely ladies needed a handsome guy to woo them, and someone had to step up to the plate.”

“Yes, yes, you’re a saint. It’s a wonder why we don’t have a statue of you at the Monastery Church.”

“A big oversight, if you ask me.” Sylvain tsk-ed. “After all the trouble I went through to regale the ladies with my good looks, charisma and wit. Who else was there to alleviate their suffering? Couldn’t have been Felix; not only had he been so single-mindedly focused on training, but he had—and still has, actually—the social elegance of a rock. And you’ve always been in love with the Professor to trifle with anyone else.”

Shit.

A sinking feeling washed over Sylvain the instant that last part escaped his mouth. He could actually imagine the metaphorical bucket of cold water pouring over them, annihilating any trace of gaiety as if it didn’t exist.

At the corner of his eye, he noticed Dimitri’s hooded face averting to the opposite direction and his free hand balling into a fist at his side.

None of them made any comment, both of them riding in silence across the fields, as they neared the town’s entrance.

“If you’re not opposed to the idea, what do you say about stopping by for food? There should be a tavern here somewhere, if my memory serves me right.”

“Sure,” was Dimitri’s clipped reply.

They entered the Blightwood, and aside from a few curious looks from passers-by, they were mostly left to their own devices. Travelers must frequented the place.

Good, the less attention they got, the better.

It didn’t take them long to find the tavern in question, since it was the only one in the small town. It had the same gray shale roofing, and wattle and daub architecture like the other cottages, but what had set it apart was a dilapidated wooden sign with the words The Silver Swan painted on in black paint, along with the unmistakeable smell of smoke, alcohol and food.

Securing their mounts on a post, they did one last check to make sure their hoods were covering their faces before making their way inside. The door opened with a sharp clang of a bell, and a rotund middle-aged man with an auburn mustache looked up from behind a rickety wooden counter.

“Ho, anither yin o' thaim travelers, eh? Oan yer wey tae th' Monastery, urr ye?” The barkeeper said with a thick accent that Sylvain recognized to be from the North.

“Yes, we are.” Sylvain looked around the groups of empty tables and chairs. “Can we sit anywhere?”

“Aye, tis tae earlie fur supper, 'n' definitely tae earlie tae git blootert. Feel free tae tak' a pick o' th' seat. Ah dinnae mynd, as lang as ye pay.” The man gave a hearty laugh, his belly jiggling. Still beaming, he called out to the kitchens. “Mary, we've git customers. Be a sweetie 'n' tak' thair orders, wilnae ye, lassie?”

Sylvain turned to Dimitri, making sure not to mention his title, at least not when they were still within the barkeeper’s earshot. “Would you like to choose where to sit?”

As if he had read Sylvain’s mind, Dimitri nodded and made his way to the farthest end of the room, which was a good few feet away from the counter and the entrance. As long as they talked silently, they should be able to keep some modicum of privacy there.

They just sat down when a plump auburn-haired girl who Sylvain assumed was Mary walked over to them, wearing a grey barmaid’s outfit that had seen better days. There were some splotches of sauces on the fabric, which looked like they had been there for quite some time.

Mary placed her flour-covered hands on her waist. “Welcome tae th' Silver Swan. Whit dae ye fancy? We cook a great roasted pheasant 'ere, whilk is popular wi' ye travelin' kind. We've also git roasted beef, roasted wee lamb, roasted vegetables.”

“I’d like the roasted pheasant, please.” Sylvain said. Then, to Dimitri, “Would you like to have that, as well? Or would you want something else?”

“That’s fine.” Dimitri said, his hooded face still in the shadows.

“Okay, that mak's twa orders o' roasted pheasant. Whit aboot yer drinks? We hae th' usual ale, bit ah recommend ye huv a go oor whiskey.” Mary’s brown eyes glittered with pride. “Tis oor specialty 'ere, ye see. Merchants even import it tae th' capital. Ah guarantee ye, ye wilnae fin' whiskey finer than ours in th' kingdom.”

Whiskey didn’t sound too bad, actually; maybe it could help Sylvain think better. With things as they were, he needed more than the usual tact to help his friend get out of whatever problem he was in.

He nodded to the barmaid, “I’ll have one, Mary, thank you.”

Before he could dismiss her, however, Sylvain, to his open-mouthed surprise, heard Dimitri add, “Make that two, if you please.”

"Comin' ra’t up!”

Never in their two decades of friendship had Sylvain seen Dimitri drink alcohol. Even during his coronation or wedding, he had opted to drink water instead of wine, saying he neither had the inclination nor the tolerance for it.

Sylvain was still trying to recover from the shock when Mary returned with two tin cups, which were far too large for whiskey, and set them on the table.

“Enjoy yerselves,” the barmaid chirped before leaving.

Sylvain’s wary gaze followed Mary back to the counter. She and the barkeeper appeared to be enjoying a loud exchange of jokes, and didn’t seem to be paying them any attention. Satisfied that they could afford to talk more freely, he let out a bit of the tension he felt.

“Dimitri, whatever you do,” he whispered, before swiveling back to face his friend, “dont—”

But Dimitri had already placed the cup on his lips and tipped back.

“—drink it straight,” Sylvain finished weakly, feeling the blood drain from his face, and  a few beads of cold sweat breaking out at the back of his neck.

The coughing fit happened immediately.

“What—what—is—this,” Dimitri wheezed in between coughs, doubling over the table.

“Let me ask for water—”

Placing a hand on Sylvain’s arm, Dimitri coughed a few more times, before managing to get out, “No—I’m—I’m fine. I can take this. I was—just surprised.” He took a shaky breath, a streak of sweat trickling down his face. “Is it really supposed to burn your throat?”

“No, it’s supposed to feel warm. Nice. Comfortable. Not like it’s about to skin your throat from the inside. You’re supposed to sip it. Whoa there—“ Sylvain broke off, grabbing hold of Dimitri’s cup when he saw that he was going to carry out his advice right now.

Sylvain surreptitiously peered at the cup before putting it down beside his own.

He drank half of it already in one swig, Sylvain thought with equal parts horror and admiration, knowing how obscenely large the cup was. I can’t take this anymore. I need to say something now.

“Dimitri—“

“I messed everything up.” Dimitri pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hood. “I don’t even know how to face her after last night.”

“Come on, tell me, what happened? You were fine when I checked up on you, and you were determined to talk to the Professor about…” Sylvain waved vaguely. “That was probably the most confident I’ve seen you in years. What happened in that dinner to knock it all off and then some?”

Sighing, Dimitri slumped over the table and buried his head on his elbows. “There was no dinner,” was the muffled response. “I went to her room to see why she was late. There was a small candlelight burning inside, but no sound nor sign of movement. So I went in, and thankfully the door was open. And then…”

Sylvain looked up from the rim of his cup, knowing fully well what that break—that pregnant pause—meant. “And then?”

“…She was sleeping. I stayed with her until she woke up and… things happened.” Dimitri groaned. “I shouldn’t have—I knew I shouldn’t, not before I told her the truth. But she said Hilda explained things—“

“Hilda?”

“I assumed she had hinted about it when she was here. My instinct told me that it might not have been enough, but… it was more convenient for me to believe that she was okay.”

Sylvain took a sip, relishing the smokey taste of malt and barley on his tongue. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Dimitri. Any man in your situation would have done the same; I know I would.”

Another pregnant pause.

“But you wouldn’t have treated her as… callously as I did, Sylvain. I… hurt her.”

“Hurt her?” 

“Love bites.”

Ah.

Sylvain set the cup down on the table, fighting back the tide of warmth to his face, which was most likely not from the sip of whiskey. “That’s not so bad.”

“I left many. I can’t even remember.”

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you thought. Maybe she was okay with it.”

“I thought so, too. But then… she asked me to stop.”

Sylvain’s eyes widened so much that they felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. Sheer incredulity stopped him from coming up with a coherent reply, aside from, “What?”

Dimitri didn’t respond, though.

“Look, regardless of what happened, I still think you should talk to her about it. This whole misunderstanding arose because of a lack of communication, anyway, so the natural answer is to talk. She loves you, so she will listen. You just have to have faith in that.”

Still, no response.

“Dimitri?” Learning forward, Sylvain gave Dimitri’s shoulder a small nudge.

Only for his head to loll over to the table.

Mary reappeared with a plate of roasted pheasant in each hand. “Och, dear. Ah dinnae reckon you'd wantae eat this anymair, huh?”

Sylvain sighed. “No, but I’ll pay for them, of course. Would you know if there’s an inn here?”

“Aye, juist doon th' street. Best be careful, fowks in th' other town said that thare wur them blasted foreigners roaming aroond.” Mary lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Ah heard tis they damn Almyrans.”

Sylvain almost staggered back from his seat.

That meant only one thing:

Claude.

Notes:

Boom.

 

 

 

Get ready, people. Things are about to get even more chaotic.

*
By the way, I'll try to update regularly moving forward. I'll try to add chapters every two weeks, at least. Hope I can stick to it. :)

Chapter 14: The Visitor

Byleth lifted her heavy eyelids to find that it was already late into the afternoon. She felt sluggish, her mind strangely foggy, but she willed herself to rise. No matter how much she wanted to lounge in bed, she had duties to attend to, people to see, and orphans to take care of. Kicking away her blanket, she hoisted herself up on her elbows…

And then she stilled. She was as good as naked with her chemise bunched around her waist, exposing her chest and nether regions to the cool morning air. However, it was something else that caused her to breath to catch—it was the sight of the reddish purple marks adorning her body, marking her in places no one had ever touched: the dip of her navel, the insides of her arms, the valley between her breasts. 

Dimitri.

Oh, that was right, Dimitri did all of those. Exhausted and mortified, she had collapsed into a fitful slumber after he left last night, her mind giving up any attempt to process what happened.

But, what did happen, anyway? She recalled developing a weird fever after having tea with Mercedes, then waking up to her husband in the room. Then…

“I love you, Dimitri, and… I want you to embrace me until I’m sure I’m bearing your child.”

Byleth blushed. That’s right, I asked him to make love to me. 

And he did. It was embarrassing, but at the same time, it felt right.

Byleth’s heart thudded as she looked at her nipples that had hardened from the cold. Dimitri had touched them last night. No, he had done much more than that; his hand and mouth had fondled, licked and sucked on them until they felt tender and raw. She had seen babies suckling their mothers, but had never known that such things were also done between lovers. She hadn’t known pleasure until last night. 

And there was no going back. 

Before she could realize what she was doing, she saw own her hand finding its way to her right breast, breath shallow as she captured its perky bud between her forefinger and thumb. She pinched it lightly, and gasped, as an echo of a familiar sensation rushed through her belly.

“More… Let me hear more,” he had pleaded in that deep, alluring tone that he reserved only for her.

Strangely enthralled, she repeated the motion, with more force this time, tugging on the bud the same way that Dimitri had. “Ahn,” she whimpered, but didn’t stop. She raised her other hand to her left breast and gave it a squeeze. 

“I want you… to watch me take you in my mouth.”

Dazedly, she traced circles on her dusky center, remembering how Dimitri’s tongue had swirled around the edges as if they were a delicacy. He had nipped them afterwards, which she mimicked with her fingernails, and to her surprise, she felt a small burst of pleasure uncoil inside her, making her thighs contract together and her hips jolt off the bed. It was pale and weak in comparison to the mind-shattering experience she had last night, but was enough to elicit a loud moan from her throat, and steal her breath for a few seconds.

Byleth panted against her pillow. What was happening to her?

Sweat dotted her forehead and upper lip, and she writhed on the bed, her body still ablaze with a fire she didn’t know how to quell. The place between her thighs throbbed and tingled hotly, and she was overwhelmed by the urge to touch it. 

Shame burned her cheeks. Was she out of her mind, or possessed by an evil spirit? How could she consider something so… unnatural? Aside from bathing, she had never thought of touching that part of her body. Why would she? 

Because it felt incredible. Biting her lip, she recalled the heavenly friction she felt when Dimitri had thrust his groin against hers in a steady rhythm, every clash of their bodies sending sparks of pleasure that pushed her closer to the edge of a precipice. 

Giving into temptation, she opened her legs and guided her hand onto the soft patch of curls in between. Eyes widening, she gasped at the unmistakeable wetness she encountered there. Incredulity made her bolt upwards to validate, and true enough, that part was glistening with moisture. A small wet patch had formed underneath her buttocks. 

Just like last night. Oh, gods, did I soil myself again without noticing? 

Brows furrowed, she raised her hand and flexed her fingers, astonished to see strings of milky-white liquid connecting them. She was certain that this was not waste; the texture was too sticky. But what was it? If she hadn’t soiled herself, then she shouldn’t have—

Just then, the image of Dimitri’s pain-stricken expression flashed through Byleth’s mind like a slap across her face, chasing away the lust from her system. Good gods, what have I done? I was so embarrassed about soiling myself that I pushed him away. Dimitri must think I hated what we did. And knowing him, he must be blaming himself right now.

That was enough to spur her to action. She sped across the room—first towards the basin on the corner to wash her hands, then to her cabinet to change into a fresh dress that she hadn’t bothered looking at. It didn’t matter that her hair was a mess; she needed to talk to Dimitri and clarify the misunderstand as soon as possible.

Yanking the door open, she strode towards the direction of Dimitri’s quarters, deftly avoiding the priests that wanted to talk to her. She wasn’t able to go far into the courtyard when it suddenly became dark.

To be more specific, something was blocking the sunlight. 

Children screamed, and some churchgoers gasped. Byleth barely had time to channel defensive magic when she looked up to see a large white wyvern above her.

There was only one person she knew who owned such a beautiful beast. “Claude?” Byleth called out incredulously.

“In the flesh,” the wyvern master said, as he looked down on her with a mischievous smile. “I’ve missed you, Professor.”

Chapter 15: The Invitation

Notes:

This is dedicated to all the readers who have stayed with this fic throughout the years. Your comments are the reason why I came back. Thank you very much for inspiring me to write again.

Oblivious to the commotion in the courtyard, the people on the Reception Hall’s second floor carried on with their day: clergymen recited their prayers of adoration in the Audience Chamber, eager students populated the Library, and a new breed of teachers occupied the Common Room, which served as their temporary office while the extension wing was being constructed. 

Manuela wished her day had been as carefree. Fighting against her drowsiness, she checked Mercedes’s pulse for the third time that hour, heaving a sigh of relief to find it still normal. “I think we’re in the clear; the fever seems to have broken. Her temperature has been steadily going down since the last spike this noon.”

Manuela saw Dedue nod from the other side of the bed.

“Will she gain consciousness soon?” Dedue asked, his face dark with worry and sleep-deprivation.

Manuela placed a palm on the patient’s pale forehead, on top of sweat-slicked bangs. “Maybe sometime this afternoon, but even then, I would still recommend she go back to sleep. Her body’s been through a lot trying to fight against this mysterious fever. Do you really not know what caused it?”

Dedue shook his head. “I could not ask her. She was already sick and unconscious on the ground when I came back from training.”

I guess we’ll just have to wait until she wakes up, Manuela thought grimly, although she knew that the cause couldn’t be anything natural, like over-fatigue or the seasonal flu. Her gut told her that Mercedes likely ingested something potent. Whether it was poisonous or something less insidious, would have to remain unknown. According to Dedue, he found no trace of a break-in; the dishes had been washed and cleared, so he had no way on knowing if Mercedes had eaten anything.

“Well, at least we can afford to rest now.” Manuela rose from her seat and winced as her thigh muscles protested at the sudden movement. “I know I’m stating the obvious, but there’s a free bed if you’d like to get some sleep, Dedue.”

As expected, Dedue didn’t budge. His hand remained firmly clasped around Mercedes’s smaller one. “Thank you for the offer, but I shall monitor her in case her temperature surges again.”

“Sure. I’ll be in my office for a quick nap, but I’ll return in half an hour. Don’t hesitate to wake me up if there’s an emergency,” said Manuela, stifling a yawn. Her thin arms hardly had enough energy left to open the Infirmary’s twin oak doors. It was a relief, then, that she had moved into Jeralt’s office a month ago; otherwise, she would have had to go all the way to the dormitories to rest.

I’m too old to be pulling all-nighters—and they’re not even the fun kind. As her heels clicked on the wooden floor, she massaged her temples, feeling the beginnings of a splitting headache forming there.

Manuela reached her office in no time, and was about to open the door, when a loud thud echoed throughout the hallway.

“Manuela, wait.”

Manuela spun to the direction of the sound, and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Seteth reaching for his chair that he had somehow knocked over. In her singleminded focus to rest as quickly as possible, she hadn’t noticed that the room right across hers was open… as if its owner was waiting for her. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. 

No, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure there’s nothing to be excited about. He’s probably planning on scolding me for what happened yesterday, she thought, while admiring how Seteth’s broad shoulders and arms flexed underneath his tight-fitting navy blue clothes. It’s truly such a shame how he’s as infuriating as he’s handsome. 

She forced herself to say coolly, “You called for me?”

The man in question walked towards her, maneuvering around his desk and crossing the threshold of his office in a few strides. “I wanted to—Did something happen? You look horrible.”

“My, ever the charmer, are we? Be careful, or you’ll sweep me off my feet with your honeyed words.” Manuela sighed and turned to open the door to her office. She passed by the floor length mirror she had placed at the corner, and had a glimpse of the dark circles underneath her bloodshot eyes, and her unruly bob that was sticking up on the sides.

She groaned. She did look horrible. “What do you need, Seteth? Are you here to break more of my personal items? You can start with the horrible flower vase that Hanneman gave me for my birthday. I’ll finally have a valid excuse to get rid of it.”

Seteth scoffed behind her. “No, of course not. I’m not some heathen who goes around damaging people’s properties.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” Manuela retorted. “So are you here to reprimand me for corrupting your dear sister? Like I told you yesterday, I was not brandishing the olisbos about for everyone to see. Flayn discovered it in my drawer purely by accident, and—”

The door closed with a loud creak. “I’m sorry.”

Did she hear that right? Or was she delusional from the lack of sleep? Manuela looked over her shoulder, validating with her own eyes that it was truly Seteth who apologized. “Come again?”

Seteth crossed his arms, making the fabric of his sleeves cling to his biceps. “I said I’m sorry for yesterday.”

“Wow, I never thought you’d admit you were wrong.”

“To clarify, I’m only remorseful for surprising you by barging into your room with my lance. I don’t regret destroying the—“ his mouth thinned with distaste—“the shameful thing. In fact, I would do it again if I need to.”

“You should’ve stopped at ‘sorry,’” said Manuela who spun around to cock an eyebrow at her companion. “And pray tell, what’s so shameful about using an olisbos? I’m a healthy woman, and it’s natural to have urges, for the goddess’s sake. Even a saint would have one.”

Strangely, Seteth turned red at this. He sputtered, “H-How did you—? Well, b-be that as it may, using a foreign object might harm you. You should treat your body with more care.”

“Oh, I can take it, I guarantee you,” replied Manuela, relishing at the sight of Seteth blushing harder. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with self-pleasure. It’s a natural need, like sleep and hunger. Using an olisbos is far safer than satisfying such urges with strangers.”

“With strangers? Do people truly engage in such reprehensible behavior? Activities of the intimate kind should only be reserved between lovers.”

Manuela bit her cheek to stop herself from smiling. So old fashioned. “Sure, but it’s not like I have men lining up for that position, right? Or are you saying you’re volunteering? My, are you secretly in love with me, Seteth?”

She had been so used to flirting that the words spilled from her mouth easily. She was even prepared with a teasing reply to Seteth’s rejection.

Which never came.

Manuela couldn’t hide her surprise as she raised her face to his. In the years that she had known Seteth, she had seen him angry, concerned, and happy—but she had never seen him like this. His jade eyes were observing her with wide-eyed focus, as if he was trying to figure out the answer to a puzzle. They strayed to her lips and lingered there, and she found it hard to control the butterflies in her stomach. 

Is this really happening? 

Seteth took a few steps towards her, causing her to inadvertently draw back until the small of her back touched the table. What the hell was wrong with her? She was the Manuela Casagranda, the Divine Songstress who had charmed noblemen and commoners alike. Why was she acting like a schoolgirl all of a sudden?

But no matter how much she demanded, she just couldn’t restrain her racing heartbeat. Especially after Seteth caught her gaze again.

“They’re sage,” he mumbled.

“W-What?” 

Seteth’s forehead crinkled. “Your eyes. I have always thought they were brown, but they are actually sage.”

Manuela didn’t know what to make of this, but she was saved from responding as loud footsteps reverberated from the hallway, accompanied by excited voices.

“I must go and see what the ruckus is about,” Seteth said, already moving towards the door. His hand was on the knob when he paused, “I have been thinking that it would be wise to educate the Archbishop about… marital relations, seeing as she knows very little. I normally would not recommend interfering in such private matters, but it poses as a national issue if it worsens her relationship with the king.”

The sudden change in topic caught Manuela off-guard. “Uh, I suppose you’re right.”

“Perhaps we can discuss our approach tonight if you’re free? I remember I agreed to have drinks with you.”

It was a good thing that Seteth was facing the door, because he would have seen Manuela’s mouth gape open in a very unladylike manner. She could only reply, “S-Sure.”

Satisfied with this, Seteth left.

Manuela promptly collapsed on a nearby chair.

Notes:

I had written the plan for this chapter 2 years ago. I had been determined to bring this ship to life, because I really liked Seteth and Manuela's supports. Now, I'm proud that I was able to give it justice. I'm slowly re-discovering my writing style, and it's been such a joy to find my voice again.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, folks.

Chapter 16: The Ghost of the Past

Notes:

I had started this fic in 2019, and I can't believe here I am, still writing in 2025. I'm sure this shouldn't have taken five plus years to write; it's my fault for all the hiatuses I've taken, but through it all I want to say...

Thank you. For all the lovely comments, for the encouragements, for the kudos. It's truly because of you guys why I keep writing and coming back to this. Hopefully, this time around, I'll finally finish this fic.

Hopefully.

The next day

25^th day of the Wyvern Moon, 1185

Garreg Mach Monastery

 

The morning air was thin and brittle, sharpened by autumn’s bite as the two horses carried their riders back across the well-worn path to Garreg Mach. The spires of the monastery glimmered faintly in the distance, haloed by dawn’s pale light. Dimitri sat stiff in the saddle, reins held loosely in one gloved hand, his other pressed occasionally to his temple. Each step of his stallion’s hooves thudded against his skull like a hammer.

The hangover was worse than any battlefield wound he had ever endured. And it was his own doing. That knowledge weighed heavier than the nausea and the relentless pounding in his head. He had given in, allowed Sylvain to draw him into a bottle’s oblivion, and found that drunkenness was not a balm but a humiliation. Even now, the taste of it lingered on his tongue like ash.

Sylvain, of course, rode cheerfully beside him. “You know,” he said, grinning, “I’ve seen you cleave through a dozen Imperial soldiers without flinching, but one little night with me and a bottle, and look at you. Practically a corpse on horseback.”

Dimitri’s jaw tightened. “You need not remind me.”

“That bad, huh?” Sylvain chuckled, patting his mount’s neck. “You were out cold. Snoring so loud I thought the innkeeper would toss us both into the street. And when I tried to wake you? Dead to the world. You’re lucky I thought to send a raven ahead, or Dedue would’ve marched an army into Blightwood to drag you home.”

The words should have amused him, but Dimitri felt no humor. His pride stung at the reminder of weakness. Worse, beneath that shame lay another wound—the one he could not silence, no matter how he tried.

Byleth.

The memory of her eyes—the way they had gone wide with panic when he had leaned too close, the way she had flinched as if his touch burned—was a knife twisting in his chest. She had rejected him, not with cruelty, but with something far sharper: fear. And he had seen in that fear not merely reluctance, but a reflection of the monster he believed himself to be.

The road narrowed as they passed beneath branches aflame with red and gold. Dimitri stared ahead, his vision swimming from both the light and the ache in his skull. He told himself to breathe, to steady the thoughts that clawed at him, but they came regardless.

She deserves better. She deserves someone unbroken, someone whole.

Sylvain’s voice cut through his spiraling. “Don’t brood yourself to death before we even get there. Look.” He nodded toward the monastery. The great gates loomed closer now, the morning bustle of students already spilling into the courtyard. The air smelled faintly of baked bread and damp stone. A bell tolled, marking the start of another ordinary day.

For them, perhaps. Not for him.

They dismounted at the stable. Dimitri’s legs ached as he swung down, his balance unsteady. Sylvain shot him a sidelong glance but wisely said nothing. Together they made their way toward the cloister, boots striking stone in a rhythm that seemed far too loud.

It was there, crossing the courtyard, that Dimitri froze.

Under the dappled shade of a tree, a table had been set for breakfast. Claude lounged in his chair, a plate half-finished before him, his green eyes glinting with mischief. Across from him sat Byleth. The sunlight caught on her hair, turning it almost silver, and she laughed at something Claude had said—a sound bright, unguarded, utterly genuine.

Dimitri’s stomach clenched.

He remembered this sight too well. Claude had always been at ease with her, even back when they were students. His humor, his charm, his way of slipping past her reserve with teasing and warmth—Dimitri had watched it all, haunted by the suspicion that Claude felt something more. He had been right. The Almyran prince's crush had been real, even if unreturned. And now… now Dimitri could not silence the thought that perhaps it should have been.

“Don’t stare too hard,” Sylvain murmured beside him. “People might notice.”

But Dimitri could not look away. Claude leaned back, gesturing animatedly, while Byleth shook her head with that small, amused smile. They looked—normal. Comfortable. As though no weight hung between them. As though they had known one another all their lives.

His chest tightened further. That is what she deserves. Ease. Lightness. Not a man who stumbles through shadows, burdening her with every scar.

Claude was the first to notice them. His smile broadened, lazy and sharp. “Well, well. Look who’s finally crawled back from the woods.”

Byleth turned. Her expression transformed instantly at the sight of them—of him. Concern flickered across her face, softening her eyes. She rose from her seat. “Dimitri. Sylvain. You’re back. I was worried.”

Her voice was warm, relieved, and it cut him deeper than any blade.

He bowed his head slightly, struggling to mask the turmoil roiling inside. “We… were delayed.”

“I explained,” Sylvain said lightly, flashing her a grin. “Didn’t want you thinking we’d abandoned ship.”

Byleth’s lips curved faintly. “Thank you. But still… I’m glad you’re safe.” She gestured to the table. “There’s plenty of food here. Will you join us?”

The invitation was simple, gracious... Yet Dimitri felt his throat tighten. The thought of sitting across from her now, under Claude’s watchful gaze, was unbearable. He could still taste last night’s sickness, still hear her sharp intake of breath when she had pulled away from him in that darkened room. He could not—would not—risk seeing that look again.

“I cannot,” he said, too curt. “I am… unwell. Something I consumed in Blightwood has not agreed with me.”

The words were clipped, formal, a shield against the truth. He saw the flicker in her eyes—the brief hurt, swiftly hidden.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Then… rest well.”

The sound of her disappointment was worse than the hangover.

Claude leaned back in his chair, watching with hooded eyes. His smile never faltered, though when Dimitri glanced up, he caught the glint of amusement there—keen, calculating. Claude masked it a moment later, tilting his head toward Byleth with another easy quip. She answered, but her voice had dimmed.

Sylvain’s hand brushed Dimitri’s shoulder, subtle pressure guiding him away. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before you fall over.”

Dimitri allowed himself to be led, though his steps felt heavier with each pace. 

Unworthy. Always unworthy.

He clenched his fists as they disappeared into the cloister, but no grip was strong enough to hold back the tide of self-loathing that followed.

Chapter 17: The Prayer and The Vow

Notes:

It's finally here. I'm so glad to wrap this up for Dedue and Mercie - they're two of my favorite characters in FE3H, and I honestly think their pairing is PEAK. I wanted this scene to be a showcase of what makes both of them special - Mercie's maternal instincts, Dedue's awkwardness, and the gentle love they have for each other.

Later that afternoon

 

The abbey held its breath.

Incense drifted in pale ribbons from the brass censer, weaving through shafts of color that fell from the stained glass and spilled across the flagstones—rose, gold, and a tender green that reminded Mercedes of new leaves after frost. She had been kneeling since the first bell, and the day had already bent toward evening. Her hands were clasped so tightly that the joints ached; when she finally loosened them, the ache only spread.

She did not leave.

Each time she tried to rise, memory tugged at her hem like a child who refused to be set down. Heat, a damp pillow, a low voice steadying her back to shore. The cool press of a cloth to her brow. The shape of him, broad-shouldered in candlelight, filling the doorway and then the little room with quiet patience. She remembered her breath catching as if a snare had tightened beneath her ribs; she remembered the way her thoughts slipped—as if the fever had melted a boundary she’d always assumed was iron.

She had imagined what it would be like to lean up and—

“Dear Goddess,” she whispered, mortified by the direction her mind had started to tilt, “I don’t know what seized me last night. Please forgive me for the thoughts that came. I… I was not myself.” She touched two fingers to her lips and then her breast, tracing a small sign. “If it was some wickedness from the tea or from my own unruly heart, cleanse it all the same. Make me gentle again.”

The abbey’s silence did not condemn her. It did not absolve her either. It simply held her, like a great palm into which she had climbed as a child. She let her breathing settle. She was not the weepy sort—she had spent too many years being the calm in other people’s storms to indulge in many of her own—but her face still grew hot when her mind strayed to the way her body had… noticed him. Noticed the warmth in his hands. The low patience in his voice. The way he said her name without decoration, like truth.

That was all it took, last night, for something bright and bewildering to spark under her skin. She had never known her own body could betray her composure like that—quietly, insistently, as if her heart had left the prayer bench early and gone wandering.

“Forgive me,” she said again, softer. “I want to be good.”

When the bell tolled compline’s nearness, she startled. The children. She had promised to check the dormitory before sunset—she’d promised to settle an argument over who owned the green scarf, promised a story about a cat that learned to fish. She winced at her own lateness, rose carefully from the kneeler, and smoothed her skirt, palms skating over habitually neat pleats that had somehow rumpled anyway. A thousand hours in a church and she could still emerge looking like she’d fought a wind. Typical.

She dipped a little curtsey to the mosaic in the apse, not because the goddess demanded it but because Mercedes liked ending things with tidiness and grace. Then out she went, into autumn’s thin light.

Evie was waiting on the stone landing like a sentry too small for her post, a little bundle of purpose with curly strawberry-blond hair and a face earnest enough to sell miracles.

“Miss Mercedes!” she chirped the instant the abbey doors thudded shut behind them. “Finally.”

“Evie,” Mercedes said, delighted in spite of the scold that had been trembling on her tongue. “A sentry! Where is your helmet?”

Evie tried not to grin. She failed in an eruption of dimples. “Don’t laugh. It’s very serious. We’ve been waiting forever.”

“We?” Mercedes glanced past her toward the cloister and the dormitory beyond. “Who is ‘we’?”

“All of us.” Evie grabbed her hand with perfect confidence and tugged toward the stair that curled up the old tower. “And we won’t come down. Not until you do.”

Mercedes let herself be tugged. “Is this a hostage situation?”

Evie considered. “Yes. But happy.”

“That’s a relief.”

The tower steps were worn from centuries of feet and new again from recent hands—stone patched where time and war had bitten, the whole smelling faintly of wet mortar, old dust, and the cold iron taste of height. Through narrow lancets in the wall, Mercedes saw the monastery laid out in slices: the cloister walk stippled with leaf-shadow; the greenhouse roof glinting like an emerald pane; the dormitory windows warm with lamplight where the smaller children would already be yawning.

“Your hand is cold,” Evie said, squeezing.

“So is yours,” Mercedes said. “We match.”

Evie beamed, and then, because she had the good sense to sniff a story near, “Why were you praying so long? Did someone get sick?”

“No,” Mercedes said, and then, because Evie could smell a fib from two courtyards away, “I was talking to the goddess about being brave. And being kind. And about finding the right words when your heart is busy and your head is not.”

Evie nodded as if this was a perfectly ordinary morning’s errand. “I know what you mean. Sometimes the words won’t stay still. Like bees.”

“Exactly like bees.” Mercedes squeezed back. “You are—”

But she never finished the compliment. The stair twisted, widened, and ended, and the world opened.

The Goddess Tower wore autumn like a blessing. Sunset had just begun to tilt the light toward ruby, and a chaste wind walked its slow circle around the parapets. The children had made a ring on the stones, and each small hand held a flower. Not the haphazard handfuls they sometimes confiscated from flowerbeds, but careful stems: ivory roses cupped like the palms of saints, red dahlias incandescent near the core, late lilies with throats like lanterns.

And at the center stood Dedue.

She stopped. A small sound—maybe her name, maybe the beginning of a prayer—caught in her throat. He was not in armor. He wore a black coat and tan breeches, the crisp lines making his height more startling. His hair was tied back simply. In his hands he held a single flower—an ivory rose with a faint blush at its heart—and beside that blossom, nested on his broad palm like an idea about to be offered, lay a ring.

The ring was humble. A thin band, artless, not something a merchant would have displayed in a velvet case with too many ribbons. It looked like something made for living. Which meant he’d chosen it exactly right.

Evie let go of Mercedes’s hand and ran to the circle, tucking herself between Win and Sebastian. “She’s here!”

A rustle went around the ring—small shoes scuffing, a muffled squeal strangled on someone’s scarf. Mercedes looked from face to face and found her own charges grinning back: Kev already losing the battle against bouncing; the twins Aline and Winnifred with matching conspiratorial glints; Rhys pretending not to smile and failing around the eyes; Sebastian trying to look dashing and managing charming instead; Julian and Vincent clasping stems with both hands like the weight of their task would float away if they didn’t; Evie incandescent with triumph.

Dedue took one quiet step forward. His expression barely shifted; for most men you’d call it solemn, for him it brightened to something like dawn.

“These flowers,” he said—his voice moved like a baritone over still water, clean, unadorned, honest—“I tended in the greenhouse. Before I left for Faerghus. I hoped they would survive. They did.” He inclined his head to the circle. “They were kind to help me harvest them.”

Every child in the ring straightened. Win whispered, “We didn’t break any.” Vincent added, too loud, “Except the one I stepped on.” Kev elbowed him, scandalized, which meant Mercedes would have to perform the ancient rite of We Do Not Elbow Your Brother Later. She smiled helplessly.

Dedue looked down at the flower and the ring in his hand as if taking counsel from both, then—slowly, as though he were lowering a banner he had never expected to carry—he bent to one knee.

Mercedes’s hand flew to her mouth. The wind decided that was the moment to pick up, slipping cold fingers through her hair. She felt the universe go very still inside her chest. The abbey’s silence had held her all day. This quiet did something else: it took her by the shoulders and pointed her toward the next hour of her life.

He did not speak at once. He was careful with beginnings—she loved that about him. When he lifted his face, the evening laid a line of light across his cheekbone and into the blue of his eyes. Uncomplicated eyes. Loyal. Brave.

“Mercedes,” he said, and it sounded like the simplest prayer anyone had ever said in this place.

“I am not a man of words.” He paused, and his mouth twitched, like he’d rehearsed that line enough to dislike it. “I tried. I wanted to speak something… fine. A poem.” He looked briefly pained. Someone tittered—probably Sebastian, whose tolerance for suspense was lower than a cat’s.

“I wrote one,” Dedue admitted, which startled the titters into little gasps. He turned his free hand palm-up, as if showing a smudge of ink. “It is not good.” Another beat. “I will say… part.”

Mercedes swayed as if her heart were a lantern and someone had breathed on the flame.

Dedue cleared his throat, considered the sky as if it could lend him a line, and then in a cadence so careful she knew he’d counted each syllable in the stable at midnight he recited:

“Your hands are a quiet—
bread warm on winter tables;
I learn to be bread.”

He stopped and grimaced faintly. “There was more,” he said, quickly, like a man apologizing for dropping a spoon. “It was worse.”

The circle erupted.

“It’s good!” Aline said, outraged on his behalf.

“It’s bread,” Vincent added, reverent.

“Can there be a line about stew?” Flushed with earnestness, Julian shifted his flower to his other hand. “Or herring? Flayn says herring is very important.” (Only Flayn could hijack a proposal by proxy and yet, yes—herring had become a minor sacrament of late.)

Mercedes laughed and then made the fatal error of not swallowing quickly enough; the laugh turned watery. She pressed the backs of her fingers to her eyes, told the tears to behave, and found that for once they weren’t inclined to. She was still not the weepy sort. She was just… full.

Dedue waited—of course he did—until the quiet settled again. It wasn’t the awkward kind. It was the kind you keep because it is worth something.

“What I can offer you is truth,” he said. “I had not known love before you. I did not think it was for me. I thought—” He glanced past her shoulder to somewhere that was both far away and standing right behind her. “I thought I was meant for other work. Guarding. Bearing. Cooking for quiet rooms. Remembering for those who cannot.” He shook his head. “These things I will still do. But you—” His voice did not break. It deepened. “You add joy to duty. You make duty light.”

She would have fallen if the wind had touched her any harder. It didn’t. It almost seemed to lean away.

“I do not have a Crest to make me pleasing to fathers who count their silver by blood,” he said, not bitter, only factual. “I have no pretty words tonight but the ones you hear. But I have a heart that will not change its mind. And a body that knows how to work. And hands that know how to tend—soil, stew, sorrow.” He looked down, almost smiling at the flower in his palm as if it had cracked a joke only the two of them could hear. “And a patience that will wait as long as you want to be sure.”

He lifted the ring a little. Up close she could see that it had been polished but not fussed over. There was a small nick on the inner edge, as if someone had adjusted it by hand, and oh the thought of Dedue—those careful fingers, that careful strength—mending a circle so it would fit her made the ache behind her eyes crest.

“If we are blessed with children,” Dedue said, after a beat in which the wind kindly left them alone, “I will greet them like the morning and learn them like a book I mean to keep. If we are not, I will greet what is given and keep learning you all my life.” He swallowed. The motion was small and true. “I am yours already. If you will allow me, I will be yours openly.”

He extended the flower and the ring.

There were many things Mercedes could have said. A lifetime of them, really, because that was what he was offering—a life, not a golden afternoon to be forgotten the next day. Her mind produced none of the words it had hoarded all year. It simply flooded, and then like a tide that knows its one task she found herself stepping forward, into the circle, through the thin rain of petals Kev had started early because Kev could not be trusted with cues.

Her knees felt hollow with relief. She had been good all day and scared all day and now the goodness and the fear wanted the same thing. She did not make him wait for an answer.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice cracked, inconveniently honest. “Yes, Dedue.” She laughed without meaning to, startled by the simplicity of it when her heart had been waving its arms all morning. “Of course, yes.”

The tower went off like a festival. Someone—Sebastian—attempted to whistle and ended up producing something like a kettle in distress. Evie squealed, pitched her flower into the air, and then clapped both hands to her mouth as if she had indeed just thrown consecrated bread. Win leapt straight up and came down with a squeak when she remembered heights at the top of a tower were still heights. Rhys said, “Huh,” which was his version of weeping openly.

Dedue did not stand immediately. He looked at her hand with a focus that made her blush and then—still kneeling—took her left hand in his right and brought the ring near. He hesitated, lifting his gaze to hers as if to ask, May I? She nodded, because if she tried to speak she would be a bell again. He slid the thin band onto her finger.

It fit like a thought she’d had for a long time and only just remembered.

“Will you keep the flower too?” he asked, the question so gentle it undid her.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s a rose,” Kev informed everyone, needlessly and very pleased with himself.

“Not from the kitchen garden,” Rhys added, like a foreman signing off on quality.

“From the greenhouse,” Win said, already plotting a heist.

“The greenhouse,” Dedue confirmed. The corner of his mouth bent toward a smile. “We will not steal these. We will ask.” Win wilted only a little.

He stood then, tall and impossible and entirely hers, and for half a beat they only looked, the children’s circle turning the height of the tower into a room that belonged to them. The breeze came back as if it had been waiting for the answer, sliding cool palms over warm faces, and she thought: I will remember how the air felt on my cheek when he was new to me as my own.

“May I—” Dedue began, and it was the oddest reversal to watch a man who could lift barrels like loaves and doors like trays ask leave as if permission lived in her mouth.

“Yes,” she said again, so quickly that Kevin elbowed Vincent in triumph and Vincent, in the spirit of the day, declined to elbow back.

Dedue leaned in with care and kissed her.

First kisses are precious partly because they are clumsy. This one had a little of that, but only because he wanted to be careful and she wanted to be grateful and both of them wanted to remember the feeling of not hurrying. His mouth was warm; his breath was clean; he did not command, he offered. She accepted like someone who had been hungry for a very long time and had just now realized all the ways hunger could mean.

A cheer went up that probably frightened birds in the next county. “AGAIN!” shouted Kev, who believed in getting his money’s worth out of every spectacle. Dedue drew back, his forehead resting against hers for a heartbeat that lasted more than one. His smile—small, private, a surprise on his face every time—touched her nose. She would file the sensation under Holiest Things.

“Again,” she whispered, because she belonged to joy now. The second kiss landed easier. 

The children surged in a rush that would have knocked lesser lovers flat. Dedue planted his feet without thinking and bore the charge as he’d borne worse, only this time he laughed and went down to one knee to make them a little taller than him. Mercedes folded two of the smaller boys into the crook of one arm and Aline under the other; Win tucked herself against her hip with the righteous possessiveness of a child who had just watched a treasure find its rightful chest. Somewhere on the periphery, Rhys performed an exaggeratedly bored shuffle that did not fool anyone and then leaned a shoulder into Dedue as if he needed all the help in the world staying upright.

“You’re going to be Miss Mercedes’s husband,” Sebastian announced, in case anyone had lost track of the headline.

“Yes,” Dedue said.

“And our…” Julian looked distressed, because categories mattered. “Our…?”

“Everything,” Evie solved, happily. “He’ll be our everything.” Then, in a whisper that made Mercedes blink very fast, “Do we get to call you Papa?”

A small, perfectly ordinary question that opened the world.

Dedue did not rush it. He never did. He looked at Mercedes over their heads and waited for the nod that was not permission but partnership. She did not nod. She pressed her mouth together and tried, very hard, to not cry onto anyone’s hair, then pressed her cheek to Evie’s crown and said, steady, “If you want.”

Evie beamed the kind of beam that would light a city.

Chapter 18: The Sparring Match

Notes:

I frikkin love Claude, and how his character can be so sly and charming at the same time.

The training hall had changed since their student days. War and the uneasy peace after had made even the monastery’s gentler rooms a little sterner: thick beams girded a proper roof now, shutters latched tight against the mountain wind, and in one corner a hearth glowed with a steady, watchful flame. It threw long bars of copper light over sanded floorboards and weapon racks, warming them into a honeyed glow. Dimitri stood at the center of that light wearing only training trousers and boots—no shirt, no cloak, no crown—and drove Areadbhar through the air until the lance sang.

The spearhead cut currents he could feel along his forearms and across his bare shoulders, kissing old scars with cold breath. He pivoted; the haft rasped his palms; he felt calluses catch and release, catch and release, as if his own hands were a bowstring drawn past good sense. He did not count the sets. He did not need to. Rhythm replaced numbers: thrust—recover—half-lunge—turn—low sweep that would take a man at the ankles if he dared a step closer than he should. The heat of his skin made a thin mist of sweat, and the hearth’s light threw a monstrous shadow up the far wall—his shadow split by the lance into man and antlered thing.

Dimitri's beast roared inside him, clawing at the trappings of his flesh. He gave it his will, his body.

Breathe. Swing. Again.

If he failed to focus, the floor itself became a trapdoor. His mind was not his own tonight; it was a stair down, echoing with the wrong words at the wrong time. Her face when she stopped me. The way her hands shook. Gods, I put that look there. He felt the world tilt, and thrashed his way back into the form he knew: a man with a lance, repeating the only prayer that had ever saved him—again—until thinking dulled.

He saw Byleth where the sun would be if the shutters were thrown wide: the rare smile that unmade him, the little tilt of her head when she considered a question as if it had weight. He heard her voice from this afternoon—soft, apologetic, brave—and his own answer, clumsy enough to bruise. Then, against his will, he saw another scene: her at breakfast with Claude, green eyes warmer than sun, the easy lean between them. He tasted iron. His next thrust cracked the empty pell so sharply the haft rang in his bones.

The beast in his chest roared again. Dimitri shut his eyes, bit his breath down until it was flat again, and drove Areadbhar through a full arc that would have opened armor.

“Never could leave a dummy alone when you had too many thoughts in your head.”

The voice came from the doorway—light, amused, and irritatingly familiar in the way a half-healed scar is familiar. Dimitri did not lower the lance. He did not turn.

Claude, of course, took that as invitation.

He sauntered in as if the hall were a conservatory, hands in his pockets, the unshakable air of a man who treated all spaces as though they’d been expecting him. He’d taken off his traveling cloak; the shirt beneath fit more snugly than Dimitri remembered from their student days, from their last encounter during the war, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Almyra had carved him into something more muscular and meaner—there was more experience in his movements. The green eyes were the same, bright with humor and calculation and a thousand exits mapped at once.

“Hello to you too,” he added dryly, when Dimitri kept working the lance as if Claude were an unusually talkative coat rack.

Dimitri completed the form—downward cut, half-step, wrist-snap—then set the lance butt to the floor and rested both hands on the haft. He was breathing hard but not winded; the fire carried the sweat from his bare skin and made it steam. He kept his head down for one more heartbeat—for the piety of it as much as to get the world to stop swaying—and then raised his gaze.

“What do you want?”

Claude’s grin sharpened. “You always did get straight to the point.” He tipped his chin toward the hearth. “Nice upgrade to the training arena. The old place used to feel too chilly.” A pause. “And you used to wear a shirt.”

“It is warm,” Dimitri said, because he would not say because distraction is useful. He lifted Areadbhar, settled the spear into its wall cradle, and the empty of his hands made him suddenly raw. No armor, no weapon, and still all this sharpness inside. He flexed his fingers to keep them steady. “Speak your piece, Claude.”

“I've become partial to Prince of Almyra, but I suppose ‘Claude’ works.” He strolled a little further in. “You’re not going to offer me tea?”

“No.”

Claude clicked his tongue. “Hospitality standards in the Unified Kingdom have really slipped.” His eyes flicked, quick as a sparrow, to the corner where a banner leaned half-rolled against the rack, the new arms stitched there—dragon and lion bound around the heart of Fódlan, set not in threat but in pledge. “You have been busy,” he added, as if the peace of a continent were an errand someone had asked him to run between breakfast and lunch.

Dimitri said nothing. The quiet did not abash Claude. Quiet rarely abashed Claude.

“Relax,” he said lightly, sliding out of his boots and rolling his shoulders. “I didn’t come to talk policy.”

“That leaves gossip,” Dimitri said. “Or trouble.”

Claude laughed. “Usually both. But tonight? Something fun. Spar?”

“No.”

“Come on.” He lifted his hands, palms open. “No weapons. No Crests,” he added, like a man proposing a rule in a game he’d already practiced without. “I’ve been practicing my hands in Almyra. I’m curious how the king stacks up.”

“I am not your curiosity.” He angled a step to the side, as if the argument itself had weight he could dodge. “I am not in the mood to humor you.”

“Here’s a wager, then.” Claude’s smile went thinner, smarter. “You beat me? I’ll tell you why I’m really here.”

That got under the skin. Claude saw it land and did not bother to hide his satisfaction. Dimitri exhaled through his nose, slow enough to be mistaken for a sigh, and let the yes dress itself as a shrug. Claude brightened like a man who had just won a drink.

“Good,” he said. “I was hoping to get punched.”

They cleared a space—sand scattered with a couple of bored straw dummies. Dimitri’s feet found the old feel of the boards through thin soles. Claude sank into a stance that was not any Fódlan school Dimitri had been taught at fifteen; there was a looseness to it, a cat’s readiness. Almyra, as advertised.

“You start,” Claude offered, magnanimous.

Dimitri did not. He was not a hare to be learned by a fox. He circled. Claude mirrored. The hearth pop-marked the silence with little notes of sap. Outside, the monastery’s evening bell laid a single calm line across their two bodies.

Claude broke first. He darted in fast, a testing jab meant more for the look in Dimitri’s eyes than for the chin. Dimitri slipped it, feeling the air the fist displaced brush his cheek. He answered with a short cross and a low inside step that forced Claude to pivot or take the shoulder.

“Oh, very nice,” Claude said cheerfully, catching himself with an open palm on Dimitri’s ribcage, pushing off into space again. “Still a wall when you feel like it.”

They danced. Dimitri did not think of it as dance. He thought of it as reading. Claude’s tells had matured; there was less theater now, more efficiency, feints that employed his mouth as effectively as his hips. Dimitri catalogued breath and balance, the small adjustments that told him where the next weight would fall.

Claude talked, because of course he did. He always had a running thread like a ribbon through the air, tying even his silence into a story.

“You missed breakfast,” he said around a combination Dimitri blocked on his forearms. “Shame. The Beast Meat Teppanyaki was divine. And the Pheasant Roast with Berry Sauce? I’ve been trying to get that right back home—they never nail the tartness.” He spun away from Dimitri’s jab, laughed once. “Teach and I had a feast. Well—she ate like a starving sailor, as usual. We definitely made it count.”

Dimitri felt the heat peel up his spine—not from the hearth. He kept his guard high. “Congratulations on your poultry.”

Claude flashed teeth. “You are in a mood.” He stepped in, close enough that Dimitri could see the thin scar at the corner of his mouth he hadn’t had as a boy. “My favorite part, though, was the company. Good to see her again.”

Teach. Dimitri felt his fists tighten. He pushed the image away—the two of them in easy daylight—and the mind, contrarian that it was, returned the scene but closer, brighter.

“She seemed… sad,” Claude said, suddenly, as if he’d found the stitch that would pull the whole seam. He tilted his head, still circling. “Any idea why?”

It hit like a spear butt to the gut. Dimitri blinked without meaning to. Claude’s hands found that half-glance and darted in—one-two under the guard, the second a flat knuckle in the muscle of Dimitri’s midsection. It wasn’t cruel. It was clean. Dimitri stepped back because his body told him to. He tasted copper at the back of his throat and knew it was only the air he’d gulped wrong.

“Ah,” Claude said softly, with a satisfaction that had nothing triumphant in it. “There it is.”

Dimitri lunged.

It was bad. It was raw. It was one of the old lunges that had more of the beast in it than the man—the kind that could break a friend’s jaw when a friend was the one between him and his own mind. Claude did not meet it. He slid off the line, laughing once—not cruelly; in a way that said I knew you once, and I still do—and tapped Dimitri on the shoulder as he went by, the way a cat might pat a dog twice its size to prove a point that had nothing to do with teeth.

“Careless,” Claude said, as Dimitri swung around, forcing himself to reassemble guard from scraps. “Rusty.”

“Try provoked,” Dimitri growled, breath even again by iron will alone.

Claude’s grin brightened. “Hello to you too.”

They resumed. Claude kept needling, because that was how he survived rooms: he threw tiny hooks and reeled in information in smiles’ disguises. Dimitri kept swallowing anger in mouthfuls until it scalded less. The ring on his tongue, though, was jealousy and it did not dilute. He hated the man for noticing sadness he himself had planted. He hated him for easing into their courtyard like a knife slid back into its sheath after a long time away. He hated him for using Teach like an old, already-agreed word and for being right that she was lovelier now than ever: autumn had a way of intensifying color before it set it gently down.

“Teach looks better than ever, doesn’t she?” Claude said conversationally, letting his guard slack—for show; it never slackened—“Prettier than I remembered.”

The thought sprinted through Dimitri too fast to be caught. He did not ride it. He threw it. The next blow he launched was meant to be controlled and was not. It put his whole hip into it; it brought a sound up from his chest that sounded too much like mine to be anything but shameful. Claude saw it a breath too late, got both forearms up to meet it, and still it drove him back three steps, skidding a little in the sand, a line of scuffed floorboard bright under his heel.

There was a long beat in which both men’s hearts were audibly busy. Claude huffed a laugh—no blood, but he checked the inside of his cheek with his tongue anyway, a professional’s habit—and then raised both hands, open, surrender pure and theatrical.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve still got an interesting right.”

Dimitri did not lower his fists. He could not, quite yet. The beast inside him still asked for blood.

Claude’s eyes—bright, needling, undeniably fond in the way only old rivals can be fond—took him in. Then he dropped his hands for real.

“You win.”

“I did not agree to your game.”

“You did,” Claude said, cheerfully unforgivable. “Which means I keep mine.” He picked up his boots and slung them with a fingertip, the picture of a man departing a party exactly when it got interesting. “The short version? I’m here to take back what’s mine.”

Dimitri felt something enormous go very still behind his breastbone. He did not like the phrasing. He did not like the answers it implied. “Explain.”

“Now, where’s the fun in—”

“Explain.”

Claude sighed theatrically, which was always a preface to a true thing. “You know I like to broaden my horizons,” he said pleasantly. “Books, laws, the occasional harmless poison.” A flash of the old boy in the grin. “While catching up on Fódlan’s delightful—and sometimes very quaint—marriage statutes, I found a curiosity. In certain jurisdictions, a union that hasn’t been consummated can be… contested. By interested parties.”

The words were drier than dust. Dimitri felt them like a blade dipped in ice. Breath met the place the earlier strike had left tender and decided to ache there too, for good measure. Images he could not bear to look at head-on flickered in the corner of his mind anyway—altars, signatures, candles burned to nubs, and the door to a room he had not yet had the courage to fully enter.

Claude watched understanding land. He became, for a brief second, almost kind. “Sleep well, Your Majesty,” he said, and spoiled it with a chuckle as he pivoted for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Claude left.

The hall did not become silent so much as honest. The hearth whispered. Somewhere outside, a bell marked nothing in particular. Dimitri stood in the center of the room with his fists still high, then lowered them as if they weighed more than gauntlets. He did not look at the beast on the wall. He did not need to. It had straightened, amused. It would be ready to help him destroy himself in whatever way he found most efficient.

He turned, slow as a man in a chapel he does not deserve, and crossed to Areadbhar. His hands closed around the familiar cold. The haft hummed in his palms like a plucked string. He did not think of breakfast; he did not think of law; he did not think of anything but work.

Breathe. Swing. Again.

All the while, the beast roared with pain and self-hatred. 

Dimitri had won the sparring match, but felt like he had lost in all ways that counted.