Who We Are, And What We Are Meant To Be

by coffeeincluded

Summary:

How do you hide your true nature when it walks the world beside you, for everyone to see?

You can't. So, what then?

Or: If Edelgard believed in signs, she’d struggle to think of one stronger than this. Dimitri’s worst moments haunt him like the ghosts. Claude is a trickster, a schemer; might as well own it. And something is Wrong with Byleth.

Or: The daemon AU nobody asked for.

Chapter 1: Setting The Pieces

Summary:

Edelgard, Dimitri, Claude, and Byleth settle in different ways.

Notes:

"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable."

—President John F. Kennedy

 

Enbarr Palace Gardens, 1176 (4 years before present day)

Edelgard laid back on the grass and watched her beloved Avarine make lazy circles in the air, flying higher up than any daemon should ever go.

Avarine noticed the figure approaching Edelgard first and folded her wings into a sharp stoop, only pulling out of the dive at the last minute when she recognized the black hair of Hubert and the orange fur of Thanily, the fox daemon by his side. Hubert, for his part, was unfazed by the enormous gyrfalcon very nearly digging her talons into his face and merely lifted a hand in greeting.

“Lady Edelgard, Lady Avarine, it is good to see you out in the open air.”

Edelgard folded herself into a sitting position and regarded Hubert with a mild smile. For a moment she debated deflecting what was on her mind, but no. This was Hubert and Thanily. She could trust them. “…Near the end there, I thought I would never see the sun again.”

Hubert merely closed his eyes, and so it was Thanily who took a step forward and spoke. “Lady Edelgard, I must again beg your forgiveness for our failure to rescue you from—”

“Enough, Thanily. You too, Hubert. You would have joined me in those dungeons if you had stayed. In any case you learned valuable information while searching for me down there. And…you saved my brothers and sisters.” A pause. “What was left of them anyway.”

“I did not save them, I killed—”

“They would have thanked you, if they had been able to do so.”

The awkward silence hung in the air until Avarine cried out, “I still don’t understand why. What was the point of kidnapping and torturing El, and my brothers and sisters, and dozens of innocent people, and for what? To shove another Crest into El when she already had one proving our legitimacy? I mean, I know why they did it, but I still don’t understand why they did it! Why does every single nation on this fucking continent have such a fetish for Crests?!” She flashed her wings and screeched.

Hubert sat down beside Edelgard. His face was as impassive and icy as always, but Edelgard could see the way he dug his fingers into Thanily’s fur, had been for the past several minutes actually. “Because Crests are how the nobles and the Church maintain control. The Church makes Crests the sum of a person’s worth, and the nobles enforce it because that is how they maintain power.”

“And on and on it goes, the nobles oppressing the people they are supposed to protect while tormenting their children to fit the mold of the Church, their children grow up doing the same, and all the while the Church steps on our throat and we thank them for it,” Edelgard added. “The ones who tortured me and my siblings are evil and need to be destroyed, but the only way we can make a world where people aren’t chained by a magic birthmark is to dismantle the system itself!”

Hubert simply listened and nodded. “And why is gradual reform not an option?” It sounded almost like the first half to a call and response.

“Because people will continue to suffer and die while ministers hem and haw and do nothing! Not to mention that there is no way the Church would tolerate any separation of religion from state affairs. The moment I publicly call for reform or a deemphasis of crests they’ll at best overthrow me in a coup like what happened to Father or at worst brand me a heretic and publicly execute me after some show trial. And I’d rather not have my head on a pike at Garreg Mach while the rest of my corpse is burned and chucked into the river, thanks.” She scowled. “Come on Hubert, you know this. Why are you asking me?”

“I ask you because, unfortunately, even with your Crest and position as next Emperor, unless both the Sword of the Creator and someone who can use it somehow fall into our laps,”

“—Which they won’t—”

“Then I fear that the only way we can obtain the power to defeat the Church and break this cycle is to obtain the aid of our “friends” in the dark.”

Edelgard and Avarine stared at Hubert and Thanily in horror and disgust. Avarine broke the silence first. “You can’t be serious. After everything you saw, after everything they did?”

Hubert clenched the ground, his nails digging shallow furrows into the earth. “As much as it disgusts me, I am perfectly serious. They had the ability to infiltrate the highest echelons of the Adrestian empire. Some of the information I…obtained while searching for you hinted at moles they have planted within the Central Church itself. If we are going to topple an institution as mighty as the Church of Seiros itself, we need all the help undermining it we can get. And then, afterwards, they will pay. Furthermore, if we work with them, we may be able to curb the worst of their sadistic excesses. From what we know about those who slither in the dark, I doubt your blood was enough to satisfy them."

Edelgard sat up, her face settling back into that mask of determination. Meanwhile, Avarine flew up into the sky screaming profanities into the open air. “I suppose we have no other option then. At least, until we have broken the chains the Church has bound us with. Then we can wipe out our “friends” in the dark from their nests.”

“And I pledge to walk with you every step of the way.” Hubert stood and bowed, low and deep. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was still a gangly teenager with acne scars pitting his chin, but his intimidating demeanor would come with time.

Avarine, eventually, flew back to Edelgard and perched on her shoulder. Her talons dug into Edelgard’s clothes and she made a mental note to have the tailors reinforce all of her outfits with shoulder padding, now that Avarine was going to be a gyrfalcon for good. Avarine, for her part, just glared a grinning Thanily. “What, what is it?”

Thanily laughed, more of a sinister chuckle than anything else. “Oh no, it’s just funny how big a mistake your tormentors made,” she said. “I mean, look at you, Lady Avarine. You’re a gyrfalcon! They rule the frozen northern skies. They nest on cliffs where none can reach. They chase wyverns out of their skies! Lady Edelgard, that means you’re something of a gyrfalcon too. And they thought they could break you?”

---

A Battlefield In Western Faerghus, 1178 (2 years before present day)

The world took its time fuzzing back into focus. Sound returned first, a distant echoing that pierced the din of battle, the screams and moans of the wounded and dying.

“—mitri? Dimitri?!”

Someone was calling his name. A black-haired smear was a few feet away, or maybe really close, but either way was shouting his name. The rest of the world was still fuzzy, but he could start to feel that his hands and face were wet and sticky and he was gripping the shaft of something and his daemon could smell blood everywhere. But he knew that smear of a black-haired…man, yes a man, shouting his name above the roar of scrambled senses.

“…Glenn?” he asked, almost pitifully. And yet as Dimitri spoke the name soured on his tongue. Something was wrong, something was horribly wrong. There was Glenn but there was only Glenn where was, “Where’s Argentia?”

The black-haired figure froze, snapped straight up, took a step back but Argentia didn’t because Argentia was not there because—

—oh—

—Because the figure that snapped into focus all at once wasn’t Glenn but Felix and Felix’s daemon was not Argentia but Bismalt and Argentia had been a musk ox, solid and strong, but Bismalt was an iridescent blue Brigidnese fighting fish currently staring at him from inside an enchanted capsule firmly strapped to Felix’s side and Glenn was dead.

And Felix, one of his best friends, a boy he used to go ice skating with in the depths of winter, was staring at him in horror and disgust and betrayal. And Bismalt was staring at Delcabia with the same look on his face.

“Dimitri, what the fuck was that?!”

Dimitri could only mumble in blank incomprehension. What was Felix shouting about? All the noise, the screams, it was so much. He looked down. There was a lance in his hands. The lance was soaked in blood. His hands were soaked in blood. There was blood and worse smeared on his face, spattered over his clothes. Felix had blood on him too, but nothing like Dimitri. Ah, right. The rebellion. They had gone to quell this rebellion. They had gone into battle and he had raised his lance and Delcabia had been by his side and—

“You didn’t answer my question! What the fuck was that?! What the fuck, Delcabia?!”

Dimitri still felt like he was swimming up to the surface of a very deep lake. “Delcabia?” He turned around, and there was his daemon with the same slightly glazed-over look on her face. But his eyes slid a bit further down from hers and both pairs snapped into focus as they realized just what Felix and Bismalt were screaming about.

Ever since…since Duscur…Delcabia had taken the form of bison, moose, large animals with horns and tusks and hooves, great beasts as big as daemons can get that protect their young from the lions and wolves. Delcabia was still one of those forms, a boar this time, but that wasn’t what got Dimitri’s attention.
Her tusks were dark red, dripping with blood.

She had gored people. Delcabia had gored people. His Delcabia, his beloved, wretched, vile Delcabia had gored people.

And he was so lost in bloodlust that he hadn’t even known she had done it.

“Delcabia,” Dimitri croaked, he begged, his voice suddenly hoarse, “Please, become something else. A rat, a bug, anything.”

But Delcabia simply stared at the ground. Blood dripped off her tusks in slow drops. Ghastly hands clawed their way up from the ground to snatch at her hocks, her hooves. Then Dimitri blinked and they were gone. “…I’m sorry Dimitri. I can’t.”

“No,” Dimitri begged, bile building up in the back of his throat. “No, you can’t mean that! Now? From this?!”

Delcabia simply looked past him, helpless, as the din of battle and the exhortations of vengeance from the everpresent ghosts echoed around them both. And then Dimitri and Delcabia heard a laugh from the only other living person around, high and bitter and broken.

“Of course, of fucking course! Dimitri the boar prince; I can’t think of a better shape for you!”

---

Khalid’s Study, Almyran Royal Palace, 1177 (3 years before present day)

The feast to celebrate Simurg’s settling had lasted well past midnight, and Khalid was both exhausted and mildly hungover, but he still found himself hunched over an enormous bestiary with a steaming cup of pine needle tea and a plate of baklava on one side of the tome and Simurg stretched out for inspection on the other. The book was currently opened to a sketch and description of a viper with a broad head, dark zig-zagging bands running down its full length, and a distinctive rattle on its tail. Simurg was a little darker than the image depicted in the book, but there was no doubt. She had settled as a timber rattlesnake.

“Well,” Simurg said, eventually, “At least being a wyvern rider is still an option?”

Khalid rubbed the heels of his hands against his face with a groan. It did absolutely nothing to alleviate his headache. “The problem is that you’re a viper. And as much as that’s both badass and completely appropriate in retrospect, it does mean we’ll attract unwanted attention. Well, even more unwanted attention. Point is, if we had trouble staying inconspicuous before, we’re really going to have a hard time of it now.”

“To be fair, I think that ship sailed after what you did to Assar.”

“Hey, don’t pin this on me! The bait was your idea and you’re half of me anyway. And besides, Assar had it coming. If he really wanted to be considered for that post, or really anything with any chance of advancement, then he should have thought twice before trying to blind me out of the line of succession!” That was a stupid rule anyway, saying that heirs to the Almyran throne needed to be physically perfect, whatever that meant. Did nothing but encourage infighting and left a lot of mutilated royals around. There had to be a better way.

Simurg would have shrugged, if she still had shoulders. Instead she just flicked her tail in the air and let the sound echo. She wasn’t sure if she liked this substitute yet. “I’m just saying, this is what we are. Not like I could have hidden it for much longer.”

Khalid leaned back in his chair and groaned. “I know, I kn—ow!” His last word broke off into a muffled shout as he tipped his chair back too far and crashed against the ground. Simurg simply slithered down from the desk and over the chair, onto Khalid’s legs which still dangled over the now-upturned edge of the chair. She looked down and flicked out her tongue at Khalid, who stared balefully up at her with his hair unkempt over his eyes and his arms awkwardly splayed out. He offered her an upturned middle finger in return, then proceeded to continue his thoughts while still toppled over. “It’s just that nobody’s going to underestimate us anymore. And that’s both satisfying and scary. It’ll be harder to stay ahead of our enemies now.”

“Actually…I think we can still outsmart them,” Simurg said. She slithered back to the desk as Khalid stumbled to his feet. He sat back down in the chair, made a valiant but ultimately futile attempt at smoothing down his bedhead, and took to sipping his tea and nibbling at the baklava. The tea had a slightly acidic edge to it, and the honey dripping from the baklava was just as sweet against his teeth. He chewed and motioned for Simurg to continue. “Okay, there’s no hiding that we’re a schemer now, but everyone else was figuring that out regardless of what I settled as. But they still won’t know what we’re scheming about.”

Khalid sat and chewed his baklava, smiling as he stroked the stubble on his chin that was his attempt at growing a proper Almyran beard. As Khalid was all of fourteen the attempt was more a few pathetic bits of stubble than anything else, but his daemon said nothing. Better to let him dream. Either way, the sly smile creeping across Khalid’s face was a response enough to her idea.

“We can’t hide it, but we can deflect it.”

“And then lie in wait to strike. Nobody will ever see us coming.”

“We’ll show them just what an outsider can do.”

Khalid smiled, Simurg squeezed his arm, and they both went back to reading the bestiary’s entry on timber rattlesnakes. Their lifespan, their hunting habits, their habitats.

“Native to the deciduous forests of eastern Fodlan…Hey, Simi, what do you think about visiting your formsake?”

---

Garreg Mach Monastery, 1159 (21 years before present day) - Remire Village, 1174 (6 years before present day)

Something was horribly wrong with his daughter.

Jeralt had dreamt of holding his child for months now. He had dreamt of him and his wife holding a laughing and smiling child, all three of their daemons nestled together sharing in warmth and love. But his wife was dead, and his daughter…might as well be, it seemed. After that terrible day, when Rhea walked out of that room with an unreadable expression and a small bundle in her arms…well, all Jeralt remembers of those gray days is sitting with his breathing but silent daughter in his arms, Domaghar occasionally nudging her limp daemon with her nose and begging them to move, or shift forms, or do anything at all.

Byleth was alive, at least technically. She breathed, she ate, she shat. But that was it. Even in those first few days of life she never laughed, she never cried. She barely followed his gaze. And her daemon, Belial, was a disturbingly wan and listless thing, as grayed-out as Jeralt’s world had become and so frail-looking that he was afraid they would crumble to pieces in a stiff wind.

And then he took her to a doctor in town, one not under Rhea’s direct command, and he learned that Byleth somehow had a pulse but no heartbeat—and what the everloving fuck did that mean?!—and he realized with a clawing horror that Rhea must have done something terrible to his baby girl. So that night he started a fire, put what possessions he could onto Domaghar’s back—she was a draft horse, she could easily carry him and his belongings—and took off into the night while clutching Byleth and Belial close to his own hammering heart. It wasn’t until they saw the far southern shores of the Empire that Domaghar slowed her gallop and Jeralt allowed himself to breathe, and finally focus on the near-impossible task of raising a husk of a child alone.

Byleth did improve from those early dark days, slowly. She was smart. She learned to speak, and read, and swing a sword very quickly. She and Belial both had a strange presence about them, something that made people pay attention even through their uncannily empty gaze. She had a knack for teaching others. She didn’t like seeing other people upset, and was good at listening to them. But she still never laughed, never cried. Never expressed any more emotion than the faintest smile or frown. As intelligent as she was, as quick on her feet when it came to rote learning, Byleth was creatively…sterile. She never doodled, or sung to herself, or made up stories, or even expressed the creativity to lie. And Belial almost never changed form without prompting, rarely played with Byleth or Domaghar or any other daemon. Some days they seemed more like an ordinary animal than anything else. Some days Byleth and Belial barely seemed to acknowledge each other, and even on the best days there seemed to be no limit as to how far they could stand to be away from each other. Some days, it seemed like they weren’t aware of anything at all.

Other days were better, and Jeralt soon learned that they tended to be associated with Byleth’s recurrent dreams of a great battle, or a strange young girl with green hair sleeping on a throne. He grew to yearn for the nights Byleth had those dreams, because for several days afterwards both his daughter and her daemon would be more alert and aware, would be closer to, well, normal. They would smile, explore, ask questions, be present in a way they otherwise never were. On those days their seemingly infinite range was invaluable; Belial could easily scout out enemy camps and formations and report back without being spotted. But invariably, after several days, the effects of the dreams would wear off and Byleth would sink back into her torpor.

The years passed, the dreams happened more frequently, and Jeralt and Domaghar learned to read the miniscule emotions on Byleth and Belial’s faces, but his daughter’s heart still never beat. She still never laughed. Never cried. Not even when she was twelve, came up to her father with blood-stained smallclothes, and flatly stated that she was dying. Not even afterwards, during that horribly awkward conversation that ended with Domaghar dragging Jeralt off out of sheer embarrassment and returning with one of his female mercenaries to please for the love of Sothis explain this don’t make him do it. Not even when she was sixteen and a bandit smashed her knee in with an axe, damaged the joint so badly that even with magical healing she would need a brace for the rest of her life.

It was during that time, while Byleth was convalescing in Remire Village and Belial took advantage of their seemingly-infinite range to patrol, that Jeralt took a job in a village in Alliance Territory. While there, he met a brash and excitable girl with bright orange hair who ran right up and begged him to teach her how to fight and be a mercenary.

Well, he couldn’t say no to that, and so Jeralt became an unexpected mentor to Leonie, and sort of a secondary father figure too. It was that second thought he kept turning over in his head as they crept through the undergrowth, Leonie staring at him with unadulterated hero worship while her daemon perched as a small bird between Domaghar’s ears so they could communicate quietly. Jeralt found himself yearning for that kind of relationship with Byleth, a daughter who would grin and laugh and chat about nothing, a daemon who would shift form on their own, perch on Domaghar’s back, and tell stories. And Jeralt found himself grieving, that Byleth would never be able to do any of those things.

He hated himself, a little bit, for that. Byleth was his daughter, the most important person in the world. He loved her more than anything. How could he even think of her being different than she was, of being not her? “Don’t think about it,” Doma had said. “We can’t change it. Dwelling only leads to madness.” And so he tried not to.

Jeralt returned to Remire a few months later to find Byleth fighting off bandits, because of fucking course, and arrived on the field just in time to see Belial, a wolf this time, crush the daemon of the bandit leader between their jaws. The bandit’s daemon disintegrated into golden dust, the bandit fell over dead, the survivors of the gang fled into the night, and Belial never took another form again.

Byleth had settled, and Jeralt swept his daughter into a bone-crushing hug, and everyone in both his troupe and the village cheered and congratulated the young woman and her wolf daemon. There was a feast in her honor, and Byleth gave a tiny smile that only Jeralt knew would have been an ear-splitting grin on anyone else, and Belial wagged their tail once, but that was all.

Just what had Rhea done to his daughter?

Notes:

So I am utterly stuck in Fire Emblem Three Houses Hell and have spent what little spare time I have either playing this game or gushing about this game to friends. I also am in love with Poetry's Daemorphing series, which you can read here on AO3 (how do I link? I literally just made this account). What this means is that I have spent entirely too much time the past couple of weeks figuring out what each character's daemon would be (Sylvain is actually really hard to pin down!), and then I started wondering how that would fit in with the Three Houses canon, and well here we are.

For those who don't know, daemons are sort of a manifestation of a person's soul. A daemon usually, but not always, identifies as the opposite gender to what the human identifies as. Daemons can only travel a few feet away from their people. A child's daemon can transform into any animal, but some time during puberty when the child grows up and has a more set-in-stone personality the daemon "settles" into a single shape that best exemplifies said personality. This is considered a major life change and is nearly uniformly celebrated. It is taboo for a human to touch another person's daemon or vice-versa outside of dire emergencies or the most intimate relationships; doing so is often likened to metaphysical sexual assault. Here's a wiki if you want to know more! https://hdm.fandom.com/wiki/Dæmon

I do intend to make this a series of sorts, although updates will be more sporadic (I am a veterinarian in my year-long rotating internship which means I have literally no free time) than I'd like. There will likely be relationships in the future, depending on how the story goes, and the rating may change for similar reasons. Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

For reference, here are the characters and their daemons mentioned in this chapter:
Edelgard and Avarine (female gyrfalcon)
Hubert and Thanily (female red fox)
Felix and Bismalt (male betta fish, called a Brigidian fighting fish in this world)
Dimitri and Delcabia (female boar/wild pig)
Claude and Simurg (female timber rattlesnake)
Jeralt and Domaghar, (female draft horse)
Byleth and Belial (non-binary wolf)

Chapter 2: A Good Day

Summary:

Sothis wakes up, our three lords find an unexpected ally, and Byleth has one of her best days in a long time.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the kudos, everyone! I'm sorry for how long it took to do this chapter, but multiple 15+ hour workdays don't leave much time for fun. I think if I split it up into smaller chunks it'll be easier to handle. I hope you're all doing well.

Please let me know what you think of the story! It’s been quite some time since I worked on an extensive creating writing project like this. Most of my non-conversational writing has been limited to bullet-point campaign notes, and work-related stuff.

Remire Village, 1180 (present day)

Even before Belial padded over and nosed her hand Byleth knew it was going to be one of the Good Days. Might even be one of the Best Days, actually; for the first time she could remember the green-haired girl with the ethereal garb in her dreams had spoken. Had asked for her name.

Belial’s cold nose against the warm skin of her palm shook her out of her drifting reverie. “I think Dad’s been calling you for a while,” they said, cool and level. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”

Her dad was just outside, talking to Domaghar as he adjusted the armor on her flanks and legs. His senses were keen, honed by years of battle, and he turned around before she and Belial had even entered the room. His gaze flitted down to Belial, how they were walking alongside Byleth instead of meandering around like some disinterested half-tame animal, and his face broke into an easy smile. Was that relief on his face? She’d been alive for however many years and still couldn’t really tell.

“Byleth! One of the Good Days then? Which dream was it this time, the girl or the battle?” There was always a weight to those words, a certain emphasis that Byleth herself had picked up over time without thinking. Byleth dreamt of the girl, and so this was a Good Day. It certainly felt like a discrete Day in her mind, an individual day to be noticed and interacted with alongside Belial instead of a hazy blur that drifted by. That’s probably what her dad meant by a Good Day, although whenever she asked why she was the only one who seemed to have Good Days and Bad Days he’d just change the subject.

“And Doma isn’t talking either. I’ve tried,” Belial muttered.

Byleth shook her head and tried to focus on their upcoming mission. But then one of the greener mercenaries ran into the room shouting something about a bunch of teenagers under attack and their plans changed very quickly.

 

---

 

Edelgard and Avarine. Dimitri and Delcabia. Claude and Simurg. Byleth repeated those names like a mantra with every footstep, every swing of her blade. This was one of the Good Days she would be capable of remembering, and so she tried to lock down every detail she could in her head. And Belial was doing the same, even as they viciously shook a jackrabbit clenched in their jaws. The jackrabbit dissolved in a shower of golden dust and her human, a bandit, crumpled to the ground.

Edelgard was a short woman with white hair and ramrod-straight posture, seriousness and discipline drilled into her. She had thick leather shoulder pauldrons on which Avarine perched. Avarine was an enormous white falcon, with dark gray feathers speckled throughout her body. Dimitri was a tall young man with straight blond hair and a carefully put-together demeanor. His daemon, Delcabia, was a large boar with sharp tusks and bristly-looking fur. Where Dimitri was quiet and polite, Delcabia would snort and dig at the ground. Claude was a young man with brown skin, tousled dark curls, and a roguish smile. Which is what made Simurg, the rattlesnake coiled around his upper arm, slightly disconcerting. They had been chased by bandits and stumbled upon her father’s mercenary band. They needed help, and so Byleth and her father took the job. Something about their uniforms made Domaghar pin back her ears and snort in agitation.

Avarine cried out a warning in time for Edelgard to whip around and bury her axe in the onrushing bandit’s guts. Delcabia had pinned another bandit’s daemon to the ground. She stomped on the bobcat’s chest, forced her human to his knees with a pained gasp, an easy target for Dimitri to run through with his battered lance. Claude and Simurg darted through thick undergrowth as one. They would spring up to launch an arrow at an attacker’s throat, then duck back down to move on to the next target. Her father rode on ahead atop Domaghar’s back. Bandits would instinctively shrink back to avoid accidentally touching the horse daemon—the greatest of taboos, even in the thick of combat—only to find themselves the victim of Jeralt’s lance. It was combat, after all. You did what you must to survive.

Byleth, for her part, cut down enemies left and right with her sword. Even on the Good Days she rarely spoke during combat; it was Belial who would bark out orders which Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude would thankfully scramble to obey. They knew Remire, knew just where bandits would be hiding, where the best places to strike would be.

It wasn’t much of a fight. By mid-morning, the fight was mostly over. Claude shot an arrow into the bandit leader (she heard his name shouted above the din, Kostas or something like that), staggering him long enough for Edelgard to lay him out flat with her axe. Claude clutched Simurg to his chest as he lowered his bow and allowed himself a small sigh of relief, Byleth turned around to check on Dimi—

“DIE!!!”

She whipped around in time to see Kostas spring to his feet and charge right at Edelgard. The young woman’s eyes widened, she reached for her dagger. Too slow, she wouldn’t be able to defend herself in time. All these things came to Byleth at once; without even thinking about it she lept in front of Edelgard, blocked the young lady’s body with her own.

A wet tearing sound. The crack of bone. Pain like nothing else blooming through her. All sensation below the pain immediately fuzzing out to a horrible heavy blankness. Somewhere, screams. Then the world froze, and was gone.

 

---

 

“Honestly, what is wrong with you?! Just what did you think you were accomplishing with that little stunt? Are you trying to get us killed, or are you just that stupid?!”

Hearing returned first, then sight. She was in the cold green room from her dreams. The girl on the throne was there. She was standing this time, and looked very angry.

She groaned in exasperation. “I didn’t think I’d have to teach you the value of our lives, but here we are. I guess I’ll have to guide you and help you protect it from now on. I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Sothis. Though I think I was also called The Beginning, once. Oh, I wish I could remember when, or at least where...”

“...” Byleth simply stared at Sothis (and that name felt…familiar. But where? It definitely wasn’t the name of any human or daemon she had ever met before), her mouth gaping open like a fish. She had absolutely no idea how to respond in this situation. It seemed like Belial didn’t either. Belial was...sitting on the dais next to Sothis’s throne. They didn’t say anything, but they were just looking, expectantly.

Sothis reached over and scratched Belial behind their ears.

Byleth did gasp then, at the sheer...she didn’t even know what. Even in this place outside time and space it should have been an obscenity unlike any other, the kind of violation that even on her worst days should leave her forced to her knees, clawing at her skin in an attempt to tear away the utter wrongness of it. But Sothis petting Belial, scratching their ears, their chin, the thicker fur at the angle of their mandible, felt—fine. Not too different from when she herself would touch Belial, on the Good Days. Belial was even wagging their tail.  And Sothis seemed completely unaware of the magnitude of what she was doing.

“Do not fret,” she continued, still petting Belial. The wolf’s tail thumped against the stone floor.  “I stopped the hands of time. For now, at least you live.”

Byleth blinked again, still dumbfounded. She should probably say something, shouldn’t she? “Uh...thanks,”

“Really? I save your life and that’s all I get? ‘Uh...thanks’?! Well, I suppose it is temporary. I can only stop time’s hands for some long after all; once they move again the bandit’s axe will tear through your back, and that will be the end of us.”

Well that wasn’t helpful at all. Although... “If you stopped time, can you reverse it?”

Sothis’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “You’re right, of course I can! Oh why did I not realize that sooner? But no matter.” She stepped back and began chanting in a tongue that was both unknown and strangely familiar. A sigil appeared in the air before the girl, and its twin suddenly lit into existence beneath Byleth’s feet. Belial dashed off the dais and joined Byleth.

The world became fuzzy and indistinct again, until all Byleth could see or hear was Sothis. Her green hair, her pointed ears and teeth, the strange garb. The girl in her head was unlike any person she had ever seen. “Now go!” She commanded. “Save the girl, and find the answers we seek!”

And then she was back in the outskirts of Remire. Her body was whole. She could feel her legs. It was mid-morning, Claude was clutching Simurg to his chest as he lowered his bow and allowed himself a small sigh of relief, and in just a moment—

“DIE!!!”

Right on cue the bandit leader was charging at Edelgard. Right on cue, she turned around. And Byleth was still too far away to protect Edelgard and parry the bandit leader at the same time. What was the point of bringing her back then? To watch Edelgard die? To die herself? But Belial was faster, and they were not tethered to Byleth like every other daemon in the world would be to their human. They bolted forward, launched themselves between Edelgard and the charging bandit, and snarled, “Get BACK!”

The bandit leader—Kostas, that was his name, not that it mattered—instinctively stumbled back at the sight of the wolf daemon that suddenly appeared to guard the white-haired woman. Edelgard stepped back as well, drawing her dagger in the same movement. That was all the time that Byleth needed to catch up and draw her blade into a fighting stance.

“What the—how did you get over there?” He staggered back, barely ducked under Byleth’s slash, and then turned to flee. “Demon! I’ll remember this!” He and his hornet daemon took off into the woods, and were gone. Silence fell over the village outskirts, accentuated by the occasional pant for breath. The ground was damp from half-melted snow, stained pink with blood. But the battle was over; Jeralt, Dimitri, and Claude picked themselves up and converged on the two young women standing under the shadow of the watchtower.

“Thank you,” Edelgard said. There was a faint flush to her cheeks. Maybe embarrassment at having been caught off guard? Byleth wasn’t sure. There was one odd thing though. Edelgard was thanking her, giving gratitude, but Avarine was quiet. She didn’t say anything, just stared at Byleth and Belial like they were some new calculation, or prey.

And then Byleth remembered. Belial had raced ahead of her to rescue Edelgard, far outside of any daemon’s range. And Edelgard had seen it all.

 

---

 

She’d never seen her father so tense or nervous before. Normally after even the most dire of fights, Jeralt could be found slapping his men on the back, teasing or congratulating her, chatting with anybody who approached him, getting rip-roaring drunk in the nearest tavern while Domaghar tried to wedge herself in places that were entirely too small for a horse daemon. But here and now? Her father’s fist was tightly clenched in Domaghar’s mane. Domaghar herself was stiff, her tail lashing back and forth, her ears pinned back. She looked like she was picking her way across some narrow cliff face, not a gently sloped trail through the low mountains of central Fodlan. Jeralt wasn’t even paying more than cursory attention to the nearly-endless stream of chatter from Alois, who somehow managed to possess an ability to hold an entirely different conversation from whatever Erikaf was chatting about while still maintaining focus on both topics. Erikaf herself was also completely oblivious; the otter was perched between Domaghar’s ears and yet somehow completely failed to notice both their tense position and the fact that she wasn’t listening to anything the other daemon was saying.

It had all happened so quickly that Byleth hadn’t registered what had happened until they were already on the road. Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude had approached to thank Byleth and her father, Jeralt was about to take the money and leave with uncharacteristic abruptness, Edelgard had opened her mouth to say something about her identity, and then a large boisterous man in silver armor with an equally loud otter daemon had burst onto the scene with a small battalion in tow while shouting something about the Knights of Serios. Turned out that Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude were not only the heirs to their respective nations, which meant that Byleth and her dad had rescued two princes and a princess, but they were also students at a military academy called Garreg Mach, they were doing a training exercise here when they had been ambushed, things had gone completely sideways, and apparently the silver armored man—Alois—knew her father from somewhere? From long before she had been born? Alois seemed to remember Jeralt fondly, but it didn’t seem like her father felt the same way; at least, not from the way he and Doma went completely stiff and then tried to leave with her. Alois then tried to get Jeralt to rejoin(?) the Knights of Seiros, which her father really didn’t like the idea of, but the loud man just wouldn’t take no for an answer. So now here they were, with Alois, Edelgard, Dimitri, Claude, and a battalion of silver-clad infantry.

Oh, and the girl from Byleth’s dreams was now apparently awake and talking to her. Her voice seemed to come from Belial’s general direction, but not from them, and Sothis herself was never anywhere to be seen. This…worried Byleth. Wasn’t hearing voices from someone who wasn’t there a sign of madness?

“Are you kidding me? I AM here! Or did you just pull the ability to reverse time out of the aether?”

For all her power, Sothis sounded…young. Emotional, in a way both Byleth and Belial were wholly unfamiliar with. But she did have power, and she was with them now, in a way that she had not been before. Best just to go with it, at least for now.

“Hang on,” said Belial, “If Sothis is awake now, does that mean that we’ll have more Good Days? I hope we do. It’s much better this way, knowing what’s going on, being close to you. And the Good Days aren’t cold like the other days are.”

Byleth looked down at Belial, gave the wolf a quick scratch behind their ears. She hoped the Good Days would continue in the Garreg Mach place, especially if it made her father so worried and had people like the three nobles they had rescued.

“They really are fascinating people,” Sothis mused from somewhere behind her eyes. Or maybe Belial’s; it was hard to tell. They were the same being in the end, Byleth supposed. At least, that’s what she was always told about humans and their daemons. “Tell me, what do you think about them?”

They seemed like very lively people. They had been chatting amiably with each other, with Alois, with Jeralt, with her this entire trip. They had been teasing, competing, each bragging about themselves and their exploits and their nations, almost like they were trying to recruit her.

Dimitri seemed very open, honest, and friendly, what many people would call a “proper gentleman.” He seemed to embody the concept of chivalry that even Byleth knew his nation valued above nearly everything else. He’d talked amiably with her for quite some time, didn’t seem to mind when she fell silent and simply listened. And yet Byleth had never seen a daemon look or act quite like his, scratching at her hocks, occasionally biting at her flanks. When she thought nobody was watching, Delcabia looked haunted.

Claude would not stop talking. He chatted about everything and flirted with everyone. He teased, laughed, joked with an easy smile. Almost too practiced in its ease, actually, Byleth began to suspect by the third day.

“And Simurg doesn’t join in his banter with the others at all,” Sothis added.

All three of them were talking, asking questions, wanting to know more about Byleth and it was too much. Too much, too fast. They wanted her to talk and ask questions and interact in a way she didn’t know how to do. So first she trailed off and listened to their conversation, and then she hung back entirely. Belial slunk along beside her. They didn’t talk; they seemed to be off in their own world.

Which is why Byleth startled when she heard Edelgard’s voice soft in her ear. “It’s a lot at once, isn’t it?”

Byleth didn’t jump; she didn’t—couldn’t, for whatever reason—emote enough to express that. But her shoulders did stiffen slightly. “What’s a lot at once?”

“Those two,” Edelgard said, pointing at Dimitri and Claude, who were currently extolling the virtues of their nations’ respective traditional fighting styles. Loudly. “If you need a moment to catch your breath, I understand.”

“Thanks.” Her gaze slid past Edelgard’s face to the falcon perched on her shoulder. Avarine opened her beak to say something, then closed it again. “What?”

“…It’s nothing.”

And that was Edelgard. She was without a doubt polite and regal, calm and poised, charming and charismatic. There was something compelling about her. But she was reserved, reticent. And no matter how charming Edelgard was, Avarine always seemed to be evaluating and calculating someone, something, everything.

They marched for some more time up those steady slopes. The air became colder. Fresh snow blanketed the earth and trees. The trees themselves changed from deciduous trees bare and naked to the mid-winter air to pointed conifers with dark green needles coated with snow. Off in the distance, nestled in the peaks, was a large fortress-like stone structure. Garreg Mach Monastery.

“Byleth,” Domaghar said as they marched, the first time she or her father had spoken to her directly in days. “Come over here.” The horse daemon waited for Byleth and Belial to approach before bending her head down to continue. “Listen to me very closely,” she whispered into Byleth’s ear. Jeralt looked straight ahead at the monastery. His face was impassive, but his eyes flicked downwards to his daughter’s blank expression. “You’re about to enter the lion’s den. Kid, you may not be a lion, but you are a wolf. Take care of these brats. Find your pack. Keep your head down. Because sooner or later they’re going to roar, and when they do you better be ready to howl back.”

What was it about Garreg Mach that scared her father so badly? Byleth wished she knew, but he wasn’t talking. She wasn’t sure if she’d understand anyway. But for his sake, and apparently hers, she needed to try. “I will.”

“Good. I’m proud of you, kid.” Domaghar lowered her head to nuzzle Belial’s, and the wolf nuzzled her back.

They continued to walk up that mountain road as Garreg Mach came larger and larger into their view. What was inside those walls, Byleth figured she’d soon find out.

Notes:

I know this is paralleling canon for now, but the butterflies are starting to flap. Did anyone catch any?

Next time we meet everyone and Byleth chooses a house! What do you think everyone's daemons are, and why? What are your thoughts on everyone's daemon so far? Please let me know what you think of things!

Also, those of you familiar with daemons might be able to guess just what Rhea did to Byleth...

New humans and daemons introduced in this chapter (this will be much, much longer next chapter):
Alois and Erikaf (female river otter)

Chapter 3: Branching Paths

Summary:

Jeralt voices his fears. Claude roasts his classmates. Byleth meets far too many students, and has to make a choice.

Notes:

I couldn't sleep last night so I ended up working on this chapter (work is going to be so much fun today). It's hard introducing over 20 characters at once! But don't worry, you'll see and hear more of everyone!

Check the updated tags, by the way.

Thank you so much for the comments! Comments are food and I love hearing your thoughts, so please let me know what you think!

“I wish this was some kind of mistake, some drunken fever dream, something other than what’s actually happening. Why in the world would Rhea make Byleth a professor?! I figured she’d be made a Knight next to me, or awarded a position as a guard, heck even a janitor! But nope! Apparently, Alois went and recommended that she teach these royal brats based on how she directed them in that skirmish, and I swear to the goddess I’m gonna strangle that fool the next time I see him.

“But Alois has always run his mouth like that; I wasn’t expecting Rhea to actually go along with it! I mean, she’s just a kid, she’s barely older than those brats! I’ve done my best to teach her, and she’s a quick study, but Byleth’s never seen the inside of a classroom in her life. Her education’s consisted entirely of secondhand books, calculating payments, and trying to kill and not get killed in various ways! I…I should have done a better job. I did my best, and for years she and Belial were…” He broke off with a shudder and changed the subject, “But I should have done more…” Jeralt trailed off, staring at the grass before him. It was stiff from the winter chill, covered in a rime of frost.

“Goddess, I just, I wish I knew what Rhea’s playing at. I don’t know why she’s buttering up our kid so much but it kind of creeps me out. You…you were always smarter than me. You’d be able to figure this out.” Jeralt paused to scrub the tears from his eyes. Domaghar let out a soft pained whinny and scuffed at the frozen ground. “I guess that’s the one good thing about being back here. I get to talk to you again.”

There was no answer. Not that Jeralt was expecting one from a grave. He pressed his fingers against the granite, worn and pitted by the years. The grave hadn’t been maintained well, and that twisted hot and painful in his guts. Even his wife’s name had been largely worn away to illegibility, although the engraved image of her daemon was still visible. Jeralt traced his fingers along the depiction of her daemon’s horns, remembering how they felt in life, and failed to hold back his tears. Domaghar rested her head against Jeralt’s shoulder and they stayed there for some time, overwhelmed by it all.

“…The only one against this idea was that Seteth guy,” Domaghar said, breaking her silence since they arrived at the grave. “I wish he had been at the monastery when Byleth was born. He’s the only one around here with any sense.” The green-haired man with the neatly-trimmed chinstrap beard had been the only one to openly object Byleth’s new position, the only one to bring up her youth, her lack of experience, all the reasons she was unqualified to teach nobility. Seteth’s bearded dragon daemon hadn’t even said anything; she had simply clung to his robes and stared at Rhea’s mantis daemon kept safely inside an enchanted capsule like she wanted to eat him and silence his human’s stupidity. But Rhea had worn him down too, eventually. “Something is definitely going on here, and I wish we had the words to describe it.”

“But we don’t. So we’ll just have to keep our eyes out.”

“As much as we’re able.”

“I hope Byleth can make friends and allies here. She’ll need as many as they can get.”

Domaghar let out a long snort of a sigh while Jeralt closed his eyes and rested his hand on his wife’s grave once more. “I don’t know if any part of you is here and listening, but if it is, please watch over our daughter. Because…I don’t know how much I’ll be able to protect her by myself here. I’m so worried about how she’ll manage, if she’ll get used. But…I’m so proud of her, how far she’s come. I’m sure you would be too.”

---

 

Sothis also had quite a bit to say about Byleth’s sudden change in career. Since the now-ex-mercenary seemed to be resigned to her fate, if oddly apathetic about it, she decided to make her opinions very clearly known.

“Great! We’re stuck in this gig! I don’t know why Rhea decided to make you a professor, but this is going to be a complete shitshow!”

“Well, at least you won’t actually be around to deal with the fallout,” Belial muttered. “You can just watch from the peanut gallery and laugh.”

They kept walking towards what Rhea had said were the classrooms. Not like Byleth had any idea where she and Belial were going. The monastery was enormous, with open courtyards carved up by iron fencing and tall stone towers. The walls were thick and old, old stone, the stairs worn smooth by years of footsteps upon them. Cats brave enough to stand the chilly air sunned themselves on the ramparts in the weak winter light. The place was a maze that Byleth couldn’t even begin to navigate. Garreg Mach wasn’t just a monastery, but a fortress. Byleth had gotten so lost, in fact, that by the time she actually found the classrooms the rumors had spread to essentially every single student and most of the staff and faculty.

“That’s the new professor?”

“She’s so young!”

“What was Rhea thinking?”

Byleth paid them no heed. It didn’t matter. Words like that never really affected her. Not much did. But still, she was stuck her, and was apparently going to be a professor to one of the three houses now. Might as well make the most of it. And might as well learn more about the students she would be teaching. If this was an officer’s academy, then they’d be learning how to fight.

“So maybe we should think of it sort of like how dad runs the troupe? We have to take care of them,” Belial said, finishing her thought.

“Yeah.” Belial had been doing that more, finishing her thoughts. Actually, she’d been doing that with them as well. It had been happening more and more since Sothis woke up. It was weird, but nice.

“Byleth! Is that you?” A somewhat familiar voice, a female voice of elegance and poise, shook Byleth from her thoughts. She looked up from her pacing to see Edelgard a few feet away, waving at her in the open courtyard. Behind her was a long and low stone building carved up into three rooms. Each of those rooms was decorated with banners of the Black Eagles, Blue Lions, and Golden Deer houses, respectively. Edelgard was standing closest to the room with Black Eagles banner, and…ah, yes, that must be why she was wearing a red cape. “I see you found the classrooms. This place is large; it is rather easy for newcomers to get lost.” As she approached Byleth Avarine flew down from a low branch to perch on Edelgard’s shoulder. She didn’t even flinch from the sudden added weight.

“It is. I hope I can find them again when classes start. Teachers are supposed to be there before students, right?”

Edeglard chuckled. “Yes, that is generally how it is supposed to go. I would not worry though, We are all very understanding of the, ah, unusual circumstances. Or at least, the Black Eagles house is. I can assure you that, should you choose the Black Eagles house, you will not have to worry about…issues of discipline.” She stood up straighter as she talked, Avarine shifting her stance to more accurately imitate the pose of the dual-headed eagle that was the symbol of the Adrestian Empire. But then Edelgard smiled. “Actually, you’re in luck. We just finished a seminar, so this is a good time to introduce yourself to everyone. Come, follow me.”

“…Okay.” Byleth turned to follow the Adrestian princess. Even though Edelgard was shorter, she moved with speed and purpose back to the classroom. At Sothis’s wordless prodding she asked, “Can you tell me about yourself?”

Edelgard stopped. “Oh! Well, hm, as you know, I am the princess and heir to the Adrestian throne. As such, I spend most of my time studying politics, economics, military affairs, diplomacy, that sort of thing.” She turned around to Byleth, and there was a somewhat wistful smile on her face. “Some people say that I am far too formal, uptight, and serious, but there is nothing much I can do about that. Heavy is the head that wears the crown and all.”

Avarine looked down at Belial. “You know, for the longest time I thought I was going to settle as a wolf. I think we might have more similar personalities than you know.”

“…Harris hawk felt right to me for a while,” Belial said in return.

“Wait, hold up.” Byleth stopped short and held out a hand in front of Edelgard. “Who’s that person over there?” Indeed, there was a man hidden in the shadows that the overhang created in front of the classroom doors. He was blended in quite well with the darkened stone, having found the perfect spot to…lurk, there really was no other word for it. He was tall and gaunt, with slightly greasy black hair that fell over his right eye, and was dressed nearly entirely in black. His entire aura raided severity and menace. The only splash of color to be seen was in the red fur of his fox daemon who peeked out at the two young women from behind a pillar.

Edelgard didn’t seem concerned at all by the man who was watching their every movement. In fact, she laughed. “Oh, that’s just Hubert and Thanily. Don’t mind them. Some people think of him as cold and creepy, which…okay, he is. And I think he revels in it. But you could not ask for a more loyal comrade. He has been by my side for nearly my entire life. Hubert! This is Byleth, the mercenary I told you about. Come over and introduce yourself!”

“Come on, Thanily. I know you’re curious, don’t hide it.”

Even Byleth could feel the apathy and slight tint of disdain radiating off of Hubert. Nevertheless, he detached himself from the shadows and made his way over to the two women. “Hubert von Vestra,” he said to Byleth with a slight bow that Thanily mirrored to Belial, along with her own introduction. “I heard that you saved Lady Edelgard from a most dire fate.”

“Belial jumped in front of an axe for me,” Edelgard said. “Surely that merits more of an acknowledgement, even from you.”

“But of course it does,” Hubert said with a smirk. “Clearly you would make a dangerous opponent. I certainly hope you give us no reason to test that conclusion.”

“Okay, Hubert,” Edelgard cut in, rolling her eyes. “Come on Byleth, let’s introduce you to the rest of the Black Eagles.”

The classroom was tightly packed with banners, books, and several chalkboards. One appeared to have a diagram or flowchart of some sort scribbled on it; the others were recently erased. A map of the Empire lay unfurled on one table and surrounded by chairs, only two of which were currently occupied. Other people were split off and chatting with each other, or their daemons were doing the same. There was a long tank that completely encompassed one wall where aquatic daemons could swim; it was currently occupied by a clownfish and, for some reason, a red panda floating on her back. Their humans (two young men, one tall and slim with shoulder-length green hair and loose robes, the other short and stocky with short choppy sky-blue hair and a clear backpack filled with water) were chatting with each other just a few feet away.

“This is—”

“I AM FERDINAND VON AEGIR!”

“AND I AM EMBRIENNE VON AEGIR!”

A redheaded blur had materialized out of nowhere, grabbed Byleth by the hand, started shaking it vigorously, and shouted in her face. All at the same time. Less than a second later a higher-pitched voice shouted just as loudly from the same direction.

“…Yes.” That was Avarine, who simply sounded resigned. Edelgard refused to dignify Ferdinand with a response, instead opting for a sigh. “We know.”

“This must be the new professor! She does not know! I am Ferdinand von Aegir, the noblest of all nobles in the Adrestian Empire! I heard that you rescued Lady Edelgard from a pack of bandits! Your battle skills must be a sight to behold; not that I would ever need rescuing!” The man kept talking, and shouting, and being generally loud. Once Byleth had a moment to adjust she could see that the loud man was in his late teens, with neatly groomed wavy orange hair, immaculate gloves, and his honeybee daemon—Embrienne, presumably—perched on the prominent bridge of his nose. Everything about him was loud. Unlike the trembling girl next to him whose face was hidden under a mess of tangled lavender waves.

The girl raised a trembling hand. “H-hi…eep!” She cringed at Byleth’s sudden eye contact and tucked into her shirt as far as it could go.

“Come now, Bernadetta! At least say hi to our newest professor! Simply hiding in the corner will not do,” Ferdinand said, turning to her with a smile.

Embrienne chimed in with her own encouragements to Bernadetta’s daemon. “Malecki, come and say hi! It will not do to be curled up in a ball all day!”

“W-what if I like it?” said a tiny voice from somewhere around Bernadetta’s waist. Belial eyed it curiously; in fact, there was a tiny trembling ball wedged in one of her uniform pockets. “It’s not easy being around so many people all day!”

“I understand that you have difficulties socializing, but it is still your duty as a noble to—”

“Okay, fine!” A tiny hedgehog’s nose poked out from Bernadetta’s pocket. “Malecki. Can I go now, please?”

Bernadetta slipped her hand into her pocket to cradle Malecki. “I-I’m Bernadetta. Are you happy now, Ferdinand?”

“Of course I am! You are doing wonderfully introducing yourself! Of course, you need to be more confident; stand up straight! Speak with purpose!” Ferdinand and Embrienne both continued the effusive praise, completely unaware as to how Bernadetta was backing away with every step, at least until Thanily materialized out of nowhere and cleared her throat.

“Are you truly that much of a fool, Embrienne? And here I thought you were the wiser of the two, not that that accounts for much. Even I can tell that Bernadetta is terrified.”

“Uh…Ah, I see,” Embrienne settled back on Ferdinand’s nose; for his part the young man rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “My apologies, Bernadetta. I was overly enthusiastic.”

“You’ve done enough today, Bernadetta,” Edelgard cut in with a gentle voice. “You can go now.”

Bernadetta didn’t need to be told twice, and before Byleth could blink she was out the door and running back to her room.

“Oh, we’re dismissed then?” said a worn-down deep voice behind Byleth. “Goodnight then.” There was a bit of splashing as the red panda tried to leave the aquarium to accompany her departing human, while a clownfish bit at her tail to try and get her to stay. Since the red panda was much bigger, this just resulted in the clownfish being tossed out of the tank to flop on the floor. Her human, the stocky blue-haired boy, scooped her up and placed her in his backpack, then glared at the taller man.

“Linhardt, that’s rude! You should introduce yourself at least!”

“Linhardt. Runilite. Goodbye.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it! Hey, come back here!” He chased the taller man out the classroom door. Again, the two women and their daemons just watched in varying combinations of bemusement and amusement.

Edelgard sighed, again, and began to explain to the still-silent Byleth. “The taller one and the red panda are Linhardt and Runilite. He’s remarkably intelligent, but refuses to apply himself towards anything. He prefers to obsess over whatever’s piqued his interest—usually Crests—and then sleep the rest of the day away. The shorter one and the clownfish are Caspar and Peakane. Don’t ask me how, but they’re best friends.”

“And I think Caspar took all of Linhardt’s energy and enthusiasm,” Avarine added.

She should say something, shouldn’t she? This was all quite a lot. “You…certainly have quite the class,” she said. Belial was still wandering around, careful not to stray too far from Byleth’s side.

Edelgard rolled her eyes and sighed. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

Still, there was a smile on her face.

“On the contrary, I quite enjoy it,” piped up a melodious voice. It was coming from the direction of the table with the opened map. Now that Byleth looked closer, she could see that those two remaining figures were two young women. One was wearing a black cap, had pale skin and long flowing dark brown hair, and perfectly applied makeup. The other woman looked a little younger, with light brown skin. Her hair was done in an intricate braid and there was an triangular tattoo under her eye. “It’s a good reminder, that even the stuffy nobles of the Empire are just a bunch of eccentrics.”

“Eccentric? What is this word meaning…er, what does this word mean?” The woman with the tattoo spoke in a precise, formal tone, like she was carefully lining up her words before speaking. Byleth couldn’t place her accent.

“It means odd. Which many of the people here certainly are. Ah!” She turned to look at Byleth. “You must be the new professor. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Dorothea. If I look familiar, it’s because I was once a songstress at the Mittelfrank Opera Company in the capitol!”

“And I am called Petra. I am from Brigid, which is an...archipelago to the west. Please forgive any difficulties I may be having with the language of Fodlan; it is a difficult tongue to be learning.”

Opera didn’t mean anything to Byleth but Dorothea clearly took a lot of pride in it, so she nodded and said, “It’s nice to meet you. Likewise to you too, Petra. And you are perfectly understandable to me.”

Belial crouched under the table to find their daemons; a tiny greenish songbird with a golden crest called Calphour and a white snow goose with black-tipped wings named Ardior.

The class eventually emptied out, leaving only Byleth, Edelgard, and their daemons in the room. As well as Hubert and Thanily, lurking somewhere in the shadows.

“Take your time and learn about the other classes before making your choice,” Edelgard said. “But I do hope you join the Black Eagles House. You are a fascinating person, and we will help you in your new position as much as possible. And also, the Empire has need of people like you.”

---

 

Dimitri didn’t like talking about himself much, Byleth noticed. And Delcabia didn’t want to look Belial in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m not really that interesting to talk about.” He scratched his shoulder. Dimitri seemed to fidget a lot, actually. “But my classmates are all kind and wonderful people. Well, mostly. Felix can be…rude, and Sylvain is a bit of a, well, a skirt chaser. But we’re working on that! Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain are still in the classroom. I think everyone else is in the kitchen. They’re apparently wonderful cooks; I’m sure they’d be happy to share.”

Byleth nodded and entered the Blue Lions classroom where indeed two men and a woman were chatting with each other. Three animals that were presumably their daemons were just a few feet away. More specifically, a tortoiseshell cat was batting an enchanted capsule containing a bright blue fish back and forth. An alligator was curled around them, using his body as a barrier to prevent the capsule from rolling far away.

As soon as Byleth and Belial entered the room, six heads turned to look at them. The tall redhaired man approached first with a lazy smirk on his face. “Ah, you must be Byleth, the new professor. I’m Sylvain, and the cat over there is Zepida. Gotta say, I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to meet someone as lovely as—ow!” He flinched forward as if struck, but nothing actually contacted him.

However, behind Sylvain, the cat rubbed her head where the alligator had whacked her with his tail. She turned to the alligator as, behind them, the shorter black-haired man scrambled after the orb that skittered out of Zepida’s paws and was currently rolling into the corner. “What gives, Albarrog? I didn’t do anything!”

“You didn’t, but Sylvain did. I can’t exactly smack that oaf upside the head and Ingrid wasn’t close enough, so here we are.”

“Jerk.”

“You’re both jerks,” the black-haired man muttered in a theatrically loud voice while cramming the capsule back in a metal mesh pouch fixed to his belt. The blue fish inside settled into an upright position. “How about you keep a closer eye on Bismalt next time?”

“Sorry, Felix.”

“Hey, dipshit, next time instead of a sorry, why don’t you…” He stalked back and the six of them trailed off into bickering. There was a dance here, a dance that Byleth didn’t know the steps to and wasn’t sure she could ever learn. Byleth had no clue how to fit herself into their conversation, so instead she awkwardly walked away to wherever she hoped the kitchens were.

She would have gotten lost if not for Belial’s nose. “Something smells divine,” they said. “Cinnamon and ginger? There’s nutmeg and allspice and clove there too. Follow me. Mmmmm…”

The dining hall was very large, probably large enough to fit most of the class at once. The windows on one side were open to the greenhouse and pond, which made for quite a nice view when eating. Right now though it was empty except for eight figures by the kitchens themselves—four human, four animal. They were split off into two groups, and the smells of cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and clove wafted from them both. On one side, a mountain of a man, dark-skinned and silver-haired with an even larger cape buffalo daemon, fed apples into a press. The handle to crush them was made of wood and iron and looked heavy, and yet he squeezed the apples into cider with seemingly no effort at all.

“That must be Dedue,” Belial said. Nobody else could fit the brief description that Dimitri had given them.

Dedue turned around, as did the younger man beside him—a short slim teenage boy with messy gray hair, a dusting of freckles across his face, and an honest and friendly expression. His daemon turned into a rat and raced up onto his shoulder. Unsettled then.

“Are you Byleth?” At her nod Dedue continued, “It is a pleasure to meet you. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for saving Dimitri. I owe you a great debt. Our names are Dedue and Levia. If you ever need anything from us, you need only ask.”

“And I’m Ashe, and this is Fuergios! I really hope you join our house. Saving Dimitri and the others, that was so gallant of you!” the younger teenager piped in. He even sounded utterly guileless. “Oh, would you like some mulled cider? It shouldn’t be long before we’re done with this batch!”

It smelled delicious, actually. Byleth found herself hovering over the gently simmering cauldron, the cloth bag of cinnamon sticks and nutmeg and other fitting spices diffusing into the cider, and took a deep breath. It smelled of cool nights bundled up by the fire, her dad and some of the mercenaries telling stories to keep out winter’s chill.

…When did she ever think like that, instead of simply what was flat, factual, and in front of her?

“Hey Ashe!” came a high-pitched excitable voice from the other side of the kitchen. The voice came from a short girl with bright orange hair and brighter eyes, a coil of energy mirrored in the squirrel daemon skittering up and down the shelves collecting supplies. “Can you pass us the cinnamon?”

“Oh, uh, sure thing Annette. Sorry about that.” Fuergios became an owl and gripped the satchel of cinnamon in her talons. He flew over to Annette, whose squirrel daemon scampered across the countertops to meet her halfway. She raced back to drop the cinnamon into a mortar, then began grinding it with a pestle.

“Now Annie, don’t forget to grind it to just the right consistency,” said a taller woman next to Annette in a serene, slightly breathy voice. She had long ash-blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulder and was loosely tied in place with a ribbon. Everything about her seemed soft and calm.

“Don’t worry, I can smell when it’s ground just right,” added her daemon. He was a large wild dog with enormous round ears, a white paintbrush of a tail, and a coat of many mottled colors.

“Aww, thanks Mercie!” Annette looked up and finally seemed to notice Byleth. “Oh, sorry! I was so busy making cookies with Mercie I didn’t even notice you. I’m Annette, and this is my best friend Mercie! Er, Mercedes, sorry, I always call her Mercie. We’ve been friends for years.”

“Ever since the magic academy,” Mercedes added with a smile. “I’m so lucky to get to spend another year with Annie.”

“Aww, then I’m just as lucky!”

Mercedes’s daemon turned to Belial. “My name is Cygnis, and Annette’s daemon is Serrin. What is your name?”

“Belial.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like to stay for a while?”

“Annie and I are making gingerbread cookies,” Mercedes added. Behind her Annette poured some of the cinnamon into the dough and mixed the rest into a separate bowl of sugar. “Ashe and Dedue are making mulled cider. Would you like to stay and try some when they’re ready?”

“Mercie makes the best sweets ever! She made me the most delicious cake when Serrin settled.” Annette clapped her hands, creating a small cloud of flour. “Ooh, Mercie, I just had a thought! Ignatz just settled, right? You should make a cake for him!”

“That’s a wonderful idea!”

Cygnis sat down and chimed in, “Although in that case we should probably include Petra too. From what I heard she settled just before arriving here a few weeks back. And she’s all the way from Brigid, right? It would definitely make her feel more welcomed here.”

“Oh Cygnis, that’s so sweet of you! Maybe we can make this a huge inter-house party!”

They kneaded the dough and rolled it out flat while slipping into comfortable friendly banter, seemingly forgetting Byleth’s presence for the moment. Byleth didn’t mind though. It was…relaxing, to sit back and take a breath. There was so much going on at once. Even Sothis was quiet and contemplative. Belial was flopped down on a relatively clean part of the stone floor. Byleth just hoped the cookies and cider were good.

---

 

The cookies and cider were amazing. The balance of spices in the cider was perfect, and it warmed her up just right on this cold spring day. As for the gingerbread cookies, they were an exquisite balance of spiced and sweet. Mercedes and Annette had even shaped them into gingerbread men, and decorated them with icing smiley faces and buttons, then dusted them with cinnamon sugar.

“They’re almost too good to eat, but they look like they taste so good. You don’t know how lucky you are, being able to taste things.”

“…It’s not really fair that you can’t,” Byleth whispered to seemingly herself.

“No it’s not, but here we are. Don’t deny yourself on my behalf!”

Byleth brought the gingerbread man to her mouth, although it really was almost too cute to eat…

“By. The. Goddess.”

She snapped her jaw shut and bit the gingerbread man’s head clean off. A young woman with short dull orange hair and a robin daemon stared at her like she was some kind of apparition, or divine image. “You’re Captain Jeralt’s daughter, aren’t you?” She stepped closer, leaning right into Byleth’s face for some kind of inspection. She then stepped back and placed her hands on her hips with a triumphant smile. “Of course you are! Which means the rumors are true, Captain Jeralt really is here! He really is here oh my gosh oh my gosh!”

…Now she was making a sound like a teakettle going off.

“Um, are you okay?”

“I’m more than okay! Even in my wildest dreams…okay, yes in my wildest dreams I wished that Captain Jeralt would be here to teach us but now it’s actually happening! I’ll never be able to pay everyone back enough for this, this is going to be the best year of my life!”

The robin flew down from her shoulder to perch on Belial’s muzzle. “You may be his daughter, but I’m his number one apprentice, so watch out—I’ll be training right alongside you!”

Claude’s voice rang out to save her as he scaled the steps from the fishing pond to the patio in front of the dining hall. “I see you’ve met Leonie and Kamen. She’s incredibly hardworking and reliable, just…intense. Sorry Leonie, but I have to borrow Teach for a bit. Need to show her around after all!”

Leonie waved them off, but there was still pure delight and the spark of rivalry in her eyes.

“Anyway,” Claude continued, “you’re probably really tired so I’ll just give you the quick rundown. The Alliance doesn’t have any stuffy kings or emperors, just a roundtable of nobles and a bunch of people trying to work together and not trying to tear each others’ throats out. Which our house mirrors quite well.”

He pointed to a young woman with bright pink pigtails who was heading to the marketplace. “That’s Hilda, and frankly some days I don’t know why she’s here. If you looked up ‘lazy’ in the dictionary…you won’t find her picture there because she never got around to submitting it. Great talker though, like damn she can chat circles around you if you’re not careful. You probably can’t see him from this distance, but Halmstadt is a butterfly. I don’t know what kind of butterfly Halmstadt is beyond ‘blue’ but he’s a freaking butterfly so of course she milks it for all it’s worth.”

“You think she’s shopping for herself, or Marianne?” Simurg asked.

“Knowing Hilda? Probably both. Oh, Marianne is another one of our classmates. She’s got light blue hair and looks tired all the time. She doesn’t really talk much; I don’t even know her daemon’s name, just that he’s an armadillo. Honestly, Teach, even if you don’t pick our house, can you help me keep an eye out for Marianne? I’m a bit worried about her.”

Simurg stared Belial down when Claude said that. He was probably being completely honest, she realized.

Claude clapped his hands, and then the smile was back on for the world to see. “Anyway! See that guy with the worst haircut I’ve ever seen in my entire life?” He pointed to a tall man with a long face and a haircut that was, indeed, terrible. He was wearing a rose, for some reason, and was walking into the greenhouse alongside his deer daemon. Presumably to get more roses. “That’s Lorenz and Vincatel. Lorenz is, how do I put it,”

“The very definition of an upper class twit and Vincatel is no better.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Simi. Speaking of Vincatel, you know what, I lied about Hilda and Halmstadt. Lorenz milks his daemon’s form for all it’s worth. As if nobody in the Alliance has ever had a deer daemon before in its centuries-long history. Honestly, I’m just surprised he hasn’t gone and made fake antlers for her yet!”

Byleth’s face was stony and impassive, but Sothis was already snorting. “I like this guy. Can we keep him?”

They were by the fishing pond now, which appeared quiet and calm. There was a thin sheen of ice covering the water. Claude didn’t skip a beat but whipped around to point at another person, a small girl with white hair who was carrying a stack of books almost as tall as she was. The stack of books teetered dangerously, but just as it was about to topple her daemon shifted forms from ferret to bear and took on some of the load. “Typical Lysithea,” Claude remarked. “She’s one of the most focused students and powerful mages that I’ve ever seen. She also hates being treated like a child. As for me, I do that all the time. Gotta make your own fun around this place, you know? And honestly, if she really wanted to be an adult then she should just go and settle already!”

“I heard that! Fuck you!”

“I would, but I don’t want to go to jail!”

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Now what kind of impression do you want me to leave on poor old Teach?”

“AAGGHH!” She and her daemon stormed into the room. The door slammed behind them.

Sothis was howling in her head, but Byleth just watched the scene with a blank expression. “Seriously? Not even a chuckle?” Claude shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, tough crowd.”

They continued to the other side of the fishing pond, where two young men were sitting, their dog daemons—one a spaniel, the other a retriever—playing with each other. One man was short and slim, with light green hair and glasses. The other one looked like he was carved from granite. His hair fell in messy blond curls and his shirt looked like it was about to tear itself to pieces under the strain of his muscles.

“That’s Ignatz and Mistella, and Raphael and Oakley,” Claude explained. “They’re both from merchant families that have done a lot of business in Riegan territory. Raphael’s parents were killed in a monster attack a couple years back, but he hasn’t let it get him down. He’s actually an incredibly resilient guy. Ignatz is a bit more sensitive, okay a lot more sensitive, but he’s a good guy too.” Claude lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t tell Iggy this, but since Mistella just settled, we’re planning on throwing a huge party for them both. You’re going to make it, right?”

“Of course.” Her response was automatic.

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know.” He was still smiling. “And I think that’s everyone. I’m sure your head is swimming right now, but take some time and think about it.” He winked. Simurg flicked out her tongue. “Because, you? Me? Golden Deer? We could be great together.”

---

 

Byleth’s head was still swimming. Belial laid down on the floor and whined. She was never good at talking to people, and to meet so many at once? Her head was swimming. She barely even noticed the two other professors. Hanneman and Manuela? Were those their names?

“What do you think of our crop of students? Rhea asked. “They are all fine young people, are they not?”

And then to have to make a choice among the three classes?

Byleth hadn’t made many choices in her life, not outside of combat. But this, deciding which house to teach, taking on that much responsibility, all these choices…

Belial made a whining noise that sounded almost like a cry for help. In their heads, Sothis made a disapproving noise. “I’m just in the peanut gallery. I can offer advice if you really need it, but I’m not going to make this decision for you.”

That…meant a lot, for some reason. She didn’t really know how to express it, or even understand it, so Byleth packed the thought and associated emotion away for the time being. She must have sunk onto a bench because when she looked up, Rhea was sitting beside her. She was the very picture of serenity and grace with her perfectly coiffed mint-green hair, her robes, her crown thing, her praying mantis daemon in the capsule by her side.

“I know we are asking a lot of you,” Rhea said, her voice still calm and level. “You showed great courage back there in Remire. We need people like you, Byleth. I need people like you. No matter which house you choose, you will be a wonderful teacher and guide to our students.”

Rhea was so nice to her, so patient. And seemed to think very highly of her for some reason. She couldn’t let her down.

Byleth looked down at Belial, who whined but did get to their feet. They didn’t ask for this, but this was their life now. They needed to take care of these students. “Can…do we have to be only with this one house.”

“Of course not,” Rhea said. “You will be spending most of your time with your house, yes, but there will be plenty of time to interact with other students on days off, seminars, and the like.”

Okay, okay that was better. Now to actually…make a choice.

The Black Eagle house seemed to be disciplined, if chaotic to some extent like the rest, but Byleth still couldn’t get Avarine’s evaluating gaze out of her head. And yet there was an odd…resonance between her and the future emperor. The Blue Lions were sweet and kind, but they were already in such tightly-knit friend groups. Byleth wasn’t sure how or if she could penetrate them. Not to mention that something about her interactions with Dimitri felt like walking on cracked glass. Claude and the Golden Deer were so…vivacious, so full of energy. It was nice, but…at the same time, it made her feel like something important was taken from her. She didn’t know if she could be around that feeling every day.

And what if she slipped back into her bad days, where she wasn’t aware of anything? Dad wouldn’t be able to help her, she’d be the one in charge. If she slipped back into that haze, who would take care of her students?

Byleth sat and stared at her hands, paralyzed in indecision. Which is why she didn’t hear what Belial said until they repeated it.

“The Black Eagles.”

Notes:

So...yeah, you can probably see where this is going. Although, looking at my notes, the plot is seriously going to go off the rails as time goes on. As an aside, when I say slow burn, I mean it. Don't worry! Even though Byleth chose the Black Eagles house, we're going to see a lot from the other students and other houses! It's only chapter 3 after all.

Just so you know, a big part of the reason things trailed off as the introductions went on is that Byleth was getting overwhelmed and sort of tuning out.

Anyway, on to the daemon listings! Let me know if your curious about my thought process or reasoning; I'm always happy to share!

Rhea and ??? (praying mantis)
Seteth and ??? (bearded dragon)
Ferdinand and Embrienne (female honeybee)
Bernadetta and Malecki (male hedgehog)
Linhardt and Runilite (female red panda)
Caspar and Peakane (female clownfish)
Dorothea and Calphour (male goldcrest)
Petra and Ardior (male snow goose)
Sylvain and Zepida (female tortoiseshell cat)
Ingrid and Albarrog (male alligator)
Dedue and Levia (female cape buffalo)
Ashe and Fuergios (female, unsettled)
Annette and Serrin (female gray squirrel)
Mercedes and Cygnis (male African painted dog/African wild dog, called a painted wolf in this setting even though it isn't a wolf)
Leonie and Kamen (male robin)
Hilda and Halmstadt (male blue morpho butterfly)
Marianne and Penumbrior (male armadillo)
Lorenz and Vincatel (female red deer)
Lysithea and Zilbariel (male, unsettled)
Ignatz and Mistella (female spaniel-type dog; Fodlan doesn't have the same breeds as Earth)
Raphael and Oakley (female retriever-type dog; Fodlan doesn't have the same breeds as Earth)

As always, thank you so much for reading and I would love to hear your thoughts, comments, or anything!

Chapter 4: Facing The Mirror

Summary:

Painful realizations and a battle ensue. At least the food is good.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the kind words and comments, everyone! I read and love everything you all write and I hope to continue to provide entertainment.

Just to quickly talk shop: Residency applications opened up today, so unfortunately those need to take top priority. Updates will slow down slightly; expect them every 7-10 days or so. I hope you all continue to read and enjoy!

“That was stupid. That was really, really stupid. That was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Avarine, please don’t ever let me do something that stupid ever again.”

Avarine’s talons curved around the mahogany perch, digging into worn but still fine leather. It was a special piece that Edelgard had brought from the palace instead of using the monastery-supplied perches for avian daemons.  Right now the perch was set before Edelgard’s bed, where she sat on the edge with her head buried in her hands. The gyrfalcon’s gaze was even sterner than usual. “Edelgard, if you want me to stop you from doing something stupid, then you’re going to have to listen to my advice first. What part of that manufactured attack was a good idea?”

Edelgard’s voice came out muffled through her hands and hair trapped between her fingers. “It wasn’t like I wanted them dead! I just wanted the church to look stupid, make them look incompetent and incapable of taking care of their students. Because maybe then people would look closer beyond the façade of the church.”

“Uh-huh.” Damnable Avarine, she wasn’t letting up. Her gaze pierced right through Edelgard.

“Okay, yes if the bandits had…killed Dimitri and Claude then their nations would have been even more destabilized and ugh yes the next steps would have been easier but there would have been even more fighting and more people would have died and then Dimitri and Claude would have been dead because of me and ugh Ava I am such an idiot.” Edelgard couldn’t even bear to look Avarine in the eye. Such a damnably stupid idea, how did she ever get talked into doing it? No, the fault was hers. She was the future and hope of Adrestia; she needed to take responsibility for all of her actions, even the utterly idiotic ones. And then on top of everything else, she could have gotten herself killed too. And if she died, then…there were too many people who needed her. Too much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it. And Dimitri and Claude…

“I’m glad they’re okay. I didn’t actually want them dead. Even if it makes things harder in the future, I’m glad Dimitri and Claude are alive and okay.”

“…Me too, Ava.”

Avarine hopped off her perch into Edelgard’s lap, taking care not to dig her talons into her tights. She roused her feathers and settled into Edelgard’s warmth. Edelgard traced the sleek feathers of her back, the soft fluff underneath, and the broken world felt okay again.

“Well, at least someone was there to clean up our mess this time. Speaking of that, what do you think of our new professor?”

“Professor Byleth? Hmm…” Edelgard trailed off, though she was still idly petting Avarine. “There’s something eerily compelling about her. Like a…” She waved her hand in the air, a vague gesture and a failed attempt to capture the flitting thoughts that danced through her head. “There’s theis force of personality around her, something that makes people pay attention, but I’m not sure how aware she is of it. There’s definitely something…magnetic about her. She seems really quiet, and not really sure how to talk to people though. I hope she’s as skilled in the classroom as on the battlefield.”

“She’s really quiet and distant though,” Avarine added, “And I’ve barely heard Belial speak. El, you don’t think…?”

Edelgard shook her head. “No. Don’t even bring that up, Ava. She’s…even if the Professor is quiet, there’s too much in there. She’s not…what they did to…” Edelgard couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She couldn’t even bring herself to finish the thought; there was an iron wall slammed down in her head that turned back any attempt to even wander down that path. Perhaps some day she could get through that wall, but not today.

“Sorry about that. I guess we’ll find out how she is in the classroom soon.”

“And why Rhea has such a special interest in her.”

“…That too.”

“We’re going to have to keep an eye on her.”

"Heh, as if Hubert wasn’t enough. At least she made the job as easy as possible by choosing us.”

“True. I wonder what she’s doing now?”

---

 

Byleth was currently sitting against some old crates stacked up against each other at the fishing pier. It was late winter; there was still a thin sheen of ice over much of the fishing pond and the few deciduous trees in the monastery were still completely bare, but she sat against the crates and fished anyway. There was something calming about it. No need to think, no need to make decisions, just watch the line in the water and react to its movements. And she was good at it, as the steadily increasing pile of fish in the basket next to her could attest.

Focusing on fishing was also a welcome distraction from the very put-off Sothis lecturing her inside her head.

Why did you pick the Black Eagles? Why not the Golden Deer? Claude is hilarious! If they’re going to shove you in this situation, then why not have fun while doing it?”

Herring seemed to be most common in the fishing pond this time of year. Byleth focused on the fish and tried her best to ignore Sothis’s speil. Ignoring people was easy. She did it all the time.

Belial, however, decided to engage. “Hey,” they growled to seemingly nothing, “I thought you were just going to sit in the peanut gallery.”

I was, but if you’re going to make monumental decisions like this, then you better have a reason for making them! You can’t just make choices like this on a whim!”

But it was sort of a whim, wasn’t it? There were reasons, yes, but it was also a snap moment of indecision. At least from Byleth. Belial, on the other hand…

“Grr…Look, we have no idea what we’re doing. What happens if you go back to sleep and Byleth starts having Bad Days again? We’re barely aware of what year it is on the worst of them, and now we have a bunch of noble children and the fucking princess of Adrestia to take care of! These students depend on us and we need someone to pick up the slack if the Bad Days start coming back and Byleth can’t do it. The Black Eagles seemed like the most cohesive of the three without any of that weird shattered-glass feeling that I got with Dimitri. Something about Edelgard makes me trust her the most with helping out on the Bad Days. Happy?”

Byleth couldn’t see Sothis, but she knew that somewhere beyond seeing the girl in her head had thrown up her hands in vindication. “Yes! That’s a reason for the choice you made! There’s the emotion I was looking for!”

The fishing line lay forgotten in the pond. Byleth was so focused on the conversation that she didn’t even notice someone else sitting down until they spoke.

“Ah, hello there. You must be our newest professor, Byleth. It is a pleasure to meet you!”

Byleth stiffened and turned around to see a girl who appeared to be in her early teens staring back at her with an earnest and open expression. Her hair was green, just a little bit lighter in shade than Sothis’s, and framed each side of her face in long thick ringlets. She looked a little bit like Seteth. “…Uh, hi.”

She laughed, a light airy chuckle. “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Flayn, and I am Seteth’s younger sister. Therefore, although I am not a student, I do live here and you may see me around the monastery grounds quite often. I actually came here to fish,” and indeed, there was an old and well-loved fishing rod in her hands, “and was quite surprised to find someone else here, especially this time of year. I presume you also enjoy fishing?”

"I do. I find it soothing.”

“Ah yes, there is something so relaxing about sitting down and watching the line bob up and down in the waves! Not to mention the delicious results. Do you mind if I fish here with you?”

“Of course not.” Belial scooted over, pressing themselves against Byleth. She did not seem to notice, but kept fishing. Flayn made no mention of this but simply cast her line out in the water as far is it could go with a satisfying plunk. She then settled in, leaning against a few baskets. Just her. There was an empty capsule hanging around her neck, but…

“Where’s your daemon?” asked Belial.

“Oh! Ah, he is currently swimming in the pond! Do not worry, he has not settled yet so he will be back in here—” she tapped at the capsule over her heart, “—once I leave. Oh I do hope he settles as a fish; then he could enjoy the water just as much as I do.” She gazed out fondly at the pond.

As active, talkative, and cheerful as Flayn was, she entered a state of intense quiet and concentration when fishing. It was nice, having someone nearby while not being obligated to talk to them or keep up a conversation that she could not maintain for long. Instead they fished, and watched the clouds reflect in the water, and occasionally spoke.

“I would like to apologize for my brother’s behavior,” Flayn said after an unknown period of time. Byleth’s connection to the passing of time was loose as it was, and it was so easy to lose track while fishing. “Seteth can be…overprotective. He cares deeply about me, and all of the students here, and unfortunately he does not always know how to channel it in a way that is not overbearing. I assure you, he means well, and only wishes for our safety in a complicated and dangerous world.” She turned to Byleth with a smile, even as she reeled in a large herring. “And I do understand his apprehension. Your situation is rather unprecedented, after all. Still, Rhea is the archbishop; she must have a good reason for her decisions! After all, you did rescue three students. And there is something soothing about you.”

“Really?” She hadn’t heard that one before. Usually it was ‘eerie’ at best, or ‘Ashen Demon,’ or ‘soulless’ at worst.  There were others too.

“Why yes! Has nobody else mentioned it? There is something soothing and…familiar about you. I apologize, I—oh!” The loud pealing of the cathedral bells interrupted Flayn’s monologue. Indeed, the night sky had taken on a rosy golden hue, and the moon was faintly visible. Where had the day gone?

Flayn stood and quickly gathered her things, doubling back to quickly scoop her capsule into the pond, presumably to catch her daemon, and jam it under her dress to rest against her heart. “My apologies, I must be going. You should get some rest yourself; the mock battle is tomorrow! I hope we can spend time fishing together again. It was a pleasure to meet you, Byleth and Belial.”

And then she ran up the stairs and was gone.

You know,” Sothis said, “She seems so young and naïve, and yet simultaneously so wise beyond her years. I hope we can talk to Flayn again.”

Byleth hoped so too.

---

 

The morning of the mock battle was clear and cold. The slight damp in the air hinted at snow later, but for now the clouds kept themselves to the edges of the horizon. Byleth and her students were loosely assembled, along with the rest of the students, as Jeralt laid down the rules for the mock battle, saddled up on Domaghar as she walked up and down the attempt at an assembled line.

“We’ve got healers lined up on the sidelines; wave us down if you’ve got anything worse than a busted nose. You see the paint on your weapons? When somebody’s got what would be a fatal blow, they’re out. I don’t want anybody to get ganged up on while they’re down. And I can’t believe I have to say this, but if anybody so much as lays a finger on anyone else’s daemon, you’ll both be pulled from the battle and the Knights will launch an official investigation. If the contact is determined to be deliberate, you’ll be expelled so fast your head will spin.”

“D-did someone actually do that?” Malecki whimpered from inside Bernadetta’s pocket.

“Once, several years ago, I believe,” Embrienne replied from inside Ferdinand’s capsule. She liked to be outside of it, but not here, not now. Even if it was only a mock battle, there was just too much risk for a little honeybee. “I heard that afterwards the offender was stripped of his title, even though he bore a minor Crest. As it should be! To commit such a despicable act is utterly reprehensible for any human, much less one who claims himself a noble!”

Bernadetta squeaked in terror. “Eep! How could somebody do something like that? Do I need to be here can I just go back to my room?”

“Bernie, we have to be here, don’t we? Or else we’ll fail out…I, I’ll be right here, safe and in your pocket, o-okay?” Malecki’s voice came out muffled from inside Bernadetta’s tight grip. She didn’t respond, but just trembled, though at least she nodded as well.

"Do not worry, my fair Bernadetta! No harm shall come to you or Malecki as long as I am around!"

Jeralt’s voice boomed from the end of the line. “Hey, if you’re done chatting, go over to the field and get in position. Rule one: Don’t get to the battlefield late!”

Indeed, the Blue Lions and Golden Deer had already set up positions on the field. The Blue Lions were spread out around a partially-collapsed stone structure, and the Golden Deer were holed up behind some hastily-constructed fortifications near a small copse of trees. Which meant that the Black Eagles were stuck in an open area to the southeast. No sooner had they set up than the gong rang out across the field. The students all drew their training weapons and moved forward. The mock battle had begun.

“We’ll have to draw Claude and Hilda out from behind those barricades,” Belial said as Byleth stood beside them and drew her wooden sword. “I can’t see Ignatz or Lysithea but they’re probably behind those two. Even so, we should target the Deer first; Dimitri is extremely strong and Dedue is on the front lines, which means—Caspar!”

“YEEAAAHAHAHA! BRING ‘EM ON!”

“…He just charged on ahead.”

“Goddess fucking dammit.”

“Caspar, you damnable fool! Get back here!”

“…At least he’s heading towards the Deer. Come on everyone, let’s go!” Belial raced forward, and everyone else followed behind.

Caspar was already locked in combat with Raphael, the two young men grinning and laughing as they pummeled each other with training gauntlets. Oakley barked excitedly, leaping back and forth in a play bow in lieu of wrestling with Peakane. Neither of them were paying attention to anything else, so neither of them saw Lysithea drop a vortex of dark magic onto Caspar’s head. She pulled her punches—this was a mock battle, after all—but the sheer power behind her magic was more than enough to singe Raphael’s hands and knock Caspar out cold.

“Caspar’s down, Professor,” Edelgard said, her hands wrapped tight around her training axe. Avarine followed her from tree to tree. “Hubert and I will have words with him later, but what are your orders?”

Byleth’s eyes flicked back and forth across the scene before her. Her breathing settled into the calm pace of battle, the one place where she always felt awake and aware. The Blue Lions had also crashed into the deer; many of them were fighting in a wooded area that Byleth couldn’t see through. Hilda and Claude were still behind the barricades; Claude had nocked his bow and Hilda had a small crate of wooden throwing axes next to her. Lysithea was behind them, her daemon Zilbariel in the form of a wolverine, launching dark magic at anyone within range that she could see. A head-on assault was stupid; anyone who tried to get over those barricades would be picked off in moments.

But there was a copse of conifers next to those barricades…

Byleth observed, and Belial spoke. “Petra, Bernadetta, into the trees. Edelgard, Ferdinand, try to draw Hilda and Claude’s attention. Linhardt, you’re on healing duty. Hubert, Dorothea, snipe anything not wearing red that comes out of the trees.”

“Professor, why me?!”

“Ah, I believe I have understanding. Come, Bernadetta.” The Brigidian princess vanished into the trees; even her stark-white goose daemon managed to hide himself in the shadows. Bernadetta followed, reluctant and yet surprisingly capable at concealing herself in the woods.

Distracting Claude was easy. There was something Edelgard needed to say to him anyway. Not getting distracted herself would be the hard part. “Hey, Claude!” she shouted, then immediately tucked forward into a somersault. She could feel the mud clinging to her hair; multiple baths would be in order later.

Just as she thought, an arrow buried itself into the ground right where she was before rolling forward. Claude scoffed but didn’t skip a beat as he nocked another arrow. “What’s this, a missive from the princess herself?” he teased. “Come to surrender already?”

“Haha, you wish!” She didn’t dodge as well the second time; this arrow clipped her on the upper arm. Paint splashed over her uniform; there was enough force behind the blow to leave her with the dull ache of an oncoming bruise. Thankfully there was no training axe to follow up; Ferdinand was loudly and efficiently occupying Hilda’s attention. “Actually I wanted to apologize for that whole mess back in Remire.” She meant it, too.

“What for? It’s not like you had a bunch of bandits chase after us. And if I remember correctly, the big guy went after you specifically at the end!” Another arrow, this one against her wrist. Edelgard grunted in pain. The axe fell from her grasp and would have landed in the dirt if not for Avarine’s rapid reflexes.

It was, it was, it was my fault and it was so stupid and I am so sorry. Guilt that Edelgard could never, ever express twisted in her and she shouted, “I know, but I’m still sorry about the whole mess that training exercise turned out to be, you know? Anyway, I’m just glad you and Dimitri are both alive and okay!”

“Me too! This is a much better way to battle, isn’t it?”

The moment slipped past and Edelgard found herself slipping back into comfortable banter with the Golden Deer House Leader. “I’ll agree, once we win!”

“Oh-ho, you haven’t even considered losing?” Another arrow, another bruise and simulated wound to her knee. Another hit like this and she’d be forced to withdraw. “Ooh, this’ll be a bit of a shock then.”

“Claude! The trees!”

“Trees? Hilda what are you—”

Petra and Ardior burst out from the canopy, Ardior honking with every fired arrow that splashed paint onto Hilda’s chest. Bernadetta was behind her, her frame trembling and yet her fingers steady as she leveled her training bow at Claude.

Claude’s eyes narrowed. “Very clever, Byleth,” Simurg said just as paint burst over Claude’s forehead, the force of Bernadetta’s shot knocking him to the ground.

“I-I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

Claude took Bernadetta’s outstretched hand and used his other one to wipe away the paint that was trickling down his face. “I’m fine. That was a clever scheme.”

Behind them, the battlefield was filled with Hubert’s cackling as he launched spell after spell until his magic reserves were completely depleted; behind him Dorothea was doing much the same as she compensated for decreased power with increased range.

Even though Dorothea was forced to withdraw under the power of Dimitri’s lance once he managed to close into melee range, the battle didn’t last long after that.

---

 

The battle may not have lasted long after Byleth’s gambit, but the party had been going for four hours and showed no signs of letting up. Mercedes, Annette, Dedue, and Ashe had pulled out all the stops when it came to catering and cooking. Two enormous cakes of dark chocolate and raspberry cream stood side by side, one decorated in dark greens and blues reminiscent of Brigid while the other was softer, more abstract, like an impressionistic painting. The cakes were topped with sculpted and dyed marzipan shaped like a goose and spaniel, respectively. It was probably best not to think about how expensive things like that were. But a settling party was a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

Over on the other table sat a bounty of food. There was a small pyramid of pastries and strudels stuffed with things like spiced lamb, wild mushrooms, goat cheese, roasted vegetables, and more. No fewer than five roasted turkeys were carved up and served alongside mashed cranberries and some kind of slightly tangy sauce. There was an enormous cauldron of venison stew, meant to be ladled out and served in still-warm hollowed-out bread bowls. Acorn squash had been candied, roasted in maple syrup and brown sugar. The mulled cider had been spiced to perfection, and at least some of it had been spiked with brandy, if the way Manuela’s lemur daemon draped over her shoulders was any indication.

Perhaps it was post-battle adrenaline, but the atmosphere was lively and raucous. Petra and Ignatz—or rather, Ardior and Mistella—were the focus of the celebration, but everybody was chatting, flirting, dancing, and generally having a good time. Even Bernadetta had slipped in to steal some cake and offer a quick congratulations before beating a hasty retreat back to her room. Dorothea had broken into song—not one of her dramatic arias but something bouncier, more of a commoner’s jig—and a bruised-up Leonie and Raphael were both dancing to it. Petra began moving to a dance all her own, a Brigidian style that was wholly unfamiliar to everyone else. Without missing a beat, Dorothea changed the key and tempo of her song to match Petra’s movements, and Calphour opened his little beak to turn it into a duet. When Calphour flew into the air, Ardior matched him. The two birds flew around each other, Calphour dipping between Ardior’s larger outstretched wings, continuing his part of the song all the while. They spiraled up in the air, descending to circle around their humans dancing and singing side by side, finishing the song with a simultaneous bow and cheers from the surrounding students.

Petra panted in exertion, her face flushed under the scratches from the earlier battle, but she grinned as Ardior pressed his head against her leg. “I have not been dancing like that in some time! Dorothea, where did you learn to mimic the songs of Brigid?”

“Honestly, I didn’t,” Dorothea replied. Calphour perched on her outstretched finger; she carefully transferred him to her shoulder where he nestled at home in her flowing hair. “I’m classically trained, and I was a commoner before that. I saw the way you were dancing and made a guess as to the tempo of the song.”

“It was a very excellent guess! If you would like I could be showing…I could show you some more songs and dances of my home.”

“That would be wonderful, Petra!”

Ardior stretched his wings and neck in a low bow to Dorothea and Calphour. “Calphour, I would be greatly liking to dance with you again. I am most pleased that we have both been settling as birds! Although I am still not quite sure what kind of bird I have settled as.”

“Well, Brigid is a pretty warm place! I’m not surprised you’ve never seen a snow goose before.” Calphour hopped down to land by Ardior’s face. “Snow geese are tough and adaptable, and not quite as obnoxious as Sreng geese are. They live in groups, they migrate, and they can live in many different places. They’re also incredibly protective of their family and other in their flocks. Ardi, snow geese may not be from Brigid, but the fact that you are one shows your resilience and pride in your home.”

Both Petra and Dorothea was silent as Calphour spoke; the Brigidian princess’s eyes shining with pride and love, new adoration for her daemon and his settled form. “Oh, Ardi…” She knelt down and embraced him, and he wrapped his wings around her in return.

On the other side of the room Ignatz stood; even if he was one of the targets of celebration he needed to step away and take some time to himself. It was…a lot, talking to so many people at once. And it was a lot, seeing Mistella’s shape carved in marzipan like it was a celebration.

He didn’t feel much like celebrating it, and Mist was still furious with him over it. Not like he hated her form! She was adorable, with her long silky coat and brown spots and floppy ears. It…it was just…

“What is it ‘just,’ Ignatz?”

“It’s just…you’re a spaniel. You’ve read all the stories with me, you know the sagas. If you’re a spaniel, then is that all I am? Slavish, passive, and nothing else?”

Mistella snarled. “Hey, that’s not just me you’re talking about!”

Ignatz wasn’t really listening; instead he slumped down slightly against the wall. “Might as well say it out loud, I didn’t really want to be here.”

“We wanted to be an artist,” Mistella murmured.

“But there’s no money in being an artist. I’m a second son, so there goes running the family business.” Ignatz slid down the wall further until he was seated against the ground, and yet Mistella still kept her distance. “My parents wanted me to be a knight, and they spent a lot of money and pulled a lot of favors to get me in here. I…I can’t let them down.” He couldn’t go against his parents’ wishes, couldn’t disobey in the face of their service and sacrifice. They needed him to serve, and so he would serve. But…wasn’t that slavish and passive in the first place?

And Mist had settled shortly after arriving here at the academy.

There had to be more than that to a spaniel daemon…right?

“Hey Ignatz!” Ashe’s bright, cheerful voice broke him out of his melancholy. He looked up from his seated position to see the teenager’s smiling face focused on him. Fuergios was at his side in the form of a collie; she greeted Mist with a play bow which the spaniel daemon half-heartedly returned. “I wanted to congratulate you on settling! Mistella is absolutely adorable! Man, I am so jealous.”

“Jealous? How come?”

Ashe waved his hands around as he spoke, unable to contain his enthusiasm or excitement. “You’re at the officer’s academy, and Mist is a dog! All of the most faithful knights in the stories have dog daemons; lord Fraldalius’s daemon is a dog, and there are tons of other amazing knights with dog daemons too! To have discovered that you have the nature of a loyal and faithful knight right after stepping foot in the academy, oh it’s like something out of the chivalric legends! Ignatz, this must mean you’re destined to be an amazing knight!”

“I wish I had settled when entering the academy,” Fuergios added. “I just hope I stay a dog when the time comes.”

Ashe meant well, but…that didn’t help at all. Did the opposite of help, actually. “…Thanks, Ashe. I…think I’m going to go to bed. I took a bit more of a beating than I expected in the mock battle and I think it’s catching up to me.”

“Oh…okay. Take some cake at least! And sleep well?”

“I will.”

Ignatz walked past Claude as he headed back to his dormitory; the house leader opened his mouth to say something but shut it again at the look on his face.

“I don’t think he’s happy with Mist’s form,” Simurg hissed from his arm where she was coiled.

“I don’t think so either, but what can you do? She’s a dog and he needs to figure out what that means, or hate himself forever.”

“We’re going to help, right?”

“Of course, but there’s only so much we can do. Iggy’s going to have to do most of the work himself.”

They turned back to the feast, which really was well-done for something so hastily put together. They saw Raphael busy himself by cramming entire turkey legs into his mouth in one go, Hilda flutter from student to student in endless small talk, a very bruised Caspar arm-wrestle any and all challengers while Linhardt vainly tried to keep him from straining himself, Annette run around cleaning up small messes, everyone having a good time.

"And to think we were just beating each other unconscious a few hours ago,” Simurg said.

“For all that Fodlanese call us Almyrans unwashed barbarians and brutes, this isn’t so different than the post-battle feasts we know and love, isn’t it.”

“Not at all. Eat, fight, fuck. People are basically the same everywhere, aren’t they.”

“Yeah, we are. Though there’s more to us than just eating, fighting, and fucking. That’s all animals do.” Claude vaguely waved a hand at the ceiling above them, the engravings on the stonework, the stone gargoyles perched on edifices outside. “Animals don’t make things like this.”

"No, they don’t. If only more people would see, and understand.”

“Oh, they will. Once we’re done here, they will.”

They watched as Sylvain chatted up some student in a different house, presumably to get her back to his room. Judging from the way her gecko daemon responded to Zepida’s purring and rubbing up against his body, it seemed to be going well. “…Dimitri’s room is right next to Sylvain’s, right?”

“HAH!” The timing had to be deliberate; Simurg had to know that he was taking a sip of cider just as she mentioned that. As it was, the cider was no longer in his mouth but against the wall. Worth it though. “Poor bastard; I hope he has earplugs!”

“Maybe we could get some for him as a gift? What do you think: anonymous, or with as much flourish as possible?”

“Hah, either works. I like it, Simi. A snake after my own heart.”

“Claude, I am your heart.”

Claude just laughed in response, soft and easy. “Well then, Simurg my heart, want to rejoin the feast?”

“Always.” Claude put his smile back on and stepped back into the throng of students, the dashing charismatic heir to the Alliance. And nothing else.

Notes:

Ashe is sweet, but the poor boy just doesn't Get It here. Honestly I felt like that conversation sort of wrote itself, even though they have no supports with each other in-game. Daemon AUs!

Next time: Byleth talks to Hanneman, learns how to teach, and maybe I'll get to the actual first real battle?

And yes this story will have Doropetra too. By the way I am honestly surprised that there is literally no other Ferdie/Hubie/Bernie ship on this site. They have a great dynamic! And besides, we've got our tea time and coffee break; both are only enhanced with cookies and cake!

Anyway, as always, please let me know what you think of this chapter, comments are food and I hope you all read, enjoy, and have a wonderful week!

Humans and daemons in this chapter:

Flayn and ??? (Unsettled)
Manuela and Puccini (male ring-tailed lemur)

Chapter 5: You Are My Pups, And I Will Look After You

Summary:

"So...is sending teenagers into live combat an official part of church doctrine?"

In which Byleth gets some advice and everyone else gets traumatized.

Notes:

Okay so it was 13 days but here I am! Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and enjoying. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I hope you all enjoy it.

Should I change the tags to graphic descriptions of violence? I'm a veterinarian with a particular interest in trauma cases so I'm fairly inured to such things, but I know I'm probably the outlier.

The sigil floating above Byleth’s outstretched hand looked strangely familiar. Which made no sense, because she had never seen it before in her life. It was…odd, all tight loops and curved lines that put Belial to mind of a butterfly’s wing. Theophania, Hanneman’s wolf spider daemon, appeared to share the same insect-related sentiment from the look of delighted hunger in her many eyes. Belial felt less like a wolf and more like a bug pinned to an examination tray.

“Hanneman, I don’t remember seeing a Crest like that, ever!”

“I haven’t either! Oh, this is astonishing! What a wonderful discovery, a completely unknown Crest, and in our mysterious new professor no less!”

Hanneman was an older man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a formal manner, right down to the monocle. Even his hair was slicked back, except for the little fringe that stubbornly stuck up above his forehead. And yet his face was split open in a boyish grin, his eyes shining with glee. Hanneman himself was not dancing around his office, but Theophania skittered back and forth on the mahogany desk making little squeaks of joy the whole while, so he might as well have been.

Byleth cocked her head at the odd Crest floating in the air before her, a depiction of the Crest that apparently resided within her. There were a lot of things that weren’t her and Belial stuffed in their body, apparently. There was Sothis, and now this mystery Crest too. She idly wondered how many extra things a human body could safely contain. Hanneman didn’t seem to be wondering about that. He was still talking, although she hadn’t been paying attention.

Theophania was talking too. “Research has indicated that crest-bearers can tolerate greater distances of separation from their daemon. The effects seem to be greater with a major crest, but there are simply not enough data points for a statistically significant conclusion! Belial, was it? How far can you be from Byleth?”           

“I’m…not sure, actually. Really far, but I haven’t found a limit yet.” They looked up at Byleth. Better to be vague here, right?

But even that wasn’t vague enough for Theophania as the wolf spider somehow clapped her front legs together. “Hanneman, this is simply astounding!”

“Yes, my dear Theophania!” The older professor had already begun circling Byleth for further investigation. He lifted up her hair, inspected the tattered sleeves of her coat. Byleth didn’t say anything but she didn’t like this. It felt…intrusive, awkward. Sothis was spewing indignant syllables of gibberish, so that wasn’t helpful at all. Best to just deal with it for now and make her exit quickly.

---

 

“An unidentified Crest? Oh my poor Byleth, you’re going to be Hanneman’s new pet project. Might as well resign yourself to it now, all that poking and prodding and asking all sorts of odd questions is just going to be your lot in life now! Here, drink up, you’ll need it.”

It had taken far too long to extricate herself from Hanneman’s inquisition, and now here Byleth was in Manuela’s infirmary. A glass of something amber-colored smelling vaguely like paint thinner somehow materialized in her hands. Manuela was a fast pourer, and an even faster drinker. She had only just propped herself up on the table and yet half the glass had already made its way down her throat. Byleth took a tentative sip, which she immediately coughed up and spluttered all over the wall. Goddess, and she thought her dad’s rotgut was vile! It still burned the inside of her mouth and throat.

“Hey, that’s some expensive whiskey! If you can’t appreciate it, then don’t drink it.” Manuela didn’t seem that annoyed though, more amused than anything else. And even if she had, Puccini’s cackling from her shoulder was evidence enough of her true feelings on Byleth’s inability to hold her liquor. “In all honesty though, Hanneman does mean well. He’s just simply awful at realizing when he’s stepping on peoples’ toes. Just tell him off and he will.” Nodding at her own sage advice, Manuela drank down the rest of the whiskey like it was water and followed up with a self-satisfied burp. The lemur daemon hopped off her shoulder and settled onto one of the infirmary beds. They both, in sync, leaned forward and regarded both Byleth and Belial with anticipatory grins. “So, I bet you’re just brimming with questions for your good friend and colleague Manuela to answer!”

“…Um.”

“…Or you could just be completely out of your depth and about to crash and burn in a spectacular fashion, possibly taking half the monastery with it.”

Manuela leaned back and refilled her glass with even more whiskey. It splashed dangerously with each wild gesticulation she made. “Puccini has a point. Okay, in all seriousness, here’s a dirty little secret. Your class is here to learn military tactics, combat experience, diplomacy, leadership, blah blah blah. But what nobody tells you is that the hardest bit is actually outside the classroom.”

That didn’t make any sense, and Byleth told the overly-flirtatious physician as much. She simply responded with a laugh and another drink. “You’re not just your professor, you’re also their mentor, at least for now. Might end up their friend. But either way, your students aren’t just your students, but also a pack of horny hormonal teenagers trying to learn and deal with their own personal shit at the same time. You’re going to have to help guide them through it all, and minimize the amount of trouble they get themselves into at the same time.”

“I know, I know, it all sounds like hypocritical nonsense coming from her,” Puccini said, easily dodging her now-drunken swipe. “But she is right. Often life problems either create classroom problems or make them worse. Keep an eye on your students. Learn about them, help them. Help them become mostly-functional adults and help them make smart decisions, or at least keep some courtesan’s tea, chocolate, and a handkerchief in your desk for when they inevitably don’t. Be firm when you have to but always kind. There’s some odd ducks in the bunch, but they’re mostly good kids. And be sure to tell us if things get really out of hand, or if there’s any particularly juicy gossip!”

It sounded like good advice. But how would she be able to do that? Even if the Good Days stayed, how would she be able to nurture and guide her students through emotional issues?

“Don’t worry,” Sothis said in her head. “If they’re your students, then they’re my students too. I’ll help you take care of them.”

Belial looked up at Byleth with her blank expression. “We’ll just have to do our best.”

---

 

If Byleth’s heart beat, it would be racing in her chest as she looked out at the classroom of students. Her students, even if they were only a couple of years younger than her. All of them were seated, scattered throughout the classroom in a pattern that she just knew would end up becoming their unofficially assigned seats for the rest of the year, even though it was only the first day of classes.

Edelgard was front and center, with Hubert on her left and Ferdinand on her right. She already had her notebook opened to a blank page, quill at the ready with several more in reserve. Avarine was on a perch between her and Hubert, who loomed like a specter beside the princess and her gyrfalcon daemon. Thanily sat by Hubert’s shoulder with military precision and stiffness, her fluffy tail curled around her legs. Ferdinand sat to Edelgard’s right, Embrienne nestled somewhere in his hair. He sat up straight in his seat with a broad smile on his face, his notebook also opened with quill inked and ready to write while he drummed another one between his fingers. Every time Edelgard shifted, Ferdinand tried to sit up straighter, as if to one-up her in enthusiasm for class. Edelgard studiously ignored him, but Hubert looked like he was just a little bit closer to murder with every one of Ferdinand’s unnecessary movements.

Dorothea and Petra were right behind the trio from Enbarr, no less enthusiastic but not looking to get involved with whatever tension or nervous energy was brewing among the three in the front row. Several maps, reference books, and at least one dictionary were stacked up between them for easy access. Calphour fluttered between the books and Dorothea’s shoulders while Ardior preened himself, plucking free any loose feathers to turn into spare quills. They both had similar smiles and intense determined gazes.

Caspar was all the way at the edge of the row of desks, right next to the tanks where Peakane swam. She must have had a short range for him to be so close to the tanks like that. Linhardt was next to him, and he was already nodding off. The only reason he didn’t completely pass out onto his notebook was the crumpled bits of paper, sticks, and other detritus that Caspar flicked in his general direction every time his head slipped towards the desk. Eventually, with a muttered, “Ugh, fine,” Runilite hopped off Linhardt’s shoulders and into the fishtank, where she flopped onto a piece of driftwood floating in the tank. This also meant that whenever Linhardt fell asleep, his daemon would fall into the water and wake him up.  

Byleth almost didn’t spot Bernadetta at first, but the terrified young woman did show up to class. She had wedged herself all the way in the back corner, curled up on the chair with her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes wide open and searching for any potential threats. She couldn’t see Malecki, but she knew the hedgehog daemon was probably wedged in Bernadetta’s pocket anyway. At least she managed to make it to class. Speaking of which, time to begin.

She spoke as if she had rehearsed the speech over and over in the mirror that morning, which she had. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Byleth Eisner, my daemon is Belial Eisner, and I suppose I’m your new professor. No, I don’t know how this happened either, but I will do the best I can to guide you both inside and outside the classroom. If you have any problems or concerns, please come talk to me about them I’ll do what I can to listen and help.” She was different from other people, and dad had always helped her, so… “You have responsibilities as students in the Officer’s Academy, but it’s only fair to make reasonable accommodations for anybody who needs help along the way. I can’t read your mind though, so you’ll have to tell me if something is wrong. Or write it, if telling me is too difficult.”

Belial and Sothis were both quiet. Good, that probably meant she was doing well. Byleth took a shaky breath and continued. “I may only be a commoner, but I am your professor and mentor, and I hope one day to become your friend. I have a lot of experience in combat and leading small squads of troops. After our introductions, we’re going to go outside and do some sparring practice. That way we can work together and find out what you’re best at.” She looked down at her wolf’s impassive gaze. “But first, let’s talk about the mock battle. You did very well, but I have some concerns about following orders in combat.”

Hubert and Edelgard remained impassive, but their daemons slowly turned to look at Caspar in perfect synchronicity. Caspar, for his part, responded with a nervous laughing grin. Peakane flattened herself against the bottom of the tank. Because she was a clownfish, it did absolutely nothing to conceal her from those accusatory glares.

“I want to tell you all a story,” Byleth said, continuing as if she didn’t notice the brewing confrontation before her. Instead, she swung her left leg up onto the desk.

The class suddenly went very quiet, and very still. The metal brace on her knee shone against the thick scar tissue poking out from underneath it, yes, but in the position that Byleth took her skirt rose up her thigh to expose a dangerously large expanse of smooth pale skin. The class was suspiciously quiet, and although Edelgard’s eyes suddenly went wide Avarine was extremely still.

Neither Byleth nor Belial realized any of this, although she could feel the suppressed laughter bubbling up from deep within Sothis, wherever she actually was. So Byleth continued. “About five years ago I ran ahead in battle against my father’s orders. I saw a way to finish our mission quickly. I overextended myself and took an axe right to my knee. It took weeks of magical healing and physical therapy before I was able to walk again. Even today, years later, I still need a brace to keep my leg from buckling underneath me. I will probably need it for the rest of my life.

“This is what happens when you do not follow instructions in combat. If you throw yourself into a group of enemies without thinking, if you overextend yourself, if you decide to go it alone, you will find yourself surrounded. You will find yourself seriously injured. You may find yourself dead. You are training to be a leader, but you are also learning to work with others. Follow my instructions, but please tell me if you have any questions or concerns about my judgement or a plan of action. But when the swords come out, we need to work together to succeed. And to survive.”

Byleth stepped off the table and moved to the chalkboard. With the first scrape of chalk, the lesson officially began.

---

 

Things…wasn’t going as horribly as Bernadetta had feared they would be. She was still alive, for one thing. She really, really thought she’d be dead by now; that Edelgard would have finally tired of her and so would have arranged for her execution, or Hubert would have assassinated her in the dead of night, or she would have drowned in the pond, or…or…

She curled up in her bed and whimpered, hugging her own knees. She couldn’t even hug Malecki through her panic attacks, not since he settled as a hedgehog a couple years ago. He deserved better than her, a terrified useless pathetic girl who could barely even go to class, somebody who was a waste of air and couldn’t even make a decent wife and was just taking up space here and oh stupid useless Bernie—

“Bernie!” Mal had crawled into her lap and had started nipping her fingers to try and break her out of yet another panic spiral. “I don’t want to be with anyone else. I want to be your daemon!”

“But why, Mal? You’re so much braver than I am; all I do is hold you back.” She sniffled into her legs. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be a lion, or a big brave bear, or—”

“But Bernie, I don’t want to be a lion, or a big brave bear. I’m happy as a hedgehog. Yes I’m small, but it means I get to be with you. It’s a big scary world out there, and it would be just as big and scary if I were a lion or a bear. But if I’m a little hedgehog, it means I can stay close to you.”

“R-Really?”

“Really.” Malecki butted his head against the palm of her head. “I…guess we have to go to the stables now?”

Bernadetta took a shaking breath that was just as tremulous on the exhale. “I guess we have to, don’t we?”

At first she was terrified of the concept. Working with the horses? With Ferdinand? There was so many ways that could go wrong! She could get kicked, or stepped on, or Mal could get stepped on and killed and then she’d die too or she’d do something really stupid and then Ferdinand would laugh at her and tell everyone what a stupid failure she was and then she’d get expelled from the academy and shipped back home and her father would tie her to a chair again and she’d never ever ever—

She had started to tell Professor Byleth this through the door, the first part at least, but the stoic professor had actually cut her off. She never did that. Bernie kinda liked that about her, that she listened instead of just dismissing her fears. Professor Byleth was weird, sure, all quiet and stoic and sorta detached, and Belial always looked a little bit blank and distant, but she was patient. She listened to Bernie and never asked her to leave her room when she didn’t have to and always made her feel a little bit safer.

Which is why Bernadetta was able to actually hear Professor Byleth out when she explained her assignment to the stables without panicking. Too much. And in the end, she’d reluctantly agreed.

It took a while, but now, after nearly a month, Bernie could admit to herself that Byleth had been right. Working with animals was soothing. They were patient, they listened to her, they didn’t judge. Ferdinand had been surprisingly encouraging and patient with her as well, teaching her how to properly groom the animals, pick their hooves, mix their feed. He had even praised her effusively, going on about how even he struggled to mix the exact right proportions at times and there she was doing it nearly perfectly her first time out. It was…nice. She hoped he wasn’t lying to make her feel better. Oh, what if he was?

No, he seemed honest at least. No, no she couldn’t think about that. Think about the foals! The foals were adorable, just a few weeks old and trailing after their mothers. When Ferdinand was too much Bernie would drift off to the stables where the mares and foals stayed, and watch Marianne care for them. Marianne was a lot like her, but where Mal was just a little bit braver than Bernie, Marianne’s daemon was somehow even more timid and reserved. But either way they both had a way with horses, and sometimes Marianne would share what she knew with Bernie. It was…nice. She liked Marianne, even though the blue-haired woman always looked so sad.

The days passed to weeks to nearly a month, and things were actually going mostly okay. She hadn’t even had an all-day panic attack yet, which was nice. Bernadetta did stay in her room most of the time, and Hubert was terrifying, but the rest of the Eagles seemed to be okay. Working with Ferdinand to care for the horses was going better than expected, and she was starting to get the hang of riding the animals. There was even a greenhouse in the monastery! She and Mal could spend hours in there making a little patch of soil just boggy and acidic enough for her pitcher plants and Venus flytraps. And even though Dedue was often there and always terrifying in his enormous stature and permanently stern expression, his daemon was even bigger—too big to get through the door—and so was stuck outside the greenhouse. That meant that Dedue could only ever work on one side of the building so as not to be too far away from her, and Bernie could always just work on the other side far away from him. It was actually a little sad to think about, having a daemon so big that it limited your life. It would be really hard to hide in her room if Mal was a lion or a bear, she thought as she stroked his spines. There were positives to being a tiny adorable hedgehog.

No, things were going mostly okay. Maybe this…wouldn’t be so bad.

And then Professor Byleth came in one morning with the news that they were being sent on a mission to fight bandits in Zanado, the same bandits that had tried to kill Edelgard, and Bernadetta’s carefully-constructed platform of stability fell apart.

---

 

The idea of taking her students into live combat at the orders of the archbishop sat low in Byleth’s stomach in a way that she didn’t like. Sothis was even more uncomfortable with the idea, and she was never one to keep her thoughts and feelings to herself.

“Sending teenagers into battle…who decided this would be a good idea?! I can’t just sit by. I have to help.”

Belial growled. “How? You’re stuck in my head. Byleth’s head. Our heads, whatever. Nobody else even knows you’re there.”

“Remember how I turned back time to save your life? I’ve been awake for longer, and I think I might be able to do it again.”

“Wait, are you saying…”

“I might be able to help you turn back time, if something happens. But I can’t turn time that far back, and there’s only so many times I can do it. And you’re only a mortal; I don’t know what will happen if you play around with this too much!”

“But you can still turn back time.”

“Yes. Only if we have to.”

“Only if we have to.” She turned back towards her students, who all walked the path up the side of the canyon with a mix of apprehension and building dread.

Zanado was a canyon, but it certainly wasn’t red. The stones here were kind of a grayish-brown, as were the crumbling ruins. Maybe the sunsets were particularly red? Or perhaps the red was a metaphor. Either way, it was cloudy, and it was cold. And somewhere deeper in the canyon were the bandits that tried to kill Edelgard and Dimitri and Claude. Bandits that the Black Eagles were now being ordered to execute on behalf of the church.

Edelgard and Hubert looked almost eager, or at least like they were going to enjoy this chance at vengeance. Linhardt, Bernadetta, and Dorothea looked like they were about to throw up. The emotions on her students’ faces were written clear as day, clear enough that even she could see them.

Byleth raised a hand, and everyone fell silent. The already nervous energy turned into a tense hush.

“Don’t tell them Byleth, if you use my power they won’t remember; you’ll only serve to freak them out even more!”

“The enemy is likely down there. Scouting ahead would be the safest option for all of you, but while Petra is the stealthiest one here—” the Brigidian princess smiled in pride, “—she lacks the experience to scout without being spotted. Plus this terrain is different from Brigid, right?”

“It is. I have never seen a land so bare of trees back home.”

“Exactly. Thankfully, I have something that can help. Do not be afraid.”

“I’m warning you!”

Byleth looked down at Belial, who nodded back. “It’s a Good Day. I’ll let you know what I find.” They loped off, down the canyon, out of sight, to a chorus of gasps and more than a few shrieks.

Byleth stood before her students, utterly impassive, absolutely alone. Ferdinand reached up to his nose where Embrienne rested, just to make sure her fuzzy body was still there under his fingers. Linhardt clutched Runilite like a child with a teddy bear. Even Edelgard reached for Avarine’s outstretched wing, even Thanily pressed up against Hubert’s leg.

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Hubert breathed, “But to see it for myself…”

“No, I was starting to wonder if I had just imagined it too,” Edelgard replied in horrified wonder. Nobody was able to quite look Byleth in the eye. A human without a daemon…it was an aberration, a thing that should not be. It was like staring at a mutilated corpse. A mutilated corpse that still blinked and breathed and spoke.

“How many of you have seen someone die?”

Everybody except Bernadetta and Linhardt raised their hands.

And how many of you have killed? Byleth did not ask. She suddenly did not want to know.

She stared through her students and spoke in a monotone. “The first thing you need to know is that this is no mock battle. Do not hesitate; hesitation will get you killed. Because that’s what this is, kill or be killed. And you will likely leave this place with blood on your hands. It’s…hard, especially the first time. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Come talk to me after this, even if you think you’re okay. I’m…not good at this sort of thing, but I’ll listen to you, and give what help I can. Even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on. You’re here at the Officer’s Academy to learn to talk with people, to prevent fighting. But when diplomacy fails, you’re also here for combat. To learn how to fight, to win, to kill. To live for tomorrow, for yourself and everyone else. Because in a few minutes it’s going to be you or them, and I want it to be you who comes home.”

“But…but how do you know we’ll all still be alive tonight?”

Byleth’s eyes slid back into focus. There was a sigh of relief from someone, and—ah, yes, Belial appearing over the rise. She waited for the wolf daemon to return before answering.

“Because you are my pups, and I will look after you.”

---

 

The bandits were scattered on a low mesa, many of them huddling behind some rocks. There was an old broken-down walkway, only hints of the cobblestone remaining, between the bandits and the Black Eagles. Somehow, they had not yet been spotted. Belial’s information had been spot on.

Bernadetta drew back an arrow to scrape her cheek, ready to loose. Her knees were shaking but her fingers were still. Beside her, Hubert and Dorothea’s hands glowed with magic—Dorothea’s sparked with lightning, while Hubert’s oozed a sticky draining sensation.  

“You can do it, Bernie. One clean shot, no hesitation.”

The timid young woman whimpered, but her arrow flew straight and true, right into the bandit’s arm. He cried out in pain, the others grabbed their swords and axes, and the fight was on.

Caspar ran in first, whooping and hollering as he buried the spiked gauntlets into an onrushing bandit. He pulled them out with a squelching sound, blood spattering both him and Peakane’s backpack-turned-portable-tank, and roared as the adrenaline overtook him.

“YEA-HAHA! Is this what all fights are like?!” Caspar’s whole body trembled as he slammed the claws of his gauntlets into the man’s side and dragged them down, tearing him open to bleed out onto his dying daemon and the canyon floor, and he barely seemed to react when another bandit dogpiled him to split open his shoulder and very nearly do the same to Peakane’s tank.

But Linhardt noticed, noticed how Caspar’s body was reacting to the damage and pain he was too hyped-up to feel, and raced into melee to protect his friend. White magic flowed cool and soothing down his fingers, his Crest lighting up to amplify that healing magic and knit Caspar’s split muscle and torn skin back together.

Someone shouted, “Get the healer!” and a woman split off, her sword drawn back ready to run Linhardt right through. And Caspar was locked in melee, unable to fight two people at once.

It was reflex, pure survival instinct. Those same hands that just healed now loosed a powerful blast of wind that slammed into the woman’s chest. There was a visceral cracking sound, a muffled cry. She immediately crumpled, coughing pink foam and gasping for breath, fighting against the cracked ribs and pneumothorax crushing her lungs. Her daemon, some kind of sparrow, fell to the ground beside her and could do nothing more than twitch.

It was a fatal blow without treatment, Linhardt immediately knew, and the bandits had no healers. It was a fatal blow, and it took minutes that felt like years for her to die. Minutes that felt like seconds where she coughed hot pink foam onto Linhardt’s clothes and shoes and the dry earth, minutes that felt like years for her to finally still and her daemon to dissolve into golden dust. Longer still for Linhard to stare at her cooling corpse, his own hands, his beloved Runilite with her red fur now stained redder with blood.

“I…I killed her. What have I done? The blood…”

Her. Her because the bandit the corpse looked female, with a lithe build and a higher-pitched voice and a softer chin and smaller shoulders and a waistline. But just because she looked female didn’t mean she was female; Linhardt knew of people whose genders didn’t match their bodies but it wasn’t exactly like he could ask for her pronouns in the middle of combat, not when she was trying to run him through and it didn’t matter now because she was dead and he killed her oh by the goddess what have I done—

Sharp pain and a yelp from Runilite snapped Linhardt out of his spiraling thoughts. He whipped around, a spell on his fingertips that fizzled out when he saw it was Thanily, just Thanily biting down on his daemon’s tail; behind her Hubert fought back to back with Ferdinand, tearing apart their enemies with spell and lance. Hubert’s face was set in a snarl, so Thanily spoke for him.

“Have an existential crisis over taking life if you must, but save it for when we are no longer in mortal peril! You are our only healer, Linhardt!”

“...Right. Right.” He staggered after Caspar, who had already joined several of the others. There was work to be done. Work only he could do. He could heal, he needed to heal. Heal instead of kill.

Because around him everyone was killing and dying.

“I’M GONNA DIE!”

“YOU’RE NOT GONNA DIE!”  

Bernadetta was screaming, sobbing, crying out for them to stay away from her, she wanted to go home, please let this be over! Her crest activated, almost firing the arrows for her as she rode the edge of a panic attack, sheer survival instinct driving her. Dorothea’s eyes were wide as she stared at her thunder magic, and how it reduced a man to little more than a twitching corpse. Petra’s breaths were deep and deliberately even as she sprung out to disable a bandit in a sneak attack meant to cut ligaments and sever tendons, rolled to hide behind a rock, and then did it all over again.

Belial stayed behind to shout orders and attack any daemon that dared to threaten their students. But Byleth ran with Edelgard to take down Kostas. The two of them nodded in understanding and circled the bandit leader like wolves coming in for the kill.

Edelgard gripped her axe, her face set in harsh lines. “Remember me?”

His eyes, already wide at the battle he was losing around them, narrowed. “You. The princess and the inhuman bitch! I should have finished you off back there!” He raised his axe. “I’m not going to make that mistake again!”

Kostas ran towards Edelgard with a war cry, but she was ready this time. She parried his axe with her own, using her smaller stature to twist off and roll out of the way of his strike. Avarine flew off her shoulder, splitting off to chase down Kostas’s hornet daemon. She ducked and dodged around the gyrfalcon, but that took concentration, concentration that Kostas badly needed to fight off two warriors at once.

And that was enough for Byleth to drive her sword into Kostas’s back. She pulled it out with a spray of blood; the stench of pierced intestines filled the air. Kostas fell to his knees with a low keening moan, could do nothing more than look up at Edelgard and the cool contempt on her face and the axe in her hands.

“You should have finished the job,” she said, and brought the axe down.

It was actually very difficult, even with an axe, to behead somebody with one stroke. Kostas died from the blow as it crunched through his spine, but the axehead got stuck somewhere in the meat of his neck. Edelgard was forced to step on Kostas’s shoulder for leverage to wrench her weapon free. She looked at Byleth with a mixture of shock and guilt as she did so.

The few remaining bandits fled at the death of their leader. The battle was over. Byleth surveyed the scene and felt something unclench in her as she did so and Belial returned with their report. Nobody had died. Nobody was seriously injured.

At least, not physically.

Dorothea stood over the body of a man she had killed with her magic; a nervous laugh bubbled out of her. “So…is throwing teenagers into live combat an official part of church doctrine?” Edelgard stood up a little straighter and made her way to the young songstress. Something flickered in Hubert’s otherwise stoic gaze at her words as well.

Petra plucked a few feathers from Ardior, let the wind carry them off as she bowed her head and said what could only be some sort of prayer in her native tongue. She was trembling.

Bernadetta collapsed to the ground as the terror of battle caught up to her all at once. She clutched Malecki and sobbed, gasping out incoherent apologies and disbelief at being alive.

Ferdinand leaned against his lance; his fingers were curved around it and shaking. “Why did they not flee sooner? Surely those ruffians knew they were no match for the likes of us. Why did they not flee, and live, and possibly change their ways?”

Linhardt leaned against the façade of a crumbling building, panting and retching as he brought his breakfast back up onto the ground of the sacred canyon. Caspar clapped Linhardt on the back with a shaky, “Great work there, hey come on bud—ulp—” and then immediately vomited alongside him.

Byleth was the Ashen Demon, and so felt nothing about killing beyond a vague hollowness. But seeing her students, no longer children, forced to kill? Well, Sothis as always took the slight things that she was on the cusp of feeling, amplified them, and then gave them words.

“What have we done?”

Notes:

The first true battle! What did you guys think? Next up is...oh, poor Ashe.

As always, I love to hear your thoughts and scream along with you! And also see just what you guys are speculating.

Also Manuela is a treat to write and Puccini has her one brain cell. Also also, Bernadetta is extremely easy for me to write but also extremely dangerous to write for an extended period of time.

Humans and daemons introduced in this chapter:
Hanneman and Theophania (female wolf spider)

Chapter 6: Just Following Orders

Summary:

In which Byleth and the Eagles are sent to put down a rebellion, Edelgard can't sleep, and many characters show their metaphorical hands.

Also, even more characters are traumatized.

Notes:

Guys guys guys look at this adorable drawing of Bernie and Mal! Thank you so much Lychee!

https://twitter.com/lycheeloving/status/1191978282088091648

Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I really do read every last one of them with a huge grin on my face.

Anyway, enjoy this chapter! There's quite a lot and it was a lot of fun (if incredibly emotionally painful) to write. Let me know what you think!

What do you all think of me doing a sort of collection of side-stories of things that I can't really fit into the main story for lack of space and/or flow? Because I often end up with characters bouncing off of each other and there are some pretty funny, as well as less funny but still thoughtful and important ideas in my head.

The march back to Garreg Mach was uncharacteristically subdued. Some people, like Hubert, walked alone, but most people walked together. Caspar patted Linhardt’s back, encouraging him to keep moving, thanking him for his healing magic that knitted together the wounds that still scabbed under his torn clothes. Dorothea leaned against Petra, their daemons flying alongside each other just overhead. Even Bernadetta let Ferdinand wrap his arm around her for support as she sniffled into Malecki’s spines. Edelgard and Byleth brought up the rear, or more accurately they lagged behind. Something was picking at the back of Byleth’s mind.

“Why does this place seem familiar?” She’d never been here in her life. Her dad always made sure to take jobs as far away from Garreg Mach as possible; Remire had been as close as they dared go and look how that ended up. So why did this canyon feel familiar, like a half-remembered dream?

"I…I think it’s because I’ve been here before. A very long time ago, and…a lot of emotions are tied up in this place,” Sothis offered with unusual hesitation. “I…I can’t remember anything else, nothing specific anyway. I wonder what happened here, why I remember it so much?”

“What I’m wondering is why I find it familiar now too,” Belial added. “First you’re in our head, now you’re sharing your thoughts?”

"I wish I knew, but I don’t remember anything at all!”

“I wish you did, then maybe we could—Edelgard?”

The white-haired woman had snuck up behind them. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“…Belial. Just Belial.”

“Hm.” She looked around the ruins surrounding them, the crumbling stone structures that were not content to limit themselves to the ground but also spiraled up the canyon walls and onto the rim of the canyon beyond. “These ruins…there’s not much architecture left, but they don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen. Not in Enbarr, or Fhirdiad, or even Deirdru.”

Byleth had been to these places before, but only briefly, and sometimes during the Bad Days when she wasn’t aware of anything. And yet, “I think you’re right.”

“Which means somebody else must have made this ruins.” She folded her arms and looked around. “I wonder why we’ve never heard about them, or where they’ve gone. Or even why they’re gone. You’d think, if this is a sacred site, that the Church would tell us about the people that were once here.”

“Maybe?” Truth be told, she never thought about it. Then again, until recently, she didn’t know much of anything about the church and rarely thought for herself at all. But since Sothis woke up, she was able to do it more and more. And it was so much better this way.

Belial looked out at their students, clinging to each other and reminders that they still lived and breathed. “We should go. I think they need us right now more than anything else.”

Edelgard nodded. “I think we all need you right now, Professor.”

The march back to Garreg Mach was silent and subdued. Hubert and Edelgard were unaffected, while Petra, Ferdinand and Caspar were regaining some color to their face. But Bernadetta, Dorothea, and Lindhardt were still ashen, their daemons slow and distant. Byleth strode up to the front of the impromptu marching order and held up a hand. Everyone stopped at her command.

"You all did very well back there, working together,” she said. Belial sat by her side, watching them all but not judging in any way. “I’m glad you’re all still here and okay in front of me. But I also know how hard this can be. If anybody wants to leave, I completely understand. I will not judge you, and I will make sure nobody else does either.”

ll of her students were silent for a few minutes, their daemons casting furtive glances at each other. Surprisingly enough, it was Bernadetta who spoke first. “I…T-thank you, Professor, but I think, I think I’ll stay. I like it here!” She brought Mal up to her mouth and squeaked into his spines.

“I’ll stay too.” Dorothea’s voice was much more level. “I’ve got a point to prove. I’m not going to wimp out just now.” Petra turned to her with a smile.

Linhardt sighed, a loud echoing thing. “I suppose I’ll remain as well. Somebody has to keep this idiot—” he shouldered Caspar, who shoved him back, “—safe, and I’m the only one here who can heal. You really should get someone else to do that by the way, Professor. Unlike you, I can’t be far away from Runilite so I can only tend to one person at a time.”

“Can you even cast spells?” asked Peakane.

“I’m honestly not sure. It might be an interesting experiment.”

“...Thank you, all of you. Regardless, you all have the next two days off. Please, come to me at any time. I’m always here to listen.”Byleth and Belial looked out upon their students with…with…it was an unknown feeling, swelling in their chest around their still and silent heart. Something that made them smile at the sight of their students, want to see them grow into the adults they could be.

Ah. That’s what it was.

Pride.

---

Of course, that wasn’t the end of Byleth’s problems. There was the little matter of her being able to separate from Belial. Belial had always been able to be far away from her, and so to her it was normal. She knew other people thought it was unusual, but didn’t realize just how much it would frighten her students.

But frighten them it did. And of course, being gossipy teenagers, they were unable to keep it to themselves. Within hours of returning to the monastery, Caspar told Hilda, Dorothea told Ingrid, Ingrid told Sylvain, and Sylvain and Hilda told everyone. By dusk of the following day the entire monastery knew that Belial could separate themselves from Byleth with no ill effects at all.

So now even she could feel the eyes of all the students, and most of the staff, following her—some with trepidation, some with curiosity. Dimitri and Delcabia seemed frightened of her. Delcabia would snort and try to hide behind him whenever she passed by. Claude would not leave her alone. It seemed like every time she turned around he was there, asking some question or another about whether she was always like this, how she came to be this way, questions she didn’t feel entirely comfortable answering and had no idea how to answer even if she did. She’d always been like this. And she’d always been quiet and distant and unaware of the world during the Bad Days, but…but…

Which was how Byleth found herself knocking on her father’s door, hoping that he would be here this time. He’d been out for the past several days on one mission or another. Byleth had talked to Rhea about what she wanted to ask her father, but the archbishop hadn’t been quite as helpful as either of them had hoped. Sure she said all the right comforting things, made her feel like she needed to get more of Lady Rhea’s praise and trust, but this was something she really need to talk to Dad about.

Thankfully, he opened the door this time. He looked tired, like he had only just gotten back. Domaghar was also tired; she kept nodding off and bumping her chin against the desk. Thank goodness there were sloping ramps to the second story in addition to stairs, or else they might have been forced to move the captain’s quarters entirely. Still, as exhausted as he was, Jeralt shook himself awake at the sight of his daughter. “What is it, kid?”

Byleth slunk into the office where Jeralt could actually get a good look at her, and he didn’t like what he saw. Her shoulders were slumped and she stared at the ground instead of off into the distance. Belial’s ears were lowered and their tail dragged behind them. For Byleth, she might as well have been wiping away tears. Alarm rocketed through Jeralt at the sight of his daughter so upset. He held her shoulders as Domaghar leaned down for Belial to press against her head. “Hey, kid, what’s wrong?”

“Dad? Is something wrong with me?”

Jeralt stilled. He’d heard the whispers; there’s only one thing this could be about. “Haaaah…Kid, come over here.” He sat down and patted a spot on the rug next to him. Without prompting she sat down and leaned against him, just as she had done around campfires for over twenty years.

“Kid, Byleth, nothing’s wrong with you.” He wasn’t looking at her, just…sort of at the space between them and the door, where a campfire would be. “Sure, you may be a little…odd, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, or that you’re a bad person.”

It was a lie, the first part at least. Something was Wrong with his daughter, so wrong that he had to put an emphasis to it. Not the part about her and Belial being able to separate, although that was unnerving in and of itself, but all the other parts. Her days, weeks, sometimes even months of blankness where she wasn’t aware of anything, Her emotional range, which went past stunted and could only be described as barely-existent. The way Belial sometimes seemed like an ordinary animal rather than a daemon, the very shape of his daughter’s soul. How only her dreams of that strange girl on the throne managed to wake her from her torpor.

Just what had Rhea done to his daughter?

He hadn’t been around much the past couple of months; Rhea kept sending him on one mission after another as if to make up for over twenty years of lost time all at once. But Byleth looked so much better, so much more like the woman she could be, the woman she had grown up to be. And even if something was Wrong with his daughter, it didn’t make her bad.

Byleth noticed, actually noticed the way he looked at her with fondness and pride. “Dad?”       

“I’m just so proud of you. Come here, kid!” He pulled her into a one-armed hug, curling his other hand into a loose fist to give her a noogie and mess up her hair even more.” Doma batted Belial to the ground; the wolf daemon sprang to their feet and barked back, their tail wagging.

They only stopped when Doma’s heavy hoofbeats threatened to knock things off the walls. Byleth attempted to smooth her hair; her face settled back into that neutral expression.

“How are the little brats, by the way?”

Byleth looked down at the floor. “They’re doing okay. That last fight did a lot to them. I’ve been giving them some time, trying to find out what they like. Edelgard’s birthday is in a few days; I was thinking of going into town and buying her some sweets.

“Heheh, looks like they’ve already got you wrapped around their fingers. Ah, I know what that’s like.” He knew all too well. “Just remember to teach them the most important thing alongside all that combat and diplomacy nonsense.”

Domaghar chimed in. “Kid, what’s the most important thing?”

“To think for yourself.” Dad had drilled that into her, made it very important for some reason. Although…she was starting to understand why, now that she had had so many Good Days and so was capable of doing so. “And watch out for Rhea.”

“That’s my girl.” Jeralt hugged her again. “And it’s especially important in a place like this. Both of those things, actually. But you can handle it. I know you can.”

---

Warm weather came late to the mountains around Garreg Mach, but when it arrived it did so with vigor. It was one of the first indisputably nice days out in months—a free day no less—and the students were taking full advantage of it. Linhardt was napping on a chair by the fishing pier while Caspar had stripped down to his smallclothes, chucked Peakane into the pond, and cannonballed in after her. Bernadetta had opened up her window to let in some fresh air, and anybody who walked close enough to her room could hear her humming. Even Lady Edelgard had taken off her outer jacket and cape, although she still covered every inch of skin below her neck with glove, sleeve, and stocking—Hubert would have to arrange for more breathable clothing for the warm summer months. Hubert himself had also taken off his outer jacket in concession to the warm air, although unlike certain degenerate reprobates he kept his dress shirt on. Speaking of certain degenerate reprobates, Albarrog throwing Zepida into the fishing pond after Sylvain was a nice touch.

“It’s a shame that Sylvain’s only goals in life seem to be having as much sex as possible and acquiring every venereal disease known to man,” Thanily muttered as she and Hubert watched the redhead wring out his hair. “He is clearly intelligent, and somebody with a history like his would likely be a sympathizer to Lady Edelgard’s ideas.”

“Yes but if he dares approach our lady we’ll have to kill him.”

“He probably knows that, which is why he’s been keeping his distance.”

They fell silent as Dorothea and Calphour walked by, although Hubert did return her greeting with a raised hand. He respected Dorothea, who had managed to rise above her commoner birth and wretched background to make a name for herself at the opera. She was incredibly perceptive—he and Lady Edelgard had spent some time discussing Dorothea’s offhand comment back in Zanado—and had a wickedly sharp tongue. In short, she was the kind of person who exemplified his lady’s ideals and goals of a brighter Fodlan, a place where people could rise and fall based on merit alone, not circumstances of birth or the misfortune of being bestowed a Crest. They would have to approach her at some point, before she put enough pieces together on her own.

Petra was also a woman to watch, for similar reasons. Hubert had immense respect for her. A political hostage could very easily fall to bitterness and despair, especially after having their daemon settle while in captivity, and yet she managed to stay positive and determined. Her goals were clear, and they were ones he could sympathize with. The teachings of the church of Seiros were disgustingly insular and xenophobic, and Hubert was honestly surprised that Petra had not meet more resistance from their other classmates. She was both intelligent and one of the hardest workers he had ever seen. If Lady Edelgard could forge a peace treaty with Petra, then they could very well have valuable allies in the war to come.

Even Bernadetta was starting to earn his grudging respect. The young woman was clearly terrified of the entire world, and if it weren’t for Malecki and a fear of failing out then she probably would have never left her room at all. Still, she was trying, and even he could appreciate the effort. There was clearly something going on in Bernadetta’s past. He had heard certain rumors about House Varley…he would have to investigate further once he had some spare time.

“The women of the Black Eagles truly command respect,” Thanily mused.

“I agree. I wish I could say the same about the men. Caspar is a reckless idiot, albeit a persistent one, and Linhardt would be capable of greatness if he only applied himself. And Ferdinand…”

“Ugh.” Thanily’s voice dripped with disdain. What an idiot. He reminded Hubert of an overgrown puppy, jumping at anything remotely attention-grabbing and stumbling over too-large paws all the while. Ferdinand was not outside enjoying the nice weather. Instead, he was in the infirmary with two broken ribs after deciding to take on not one, but two Demonic Beasts at once in some foolhardy attempt to outperform Lady Edelgard. As if such a thing was possible. Predictably, Ferdinand had found himself outmatched, and Professor Byleth was forced to run in and rescue him. Hubert supposed it would be too much to hope that this near-death experience would spur Ferdinand to actually engage in some self-reflection for once in his life. As it was, Ferdinand von Aegir (as he insisted on using his full title whenever possible) would likely continue to be a thorn in both him and his lady’s side.

“You know,” Thanily said, “Embrienne is so small, and Ferdinand hates using that capsule outside of battle. It would be quite easy for me to eat her, and his death would simply be dismissed as a tragic accident.”

“Lady Edelgard has expressly forbidden murdering our classmates,” Hubert muttered behind a smirk. “Still, I am rather fond of the idea.”

“A shame we will have to put up with him and his incessant…Ferdinandness.” There really was no other way to put it. “At least he is a fairly benign distraction, as far as these things go.”

They fell silent as Byleth walked by, striding to the fishing pond with pole in hand. Belial walked beside them, seemingly oblivious to the less-frequent but still-present second glances and hushed whispers they got as they passed the rest of the students and faculty. Now there was an enigma. Their professor truly deserved the moniker “Ashen Demon,” with her deadened emotions and silent efficiency on the battlefield. There was an eerie charisma about her that he wasn’t sure she was entirely aware of. And then there was the matter of her and Belial.

“She has a Crest, but only the one,” Thanily said. “And I don't think she…she doesn’t act like the others did when they were severed.”

“But she still does not act entirely normal either. And even if she did, the undue fawning attention that ‘Lady’ Rhea bestows upon her bodes ill.” Hubert frowned. “I would say that Rhea made her our professor in an attempt to spy on us, but she chose our house of her own free will.”

“Just don’t be that blatant in your attempts to threaten her again,” Thanily added. “You weren’t even trying to be subtle, Hubert! I know she is unnerving and we can’t trust her, but we have to be more inconspicuous about it.”

“She wasn’t even worried by our threats. With her emotionlessness, I cannot tell if she was truly not frightened of us or if she did not know to be frightened of us.” He rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to stave off the oncoming headache. “I wish she was easier to read. But then again, if she were, we would not be having this conversation, would we?”

“Either way, Lady Edelgard seems to have a…blind spot…when it comes to our professor. We need to talk with her about…wait…” Thanily trailed off, one ear twitching. Then she lept off the stairs onto the ground below. There were growls, the short sound of a scuffle, a high-pitched squeak cut off by the sound of Hubert’s boots slamming against the stone as he vaulted off the side of the staircase, the pained tug at his heart forcing him along the quickest path back to Thani. And Thani herself bent over a weasel daemon, the smaller creature pinned beneath her until he shifted to a large wolverine and tried to struggle out of her iron grip.

“Stop, please, you’re hurting me!” He shifted again, a bear thrashing against the smaller fox daemon, but Thanily still clamped down on his ear.

Male. Unsettled. Hubert strode up to the daemon and leaned in as close as he dared get. “Zilbariel, why were you spying on us? And just where is the rest of you?”

Thanily bit down harder, and Hubert was rewarded with a faint cry of pain from the bushes close to the dormitories. She let go of Zilbariel and they both raced over and dragged out a panting Lysithea, leaving her on her hands and knees as she caught her breath. Several students saw the scene but decided to give them a wide berth for fear of incurring the wrath of Hubert.

Lysithea gasped from the shared pain of her injured daemon, a few reflexive tears creeping out of the corner of her eyes despite her best attempts to hide them. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why would you do that?!”

“Why were you spying on us, Lysithea?”

“Why would I spy on you, you creep? I was spying on Professor Byleth!”

He ignored the jab. “And why were you spying on Professor Byleth?”

“You know why!” Zilbariel raced back to her, leaping into Lysithea’s arms as a ferret that she curled her body around in a protective embrace. “Can she and Belial really separate from each other? That’s not right. Why is she able to do that?”

“Hubert…” Thanily’s voice was soft and distant. “Zilbariel wasn’t in any pain until I attacked, and it’s pretty far from the stairs to the bushes.

It was pretty far. Farther than he and Thanily could stand to be apart despite intense training in his youth that never wanted to repeat again. And yet Lysithea was not pained by that. Hubert’s thoughts ran up against each other as he looked down at Lysithea, bent over Zilbariel so all he could see was her crown of

white hair

 Thanily gasped, a barely audible sound, and took a half-step back. Hubert’s eyes widened. No.

“…Thanily?”

“Lysithea…” Hubert gave her a shallow bow. “I apologize for attacking Zilbariel. Please forgive my impudence.”

“Uh…Hubert? Not that I won’t accept your apology, but are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” No, he wasn’t, but he would never admit that to anyone. The horrified hypothesis still ran cold through him. Lady Edelgard needed to know about this, and the sooner the better. Not to mention that Lysithea was a powerful and intelligent woman in her own right. “I understand your concerns with our professor. Lady Edelgard and I have been discussing them.” That wasn’t quite true, but only in the sense that they had not yet discussed said concerns. “Lady Edelgard’s birthday is in a few days. She and I will be having tea in the gazebo behind the dining hall shortly after lunch. It is a secluded location, so as long as we remain quiet we should not be disturbed. Your presence may answer some of your questions. I would recommend bringing some pound cake, preferably lemon pound cake if you can get it.”

And then he left, leaving a very confused Lysithea behind, leaves still caught in her hair.

---

It had taken Byleth a lot longer to get back from town than she anticipated. She had helped Ashe get some supplies, and then there was that issue with the thief that ended with the boy running off and returning sans stolen book but with an explanation on his personal philosophy on helping others. Then she saw Sylvain jilting some unfortunate woman, and that turned into an impromptu lecture on inappropriate behavior which ended in Sylvain stalking off halfway through in a huff, Zepida hissing and growling beside him. Then...

Well, suffice to say that it was already dark by the time she got back. At least Byleth had managed to make it to the candy shop before it closed. She hoped Edelgard liked dark chocolate orange truffles. They were not cheap, but Byleth wasn’t about to skimp on her students. Especially when the student in question was the princess to the Adrestian empire, and tomorrow would be her eighteenth birthday.

Which was why Byleth found herself outside Edelgard’s room shortly before midnight, box of truffles in one hand and a birthday card in the other. The plan was to leave the birthday card on her door, then surprise her at teatime later. She’d also obtained a belated birthday present for Ferdinand; a gleaming steel halberd barely a week out of the forge.

A lone pained cry interrupted her meandering thoughts, stopped her still in front of Edelgard’s room.

“Nn...you can’t...mom, dad, please...save...!”

“Is that a ghost?”

“Really? This is a monastery; there are no ghosts here!”

“El! El, please...no, please, I...El!”

Belial snarled. “That was Avarine!”

Was she being kidnapped? Where was Hubert?! No time to think; Byleth and Belial slammed into door once, twice, three times, at which point it flew open and they flung themselves inside.

So did the hand axe, which embedded itself a half-inch deep into the wooden door just above Byleth’s head, the handle quivering slightly. Byleth traced the trajectory of the axe back to Edelgard, who was sitting straight up in her bed, her blankets rumpled around her waist. Her eyes were wide and wild; one hand groped at a bare nightstand for another hand axe while the other clutched Avarine to her hammering heart as she gasped for air.

“Edelgard?” She had never before seen the princess so lacking in composure.

Edelgard was still somewhere else, gulping down ragged breaths, Avarine pressing herself further against her chest.

“Edelgard!”

The princess came back to herself slowly. Her eyes slid back into focus, settled into their normal coolly evaluating gaze. Her posture relaxed, straight but not rigid. Her breathing slowed, her hands settled to her sides. Avarine hopped down to her lap and preened her feathers back to smoothness, though the gyrfalcon daemon stayed close enough to feel the rise and fall of Edelgard’s breath. And her nightgown was still soaked with sweat and plastered to her skin, outlining every muscle and curve. Even the nightgown had long sleeves that concealed her wrists.

Edelgard stared above Byleth’s shoulder to the axe lodged in the door; her expression softened into guilt. “Ah! P-Professor, I am so sorry! Are you okay?” She paused. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

Even two months ago Byleth wouldn’t have been able to catch the quaver in her voice. But now she could. “I got something for you, and then I heard a voice.” Sothis nudged the back of her head, urging her forward. “I’m okay, but are you?”

A sigh. “I’m okay. It’s just...”

“Nightmares?”

“Yes. I’ve had them since I was a child.” Edelgard turned towards Byleth, who was silent and waiting for her to continue. Nobody else was going to fill the empty air. Avarine’s talons tore into the sheets, mirrored Edelgard’s suddenly clenched fist as she continued, “Stupid, useless nightmares I can’t control...”

Edelgard hated losing control more than anything else. And here she was, suffering night after night and too proud to tell anybody.

Byleth found herself seated on Edelgard’s bed, one hand resting in the space between them for the princess to reach for if she wanted to. “I have repeating dreams too, although they don’t seem as bad as yours. I would talk about them with Dad. Do you want to talk about it? It may help.”

The room was silent for a long time before Edelgard broke that quiet with a sigh. “Hubert isn’t here tonight. And...for some reason, I feel I can trust you.” She looked up to meet Byleth’s distant expression. “But you must swear to never tell a single soul.”

Byleth nodded. That was an easy promise to keep. And even if it wasn’t, she would keep it anyway.

Another long sigh, then silence as Edelgard prepared herself. Finally, in a soft distant voice, almost a monotone, she spoke.

“I dream of my older brother, crying out for his daemon, bound and chained in a cell all alone. My older sister, begging for help that never came. My younger sister, babbling words beyond meaning...I had ten siblings, once. Eight older, two younger. Ten siblings, and yet I am the heir to the throne. Do you know why?”

Edelgard fell silent, no longer able to continue. Avarine picked up where she left off. “Every single one of them became crippled with illness, or went mad, and then...they died. All of them. I had ten siblings, and now I have none.”

“Edelgard, that’s...” The worst thing she had ever heard. Something tore at her chest, a need to do something, but what?

Avarine kept talking. She wasn’t even looking at anyone anymore. Neither was Edelgard. It was like a dam had burst. “In the end, I was the only one who could inherit the throne. I suppose the nightmares are a reminder, to never forget what happened, never let it happen to anyone ever again. The future of the Adrestian Empire...of everything...depends on me. I’m the only one left to shoulder the burden.”

What could Byleth possibly say to that? She couldn’t think of anything to say. But maybe....

She shifted a little closer, and placed her hand over Edelgard’s (it was bare, Edelgard always wore gloves, and she could feel the rough edges of scar tissue), comforting her in the same way her students comforted each other after Zanado.

Edelgard breathed in at the contact, a short shallow inhalation instead of the desperate clawing from before. She looked back up to Byleth. “I...never told anyone about this before. Hubert is the only one who knows. Please, forget I said anything. It’s late. You should go to bed.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone? I...I could stay.” Sothis hadn’t nudged her there, she would later realize. That was all Byleth.

Edelgard shook her head, although there was a curious pink flush on her cheeks and the back of her neck. “No, that would be...improper. I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with these nightmares by myself before.”

A huff of disapproval from Belial that Sothis echoed from the back of their mind. “You have, but that doesn’t mean you should. I’ll stay here tonight. Byleth can go back to our room.”

Edelgard and Avarine glanced at each other. “Will you talk until we fall asleep?” Avarine asked in a small voice. “That way I’ll know you’re still, well, here.”

That didn’t make much sense and Avarine wouldn’t elaborate, so the wolf responded with a cocked head and an, “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Edelgard.”

“...Sleep well, my teacher.”

Byleth left, but Belial remained. This was a mistake, Edelgard thought, as nausea clawed up in her. But then Belial spoke and they...sounded like Belial. Quiet and distant in a slightly unnerving way, but not whimpering and begging for their human, begging for death. Not a broken empty shell. If she closed her eyes, it was like Professor Byleth was beside her. Belial spoke in a monotone, something about a past battle they were in. But the content didn’t matter, only the voice. Only the presence of another person, a weight above the covers as she settled back underneath them, a reminder that she and Avarine were not alone.

Slowly, Edelgard fell back asleep.

---

Belial was still there in the morning, a curled-up lump on the far edge of the bed where neither they nor Edelgard could accidentally brush against the other. But the wolf daemon was still there, keeping her company in a way she had lacked for some time. Edelgard had fallen back asleep, and the rest of her dreams had been better. Significantly better, she thought with a blush, not quite able to look Belial in the eye. Those dreams may have been highly improper, but at least it was a, ah, pleasant start to her birthday.

A knock on the door startled Edelgard out of her drifting and highly inappropriate, stop that El! thoughts. “Ah!” Behind her, Ava nearly fell off her perch with a squawk. She stared at the offending door, in which the axe was still embedded, too high up for her to reach without jumping or standing on a chair. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Byleth’s voice filtered through the door; Belial sat up at the sound of it, ears pricked up in attention. And it was this which made guilt wash over Edelgard. What kind of person was she, taking someone’s daemon away from them? Even if Belial offered, even if Byleth was unaffected by the distance, she shouldn’t have spent the night alone just because of one of her student’s shameful weakness. She sprinted towards the door and flung it open, catching Byleth mid-knock.

Her professor was already dressed, and here Edelgard was, still in bare feet and a nightgown. “Professor, I am so sorry. I should have never taken Belial from you; that was incredibly cruel of me. Please, forgive me.”

Belial hopped off the bed. “There’s nothing to forgive. I offered, and you needed me more than Byleth did.” They padded over to Belial and leaned in for a head scratch.”

It wasn’t that Edelgard didn’t appreciate it, but it made no sense. Sure she could be far away from Ava, but to do so for an entire night…She didn’t suffer the anguish of separation anymore, but there was a pain all the same.  Yet Byleth didn’t seem to care either way. There probably wasn’t much point in arguing, and it did help her, so, “Thank you, my teacher.”

“Of course. And Edelgard, last night wasn’t the best time, but happy birthday.” She held out a small wrapped box and a card.

“I…thank you.” She took the box. “I’ll open it later.”

“Let me know how you like it.” Her face softened slightly. Was that Byleth’s equivalent of a smile? “I need to grade your papers, but happy birthday. I hope the rest of your day goes better.” Then she and Belial walked back down the hall, leaving Edelgard and Avarine with a card and a box of—the paper made a very satisfying tearing noise—truffles that looked and smelled absolutely exquisite.

The rest of her day went just as well. Even Ferdinand had remembered her birthday and gotten her a present, something which Hubert could not help but tease her about over tea. They had to talk shop, sure, but today they could also relax. Just a little bit, just for an hour.

“Heh.” Edelgard folded her hands under her chin and smiled.

“What is it, Lady Edelgard?”

“Nothing. It’s just, when I see you at the monastery, studying with everyone—”

“—Messing with Ferdinand’s head—”

“It makes me wonder what kind of life you might have had without me. Without all…this. That’s all.”

Hubert chuckled and took a sip of his tea. He normally hated the stuff, but had drunken the Hresvelg blend so many times that it had sort of grown on him. “I thought I had left my years of carefree innocence behind me.”

“If we ever had them at all,” Thanily chimed in.

“But I cannot deny that I find myself enjoying my time at the monastery.”

Edelgard smiled again, a softer one this time. “I feel the same way. Even if we’re only playing at being students, there truly is something so…innocent about it all. I’m glad we have a chance to experience these halcyon days, even if it’s only for a little while.”

They continued that conversation for a while, until soft footfalls announced another guest. Edelgard, Hubert, and their daemons fell silent as Lysithea and Zilbariel entered the small enclosed space. She held a pound cake with lemon-yellow frosting.

“Okay Hubert, I’m here, now what did you mean by…answers…”

Lysithea trailed off as she and a confused Edelgard locked eyes and took each other in. Daemons on their shoulders, cloaked in long hair bleached bone-white. Every inch of skin below their neck covered in clothing, even in the warmth of this sunny day, even as sweat pooled in the creases of Edelgard’s clothes and she knew they must in Lysithea’s as well.

Lysithea was thinking the same thing. She had to, with the way her perpetually-wary eyes were wide, her body stiff. Zilbariel, a white ermine curled around her shoulders, broke the silence with a whispered, “Charon and Gloucester.”

She could only have meant one thing by that. Or two things, as the case may be. Edelgard took a deep breath, her eyes closed as she held it, let it out slowly. Slow, controlled. No holding back now. Avarine replied for her, a sad confirmation. “Seiros and Flames.”

She opened her eyes to see Lysithea wiping away tears, and knew from the stinging in her eyes that she would soon be doing the same as well. “I was only two when they started,” Lysithea added.

“…You must have been their prototype, and I their final product. Oh Lysithea, I am so sorry.”

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I don’t want pity, not even yours. It’s not your fault, and being sorry won’t change anything. I’m just…it’s funny, but for some reason I’m really grateful right now.”

“So am I. I think it’s because I’m not alone anymore. There’s somebody else out there who understands.”

---

Caspar announced his arrival and important news in his typical fashion: by kicking open the door to the training grounds and shouting his news at top volume with no regard to whomever might be around.

“Didja hear? Thunder Catherine’s back! Awww, yeah!!!”

Caspar would have happily shouted this to an empty room, but his guess was right and there were two people at the training grounds. Ingrid and Leonie were over by the training dummies, sparring with training lances. Caspar’s shout came just as Leonie thrust her lance, making her overshoot and drop it on Albarrog.

“Ow! Yeesh, watch it!”

Kamen winced. “Sorry!”

“Wait, Thunder Catherine is here?” Ingrid’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying!”

“Sorry, but who’s Thunder Catherine?”

Leonie might as well have asked where the Empire was, judging from their reactions. Both Caspar and Ingrid goggled at her in disbelief. “Only the coolest knight ever! She’s a monster on the battlefield, tearing up all her foes with Thunderbrand!”

“That’s her Hero’s Relic,” Ingrid added.

“She’s like, ‘Pow! Bam! In the name of Seiros, I’ll destroy you, evildoers!’ And then she totally does!”

“She’s honest, she’s just, she’s got a sacred weapon, and her daemon’s a ram. She is a model of chivalry.”

“Haha, before Peakane settled she’d become a sheep and we’d totally play at being Thunder Catherine and Fortinbras.”

“Caspar, you still pretend to be Thunder Catherine,” Peakane teased from inside her backpack.

“Yeah but you can’t be Fortinbras anymore; you’re a clownfish.”

“Heh.” Leonie folded her arms. “Well, you two can brag about chivalry all you want but that won’t help you if you die in battle. And besides, so many of them are all talk, no action—or the wrong kind of action. I still say Captain Jeralt is the best knight ever.”

“Blasphemy!”

The reason for Thunder Catherine’s arrival was currently in a heated argument with Professor Hanneman. Byleth would have just turned into the captains’ quarters, but something about his tone of voice made her stop outside the antechamber and listen in.

“Your Holiness, I must protest! This mission may be necessary, but I cannot in good conscience send my students on it. These are not bandits, but civilians. More importantly, this is Ashe’s father we are talking about!”

“Fuergios is still unsettled,” Theophania added from his shoulder. “On top of everything else, I shudder to think of the consequences that this could have on her form.”

Rhea’s voice was placid, but Byleth couldn’t see her face. Her face was always pretty calm though anyway. “Professor Hanneman, it is imperative that our students understand their civic duty and place in Fodlan as knights—"

“—No, Your Holiness,” Hanneman interrupted. Byleth and Belial stared at each other with wide eyes, and Byleth could feel Sothis sit up to pay closer attention; metaphorically speaking, anyway. “I am fully aware of my students’ civic duty, but sending this class of Blue Lions on this particular mission is not civic duty. It is cruelty!”

“Hanneman.” There was a new edge to Rhea’s tone, one that Byleth had never heard before and reminded her of the moment before an arrow was shot. She looked down and Belial was already gone, had already headed over to the antechamber.

“Ah, Belial. It is a true joy to see you. Hanneman, you are dismissed. Please come in, Professor Byleth.”

Byleth watched as Hanneman stormed past her, barely-restrained fury carved into his face. She entered slowly. There was nobody else in the antechamber, not even Seteth. Just Rhea and her mantis daemon in the capsule. She was still speaking. “Professor Byleth, I have heard such wonderful things about your ability to teach. I knew I made the right decision in hiring you. How are you adjusting to life at the monastery?”

“It’s going okay. The Black Eagles are good people.”

“I’m sure they are; and with you as their guide they will soar to even greater heights. About that…I have a mission for you. We have evidence that a Kingdom noble, Lonato Gaspard, has allied with the Western Church, raised a militia, and is planning on rebelling against the Central Church itself.” The edges of her face twisted into a snarl. “Such blasphemy against the Goddess cannot stand. The Knights of Seiros have already been dispatched, but you and your students are being assigned to accompany them and help with the aftermath.”

It didn’t seem like something that Byleth could argue against, and even if she did, she didn’t know how to. Never really made a decision like that before. So instead Byleth nodded.

“Good girl.” Rhea’s face smoothed back into its tranquility. “I knew we could rely on you. This mission should prove useful in demonstrating to the students how foolish it would be to ever turn their blades on the church.”

Byleth felt Sothis freeze in the back of her head. Not the usual quiet of her going on standby, but the deliberate silence of somebody who needs to be very, very careful about whatever they say or do next. So Byleth just nodded, and Belial said nothing.

“Excellent. I knew we could count on you.” She reached out and ran her hand down Byleth’s hair, one long stroke that ended with the strands between her immaculate fingers. “Please, feel free to visit me any time. I’m sure we can learn a great deal from each other.”

That must mean she was dismissed. Byleth walked out, Belial’s tail low beside her and with a queasy feeling in her stomach. She needed to be away from the antechamber. Or the cathedral, or anywhere that reminded her of the Goddess or the church.

Which is why she found herself back at the fishing pond, channeling that queasy feeling into terrorizing the fish swimming within and drastically reducing their population. Flayn would certainly be happy at dinner tonight.

“You always have a choice! You don’t have to do this!” Sothis and Belial were arguing again.

“Great, can you figure out a way to decline this mission and keep our students safe? Because I can’t!”

“I thought the whole point of these missions was learning to lead troops and keep the peace, not…” Sothis waved her hands in frustration, “Follow the church’s orders or else!”

“Neither did I but I can’t think of a better solution! They’re our pups, and we have to look after them!”

“Professor! There you are.” That was Dimitri’s voice, and it sounded out of breath.

He bent over to catch it, Delcabia filling in for him. The boar looked particularly agitated. “Please, come with me right away. There’s an emergency with Ashe.”

More importantly, this is Ashe’s father we are talking about!

Byleth had a bad feeling that she knew what this was about.

“Mercedes found Ashe in the cathedral; she’s collecting the rest of the Lions right now for moral support,” Dimitri explained as they ran down the corridor to his dorm room. “He’s utterly distraught; it took me some time to get an explanation out of him, and what I heard…” He shook his head.

Ashe was, indeed, curled up on Dimitri’s bed, Fuergios in the form of a tiny puppy making low whines. He looked up at Byleth’s entrance, and he looked...awful. The normally bright-eyed cheerful boy was pale to the point of being ashen. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears streaking down his face. His frame shook, as did his voice. It quavered. He sounded like he was going to be sick.

“Urgh…Professor,” he said, a low croak, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. “It’s not true. Please, it can’t be true! Lonato took me in, when he had every right to turn me over to the guards. He’s a kind man; he wouldn’t do something like this! There has to be some misunderstanding somewhere this has to be a mistake!” Ashe was frantic now, words running up against each other. Delcabia lashed her tail at Ashe’s distress and her inability to help.

Fuergios rolled over, her tail tucked between her legs as she looked past Belial. “Please, Belial, Professor, please don’t let the knights kill him. I’m begging you, there has to be a trial or something, please!”

“…”

This mission should prove useful in demonstrating to the students how foolish it would be to ever turn their blades on the church.

“…I’ll try.”

She stayed there for some time, just holding Ashe as he fell apart in fear and dread for his father, his family. She stayed there until the rest of the Blue Lions piled into the room, nearly shoulder to shoulder as their daemons wedged themselves into one corner of the room to prevent any accidental contact, and took over her attempts to comfort the distraught boy. Byleth and Belial were one human and daemon too much, and so she slipped out, past Levia (forced to remain outside Dimitri’s room due to her immense size, her horns scraping the walls), and back to the stairs.

Hubert stopped her. He must have been listening to open his door just as she passed. Byleth turned to glare at him; what was it now? This wasn’t the time to threaten her.

…But Hubert didn’t look like he was going to threaten her again. He looked angry, yes, but Thanily’s ears were lowered, her head drooped. She looked…sad. Hubert glanced down the hallway to Dimitri’s room and then said in a low voice, “Mark my words, there won’t be a trial. Despite their honeyed words the church holds no mercy, no forgiveness for those who would dare question their dogma or challenge their authority. Lonato is already condemned, and we will return to Garreg Mach with his head.”

---

Hubert was right, of course.

Catherine and Fortinbras did live up to the name of Thunder Catherine. She was an imposing and competitive woman whom Caspar idolized, unquestioningly devoted to Archbishop Rhea. Thunderbrand was one of the Hero’s Relics, a gift supposedly bestowed by the Goddess. Byleth had never seen a sword like it before. Even before the glowing bit, it looked like it was made of several overlapping plates of an unknown material, with several curved barbs or spines that put Byleth to mind of horns, or ribs. It cut through flesh and metal alike like butter.

But what was more important was this:

Except for some personal knights and a couple of oddly-clad mages whose presence seemed to startle Hubert and Edelgard, the militia consisted almost entirely of civilians. Lonato had done the best he could to arm them, but they were still civilians devoted to their lord. They loved Lonato, loved him enough to fight to the death with no military experience or training at all. And die they did, no match for her or her students at all. They had to fight to defend their lives, but they were able to win easily. In a way, it was even worse on their psyche than the bandits. That was the first time many of her pups shed blood, yes, but this was fighting a militia that wanted to rebel against the church—not bandits. They were definitely taking Rhea’s lesson to heart.

But what was more important was this:

Lord Lonato was defeated, his horse screaming in her death throes behind him, her belly split open and her shrieks filling the air until Ferdinand marched over and ended her suffering. He was bound and forced to his knees before Catherine, who approached in an implacable march, Fortinbras at her side. Lonato’s daemon, a tiny screech owl, pressed up against his bleeding face to feel him one last time. Byleth opened her mouth to ask for the mercy that Ashe had begged for, but…there was no point. Hubert was right. Lonato had been a dead man walking the moment judgement passed from Rhea’s lips.

“Lonato,” Catherine said, “I never thought you would meet your end like this. I can at least promise you that Ashe will not be judged for your crimes. Do you have any last words?”

Lonato looked up at her not in fear of death, but burning hatred. “Fuck you, Cassandra. You took Christophe from me, you killed my citizens, and now you’re going to steal my last son from me as well. I hope you burn in the eternal flames.”

“I hope you’re happy, Fortinbras,” his screech owl daemon added. “How does it feel, being a docile sheep, always following the herd without a single thought for yourself?”

It was difficult, even with a sharp blade, to behead somebody in a single stroke. But Thunderbrand was a Hero’s Relic. It cleaved through flesh and bone like they weren’t there at all.

But what was more important was this:

Edelgard spoke in a low voice, afraid of being overheard. It was not a good idea to loudly express her respect for Lonato after all, not when his headless body was cooling in the dirt just inches away. But she did respect him, and the civilian militia they killed.

“They died for a cause they truly believed in,” she explained. “It’s something I completely understand, and sympathize with. They deserve the proper respect for that, even if nothing else.”

And then Catherine interrupted them with news of an assassination plot against Archbishop Rhea.

But what was most important of all was this:

The march back to Garreg Mach was quiet for a different reason this time. Instead of her students dealing with their first kills, they were all dreading the moment Ashe found out his adoptive father—and so many of the townspeople that took him and his siblings in, treated them with such kindness—were dead. Killed at their hands. Yes, Byleth and her students had orders, they were following orders, but…

There was a choice. They could have disobeyed. There would have been consequences, yes. But they could have disobeyed.

The Blue Lions were waiting at the gate, all of them, in support of Ashe. She couldn’t see their faces yet, but she’d have recognized the enormous frames of Dedue and Levia anywhere. The smallest two figures pacing back and forth must have been Ashe and Fuergios.

The silhouettes stilled. The smallest human one—Ashe—raced forward, only to be stopped by Dedue, who grabbed Ashe and locked him in a full-body embrace. Ashe kicked and thrashed, and now they were close enough to speak.

“Ashe, don’t look!”

“No, dammit Dedue, let me go please I need to—!”

Dedue held Ashe tight, but he couldn’t do anything about Fuergios. She shifted from fennec fox to screech owl and flew towards the Eagles, stretching the limits of Ashe’s range from pure adrenaline and desperation alone, until she could see them and there was no more hiding just what happened on the Magdred Way.

Byleth never remembered a dream without Sothis. In fact, she was unsure if she ever had a dream, or a nightmare, that did not feature the mysterious ethereal girl in her head.

But if she did, then Ashe’s broken wail at the sight of Lonato’s severed head would haunt every last one of them.

 

Notes:

Holy crap this was my longest chapter yet. Nearly 9000 words! I'm going to have to break up each month in two parts after this; no wonder it took so long to write.

So...yeah. Poor Ashe.

Unfortunately this sort of thing happened in real life, a lot. Lonato could have very easily suffered a much more horrifying fate for rebelling against the church in a world where the church is so intertwined with the state (it’s hard to emphasize just. How. Much the church permeated every single aspect of medieval life), and Dimitri has to get his obsession about decapitating Edelgard (instead of killing her in some other way) from somewhere.

Edelgard and Lysithea know about each other, and it's only Garland Moon. A lot of things are starting to go differently from canon now.

I'm going to be honest, that one single line from Rhea turned me against her forever. That pushed a LOT of personal buttons and made me absolutely disgusted with her. The nature of blind obedience vs forging your own path, making your own fate, all that good stuff will be explored in this fic. Along with all the other fun stuff in Fodlan!

Anyway, please read and enjoy, let me know what you think, and all that good stuff. I can't wait for the next chapter! Don't worry; I know there's a lot of Blue Lions stuff now but we'll be seeing more of the Golden Deer at some point!

Humans and daemons introduced in this chapter:
Catherine and Fortinbras (male sheep)

Chapter 7: Learned Helplessness

Summary:

The class of 1180 bands together to help a grieving student. Byleth confides in the Eagles. And the outsiders of Garreg Mach withstand several undeserved assaults from a panicking and xenophobic staff.

Notes:

Thank you for being patient, everyone. I am still in interview season (flying out to another interview tomorrow) so just a few more weeks and I will be back on my normal weekly-ish schedule! You've waited long enough, so here's the next chapter!

Content Warning: People being racist asses towards Dedue (and similarly implied awfulness towards Petra), and a brief mention of past accidental self-harm.

A huge, HUGE thank you to Lycheeloving for providing me with translations for Petra's Tagalog!

As always, please read and enjoy!

Lonato’s execution would have been the most talked-about event at the monastery, if not for the note that was found on his corpse. A plot to assassinate Archbishop Rhea, on one of the holiest days of the year. It was unthinkable. And yet, so was Lonato raising a rebellion.

All of this was to say that even though the monastery gates were open during the month as was tradition, security was tighter than ever. Every class had been pulled from their previously scheduled monthly missions, reassigned to defend the monastery and archbishop at all times. Seteth had taken to following Rhea around like her shadow with a gleaming axe in his hands and a tenseness to his jaw.

The Black Eagles had also been pulled onto monastery guard duty; since they were the ones to discover the note and the ones with Professor Byleth, they were working directly with one of the high-ranking Knights of Seiros, along with her apprentice of sorts. Shamir was just as stoic as Byleth and just as blunt as Felix, although her emotions appeared to be restrained rather than absent. Her only tell appeared to be when she reached up to stroke the back of Veradis, her fire salamander daemon. By contrast, her apprentice Cyril wore his emotions and devotion to Lady Rhea on his sleeve. Byleth had seen him around, running back and forth doing all sorts of errands—chopping firewood, cleaning classrooms, and so forth. Maybe he was a squire and they had to play the role of servant for part of their apprenticeship? Cyril wasn’t dressed as nicely as the other pages and squires though. Maybe it was because he was younger? He definitely was a few years younger than her students, a bit of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, a few spots of acne hidden under his mop of curly dark hair. And yet his daemon had already settled, a yellow-winged bat who liked to nestle in that messy hair.

“Something doesn’t feel right about this plot,” Edelgard said.

Ferdinand nodded. “Lonato and his militia stood no chance against us or the Knights. I don’t know why he decided to embark on such a suicidal mission, but why would he leave a note detailing future nefarious plots on his person for us to find afterwards?”

“Oh! Unless he meant for us to find it!” Dorothea’s eyes lit up; Calphour danced up and down her shoulder. “A trick within a scheme, meant to distract us and keep us off our guard!”

“If this note is a ploy, then what are being their…what are their true motivations?”

Edelgard looked around. “I think we need to split up and gather information. Our enemy could be using the chaos of the assassination plot to sneak in somewhere else. Let’s not do anything rash, Caspar.

Caspar lowered his hand. “That wasn’t what I was going to say?”

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then, pray tell, what was it?”

Instead of rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, Caspar awkwardly cupped the base of his backpack for Peakane to swim down and bat against his palm. “Actually, I was gonna ask if I can go check on Ashe? I haven’t seen him at the training ground all week, not since…you know. I even went to ask Dedue but he’s barely seen him either, and not outside of class! And, I mean, they’re always cooking together. I mean, I’m just a bit worried.”

That comment immediately sucked the air out of the room, leaving nothing but a mournful silence, thick and heavy. Humans and daemons shuffled around awkwardly, not quite able to maintain eye contact.

Thanily’s expression softened. “You have our permission. It’s not like subtlety is one of your strong suits.”

“Aww, thanks!” He ran off before anybody could even finish their sentence.

 Shamir nodded. “Cyril and I will do our own reconnaissance and report back once we have more substantial information.”

---

It was a bright, beautiful, hot and sunny summer day. Motes of dust danced in the sliver of light shining between both closed curtains. Ashe had not opened them in several days. He had barely moved from his bed in several days, only getting up to attend necessary classes and obey the biological demands of his body.

Caspar pounded on the door again, louder on this time. “Come on Ashe, open up! It’s me, Caspar! I know you’re in there!”

Peakane chimed in. “Ashe, everyone’s worried about you! Please open up!”

“Go away!”

The door rattled again, harder this time. “No, I won’t!”

“I said go away!”

“Ashe, you’re not Bernadetta, this isn’t like you! Please, your friends and classmates are worried about you; I’m worried about you!”

Silence. Then, the sound of bare feed padding closer, a hand fumbling on the handle, and the door creaked open.

Ashe looked terrible. His eyes, normally brimming with curiosity and optimism, were dull and hidden under limp hair. His face was red and blotchy, his clothes rumpled like they had been worn for several days. Fuergios was still on the bed, looking at him with bleary owl eyes. “What do you want?”

“I, uh, wow you look really terrible. I—I mean!” Caspar raised his hands, cringing at the words that tumbled forth.  “Can I come in?”

Ashe blinked, sighed, gave in. “Yeah, sure, I guess.” He watched silently as Caspar cautiously entered.

Caspar flopped down on the bed and immediately wished he hadn’t. If Ashe hadn’t been going to class then he certainly hadn’t been bathing. Even he could smell the week’s worth of unwashed teenage boy that had been marinating in the summer heat.

“Hey, Ashe, do you want to go to the sauna? It’s pretty warm now so it should be empty, we can chat and then get some tea or coffee or something after?”

“Thanks but not really.” His voice was flat, with none of the curiosity, optimism, or joy that made up Ashe. “I think I just want to stay here.” And Fuergios wasn’t talking either. Come to think of it, wasn’t Lonato’s daemon a screech owl too?

“Oh jeez, please don’t tell me she settled like that,” Peakane whispered to Caspar.

The four of them sat in silence on that stinking bed for some time. Caspar and Ashe stared at some spot in the center of the room seemingly identical to every other spot on the floor; Fuergios and Peakane’s gazes slid past each other.

Caspar broke the fragile silence first. “It wasn’t me who did it,” he blurted out, as if that would make everything magically better, as if he hadn’t carved and pummeled his way through barely-armed militia. “It was Th—Catherine.”

He didn’t really want to call her by her title. Thunder Catherine seemed much less glamorous now, through the screams and the fog and the burning hatred in Lonato’s eyes, the love in his subjects’, the grief in Ashe’s.

“Her name used to be Cassandra.”

That was new. Caspar hadn’t heard of anything like that; though, to be fair, in his mind Catherine sprang onto the scene fully-formed with Thunderbrand in hand and Fortinbras by her side. “Buh?”

“Her name used to be Cassandra. She…after Duscur, Christophe—my adoptive brother, Lonato’s trueborn son—was arrested for treason. Cassandra, Catherine, whatever, she turned him over to the Church for execution. Lonato was never really the same after that.” He held Fuergios to his chest. “Still, I didn’t think he’d ever do anything like…” He broke off again in a shaking sigh.

Wait, what? Catherine had been named something else? And she….she had executed Lonato’s son, who was Ashe’s brother? “…Holy shit. Just…Holy shit. Ashe, I…”

And why did the Church execute Christophe? Peakane wondered, the thought prodding into Caspar’s mind through their bond. Wasn’t Duscur a Kingdom thing?

“Save it,” Ashe muttered, turning towards the wall. He hadn’t looked at Caspar once since sitting down.

But Fuergios kept talking through Ashe’s silence, her voice growing more bitter and biting with every word. “That’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? Apostates will suffer the punishment of the goddess and all that? Fath—Lonato wanted vengeance for Christophe’s death, so he tried to rebel. And because of that he was executed. And he…he wasn’t even buried. There was no funeral, no consecration. He was left to rot, and his daemon will be left to wander…”

She broke off, the silence heavy in the air again as Ashe was beyond words. The only think that tore from his throat was a low keening noise, a hoarse, “Just…go.”

A small part of Caspar was all to eager to flee this place of despair, to no longer hear an Ashe making sounds that such a cheerful person should never make, and the rest of him hated himself for thinking that. This was Ashe and Fuergios; he’d only known the other boy for a few months and they had already become fast friends! And to see Ashe like this…

Peakane swam to the edge of her backpack, pressed a fin against the clear material. But instead of turning into a dog and pressing her nose to her fin in return, Fuergios became a small cat and nestled deeper into Ashe’s arms.

“Right. I, um, I’m just gonna…go.” Caspar stood and awkwardly made his way to the door. He could feel Ashe’s gaze flick up to him, but the teenager made no motion to stand. Or call him back. Or anything. “I’m gonna check back in on you later, okay?”

Ashe made no motion to move, or speak, not even when Caspar opened up the door to let the light back in. Only when he heard the lock click did he lean against the door and dig his fingers into his choppy blue hair.

“Holy shit Caspar, this is bad, this is really bad, this is a lot worse than we thought,” Peakane said from behind him. Caspar unhooked his backpack, held it in his hands so he could stare at her, with her beautiful orange and white bars while he walked blindly down the dormitory path. “I’ve never seen Ashe like this, what do we do?”

“I…I don’t know.” And it terrified him, that he didn’t know. He’d always been one to rush through life fists-first, dispensing justice right then and there. But this? What justice was there, in killing townspeople? In this whole mess? Christophe had apparently been involved in the Tragedy of Duscur or something, so the Church had executed him—

“And why was the Church involved in the first place? Wasn’t the Tragedy of Duscur a Kingdom thing?”

—Peakane was right about that, it was weird. But, back on topic, the Church had executed Christophe so Lonato fought against the church in revenge. And honestly, Caspar couldn’t really blame him. If the Church did something to his brothers, or Lin, he’d want justice for them too. So Lonato wanted to hurt the church because the church hurt him and maybe fighting wasn’t the best way to go about it after all. Because now Lonato was dead, and Ashe was hurting, but it’s what he would have done too.

“Aagh!” Caspar gripped the sides of Peakane’s backpack and shook it. “I don’t know what to think here! I don’t see any justice here, just a whole lot of hurt people hurting people and now Ashe is hurting too!”

Peakane righted herself, but was still swimming in circles as she vocalized her thoughts. “I want to ask someone for help with this but I don’t know who to ask, or even what to ask! And I kind of want someone to tell us what to think but at the same time I really really don’t.”

“And we can’t leave Ashe like this either. We need to do someth—oof!” Caspar stumbled back, rubbing his smarting head from where it had bumped into a wooden pillar, bracing against a wooden door. He turned around to see Mercedes von Martritz written on the door in a flowery script. There were a couple of felt flowers tacked neck to the name, either the work of her or Annie.

“Mercedes!” Caspar thumped his fists on the door with increasing speed until he was drumming them both in rapid succession. “Mercedes, open up; we’ve got a big problem!”

---

Mercedes was not in her room, or the dining hall, or even the classrooms. She was at the training grounds with Annette, as they both practiced flinging spells at dummy targets.

Which now, apparently, included Caspar, who talked in between ducks and dodges and the more than occasional head-on hit. Or rather, it was their daemons talking

“Oh my,” Cygnis said as Mercedes chanted another incantation. “Thank you for checking in on Ashe. I was worried he was hiding the true extent of his grief from us.”

“Why would he hide it? And he wasn’t doing a good job of it; I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ashe that bad,” Peakane grunted as Caspar sprung up from a sidewards roll. The grit from the training grounds dug into his shoulder but it was better than the spells.

Serrin danced around Annette’s feet as she launched another spell at Caspar. She was careful to pull her punches but even her attenuated fireballs were still enough to singe his skin and clothes if he let them hit. Which it did, as he doubled over with a grunt. “Cyg, I really think we need to do an intervention. We’ve got to tell Dimitri about this. Maybe even Professor Hanneman.”

Cygnis shook his head, trotting after Mercedes as she went to check on the groaning Caspar.. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Serrin. You’ve seen how Ashe feels he needs to be subservient to Dimitri. I don’t think he would be able to handle Dimitri’s attempts at comfort.”

“Not to mention he’s…not the best at it,” Mercedes added, though her eyes were still focused on Caspar’s singed torso. The skin under his shirt was red and angry-looking, but not badly burned. A whispered prater, a glow of white light, and the burn faded from his skin as it returned to its normal pinkness. “Are you okay, Caspar? Annie and I toned down our spells but you’re not the most resilient when it comes to enduring magical attacks.”

“Nrgh, yeah, I’m fine.” He jumped to his feet, shaking himself off as the water in Peakane’s backpack sloshed back and forth. “I dunno Dimitri that well but I am also worried about what Ashe said about Lonato’s daemon getting lost or something? I’m not a religious guy but that’s got to do with the way we sort of, you know, left him there without a real consecration or anything, right?”

“Essentially, yes,” Mercedes said. Cygnis whimpered next to her, his tail drooping. Caspar swallowed at the sudden sick feeling in his gut, at what they might have done to Lonato, and to Ashe in turn. “Although it is a somewhat traditional attitude, and there is quite a bit of discourse and debate over what sort of funerary rites and blessings are needed to help a human and daemon pass on to the goddess’s embrace.”

Annette dropped her hands mid-cast and slowly turned to Mercedes, eyes sparking with an idea. “Hang on, Mercie, aren’t you a priest? And my territory is close to Gaspar lands…”

It took a moment, but then Mercedes’ eyes widened in understanding. She smiled as she brought a hand to her mouth. “Annie, that is a wonderful idea. I’m sorry Caspar, but we have to cut this practice short. Thank you so much for bringing this to our attention!”

“Uh, okay?” He stood there awkwardly in the middle of the training ground, shirt singed and grit digging into his cheek, as Annette and Mercedes left. “I’ll just, uh, pack up? You’re welcome?”

---

The entire monastery was up in arms and panicked over the threat to the archbishop. Everywhere Bernie went there was a pair of guards on duty, and the knights had made sure that at least one of those pairs had a big scary daemon with sharp horns or teeth. Professor Byleth and the three house heads were running themselves ragged trying to find information and scout out potential weak points in monastery security; Professor Byleth and Edelgard had both concluded that the assassination attempt was likely a fakeout for something else, which is why they asked everyone in the house to help gather information. Even poor old Bernie got volunteered, though at least they let her pick where she would scout, and let her deliver her information in private.

“Told you offering to inspect our room wasn’t going to work,” Mal teased from inside Bernie’s pocket.

“Mal, you’re a jerk,” she whispered. At least the greenhouse was nice and quiet, even if Dedue was still there, his enormous hulking frame bent over some…oddly pretty white flowers? They were the same color as his hair, a little more silvery than Edelgard’s, and he always spent a lot of time tending to those flowers in particular. Once she had actually seen him carefully open up a window so that Levia could poke her head in to see them directly. She wasn’t sure how he had managed to do it so carefully with his enormous fingers, much less replace it without the greenhouse manager yelling at him.

Actually…the way she was stalking forward…did she notice?! Bernadetta let out a little yelp and ducked behind some large ferns, praying that her violet hair would blend in among the occasional flowers, praying that the greenhouse manager was going after Dedue and not turn her ire on poor old Bernie instead. This was one of her safe spaces! She couldn’t get kicked out of here, what would happen to the pitcher plants and Venus flytraps she had so carefully raised her babies would starve and drown without her and then she wouldn’t be able to sing anywhere else wouldn’t find a place to breathe and—

“—Yow! Mal!” she yelped, immediately drawing her voice down to a harsh whisper. Mal had nipped her thumb again.

“Shhh, Bernie, listen.” There was a worried, hard edge to his voice that was rather new. “Do you hear what the greenhouse manage is saying?”

Saying wasn’t quite the right term. Lecturing was more like it. Or maybe dressing-down. Whatever it was, the greenhouse manager was up in Dedue’s space, thrusting her finger at his face in a way that would have had Bernie run sobbing to her room had it been her. But Dedue just stood there and…took it, his shoulders square, his face set and yet almost resigned to his fate. Bernie sidled a little closer until she could make out what she was saying to the large Duscurian man.

“Listen here, boy,” the greenhouse manager spat, even though Dedue was over a foot taller than her. “You’re only here because His Royal Highness made you his little pet project. I don’t know what he was thinking but you’re probably just as shifty as the rest of your kind. Looking to add another assassination to your nation’s crimes?”

She continued like that for some time, all but accusing Dedue of being a part of the assassination plot simply because he was Duscurian, her frog daemon implying that Levia was no more than a dumb beast, and all the while Dedue and Levia just stood there and…took it. Not a single retort from Dedue, not a single snort or shout from Levia’s even larger frame silhouetted in the greenhouse walls.

And Bernadetta just…watched it happen as she cowered behind some ferns.

Mal’s frantic thoughts echoed across their bond. Do something! Stop her! Dedue is scary but he doesn’t deserve this!

I-I can’t! What if she kicks me out! And I, I can’t do it Mal!

“We need to do something!” he whispered.

Bernadetta whimpered in response, her breaths coming faster and faster to the state of near-hyperventilation. She shifted again and again, moving to stand up before her fear took over again and she just as quickly crouched back down. Stupid, useless, pathetic Bernie! Here was Dedue in trouble getting all sorts of awful things thrown at him when he was just gardening and she was too much of a pathetic fucking coward to do anything about it or even help him!

By the time Bernadetta looked backup the manager was gone, leaving Dedue alone next to those little white flowers. He waited until she was gone, the greenhouse door slamming behind her, before kneeling down and resuming his digging. It was much more violent this time; Dedue slammed the trowel into the ground with a loud chok as little flecks of earth flew everywhere.

She wanted to flee in shame, at her inability to help. But even Levia had lowered her head; he was hurting. And so, at Mal’s urging, Bernie sighed, stood, brushed off her knees, and cautiously approached Dedue for the first time in months. “I, uh, Dedue, I’m really sorry pleasedonthateme!”

Dedue didn’t jump up, but his shoulders did tense, his enormous hand tightened over the comically-small trowel. When he turned to her his face was carefully neutral but there was no hiding the thickness in his voice. “Bernadetta. I am sorry you had to see that.”

“Eeeeeepleasedontkill—wait, what?” She lowered her hands to see Dedue looking at her, that same frighteningly stern look on his face. The apologies spilled out of her mouth again, becoming higher and frantic and more of a wail with every passing word. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who should be sorry! I saw that and I should have stepped in and done something but I was too much of a stupid useless coward and just let her say the most horrible things to you and you don’t deserve that and I should have said something I’m sorry!!!” Mal tugged at her hair but to no effect as she sobbed out apologies that did nothing to quell the hatred she felt for doing nothing to help Deude in the moment when he actually needed it.

“Bernadetta.” That was Levia, Bernie realized after a moment. She had never heard the cape buffalo daemon speak. Her voice was deep and soothing, like a wise mentor who had lived countless ages and seen countless things. It was not a voice of authority like Edelgard or Avarine’s voices were, but there was a gravitas to it that made her pay attention. “This is the first time we have spoken, yes? Then you do not know me. For all you know, she could have been right.”

“N-no, she wasn’t! She shouldn’t have disrespected you like that, and you both deserve better than that! And I’m sorry that she said that!” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop herself, indignation at seeing someone else treated so terrible the way she had been treated, sure he wasn’t tied to a chair and what little she knew about the slaughter of Duscur was beyond anything she had endured, but she knew what it was like to be treated as an object, like less than nothing overpowering her terror at speaking to someone, especially someone as big and scary as Dedue.

Dedue’s stern gaze softened at that, just a little bit at the creases of his eyes. “Thank you. It is…nice, to hear that you think such a thing.”

“Do…do  you want me to tell Professor Byleth?” Her professor was incredibly understanding and fair and helpful. Even if Dedue wasn’t in her class she’d probably be furious, well as furious as she was capable of being, to hear somebody saying awful things like that about him; maybe she’d stop the manager from treating Dedue like that. And even if she didn’t, she’d tell Dimitri, and he would. He and Dedue were really close, after all.

But Dedue shook his head. Bernie dared to look in his eyes, tried and failed to keep the fear from welling up within her as her head craned up and up and up to look at his, but there was no evidence of his true feelings there. Just his same sort of scary sternness, not Professor Byleth’s blankness but a wall of stoicism and mild intimidation.

She’d been staring at him, frozen, for several minutes until Levia broke the spell. “Thank you Bernadetta, but we will be fine.”

“Oh! Um, um, okay then.” Bernadetta instantly cringed back in on herself. “I’ll just, uh, be goingnowbye!” The last words were a tumble as she sprinted out of the greenhouse, only slowing down when her shoes tracked against the grass of the path to the dorms instead of clacking on the cobblestones outside the greenhouse.

Malecki pressed his nose against Bernie’s wrist. His whole body was quivering in her palms; whether from excitement or adrenaline she couldn’t quite tell. Her hands were shaking too. “Bernie, we did it! We actually talked to Dedue! No, you did it!”

“We…wow Mal, I, haha, I talked to Dedue I can’t believe it I talked to Dedue, haha…” Her laugh became something high and nervous as the adrenaline and weight of the past few minutes slammed down on her all at once. The world spun around her, tilted under her feet as she could hear her heart hammering a rapid pace all the way up in her ears. She talked to Dedue, that enormous stoic mountain of a man and here she was, still alive and still breathing even after he had every right to be furious at her for—

“I should have stopped her from bothering him, I shouldn’t have let her say those awful things,” Bernadetta whimpered. “Stupid worthless Bernie, can’t help someone right in front of me, I—”

“—Bernie, don’t say things like that,” Mal implored, placing his little paws around her thumb. “We, yes, okay we should have helped, but we talked to him. That’s more than before! And next time we’ll do better, right?”

“…Why does there have to be a next time?” But there was going to be a next time. Of course there would be a next time. She was so tired all of a sudden. Now that the adrenaline had washed over her and her hammering heart slowed, the terrified certainty that she was about die squeezed away, she felt drained. Scooped out. “That, haa, that was a lot, Mal.” He nodded; she could feel the weariness in him too, all the energy used up in pulling them both together holding them through that conversation with Dedue because she was too pathetic to just do it like a normal person would. “Tomorrow’s got to be just an inside day.”

Malecki nodded, too drained to speak above a low murmur. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. Inside day sounds good.”

Of course, Hubert von Vestra picked that exact moment to approach her, his voice low and menacing, promising a slow and painful demise.

Oh nonononono! Please nodontkillme help me gonna die gonna die I’mgonnadie!

Her mind went blank, blind panic slammed down over her, and the last thing she remembered was the icy grin of death itself making its implacable approach.

---

Hubert nudged the limp body slumped before him. “Oh dear. I may have taken this too far.”

Thanily sniffed Malecki; the hedgehog daemon had rolled out of her hands into a loose limp comma inches away from her fingertips. “Gee, you think?”

Bernadetta was still breathing; her breath was slow and even as it ghosted warm on his gloved fingertips. She had simply passed out from fright. Hubert remained in his crouched position as he looked her over, checking for obvious injuries and finding none. He was frightening; he knew that. Reveled in it, actually. Carefully crafted that aura of menace and murderous intent, the better to intimidate people into following Lady Edelgard’s will. Bernadetta, terrified of the world, was petrified of him. But she had never actually passed out from fright due to him.

Normally he would be filled with satisfaction at a job well done. But instead, for some reason, he felt just a little bit…hollow. Sad? The feeling made no sense, but it wouldn’t go away, not even when he turned to level a glare at the likely source of it, the half of him that was more likely to openly express emotion.

Thani didn’t even pretend to look embarrassed. Instead she stared him down, maintaining eye contact as she batted a paw over the unconscious Malecki. “Well? Are we just going to leave her here?”

Bernadetta was still unconscious. Was she just asleep now? She did look exhausted before he snuck up on her. Everyone in the Eagles, no the entire monastery was exhausted to some extent or another. That damnable archbishop and her lackeys had run them all ragged, forcing teenagers onto security detail while at the same time cutting all unessential classes from their schedules. Not to mention Professor Byleth had, with Lady Edelgard’s prompting, realized that the archbishop was not the true target, so the entire house was doing reconnaissance alongside security and classes. Hubert’s coffee intake had doubled over the past few weeks, Ferdinand had taken to steeping his black tea to the very edge of acceptable palatability just for the extra caffeine, and stores of both were running low in the pantry.

Hubert sighed and scooped her up in his arms, staggering back as he lifted her form; she was as light as she looked but he wasn’t particularly strong. One arm dangled and he leaned back to try and tuck it back over her stomach, positioning his hands so as not to accidentally touch anywhere, ah, improper, so to speak. Thanily bent down and picked up Malecki, trotting along beside him as she carried the hedgehog in her mouth, lips curled back so as not to pierce herself on his spines.

The walk back to Bernadetta’s room was slow and cautious; Hubert carefully picked his way around the cobblestones so as not to trip and give them both a concussion. Thani had a much easier time of things, to the point where she even tried speaking around the hedgehog daemon in her mouth. “Cah oo ihwa—” Thani stopped, wincing as those spines poked her tongue. She gently deposited Malecki, still unconscious, onto her paws before trying again. “Can you imagine if it was Ferdinand and Embrienne instead?”

The sheer absurdity of that mental image made Hubert stop dead in his tracks and laugh, full-bodied and just as ominous as the rest of him. He and Thanily could both clearly see it, Ferdinand nobly carrying Bernadetta like in the gaudiest and schlockiest of tapestries…while also trying to carry Malecki without touching him. A trowel would likely be involved, or perhaps a paper bag, neither of which would fit well in Ferdinand’s oh-so-noble presentation.

“Yes Thani, yes I can. And it is glorious.”

They continued to Bernadetta’s room, Hubert’s shoulders shaking in mirth much of the way. Her door was surprisingly unlocked, and was silent as it opened. It was dusk; the furniture in her room cast long shadows that obscured corners. But Hubert von Vestra was a man of the shadows, and Thanily’s yellow eyes gleamed as she quickly adjusted to the dark.

Bernadetta’s room was cluttered—sheets of paper were scattered on the desk, with a half-finished embroidery piece partially covering them, and several textbooks were stacked up by the foot of the bed—but clean. For all that she frequently ate in her room there was barely a crumb. Her bed was made, the blankets smooth, and the smuggled dishes were rinsed and neatly stacked on the adjacent nightstand. Even the chair was clean and wiped down, free of dust.

Hubert carefully laid Bernadetta down on the bed; Thani jumped up onto the bed to place Malecki on the pillow next to her. “I was expecting more of a hovel, or a rat’s nest,” she said. “But this place is surprisingly clean. Especially given how Bernadetta does not seem to give much regard to personal grooming beyond regular basic hygiene. Which, at least, she is meticulous about.”

“Hm. That is an interesting observation,” Hubert mused, distantly. Like he wasn’t paying much attention. Because he wasn’t paying much attention.

What he was paying attention to were the corners of dusty letters peeking out from under Bernadetta’s bed. And several faint, jagged, irregularly lined scars marring her right hand and forearm.

“I think,” Hubert said, a dangerous note creeping into his already-sinister tone of voice as Thanily’s eyes narrowed, her lips curled in a snarl, “We need to do some digging regarding a certain Minister von Varley.”

---

Delcabia and Belial’s sheer size made it difficult for the six humans and their daemons to squeeze into Byleth’s room and impossible for Dedue to attend at all (though he had been under close watch from the monks anyway; Dimitri was seething from the naked injustice of it all but couldn’t do anything about it at the moment), but they managed. Even if it meant that Dimitri spent the entire conversation practically sitting on Delcabia, Avarine was precariously perched on the bulletin board, and Claude, Hilda, and Hubert were squeezed up against each other atop the low bookcase next to the window. Rain lashed at the windows; the rumble and crash of thunder interrupted them every few minutes.

In other words, nobody wanted to be outside, and nobody would be listening in. Which was good, because what they were doing was mildly heretical. Nothing too serious, especially since Byleth held Archbishop Rhea’s favor for some reason, but shady enough that they didn’t want anybody asking uncomfortable questions.

“Annette and Mercedes should be back within the next few days,” Dimitri said as Delcabia snorted and flicked her gaze back and forth between the window and door. He was the most uncomfortable with this whole plan, the one who adhered most to the rules and laws of the goddess and society, the crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, after all. But Ashe had barely shown up to class in the past three weeks, and Fuergios looked like she was slowly wasting away. Something had to be done.

In contrast, Claude and Hilda looked positively giddy to be causing some mischief, and Hubert and Edelgard looked…eager. Like hyenas circling a kill. They were enjoying this, and if they were trying to hide it then they were failing miserably.

“Marianne was surprisingly okay with the idea,” Hilda yawned, stretching wide enough that Simurg had to slither to Claude’s other arm with a protesting hiss. “Though I did have to take over her weeding duties for the rest of the month—you owe me for that, by the way.”

“Ignatz wasn’t terribly difficult to convince either,” Halmstadt added from atop Hilda’s head, his iridescent blue scales a garish yet somehow fitting contrast with her bubblegum-pink hair. “I just needed to reframe it in terms of the goddess, and Mist did the rest of the work.”

“Not to mention Iggy’s never worked with wood before,” Claude chimed in. “It’s not often you get to indulge in a hobby and get a challenge at the same time.” He deliberately ignored Hilda’s comments about the weeds.

Everyone else in the room, except for Byleth, nodded in agreement.

Hubert forsook all niceties and simply gave his status report. “Our performance in the last battle has attracted the Archbishop’s attention, not to mention the presence of our esteemed professor herself. As such, our assistance will be limited at best.”

“I can cover for you though, at least to some extent,” Byleth chimed in.

“Of course,” Claude muttered. “Will Petra still be able to help?”       

“I believe so.”

“Then we’re still good.” Claude leaned back into his easy smile, kicked his legs up against Byleth’s bedpost. He refused to put his feet down, even at Belial’s annoyed growl.

Simurg lifted her head off Claude’s bicep to observe the room. Three lords, two retainers, one Teach, and all their daemons, wedged into a tiny bedroom plotting mild heresy (or sacrilege, whatever, she was never one for religion) for the sake of one grief-stricken classmate. “You know, when the Church talked about diplomacy and forging bonds between the nations, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.”

That drew laughter from the students, though it ranged wildly from Hubert’s appreciative chuckle to Dimitri’s nervous laugh, echoed in their daemons.

The rain slowly died down to a steady downpour instead of the earlier deluge as the thunder faded away. The downpour then faded to a gentle consistent patter, and Dimitri was the first to leave. He bowed politely as he left, as did Delcabia—although the bristly hog was still lashing her tail, and stared at Avarine with an unidentifiable emotion. Dedue was already waiting outside, uncaring of the warm rain that soaked him and Levia through. Claude and Hilda left next, Halmstadt taking cover inside an elaborately decorated capsule around Hilda’s neck.

Claude left with one of his signature easy smiles and waves. “See you around, Teach. This was fun!”

Edelgard and Hubert stood to leave next when a bare hand on her clothed wrist stopped her. “Edelgard, wait.”

Rhea’s words still circled in Byleth’s head.

“This mission should prove useful in demonstrating to the students how foolish it would be to ever turn their blades on the church.”

She needed to tell Edelgard, whose cool disdain for the church was beginning to be noticed even by her. Needed to warn her.

So she did.

Both Edelgard and Hubert seemed unfazed by the news. Unsurprised. Almost…like they were expecting her to say something like that. But Edelgard’s nostrils flared, and Hubert’s fingers tightened on his arms. Less subtly, Avarine leaned forward and flash her wings with a screech, and Thanily’s fur bristled straight up as she snarled.

“Of course she would say something like that,” Edelgard said, her voice clipped. “That’s what the Church is, that’s what the Church does. I would say that’s what Rhea does, but it seems like they are much the same more often than not. This is a training ground, not just in tactics and diplomacy but in teaching us to be good obedient little soldiers, always ready to jump at the Church’s beck and call. And more importantly, teaching us to live in fear of the Church and what it could do. They train us well. When you teach someone they can’t escape when they’re too small to succeed, they’ll never try. Even when they’re older, stronger, and able to do so.”

“But if you think about it, Rhea was quite foolish to say this to Byleth,” Hubert added. “Learned helplessness depends on the subject not even considering escape, believing it is pointless to even try. But now that we know her aim, we can see the façade for what it is.”

“Byleth, don’t tell anybody we’re talking about this. Openly questioning the archbishop? Well, we’ve seen all too well where it leads.” Edelgard was serious.

Unbeknownst to them, people were listening. Or, rather, Ardior and Calphour were. The little goldcrest daemon perched atop Ardior’s head, his entire body smaller than the snow goose daemon’s skull. They hadn’t moved from the corner window for the past several minutes.

It really had been an accident. Petra had been giving Dorothea some pointers in the wicked-fast swordsmanship of Brigid when they had been caught by the sudden summer thunderstorm. They had heard the low conversation in Byleth’s room while racing back to theirs. And now here they were, Ardior and Calphour listening in while Dorothea and Petra hid in a nearby nook at the very edge of their range, the sweat from the psychic strain of distance washed off in the downpour.

“So it really is official church doctrine,” Calphour murmured to himself. And Edelgard openly questioned this? Openly spat her contempt for it? The Adrestian princess was…wow. His heart surged with respect for her. Screw those greedy narcissistic nobles. This was a future ruler worth following.

Ardior looked up at the little daemon on his head, though he couldn’t catch more than a flash of wing. He was so light, and it felt surprisingly comfortable to have Cal perched atop him. “What exactly are you meaning by that?”

“Remember when Thea made that sarcastic comment about sending us into live combat as part of official church doctrine?” He was shaking, but it wasn’t just from the rain.

The rain flattened Ardior’s feathers too, but not his voice. That was flat from something else entirely. “Ah. I believe I have understanding.”

Calphour watched Edelgard and Hubert leave, watched Byleth pull up a chair and get back to grading papers. Belial yawned and curled up on the bed. “I think we need to talk to Edelgard. Sooner, rather than later.”

---

Several days later, Petra sat cross-legged in the ungodly mess that was Claude’s room, making it that much messier as she whittled away at a hollowed-out piece of wood. Ardior and Simurg stood (or laid, in Simurg’s case) on several blueprints. The pieces of wood had to fit together perfectly, had to be sanded down to prevent friction. Claude was more familiar with metal, leather, and stone when making these sorts of things, but Petra was surprisingly good at the craft.

Quite aggressive though, as she dug the small knife into the wood, flinging off pieces of it with great force. Almost as if she was channeling some frustration into the carving. Which, actually, she was.

“Hey Petra, something eating you?”

Was this another weird Fodlanese idiom? “I am not being eaten. Claude, what are you…what do you mean by that phrase?”

“Oh, sorry.” Claude leaned back, casualness exuding from every inch of him. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is something bothering you?”

Actually, something was. Claude was always questioning, probing. Simurg was a good fit for him, even if the snake daemon did make people look twice at the roguish young man. But snakes always looked for the best spots to hide and hunt. And that was what Claude always did. And yet his charm compelled her to speak. Edelgard would have also listened, especially given what she said to Byleth a few days ago, but she wasn’t here right now. And by the time they would have seen each other again, Petra would have already pushed her concerns down beneath her duty and need to make allies.

“It is…The monastery is looking for enemies in every corner, and I have understanding as to why, but they are looking in our corners as well. I do not know what they are wanting from me! The priests and monks say that I am a suspicious person for this plot because I am not being…I am not from Fodlan, but when I am going to the cathedral to keep Rhea safe and show that I am being…I am trustworthy, they are saying that because I am not following the Fodlan goddess I should not be there!”

Her frustrations spilled over, the wave quickly receding but the foundations still weakened in their wake. Petra’s carving became even more violent, her knuckles white as they gripped the blade, and Ardior shouted every frustration. “Bakit ba parang lagi nalang walang tiwala yung mga taga-Fodlan sa atin? Wala na ngang tiwala, ang yayabang pa!”

Claude paused from his inspection of the blueprints, one eyebrow raised at Ardior’s tirade in his native tongue. “Okay, I have no idea what you just said but I think I understand the sentiment. This place can be a real racist shithole sometimes, can’t it.”

“Claude, you should not be saying such things out loud!” Not even in his room. Who could be listening outside?

“Oh, my apologies.”

A pause. Then Simurg spoke. “This place can be a real racist shithole sometimes.”

She should have seen that coming, Petra thought as she rolled her eyes. But when they returned to Claude she looked at him—really looked at him. The smile that never reached his eyes. His black hair with its loose curls. His bark-brown skin, darker than hers but lighter than Dedue’s. The slight accent, different from anyone else she had ever spoken to in the Golden Deer. His casual talk of outsiders. The strange urn—an incense burner?—in the corner of his room whose likeness she had never seen in the cathedral, whose pattern she had never noticed on the architecture of this monastery.

“Hindi ka rin taga-Fodlan, no?” Ardior whispered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. It was nothing.” Petra returned to her carving; the final image was starting to take shape. “The people in my class are being very…are very kind and accepting, but this has been the exception in my time here. It is as if the people of Fodlan are being raised to look at those outside its walls as predators. Or sometimes prey.”

Now Claude wasn’t meeting her eyes at all. And yet Simurg slithered off his arm to curl around Ardior’s webbed feet. “Have you ever read the holy texts of the Church of Seiros? Really read them, I mean, not just skimmed them during services but parsed the text and actually thought about its implications? Because if you haven’t, I would highly suggest doing so.” He laughed, hollow and bitter. “It’s quite, shall we say, enlightening.”

It didn’t sound like that was the term Claude wanted to use at first, but Petra understood. “At the next Saints’ Day I will. If they will be allowing…if they allow me entrance into the cathedral.”

“Hopefully all this will have blown over by then.” Claude looked back up at Petra, and that rakish smile was plastered on his face once more for the world to see. “I took a look at the class registrar in the library; they have the records of previous classes as well. Did you know that our class is probably the most diverse one that Garreg Mach has had in years, both in terms of nationality and social status?”

Petra furrowed her brow as she thought rapidly. In terms of nationality, only she and Dedue, and likely Claude himself she just realized, were not from Fodlan. In terms of not being noble, Dorothea was a commoner who clawed her way here on her own terms. Ashe was a commoner, but his circumstances were…unique. In the Golden Deer, Ignatz must have come from a well-off family to afford glasses, Raphael sold his fortune, and from what she heard Leonie’s entire village had set up a collection just to send her to the monastery and she was drowning in debt. “Our class is diverse?”

“Yeah.” That hollow laugh was back. “Really says a lot, doesn’t it?”

A hiss from Simurg as she looked up from where she was loosely curled around Ardior. The snow goose daemon had sat on the ground, her white feathers fluffing out around her. “But this is still the most diverse class Garreg Mach has had in years, which means this is our greatest chance to get those stuffy nobles to see some different perspectives firsthand. We’re all going to be leading our nations some day. So maybe, if we can get our classmates to think differently, see different perspectives, then when we all end up leading our nations things will be better. We can start breaking down those walls. Fodlan won’t be a hermit continent anymore. I mean, look at us now, all working together for the sake of one student.”

It was a lovely dream, and one Petra found herself working towards as well, in her own way. “I would be hoping that greatly.”

---

“What do you want?”

There was a bit of emotion in Ashe’s voice. And he had opened the door. So that was good. Fuergios was still that tiny owl though, more disheveled than she had been the prior week. And the room still smelled, really bad.

“I wanted to give you something,” replied Caspar. “Actually,” he motioned to the collection of students (even Marianne was there) from all three houses crowding the doorway, “We all did.”

Dimitri stepped forward; he cradled a package in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m not the best at this sort of thing. And I know it won’t bring Lonato back. But...maybe this can provide some solace.”

A confused Ashe took the package. Caspar found himself leaning forward, Peakane swimming up to the top of her backpack to take a closer look. His conversation with Annie and Mercie may have sparked all this, but he hadn’t had a chance to see the final product. The sound of tearing paper punctuated his thoughts, their abrupt cessation a full stop.

Ashe’s hands trembled as he stared at the gift. It was a smallish box, about the diameter of a notebook, made from many interlocking slats of wood. The box was apparently sealed, but one side—the lid, presumably—was adorned.

A carefully whittled screech owl, painted and glazed with such care as to be almost lifelike at first glance, rose up from the lid to stare back at the boy.

“It’s a puzzle box,” Claude explained as he ran his fingers over the box. They probed and pressed and occasionally twisted the smooth wood in a deliberate, preordained pattern. “I love these things, spent way too much time learning to make them as a kid. It looks like a sealed box, but when you move the pieces just so...”

Right on cue, the lid unfolded. Inside, nestled in fabric and stoppered with cork, was a small clay jar. Ashe popped it open and...

...Held it. And held it.

“Magdred Way also leads to Dominic lands,” Annette said in a low voice. “It wasn’t too hard to find the battlefield. And Mercie and I both know fire magic, so...

“Everything in there is Lonato,” Mercedes whispered, her feathery voice even softer than usual. “We made sure of that. “

Ashe was trembling, but he still clutched the urn like it was the most precious thing in the world. Which, to him, it probably was.

Mercedes continued, every word a balm. “Since Lonato never had an official Church funeral, a proper funeral would require two people familiar with the rites. Marianne also knows them all.”

“Penumbrior has a beautiful singing voice,” Cygnis added over the armadillo daemon’s rapid-fire denials.

“Lonato and his daemon won’t be lost. And he got a proper funeral.”

Ashe was still silent, still clutched the urn and the wood box it rested in. But Fuergios shifted to a crow on his shoulder, her eyes bright on a way Caspar hadn’t seen in weeks, and the brawler found himself wiping away some very unmanly tears.

Caspar would always run fists-first through life. That’s just the kind of man he was. But maybe there was something to diplomacy and talking and patience after all.

Ashe joined him for sparring practice the next day. And although there was still a deep sadness in his eyes, it wasn’t the wild grief of before. And he had bathed, and combed his hair. So although there was a glint in his eyes that made Caspar for some reason reluctant to talk about the church or even Thun...Catherine in a way that was entirely different from before, it took him a while to notice what was significantly different.

Fuergios was a snake. Fuergios was never a snake. She preferred the forms of dogs, of hooved herd animals that banded together to fend off predators. The stereotypical daemon forms of chivalry, the daemons of the most brave and loyal knights. Even Uncle Randolph’s daemon was an Aegir Hound.

But Fuergios was a snake. And although Caspar did not yet know it, although she had not yet settled, she would never take those traditional knightly forms again.

Notes:

Whew! This was a fun one to write, even if it took way too long.

Bernie's injuries will be explained in a side story. God I have so many of them this fic is metastasizing. Expect to see lots of little side stories popping up at some point!

Again, a HUGE thank you to Lycheeloving for providing me with translations! Yes, Petra is Filipino-coded in this story. Expect to see this explored more in some fashion in the future.

Translations:

1. “Bakit ba parang lagi nalang walang tiwala yung mga taga-Fodlan sa atin? Wala na ngang tiwala, ang yayabang pa!” // "Why does it seem like people from Fodlan are always suspicious of us? Suspicious, and arrogant on top of that!"

2. "Hindi ka rin taga-Fodlan, no?" // "You're not from Fodlan either, huh?"

Humans and daemons introduced in this chapter:

Shamir and Veradis (male fire salamander)

Cyril and Lashkar (female yellow-winged bat)

See you all around soon! As always, thank you for reading, I love to hear your thoughts, and I hope you all enjoyed!

Chapter 8: Second Chances

Summary:

In which the Black Eagles get to take a bit of a breather and consider their relationship status, and the Death Knight lives up to his name.

Notes:

So this one's a bit of a breather, at least initially, but I think we all need it after that last update! As always, I hope you all enjoy it! Thank you for being patient; I still have interviews and applications to go through but I'm plugging away at it all. Also, I will update the side stories every so often.

Content warning(s) in the endnotes so people can avoid spoilers if they wish.

Also, I have found the anthem for pre-timeskip Ferdibert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHFMMmE56ac

Both: For you see my classmate is...
Ferdinand: Unusually and exceedingly peculiar and altogether quite impossible to describe~
Hubert: Ginger.

The Albinean Berry blend smelled of cherries and vanilla, smoothing out the astringency of the black tea that made up the base of the blend. The teapot was still warm, and the cookies had a cloth over them to keep the flies and bees away. Edelgard drummed her fingers on the table, glancing back and forth between the entrance to her favored place for a semi-private teatime and the perch on which Avarine rested.

“Dorothea is extremely intelligent and equally as adept at reading people,” Edelgard said. “How much are we going to tell her?”

Obviously not the declaring war part, Avarine thought across their bond, closing her beak at the sound of footsteps. We’re going to feel her out, see how much disdain she really holds towards the church and the nobility, and go from there.

Right on cue, Calphour fluttered around the hedges, with Dorothea just behind. She waved a hand in cheerful greeting. “Ah, Edie! It’s not every day I get a missive from the princess of the empire herself.” She pulled out the chair and swung into it; meanwhile, Calphour flew up to the perch. Avarine shuffled over to allow the little goldcrest daemon enough room to comfortably sit as Dorothea leaned forward, head propped up on her elbows, a slightly flirtatious smile on her face. “And in such a secluded location, no less.”

Even though it was still too hot to drink, Edelgard took that moment to sip her tea and hope that the cup would block the faint amount of color in her cheeks. Flames, why did so many people at the academy have to be physically attractive? Her professor was bad enough, especially after letting Belial stay the night, and Dorothea was likely teasing as she was apt to do (after all, despite her smile, Calphour still gave Avarine her space on the perch instead of snuggling in closer as she had seen truly flirting or dating daemons do), but still.

It’s a cruel joke, Ava murmured across their link, when we don’t have the time for romance, in any sense of the word. We don’t even have time to change the world in a gentler way.

“Edie? You’re being awfully quiet.”

“My apologies, I just have a lot on my mind.” She took another sip of tea. Bergamot was her favorite, as was the custom-made Hresvelg blend, but this wasn’t bad. It had a nice sweetness to balance out the slight bitterness of the tea itself. The cookies were also quite tasty; was there almond in them? “I am a princess after all, which means I have to deal with Empire duties on top of regular schoolwork and being a house leader.”

Dorothea’s brow knitted in concern. “I’m not taking up too much of your time, am I? Because I can just go if it’s too much trouble.” Calphour shifted, ready to take flight.

Avarine’s wing shot out, shielding Calphour and encouraging him to settle back down on the perch. “I promise, we wouldn’t invite you if we couldn’t spare the time. Besides, it’s useful to get another perspective every now and then.”

“So many nobles of the Empire are completely useless,” Edelgard spat. “They’re more interested in filling their bellies and coffers than anything else. When I become emperor, I intend to only appoint those with the merit to fill the necessary bureaucratic positions, regardless of their position of birth.”

And there was the shine in Dorothea’s eyes that Edelgard was expecting, the slow smirk creeping up one side of her face. “Really, you can do that? Well, don’t let me stop you; I’d give all those greedy sacks of lard the boot if I could.” Calphour let out a shudder that was only slightly dramatized.

A heavy nod from Edelgard. “It’s not a matter of can or can’t, but a matter of doing it and doing it right. There was no concept of nobility before the Adrestian empire took shape. If somebody could create it, then somebody can change, or even undo it.”

Dorothea frowned. “But that’s over a thousand years. Nobility is entrenched in every aspect of society. What would take its place? The church?”

She didn’t sound happy about that prospect, and a moment of fervent hope sparked in Edelgard’s chest.  “Dorothea, what are your thoughts on the church?”

“Don’t worry,” Avarine quickly added, “This is a safe space.”

Calphour and Dorothea laughed, a short derisive bark from each in unison. “Well thank the goddess for that.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Or not, because her servants in Fodlan can go fuck themselves.”

Both human and daemon sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“Well, the nobles are, with very few exceptions, a bunch of lazy idiots working off our sweat and not doing anything to actually, you know, help in return—”

“—Though Bernie, Ingrid, and a few of the others aren’t quite as bad, maybe there’s some hope in this batch—”

“—Yes yes Cal, don’t write them all off, I know. Point is, first off the Church endorses the nobility system and their crests in the first place. And when the noblility inevitably failed, the Church could have really stepped in! They could have really helped set up something to help people through the long winters, but what did they actually give? Empty platitudes and the occasional soup kitchen where they would take the opportunity to preach at us while we stood in line for a bowl of lukewarm watery gruel!” The teacup clattered as Dorothea slammed it onto the saucer with unnecessary force, her lip curled in a snarl before she composed herself.

It wasn’t anything Edelgard didn’t know about—Hubert had prepared a thorough dossier on Dorothea in preparation for this meeting, after all—but to hear it from the normally wry flirty young woman herself was different. “I’m sorry to have brought up painful memories.”

“Oh Edie, it’s okay. It’s not like you knew, and it’s all in the past.”

She did, but it wasn’t like she was going to say it. They spoke for some time on the nature of Adrestian politics, the nobility, the church, and their complete uselessness. So many times Avarine wanted to openly recruit Dorothea to their cause, but Edelgard stopped her. They needed to be oblique, circumspect. But even with her careful speech, she…had fun. Dorothea was intelligent, diligent, witty and sharp with a sense of humor and insight as cutting as Hubert’s. She was fun to talk to. So they talked for nearly an hour, long after the cookies were devoured and the tea had gone cold.

Finally, with some reluctance, Avarine flew off her perch to Edelgard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but we have a scheduled meeting with Professor Byleth.” They had narrowed down the possible locations of attack (what was Raphael thinking, attacking the mess hall? Edelgard wasn’t privy to all of the details on this assault but if the rumors about the Holy Mausoleum were true…) and now needed to plan their counterassault. She hated this, hated playing both sides and pretending to be a student when she had much greater, and more horrible, goals. All she really wanted was to soak up these halcyon days, enjoy herself with her new friends, flirt and fight and learn and fall in love, enjoy the life she should have had before those who slithered in the dark and those who dared to call themselves holy stripped all that away from her, along with her siblings’ lives, and the lives of so many others.

“But I would love to speak with you again. If I am going to make a new and better Adrestian Empire, then I will need wisdom and expertise from as many different sources as possible. Dorothea, you are a woman to be admired, and I am proud to call you an ally and friend.” And oh, she wanted that to stay. At that moment, she hoped that Dorothea would understand and forgive her inevitable betrayal, even if it was too much to ask the former opera star to walk beside her.

Dorothea was not privy to her thoughts, and so chuckled. “My, that almost sounds like a recruitment speech! And yet I find myself wanting to believe in you, or at least see your path. I would love to talk again. Honestly, Edie, you say the most fantastical things sometimes. And yet you somehow manage to make them sound attainable, like you’re going to bend the world to your will. It’s almost like you’re the starring character in your own opera!”

It was almost operatic, wasn’t it. But there were two genres in general. “I wonder how they would portray me,” she mused. “The revolutionary who guided the Empire to a new dawn…or the foolish ruler who took her revolution too far…”

Calpour turned to eye Edelgard, but the smile never left Dorothea’s face. It was fixed there as she said, “Well, either way, it would make for a wonderful story.” And then, Flames take her, she broke into song. “Hail the mighty Edelgard, though red blood stains her story…”

Now Edelgard buried her face in her hands, where she could feel the blush warming her cheeks. “Dorothea, stop…”

She did not. And then Calphour joined in with his liquid baritone. “Hail the mighty Avarine; her talons—"

Avarine launched herself off Edelgard’s shoulders and chased Calphour around the courtyard; both he and Dorothea screeched in laughter at Edelgard and Avarine’s flustered protests.

Eventually Dorothea actually got up to leave with the same cheery wave as when she entered. Though she was humming her new hymn to Edelgard under her breath the whole while.

Edelgard’s head was still buried in her hands, but she flicked her gaze over to Avarine. The gyrfalcon silently took to the air and followed Dorothea and Calphour from a distance. Edelgard sat up, closed her eyes, and breathed as she let herself more clearly see through Avarine’s eyes and hear through Avarine’s ears at the expense of her own senses. But it was safe here, as safe as anywhere could be at least.

Calphour sat on Dorothea’s shoulders and spoke in a low voice. “There’s more she’s not telling.”

“I know, but Edie keeps her cards close. And we are, in the end, just a glorified street rat while she's the freaking princess; don't look at me like that Cal it's true and you know it. Frankly I think we got a lot of information from her today. We’ll just have to wait and see until she feels comfortable telling us more.”

Their voices went low, low enough that Avarine didn’t want to risk getting any closer. That was enough for today anyway. She turned around and flew back, aching to be close to her El again.

---

Petra had been holed up in the cathedral for literally the entire day and was getting increasingly frustrated. Ardi had surrendered to a moment, well, several moments of immaturity and honked as loudly as he could just to hear it echo around those polished stone walls and vaulted ceilings, just to break the boredom of sitting and alleviate some of Petra’s mounting frustration.

“It’s not that I can’t read these; they’re perfectly legible,” she said to Ardior, comfortable in their native tongue. “I’ve been in Fodlan long enough to learn how to read and write the language, even if some of the grammatical constructions still elude me when speaking out loud.”

Ardior nodded before leaning over to flip another page of the Book of Seiros. “The problem isn’t the words, it’s the sentences. This may use the same letters and words as the language we read and write and hear and speak every day, but it’s not the same language at all! This is a language of, of,” He flapped his wings, searching for the word. “Of stories and parables. There’s a whole layer of metaphor and allegory here that I’m just not getting. Like this!” He pointed towards a passage. “Why do they refer to wolves and stars so much when this Immaculate One is neither, at least from what images exist? And just what is this Immaculate One, and why is it called that?”

“I don’t know.” Petra groaned in frustration and shook her head. “Fodlanese is a second language, and Fodlan is a second culture. We don’t have the wider context for the language of the Fodlan religion like we do back home. I’m sure the people here wouldn’t understand the deeper meaning of our stories or spirits without a very long explanation. Probably several.”

This wasn’t going to work, not alone. Petra flopped onto the pew, tabling her research for the moment. “We’re going to have to ask someone for help parsing these and giving context. Maybe Dorothea?”

“What? Why?” Ardior honked. “She’s not religious at all! Actually, I think she kind of hates the church.”

At this point Petra’s arm was over her head, so her voice came out muffled. “Oh yeah, good point. Maybe Linhardt? Or Mercedes? What about Marianne?”

Ardior sat on Petra’s chest and nestled down; Petra absentmindedly ran her hands over his sleek white feathers. He had settled about five months ago and she was still finding new things about his form every day. It did make a certain kind of sense; she was only fifteen. Even if Petra knew who she was at the very core, there were new things to discover about herself every day. “Linhardt might have the knowledge to help us, if he doesn’t fall asleep halfway through. Mercedes would know the most for sure, but she’s got enough on her plate right now with Ashe and everything. Marianne might know quite a bit too.”

“So Linhardt and Marianne would likely be our best options.” Petra sat up with a yawn and stretch; Ardior fluttered to the ground. They both stared at the holy text. Would she be allowed to take it out of the cathedral? She was pretty stealthy, and she could always say that she wanted to study the religion of Fodlan on her own time. That would probably satisfy the monks looking to convert her as well, even though she prayed to the spirits of home and always would, even though the priests declared that the Flame Spirit in particular would watch over her from her very first breath. Still, she was a foreigner, and many people of the church seemed awfully eager to think the worst of foreigners—especially these days.

In the end, Petra decided to take a chance and slipped the book into her schoolbag. It was heavier than she thought, but she adjusted quickly. The sunlight glared in her eyes as she stepped outside. Just how long had she been in there, reading the texts and trying to parse them out as Claude had suggested?

Ardior brought her out of those thoughts, albeit in a particularly obnoxious way. “So why did you suggest Dorothea, if she’s not fond of the Church?”

“Nggllkk!” Petra stumbled forward but managed to catch herself. “Well, um, given her opinions on the Church, she could provide a, uh, a unique perspective?”

Somehow, Ardior managed to smirk. How could he smirk? He had a bill! “Bullshit. You like her, don’t you Petra?”

“I—” Her sentence broke off into stutters as she felt heat rise to her face. “Ardior, you’re my daemon. If I like her, then you like her too!”

Ardior simply honked a laugh in response, beat his black-tipped wings and took off in flight. He soared as far ahead as he dared go without being too far from Petra, out of the empty echoing cathedral and into the afternoon sun. Petra gave chase—how could she not?—shouting for him to come back, teasing him in their native tongue as he laughed and flew on ahead in the bright hot summer air.

He and Petra had the fate of their nation on their shoulders, but they were also only fifteen. What was the point if they couldn’t take a break every once in a while?

---

Ferdinand von Aegir was not having a good week.

First there was Dorothea, who hated him in a way that went past the distant cool disdain he knew she held for many nobles into something visceral, venomous, personal. And he could not for the life of him understand why! He had never met her before in his life. Perhaps his father had done something to her and her family? It was painful to accept but his father behaved in a way that brought shame to the von Aegir name. When he became prime minister he would work to benefit his subjects instead of lining his own pockets. He was Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir, after all! Was this duty towards others not how they settled, not who they were to the core? Dorothea was clearly thinking of something else when she challenged them with why Embry settled as a bee, but he could not even begin to understand what that something else might be.

Still, even if his father had done something terrible to Dorothea or her family, she did not seem like the type of person to visit the sins of the father upon the son. And if what his father did to her was egregious enough for her to do so then he would have likely heard speculation as to why! But alas, no such rumor existed, and so Ferdinand was left with little more than cryptic clues to figure out why Dorothea hated him so, why Calphour stared at Embrienne with such venom as to make her want to hide inside her capsule like they were preparing for battle.

That would have been bad enough, but then he had most grievously offended Bernadetta. He had found himself growing closer to the timid young woman over the past several months in the academy. He could tell that she found working with the horses soothing, and found himself looking forward to the relaxed smile that crossed her face when one of the foals would approach her for a carrot or some apple slices or another treat. Found himself looking forward to the way her voice became quiet and soothing as she talked to the horses, the way muscles slowly built up from archery rippled on her small frame as she hoisted buckets of water and feed. The way they worked in largely amiable silence but increasing synchronicity, as the more outgoing Malecki would converse with Embrienne.

And then he went and messed it all up.

He had only wanted Bernadetta to talk to people, do things, go out and experience the world. It was not healthy to be holed up all the time! But in his overenthusiasm he had violated her boundaries and thrown her into a panic attack from which she had yet to emerge. She was terrified that he held a grudge against her for accidentally injuring him in her fright, and had yet to leave her room.

We cannot blame her, Embrienne mused as he rubbed the brace over his wrist. It was mostly healed, but better safe than sorry. Our conduct towards Bernadetta was simply beastly. Entirely unbecoming of a noble.

Ferdinand was ashamed by it. He deserved the sprained wrist. And if he had utterly destroyed the growing trust between them both, and she never wanted to speak to him again, well he deserved that too.

But we do not deserve this! Embrienne cried out in her thoughts across their connection.

Since Bernadetta refused to go to the stables, and Ferdinand’s sprained wrist limited the work he could do, Professor Byleth has been forced to find a substitute partner for stable duties. And in some divine prank, the only person available was the least favorite person in his class—no, the entire school. The one person who made him snappish and impulsive and exasperated on sight. The lank and lean shadow of the princess, the man whom he quite possibly despised most in all the world.

Hubert von Vestra.

They had crossed paths before, but this was the first time in years that they had been extended contact with each other. It was incredible, the immediate intensity of the...loathing, yes it had to be loathing, what else could it be? that he had for the skulking shadow of Edelgard. They were, quite literally, incapable of holding conversation for more than thirty seconds without it degenerating into an argument. It started with that hypocritical sycophant accusing him of obsessing over Edelgard to an unhealthy extent—as if he actually possessed an identity outside of his devotion to her! Embrienne was fairly sure he would hand over Thanily herself to Edelgard if she asked it of him—and escalated from there. If they were lucky, their arguments remained in the realm of shouted debates. If they were unlucky, which was far more common, they would quickly become little more than diatribes and ad hominem attacks, shouted to the point where they sometimes spooked the horses (they did save their shouting for the feed room and empty breezeways after that).

And the arguments were about everything. They ranged from topics as utterly mundane as the superiority of tea over coffee to the quandaries of tax revenue allocation in the Empire to the ethics systems proposed by great philosophers. Even on those rare topics where they seemed to agree on the surface concept or end goals, Hubert would quibble and quarrel and pick him apart over the tiniest little details, often with personal attacks thrown in for good measure. And what could Ferdinand do to such a challenge but respond?

Truth be told, he did find the constant debates to be mentally stimulating, on some level. And he supposed it was beneficial to examine his moral codes and proposed reforms more closely. “It would not be so bad,” Embry said as he shoveled manure into the traps and imagined that it was the words coming out of Hubert’s mouth that he was shoveling instead, “if it were not Hubert.”

That man was going to be the death of him, or at least the failure of his stable duties. He loathed that man. He both dreaded and was simultaneously eager for afternoon stable duties, where they would get too distracted in their fights to actually finish their work to his satisfaction, to the perfection expected of a noble. Ferdinand found himself fantasizing about besting Hubert in verbal and occasionally physical combat, watching the taller man hang his head in defeat, the normally sarcastic Thanily silent as she searched for a retort that would not come. His heart raced, his face flushed at the thought. There was a strange exhilaration to his total detestation of the man.

“We will show him who is superior, in stable duties and noble duties,” Embrienne said, buzzing in anticipation.

They were changing the feed, Ferdinand adding new hay to the net while Hubert held the hungry horse back from launching herself at her meal and taking Ferdinand’s hair with it. He was sure that abominable shadow would love to do nothing else, if not for the inconvenience it would cause.

That was probably the same reason Hubert actually waited to let the horse back into her stall before turning to tear into Ferdinand with some new diatribe that he was expecting from the way Thanily’s tail twitched. This one was about to whom oaths of office were directed, and how Ferdinand was a contemptible fool for his beliefs, and...what was that high pitched noise? Was that screaming?

“AAAHHHHH!!! PLEASE DON’T KILL EACH OTHER!!!”

Four heads peeked around the corner—Hubert leaned over Ferdinand’s shoulder for a better view, Embrienne nestled herself deep into Ferdinand’s hair to avoid accidentally brushing against Hubert, and Thanily’s orange muzzle was barely a foot off the floor—to see Bernadetta racing down the breezeway, tears in her eyes as she screamed frantic apologies.

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry stupid useless Bernie, couldn’t even do my job I’m so sorry Ferdinand I’m sorry I hurt you and got you both stuck together please don’t kill each other!!!”

She was hyperventilating, breaths rapid and shallow and short.

“Bernadetta,” Ferdinand said, leaning forward in front of her. His hands hovered over her shoulders, but would contact just make her worse? Better not to risk it.

She was still panting. Now Hubert looked concerned—or rather, Thanily did. The fox daemon took a few steps forward. “Bernadetta, both of us are alive and well. As you can clearly see, we have not yet murdered each other.”

She was still panicking, and even Mal was curled up, whimpering apologies.

“Bernadetta!”

She jumped from his shout, her shoulders brushed against his fingertips. That was enough to snap her out of the worst of the spiral, at least for the moment. “Yah! Ferdinand? Ferdinand! Uh, y-you’re alive? And so is Hubert?”

He nodded. “Do not fear, Bernadetta. We are both alive and well. But if I may ask, what happened to put you in such a state?”

Bernadetta’s storm-gray eyes flitted back and forth between Hubert and Ferdinand. “W-well...”

---

“Stupid useless Bernie. You really messed it up this time.”

“We hurt him, Bernie,” a curled-up Mal sniffled, his voice muffled. “He was nice, and helped us out, and he’s okay with us, and he’s kinda cute, and we hurt him!”

Ferdinand had been nothing but kind to them, and he only wanted to help, and now look what they did! He’d never want to speak with them again, and even if he did she knew just how much he loved competition and hated being beaten. He’d probably deem her his eternal rival or something and while Ferdie thrived on that she couldn’t handle it! She’d really messed it up this time.

The ironic thing was that Bernie had been spending some more time out of her room later. Not much, but she had even talked to Dedue not even a week ago! And yet ever since the fight with Ferdinand a few days ago she had regressed to holing up in her room, skulking out only to snatch food from the dining hall.

“I’m too scared to see him again, Mal,” she muttered as she shuffled off the bed. Mal had scampered off to the other side of her room, where the weekly schedules were posted. “I know I need to do my stable work, but...”

“Uh, Bernie?” Mal’s voice was slightly strangled. “I don’t know if we have that option...”

A shuffling, then a thump as Bernadetta made her way out of bed to Malecki. “What are you talking about?”

Mal tapped his paw on the weekly schedule. In particular, the penciled-in name on the stable duties that replaced Bernie’s scribbled-out one.

“Oh no...oh no!” Hubert? Hubert working with Ferdinand?!

“Bernie, they hate each other!”

“AAAAAHHHHH!!!” She yanked on her shoes, snatched up Mal, and sprinted full-bore to the stables. “THEY’RE GONNA KILL EACH OTHER!!!”

---

“So, uh, that’s why. And, uh...here I am?” Bernadetta squeaked. “And, you’re alive! You didn’t kill each other!”

Ferdinand chuckled, a low and warm thing. “Bernadetta, I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry. A sinister villain like Hubert is no match for me!”

“I’m right here.”

“Oh, I know,” Embrienne smirked from the bridge of his nose.

Hubert glared, but he and Thanily were both biting back smirks—literally, in the fox daemon’s case. Bernadetta noticed. “Hubert, why aren’t you laughing?”

“You said my laugh frightened you, so I am endeavoring not to laugh. Is there a problem?”

They waited for Bernadetta to work up the courage to speak. It came in fits and starts, with quite a bit of literal paw-holding from Mal. Still, it didn’t take long for her to say, “Actually, there is. It’s not working, and...and you shouldn’t have to muzzle yourself because of me! If I’m scared it’s because I’m scared and I need to get better and be less frightened of everything!”

“So I can laugh as loudly as I want?” At Bernadetta’s tentative nod he and Thanily both threw back their heads and, “Ahaha...Muahahahaha!”

They sounded...exactly like Ferdinand would expect someone like Hubert and Thanily to sound. Hubert’s laugh was low and sinister, menacing in a way that made the hair on his neck prickle and a shudder run up his spine, while Thanily’s laugh was more of a high-pitched cackle.

It was successfully intimidating somebody, as Bernadetta paled and stepped back. “I, uh, I think I’m gonna take care of the horses bye!” The last words came out in a jumble as she snatched up a pitchfork and ran to the (very many) dirty stalls.

Ferdinand and Embrienne watched her go, so focused that Hubert’s musing made them startle. “She was terrified of both of us, and yet sprinted all the way due to concern for our well-being.”

“True.” There was so much more to her than the timid girl afraid of her own shadow. If only she could see that more easily!

Ferdinand...

You are right, Embrienne. Damn it all. “Hubert? I hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“I loathe every last inch of you. Your face, your voice, your ‘moral’ code; I loathe it all. And yet, I feel we must come to...a truce, at least while Bernadetta is here.”

Now Hubert raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Bernadetta has pushed herself to an admirable extent, coming back here. We should keep our arguing to a minimum, or at least quiet, at least while she is working with us. It would not do to frighten her into believing we are about to come to blows.” Ferdinand extended a hand, calloused and slightly smeared with dirt from the stables.

Thanily pricked her ears at the sound of Bernadetta’s slightly frantic humming floating in from another stall. Hubert extended a gloved hand, the leather dark to conceal stains, and shook Ferdinand’s hand. “Very well. Truce.”

Ferdinand beamed. “Wonderful! Now if you will excuse me...” He turned and made his way over to Bernadetta, who was cleaning out half of the stalls alone. “Bernadetta?”

“Eep!” She jumped, Mal curled up, and both actions stabbed a pang of guilt in Ferdinand.

Ferdinand stepped into view, his hands held up in a gesture of peace. “Bernadetta, I just wanted to talk. Actually, I wanted to apologize.”

That caught her attention. “Apologize? I should be the one apologizing to you! I hurt you.”

“No, not at all! Bernadetta, my injury was a direct result of my carelessness. In my own insistence and thoughtlessness, I violated your boundaries. You were perfectly justified in defending yourself against a perceived threat.”

Malecki’s mouth fell open (was an apology truly that unexpected?), but Bernadetta shook her head more frantically. “Still, I hurt you! I could have done something other than panic and flail and injure you.”

Was it truly that difficult for understand an apology, a promise to reform poor conduct? What happened to make her so disbelieving of one? “Bernadetta, I...I truly am sorry. My wrist is already healing quickly but like I said, I caused you unnecessary pain and anguish, and violated your boundaries. I tried to force you to do something you did not wish to do! I…I try to be a good person, and yet despite my best efforts, I have failed in my duty as a noble.”

Bernadetta paused in her cleaning. She glanced at Malecki, some private conversation passing between the two. Bernadetta was brave, and reliable, deep down. She just needed some help to draw it out. What could have quashed it in the first place?

And yet it was never quashed, not really. Malecki held her courage. He could feel Embrienne swelling with pride and admiration at that little hedgehog daemon.

Then Bernadetta cupped Malecki in her hands and said, “Ferdinand, I...don’t get down on yourself like that! I...” She sighed. “I think some day I’ll be able to tell you exactly why, but I like my time alone. Actually, it’s more of a need.” She played her fingers over Malecki’s quills, which were soft and relaxed. “When I mess up, or even if it’s just a bad day, I can’t go outside. It’s too much, and I’m too scared. But you’re right. I do need to leave my room more often. And I’ve been learning here. So...the next day, I get up, and I get dressed, and I go to class and try again. Because one mistake doesn’t have to ruin absolutely everything.”

It was like something warm squeezing the bottom of his heart, softening it even more before rising to the rest of his body. He found himself smiling, found Embrienne surge with admiration. He wanted to grasp her hand and shower her with praise, embrace her, show her off to the world with a mighty cry that she was so much more than the timid shrinking violet everyone believed her to be.

But that was something Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir would enjoy, not Bernadetta and Malecki von Varley. So instead he smiled, warm and soft, and said, “You are doing wonderfully, Bernadetta. Keep at it. You are already much more outgoing than you used to be.”

Bernadetta looked up at him, and...yes. She was blushing. And...did his heart jump at the sight of the faint smile on her face, the dusting of pink on her cheeks?

...Oh.

Malecki fidgeted in her hands. “So, does that mean we’re good?”

Ferdinand was too lost in his soft realization, and it was more polite for Embrienne to respond anyway. So, “Of course we are.”

Perhaps Ferdinand von Aegir was not having such a terrible week. Well, except for what happened right after.

Apparently, the three of them did such a marvelous job cleaning the stables, and Hubert had so thoroughly alienated the people on weeding duty while adamantly refusing aerial patrols, that Professor Byleth simply decided to put the three of them on stable cleaning duties. Together.

Truly, the goddess was a capricious one, who took a special interest in tormenting Ferdinand von Aegir.

---

Professor Byleth and Edelgard couldn’t have been talking for more than thirty minutes or so, but it felt like hours. It was all so very dull, and Linhardt found his mind wandering again as he stared at the snow-white of Edelgard’s hair. Such an odd color, or rather the lack thereof, nothing like his own deep forest green or Dorothea’s luxurious brown. And yet there was one other who shared that hair color—Lysithea. Lysithea was brilliant but with a drive and determination that baffled Linhardt. How was she not completely exhausted? Even thinking about the amount of work she must do made him want to use Runilite as a pillow and doze off.

There was a frantic edge to Lysithea; she lived like she was running out of time. Which was rather foolish of her. Everyone was running out of time, why not take it easy and enjoy it? There were only so many days of summer sun in a single person’s lifetime, why not bask in as many of them as possible? Why lock himself up in a study when he could simply take his books outside, nap under a tree, read at his leisure, and let his mind wander? They could stay there for hours, him and Runilite, their minds skipping off in different directions like stones on a pond surface. Sometimes they’d forget to eat, or sleep, and their bodies would pay those debts during class. Perhaps it was dangerous but there were so many threads of inquiry to follow, and never enough time for them all.

Caspar was the one to bring him back, every time. He was bright, kind, simple. A hot knife of intent, a splash of cold water after a muggy summer day. There was no getting lost with him. Linhardt was especially exhausted today, after getting a belated birthday present for Caspar. And oh it was exhausting, going into town, talking to people, trying to think about what somebody else would like, presenting it to the recipient, everything. But Caspar was worth the effort.

Caspar wasn’t here right now, though. So Linhardt and Runilite walked those threads together; their minds, already connected, melded even further as they gently steered themselves back to Edelgard, who was glaring at them. They must have been nodding off again. Saying something about the fake assassination attempt. So many things were hiding here. Edelgard was hiding something. So was Lysithea. Lysithea had white hair, and two crests. He saw the power thrumming through her veins, no matter how she tried to hid it. Did that mean Edelgard had two crests too? Sometimes it felt like the world was a series of jigsaw puzzles, and it was his job to piece them together on his own. Like right now, wasn’t it obvious where their enemies were going to attack?

“Really now?” Avarine’s voice chimed through his thoughts, cool and cutting. “If it’s so obvious, Runilite, then why don’t you share?”

Runilite scrambled under his cheek, forcing him upright as well instead of slumped on the table. They blinked bleary eyes at each other. Damn it all, she must have said that last part out loud. Ah well. Runilite yawned. “Well, these infiltrators aren’t actually trying to assassinate Rhea, right? Which means that they’re trying to target something else. But why would they attack the monastery on the day of the Rite of Rebirth? That’s the holiest day of the year, and the monastery will be packed to the gills with both visitors and security. That’s the worst possible scenario for pulling off a heist that I can think of. Unless they are looking to break into a place that is inaccessible every other day of the year.”

Ferdinand slapped the table. “The Holy Mausoleum! Er, my apologies Professor Byleth, I forget you were raised astonishingly ignorant of the church.” He explained for Byleth’s sake. Now there was an enigma. Their professor was eerily blank, and so was their daemon. And yet he had seen more emotions cross them over time. They weren’t empty, no, but they were muted. Like someone muffled under so many blankets you only so a vague lump of the person underneath. Was she suffocating too, somewhere deep under those many layers?

They were talking about something else again, maybe battle plans, maybe Claude’s upcoming birthday, something Linhardt could only partially pay attention to because, frankly, he didn’t care. He had to be in this academy, and there was so much to learn, and he’d learn the magic needed to keep his classmates and friends alive because he hated the sight and smell of blood and didn’t want anybody to die. But all of that required so much effort, and he and Runilite only had a finite amount to go around. So he rested his head on his daemon again, closed his eyes, and cast out his mind to wander alongside hers.

If there was anything important in that conversation, Edelgard would be sure to let him know.

---

Linhardt and Runilite were right. Dozens, possibly hundreds of people had made the pilgrimage to the Holy Mausoleum. It was easy for a few dozen people to stay behind and make themselves inconspicuous.

Well, except if your name was Linhardt and Runilite. In that case you and your daemon would all but crawl over the casket, poking and prodding every last inch of it, and promptly get discovered and chased out by the guards. Which also distracted them from the actual infiltrators. Byleth could feel Sothis banging her head against the metaphorical wall and frankly she felt like doing much the same. The three of them—Byleth, Belial, and Sothis—had quickly and unanimously decided to have Linhardt take some remedial stealth classes.

“Maybe have Petra tutor him?” Belial mused. The young Brigidian princess was the best in the class at stealth—possibly best in the year. Even Shamir was impressed, and the stoic sniper did not impress easily.

But that would have to wait. For now, Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn had retreated to perform the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth, a mysterious ritual which for some reason required the archbishop, her administrative adviser or whatever Setheth’s position actually was, and an unsettled girl to remain in a secluded location for several hours.

“Which isn’t unnerving at all, not one bit,” Sothis snarked. Hubert and Edelgard would like her, but mentioning the voice in her head would probably raise more questions than answers. “You’d think somebody would have raised questions in the past thousand years or so, but apparently not. Sometimes I think you really are little more than sheep, no matter what your daemons may be.”

Byleth wasn’t really sure how to respond to that. This sort of moral or social debate, she...couldn’t do. She didn’t have strong enough convictions to defend either way, much less make a forceful argument. Something did bubble in her at Sothis’s words, which was more than before. She’d examine them when they weren’t in a battle.

Right now, an unnervingly-enthusiastic Ashe forced open one of the locks to the Holy Mausoleum, the infiltrators having locked the door behind them, and offered to guard the entrance alongside Cyril to prevent reinforcements from arriving. In the meantime, Byleth gathered her fledglings for some last minute advice.

“We all got a good look at the mausoleum today. They’re probably waiting for us, so everyone be ready to attack the moment we open the door. If I would them I would station archers, mages, and maybe a couple of heavily armored people just behind that ledge to rain hellfire on anyone who tries to climb up. Bernadetta, Petra, Hubert, Dorothea, I’ll need you to fire back and fire fast.” She pointed to Ferdinand and Edelgard. “You’re both good up close and can take a hit. Keep our ranged classmates safe. Caspar, I want you to stick to hit and run tactics. Don’t overexert yourself, and keep Peakane safe. Linhardt, how’s that ranged heal spell coming along?”

Linhardt yawned, but flashed a thumbs-up with his free hand.

“Good, we’ll need it. Belial and I will be where we’re needed.”

“We may be apart from each other,” they warned. The Black Eagles shot nervous glances at each other, and held their daemons a little closer, but otherwise swallowed their trepidation for now.

An echoing noise of metal on metal and Ashe’s quiet, “got it!” were the final warnings of the imminent battle.

Edelgard and Byleth threw open the door, and true to their suspicions were met almost immediately by an onslaught of spell and steel.

Four men with sharp swords and two female spellcasters, their daemons all different types, charged right at them. There were more people, at least eight on each side, holding the line by the staircase and behind those old marble pillars. Two spellcasters and an archer right on the raised back half of the mausoleum, just as she predicted. A man in bishop’s robes and some sort of monkey daemon all the way in the back, knelt in front of the old sarcophagus while two heavily armored soldiers stood guard. And, in the center, just before the raised platform, staring them down…

“Who is that man on horseback? And just what is he wearing? That mask, that scythe, it’s like he’s dressed as the Reaper himself. And..”

“Where’s his daemon?!” Bernadetta cried out to Byleth’s left, even as she fired into the leg of a charging man, sending him sprawling to the ground for Caspar to finish off. On her right, Dorothea took a fire spell head-on, redirected most of the energy into her blade with barely a singe to herself, and thrust the now red-hot sword between her assailant’s ribs. He fell with a scream.

Indeed, the knight dressed like the Reaper himself had no visible daemon.

“Maybe his daemon is—ngh!—being hidden in his armor?” Petra shouted as she parried a sword thrust and responded with a slightly weaker, but far swifter, one of her own.”

Caspar looked around wildly, his spiked gauntlets dripping with ichor. “Normally people who do that paint an image of their daemon on their armor or something! Must be a real showoff or freak to not do that!”

“Regardless, that knight looks extremely dangerous, so I would highly recommend you keep your distance!” Thanily shouted, as Hubert was currently engaged in a magic duel with another priest. They danced around each other, trading incantations and blows, the other man’s fire against Hubert’s oozing miasma, until the now-singed retainer overpowered the other man, laughing all the while.

Most people obeyed Thanily; there were others to fight anyway. Even Edelgard kept her distance, although she kept an eye on that…that death knight. Belial wouldn’t keep their eyes off him, even as Byleth carved through foes for the sake of both herself and her students. But the death knight wasn’t moving. He was just standing (well, sitting, she supposed) there, menacingly.

At least until Ferdinand scoffed. “Hah! Is that a challenge, Hubert? That egotistical knight is standing between us and the most direct path to the sarcophagus. He won’t get in our way!”

“Ferdinand, this is no jest!”

But he wasn’t listening. The young noble readied his halberd, a weapon designed to drag riders off their horses, and charged with a cry of, “I am Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir, and I command you to—!”

The Death Knight ran Ferdinand through, that wickedly curved lance erupting from his back, with all the ease of someone swatting a fly.

Ferdinand, his blood dripping from around the wound as more began to trickle from the corner of his mouth, would have sunk to his knees. But instead, the Death Knight lifted the spear aloft, bringing the impaled noble along with it. All Ferdinand could do was weakly kick and gurgle, fumble at the spear coated slick with his own blood and worse as he slowly slid down it to meet the Death Knight eye-to-eye.

“Is that it?” the Death Knight asked, in a distant echo. “No more fight? No more resistance? Pathetic…”

A spike of dark magic curled in his free hand, which he then closed around Embrienne’s capsule. With a crack that somehow echoed above the din of battle, he obliterated the capsule…and Embrienne, weakly buzzing inside it.

Ferdinand von Aegir died with a choking gurgle, dangling several inches above the ground. It was over in seconds, and the surviving Eagles broke.

“AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!”

“FERDINAND!”

“FERDIE, NO!”

“Damn it, you contemptible fool!”

No! No nononono“NonoNO!” There was no time to think, no time to do anything. On panic, or instinct, or something else entirely, Byleth reached deep inside herself, beyond herself, to a connection still fresh and new…and beyond, to wherever Sothis was.

The world pulsed, a reverberation which she felt in her chest as a single thud, then shattered. Its shards remained suspended in midair, a strange haze around them that Byleth could only describe as beyond black. She couldn’t hold this for long. Couldn’t turn back the clock long. But she only needed a few moments…there!

The death knight wasn’t moving. He was just standing (well, sitting, she supposed) there, menacingly.

At least until Ferdinand scoffed. “Hah! Is that a challenge, Hubert? That egotistical knight is standing between us and the most direct path to the sarcophagus. He won’t get in our way!”

Ferdinand leveled his halberd, and Belial lept in front of him with a mighty snarl, “Don’t you fucking dare!”

That made him stop. Belial had never, ever spoken to any of their students in that tone before. And when he looked to her, he lowered his halberd. She had never looked at him, or anyone, with an expression of naked fear before.

“Professor, I—”

But Belial cut him off. “So help me Ferdinand if you charge that Death Knight I will rip Embrienne’s capsule off your chest, flee this mausoleum, and force you to chase after me!”

“Nice,” said Sothis. “Good initiative there! Whatever it takes to keep him safe!”

Ferdinand was actually dumbstruck, at least until a wounded mage made it past Bernadetta and forced Hubert to close into melee to prevent her from incinerating the young noble. “Very well!” Finally, he turned and rejoined the fray, instead of charging the Death Knight on his own.

That should have been it. The moment was gone, they took a careful berth around the Death Knight (who was still just…watching. And waiting), and Ferdinand von Aegir still lived.

But Byleth could still hear the sound of the spear ripping through his innards, could still see Embrienne dissolving into golden dust alongside Ferdinand’s last shuddering breath.

She used Sothis’s Divine Pulse many more times during that fight. Sometimes to have her students avoid injury, sometimes to take them on herself. She and Belial bled, and hurt, and ached in a bone-deep way that she had never before experienced. But better her than them.

They were her pups, and she would look after them.

Finally, Edelgard and Byleth fought back-to-back, axe and sword in coordination.

Edelgard swung in a wide arc, cleaving one knight’s armor open while Avarine crushed the other knight’s bat daemon between her talons. “Now, my teacher!”

“Haha, you’re too late!” The bishop and his monkey daemon pushed aside the sarcophagus lid. “The seal is broken, and we will have…what the…?”

That was all the moment Belial needed. They grabbed the monkey daemon, tossed her aside with a scream from both her and her human, lept into the sarcophagus, and came out with their jaws clenched around…a sword?

A sword made of many interlocking yellowish pieces, each piece wickedly sharp, with a strange almost rectangular spur on one end. The crossguard was broad, almost wing-like, and there was a large hollow in the center where something should be, but no longer was. It hurt Byleth’s eyes to look at, and so she didn’t.

“By, catch!” Belial tossed her the sword, Byleth caught it, and—

Lub-dub

—That singular thud in her chest, there and gone. Her fingers curled around the sword one by one, and people always talked about swords being an extension of the person, but this…

“YAH!”

The sword flared to life, a glow just like Catherine’s Thunderbrand as she swung it at the bishop. The blade extended like a flail, each individual razor-sharp piece separated but threaded on a glowing coil like beads on a string. They tore into the bishop and his daemon; his scream rang out at the fatal blow.

And then the pieces retracted, and it became a blade again. Not just any blade. A holy relic that activated in Byleth’s hands alone.

“What is this thing?”

Notes:

So yeah, that's that. What do you all think? Thank goodness for the Divine Pulse, right?

The Ferdidetta B support is one of my favorite in the game. Ferdinand apologizes for violating Bernadetta's boundaries! And what Bernadetta says in return; whomever wrote that dialogue Gets It!

Linhardt is really tricky to write, but I will tell you that I was going for a weird tangental thought effect there. I hope I did a decent job with it; I think it's going to be one that will have to improve with practice and time.

Anyway, like always, please read, comment if you want, and most of all enjoy!

Content warning: (Temporary) character death.

Chapter 9: Wanting

Summary:

What do you really want?

Or: How people react to Byleth’s new sword, and other revelations.

Notes:

Thank you so much for being patient; I am in the middle of interview hell and so have had very little time to update. Thankfully although I’m still very busy things are a little spaced out and I should be able to resume my previous weekly-ish update speed soon!

I'm a bit nervous about this one. Note the new tags and rating change. I really expected the rating change to happen next week but someone decided to have some...interesting dreams, so now this fic is M-rated and you’re about to see the dirtiest thing I’ve written! I hope it's good? I've never written something like that before. It’s still rather tame considering, like, at least a third of the FE3H stuff on AO3 but the really dirty stuff won’t happen until later. Definitely not until the timeskip/all characters involved are explicitly over 18. Actually, I think I’m going to keep the main story M-rated and make another bundle of chapters in the series for all the E-rated stuff.

Anyway, please read, comment if you want, and most of all enjoy!

CONTENT WARNINGS:
A character having an erotic dream, another character giving a brief but creative description of dysmenorrhea, and a third character giving a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it oblique reference to sexual assault.

If she thought Hanneman was intrusive and overexcitable before, then this—!

She stood awkwardly in his room, her coat on a hanger, shivering slightly despite the summer heat. The older professor and researcher danced around her in pure joy, as if she was nothing more than the most fascinating specimen in the world.

Which she sort of was, to him.

“The Crest of Flames! I can’t believe it; the actual Crest of Flames! Please, show me again!”

“The sooner we do this, the sooner we can leave.” Byleth found herself in agreement, and so held out the sword again. It still…she found she did not want to look at it. It was a powerful and amazing tool, but when she looked at it too closely, especially that hole in the hilt, it almost reminded her of that time that bandit split her knee open and she stared at her own flesh and blood and bone. Still, she held her hand over the analyzer, again felt the tug deep within of something that was simultaneously hers and not hers. The Crest of Flames—the full crest, not the fragment from before—unfurled before their eyes like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Hanneman and Theophania lit up. Byleth and Belial just stared.

She had sometimes felt a flash of power, a quick surge of strength in battle, or sometimes outside of it. Usually after her dreams of Sothis, though to be fair if she had them without the Sothis dreams she was in no condition to remember at that time. Was that this crest, this power slumbering in her veins this whole time?

“Yes, but I think it’s more than that. Argh, I wish I could remember more, for both our sakes!”

Hanneman was still laughing, Theophania reaching up to the image as if she could actually touch it and not merely pass through the illusion. “Nemesis had no recorded children when he died; the Crest of Flames was thought lost to history! And yet, here it is, right before me! Oh, what a joy this is, the first crest scholar in a millennium to actually witness this sight!”

Nemesis, there was that name again. The King of Liberation, who apparently turned to evil and had to be put down like a mad dog by Seiros herself.

Belial growled. “But what exactly did he liberate humanity from? The story feels…jumbled.”

“Maybe because we didn’t grow up in the church? There might be a lot of missing context.”

“Can we stop talking about Nemesis? I don’t know why but thinking about him makes me feel sick.” Sothis did sound somewhat queasy in the back of her head. Could a voice in her head that existed somewhere outside physical space actually vomit? And what would it do to her?

“I don’t know, I don’t want to find out, can we stop talking about Nemesis? Please?”

Hanneman already had; he had gone back to the Crest of Flames itself, something about wanting to test some of her flesh, something about the Sword of the—wait, what?

“…No.” She and Belial spoke as one, and walked out as one to Hanneman’s frantic backpedaling and apologies. To tell the truth, Byleth wasn’t really paying attention. She had taken out the Sword of the Creator again, that odd sawtoothed blade that broke down into a barbed whip, pulsed and glowed gently in her hand. It should have been disturbing, it was disturbing, and yet the feel of it was oddly…soothing? No, not quite that, but what else could it be? And why did Rhea entrust it to her? Why did she trust her that much? She couldn’t let the Archbishop down.

Byleth’s gaze slid down the blade to that empty hole in the hilt. It seemed to suck her in as much as it repulsed her, and every time she looked upon it she briefly forgot to breathe. Belial reached up to sniff it, drew back with curled lips. “Hanneman said you need crest stones to make a hero’s relic work, right?”

“Crest stone, that’s like the red gem thing that was in Thunderbrand, right?”

“I think so. But this works for us even though there’s no crest stone at all.” And it didn’t work for anybody else. Hanneman had tried; he had a minor crest of his own and so could activate Relics, but it was little more than a paperweight in his hands.

“A space where something was meant to be…I cannot make sense of it.”

Where something was meant to be…what would happen if they put the crest stone from Thunderbrand into this—

“Don’t you even fucking think about it!”

The outrage from Sothis’s mind was like a whip behind her eyes; Byleth actually staggered back from the vehemence of her outcry. “Okay, okay! I won’t do that.” She and Belial looked at each other, then down at the sword. “So…I guess we should practice using this. Is Felix at the training ground?”

“Absolutely not,” Belial growled.

They were right. Thinking about it, the idea of going to spar, well, Byleth usually enjoyed it. She usually enjoyed the burn of her muscles, the rush of breath, the way the world went slow and clear. But right now she didn’t want to fight. Right now she wanted to fish with her father and Leonie. Or go to choir practice with Dorothea and Annette. Anything other than fighting.

Anything to make her not think of the sound that Ferdinand’s body made when it hit the ground.

“That fight messed up us worse than anything else, but why? Ferdinand is alive.” He was alive, he was so loudly vibrantly alive. He shouted answers in class, practically forced Hubert off of his desk, loudly instructed Bernadetta in lancework, everything about him was loud and excited and alive. So why did his dying moments that never happened still replay behind her eyes?

“Because it did happen, even if only briefly. That’s one of the prices you, we, pay for Divine Pulse.”

It was a heavy price to bear, and Byleth knew it would only get worse. She still ached deep within from tapping into Sothis’s power. But compared to having her students actually die? It was no price at all. It was funny. Byleth was the Ashen Demon; she was no stranger to death. She had seen members of her father’s mercenary band die too, though thankfully not as often as she killed. And it was always sad, yes, but nothing like that wild pain and grief from seeing Ferdinand killed before her, nothing like that wrenching agony that must be what people feel when they describe their heart breaking. Why did she feel such pain at seeing her eaglets hurt? Why did it drive Belial wild with agony?

“Heh…isn’t it obvious? You love them, don’t you.”

Love them? Byleth looked down at the sword again, at Belial. She cared for her students, yes. She couldn’t stand to see them hurt. She wanted to see them grow throughout the year, wanted to see Bernadetta slowly come out of her shell, wanted to hear Caspar’s tales of defending the weak, wanted to see Petra share her nation with pride, wanted to see Dorothea fully come into the confidence she presented to others. Wanted to see Edelgard slowly grow to trust her and her classmates.

“…I think I do.”

---

In theory, the spiderweb of secrets and conspiracies that Claude could only grasp tantalizing hints of should have been the puzzle of a lifetime, something that would give him endless satisfaction and joy to solve. And on some level it was, and it did.

The problem was that in practice said spiderweb was at least partially responsible for the emnity between Fodlan and Almyra as well as the hatred and discrimination he was forced to endure growing up, the absurdly stratified and rigid Crest-based caste system, the instantaneous and violent crushing of any rebellion or dissent, need he go on?

“No, keep going,” Simurg hissed. “Best to make the charge list as complete as possible.”

Against such crimes, how could the burning of books possibly compare? And yet it somehow stuck in Claude’s mind in a way the others did not.

Thank the gods for Tomas, the kindly old librarian who remembered his duty to the books. He had tipped Claude off, one serpent to another his coral snake daemon had said to Simurg with a sly smile to her voice. Although he hadn’t told Claude when and where, the little information that Tomas was able to slip had been enough. He’d somehow managed to rope in Hilda, who as lazy as she was got a kick out of causing a little bit of chaos just by standing in the right place at the right time, and Lysithea, who wanted to learn absolutely everything in as short of a time as possible.

“Do you realize just how scary Seteth can be when he’s on the warpath?” Hilda whined. Halmstadt fluttered around her, keeping watch. “You owe me big for this, Claude!”

“Help me out with this and I’ll cover for any weird noises coming from your room after curfew. Though if you’re too loud and they actually open the door there’s not much I can do there.”

“Fair enough. Gotta say, I don’t know of anybody else who would have thought of that. I wish the Almyrans Mom and Holst talk about fighting were as clever as you instead of going all ‘’WRRAAGGH look at me I’m gonna charge the Locket head on to show just how manly I am!’ Would make things less dangerous.”

Hilda couldn’t see from her angle, but Claude’s smile froze, as did Simurg. He wanted to like Hilda. She was a useful ally. She was funny, smarter, stronger, and more perceptive than she liked to let on. She was incredible at delegating tasks and motivating people, with an uncanny ability to make people do all her work for her without making them feel used, and was manipulative but not outright cruel. And she was an invaluable friend to Marianne. The problem was, well, that.

“She grew up in a family on the front lines against Almyra. At least there’s a reason for her distrust. It comes out of ignorance, not active malice...” Simurg’s excuses fell flat. Even if they were true, it didn’t change Hilda’s ignorance or xenophobia. Didn’t change anybody’s.

Claude looked down at his brown hands. Back home they thought him a frail, willowy thing. Here, they saw him as a hairy beast. Judith was only a quarter Almyran and she still needed that whole "Hero of Daphnel" business and the toughest hyena daemon he'd ever seen for her to command the respect that she did. He could do little to conceal his heritage to those who knew how to look, but he could hide its origins, take refuge in audacity. As far as he knew most people thought he was the result of a tryst between a noble and an Almyran “servant” or possibly a battlefield assault (and oh, it said so much that most people used honeyed euphemisms for the former and only called out the latter for what it was), and that he was only made heir due to his crest and his grandfather’s desperation. He did nothing to dissuade these rumors. Let them think he was weak, the pawn of a desperate gamble, Simurg had said during one of their many strategy sessions. Such a position would only make it easier to surprise them all.

Lysithea’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Claude, this is a waste of time. I’ve only found shitty gossip rags and shittier porn.” Zilbariel kept digging through the condemned literature, his badger paws efficiently spreading out the papers and books.

Claude gasped in mock outrage. “Lysithea! Avert your innocent eyes from such salacious adult material!” That mock outrage broke down into a strangled wheeze at the last word. 

“Innocent?! Go fuck yourself on the professor’s new sword!” She didn’t even turn around.

“How could you possibly show such disrespect to our dear Teach?” Simurg flicked her tail against Zilbariel’s muzzle; the rattle briefly echoed in the small room.

Lysithea rolled her eyes, casually flipped him off. “You’re utterly obsessed with that sword, don’t try to hide it.”

She was right, of course. He was fascinated by that sword, by all of the powerful, eerie, disturbing Relics. He only saw Failnaught once, during the test to confirm his Crest, but still remembered the way the glow on that stone pulsed in time with his heartbeat, the way Simurg shuddered and slithered to his other arm that was not reaching for that bow. There was something Wrong about it, just as there was something Wrong about the occasional blankness of Teach’s gaze. Oh, if only she had decided to teach the Golden Deer!

“Better the Eagles than the Lions, at least,” Simurg muttered. The Lions seemed nice, but also very involved in themselves and their own issues. Now that he thought about it, he almost never saw Dimitri outside of the training grounds. The prince of Faerghus went to class, studied, trained, ate, trained, and went to bed. He did nothing else. Even Raphael and Oakley spent time organizing a tournament with Caspar, or birdwatching with Marianne.

Simurg curled around to rest her head on the back of Claude’s hand. “Do you remember when we were all together and planning Lonato’s secret funeral? Dimitri and Delcabia didn’t speak to each other. Not once.”

That was...more than a little concerning, actually, but didn’t seem to have anything to do with the larger mystery going on. The Black Eagles, on the other hand, were. Even without Byleth, they were fascinating. Edelgard was calm and intelligent, but where he was patient and calculating she was forward and driven. Oh, he needed to challenge her to a game of nardshir, or shatranj. He wasn’t the biggest fan of nardshir, but how would Edelgard react and adapt to the element of chance?  He needed to get closer to them, but without revealing too much of anything. Petra and Lysithea—those two women were probably his way in, and who commanded respect in their own right. What did Lysithea talk about during their teatimes, and what did Edelgard plan to do to Brigid once she took the throne?

Once more, Lysithea’s voice jolted him back to the present. “Hey, Claude, stop salivating over that sword and check this out!”

In her hands was a thin collection of papers written in a language he could not understand.  The pictures, at least, were easily understandable. They were detailed diagrams of an enormous winged lizard-like creature that Claude now knew was the Immaculate One, a divine beast supposedly sent by the goddess in an ancient time of great need. The details were frustratingly vague, but he suspected it involved a foreign invasion. Especially given that in all the holy texts the goddess was described as creating, then protecting the land of Fodlan and all the people in it.

And if the goddess made the people of Fodlan, then what did that make the people outside Fodlan?

He had never seen this detailed a depiction of the Immaculate One before. It almost looked like a sketch from a field guide, or an animal encyclopedia people often used to identify their newly-settled daemons. And that marking on her head...

“Is that the crest of Seiros?”

Claude and Lysithea shared a nod as he slipped the papers into his pocket. He needed to speak with Edelgard. Best to proceed with caution, avoid showing his hand too early. At least he had time to forge relationships, work his way in. In a year they would graduate, and soon after that he would lead the Alliance and Edelgard would become emperor. After that they would have all the time in the world for diplomatic summits, places to speak in private while he dismantled the Locket and hatred dividing Fodlan and Almyra. Professor Byleth would continue to teach, and once she taught the Golden Deer it wouldn’t be too difficult to evaluate her more closely.

In the meantime he and Simurg would do what they do best. Bide their time, avoid the enemies all around them. Warn off those they could not evade, and only strike as a last resort. He could lie in wait for the perfect time and place to strike. He had time.

---

“Yes, those are all the standard pieces of horse tack. You are learning so quickly, Bernadetta.”

Ferdinand was in her room, sitting at her desk. They were studying for his cavalier exam, the textbooks and diagrams strewn over the wood. Malecki and Embrienne were there, the bee daemon nestled in his quills. His hair shone like sunlight, brighter than the single flickering candle in her room.

Bernadetta draped over him as he read out the notes for her archery quiz. She could feel his cheek warm against hers, his fingers soft as they reached up to intertwine with her own. He rubbed his thumb gently back and forth along the pulse of her wrist. “You will do wonderfully on this exam, Bernadetta. You have been doing so well since arriving here.”

“N-no, I I’m not doing that well at all, I...” Nervous laughter bubbled up in her chest, but that wasn’t why she stopped attacking herself. She was stupid useless Bernie wasn’t she? Wasn’t she? But Ferdinand didn’t think she was. Bright Ferdinand, the very incarnation of sunlight himself, he didn’t think so.

“Nonsense, Bernadetta. You are so much more outgoing than you used to be. You are amazing and intelligent and beautiful, my Bernadetta.”

Mal sighed, stretching out under Embry’s contented hum. Her? Amazing and intelligent and beautiful? No. No way. She wouldn’t, she wasn’t...was she? Was she actually beautiful? Funny? Someone worth being with?

Ferdie seemed to think so. Ferdie seemed to think so as he ran his thumb along her knuckles, brought her hand up to his soft pink lips. “You have me trapped, my little sundew.”

It would be more accurate to say she was trapped. With one hand, Ferdinand gently pushed her back against the soft pillows on the edge of her bed. Ran a hand through her tangled lavender hair. Held her (her shirt was unbuttoned, her front exposed) to his bare chest. Pressed his lips against her forehead, the top of her nose, her own chapped lips. One of them, maybe both, let out a soft sigh, an invitation for him to slip his tongue in her mouth, run it along hers.

His other hand slipped down her chest, down the smooth expanse of her belly, over the coarse thatch of hair below her navel to rest between her thighs.

“A-ah! Ferdinand...”

He kissed her, and he kissed her, one hand buried in her hair with the other buried between her legs, his fingers gliding against her as she became wetter with every delicate stroke. He kissed her and he held her, and all the while he kept stroking and rubbing in exactly the places she liked best. This was happening, his wonderful hands were slick with her and she bucked her hips up against those warm fingers but it wasn’t enough she wanted more she needed more—

“Bern-a-det-ta,” he moaned into her mouth, thrusting a finger into her with every dropped syllable and why was it only four? Say her name say her whole name Bernadetta von Varley she gasped into his mouth, though it came out as nothing more than gibberish, squeaks and moans with every stroke. He was so caring, so patient, like she was worth something. She chased into his mouth and rutted up against his glorious hand and she could feel him against her bare thigh and oh Flames she needed

“More, moremoremore!”

Ferdinand smiled against her mouth and kissed down her body, worked her legs apart and lined himself up between them and—

“Aaahhh!” Bernadetta catapulted awake, going from asleep to sitting in a single heartbeat. Malecki shouted and flailed as he went flying off the bed to land quill-first into a half-finished plushie pitcher plant.

“Hey!” Mal rocked himself upright, a rather difficult task given the plushie pitcher plant still stuck to his quills. “I was enjoying that!”

Bernadetta said nothing, just sat up, chest heaving as the dream shattered around her, their shards gently falling and fading away. It wasn’t as if these dreams were entirely new. She was a nearly grown woman, getting taller and stronger by the day if the way she just had to let out her uniform was any indication. Even she, ugly unmarriageable Bernadetta, had these thoughts and feelings and dreams, would, ah, indulge herself to them on occasion.

But these fantasies usually involved fictional characters, perfectly crafted gentle and kind men from the romance novels she smuggled under her bed and her own horrific attempts at erotica. They weren’t for real life, not for her. Her father and the Wife Lessons had taught her well. Real life was rich graying men with leering eyes and wandering hands, who thought her...everything was an acceptable price for her crest and her maidenhood. Real life was her father marrying her off and everyone at the academy forgetting about her, if they even knew she existed in the first place, and her designated husband siring crest babies on her until he got as many as he wanted and then threw her and Mal away.

Real life, for her, was not this year of relative respite at the academy where the idea of going outside was becoming slightly less terrifying day by day. Real life was not the friends she had made here, or the Professor, or the princess who listened to what she had to say. Real life was not Ferdinand von Aegir.

“But why can’t it be?” Mal had made his way up the ramp to her bed, a somewhat impressive feat given that the half-finished pitcher plant was still impaled on his quills. Bernadetta pried it off and squished it between her hands. “I mean, he’s so nice! And he listens to us, and apologized when he was too pushy and he’s so encouraging and handsome. Why can’t we court him?”

Why not? Because...because... “Because he’s going to be the next prime minister. He could marry anybody in the empire, so why would he even consider courting somebody like,” she waved a vague hand over her whole self, her cracked calloused fingers and scarred-up hand and frizzy bird’s nest excuse of a hairstyle and sad face and clothing that stood no chance of keeping up with her last-minute growth spurt and her...everything, “Like me?”

Oh no. She had it bad, didn’t she.

“Okay, maybe you’re right, you’re probably right, but maybe we should tell him? Who knows, maybe we’ll get super lucky?”

“Or he’ll never want to speak to us again and we’ll ruin what we have! I, Mal, he’s our friend, I can’t, I’ll—“

“—Sit here and be consumed by lust?”

Bernadetta threw up her hands. “I guess?!” To make matters worse, the gossamer threads of her arousal had evaporated, leaving her merely uncomfortably damp. She tore off her smallclothes and chucked them at the pile of laundry, flopped back onto the bed and buried her head in the pillow. An experimental grind against the wadded-up blankets, but...nope, feeling was gone, wanting was gone and all that was left was the frustration and mild, ever-present panic. She pressed her face deeper in the pillow, the better to muffle her voice. “Why me?!”

Unbeknownst to her, Ferdinand had also been plagued with similar dreams of himself and Bernadetta.

Well, not just the two of them.

Ferdinand sat up in bed, uncharacteristically silent, his hair mussed with sleep and sweat, his blankets crumpled in his clenched fists. He glared at the ruined sheets, but no answers were forthcoming. Embrienne sat on his shoulder.

“...Ferdinand, we speak of this to nobody.”

He was inclined to agree.

---

The smell of incense hung heavy in the air; it permeated every inch of Seteth’s room. He knelt before the shrine and began his morning prayers, just as every devout member of the church did. But these prayers were his own, slightly different from the official ones in all the most important ways.

He started with the prayers to the dead. Not a request that they and their daemons be sheltered in the goddess’s embrace instead of wandering lost, but a series of apologies. Apologies for not recognizing the threat of Nemesis and the Agarthans quickly enough, for letting his wife fall in battle, for letting his son be murdered, for not being able to stop Riegan from carving up his corpse.

He did not know whether the parts of his son trapped in Failnaught could hear his apologies, his prayers, his promises that his sister was safe and sound and loved, and did not know whether he wanted to find out.

Seteth sometimes found it hard to look at Claude, the smiling inquisitive arrogant young man, and not see his son’s stolen blood running through his veins. To not think about how he would soon innocently receive, as a trophy, his son's flesh and bone and Stone. What would Flayn do, if he told her? But the students in Garreg Mach now were not the ten “elites”. It was truly a testament to Rhea’s wisdom and restraint that she did not repay the monstrous sins of their ancestors on these children, that she let them grow up with the confidence of believing they were descended from heroes and not a pack of thieves and murders. And that had its own repercussions; the additional emphasis that humans placed on crests had unforseen consequences that the students were forced to deal with, but it was certainly better than the alternative. Rhea had made the right decision, all those centuries ago.

Which is what made her more recent actions so...disquieting.

Another prayer, this one to Seiros, who received the goddess’s blessing and for whom the Church was named. Rhea, as she preferred to be called now, had been acting oddly ever since Byleth arrived at Garreg Mach. She was enamored with the girl, no, obsessed.

She made a girl barely older than her charges professor of the future Adrestian emperor, Prime Minister, and nearly every other minister of the empire. Tasked her with guiding them through professional and personal dilemmas, leading them into combat, keeping them alive and safe through what was rapidly becoming an unusually tumultuous year. True, Byleth was quite effective at the job—Bernadetta was seen out of her room increasingly often as of late, Caspar was developing some modicum of impulse control, all her students scored top marks—and her father’s history with the Knights was impeccable before the fire, but she was a blank slate in every sense of the word.

There was nothing on Byleth’s background. No mother. No formal education. No record of church ordainment. No teaching experience. Not even a year of birth. The mercenaries he tracked down and interviewed all told the same story, a story of a blank girl and a dead-eyed daemon who could be any distance apart, who rarely spoke but seemed to look right through them, who only had fleeting moments of awareness that did, to be fair, improve as the years went by. Who turned into a fearless and ferocious demon on the battlefield, especially when one of her allies was in danger. And somehow Rhea believed that was enough to make her a professor. Nothing he did could convince her. Yes, Byleth was performing with aplomb, but now? This?

A prayer to the goddess, who blessed Fodlan and the people who walked it. A prayer to Sothis, whose bones Byleth unknowingly wielded, whose blood she unintentionally inherited.

That sword, the Sword of the Creator, the mutilated remains of Sothis, was the most valuable thing in the Church, the most precious thing Rhea possessed. She never let it out of its place of repose in the holy mausoleum. And yet she let Byleth wield it, carry it around, use it in battle. And Byleth could do all those things, utilize Sothis’s power in the sword, even though the Stone was missing.

The prayers were done; the bells to the cathedral sang out their conclusion as the priests, monks, and more devout students left to start their day. Seteth knelt and opened a drawer. The crickets chirped and sang in the container that he held in his hands. Byleth was an unusually emotionless girl with an unusually emotionless daemon, no background, no teaching experience, whom Rhea placed in a prestigious position. Whom Rhea gave special attention, shared stories about Jeralt in her own private chambers. He did not understand just what Rhea’s motivations were here, only that they were erratic and disconcerting in a way he had never before seen from her.

Worst of all, there was nobody Seteth could talk to about this. He did not dare bring Flayn into these discussions. Macuil had quite literally washed his claws of Fodlan and flown off to parts unknown. Indech had hidden away in some unknown location; he had not yet found his younger brother.

Seteth placed the crickets in the cage by the window, watched them hop around, watched the bearded dragon chase them down and swallow them whole. In times like this, he wished he had a daemon, just to hear another voice of concern. But he was a Nabatean, not a human. Even if he would never again shed this human skin, would never again feel the wind beneath his wings, the rumble of a mighty roar in his throat, the swoop of his horns against his fur and scales, he was still a dragon.

And dragons did not have daemons.

The bearded dragon finished her meal and scrambled back onto the wooden perch to sun herself. Seteth went back to the library to sort through the new donations, filter out everything that he and Rhea had deemed too dangerous for human eyes. He was not sure what a daemon would say in response to those thoughts, and was not entirely sure he wanted to know.

---

Hubert was not in the cathedral. Hubert was as not in the cathedral as a man could possibly be. The last time Hubert set foot in a cathedral or church or any other place of Seiros worship he was fourteen and desperate. He and Thanily had vowed that the next time they stepped into a place of Seiros worship, it would be to burn it to the ground. He was in the small wooded area where they had their first mock battle, and he was not alone.

Hubert usually trained alone, for Dark magic was...not favorably viewed by the Church. But this time Lysithea was here with him. The air was heavy with the sticky feel of dark magic that drained at their fingertips and left them numb, shattered rocks and made the blades of grass wither and wilt. But it was powerful, and difficult to counter due to the sheer unfamiliarity most people had with it as much as anything else.

Seeing Jeritza, or the Death Knight, or whatever that rabid hound in the guise of a man called himself these days, in the Holy Mausoleum unnerved him. The Crest system had torn away the man he was supposed to be, and all that was left was a barely-controllable thing of murderous intent. Hubert hated working with the Death Knight almost as much as he hated working with those who slithered in the dark. It reminded him too much of what could have happened to Lady Edelgard, what could have happened to him.

And now their “friends” in the dark had taken that living weapon for their own entertainment, which would inevitably mean more unnecessary bloodshed, and all but guaranteed another encounter with the Death Knight on the battlefield. That...concerned Hubert, he reluctantly admitted under Thanily’s direct confrontation. There was precisely one spell that could instantly incapacitate him; otherwise his classmates could not stand a chance against the Death Knight.

He had nightmares about what would have happened to Ferdinand if Belial had not literally lept between the two.

All of this was to say that Hubert needed to learn Dark Spikes fast, and the best way he could think of doing that was to train with the only other dark magic user in the entire monastery. Lysithea was also a valuable source of information. And, yes, her company was tolerable and her insights and verbal takedowns were entertaining, even if her words were more sledgehammer blunt, less cutting honeyed barbs than Dorothea’s.

So they trained. They trained until the rocks were shattered and the grass around them was black and dead, until Hubert’s fingers and hands went numb like he was touching the world through thick leather gloves, until Lysithea cried out and nearly lost control of her incantation. But they kept training, and all the while their daemons kept talking through the agony of dark magic’s spiritual recoil, because pain was an old friend.

“Where did you learn dark magic?” Zilbariel asked, a honey badger far stouter than Thanily’s fox shape. “Because I had the basics drilled into me before I could reliably speak in full sentences.”

Thanily flexed her claws. “I stole it.” Those scraps of magic and her settled form were the only good things to come out of their secret mission below the palace.

That caught Zilbariel’s attention. “How did you manage to do that?”

“With great difficulty, teenage bravado, and very nearly dying multiple times.” Thanily smirked with false levity, her back stiff. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Zilbariel shuddered, his form rippling under another wave of pain. Mire this time; he pressed himself to the earth. “I wouldn’t recommend my method either.”

Thanily moved to help Zilbariel to his feet; he growled and did it himself. It was a struggle, but he did it himself. “I’m fine! I’m fine. But what about you?”

Hubert let the incantation fade away and started rubbing the feeling back into his fingers. It would take hours for them to feel like actual parts of him again. “I’m perfectly fine. I should be asking you the question.”

Zilbariel scrambled to his feet and made his way to Lysithea’s side. She glared at Hubert, more so than usual, dug her fingers into Zilbariel’s fur, and said, “You know what, I’m just going to cut to the chase. You and Edelgard are always a little bit cagey and evasive, even around me, and I know about her two crests. I...I’m not living past thirty. I don’t even know if I’ll make it to thirty. Edelgard will be lucky to see her thirty-fifth name day. I’m pretty sure both of us are sterile after what those bastards did to us, if the way my cycles are a visceral horror of my body trying to turn itself inside out without warning or predictability instead of a regularly scheduled inconvenience is any indication. The rest of our families are gone. We have no time or future, in any sense of the word. Edelgard isn’t the type of person to play at being student without an ulterior motive, and you’re her freaky shadow. So what are the two of you doing here, and what are you planning?”

Lysithea was brilliant, Hubert had to remind himself. She was brilliant, and had suffered in the exact same way Lady Edelgard did. Furthermore, she and Lady Edelgard had tea together once a week since their initial introduction; although she still widely restrained herself she was slightly more open with Lysithea than with any other teatime guests. There might have been enough dropped crumbs for her to pick up on something.

But he could trust nobody. Would Lysithea truly join them, once the war began? And in any case, this was Lady Edelgard’s story to tell.

“What do you want?” Hubert whipped towards Thanily. Why was she saying anything? “Lysithea, what do you really want?” The remnants of dark magic still hung in the air. It was the spiritual equivalent of sandpaper to the skin, leaving emotions oozing and tender to the touch.

Zilbariel snarled. “What do I want? You know exactly what I want! I want to not know what it’s like to be cut open and get a first-person look at my insides! I want to live long enough for my hair to grow white naturally! I want a body that’s not crumbling to pieces on me from having two crests! I want to settle properly!” Zilbariel kept ranting as he paced back and forth, his form shifting to a foul-tempered wolverine. “I want to go home and see my brothers and sisters instead empty chairs at empty tables and my parents’ daemons too broken to talk and a house full of ghosts! I want to live! I want my family back! I want time!”

“I’m sorry,” Hubert said. “But that’s impossible. Your family is dead and gone and never coming back.”

“I know that!” She snapped at him. “That’s why I want, no I need to learn as much as I can, and make sure that my parents are going to be okay after...after I’m gone.” Lysithea paused, and when she spoke again there was a different edge to her voice. “And revenge.”

There was the glimmer in Lysithea’s eyes, the burning conviction and determination that propelled her forward. The two crests may have been tearing her body apart inch by agonizing inch, but Zilbariel’s fur was sleek and thick, and he stood tall and strong. He couldn’t trust her fully, not yet. What if she blamed the Empire for the atrocities visited upon her and her family instead of the true enemy?

But maybe...maybe...

No. Hope was a useless, dangerous thing. Still. “Lady Edelgard and I desire much the same.” He stood and paid his respects to the younger dark mage with a shallow bow. She had earned that much. “I have a meeting with her now, but I am sure Lady Edelgard will call upon you again soon. Until next time, Lysithea.”

---

Edelgard and Hubert walked the perimeter of Garreg Mach as they spoke; Thanily kept pace by his side while Avarine soared far overhead as lookout. Hubert had almost a foot on her and yet he deliberately shortened his stride to match hers, just as he always did.

“Hubert, remember our conversation all those years ago, in the gardens shortly after I was released from the dungeons?”

“We had a lot of conversations back then.”

“The one where you mentioned the Sword of the Creator falling into our laps.” They made their way past the empty graveyard; Avarine descended in a sharp stoop, pulling up at the last minute to land on Edelgard’s shoulders. “I mean, well...” The weak attempt at humor died on her lips.

Hubert folded his arms, pensive. “How much of it is a coincidence, I wonder.”

“No, you’re right.” Edelgard stopped walking; without missing a beat Hubert turned to shield her from any potential passers by. “Nemesis had no children; I have no idea how my captors got the Crest of Flames but there is no other potential source I am aware of in the world. And your background check for Professor Byleth came up empty. It is as if she sprung into the world from nowhere at the age of seven or so, with even that little more than an educated guess, and gained the moniker of Ashen Demon less than a decade later.”

“They used Lysithea as a prototype for the two-crest model, but they did not implant Flames into her.” Hubert ticked off on his fingers. “She has no background or history and her father is reluctant to share details. She has the Crest of Flames. She has infinite range from Belial. Although they have improved as of of late, her affect and emotional range are severely stunted—"

“She is not severed!” Avarine screeched with a flash of speckled wings.

Hubert held up his hands. “I didn’t say she was. But either way, although they deny it, Professor Byleth was likely the result of an earlier experiment by our “friends” in the dark.” Thanily slightly hunched her shoulders, let out a tiny whine.

“They must have considered her a failure and threw her away, at which point Jeralt found her and took her in.” Her teacher was just like her. Did she remember her time in the dungeons, knives peeling away her flesh and bare hands grabbing at her daemon, rats skittering over the scraps of food tossed to her while Avarine screamed in her cage and tried to scare them away?

“Edelgard! Breathe. I’m right here.”

Edelgard let out a shaky breath. Breathe, just as she had to learn. Five of Avarine’s tail feathers, darker than the rest. Four kittens hiding under the bushes. Three sets of eyes guiding her through the breathing exercise. Two hands which could still hold an axe and cut a path to a better future. One professor, her teacher, a comrade in arms, a friend, beautiful and stoic and strong and...maybe...

“Hubert, our teacher has the Sword of the Creator, and she was raised outside the influence of the church. Maybe, just maybe...”

“Don’t give yourself false hope, Lady Edelgard, I beg you,” Hubert growled. “Rhea is doing everything she can to get the professor back into her clutches. And even if she fails, remember we need the war to draw out those who slither in the dark into the light so they can be properly dealt with as much as we need it to destroy the crest-based caste system, the corrupt church, and this entire rotting society. But it’s still a war; do you truly think the professor would side with us? Do you think anyone would?"

“Lysithea might. And Dorothea seems sympathetic to our cause as well.”

“But how much do they know?” It pained Hubert to say this; she could see it on Thanily’s face. “I agree that it would be useful to feel out potential alliances, but I would not expect them to truly last. They may be our friends now, but it won’t last. I will walk by your side until my dying breath, Lady Edelgard, but we cannot trust that anybody else will!”

“...I know.” Hubert was right, of course. Still, it would be worth feeling out alliances, and she found herself enjoying those chats with her classmates, talking about the future or even just joking around, taking the few moments to play as the young woman she never got to be. And for the first time Edelgard felt something stirring in her heart. Something beautiful and terrifying, that she thought had died beneath the palace all those years ago.

Hope.

Notes:

Some of you guessed it, so here it is: The dragons don’t have daemons; they pretend at it to maintain their disguise. Only humans have daemons; in the original His Dark Materials canon the armored bears had their armor and the mulefa had the seed pods.

The dragons don’t have daemons, but they are people and they still have souls, still have physical anchors that connect them to Dust. So if not daemons, what could their anchors be?

Solon’s daemon is a coral snake, a brightly colored venomous snake whose bite can cause respiratory failure. Before Tomas was killed and replaced by Solon, his daemon was a coral snake mimic, a harmless snake whose patterns mimic that of the coral snake so it can avoid predation.

Edelgard and Hubert want to make alliances, but they can't bring themselves to trust anybody enough, at least not yet. Their codependency isn't helping matters much either. Still, they are making strides, slowly but steadily.

Thank you so much for reading! You’re the best and it really makes this crazed ride worthwhile. I know I have a lot of comments to reply to so I’ll get to them now. Happy holidays and happy new year!

Chapter 10: Haunted House

Summary:

Let’s go check in on the Blue Lions and...oh no.

Notes:

Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you all so, so much for this crazy ride. I hope you’re all having a wonderful time, and please enjoy this chapter! It was tough to get into the heads of the Lions the way I wanted to, and I hope their interpretations go over well. Especially Sylvain.

Content warnings:
Mentions of sexual conduct, the inside of Sylvain’s head in general (I’m not joking about this one), and mentions of genocide.

Sylvain woke, stretched, and bumped into a body that was not his own. His mind snapped into place, shaking off the threads of dreams, and he began rapidly filing through his first-moments-of-consciousness checklist. He was awake in a room that was not his own, in a bed that was not his own. It was warm, the windows open and a fresh breeze drifting in. His foot brushed against a smooth leg, taut muscle underneath skin that was softer than his own. Pink hair spilled over the pillow to brush into his mouth; a butterfly daemon rested on the windowsill, shimmering blue wings folded up in sleep to reveal the duller brown undersides, dotted with eyespots.  

Ah, right. He was in Hilda’s room. Fucking finally. He’d been trying to get in her panties for weeks, ever since she saw right through him to the bastard he was. Takes one to know one, of course; she probably wanted to see just how much she could get him to do for her in bed ever since that thing with the books. Joke was on her though; he had a lot of anger to take out. Heh, at least she’d have a good excuse for skipping training today if last night was any indication. Or tomorrow; today was a free day, wasn’t it? Aw yeah, as good an excuse as any to just stay in bed and enjoy the lazy humidity of this summer day. Better that than going outside and having to deal with Ingrid lecturing him, or the Eagles Professor. What was her name? Beleth? Ah, Byleth. And her creepy wolf daemon Belial.

He didn’t even want to look at Professor Byleth; just the thought of her made his stomach turn, sent an angry flame through him, sent Zepida into a hiss. It wasn’t like this before. Before he couldn’t get enough of a look at the hot new professor, who was tall for a chick, all corded muscle and wild hair and the biggest tits he’d ever seen—and with Dorothea and Mercedes as classmates and Manuela as the Deer professor there was some stiff competition. But now all he could see when he saw the professor was not her glorious rack or even her creepy blank gaze but her Crest of fucking Flames. All this time she had a Major Crest, a Major Crest that had been gone from the world for over a thousand years. She shouldn’t be a professor! She shouldn’t have been wandering the world doing mercenary shit with her dad until the Church plucked her up from the marriage pool and placed her under their protective wings. By this point she should have been wed off to the highest bidder, pumping out crest babies instead of teaching older ones.

Instead Byleth and Belial got to grow up free. They never had to suffer the weight of expectations of a crest. Never had a brother who hated them for the crest they never wanted. Never had to stand stock still while women and their daemons checked over him and Zepida like they were horses at market. She was a lucky bitch who should pay for being free.

Yeah, he’d show Byleth just how lucky she was, he thought, his hand slipping below the thin blankets to fumble at himself. Hilda was still asleep next to him, her breaths slow and even. He’d get that blank stare of hers to crack, get that wolf to howl. He’d pay that debt, make her pay the price for the freedom that she didn’t even know enough to appreciate. He’d knock her to the ground, and—his breath turned harsh, his grip reflexively tightened around himself—and then he’d say something like, “It’s time to collect on your debt,” and kick her legs open. Would she or her daemon struggle, not that it would even matter, it never mattered what he said, to Miklan, or his future, or suitors or anything—

—Sharp pain, claws raked across his face. “Ow!”

“The fuck is wrong with you, you piece of shit?” Zepida hissed, her claws still out on his chest and wickedly sharp.

“Shut up, you stupid cat,” Sylvain grunted, grabbing her by the scruff and shoving her away from his face, ow that smarted, she didn’t scratch deep enough to draw blood but she did scratch deep enough to leave three angry red lines. At least it shouldn’t be too difficult to explain those away.

“Mmrrgh…Sylvain?” Hilda woke slow and languid, but her hand stilled on his thigh when she rolled over and got a good look at him. “Sylvain? What happened to your face?”

He smiled and tried to laugh it off. “Oh, nothing. Must have really gotten into it last night. Say,” he eased back into his characteristic smirk, swung an arm over Hilda’s bare shoulders, “What do you say about…sleeping in?”

Hilda wasn’t looking at him, but at those three angry red lines on his cheek, so obviously from a cat scratch. Halmstadt was still on the bedpost. “Yeah, um, I think I’ll pass. Not to say last night wasn’t fun,” she stretched and dear goddess she truly had no shame set to brushing her hair, “but I have stuff to do today.”

“O-oh.” Sylvain suddenly felt very foolish; bringing his hand back up over the covers only slightly alleviated the feeling. “Well, maybe I can come back over tonight?”

“Mm, maybe, I’ll let you know.” She sat up without even a motion towards her discarded clothes or dresser, and dismissed him with an imperious wave. “You should get going before anyone else wakes up!”

And then she left him to pull on his discarded clothes and make the walk of shame back to his room.

“Thanks a lot,” he muttered to Zepida, whose tail lashed in agitation as they walked. Stupid daemon, always messing things up for him.

“Don’t thank me for anything, you stupid piece of shit. You’re the one who wrecked it.”

Would it be possible to kick her down the hall without causing him more pain? Whatever, it wasn’t worth it. Best to not make a scene, get back to his room and change and “Felix? What are you doing here?!”

“Waiting for you, obviously.” His arms were folded, his nose wrinkled in contempt. Bismalt swam to the edge of his capsule to bump against Zepida’s outstretched nose. “Ugh, you stink of sex. Go to the sauna or something.”

“Good morning to you too, Fee. No, but seriously, what are you doing in my room so early in the morning?

“I got a letter. From your father. You weren’t in your room so the messenger delivered it to me.”

Fuck. Fuck, what bullshit was it this time? “Felix stop dicking around and give me that!” He swiped the letter from Felix’s hands as his best friend beat a hasty retreat towards the open door. Sylvain tore open the letter and scanned it. Then read it again. Then read it a third time, with Zepida reading over his shoulder and reading the words with increasing horror.

Thank the goddess that Felix stuck around, slouched against the doorframe. And thank the goddess that he closed the door so nobody could hear his profanity-laced screams of rage.

---

Fish grilled with spices that Dedue hoarded viciously. A stew that Ashe had initially learned in his first parents’ restaurant, but with chunks of venison just as Christophe had suggested. Baked sweets with…was that cinnamon? Perfect to go with tea. Mercedes had suggested that the three of them cook something that was personally important, and then they could all share a lovely meal together.

It was probably some sort of therapy thing, not just the three best cooks in the Blue Lions, possibly the entire school, making a meal together. When Ashe stirred the stew and its flavors mingled with Dedue’s heavily spiced fish and the aroma wafting from the oven, when Fuergios perched sandpiper-shaped on Levia’s horns and Cygnis watched with his tail thumping the ground, it almost reminded him of home. Of Christophe’s pitbull daemon and Lonato’s screech owl.

But Christophe was gone, and so was Lonato—both of his fathers were dead and gone. All that was left of Lonato was the little wooden puzzle box, and a vial of ashes strung to a necklace that rested next to his heart.

How could he ever repay his classmates for what they did?

Either way, this meal, and the conversations they had while making it, brought back sweet memories tinged bitter with tears. Judging by the looks on their faces, Dedue and Mercedes felt the same way.

People in Fodlan prayed to the Goddess before a meal, but that did not happen in Duscur, Dedue had explained as he cooked, standing respectfully several burners away. Ashe was small and nimble enough to get closer without accidentally brushing against Levia’s bulk, but Mercedes was not so fortunate and so had to raise her voice to be heard, or have Cygnis come closer to them and speak for her.

“We would pray to the sea god before fishing, pray to the…farming god before a harvest,” Dedue had said as he added more of a brownish aromatic powder. “To pray afterwards would be redundant. It would feel more like a prayer to the people who made the food and not the gods who allowed the food to happen in the first place.”

“Your beliefs and reasonings sound so different from ours! Please, I would like to hear more.” Cygnis sat close to Levia, close enough for Levia to touch for support if she wanted. Mercedes didn’t sound disgusted, or revolted, or anything like that. She sounded intrigued. He was too; he wanted to hear more about Duscur from one of its own inhabitants, not whatever people in the Church or Kingdom said about Duscurians. The whole eating babies thing was a lie, so what was the actual truth?

But Dedue just looked down at his fish. It was delicious, the skin crispy but the inside moist, seasoned to perfection. Even the presentation was lovely, with little shavings of carrot and parsnip curled into the shape of flowers. “Why? There is no point; Duscur is a ruin.”

Oh.

“They, they couldn’t have killed everyone in Duscur!” Fuergios cried out and no no no shut up Fuergios! Ashe scrambled over to his daemon, flailing to get her off of Levia without actually touching Dedue’s enormous daemon, but it was too late. “Lonato said there were over a million Duscurians; how could the Kingdom have killed all of them?”

Dedue stared at his fish, his breaths deep and deliberately even. Levia answered in a low voice. “They may as well have. The towns are destroyed, the survivors scattered and crammed in slums instead of the mountains and forests of home. I have heard that the churches are taking orphaned Duscurian children, and even those lucky enough to have a surviving parent, and raising them to be good citizens of Faerghus, good servants of the goddess. They have nobody to teach them the words of our gods. When I was a child, I did not pay much attention to the priests. I was going to be a blacksmith, and the incense made my head hurt. But now my village is gone, and I do not even know the prayers of mourning.”

That…that didn’t seem fair, or right at all. The Kingdom and Church took Dedue’s family from him too, and now they were stealing what was left? He…this world would be a lesser one without Dedue’s cooking, or the tales he remembered of his gods. They shouldn’t do that, and by the growl in Cygnis’s voice Mercedes felt the same way.

“I am so sorry, Dedue. Your people were stolen from you. The Kingdom…we stole your people from the world. I can't bring them back, but Dedue, you are still here. I want to hear about your stories, your lands, your culture. They are worth telling, and worth sharing.”

Ashe scrambled to make up for his prior words. “And Dedue, I want to try your food and hear your stories. And I’ll help you find other survivors and learn the words of those prayers! You shouldn’t have had it stolen, but it matters, getting it back!”

“I suppose, if the stories and memories live on, and are shared, then in a sense our loved ones are not fully gone?”

Mercedes smiled and nodded. “That’s what I believe, anyway.” Weren’t these sweets from her fallen noble house? So she sort of understood.

His father and mother, Christophe and Lonato, they were all gone but he was still here. And he had their stories to share and tell.

So they sat there for a while, eating and sharing the stories of loved ones whose presence still lingered. They did this until they heard Sylvain’s raucous shout announce his presence.

“Oh, that smells divine! Say, you got any left for me?”

Sylvain swaggered in, a grin plastered too wide on his face, three angry red lines glaring from one cheek. Zepida sauntered besides him. Her limbs swaggered with every step, her tail quivered upright yet the tip lashed back and forth, and her eyes were wide as could be. She was agitated, looking for a fight. Felix walked beside him, tenseness radiating in every coiled muscle.

“Uh, Sylvain, are you okay?”

“Never better!” That grin was still there, too wide on his face. He swung himself into a chair a few feet away from them and laughed, a feral thing. “Miklan’s really fucked up this time!”

---

“Hey, Dorothea?”

“Yes, Bern?” Oh, she was going to murder her excuse for a father. Perhaps if she dropped a few hints to Hubert or Edelgard and they went digging, they could arrange an “unfortunate accident” for him. They definitely seemed like the types who would take a grim pride, if not outright glee, in cleaning up the filth of the upper crust.

“They’re most definitely planning something,” Calphour muttered under his breath. Edie had cut short their semi-regular teatime where they would talk about how awful the nobility was and how she was going to fix things once she took the throne to speak privately with Professor Byleth, and Dorothea was fairly sure it wasn’t just to spend time awkwardly flirting with their professor. Although Edie was probably doing that too, because oh the princess had it bad.

“Um, remember in the greenhouse, when you asked me if…if I had a crush on someone?” Bernadetta squeaked. “Well…”

Dorothea let out a squeak of her own, her hands flying to her mouth. “Wait, seriously? Ooh, Bern, who is it, who’s the lucky guy? Or girl? Oh, I’m so excited for you!”

Bernadetta blushed into Malecki’s curled-up form and, reminding Dorothea to take a step back. Right, don’t overwhelm her. She waited for Bern to compose herself, tap her fingers together, blush deeply, and finally spill out, “It’s Ferdinand.”

…What.

Ferdinand? Ferdinand von Aegir, as he so loved to remind people? That loudmouthed pompous hypocrite with the bee daemon? That Ferdinand? That’s who Bernadetta had a crush on?

“Oh, no no no, not him,” Calphour whispered frantically across their link. “He’ll just use her and throw her away!”

Dorothea could still remember that day, the way a much younger Ferdinand had stared at her with chocolate smeared across his face, that burn in his gaze that sent shame running through her. Shame at the simple act of bathing, of being dirty, of being a street rat. And if Ferdie was like that at ten, then how much worse was he at eighteen?

She needed to warn Bern. But…she couldn’t go right out and say it. That would just scare her off.

“Ferdinand? I wouldn’t have expected you to fall for someone with such a…strong force of personality. You’ve got to tell me why.”

And okay, she always loved a good piece of gossip.

“Well, I mean, he’s always so nice and patient with me. We’ve been working in the stables for a few months now, and he’s helped me so much with working with the horses, and how to ride them, and he loves the horses so much it’s adorable to see. He’s never gotten angry or upset with me when I’ve messed up, but he’s taken the time to help me get better. And Dorothea, he really scared me by accident at one point, but after that we talked and he apologized and he asked me what he could do to help not accidentally scare me again and he’s been doing it!”

“I know he talks about himself a lot,” Malecki added, “But I think he really wants to help people. He showed me some notes he’s working on about some sort of art program for the people in his territory? Ferdie loves art and he also wants to share it with other people, which I think is just so sweet. And he’s cute!” The last words were muffled, as Malecki curled up in embarrassment.

“Huh. That was…not something I was expecting,” Dorothea said, and she meant every word. Ferdie was a yammering hypocrite but he didn’t seem like the type to pull off an outright deceptive act for that long. Maybe he got a bit of a reality check during those eight-ish years?

She would have had more time to muse on that if Calphour hadn’t spotted another friend. “Oh, Ingrid! How are you doing?” Bernadetta yelped at the sudden intrusion and hid behind a pillar.

Ingrid’s response was to let out a long-suffering sigh. Albarrog looked like he wanted to tear something apart.

“That bad, huh?”

Ingrid’s only response was to hand over a letter. Dorothea quickly scanned it over and…oh dear. It was a marriage proposal. But what was really disturbing was the name attached to it.

“Oh fuck, not this guy,” Calphour muttered.

Albarrog flicked his gaze up to her daemon. “You know him?”

At the same time Ingrid said, “He likely wants my Crest of Daphnel to adorn his family name.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right, the prick.”

“You know him?”

“He tried to court me when I was a singer. Best advice I can give you, Ingrid? Stay far, far away from this guy.” He was one of the worst of the lot. As awful as the younger Ferdinand was, he was nothing compared to this monster in human form. And he dared pursue her Ingrid?!

Ingrid stared at the letter like it was announcing the death of a family member than a possible marriage. “He’s offered a sizable dowry, so I must at least consider it…”

Dorothea and Calphour just let out a bitter bark of a laugh. “Hah! Blood money, that’s all it is.”

“Can we prove it?”

“I don’t want to get married to someone like him,” Albarrog added.

“Um,” Bernadetta stepped out from behind the pillar. “I’ve seen Ignatz in archery practice, and his parents are merchants. Maybe he knows how to track down the records and prove it?”

“You can’t get married to someone like him!” Malecki added. “He only wants you for your crest; he’ll, he’ll—!”

“Hey, hey, Bern, it’s okay!” Cethleann’s grace, and Bern had a crest too, didn’t she? “That’s a really good idea. We’ll go track down this bastard, and give him what’s coming!”

---

It made sense that Byleth and her students would be entrusted with this mission. After all, most of the knights were away purging the apostates of the Western Church, and she could use the Sword of the Creator. If this Miklan person really was running around with another Relic, well, she remembered just how powerful Thunderbrand was.

“Purging. What a pretty euphemism,” Sothis had muttered. The word didn’t sit quite right with Byleth either. Yes, the Western Church had raised a rebellion, and then they broke into the Holy Mausoleum, but…

She shook her head. Right now the mission was what mattered, and making sure her students stayed safe. Besides, she had a request for Archbishop Rhea and Seteth.

Rhea smiled, as serene and trusting as always. “The Crestless cannot unleash the goddess’s power, even if they possess a Relic. Nonetheless, they are still capable of simply wielding these weapons. They are immensely powerful and so we must meet this thread with adequate force. The Sword of the Creator is a powerful weapon, well beyond the other Relics. You have nothing to fear. However, I know how much you care for your students. You are doing an admirable job as a professor. Therefore, to ensure that no harm comes to your students, we will also send one of the monastery’s most skilled individuals to aid you.”

“Thank you.” Even if she could turn back time thanks to Sothis, she would still remember if her students died. Still did. Anything to prevent that from happening again.

Belial was silent, but now they spoke up. “I feel kind of bad for Miklan, if he was disowned just because he didn’t have a crest.” They had a crest, but they spent their whole life not knowing they had one, and it never made a difference. They were the same person last month when they didn’t know than this month when they did.

Seteth flicked his eyes at Rhea. “Regardless of that, he did steal a Hero’s Relic and has been terrorizing the countryside along with his bandits. He is a threat that must be stopped.”

Of course; that part was clear. That was something she knew how to do. Now for the next part. “Archbishop Rhea? I have a request, if it’s okay to ask?”

She blinked; her praying mantis daemon watched impassively from inside his capsule. “Of course, Professor Byleth. What is it?”

“I have been speaking with Edelgard and she wants to start a club to,” how did she put it? “discuss future political and social policy with the future leaders of Fodlan, with an intent to find common ground among all three houses. Would it be possible to start a club, if I’m the adviser?”

Seteth smiled. “I don’t see a problem with that. I think it would be a wonderful way to help forge stronger bonds among the three nations. However, as adviser, you will be responsible for the content of these clubs and meetings, and likewise it will be your duty to prevent and report any subversive activity. In times like this we cannot be too careful.”

That…was more than Byleth was expecting. She nodded, thankful that they had no idea about what she and the house leaders did just a few weeks ago. Besides, Edelgard probably wasn't going to do anything too nuts with it.

Sothis cheered in Byleth’s head. “Look at you, taking initiative! I knew you had it in you.”

Rhea placed a hand on her shoulder. That fond smile was still on her face, although Seteth’s appeared to vanish. “You must be rather bewildered by the power that was hidden within. However, know that I believe in you. I have no doubt that you will use that power justly. You will most certainly fulfill the grand destiny that the goddess has seen fit to grant you.”

Grand destiny? But then again, nobody else could turn back time. Maybe she did have a grand destiny. Byleth nodded. She couldn’t let her students, or the archbishop down.

---

Shopping bags full of bread, sweets, ingredients for more sweets, adorable clothes, some new makeup, a couple of fascinating little nick-knacks, and a few books swung from Mercedes and Annette’s arms, hung off of Cygnis’s side. Serrin raced back and forth between Annette’s shoulder and Cygnis’s head, happily chittering away. They had completely overdone it on their shopping trip, again, and it was incredible fun.

“We overdid it again, didn’t we Mercie?”

“Maybe, but if we had a good time together and didn’t truly spend more than we could afford, then it was time and money well spent! And I certainly had a good time. Did you?”

“I always have a good time with you!” Annette laughed, sunny and bright, a wellspring of optimism. Mercedes felt rejuvenated just being around her best friend. Annette was a remarkably resilient young woman who managed to stay positive despite the hardships life sometimes brought her, as life always would. She was proud to call Annette her friend.

They continued walking around town, sharing stories about classes or giving advice on spellcasting, or just talking about their school life. More than once she and Annie would break off their conversation to browse some market stall while their daemons would pick up where they left off without missing a beat. It was good to be out in the air like this, outside of the monastery walls every once in a while.

“—So then Felix heard me singing in the greenhouse; and what’s worse, it was the food song! Ugh, I thought I was going to drop dead of embarrassment right then and there!”

Cygnis’s chuckle turned into a mighty yawn halfway through, which Serrin noticed. Annette’s squirrel daemon tapped his ear and asked, “Hey Cyg, you okay?”

His response was to let out a huff and a teasing flick of his ear. “I’m fine, just a bit tired is all. A lot’s been going on lately.”

“Haha, tell me about it. I thought it would be a normal boring year but instead it’s been new professors and weird conspiracies! And, well, you know...”

“I don’t think Sylvain is doing as well as he wants to let on,” Mercedes mused. “He’s a very disingenuous man, and I suspect he’s much more angry and bitter than what he presents to the world. Annette? If Sylvain starts flirting with you, please turn him down. I would be very wary of his intentions.”

Annie flashed her a soft smile. “Ingrid already warned me about Sylvain but if you’re worried then I’ll be super, duper cautious.” Relief flowed through Mercedes; that was all she wanted. Sylvain definitely needed help, but that was no excuse to hurt other people in the meantime, much less himself. Hopefully she could help him see that.

A flick of Cygnis’s tail against her leg jolted her back to the present. Annie was still talking. “...know just how much you’re taking care of us, but please remember to take care of yourself too? You’re my friend, and I care about you.”

“Oh Annie, you’re so sweet. I promise, you won’t have to worry about that.”

Annie smiled, and Cygnis could feel Serrin relax slightly atop his head. “Thanks, Mercie.”

They continued in that amiable silence, two best friends simply spending time together. Until a flash of orange made Cygnis stop. The painted wolf daemon swiveled towards the motion. “Mercedes, look.”

She did, and saw the figure over by a vegetable stall. Square face. Stocky build. Bright orange hair tied back in a low tail. Large red crab daemon. Oh no.

Annie saw him too. “...Father?” All her purchases clattered against each other as she took off running; a bag of flour bounced out and spilled open against the cobblestones. “Father, it’s me! It’s Annie! I finally found you!”

Serrin lept off Cygnis’s head and bounded after her. “Dad, Flikris, look! Remember when Annie would climb everywhere and you’d call us your little squirrel? Look what I settled as!”

Mercedes approached, a wary sidestep. She watched as Gilbert went still, his daemon—Flikris—freezing midstep. Watched as Gilbert slowly turned, Flikris move to close the gap and his hand hold her in place.

Wished she was astonished at how Gilbert said—no, lied—“I am sorry; you must be mistaken. I have no family.”

Annette staggered back as if struck, Gilbert had the audacity to step forward and help her up, and oh that was it! Mercedes raced forward to support her friend, who crumpled in her arms as if she had actually taken a mighty blow, and Cygnis placed himself snarling between Annette and Gilbert. Cygnis was not as large as Belial, but he was still a painted wolf.

Cygnis snarled, stared Gilbert down just as Mercedes did. “You have no right!”

Gilbert saw them, Annette with her heart carved in two, Mercedes holding the pieces together, and for a moment appeared to be nothing more than a sad old man. “…You’re right. Forgive me.”

And then he walked off. Annette managed to hold it together until he was out of view before collapsing into quiet sobs.

“Annie, I…I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. No matter what, please remember that you didn’t deserve it.” Mercedes helped Annie to her feet, quashed the small selfish part of her that worried about getting her essay in on time. That didn’t matter; she could always stay up late to finish it. What did matter was that Annie was in trouble, and needed her help. Her best friend, her classmates, they were all hurting in some way. What kind of person would Mercedes be if she didn’t do everything she could to help them?

---

 “Hey, you think the Eagles will let me on their mission?” Sylvain’s voice was still sharp and shiny like a shard of broken glass. Zepida paced back and forth, her tail twitching, her eyes and fur both standing on end.

Oh, he hoped the Eagles would let him go with them. He couldn’t wait to see the look on that bastard’s face upon seeing Sylvain in the group sent to take him down.

“Miklan, you’ve fucked up now,” Zepida growled, tail still lashing back and forth. “Go ask the professor yourself! Or are you afraid you have so little self control that you’ll bury your face in her tits instead of speaking to her like a normal human being?”

“That’s not true!” But wasn’t it, on some level?

“Sylvain?”

Oh no. That had to be Mercedes. That woman would not let up. And Felix was there too, because of course his oldest and closest friend wouldn’t take his smiling lies at face value. Thank goodness Ingrid’s attention was split between him and whatever she was doing with Dorothea, because there was no way she bought it either.

Everyone in the Lions had checked in on him once the news of Miklan and the lance came out. They’d be checking in on each other a lot lately, since Lonato. It had been Mercedes who spearheaded the effort and did the bulk of the work, of course. Sylvain liked Mercedes, but he was also a little afraid of her. She was sweet, she was kind, she was gorgeous, she had made peace with her past in a way that poured an acid burn in his chest, and she was uncannily perceptive. She had this preternatural ability to see right through you and go straight for the throat.

“She going to show Felix just what a piece of shit you are? Joke’s on her; he already knows and yet he’s still here for some reason.”

“Mercedes wouldn’t be here for that!”

“Sylvain?” Mercedes had plopped down on a seat across from him, close enough to be intimate but far enough away for him not to feel trapped. Cygnis laid down, seemingly comfortable yet with his gaze still alert and trained on him. Felix was not nearly so careful in his movements and so slouched with folded arms and a scowl. Still, Bismalt seemed to move faster in his capsule. “I’m sure this must be very difficult. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”

“I’m fine, really.” He laughed again, shiny and bitter. “Honestly, this was a long time coming. And it’s not like this is anything new.”

All of which was true. Miklan was a fucking asshole made of bitterness, jealousy, rage, and impulsivity; it was only a matter of time before he did something this stupid and got himself killed for it. And it’s not like asshole family members were a rarity here. This was the Blue Lions after all; with the glaring exception of Ingrid everyone’s family was either dead or dead to them.

So Sylvain was fine. He was absolutely, completely fine. Could they stop asking him if he was fine?

That’s what he said, and Mercedes smiled in that knowing way while Felix just scoffed. “I’m asking the professor if we can both go on the mission,” he said in a tone that brokered no argument. “Come find me when you’re ready to be an adult and talk about how you really feel.”

And then he stalked off, leaving Sylvain with Mercedes and her expectant smile and her endless patience and her cutting gaze.

Zepida stared down Cygnis, her tail drumming an irregular beat on the wooden table. “I bet she can see just how much of a piece of shit you are. You’re a real piece of shit, you know that, brushing off Felix and Ingrid like that? They’re the only two people in the world who put up with your garbage, and you brush them off like that? How long before they get fed up and walk away too?”

“They’re Felix and Ingrid, they won’t—“

“—Yes they will! Sooner or later you’ll drive them away and then you’ll be all alone. Which you deserve, you worthless whore. Everywhere you go you hurt people!”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah? What about the girls you fuck and dump? What about Ingrid who has to clean up after you? What about Ashe? What kind of example are you setting?”

“What does this have to do with Miklan?! Shut up!”

Zepida hissed and hopped off the table to crouch and stare at Cygnis. The painted wolf daemon didn’t move, didn’t even twitch those huge round ears of his.

“If you need to talk, or ask for advice, or anything, I’m here for you.”

Just what had Mercedes seen in the church? What had she seen before the crests ruined her life as well? Did she see people even worse, even more wretched than him?

Mercedes saw right through him, but she still didn’t really know him. Didn’t know how awful Miklan was, didn’t know just how awful he was. Didn’t know all the rough and jagged edges, those open sores the way that Felix and Ingrid and even Dimitri did. Didn’t know why he could never, ever ask Felix these things that would scratch at those bleeding wounds.

“Mercedes?” he asked, in a voice surprisingly small for how bitter it was, “What’s it like to have a brother who loves you?”

---

It was dusk, and everyone who had an ounce of sense in their heads had gone back to their dormitories to study for certification exams and possibly sleep. And grunts and the sound of metal against wood still echoed from the training grounds. Felix didn’t want to know what dragons might be in the boar’s head but there certainly wasn’t any sense in there.

“Hey! Boar!”

The actual boar turned to look at him. The one wearing his former friend’s skin didn’t stop stabbing the training dummies, but he did slow down in acknowledgement of Felix’s presence. “Felix, are you here to train as well?”

Felix gritted his teeth, but his fingers curled around Bismalt’s capsule. How dare this mockery of Dimitri talk to him with that voice, with those earnest blue eyes?! “I don’t make a habit of talking to beasts. I’m here to let you know that Sylvain and I are joining the Black Eagles to take down Miklan. That’s it. I’m going to get some fresh air. Remember what that is?”

Now the boar prince saw fit to put down his lance. “Felix, I...thank you for telling me. And thank you for going with Sylvain on this mission. Edelgard and the Black Eagles are lovely people, to be sure, but your presence will—"

Felix held up a hand. “Shut it. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going now, but just a word of advice, boar. The goddess gave us daemons for a reason, so we have someone to talk to and keep us from going mad with isolation. You should speak with her some time, if you can talk about anything other than bloodlust.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

Bismalt made sure they were out of earshot before asking, “What about Sylvain and Zepida?”

“That’s something else entirely.” And yet just as scary, in his own way. He wished...he just...it...

“Goddess damn it all. I can’t wait to take out that bastard,” Felix muttered, storming off.

Dimitri didn’t even wait for Felix’s form to vanish into the evening shadows before turning back to the training dummies. The lance tore into leather and straw, and Dimitri tried to imagine that they were the bodies of the ones who massacred his family instead.

It only helped a little bit.

He could hear the scuffling noise behind him as Delcabia opened her mouth to speak, and he interrupted whatever she was about to say with a raised hand. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t need to hear whatever she had to say. He didn’t need to see his fathers’s ghostly hands clawing at her bristles either.

“I’m working on it!” He growled. Another swing of the lance, another crack as it splintered in his hands. He pitched the broken weapon aside and pulled out another one. “Just, give me time...”

Delcabia said nothing, and thankfully the ghosts stayed silent for the time being as well. She sat at the very edge of their range and watched as Dimitri trained late into the night.

Notes:

Next up is Miklan.

If Sylvain seems more openly worse, it’s because in a daemon AU the self loathing and self-destructive part of him is not a whisper in the back of his skull but walking around in the shape of a cat, actually berating him and capable of clawing his face.

We’ve seen mostly healthy human-daemon relationships. What’s an unhealthy one like?

As we close out the year, I just want to say thank you to Nintendo and IntSys for making such an amazing game. I'm a FE veteran, and this game knocked it out of the part. Thank you to all the fans that I met and foamed at the mouth about ships and theories with. And I want to thank you, the readers, so much for hanging on to every word of my crazed AU that I scramble for my phone in the shower for. You're incredible, every last one of you. I hope to see you guys in 2020, and who knows what may happen beyond that?

Humans and daemons in this chapter:
Gilbert and Flikris (female red king crab)

Chapter 11: Miklan

Summary:

What kind of gift would do something like this?

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient. This month has been and will continue to be absolute hell; I had an interview in Texas last week and I have, I kid you not, 17 hour shifts every. Other. Day. For the entire month. I haven't even had a chance to reply to comments! In the end I needed to get this chapter up in a reasonable timeframe to maintain momentum. And there's still parts of it that frustrate me. Ah well. I hope you all enjoy!

Content warnings: Sylvain and his A+ coping mechanisms (including alcohol abuse and sexual content).

Well, the Goddess certainly knew how to set the mood. The rain came down in thick sheets, turning the sky a greenish-gray and the ground to a thick muddy slop. Mud tracked up everyone’s shoes and kicked up as they walked, coating the backs of everyone’s legs. They were forced to abandon the horses and make the rest of the way to the tower on food. The rain plastered everyone’s hair to their heads, soaked through clothes, ran into scabbards and spellbooks and socks. Only the fact that it was a warm rain kept it “merely” intolerable instead of a living hell.

In other words, it was the perfect weather for hunting down some bandits and killing Sylvain’s shitstain of a brother.

“I can’t wait to take down that rat bastard,” Bismalt muttered in his capsule. “He’s had this a long time coming, everything he’s done to Sylvain…”

Felix sighed. “Bis, not that I don’t agree, but keep it to yourself, okay?”

“Why? Its true, and Sylvain seems fine about it.” Indeed, Sylvain was chatting with Edelgard. Surprisingly enough, he seemed to be restraining himself. At least, Felix assumed that was the case because although Hubert was hovering nearby like a particularly hungry vulture, Edelgard’s creepy vassal hadn’t blasted Sylvain yet.

“Sylvain’s very good at seeming.”

What could he do? What else could Felix and Bismalt do beyond what they were doing right here and now, marching alongside Sylvain and the Black Eagles in the storm? How much did they understand the personal history here, or was it just another job for their mercenary-turned-professor?

A flash of orange in his vision, and Felix’s ire quickly latched onto a new and much more deserving target. He jogged up to Gilbert—Macuil’s ire, he hoped he’d rust himself in that armor, he deserved worse—and growled, “You.”

The older man (and his face was grizzled chiseled and wrinkled and his hair was streaked with gray but the same color as Annette’s. The blue of his eyes, the hue of his skin, both of them were exactly the same as hers) looked down (not up) at him with soft blue eyes. “Ah, you must be Fraldarius’s son. Felix, was it? I’m surprised to see you on this mission. You are still part of the Blue Lions, are you not?”

Hypocrite, hypocrite, just another sad old man who chose to enslave himself, Felix wanted to vomit at the sight of him, wanted to punch him in the face. “So’s your daughter. Remember her? Because Annette hasn’t forgotten you.”

Gilbert’s crab daemon scuttled under his armor, but her likeness was still carved into the steel, and Bismalt still glared at it in absolute disgust. Gilbert merely closed his eyes. “I do not deserve to see her, not after—”

“No. No you don’t. You don’t deserve Annette, you don’t deserve her forgiveness, you don’t deserve to be anywhere near her! And not for whatever bullshit Duscur-related excuse you’re about to spout. You don’t deserve to be anywhere near her because you abandoned her! Gilbert, or whatever you’re calling yourself nowadays, you got so wrapped up in your guilt or self-pity or I don’t actually fucking care that you forgot about your own fucking wife and daughter, who are alive and actually needed you! You’re nothing but a selfish bastard who’s more interested in feeling sorry for himself and chasing ghosts than helping people who are actually alive and need you!”

And then Felix stormed off. He didn’t want to hear whatever self-pitying bullshit Gilbert had to say. He felt a little better, but Bismalt was still darting back and forth in his capsule, fins shimmering in the water. The tempest still raged inside Felix. Rage and a twisting clawing feeling that made him want to scream and cry. Anger at a broken world and broken friends, grief for everything, rage at that glorified death cult everyone in Faerghus called chivalry. Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. Chivalry was nothing more than a pack of lies that glorified death and dying and killing over actually doing something for people who were actually alive. The dead couldn’t speak, couldn’t wish, couldn’t dream. They were gone. And to worship them over the living?

Any word other than “bullshit” would boil down to the same thing in the end.

He made his way back to Sylvain, whose was displaying an impressive amount of self-control in his conversation with Edelgard, if the fact that Hubert still hadn’t murdered him was any indication. They were going over the internal plans of the tower while standing a safe spot from the structure. Professor Byleth was discussing plans of attack while her…while oh shit it was true; Belial must have been scouting because they were not there. Sure, the professor had warned him and Sylvain beforehand, and he’d heard the rumors that had swept through the monastery, but it was another thing entirely to actually see a living human being without their daemon.

Felix opened the lid of the capsule and dipped his fingers in the water for Bismalt to swim up against. His scales were smooth against the rough pads of his fingertips. “That’s not right,” he muttered.

His gaze slid from Belial (how did the Eagles ever get used to that sight?) to Sylvain, who was speaking with a too-easy smile but with his eyes specifically trained on Edelgard, not Byleth.

“My apologies, Sylvain. I know this must be emotionally painful for you. Whatever his tactical acumen might be, his crimes against you and the general populace must not go unanswered.”

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me twice. Edelgard, Professor Byleth, thanks again for letting me and Felix go on this mission. After everything he’s done I need to see the end of this myself.”

Zepida lashed her tail back and forth. “Sure he could have been a good military leader, but that didn’t happen, now did it?”

Belial returned, their fur soaking wet and blending into the grayness of the stormy landscape, the rain masking the sound of their footfalls. Both Sylvain and Felix relaxed slightly—Edelgard must have been used to it, somehow—and that was as good a time as any to walk in.

“Sylvain.”

“Gah!”

“You ready for this?”

“Of course I’m ready. I’ve been ready for this since the mountainside. Or the well. Or, well…”

Of course Sylvain was going to say that, and he was smiling. He was smiling so widely that Felix’s cheeks hurt just looking at him. Bismalt pressed a fin against the capsule, and Zepida responded with a paw to the cool glass. “When you’re ready just let me know.”

---

The lance was twitching. The lance was fucking twitching.

Miklan was screaming out orders above the din of battle and his bandit lackeys were fanatically loyal to an extent that Byleth had not seen in some time. There were reinforcements pouring in to the point where the rear lines nearly got overwhelmed and Belial had to split off so they could attack on two fronts. Dorothea was out on an emergency mission with Ingrid, Linhardt was working himself to exhaustion with long-range healing spells, and Sylvain and Felix were not quite fighting in synchronization the way that her eagles had been learning to do.

Her students really had been learning well. They fought in much more harmonious concert then that first fight a few long months ago. Caspar was at Linhardt’s side as he cast and healed his injured classmates; anybody who thought him an easy mark would be instantly tackled and pummeled. Petra was slightly out of step without Dorothea’s magic, but she was the swiftness to complement her and Edelgard’s strength, and she was also fast enough to slip into the fray wherever she was needed. Somehow, Ardior managed to keep himself inconspicuous until the last minute. Bernadetta and Ferdinand were rarely far from each other; much like Linhardt and Caspar he defended her from anybody who dared close into melee, and even when many closed in on Ferdinand and Bernadetta at once they always did so feathered with arrows, or smoking from a spell that Hubert cast. His hands glowed with greasy magic; he and Thanily cackled in malicious glee at any particularly strong hit. She and Sothis could not help but feel the surge in pride at how her students had grown.

As for Byleth herself, this was the first she had used the sword in combat for an extended period of time, and it…it really felt like an extension of herself. When the blade extended into the whip and those barbed fragments, and she lashed it forward, it was like she attacking with her own bare hands or claws.

She felt more connected with the sword than she did to her own daemon.

And now they had turned the corner, had directly engaged Milkan and that stolen lance, and the lance was fucking twitching.

“What kind of sacred relic twitches?” Sothis shouted in her head, giving commentary whenever she wasn’t keeping another set of eyes out for her students. “Seriously, I haven’t seen many supposedly sacred items but generally something that’s holy is NOT supposed to twitch!”

Sylvain was locked in combat with his older scarred brother, his face set in a snarl, Zepida’s fur standing on end as she tried again and again to grab Miklan’s foul-tempered Almyran hamster daemon off of him without actually touching Miklan himself. Miklan was lost in fury at the sight of his younger brother, and the things he said were…

“Shut up!” Sylvain cried out, parrying that horrible twitching lance with his normal dinged-up steel one. “I’m tired of you blaming me for things that aren’t my fault! I’m tired of you—ugh!”

Zepida had lept for Miklan’s daemon again, but this time Miklan had caught her in the chest with a sweep of his lance. She yowled in pain and bounced across the room, forcing Sylvain to his knees and scrambling after her as she skidded to a stop inches from the wall.

Miklan’s armor clanked as he approached, his face twisted into a feral snarl as his armor clanked with every step of his approach. That lance twitched faster, as if eager for the promise of more blood to feast upon. Sylvain turned around, his back flush against one of the inner walls of the tower.

“How do you like being on the receiving end for once?” Miklan’s daemon taunted to Zepida and Sylvain alike.

Miklan raised his lance. “Why don’t you be a good little brother for once in your life, and die for me!”

“Byleth!”

I’m on it, Sothis! She reached within, prepared for the world to shatter as she walked back time, let it be before Sylvain’s life spilled on the ground and Zepida faded away—

—The lance pulsed. Something dark began to ooze from between the wiggling pieces.

“What the…?”

The rest of her students had caught up, which meant that everyone got a front-row seat to what happened next.  

Reddish-black ichor shot out of the lance, almost what dried blood would look like if it had a shape and form, and wound its way up Miklan’s hand, wrist, arm, torso.

“What—what the--?!”

Sylvain scrambled away and to his feet. He held Zepida close, could do nothing but watch in terror as Miklan was slowly consumed. Whatever substance oozed out of the lance kept working up and down his body, up his torso, down his legs, up his neck. The pulsing tendrils of ichor crawled over his face, and as Miklan screamed in terror and agony they wormed into his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

Miklan’s daemon jumped off him, her eyes wide as she tried to run away. That dark energy swept over the hamster, pulsed, and flattened out. She was gone.

“K-Kilkari!” Sylvain was silent, his eyes wide. Zepida, and nearly everyone in her class whether human or daemon, screamed.

Kilkari was gone, and so was Miklan. Even the screaming had been consumed. All that was left was a writhing mass of…of what looked like thick worms made of bloody meat, shifting and oozing and growing.

Until the ooze was sucked into…into…

The thing that used to be Miklan was a black beast, vaguely lizard-like but many times larger than even Levia. Too many fangs jutted from the beast’s mouth, and spikes that looked almost like enlarged versions of those twitching protrusions of the lance jutted from its back. It looked twisted, warped, and writhed in agony. One hapless bandit who was too frozen in terror to flee was torn in half for his trouble, got to see his lower half disappear down the throat of the thing that used to be Miklan before the rest of him, still screaming, followed. It took too long for his daemon, trapped outside the beast, to fade away.  

Carved into its forehead was the Crest of Gautier.

Sothis was still and quiet in Byleth’s mind. After a moment she heard her mutter, “That beast, and that crest…”

“This…Miklan, what is this?!” Sylvain muttered. Zepida was whimpering, pressing into him as far away from the beast as possible. “This is like a bad dream come to life.”

The beast that was once Milkan roared and lunged, and Felix just barely managed to dodge in time. Sylvain was not so lucky.

Those wicked claws tore Sylvain open, rending through armor and flesh like butter. His insides spilled out onto the ground, and he collapsed, bleeding out.

“SYLVAIN!”

Felix’s cry of anguish shattered mid-syllable as Byleth, Sothis, and Belial pulled back the threads of time. Belial huffed as time resumed.

“This…Miklan, what is this?!” Sylvain muttered. Zepida was whimpering, pressing into him as far away from the beast as possible. “This is like a bad dream come to life.”

The Sword of the Creator whipped out and lashed across the black beast’s face and split its cheek open. It roared in agony and reared back.

“Get up, you idiot!” Felix dashed into the provided opening, pulled Sylvain to his feet, and retreated.

“That beast has an armored shell around it! It will get more powerful the more it’s hurt, so take it down fast and don’t put anybody squishy nearby. You see that glow in the back of its mouth? It can breathe fire over a wide radius so get ready to dodge!”

Sothis, how do you know all this?

“If you have time to talk, you have time to fight! Go keep our pups safe!”

As always, Byleth inserted herself into the ebb and flow of battle, and it was Belial who barked orders.

“Edelgard, Ferdinand…Sylvain, to me! Stay close to me, get its ankles, and get ready to dodge! Linhardt, you’re on healing duty! Petra, Caspar, Felix, hit and run tactics only—don’t get hit, and don’t get cocky, that means you Caspar! Bernadetta, Hubert, stay back and stick to range attacks; go for the eyes!”

And they did. Her eagles barely needed the instructions at this point. She and Edelgard and even Ferdinand covered for each other, fought in synchrony, in a way which showed Sylvain awkwardly sticking out, a half-step behind for all he fought with power and fear and an inner anger.

Petra, Caspar, and Felix were small and fast. They could duck under those huge and wicked claws, slice at the more vulnerable tendons and underbelly, and get back out before the beast could turn underneath and attack. All the while there was a nonstop barrage of spell and arrow from above. No sooner would Bernadetta fire an arrow and reload than Hubert would cast a spell. And by the time Hubert moved to recharge his magic, Bernadetta was ready to fire another arrow.

But as the beast that was once Miklan roared in pain and dark blood oozed from its wounds, it seemed to move faster, and it struck out with more force. It then reared back, flames curling at the corners of its mouth.

Edelgard and Ferdinand were slightly stronger than Byleth, but she was slightly faster. The beast reared back and she knew they would not be able to dodge in time.

“They’ll survive, dung-for-brains; get out of the way!”

No! What kind of teacher would I be if I left them?

Even though she and Belial were able to separate, they couldn’t…

Before Belial knew it, she had tackled Edelgard to the ground as Felix dragged Sylvain to a slightly safer spot by his collar. She closed her eyes, prepared to turn back time again, stupid why did she go for Edelgard, she couldn’t see or hear Ferdinand die again—

—A flash of a crest. A blur of purple. Bernadetta, screaming, “GET BACK!” burst out from behind the impromptu ramparts to tackle Ferdinand in turn. Malecki curled up, quivering in terror as they braced themselves for the flames.

They never came. There was another flash of dark magic, a shout of, “You will not touch Lady Edelgard!” from several feet away, and Hubert rammed a bolt of dark magic straight down the beast’s throat. It shrieked, high and unearthly, and collapsed.

And then dissolved—no, melted—like snow in the sun. All that was left was Miklan’s corpse. Miklan, and the lance.

Byleth found herself gazing into Edelgard’s wide lilac eyes and furiously pink face. Avarine froze under Belial’s paws, her beak hanging open.

“I, um,” She and Edelgard scrambled off and away from each other. Behind her Bernadetta frantically babbled apologies to Ferdinand as she did the same thing. Hubert was already there, pulling Edelgard to her feet and checking her over for injuries while Thanily glared daggers at Belial.

“And just where were you a moment ago, rat boy?” Sothis shouted in her head. “Some bodyguard you tout yourself as being when you’re all the way in back. What was it you said to Byleth about serving the emperor at all costs? I thought you’d use every tool at your disposal!” She continued that rant for some time, all the while carefully locking away just what she, they, everyone had just seen.

The Black Eagles, Felix, and Sylvain collected themselves one way or another, tallied injuries and held their daemons close. Linhardt pressed his face into Runilite’s plush fur coat. Caspar plunged his hand into his backpack just to feel Peakane’s form. Many students and their daemons were whimpering. A few were outright crying.

Belial crossed the space between the students and Miklan. They picked up the still-twitching lance and returned to Byleth, who was still standing there.

Sylvain hadn’t moved either. He held Zepida, and held her as they looked down at the body of their tormentor and older brother in silence. Felix, one hand clenched around Bismalt’s capsule, sidled up next to his friend. Sylvain didn’t lean into the contact, but he didn’t run away either. He said something, but Byleth could only hear the last few words.

“Miklan…my brother.”

---

That fucking lance was still twitching. It wasn’t even a consistent movement either; it would be less disturbing if it was as rhythmic as a metronome. Nope, those claw-like protrusions would instead stay deceptively still, then out of the corner of his eye jerk and spasm like a half-squashed bug. Every time Sylvain looked at it he was dragged back to a battlefield years ago where he saw a man take a war hammer to the head. He had dropped like a stone, just crumpled to the ground as his daemon suddenly went glassy-eyed and simultaneously collapsed. The poor man’s head was visibly dented with bits of brain oozing out from the smashed-in bit of skull, but his body had spasmed and contorted in an unnatural way. The man’s limbs twitched and jerked while he gasped like a fish even after his daemon had faded away.

And if it wasn’t that sight, it was the memory of the lance turning on Miklan, devouring his shithead brother it’s my fault he’s a shithead I made him do that to me shut up shut up I was a kid!

Zepida’s claws twitched. She wanted nothing more than to tear that Lance apart, but the pieces would probably still twitch like a severed lizard’s tail. And it was the Lance of Ruin. It was his now. And it fucking ate Kilkari!

He had it coming, piece of garbage.

Not even he deserved that.

Sure he had the Gautier Crest, he was safe, but...

But.

Sylvain took another swig of whiskey and stared down the lance. It went still, and then jerked again. Sylvain hurled the flask to the floor where it left a small but visible dent in the wood.

“I can’t fucking do this,” he muttered, storming out of his room and slamming the door behind him. He heard the clatter of the Lance falling to the ground, then the occasional faint clicks of those spike things as they randomly twitched and tapped the floorboards.

“Hey, we should go pick that up,” Zep hissed. She was right. They should. It was a Hero’s Relic, his family’s relic, passed down through generations of Gautiers, was responsible for defending the borders of the good and chivalrous Holy Kingdom of Faerghus against the barbarian hordes of Sreng. Where the people were uncouth, unwashed, feral. The people of Sreng and Duscur and everywhere outside Fodlan were little more than barbarians. They married for such base things as love, not the noble preservation of family lines. Certainly not for goddess-blessed crest babies. The goddess never cursed them with the gift of crests. Savages, that’s what they were, nothing more. They weren’t blessed with animated Relics that moved like a dying man and bore such auspicious names as Crusher, or the Lance of Ruin.

The cool night air, a promise of the upcoming fall, briefly stirred Sylvain from his drunken haze. The shops in the market had closed for the night; he was already halfway to town.

What do you think you’re doing, you idiot? Go back to bed, you’re the only Gautier son now!

He staggered into the bar.

I can’t believe you’re getting drunker!

He sat down at the bar; flopped back onto the stool more than anything else. Zep curled up at his feet, her fur and ears smoothed flat.

One drink.

Sylvain blinked, and found himself several hours and glasses later pawing at some woman with long dark hair and too much lipstick that she smeared all over his face and neck with sloppy drunken kisses. Her daemon was some small mouse or vole thing, soft and compliant under Zep’s aggressive grooming. She kissed him all the way upstairs, and her daemon was still limp and relaxed as Zep carried him in her mouth.

Look at yourself you insatiable pervert, going to stick your dick in something again. How about you do something constructive for a change? Or at least if you’re going to whore yourself out like the glorified studhorse you are, might as well charge for it! Jerk off in a bottle, find some magic to preserve it, and sell it by the ounce, turkey baster included. Think we’ll have enough to pay child support? At least we have an easy way to test for crests and not deal with failures like Miklan after!

Sylvain kissed her harder, and her daemon squirmed in Zep’s mouth. That shut the stupid cat up.

Sylvain turned back to the girl and pressed her closer. Lost himself in the wet heat of her mouth and in between her legs until his hand came away slick and she was begging for it for a crest baby for status shut up shut up! and his own need pressed urgently against his trousers. Bent her over the bed she wants this she’s wet and she wants it, it it isn’t—I’m not—I’m not like—, rucked up her skirt, and fucked her into the mattress. Came on her back and in her long dark hair. Passed out somewhere in the middle of her fury.

He dreamt of demonic babies with no daemon in sight, black scales and twitching spines in place of smooth skin, biting at their mothers’ breasts.

---

“Ferdinand, take a deep breath. If we unload all our concerns at once it will only serve to frighten her off.”

He took a deep breath, just as he tried to teach Bernadetta to do. But it barely touched the fluttering deep in his chest. If this was how she felt all the time, well...she certainly was a strong woman to push herself regardless. And foolish, to throw herself into danger like she did against that thing which was once Miklan. Is that what demonic beasts were? Crestless humans unlucky enough to come in contact with a Hero’s Relic, only to have their form warped and their daemon devoured and every part of them twisted into a monstrosity to the point where death was a release?

Embrienne shuddered against the palm of Ferdinand’s hand. That was the worst thing they had ever seen in their entire life. “Why did Archbishop Rhea forbid us from discussing what the Lance of Ruin did to Miklan?”

“Likely because the knowledge would spark a panic. Given the Western Church revolts, it would not do to introduce more instability at this time.” He turned and paced the length of the grassy corridor once more.

“That may be, but the potential danger to the public is just as immediately pressing. Perhaps even more so, given that there have been reports of demonic beasts prowling the wildernesses of Fodlan for centuries.” Another lap back and forth in front of Bernadetta’s room. The door was closed but he knew she was inside.

“Releasing such information must be done cautiously, not in a fit of rebellious pique! Not to mention, the Knights of Seiros would trace such a dissemination back to us. The punishment for disobeying a direct command from Archbishop Rhea would be most dire indeed.” He did not even want to think about the potential consequences.

“Ferdinand that was not my suggestion and you know it.” With each word, Embrienne bumped against Ferdinand’s nose for emphasis. “You are stalling, trying to get us off topic. We need to talk with Bernadetta about what happened.”

He knew that. How could she put herself in such peril for him? She was safe fighting at range alongside Hubert. True, Bernadetta was faster than him, but he was sturdier and more able to withstand a blow. More importantly, just the thought of Bernadetta injured—especially while protecting him—made Ferdinand want to vomit. It was almost too terrible to contemplate. But if he just ran into her room beside himself with worry it would only serve to terrify the young woman. Ferdinand had tried to talk to Dorothea about it; the songstress had been spending more time with Bernadetta as of late and might have some useful advice. But she was out on some sort of mission with Ingrid, and when she got back, well.

One look at her face and the question died on his lips. Her facade of coolly distant disdain was gone, replaced with blazing eyes and a tight jaw. Calphour’s feathers were puffed up, turning him into a tiny ball of rage. All Ferdinand did was stand in front of her and she held up a hand in his face.

“Just, don’t.”

Calphour had to finish for her. “Ferdie, I know you’re trying, or as much as you’re able to, and that you’re more of an ignorant buffoon than actively malicious. But I swear to the Saints, if I have to see your smug noble face that has seen nothing but benefit from the system for one more minute, I might actually punch it in.”

Dorothea then stalked off towards Ingrid’s room, practically shoving him aside without even a clipped apology. Ferdinand wisely took the hint and did not pursue. However, that left him to figure out how to speak with Bernadetta alone. It should have been easy, but for some reason every time he saw her this past week he remembered the feel of her weight on him and her face so close and it was if someone reached inside his chest, wrapped a hand around his heart, and squeezed. It was a shameful display of temerity that Ferdinand thought he had conquered long ago.

“We are Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir,” she said, hovering by his ear. “We can do this.”

Ferdinand’s fist hung suspended mid-air above the door. He could feel Embrienne roll her eyes seconds before she said, “Bernadetta?”

“Eep! N-nobody’s home!” Silence, then a more hesitant, “Embry? Ferdie, are you—stupid Bernie of course Ferdie’s there...”

“May I come in?” As nervous as he was, hearing Bernadetta berate herself was worse.

“Uh, yeah, sure, that’s okay!” she squeaked.

Bernadetta’s room was cluttered but relatively neat, with an oversized plushie bear by the desk and a couple of odd-looking plants—one real, one plushie—resting on the windowsill. Bernadetta fidgeted with Malecki’s quills, her face bright pink for some reason. Even when he left the door a crack open—a noble must avoid any implication of scandal, after all!—she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“I-Is this about the fight against that monster thing Miklan turned into? Because that was…that was awful!” She held Malecki to her face.

“It was quite a horrific sight. But Bernadetta, if it was so horrific then, well I was quite surprised to see you leaping into the fray. Particularly to knock me out of the way of a blow.” His voice sped up, impassioned. Embrienne started headbutting his neck, attempting to get his attention, but it was too late. He was off. “Why did you do that, Bernadetta? You are faster and more dexterous than me to be sure, but I am more physically durable. You put yourself in unnecessary danger and—”

“Ferdinand—”

“I cannot stand to see you hurt. Simply the thought of it is a greater pain than whatever injury that beast could have inflicted upon me! You—”

“Ferdinand!”

That shut him up. His mouth actually snapped shut under Bernadetta’s trembling gaze. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, closed her eyes, and then spoke.

“Ferdinand, I did it because...because I don’t want to see you hurt either. I didn’t even think about it, but I’d...even if I was, I’d do it again. If it meant you’d be safe. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know that, right?”

Ferdinand heard the words, but they did not register. Preposterous. Bernadetta could not possibly mean…what I think she means.

But what if she does?

A noble should be discreet. A noble should speak with careful language. A noble must maintain proper rituals of courtship.

Embrienne buzzed over to Malecki and bumped her fussy head against his paw. Bernadetta turned to Ferdinand, and his heart surged at the sight of her expression of joyous shock and disbelief.

---

Summer did not officially end until partway through the Horsebow Moon. Although the nights were starting to cool off the days were still pleasantly warm, warm enough that letting ones’ feet trail in the pond was refreshing and not painful. It was still a bad idea in this circumstance though, given that Byleth and Jeralt were crabbing in the pond, and were liable to receive a nasty pinch if they didn’t stay on the docks.

Jeralt drew in the line; two crabs were firmly attached to a slightly-rotten drumstick, fighting over the choicest bits. He pried them off and tossed them into the bucket. Domaghar sniffed the bucket, sneezed at the strong smell of the crabs. It would have been easy for them to escape, if only they didn’t keep pulling each other down.  

“You know, I’ve only ever gone fishing with you,” Jeralt said as he tossed the drumstick back into the water where it sank with an unceremonious plop. “No, wait, we did go crabbing once. It was…yeah, it was at the beach in a village near Deirdru."

“We did?”

“I don’t remember doing such a thing. And there’s no way I’d forget how bad this bait smells. Who decided to lug around rotten meat as crab bait anyway? Or decided to eat something that eats rotten meat? Honestly, sometimes I just don’t understand you humans.”

Her father’s smile went soft around the edges, and for some reason Domaghar’s nuzzle between Belial’s ears was more obviously affectionate instead of their normal roughhousing. “Yeah. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were about eight or so.”

Eight or…Oh. “Was it one of the Bad Days?”

A nod from her father, more of a quick jerk of the head really, and his voice was suddenly rough for some reason. “You just held the crabbing rod and stared at the water. Wouldn’t respond to anything, no matter what I tried to say or how many crabs pulled at the bait. Some kid ran up all barefoot and sunburned and wanted to play tag with you. You just stood there…I don’t even know if I can call it confused, because confused is still an emotion.”

“Don’t,” Doma nickered. “What’s done is done. Don’t dwell on it, Jeralt. Look at Byleth and Belial now.”

“Is that what the Bad Days were like? I would remember if you stood there like a puppet. How did your father stand it?”

He pulled in the line again—empty this time—and cast it further out into the pond. “You’ve really started to open up. I’ve seen you around the other students, especially Edelgard. “Which dream has it been since you started, the battle or the girl?”

“Wait, what?” Sothis did the mental equivalent of a mid-air trip in her head. “The flashes of you I had in my sleep, that was you dreaming of me? And that was when you were actually a person?”

“It’s been the girl,” Belial said as Byleth pulled in a couple more crabs. That was technically true. Somehow Belial got the feeling that telling the full story, that the girl was named Sothis and she was now awake and following them around and talking to them in their heads and that she was surprisingly snarky would lead to more trouble than it was worth.

“Thank goodness; you’re actually capable of learning something!”

Doma flicked her tail against Belial’s flank. “Well thank you, mysterious girl in my daughter’s dreams, for giving her the Good Days.”

“You’re very welcome, alcoholic mercenary dad who’s the most reasonable adult in this entire joint.” Sothis gave a not-entirely-mocking bow before settling back into what would be a reclining position. “But this is so strange. It seems that, to put it simply, you are only awake when I am awake.”

Byleth looked down at the sword. The line wobbled in her hand as a crab took the bait. “I wonder why that is.”

Sothis and the sword. The Good Days and the Bad Days. Belial, their distance, and her own stilled heart now slowly filling with what had to be warmth and love. They had to be connected, somehow.

A sudden weight clapped down on her shoulder—her father’s arm, wrapped around her in a one-handed hug. “Hey, kid, I’m proud of you.”

And for the first time Byleth realized what her father was trying to say. “Love you too, dad.”

Notes:

Thank you for reading and I think things will get a bit brighter from here on out? I've got a lot of content planned for the next few weeks, including the next chapter and some side stories! As a thank you for being so patient the working titles for the first three of these pieces are as follows: Royal Studbooks, How To Date An Agoraphobe, and Haribon.

By the way, my reaction to seeing the Lance of Ruin for the first time was approximately as follows: "UM. That's BONE. That's animated bone I am a veterinarian I know what bone looks like AND THAT'S FUCKING ANIMATED BONE. This is the work of a necromancer, not a gift from a benevolent deity!"

And yes, Miklan's daemon was a Syrian (Almyran) hamster. Those little rodents are actually highly aggressive and have a notoriously nasty temper!

Also, I am participating in this year's Fandom Trumps Hate, a fanauction that raises money to various charities including RAINN, the Clean Water Fund, and more! I'll post more info when it's available, but if you're a fanfic writer, fanartist, or whatever I highly recommend you check it out!

Anyway, as always, please let me know what you think, if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you all next time! Hopefully it'll be a lot sooner.

Chapter 12: The Fuck Crests Club

Summary:

In which multiple much-needed conversations occur, and certain parties are Not Pleased at how things are developing.

Notes:

Thank you all so much for the kind words and your patience. These past few chapters have been pretty hard to write, probably because my hellish schedule is leaving me exhausted and with one free day a week, but in two weeks it officially becomes slightly less hellish!

Anyway, as always, please read, comment if you want, and enjoy! I'll get through all the comments and write that drabble tomorrow; I'm going to bed.

This first meeting was more of a trial run than anything else. Even so, most of the Black Eagles (everyone except Ferdinand, Linhardt, and Caspar) was there. Lysithea was also attending. Although Bern was technically absent, a folded piece of paper (or several) sat in Dorothea’s lap. Sylvain and Ingrid didn’t show up, despite Dorothea’s invitation. She tried not to be too disappointed. It was a lot to ask of them, after all. Edelgard was presiding over the meeting, Avarine on her shoulders as they emulated the emblem of Adrestia. Hubert stood to her left, and Byleth sat to her right. Petra sat at Dorothea’s side. Crests meant nothing to her, but after the fight with that beast? She wanted answers.

Edie took a sip of her tea—cinnamon blend, which the dining hall had a surplus of in stock this month for some reason. It paired well with the carrot cake. “Well, I suppose this meeting should begin,” Edie said. Cal couldn’t help but shudder as he felt Ava’s piercing gaze settle on him momentarily before moving on to the next person in the little group clustered around a tea table meant for two. “The purpose of this club is to allow us to respond to…events that affect us in our time at the academy and discuss proper responses to them. It is also an opportunity for us to discuss matters of policy and diplomacy.”

Zilbariel yawned from where he curled around Lys’s shoulders as a sable, an impressive flash of fang. “Or we can just dispense with the euphemisms and call it the Fuck Crests Club.”

“Zilbariel!” Ava hissed. “You know we have to be discreet about this sort of thing!”

“Why must we be so discreet?” Ardi asked as he shook out his feathers. “Is there truly so much to be fearing from speaking out against Crests?”

Dorothea rolled her eyes and gave a sardonic smile; Edie and Lys gave each other nervous glances. “I dunno Petra, what do you think?”

“I am thinking…I am thinking that the Church is hiding many secrets. And I do not have understanding as to why they do not want us to be sharing the story of what had been…what happened to Miklan. We are having similar tales in Brigid, tales of people who have been…who have caused some great offense to the spirits, or have broken the laws of hospitality, or have committed similar terrible crimes. The spirits are then inflicting an equally great punishment in return. In some of the stories, the criminal is being…is turned into a monster. But these stories are warnings. They are meant to be told, so that we can know how to not be causing offense to the spirits. Why would the leader of the Fodlan faith not wish to warn the people of Fodlan about offending the goddess?”

“Why indeed,” mused Hubert. “Unless she does not want the people of Fodlan to learn. Or perhaps it’s about something else entirely.”

“Then what could it be about?”

Edelgard leaned back in her seat and spread her hands. “Why don’t we discuss them?”

The cramped tea table fell silent. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak and bear their scars. And Dorothea had the distinct feeling that everyone in this club was here because they had Crest-related scars to bear.

Cal cleared his throat. “There was…a girl, in my opera company.” Ava gave him a Look which he briefly returned before settling down against the brim of Dorothea’s cap and continuing, “whose mother was a servant of a noble house. Her father was one of those nobles, and impregnated her in hopes of producing a so-called crest baby. When that failed, and failed again, rather than face the consequence of siring bastard children, he expelled both mother and surviving child from his household…The mother died on the streets of Enbarr. The child would have too, if not for the opera company.” Cal took another breath. Under him, Dorothea’s teeth hurt from how tightly they were clenched together. “Several years later the nobleman bragged about it. While drunkenly flirting with a daughter he did not recognize.”

There was silence, except for the crack of a snapped writing quill from Edelgard’s side of the table. And the soft warmth of Petra’s hand brushing against hers. She moved her own hand a little closer, until their pinkies overlapped.

“Dorothea,” Edie asked, and oh her eyes blazed like fire. Behind her, Hubie’s glittered like a snake. And…was that a flash of teeth under Bel’s curled lip?

“They don’t know it’s us,” Cal whispered.

“If they did, would they still care?”

“I…maybe? I…I think so…”

“Dorothea,” And Edelgard’s voice was so clipped, cool, regal, but she could still hear the embers glowing behind every word. “What is the name of this so-called nobleman?”

“Oh. They do.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Hubert lifted his head. “See that you do.”

Petra drummed her free hand on the table; her other one was still brushing against Dorothea’s. Her pulse was so soft and warm. Dorothea didn’t even want to look down, for fear that it would vanish once she did. “Is this a…common happening in Fodlan?”

Edie nodded. Which was a relief, because Dorothea didn’t really trust herself to speak at the moment. Heck, it was Cal who said that, because she couldn’t bring herself to do so. They both felt rubbed raw, sore and slightly bleeding to the touch. “Unfortunately, it is all too common an occurrence. The nobility places an emphasis on Crests to the exclusion of all else, including talent or competency. One could argue that this is a foreseeable consequence, a culmination of the initial church-enforced quasi-worship of Crests hundreds of years ago.”

“That is making no sense. In Brigid there are people who are being…who are blessed by the spirits, yes, but they receive these blessings because of great deeds, not in…ah, not in advance of them,” Petra said, briefly searching for the right word. “That is sounding like a way for bad people to gain great power, with no way to be stopping them.”

“Precisely. Petra, thank you for joining these sessions. I believe you and your spirits can provide some much-needed wisdom to us and the faith of this land.” Lys and Zilbar both stared at Edie and Ava in shock. As did Dorothea and Cal, and everyone at the table who knew just what Edie was implying with those words.

The rest of the Fuck Crests Club (because no way was Dorothea going to think of it as anything else now) continued along the same lines for the next hour and a half. Eventually it wrapped up, and Dorothea swore silently to drag Ingrid and Sylvain to the next meeting if need be. Sylvain was not okay last time she saw him, and having another sympathetic ear might be good for him. Everyone else drifted off, but Edie, Hubie, and the professor were huddled in a little corner. Well that was too interesting not to eavesdrop on, and Dorothea was always one for gossip. She slowed her gait and lingered behind a building, just to listen in.

“…Professor, I thought you were going to be a moderator to our sessions, not turn us over for heresy,” That was Hubie, and he sounded furious. Wait, what? Heresy?! This had to be a misunderstanding.

“It has to be,” Cal whispered, but he was trying to convince himself as well, not just her. “Otherwise she’d go right to Rhea, not stick around.”

“Shh.” Byleth was speaking.

“I, Seteth said to take summary notes of the meetings, that was the only way I could get official permission for this.”

“But my teacher, if you deliver these notes to Seteth, he will turn them over to Rhea and she will have us all charged with sedition or heresy for saying such things. Probably both.”

“What?” That was Bel, and they sounded…well, as horrified as she had ever heard them sound.

Professor Byleth spoke up. “How can we prevent that?”

“Embellish them. Be creative. It shouldn’t be that hard for you, Professor.” That was Hubie.

“I…How do I do that?”

“…My teacher?”

Silence. Then, “I…Can you help me? Help me help you?”

“…Of course. Let’s go over this together.”

And then they walked off, apparently none the wiser to Dorothea’s eavesdropping.

“That was weird,” Calphour said from her cupped hands held up to her face. “Why would our professor have such difficulty with embellishing words?”

“I don’t know. I guess you can’t be good at everything.”

“I guess.”

She still felt raw. But, oddly enough, she felt a little lighter at the same time.

---

Finally, some blessed quiet. No Ferdinand yammering away, no incessant bragging, no constant attempts at competition. He was off being sickeningly sweet with Bernadetta at the next table over, clumsily flirting with her, or something along similar lines, while she buried her tomato-red face in her hands. Embry was buried somewhere in Mal’s quills; Hubert couldn’t see the annoying little bee.

“Hubert, look at that,” Thani whispered, nudging at his shoulder. She jabbed a paw in the direction of the two lovebirds. Ferdiand was currently trying to share his dessert with Bernadetta, said something that left her squeaking and flailing and Embry flying back to the cover of the so-called noblest of nobles. Hubert chuckled lowly, basking in the sight of schadenfreude at Ferdinand’s expense.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the sight of that incompetent buffoon making an utter fool of himself—I could watch it all day and never cease to glean enjoyment—but Thanily we have to get back to reviewing these records.”

“You’re right.” Hubert sighed and tore his gaze away from Ferdinand and Bernadetta being sickeningly cute and looked back at the files. This dossier was on Petra and Brigid. Her history, her grandfather’s history. Notes on Brigidian culture, documentation on Brigidian troops and strengths. An assessment on Petra’s character, notes on Ardior’s form. A list of character traits consistently seen in others with snow goose daemons. Those in the school whom Petra had close ties with. He had similar records, with varying levels of completeness, on everyone in the academy.

To be fair, most of the dossier was in his room under lock and key and multiple ciphers. The filed in front of him were more brief notes on how she related to the last meeting than anything else. Thanily flipped a couple of the pages. “How likely do you think it is that Petra will secure a reliable alliance between us and Brigid in the war to come?”

Hubert tapped his pen against his chin. “Any alliance with Brigid requires granting independence at the end of the war. Petra would consider that part of any treaty or alliance to be absolutely non-negotiable. Fortunately I do not believe it would be such a difficult treaty to draft, at least not in the broad strokes.”

“So are you saying this was a good idea?” Thanily teased.

“Flames no, this is asking for disaster.” What was his lady thinking, leaving herself so open and vulnerable like this? They were here to play student and gather intelligence, not pretend to forge bonds and alliances with people they would have to inevitably betray and kill in just a few months’ time. Hubert was no stranger to killing, but he was a man all the same. It was more difficult, killing someone when you knew their face and voice and what kind of tea they enjoyed. Still doable, of course, nothing would stop him from his duty, but why make something unnecessarily difficult? To make matters worse, not only was Lady Edelgard exposing herself to more heartbreak from those who could not be trusted, but she was also risking their entire scheme! The wicked archbishop was carefully grooming Byleth, trying to dig her claws into their professor. The professor held an affection for her students, yes, but at the critical moment, would she truly stick by it? Hubert hoped she would—the Sword of the Creator was a powerful asset, and Lady Edelgard held her in high esteem for some reason—but hope was a foolish thing to depend on. Best to assume that Professor Byleth would side with the church and he would have to cut her down.

In the end they could trust nobody but each other. It was foolish to risk opening up to anybody. Especially not the loudmouth braggart most foolish of fools who called himself Ferdinand. Oh, it was entertaining to verbally eviscerate the man, watch Embrienne quiver in frustration and efforts at self-restraint, snap Thani’s fangs at the bee as he tore those arguments apart. It was so entertaining to watch Ferdinand’s composure disintegrate under the weight realization that he was naught but a fool, at best a dog who needed to be brought to heel.

“A shame,” Hubert mused from between steepled fingertips as he watched Ferdinand carefully divide his dessert in half between himself and Bernadetta. “If only he were not so focused on surpassing Lady Edelgard—a futile task—he could be a useful asset to our Empire.”

“Oh really now?” Thani’s knowing smirk was met with a hand to her face shoving her aside.

“You know very well what I mean. That optimism is a useful asset, and some of his ideas…have merit.” And Bernadetta, she was invaluable in battle when she was not panicking and able to focus. He had to admit that she was getting better control over her fears as of late, although it was still rare to see her outside of her room for an extended period of time. Or even a relatively “normal” period of time. Perhaps now that she was spending much of her free time with Ferdinand, some of his overly bombastic and confident nature would rub off on her. It would certainly be a more useful expenditure of time than arguing with him, or running off in fright from the sound of his voice. It would happen, with time. She was much stronger than initial impressions indicated, and he had to admit that she had made great strides over the course of the year.

And it was a better use of his time, to be alone. Lady Edelgard had said as much, that she did not want or need him to be hovering over her like a particularly motherly hawk. Hubert reluctantly acquiesced. Besides, he could very well watch her from a distance. The Vestras were men of the shadows after all. And as much as Edelgard wanted to trust Dorothea and Petra and the other women of the Eagles, well…even if they were sympathetic towards their cause, the gap between sympathy and outright alliance was a large one. If Lady Edelgard would not prepare for that possibility, then he would do it for her.

More people were entering the dining hall now. Bernadetta stiffened like a rabbit just spotted by a hawk. Clearly this was too much for her at once; she was already at her limit and the fear of being spotted along with whatever subsequent rumors she might weave in her head would no doubt be too much to bear. But what would Ferdinand do? Would he notice or would he ignore her limits and push her farther than she was capable of going?

Ferdinand failed to disappoint; Bernadetta was halfway to shutting down before he finally noticed and escorted her out of the dining room. There was a sudden squeal of embarrassment form her—ah, that must have been Ferdinand kissing the back of her hand.

Ferdinand did not return to argue with Hubert like he usually did. And that was fine. Truly, it was.

He needed the quiet. And he and Thanily had work to do. It was best not to waste time on Bernadetta, and even more important to not waste any time on Ferdinand.

---

Several days of late summer thunderstorms finally broke some time after dusk, bringing with them a refreshing breeze. There was an edge of crispness to it, the hints of autumn. Byleth threw open the window and let that breeze tousle her hair, breathed in the first substantial amount of fresh air her room had seen in days. 

A familiar shape of white pointed wings flashed across the open window. White pointed wings, but no white hair to accompany it. “Avarine?”

But where was Edelgard? Byleth opened the door and took off after Ava. 

She didn’t have to go far. Edelgard was on the overlook by the cemetery, wrapped in a nightgown and bathrobe with her shoulder pad hastily strapped into place. The young princess leaned against the retaining wall as the breeze turned her white hair into a streaming banner. Avarine perched on her shoulders, wings open to better catch the wind. 

“Edelgard?”

Edelgard stiffened, and only relaxed when Ava’s head whipped around. “Ah, thank Flames, it's only you. What brings you here so late at night?” She shuffled over slightly, though there was already enough space for another. 

Byleth took the invitation and settled her arms against the cool stone. Belial curled up, warm against her feet. “I could ask you the same thing. Nightmares again?”

A long sigh from Edelgard. “Is it that obvious? I despise being cooped up when sleep evades me. I just have to get some fresh air, feel the wind on my face and under Ava’s wings. I wonder if it’s partially because she’s a gyrfalcon. Though that isn’t all of it...” She drummed her fingers against her arms, still clad in the long sleeves of her nightgown. “Have you ever felt a sort of longing for the outdoors? I have. There are times I long for the warmth of the sun, for a sweet breeze on my face...”

“...I can’t say that I have in particular. Sorry.” Outside was nice, sure, but Byleth never felt any particular longing for it, never had a strong preference for the woods or deserts or towns. Not for wind, not for light. She didn’t like especially hot or cold environments, or being out in a bone-chilling rain, but that was due more to physical discomfort than anything else. Sometimes her father would spend an hour on Domaghar’s back, just racing through an open field for the sheer joy of it. But Byleth had never felt that way at all. 

Edelgard and Avarine both turned. The look they both gave her was simultaneous calculating and cautious. “Do you remember what I told you a few months ago? About...my nightmares? And my siblings?”

“Should you say you forgot? I mean, she did ask you to forget…”

“How could I forget?”

The sound of Sothis’s hand smacking her forehead echoed through the back of Byleth’s mind. "Come on! It was right there, at least take a swing!" But so was the inescapable feeling that this was a deflection for the girl in her head. Because Byleth could feel Sothis’s empathy and pain buzzing through her.

Ava flew off Edelgard’s shoulder to perch on the retaining wall and lean into the princess’s hand. Edelgard stepped closer, wrapped her other hand around her daemon’s form as if that muscled arm could shield her from the world.

When she finally spoke, it was “My siblings and I were...After the insurrection, we were imprisoned underground, beneath the palace. Our captors wanted to endow our bodies with the power of a Major Crest. I have always possessed the Crest of Seiros, inherited through the Hresvelg bloodline.” She breathed, and the crest flared to life in her open hands. It flickered away as she continued. “But it was only a Minor Crest, and most of my siblings bore no Crest at all. In order to create a peerless emperor to rule Fódlan, they…violated our bodies by cutting open our very flesh.”

Edelgard rolled up her sleeve to show the white lines of surgical scars running down her arm and back up the cloth. The world stopped; even Sothis went silent in her head.

Her voice was dull and rote; she was almost speaking through Byleth. “They carved us open just to implant another crest. Officially because they wanted to create a perfect ruler. But I think it was because they wanted to, because they could.”

“And they did more besides,” Avarine added, nestled further into Edelgard’s touch. “I still remember their hands on me, the way it felt being dragged away from El…Edelgard. Over and over, until we could be any distance apart. And then over and over, even beyond that.”

“…No.” Belial didn’t move any closer to Byleth, but they still shuddered. That...that was…

Edelgard’s fingers were clutched deep in Avarine’s white feathers; Ava’s head pressed into the curve of her neck. Even when she turned back to face Byleth, those fingers still remained buried in her feathers. For a moment, she no longer looked like the calculating and reserved heir to the Empire, but a scared young girl. And now her voice was clipped and laced with rage, not just lost in the memories of pain. “And after all that pain and suffering, here I stand, the fruit of that endeavor: Edelgard von Hresvelg! And what was that price? My body and daemon. My brothers and sisters. Dozens of innocents, who died screaming for their daemons, without even knowing what they were dying for.”

Ava continued where Edelgard no longer could. “And there you have it. The truth of the Hresvelg’s empire.”

“…Who did this.” Who did this to Edelgard and Avarine? Who dared to lay their hands on her, on so many others?! Something great was swelling in her, three simultaneous snarls that could only end buried in anothers’ throat. How dare they? “How dare they?!” She would find those who did this, tear them apart, make them pay…

Her face was blank, the fury so great it—how could all this rage fit only in one body? It hurt, hurt so much, quivered under her skin, threatened to spill out of her—only visible through Bel’s bared teeth.

“It was the prime minister and his gaggle of nobles. They had the Empire under their thumbs. My father, the emperor, tried to stop them, but...it was futile. My father was nothing but a puppet on a string by then. He was powerless to save us, no matter what he did. And they never would have thought of it if Crests weren’t so important in our society.”

Edelgard sighed, and opened her hands again. She breathed, and Ava shuddered as a crest flared to life in her open hands. Unfurled, like a butterfly’s wings.

“What?!”

The Crest of Flames, the same as hers.

“I don’t know how you can do it, be so far away from Professor Byleth all the time even without that explicit tether,” Ava said to Bel. “When this crest manifested in me for the first time, they were flush with success, but I…We swore a silent oath.” And oh, that must have been the moment when Ava was a gyrfalcon for good, the emperor of all falcons, white wings and white hair and a piercing gaze that could see through everything.

Edelgard stared right into Byleth’s eyes, wrapped again in that air of authority and sheer determination. “For the sake of my family and for all the poor souls whose lives were traded for my existence, for the sake of everyone who suffers under the current regime’s yoke…For their sake, I will build a world where such meaningless sacrifice is never again sanctioned. As emperor, I will change the world. I swear it.”

---

A gyrfalcon landed on a branch deep within a tree and looked down at the two people below.

This was unusual in several aspects. First off all, a gyrfalcon would not pay humans any mind beyond whether or not they pose an imminent threat. Second, it was night, and gyrfalcons were diurnal raptors. Third, Garreg Mach in the Horsebow Moon was too warm and too far south for a gyrfalcon to dwell. But there were only two people to notice the raptor, and if they did they made no mention of it.

The first was an older man with white hair, ashen skin, and too-pale eyes. The most obvious sign that he was truly human and not a facsimile of one was the gray emperor tamarin with equally long white whiskers that curled down from her face. The second figure was clad head to toe in long armor and bright red feathers that crowned their head and flowed from a plume atop their helmet. A porcelain mask, exquisitely carved and painted, concealed their entire face.

They had no daemon with them. Not even an image of one engraved onto that crimson armor. But nobody was there to see beyond those who two, who did not seem to care.

“I have important information to report,” said the Flame Emperor. “It appears that Princess Edelgard, along with the new professor, has started a club. This club, although ostensibly meant to improve diplomacy and relations between different factions within the Empire and the three nations of Fodlan, is actually a way for the princess to gauge general support for the Church and its stranglehold on the continent.”

“And?” That was the tamarin daemon; the ashen man did not even give the Flame Emperor the dignity of a response.

“It appears that there is much more general disdain—perhaps even hatred—for the Church and Crest System among the next generation of nobles than we initially believed. The Church must be destroyed, and for that the first strike must happen soon, but if we launch that initial blow while these students are still in school we risk losing their sympathies, and potentially their lives,” said the Flame Emperor. Not Edelgard, not her dear El, Avarine thought hidden in the trees above, far away from sight and range. That was not Edelgard in there but the Flame Emperor, and Edelgard would not return until that beast masquerading as a man was long gone. The Flame Emperor had no daemon, was not El. If she were, then they would be lost.

The ashen man gave no evidence of outward emotion, but the fact that he spoke instead of his daemon was tell enough. “We created you to burn even the wretched gods. Are you truly going to turn your back on your destiny?”

“Of course not. What I am suggesting is that we postpone the attack. Those extra few months of alliances and garnering sympathies could prove crucial in the long conflict ahead of us.”

The tamarin daemon stared at the Flame Emperor, low and level. “Or make us redundant, and the Empire less reliant on our support.”

“Not at all,” the Flame Emperor said too quickly, El! “We need your power and technology to have any hope of defeating the Church.”

“Unless the princess recruits the professor. Who, as I might remind you, wields the Sword of the Creator.”

“That is unlikely to happen.” Better, El. Shit. SHIT! “After all, that wretched archbishop is doing everything in her power to get her claws into the professor. She could never stand to see somebody grow up outside her clutches.”

“And whatever the Church wants, the Church gets—at least, for now. As long as you remember that.” The ashen man looked down upon the Flame Emperor. “Let us hope that Princess Edelgard remembers her place as well.”

The ashen man vanished in the violet magic of a warp spell, leaving the Flame Emperor behind.

The Flame Emperor sulked away. In the darkness, a gyrfalcon said, “Fuck.”

---

“Happy birthday, Byleth and Belial!”

She had almost forgotten. It wasn’t like birthdays were a big deal between her and her father. The only reason Byleth knew her birthday was because she had asked her father during one of the Good Days.  And then her students had asked her, and she replied, “The twentieth of the Horsebow Moon,” without even thinking. She forgot about it just a few minutes later, in the middle of teaching about small group stealth tactics (Petra had some fascinating insights that were aided by Brigidian weaponry. Perhaps she could help lead a seminar on guerilla tactics for extra credit on the weekend).

Byleth never forgot her students’ birthdays though, nor did she forget the birthdays of the students in other houses. No matter how busy she was, how many papers she had to grade or exams she had to proctor, Byleth always took time to share tea and cake with her students, wish them a happy birthday, and give them some sort of personalized present. Why was it such a surprise that they would do the same for her?

The pendant was simple, but no less beautiful for it. The centerpiece was an eagle carved from glossy obsidian, its wings outstretched and suspended from the silvery chain. The stone eagle clutched a blood-red ruby in its talons.

It served no purpose in battle. It was simply an ornamental pendant of an black stone eagle grasping a ruby in its talons.

”A little on the nose, but it really is a sweet gift.”

Byleth put it on and Belial nosed the cool smooth stone that now sat above her still chest. It was beautiful. “Thank you.”

Edelgard shook her head. “No, from all of us, thank you. You’re our teacher. You have guided us both in the classroom and on the battlefield, and more importantly you have listened to us. You listened to our hopes and fears and dreams and…” Edelgard broke off, but Byleth knew what the end of that sentence was in her head.

“It’s not just us,” Avarine added. “You’ve listened to Bernadetta, helped rein in Caspar, made sure Linhardt got to class…My teacher, in Conand Tower, you made us into a well-oiled machine against that Demonic Beast. I don’t know what would have happened if not for you.”

“Some of us would have died in that battle, Ava. That’s what would have happened.”

“Damn right, Princess! We’re the reason all you pups are alive and well now!”

“Thank you, Edelgard. You…You all mean so much to me. I’ve grown with all of you just as much as you have with me.” Was it just Sothis waking up? Sothis was the spark, there was no doubt. None of this would have happened if she had nothing but bad days. But it was her students, her fledglings, who filled those days and made them what they were.

So Byleth held the stone eagle in the palm of her hand and smiled. Edelgard’s eyes lit up in delight, and Ava gave Bel a nod with an amused look of her own.

“Will you share whatever you catch with us for dinner?” the gyrfalcon daemon asked.

Byleth grabbed her fishing rod. The faint distant smile was still present on her face. “Of course.”

“Why don’t you invite her along?!” Sothis shouted in her head. “That girl is so wound up she might snap; she needs some time to just relax and not think about anything. Not to mention that I think she’d really want to spend time with you, if you know what I mean?”

She didn’t, and neither did she understand why the question made her feel a bit…funny…inside. But Byleth let the matter drift away as she said in her normal flat tone, “We’ll all have dinner and work on group projects and training exercises later. But this is how I’ve spent every birthday, at least the ones I remember. Going fishing with my dad.”

“I think we did it on the Bad Days too,” Belial added, loping slightly ahead so the fishing hook wouldn’t catch in their fur. It was peaceful. No fighting, no training—not that Byleth and Bel didn’t love the rush of training, the thrill of fighting, but sometimes it was just a bit much—just sitting next to her father with a bucket of water and two bottles of alcohol, lines in the water, watching the clouds go by.

It wasn’t just her father down by the fishing pond though. Seteth was there, sitting on Jeralt’s left while Domaghar leaned her head down on her father’s right shoulder. The fishing lines bobbed up and down in the water but they were focused in a low conversation.

“Well don’t just stand there! I know you’re curious,” Sothis egged on in the back of her mind.

Well, it was accurate. Belial padded forward, low to the ground so they wouldn’t be detected.

“Look, Seteth, I know you’re Flayn’s older brother but you might as well be her father. I…I know just how scary it is, seeing your child grow up and become independent, because it means you won’t be able to keep them safe the way you used to.”

“That is true, but…” Belial could see Seteth’s shoulders tense. “We have been in danger before. I am afraid, what could happen to Flayn, if I am not there to protect her. And she is also sheltered from the ways of the world. It would be easy for someone else to take advantage of her.”

“Which is why you need to let her grow up and become her own young woman.” He leaned up and scratched the soft underside of Doma’s chin. “Look, Seteth, what happens when you’re an old man, or you get hurt, and you can’t take care of Flayn like before? She has to live her own life, she can’t be shielded by you forever.”

Seteth just stared at the pond.

Jeralt sighed and took a long drink from his ever-present flask. “Look…this doesn’t leave this fishing pond, okay? Byleth was…There’s a lot going on with her. Stuff that will affect her for her entire life. And it…it hurt, like nothing else, when I realized that there are some things that my daughter is never going to be able to do. All these hopes and dreams I had for her, and they probably won’t ever happen.” He pulled in the line. “But that doesn’t mean she can’t have new dreams. She’s still a young woman, and she’s still growing up and…just…Gah, I’m not good at this mushy stuff. But if I kept my daughter in a little bubble because I was afraid of what would happen to her growing up, then she wouldn’t be where she is today. A professor at the academy, teaching the future of Adrestia. I don’t know what Belial would have been. But…it’s scary, and it’s a little bit sad, seeing my daughter grow up and not need me as much anymore, but it’s also the most wonderful thing in the world.”

“…You may be right about that.” Seteth held his daemon in his hands; the bearded dragon was as quiet and contemplative as always. “The situation is…complicated, but perhaps I have been too overbearing.”

“I know you’re there,” Domaghar said with a swish of her tail. Seteth tensed and whipped around. “No need to hide it, Bel.”

“One of these days you won’t notice me,” they said, padding over to greet the draft horse daemon with a nuzzle and embrace. Byleth approached out of the shadows, ready to do battle.

The stern advisor stood. “I will leave the two of you and not intrude. Once Flayn returns, please let her know I am in my office.”

“Got it.” Jeralt lazily waved him off, turned the gesture into a tousle of Byleth’s already messy hair. “Pretty necklace. That from your students?”

And with that they feel into their comfortable routine. Byleth and Jeralt sat and fished, teased and competed over who could land the biggest catch—Byleth was the eventual winner, landing a lucky Goddess Messenger—while their daemons quietly talked and teased each other. Though that was new; usually it was Jeralt and Domaghar who did most of the talking. They still did, but Byleth and Belial contributed more than before.

They fished until the sky darkened and lengthened their shadows until they fell all the way onto the steps to the dining hall.

Flayn never returned.

Notes:

The train is threatening to derail, and certain parties are Not Happy About That. Don't worry, we'll be seeing more of the Fuck Crests Club.

Thales's daemon is a female emperor tamarin. Arundel's daemon was a golden lion tamarin. Lots of paint and hair dye is used.

See you all tomorrow with the drabble, and then hopefully sooner than 2 weeks with the next update!

Also, good news: I have figured out where things stand post-timeskip. Suffice to say that the board is quite different and the timeskip may or may not even be 5 years...

Chapter 13: Those Who Rerail Wicked Plots

Summary:

Edelgard tries to forge a different path. Certain parties...don't approve.

Notes:

The universe did not want me to finish and post this chapter. Scheduhell went on for 2 weeks longer than it was originally supposed to go and I'm still recovering. Thank you all so, so much for being patient. I promise things will be faster from here on out.

As always, please comment, like, subscribe, etc, and I hope you all read this extra-long chapter and enjoy!

Also, you've all played Cindered Shadows, right? Damn that was good! Expect to see Cindered Shadows, Abyss, and the Ashen Wolves in here somehow!

Whatever panic the monastery had been thrown into over the ultimately false assassination plot was nothing compared to the actual disappearance of Flayn. Frankly, Edelgard was surprised that classes were still being held. Seteth had canceled his flight seminars, much to Ingrid and Petra’s chagrin and Hubert’s (amusingly) immense relief. Half of the knights were missing, and the other half was all but tearing the monastery apart searching for Flayn. Once again, the day-to-day activities of the monastery were completely upended in the search for Flayn. 

“I’m going to kill that homicidal psychopath,” Hubert growled, stabbing into his food as if it were Jeritza’s face. Thanily paced back and forth under the table, her teeth bared in a snarl. Avarine stood guard perched on her shoulder, but Hubert was intimidating enough that most people gave them a wide berth regardless. “He’s getting sloppy, did you know that? There are rumors of a masked man with no visible daemon slipping into town overnight; it’s become impossible for me to do my reconnaissance. Even Felix mentioned his sudden agitation to Professor Byleth. We need to prepare for Jeritza’s cover to be exposed and distance ourselves from him.”

“At least his daemon is a wolverine,” Thanily added from under the table. “You can’t hide a wolverine under his armor so that should buy us some time.”

Just the mention of Jeritza’s daemon made Hubert clench his fingers against his upper arm. Wait. “Hubert, are you scared of Jeritza?”

The glare Hubert reflexively shot her could have melted the heaviest armor, but it quickly softened. “I am only answering because it is you, Lady Edelgard, but I find Jeritza…disturbing. It is not just the way he can so casually abandon his daemon while masquerading as the Death Knight,” although that was part of it. Hubert did not frighten easily—he was the kind of person to frighten others—but he had revealed to her, once and only once, that discovering what was left of her brothers and sisters down in the palace had been one of the worst experiences of his life. Only repeated exposure to her, and now Professor Byleth, dulled that edge, “but also his attitude towards killing.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Lady Edelgard, have you heard the Death Knight talk about killing? I take a grim satisfaction at most in my work, but that man ,” and he used the label as if the Death Knight only barely qualified, “speaks of killing in a manner reminiscent of particularly lurid romance novels. It is as if he is aroused by murder.”

“Hubert, I—“ He was right, of course. Jeritza was perfectly fine when he was in control. The problem was that he frequently was not. And when his Death Knight persona was at the metaphorical reins, the only real way to use him was to point him at the closest target, then get out of the way. “I know. I wish we did not have to use him either. But he is powerful, and loyal to us and our cause.”

Hubert pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Jeritza is loyal. The Death Knight is a rabid hound. Lady Edelgard, I know that what Jeritza went through thanks to the nobility and his crest was particularly grotesque, but you have endured far worse without succumbing to sadism.”

Avarine gave a wry scoff. “Some might think otherwise, in a few moons.”

“But you’re not.” Thanily and Hubert glanced at each other; the fox daemon quickly changed the subject. “So why Flayn?”

Hubert scratched at his chin. “They must be trying to send a message—”

“— We know they’re trying to send a message.” She had told him about Thales’s threats immediately upon returning to the monastery. “But what does Flayn have to do with this message? They’re clearly trying to do two things at once.”

Their lunch was lukewarm and forgotten at this point. Hubert drummed the fork against his half-finished meal in thought. “They clearly want Flayn for some sort of nefarious plot. If they wished to kill her they would have dumped her body for us to find by now. If they wished to ransom her, then we would have received a letter by now. They are aware of the Professor to some extent, so perhaps they are planning for her interference?”

That did make a lot of sense. It seemed as though Thales and the rest of his cult were wary of her teacher and her potential. Was she truly a prototype for implantation of the Crest of Flames? Professor Byleth appeared to be too much of an unexpected variable to their “allies” in the dark for that, but Edelgard could not think of any other logical explanation for a sudden appearance of that crest. Unless Rhea’s disturbing obsession with her was related? Regardless. 

“There’s going to be a trap, and knowing our luck we’re going to have to spring the trap. All we can do right now is prepare for it to go off.”

“Just another knife to balance,” Hubert said. “I should have taken up street performing, with all the juggling I’m being asked to perform.”

It was Hubert’s normal laugh, his normal acerbic words, but the bags under his eyes were deeper than usual. Oh Hubert, her faithful servant and closest friend. The fox to her falcon, cunning and clever and loyal to the last. His burden was just as great as hers. “I only ask because I know you can handle the burden.”

“I have no need for your praise, Lady Edelgard.”

“Oh, hush.” She saw Thanily’s gaze. “Accept the compliment where it’s due.”

“I shall try.”

As Edelgard left, Avarine dipped down to the ground to briefly rub her head against Thanily’s, and she nuzzled her in return. 

Hubert was far more cynical, less allured by the siren call of hope that had started to ring in Edelgard’s ears, but he was right. If Jeritza could not control himself, then he would rapidly become more trouble than he was worth.

“Which might be what Thales and his cult are after,” Avarine whispered on her shoulder. “If the church is constantly on edge, we won’t be able to evaluate potential allies. We certainly won’t be able to continue the club.”

“That has to be it.” The sympathies of multiple nobles across all three nations was more than worth one powerful, deranged knight. Her teacher alone was an arguably even trade. More importantly (and chillingly) she knew, they knew, and they knew of each other that if she secured those sympathies, there would be no more need for Those Who Slithered In The Dark. 

“We need to find Flayn. It has to be us, to make Rhea less suspicious.” Avarine paused and leaned forward, still perched on her shoulder. “Is that Seteth?”

It was Seteth, though it took Edelgard a moment to find his green hair camouflaged against the bushes. It was raining, the sky a dreary gray. The shops in the courtyard were desolate, and there was nobody else by the fishing pond. Not even her teacher would want to fish in this weather, not with Belial grumbling complaints through soaked fur. So why was Seteth here?

He didn’t do anything, just stared out at the fishing pond, his bearded dragon daemon in hand. Safely concealed behind a wall, Edelgard watched Seteth crumple into his cupped hands, his shoulders shaking as he silently sobbed into his daemon. 

Seteth was a strict and stern man who tolerated no impropriety from his charges and was overprotective, almost smothering, towards Flayn. Seteth was a patient and compassionate man who listened to the woes of her classmates, who offered both advice and reassurance in turn. Seteth was a man who claimed to desire nothing more than teaching the future of Fodlan, but aggressively censored the library collection from inquiring eyes. Seteth was a man who, although he did not approve of the crest-based caste system that Fodlan at large had degenerated into, although at the right hand of the archbishop herself, did nothing except tut his private disapproval to actually do something about that. Seteth was complicit. 

Seteth looked just like her father did when they reunited after her months upon months chained in the dark. Seteth looked as lost and broken as her father was when he beheld his only child, her skin marred with tight raised scars and her hair bleached bone-white and Avarine still adjusting to her wings and range. Seteth looked just like she had down there in the dark, screaming after her brothers and sisters but unable to do anything to save them. 

Seteth was complicit, but Flayn, whatever or whomever she might truly be, was not. And if their “allies” in the dark wanted to kidnap and not simply murder her, then they needed her for something terrible. 

Avarine shook the rain off her feathers. “We need to find Flayn.”

---

“Mal, this isn’t a dream, right? It’s not some mean trick? I mean, lots of people would want to trick pathetic old Bernie, but Ferdie wouldn’t do that right?”

“I think it’s real, Bernie.” Malecki sat under the violet flowers of some particularly lovely butterworts. She couldn’t go back to her room now, not until she knew the Professor was gone. Flayn going missing was bad enough but now she couldn’t even hide from the chaos. So here she was in the second-best spot. “Haha, it’s crazy, isn’t it? But I don’t think Ferdie would trick us, especially not for this long. He really is courting us! Bernie, you are a marriageable girl!”

That was too much. Bernie screamed into some large ferns, softly. “Don’t say things like that!” Just the concept of her in the same sentence as “courting” or “marriageable” or anything in that category made her feel like her brain needed to shut down for emergency repairs. 

Mal laughed nervously into his paws. “Do you think he’s a good kisser, Bernie? I think he’d be a really good kisser,, and he might actually want to kiss Bernie!”

Why was Mal talking? Please stop talking, Malecki! Her face flamed and why were there no pitcher plants large enough for her to drown in why did she have to keep hearing this?! “He has kissed me!” she squeaked.”And it’s, it’s warm! And soft! And nice!”

Mal climbed into her lap, and kept trying despite her attempts to shove him off. “He’s only kissed you on the hands or cheek. What about on the lips? Or with...with his tongue?” That last word was lost in a squeak. 

Bernadetta, too, was reduced to an embarrassed squeak behind her hands as she begged Mal to please just, “Stop saying words!” It was a nice mental image, the thought of Ferdinand’s strong arms around her waist, his lips warm against her…

The sound of someone setting flowerpots against each other shook Bernadetta out of her thoughts. Dedue was here. Oh Goddess, Dedue had been here this entire time gardening just how much did he hear?! And she’d been doing so well. They’d gardened together (well, okay, not together, but the two of them had been in the greenhouse together working on their own things and she hadn’t run away screaming so that was as good as working together for her!) every so often and Dedue looked scary but he didn’t actually do anything to her and if he secretly hated her for not sticking up for him a few months ago he didn’t say anything about it. And oh no now he heard everything he’s going to think she’s a pathetic loser who becomes a useless puddle at the thought of Ferdinand merely kissing her how could she ever show her face around Dedue again?! Malecki disappeared under the butterworts again, a trembling ball of humiliation that flinched at the sound of even more footsteps.

Oh no. Oh no, was he calling over his friends to laugh at her? He wasn’t calling over mean scary Felix, was he?!

“You. Stand up now. What’s in that wheelbarrow?”

...No, even worse. It was the greenhouse manager. The same one who insulted Dedue back then. The same one who talked to scary gentle Dedue like he was less than nothing and she, stupid useless Bernie, could do nothing but tremble under some plants and watch.

And here she was, being stupid and useless and doing the same thing all over again stupid Bernie, stop being useless and do something!

It was even worse than last time, somehow. Bernie watched as Dedue tensed and jumped to his feet on command, heard Levia cut herself off mid-snort and watch through the window with wide eyes. Watched as the greenhouse manager once again marched up to his face and accused him of kidnapping Flayn as her daemon stared Levia down with unrestrained loathing. 

“Tell me, boy,” the greenhouse manager growled. She shoved over the wheelbarrow; plant cuttings scattered over the greenhouse floor. Her frog daemon jumped off her shoulder to look inside the wheelbarrow even though it was clearly too small to hold Flayn. “Who are you working with? Where are your Duscurian allies?”

Again, Dedue didn’t even try to defend himself. He just curled his fists and bowed his head and let the hatred wash over him. It reminded Bernie of when her father would scream at her, but while she was a worthless unmarriagable girl who did plenty of things that warranted screaming and scolding, Dedue didn’t even do anything! 

And again, Bernadetta found herself frozen to the ground, unable to do more than watch. It was happening again and even though she promised she was going to do better, she needed to do something to help Dedue didn’t deserve this she needed to

“Please stop.”

That was Mal. 

The world should have stopped, but it didn’t. The greenhouse manager kept attacking Dedue, and Dedue kept just rolling over and taking it (why was he doing that? He wasn’t like pathetic Bernie, and he was so much bigger and stronger than her too!), because Malecki said it too softly for anyone but Bernadetta to hear. 

But he said it, out loud. 

Body trembling, heart racing in her chest, Bernadetta stood up and forced herself forward, into the open and exposed center of the greenhouse. 

“Please...stop it.”

Now the greenhouse went silent. Both people turned to stare at her, Dedue with surprise and for some reason shame, the greenhouse manager with a flash of anger that sent her cringing behind Mal’s quills. 

“They’ve already seen us, it’s too late to run!”

Oh this was a mistake, this was such a huge mistake. They were staring at her and Dedue was going to be so angry for getting in his business and look at those hands! He could crush her skull without even trying, and use her bones to fertilize his plants! And then the greenhouse manager was gonna kick her out of the greenhouse and then all her carnivorous plants would die and she’d have nowhere to sing so people would catch her singing and they’d make fun of her and Hubert would laugh at her and Ferdie would find out and he’d dump her and then she’d really be unmarriageable and—

She wailed, “Please stop it!” 

On initial instinct Dedue moved as if to step forward, but he quickly checked himself and stood stock still with his hands out and open by his sides. The greenhouse manager...she knew that smile. Knew the way her frog daemon held himself on her shoulder. That was the same way her father looked when nobles asked about the bruises on her arms or some of the questions she asked. Civility stretched thin and tight over disdain. “Bernadetta, was it?” she said. “You shouldn’t meddle in affairs that are of no concern to you.”

“I…” She was right, wasn’t she? Just like what her father said, good girls and useful women were quiet and only spoke when spoken to, but...she felt Mal’s paw on her hand. But Ferdinand wanted to listen to her. Princess Edelgard asked for her advice. Hubert wanted to make her feel comfortable even if he was really, really bad at it. And Professor Byleth was so kind and patient with her. 

“Dedue didn’t do anything!” she spouted, forcing the words out in a jumble. “So leave him alone!”

“Ah, the greenhouse manager. You’re friends with that monk by the stables, correct? So, what were you saying about Dedue?”

Four figures cast their shadows over the light of the greenhouse entrance. There was Dimitri, tall with the afternoon light literally shining off his armor. His face was set like granite, true anger rather than the resting face of Dedue. It bubbled over into Delcabia, who did not even try to conceal it beyond the veneer of politeness and instead was openly snorting and pawing at the stone, preparing to charge. 

Bernie would have run screaming in the other direction, except that first, there was no other direction. Second, Professor Byleth was there, the sword very conspicuously by her side, and Belial’s fur bristling straight up. There was a small frown on her face at the scene. 

The greenhouse manager’s gaze flicked between the two humans and daemons as her own darted beneath her clothes. “I, your Highness,” she licked her lips, “I was only just—”

A flash of movement, and all of a sudden Dimitri’s gauntleted hand was at the greenhouse manager's throat. There was an audible thud as he slammed the greenhouse manager against the wall of the greenhouse. The normally reserved Dimitri’s face was twisted in a feral snarl as he drew up against the greenhouse manager, right up to her face, staring her in the eyes. Another shake and her daemon fell out of her clothes, only for Delcabia to pin him to the ground. The greenhouse manager cried out in pain, a wordless yelp that only made Dimitri’s snarl deepen.

“Don’t lie to me you piece of filth. What did you say to Dedue? What did you do to Dedue?”

The greenhouse manager didn’t answer because the greenhouse manager couldn’t answer because Dimitri was choking her Bernie didn’t know Dimitri well but he always seemed so composed not this and was he gonna strangle her next? She didn’t do anything but that also meant she didn’t do anything to help, or at least not enough—

A sudden presence by her shoulder started up a scream before the realization that it was Professor Byleth, only Professor Byleth, petered it out in the middle of her throat. Her hand was above Bernie’s shoulder, making her presence aware but not forcing contact. At the same time, through the fog of panic, Bernadetta saw Dedue rush over to Dimitri, grunting as he strained against the edge of his bond with Levia pressed against the wall of the greenhouse, and try to talk him down. 

“Your Highness, please. Do not worry about me.”

“You can go, Bernadetta.” Belial’s voice was soft and close. They stood by Bernadetta as Professor Byleth warily approached Dimitri, like someone attempting to calm a raging beast.

Not that Bernadetta needed to be told twice. She was already out the door, Malecki curled up tight in the pocket of her uniform, as she sprinted back to the safety of her room. She barely slowed down, even when Levia said, “...Thank you. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

The door slam still echoed around the room as Bernie slid down against it, hyperventilating into her curled-up legs. What was wrong with that gardener, doing that to Dedue? And it wasn’t just Dedue, he said something about all Duscurians! And then Dimitri...Dimitri…

It was like he became a totally different person. 

The thought floated in her head that this wasn’t just her and her father, not just Dedue and Duscur, but something deeper, like poison in the water. But the thought dissolved in her panic before she could really chase it down. 

“But we did it, Bernie!” Mal laughed, shaky and hysterical. “We did it, we stood up for Dedue! Ahahaha…”

Bernie and Mal passed out.

---

Petra did like Ferdinand, as loud and brash and assured in his rightness as he could sometimes be. He was genuine and enthusiastic, and was blessedly more open to new experiences than many of the arrogant nobles that he competed with. She remembered well how eager Ferdinand was to learn the fighting styles of her homeland, so much more centered around speed and close-quarter guerrilla tactics than the slow cavalry and magic artillery of Adrestia. Ardior had even showed Embrienne some ways she could use her small size and agility in combat.

“I will be honest, I do prefer the safety of my capsule during combat,” Embrienne had said afterwards, as their humans rested against their weaponry. “But I had not even considered the possibility that my small size could be an asset in battle. Ardior, is this how you have managed to be so swift and stealthy, even though you are a large white goose?” 

Ardior nodded. “It is. We do not have the battle mages in Brigid that the Empire is having, and our fighting techniques are at close range. This means that daemons are close to the fighting as well, and so it is of much importance that they are learning to fight alongside us.”

“You have clearly spent much time honing your skills, as much time as Petra has with her fists and knives. The Empire—no, Fodlan at large—would benefit greatly from learning fighting techniques alongside you.” She swooped down then back up, a midair bow, and echoed the words that Ferdinand himself said to Petra. “Ardior, I hope that we will be a shining example of cooperation between our two nations for generations to come!”

So yes, Ferdinand was open and genuine. He truly desired to learn and shed the ignorance that Petra had come to realize was a defining trait of the Fodlanese nobility—and Fodlan at large. That, in turn, made Petra want to share with Ferdinand and teach him. Like Dorothea, and all of her other classmates, he made her feel like a person and not a street corner performance. 

“Or worse,” Ardior added, “exotic.”

There were a lot of feelings and words here that Petra was still grasping the shape of, and didn’t have the vocabulary for, not even in her native tongue. But what she did know was that although Ferdinand was eager and earnest, he started from a place of such incredibly well-meaning ignorance that teaching him otherwise was sometimes exhausting. 

Like right now. 

“Petra, please,” he practically begged. “These room searches clearly have you distraught for a specific reason, but I do not understand why. Professor Byleth searched everybody’s room, which is why Bernadetta is currently taking refuge in the greenhouse. I understand that the monks have been performing random secondary searches but—“

“You really think they’re random, Ferdie? Are you really that ignorant?”

Petra couldn’t help but be a bit grateful for Dorothea’s furious presence by her side. She was beautiful in her sharp understanding and indignation as much as her face and voice. 

“Dorothea, why would they not be random? Petra was not the only one whose room was searched. I saw the monks in Claude’s quarters, and have heard that they searched Ashe and Dedue’s rooms as well.”

So they weren’t even trying to be subtle about it. That coiled deep within Petra, sent Ardior’s feathers bristling. Did they offer Claude a mask of respect due to his status or did they ransack his room just like hers? Dorothea rolled her eyes. “Petra, Claude, Ashe, and Dedue. Do you really not see the connections among them?”

“I…” Ferdinand furrowed his brows in confusion, and Embrienne flew in equally bewildered tight circles around his head. “Petra, you are the heir to the throne of Brigid. Ashe is a commoner adopted by nobility. Dedue is Duscurian, yes, but he is also Dimitri’s personal vassal and close friend. Claude is to be the next duke of the Leicester Alliance. Clearly there is a commonality that you are seeing but I am not. Dorothea, Petra, please help me.”

Embrienne landed onto his nose. “You have taught me that I am embarrassingly ignorant of the world outside the nobility. I am sure that the answer is shamefully obvious and yet I am not sure if I can see it by myself. But I want to understand.”

She could feel Ardior’s resigned sigh in the back of her mind. Ferdinand truly wanted to understand, but having to explain to him just why it was wrong for the monks to tear through her basket of pelts was not something she wanted to do at the moment. But she had to. But just as Petra opened her mouth, Dorothea again beat her to the punch. 

“Come on Ferdie, can’t you see just how exhausted Petra is? You’re pestering her, just like a bee.”

Petra could see the perfect O Ferdinand’s mouth made when he got it, the way shame flushed his face. “...Of course. You are absolutely right Dorothea, I am intruding. My behavior has been untoward and absolutely disgraceful. Petra, please forgive my utterly ignoble actions. I will not disturb you any further on this subject.”

And with that he retreated to his room, Embrienne apologizing the entire way. 

Dorothea scoffed. “Honestly! Ferdie is such a bullheaded idiot sometimes.”

“He is being...is quite enthusiastic, yes, but Ferdinand is truly wishing to learn, so it is okay. Dorothea, I do not think that Ferdinand is as bad a man as you are making him out to be. Although today it is...difficult, for me to be teaching him. I am very tired, in my heart.”

Indeed, Ardior was drooped, for lack of a better word. His wings and head were lowered, just a bit, but they were always tall and strong. Calphour fluttered down and perched on his back, leaning into his neck, a comforting presence. “I can’t even imagine, Ardi. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t completely lose it on Ferdie or Embry back there.”

The chuckle from Ardior was soft and low. “Ferdinand is not deserving of my anger. And even if he is, I cannot...I am not allowed to be angry. I am a guest of the Empire, and a princess of Brigid. I am being the...the face of Brigid, here in Fodlan, and Fodlan is not liking foreigners. So I am having to be a gracious guest, always.”

“Well that’s bullshit,” Calphour spat. Ardior didn’t say anything but merely nodded. 

Dorothea stared at Petra in fury at her situation, and Petra felt a surge of pride, and gratitude, and...something else. She was grateful, truly, but at the same time...ah, she did not even know how to say this even her native tongue! “Dorothea, I have gratitude for you helping me, but you do not need to be fighting all my battles for me. I am wanting you to be my...my friend,” was that truly all she wanted? “And standing at my side, but not always as my guard.”

Petra watched as Dorothea played her hands through her hair, as Calphour groomed the patch of feathers on Ardior’s neck that the snow goose daemon could never quite reach. “You’re right, Petra. But it makes me so angry to see them treat you like a savage, and even angrier when you can’t even show how you really feel about it! And the Mystical Songstress has pull with the nobility that the Princess of Brigid should have but doesn’t because they’re all garbage. I want to help you Petra, but only as much as you want me to.” Calphour settled down against Ardior’s back with a little sigh of contentment. “I want to do this, because I care about you.”

Suddenly, the mental image sprang into Petra’s mind, fully formed. Dorothea standing on a sparkling Brigidian beach, her long auburn hair—beautiful, beautiful—woven into Brigidian braids, Calphour and Ardior nestled together in the broad-leaved trees of her home. 

Oh.

Dorothea leaned against Petra, soft and warm, with a soft smile just for her. Petra leaned into that contact and smiled back.

---

“Sothis, I thought you said not to abuse your Divine Pulse?”

“Yes, and I’m also telling you this isn’t abusing it. That bastard harassed our students!”

“It is tempting,” Belial growled. Byleth also felt a flash of wild satisfaction at the thought of tearing open the monk who dared to ransack Petra’s room and harass Dedue, then turning back time and doing it again. And again.  The sword seemed to glow brighter in her hand at the thought. 

“Byleth, I like this idea.”

Okay, it was a good idea. Especially since Rhea and Seteth were so panicked over Flayn’s disappearance that they were in no condition to listen to her complaints. Just where was Flayn, anyway? After speaking with Edelgard and Hubert, they had come to the terrifying conclusion that she most likely had been kidnapped. And whomever abducted her probably wanted to use her for...something. Linhardt speculated that her Major Crest was involved, but couldn’t conclude more than that. And after that, Caspar basically glued himself to his best friend’s side, since Linhardt had the same minor crest. Though that was probably for the best, since Caspar was far too loud and brash to do any real sleuthing work. 

So far the only real lead was Jeritza (Shamir was under suspicion simply by dint of being a foreigner until Catherine very forcefully curtailed the accusations, Hanneman wouldn’t go that far, and so forth), but it was a strong one. The combat instructor was as antisocial as his wolverine daemon would suggest, even more hostile towards social interaction than Felix. He was good at sword fighting, fast and brutal and efficient, and Byleth itched to spar with him. Wooden blades, because live ones would likely end with one of them maimed or dead. 

“Which I don’t think he’d mind,” Sothis mused. Also, there was the issue of the mask. 

All this was to say that Byleth was not particularly surprised when Caspar burst in, shouting, “Professor! Professor, I just heard a scream coming from Jeritza’s room!”

The fur on Thanily’s back stood straight up, and Avarine clenched her talons deep into Edelgard’s shoulder pauldron. “Why am I not surprised,” Hubert muttered to himself, so softly that only Belial caught it, and even then just barely. “Let’s go.”

“We’ll split up and get the students. I’ll get Bernadetta and everyone in the greenhouse and by the fishing pond. Meet up in fifteen minutes.” With that, Belial raced off. Everybody in the monastery knew about their ability to separate, so it didn’t matter anymore. And they had to hurry, well they were always unsettling. 

The Eagles has all gathered by Jeritza’s room in ten minutes. And when Caspar kicked open the door, Puccini was there to meet them. Manuela’s lemur daemon slumped against the molding of the door, just barely holding himself upright. Behind him lay Professor Manuela, curled up in a puddle of her own blood. 

“...Bookcase,” Puccini muttered. And then he passed out. 

“Professor Manuela!” Caspar and Edelgard were already at her side, lifting her up as more blood seeped out of the wound. “Linhardt! Is she dead?!”

“Of course she’s not; Puccini is right here.” That was Runilite, nosing her unconscious daemon who was, in fact, very solid and present. Linhardt didn’t say anything, because he was swaying on his feet, trying not to pass out from the sight of her blood while trying to patch her up with a healing spell. 

 “Oh, right.”

There was a shout, and two sets of racing footsteps. Hanneman was behind Dorothea, his eyes wide in shock. Dorothea looked like she was about to burst into tears. “What is the meaning of... Wait, is that Manuela? What happened here?”

Edelgard looked up from where Linhardt was busy closing her wounds. “We know as much as you do. She needs to be taken to the infirmary.”

“Yes, of course–and quickly. Give me a hand, child.”

“Understood. I'll support her head. Professor, I'll be back shortly. Please don’t wait for me.”

Byleth reached out to Edelgard’s shoulder, the one on which Avarine was not perched. “Do you think you should...?” She motioned to the beautiful white gyrfalcon daemon, the one who could separate from Edelgard just like her and Belial.  

“I…” Avarine hunched down against Edelgard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, my teacher. I can’t.”

Left unsaid, hanging in the air, was Avarine’s silent plea, “Please don’t take me away from Edelgard.”

“You humans and your daemons,” Sothis said, a fond note in her voice despite everything going on around them. 

Byleth nodded, Edelgard and Hanneman scooped up Manuela, Avaraine grabbed Puccini in her talons, and they raced off. 

“This has to be Flayn’s kidnapper, isn’t it?” Dorothea was shaking, Calphour a puffed-up tiny ball of rage darting around her head. Petra placed a hand on her shoulder, and Dorothea leaned into that comfort with a sniffle of restrained tears. 

“I do not see any other possibility. Do not worry Dorothea; we shall apprehend this monster and bring him to justice!” Ferdinand’s attention flitted over to Embrienne, who hovered over by the bookcase. “Hm? Embrienne, what is it?”

Caspar already scrambled under the little bee daemon. “It’s a secret passageway! Come on everyone, here comes justice!”

The secret passageway led to even more secret passageways, which likely led to even more. 

Peakane swam to the edge of her backpack, just to get a closer look. “Woah, it’s like a whole maze in here!” Caspar shouted, possibly just to hear himself echo. 

“Quiet!”

“Oh, right, sorry Lin.” Caspar lowered his voice to a “normal” speaking volume, which was still a whisper to him. “I bet these secret tunnels go on forever! Do you think there could be a whole town under here?”

Hubert had to scoff at that. “Do you truly think the Archbishop would allow a town to exist underneath the monastery?”

Byleth couldn’t really argue with that. 

The banter was broken by the sound of Belial racing back as fast as their paws could take them. “There’s a large chamber up ahead with strange tiles on the floor, and at least a dozen guards. There’s a room in the center, and I think it’s being guarded by the—”

A low sinister laugh echoed through the passageway, the voice sounding like it was filtered through a raspy mask. “You’re after the girl, are you not? And that sword...One of us will die, the other will live. I will enjoy this dance of damnation.”

“It’s that jerk we fought at the Holy Mausoleum!”

Ferdinand readied his halberd. “We shall rescue Flayn and I shall bring that despicable man to justice, for—”

The Death Knight ran Ferdinand through, that wickedly curved lance erupting from his back, with all the ease of someone swatting a fly.

Byleth and Hubert’s hands shot out at the same time, grabbed Ferdinand by his jacket. 

“Ferdinand you imbecile, our mission is to rescue Flayn, not duel the aptly-named Death Knight.”

“Ferdinand, I absolutely forbid it!”

As before, in the Holy Mausoleum, only the urgency of the situation and the expression on Byleth’s face kept Ferdinand from launching into another impromptu impassioned speech. “Very well,” he muttered, in a tone that implied he would have Opinions to express later. 

“Linhardt!” Caspar’s shout drew their attention; the sleepy young man was nowhere to be seen. “Professor, Lin just stepped on that weird tile and vanished!”

“I’m right here,” he corrected, out of sight beyond the nearby wall. “These appear to be warp points.” There was a pause. “Also, Runilite hears people in heavy armor nearby, so some backup might be useful around now?”

“Go with Linhardt and Caspar,” Belial growled to Byleth. “I can direct everyone else.”

“We’ll reunite at the entrance to that center structure,” Byleth said, nodding to her daemon. “Everyone hurry.”

There was no tug of separation when Belial was out of sight, no sense of yearning or loss. There never was. But now there was concern. She couldn’t see Belial, or her students. And she couldn’t see through Belial’s eyes the way...everyone else could, to one extent or another. There were instincts honed by battle, and now Sothis relaying information between the two, but would that still work even at this distance?

“You know, you could always ask,” Sothis said, her voice clear as always above the din of battle. Byleth pulled her sword free in a gout of blood that nearly hit Linhardt, much to his disgust. Several feet ahead, Caspar picked up an axe and slammed it into the chest of a soldier. He cried out, and his daemon was dust before he hit the floor. 

Who were these soldiers, who fought under an unknown banner and died so easily to her students, her pups growing to be wolves and eagles of their own? 

“It doesn’t matter, they have Flayn.”

“You’re right,” Byleth muttered. There were screams, horrified shouts at the unnatural sight of a human without her daemon, but she and Caspar and even occasionally Linhardt made quick work of them.

And then there was the room in the center, and the Death Knight, and two unconscious women (one was Flayn, who was the other?). And...Oh no…

“Hubert!” Belial looked up from a fallen bat daemon, whose neck they crushed between their jaws, and raced towards the grim young man. 

Who was facing off with the Death Knight, Thanily’s fur bristled and teeth bared in a snarl.

“You should withdraw from here,” he said.

Slowly, like he was savoring every moment, the Death Knight drew his scythe. “I don’t take orders from you…”

More shouts. Ferdinand, Bernadetta, Dorothea, Petra, all four ran to stop Hubert from apparently committing suicide.But Hubert merely smirked. And then there was a flash of light, and a person clad in red robes and armor, their entire face concealed in a porcelain mask, appeared between the two. 

They had no daemon.

“Halt. You’re having a bit too much fun.”

The Death Knight...obeyed. Complained, rather than simply cut the interloper down. “You are getting in the way of my game.”

“Hmph. You’ll have more opportunities to play soon. Your work here is done.”

“Understood. I will go…”

And then the Death Knight teleported away as well. How did they keep doing that? So did the Flame Emperor, but not before they stared Byleth down, at eye level with her, with absolutely no comment on their shared lack of a daemon. “We will cross paths again. I am the Flame Emperor...It is I who will reforge the world.”

Ferdinand had already pushed past Hubert to scoop up Flayn and the other woman, but Embrienne hovered back to glare at Thanily. “We will have words later.”

Thanily simply rolled her eyes. “I simply cannot wait to hear whatever sewage spews from your mouth. Let’s just bring them up.” 

Edelgard was already in Jeritza’s room, slightly out of breath, Avarine perched on the bookcase. “You found Flayn? Where?!”

“Ah, you missed the most important part of the mission! It was up to Professor Byleth and Belial to lead us!” Ferdinand crowed in pride. “We have successfully found Flayn, as well as another unknown girl!, and identified the culprits!”

“Yeah, but that Death Knight and the Flame Emperor guy got away,” Bernadetta added behind the protective shield of her classmates, and Malecki over her face. 

“It’s okay, you did an admirable job regardless. All that matters is Flayn’s safety, right Professor?”

Edelgard was right. That was all that mattered. They did it. They rescued Flayn, and all of her students were safe. Nobody died. It all went...perfectly. Was this relief?

“Professor? Is that...a smile?”

She turned to Belial. Was that the light floaty feeling in her chest? The way her cheeks pleasantly stretched? 

Edelgard returned that tiny smile. “Heh. You look...happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”

It was nice. She could get used to it.

---

Flayn, pale and bruised but wonderfully, gloriously alive, had not left the safety of Seteth’s cloak and presence since their reunion. Seteth’s sobs of sheer relief as he embraced his younger sister, Flayn’s soft murmur of, “It’s okay, I’m okay. They didn’t...I’m still here. All of me,” still rang in Byleth’s mind.

“Or Seteth isn’t allowing Flayn to leave,” Sothis said. “So much for that conversation with Dad; he’ll never let Flayn out of sight after this. Place your bets: what extremes do you think Seteth will go to? My money is on a giant version of the bell-collar thing that cats wear!”

Byleth could sort of see the hazy mental image. But was Sothis asking her or Belial to think up an equally ludicrous overreaction? She tried, she really did, but nothing. “Sorry,” she said with a shrug. 

“Boo, you’re no fun.”

She then shut up and leaned back in Byleth’s mind, because Seteth had opened his mouth to speak, possibly more to break the awkward silence while they waited for Rhea to arrive. 

His voice, though composed as ever, was rough with recently-shed tears. “Please, allow me to express my eternal gratitude once more. Flayn is safe and sound, and I have you to thank for that. Mere words could never express how thankful I am. I...I am indebted to you.”

It wasn’t just her though. “I couldn't have done it without the students. And we’re all just happy that she’s safe.”

Seteth held Flayn a little tighter. “Yes, of course. I shall express my gratitude to the students as well. Words cannot state how overjoyed I am.”

“But why was Flayn taken to begin with?” Sothis asked. Byleth echoed her thoughts out loud. 

Seteth’s relief was submerged in a sudden wave of anger. “Her kidnapper was the masked knight who vanished during the Rite of Rebirth. The one known as the Death Knight. Jeritza has already fallen under suspicion, and Hubert of all people provided documentation that all but confirmed his true identity.”

“But what about that other masked person who intervened? The Flame Emperor?”

“Flame Emperor, Death Knight, someone’s being grandiose!”

Seteth shook his head. “I am not sure, but I do have an idea. I believe they may have been after Flayn's blood. The blood that flows through her veins is extremely rare...and extremely dangerous. My blood is also rare, but Flayn can not defend herself like I can. If enemies who know her secret have appeared, then our only option is to leave the monastery and go into hiding.”

What? Just hide Flayn away from the world for the rest of her life?

“Okay that’s, wow, that’s drastic. I should have seen that coming.”

For the first time in hours, Flayn sparked to life. She pulled herself out from under Seteth’s cloak and ran closer to Byleth’s side. “Brother, wait! I am sorry, but I cannot. I will not. I do not wish to live in some lonely, remote location where I never get to see anyone. Not ever again.”

Sothis was also shocked at the suggestion, if the way she surged forward in Byleth’s head was any indication “Again? Just how long have you been hiding Flayn in a little bubble? For crying out loud, just let the child live!” 

Seteth appeared to be unmoved. “If we stay here, you may be targeted again! Wouldn't it be better for the two of us to live in peace?”

“Brother, what you describe is surviving, but it is not living! I am not your daemon, tethered to your side.” She looked around frantically, trying to grasp onto a persuasive argument that would convince even Seteth. “Even if we ran off to some new, secret location, there is no guarantee that they would not find us.” Flayn’s gaze locked on Byleth and Belial, and her eyes widened. “Brother, you are only one man, and not as strong as you once were. I believe it would be safest to stay in the monastery, where we are surrounded by capable knights and professors!”

Seteth played his fingers along the edge of his cape, conflicted. 

“That’s our cue,” Sothis started to say, but Belial had already stepped forward and opened their mouth.

“What if Flayn joins my class as a student? She’ll learn alongside the rest of the Eagles and be under my direct supervision.”

Flayn clapped her hands in delight, as if she wasn’t about to say the same thing herself. “Ah, Professor, that is a wonderful idea! Under your guidance, I shall be safe no matter what foe should appear!”

Seteth was still uncertain, so Byleth went in for the kill. She took a step forward, flanking the older man along with Belial. “Seteth, do you remember your conversation with my dad?”

Seteth closed his eyes, and that was it. “...You are right. Professor... Due to my position, I have closely scrutinized everything about you. After all that has happened, I must admit that, despite your...eccentricities and limitations, you are indeed...a trusted ally. Can I entrust you with Flayn's safety?”

“Of course you can!” Sothis shouted in time with Byleth and Belial. 

“She’s one of my students now. It would be my pleasure.”

Both Seteth and Flayn smiled; combinations of joy and relief. 

“Oh, thank you so much, Professor Byleth! I promise you shall not regret this! Although I wonder about the other girl who was rescued alongside me. I was isolated or unconscious throughout the majority of my ordeal, so I do not know when she was found, but she was wearing the academy uniform. Could she be another student?”

“Her name is Monica von Ochs,” said Rhea, serene as ever as she glided into the chamber. “She was a student here last year who went missing just before graduation. We thought she had simply dropped out and ran away, but to imagine she was kidnapped this entire time…” The archbishop shuddered. 

“WHAT?!” Sothis shrieked, loud and echoing enough to make Byleth flinch and Belial press their ears flat against their head. “Are you fucking kidding me?! One of your students went missing and you did NOTHING?! What the fuck kind of boarding school is this? Come send your precious children to the Garreg Mach Monastery Officer’s Academy, where we can make absolutely no guarantees for their safety! Will they graduate? Will they get a bandit’s axe to the face? Will they be ordered to kill friends and family because denying the archbishop is apparently a capital offense? Will they vanish in the endless sewers beneath the monastery, never to return? Only the Goddess knows!”

Rhea was still talking, her words lost in Sothis’s silent sarcastic screams. Sothis was still ranting in Byleth’s head. “Monica has asked to rejoin the Black Eagles House.”

“Wait, so I’d teach her as well?” Did Monica have any combat skills of note? She’d have to figure out some way to quickly side her and Flayn into lesson plans. 

“Yes, but only in a few lectures and seminars. Given her ordeal, we think it is best for her transition back to student life to be as smooth as possible.”

“Finally, some sense! Was that so hard?”

Byleth simply nodded. “I’ll take care of her.

And Rhea was as serene and beatific as ever. “I have utmost faith in you, Professor.”

---

Petra invited Claude. Petra invited Claude. 

“Honestly we should have seen this coming,” said Avarine across their bond, and Edelgard was inclined to agree. Claude was sympathetic to their ideals, significantly more so than Dimitri. He was the kind of person who would want to know more about the Fuck Crests Club regardless, if only to suss her out. 

Edelgard had no illusions about her ability to politick. She was competent, sure, intelligent and able to see the whole chessboard, as it were (although Edelgard never particularly enjoyed chess. She was good at it, sure, but it was all kings and bishops sending their pawns to die, and for what? All the pawns needed to do was realize their own power, turn around, and the board would be theirs in a single turn). But she was aggressive and tended to be single-minded. And how could she not? She had a couple decades at most to tear down the rot permeating Fodlan and create a better future for those who died and those yet to be born under its yoke. She didn’t have time for the subtle intricacies of smoke-filled rooms. Let Hubert deal with them. Perhaps Ferdinand, in those wildest moments of hope that she dared allow herself as of late. 

And as for the other supposed future rulers of Fodlan? Dimitri was almost endearing in his simple single-mindedness, with no true direction or ambition. She liked him, in some fashion (and didn’t they know each other? Those years were carefully blocked off in her mind for the sake of her sanity, but she thought they did), but a boar truly was the most appropriate form for Delcabia. She’d have to avoid a goring, but as long as she did that Dimitri would be easily evaded or pushed aside. 

Claude, on the other hand…

Well. There was shrewd, and then there was Claude. The next grand duke of the Alliance may have fooled everyone else with his carefree prankster attitude, may have fallen for his misdirection of where he schemed, but not Edelgard and Avarine. A man with obvious Almyran heritage, and a viper daemon no less, appearing out of nowhere to secure himself as the legitimate Riegan heir and the next grand duke of the Alliance? Claude was not merely a master of diplomacy, he was dangerous. 

“Only dangerous as an enemy, El,” Avarine whispered in her ear as she set the tables. They had needed a second one after that incredibly successful first meeting to seat everyone comfortably, and now Ingrid, Sylvain, Claude, Marianne, and Monica were joining.

“I wouldn’t rely on him as a trusted ally either. And especially not Monica, for that matter.” Something about Monica set her on edge, set Avarine watching both the young woman and her cuckoo daemon like, well, a hawk. Monica von Ochs had vanished last year, and she did look like the Monica von Ochs sitting before Edelgard with a cup of tea and an eager smile. Monica was unsettled before she was abducted; Edelgard knew just how traumatizing settling under such stressful circumstances was. And yet the whole situation felt...off. 

No time to dwell on it now though. People were arriving in groups of two and three. Dorothea waved down Sylvain and Ingrid, whose alligator daemon sat a respectful distance away with a somewhat uncertain expression. She was sitting next to Petra, and Calphour was not perched on Dorothea’s hat like usual but on Ardior’s snow-white back. Marianne sat far away from everyone else, curled up around an equally curled-up Penumbrior. Hilda of all people was unexpectedly there, someone for Marianne to quite literally lean on. And Claude was also present, Simurg loosely draped around his neck, complete with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Edelgard herself sat at the head of the table, Avarine on her shoulder, Hubert to her left and Byleth to her right. Her teacher was taking notes like before, but…

Well, they’d help her figure out what to say, just as before. 

This session of the Fuck Crests Club started off well enough. Now that Flayn was rescued and Sylvain was present the topic turned to the story of Miklan and his disinheritance. Or, it would have, but one look at Sylvain’s hand clenched against his arm, one look at Albarrog curled protectively around a bristle-tailed Zepida, and they changed the subject. 

“It sounds like this is a cycle,” Claude said. “People grow up believing that they have to inflict pain on the next generation for the sake of society as a whole, because they had that lesson forced upon them, and so it goes from past, present, and future. I wonder who first decided that Fodlan should be like this, and if they knew what the lasting effects would be?”

Monica giggled. “Either way, things are so entrenched that we’ll have to fight our way out!”

That got peoples’ attention. Human and daemon alike whipped around to stare at her. Marianne went white, Penumbrior a tight little ball in her arms. Hilda’s open face instantly went into a death glare directed at Monica and her innocent-seeming cuckoo daemon. Sylvain and Ingrid, Dorothea and Petra, both pairs exchanged nervous glances with each other. Claude’s easy smile froze on his face, and Simurg vanished inside his cape. 

The world slowed to a trickle; Edelgard’s pulse pounded in her ears. This was all going wrong. Yes, force was the only option left, but Edelgard was playing a delicate dance here, and Monica just decided to stomp all over it!

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”  Only years of discipline and fear kept Avarine rooted to her shoulder instead of mantling her wings with a screech, or launching at that cuckoo daemon’s throat. And by the way Thanily bared her teeth, Hubert felt the same.

Monica did not shut up. She stroked her daemon’s head and continued, “I mean, the crests were gifts from the Goddess, right? So if we’re gonna tear down society, that means we’ve got to tear down the Goddess and the Church too! Isn’t that right, Edie?”

That was Dorothea’s affectionate nickname for her, and it was filthy in Monica’s mouth. 

That was open blasphemy, open sedition right in the center of the monastery. And they all remembered what happened to Lord Lonato.

“I apologize for Monica. We’re done for today.”

“Yeah, I think we’re done here.” Hilda helped a horrified Marianne to her feet as they both beat a speedy retreat. Claude wasn’t far behind them. The intrigued Deer, frightened off, because of Monica.

“Claude, wait.” Edelgard jogged to catch up with the young man, fully aware that she was on the defensive and furious with herself for it. “About that—“

“Edelgard.” Claude’s false smile was a little fainter, and Simurg was mostly hidden away under his academy uniform. Only her broad head was visible, unblinking and fixed on Avarine. “You disappoint me. I would have thought you more subtle at continental destabilization. Or have you never heard the proverb about waving around raw meat in a lion’s den?

“Why Claude, are you implying that the church is not to be trusted?” Edelgard fumbled, struggling to get back on solid footing. This was all going wrong, just as she thought it would before reaching out for foolish hope.

Claude winked, actually winked. “Your words, not mine. Just a hint, Princess: Best to lead people down the path of secrets and let them come to their own conclusions rather than force-feeding them. Especially when it’s something that’s dangerous to eat.”

“Hm, that’s a lot of food metaphors,” Simurg added, all false levity. “But I think you get the point. Best of luck, Princess.”

Claude flashed a casual wave as he sauntered off, and Edelgard knew he wouldn’t be back. Neither would Ingrid, Hilda or Marianne, most likely. Monica had come on too strong, scared them off too badly. 

Monica. 

Edelgard stalked over to the young woman, who leaned against a nearby wall, soaking in the sun and the scene with a mild smile on her face. It broadened as Edelgard approached and said, every word clipped with fury, “That was deliberate. Why?” Avarine’s talons dug so deeply into her shoulder pauldrons that even under the thick leather it almost hurt. 

Monica’s cuckoo daemon matched Avarine’s gaze, and Monica herself flashed a brilliant smile that was nothing but teeth. “Aw, Edie, I was just telling everyone exactly what you meant! It’s so important not to mince words, isn’t it?”

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Monica did it on purpose, to frighten away potential allies and...no. Oh no. 

“Who are you, really?”

“You’re not Monica at all!”

Monica’s only response to their simultaneous questions was to laugh, high and bubbly and fake. “Oh Edie. Edie, Edie, Edie. Don’t you know that you only have one true ally around here? You really should remember your place.”

“Monica” patted her cheek, so close to Avarine that she had to step off Edelgard’s shoulder to avoid contact. That shiny-eyed cuckoo daemon sat comfortably on Monica’s shoulder and preened himself, completely unashamed. 

“Well Edie, I’ll see you around! Toodles!” “Monica” flounced off, leaving Edelgard and Avarine in the bright autumn sun, nauseous and alone. 

Notes:

Thank you all so, so much for being patient and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Although it seems like White Clouds is going similar as to canon, some of you have already noticed the changes brewing underneath, getting closer and closer to boiling over by the day...

See you all next time, whether it be for a drabble, a chapter, or whatever! I'm going to bed. I'm so sorry if there are typoes; I'll fix them tomorrow.

Humans and daemons:

Jeritza: Unnamed female wolverine
"Monica": Unnamed male cuckoo

Also, there is currently a fan charity effort called Fandom Trumps Hate going on--I recommend you check it out! Absolutely no money will go to any authors; it all goes DIRECTLY to charity!

Chapter 14: Damage Control

Summary:

Ferdinand gets A Clue, Hilda really gets A Clue, and Hubert messes up.

Notes:

Thank you all for being so patient! I've got a lot of stuff coming down the pipeline so watch this space. As always, please comment/like/subscribe, and I hope you enjoy!

Content warnings for this chapter: Brief mention of suicidal behavior, more racism, non-consensual daemon touching, and self-blaming.

This is a rough one, people.

“I mean, mostly I’m just glad that Flayn is safe. Maybe now things will finally go back to normal and I can just worry about normal things, like talking to people. Or this mock battle! Not getting impaled by kidnapping murderers pretending to be professors! Can you believe that Jeritza was the Death Knight?!”

Bernadetta heard the soft thump of Ferdinand sitting back against the other side of her door as he spoke. “I sincerely hope that is the end of it. However, I am concerned that it might not be. Bernadetta, did you hear what that masked villain calling themselves the Flame Emperor said?”

“No? Because I was really really far away from the Death Knight? Just to fire my bow, of course!”

She winced, waiting for a mocking laugh or something of the sort, but...there was none. Ferdie probably wouldn’t do that to her, but it was still a surprise every time. Instead Ferdinand said, “The Flame Emperor quite explicitly said that we would cross paths again.”

“Oh nooooo!” Bernadetta buried her face in Malecki’s soft belly. “We’re doomed! We’re done for! We’re dead!”

“We are not doomed!” That was the sound of his hand against the door, and Bernie placed her own up to where she heard the muffled sound. “After all, such ruffians are no match for me! And the professor is an excellent instructor who clearly has our safety as her highest priority. We shall not come to any harm as long as she is around!”

But what if the professor wasn’t around? The school year was over half done, and then they’d graduate and then what if the Death Knight or Flame Emperor went and hunted them down one by one or, “Ferdie, how are you so confident all the time?!”

Now his soft chuckle floated through the door. It sounded sort of...sad? If she listened really closely she could almost hear the sound of Embrienne buzzing through the wooden door. “I wish I were as consistently confident as you claim me to be. I have always strived to be a paragon of the nobility—no, of all humanity—and to surpass even Edelgard herself in leadership and ability. After all, I have been trained in Empire diplomacy and politics for far longer than her. However, I found my previously held convictions...challenged, as of late.”

Embrienne picked up where Ferdinand left off. “Perhaps this is an unspoken purpose of the Academy, to expose us nobles to different perspectives. But it is still troubling, and sometimes uncomfortable to the point of pain, to have my beliefs so thoroughly rejected and my ignorance in certain subjects so embarrassingly exposed.”

She’d heard that tone before. “Ferdinand, what happened?” Did he and Dorothea fight again? Mal curled up at the thought. Oh no this was all her fault. She and Dorothea were friends, but she was also courting Ferdinand and Dorothea hated Ferdinand. Oh, thoughtless selfish Bernie, forcing her friend to be around someone she hated what kind of friend was she?

She must have said something out loud, or at least made some noise of distress, because the next thing she heard was Ferdinand taking a loud, exaggerated breath through the door, and Embrienne’s calm recitation of, “In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.” Deep breaths, just like the first time he tried to calm her panic, but they were both so much better at it now. She echoed Ferdinand and Embrienne’s instructions, could feel Malecki slowly uncurl in her hands in time with her slowing heart. Fealt the panic lift just enough for her to listen to what Ferdinand was saying. The fear was still there, of course, but it was quieter now, more easily set off to the side. 

“It is not your fault,” he said. “I was talking with Dorothea and Petra, who were quite agitated over the monks searching our rooms.”

“The monks searched our rooms too?!” Oh no, Professor Byleth looking through her room was stressful enough, but hearing that one of the staff went in there while she was gone? What did they see? Oh no no no, did they see the dolls she made? Did they think they were dumb? Were they going to tell her father about them?!

“They did not search yours!” Feridnand said hastily, cutting through her rapidly-spiraling thoughts. “In truth, that is the source of the issue. The monks specifically searched only a few rooms: those of Petra, Ashe, Claude, and Dedue. I fail to see any connection among our four classmates, but both Petra and Dorothea claim that this was a targeted search by the church institution, and both were quite agitated over it. Neither Petra nor Dorothea would fabricate such accusations, but I still cannot see any commonality here, and Petra was too upset over being searched a second time to discuss it further.” 

Oh. That's probably what happened, Ferdie wanted to know so badly he pushed against Petra’s boundaries. “And then Dorothea needed to tell you to back off?” Mal asked from her lap, able to say what they both thought but she couldn’t.

“You have the right of it,” Embrienne replied. “But I still cannot understand why the church would suspect those four of our fellow students in particular.”

A few days ago Bernie wouldn’t have understood either. But now the memory of Dedue in the greenhouse floated through her mind. “Um, Ferdie, when you were growing up, what did your parents have to say about people outside Fodlan?”

She could hear Embry’s angry buzzing back and forth as Ferdinand said, “They, along with far too much of the nobility, have the most vile opinions that have only become more disgraceful in hindsight now that I have personally met and befriended many foreigners. They would call the people of Dagda and Brigid savages and worse, and they are wrong! I daresay that Petra has a more noble soul than most of the titled and landed gentry in all Adrestia!”

“And if he knew about our father…” But she wasn’t quite certain how that conversation would go, wasn't quite ready to discuss it yet. She had told Ferdinand as much, and he had agreed to let the topic lie until she was ready to bring it up again. So instead Bernie said, “She is. But a lot of people don’t see that, because she’s from Brigid. And Dedue is from Duscur. And I...Claude looks a lot like Cyril, and Cyril is from Almyra, right? And we all know about Ashe.”

“It...They…” Ferdinand actually trailed off, at a loss for words. “Was that the reason? Was it truly something so petty as that? There is no logic in such, such open discrimination! In fact, such a myopic viewpoint likely only served to hamper the investigation!”

Embrienne wailed through the door, “Oh Ferdinand, we are such utter fools! Petra and Dorothea had every right to be utterly furious at the naked bias and disrespect thrown her way, and we were too blind to see it! We must apologize to them at once! Bernadetta, Malecki, thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

Was he leaving? Right now? Oh, she felt awful doing this she shouldn’t be at all but, “Uh, Ferdinand? Maybe you should, um, not run over to apologize right now?”

“...You are right once again, Bernadetta. It would be best to take concrete steps to ensure I do not repeat such behavior before I go to apologize, just like when I spoke with you.”

“Y-yeah! And, uh, there’s something else. It’s, um, when I was in the greenhouse with Dedue…”

She told him what happened, all of it. Well, almost all of it. The part with Dimitri was way too scary to even think about again, much less discuss it. Honestly she wasn’t even sure she hadn’t dreamt up the whole thing. But even the rest of it was almost painful to talk about, and she definitely cried a little bit just recounting the awful things the greenhouse manager said to Dedue. Ferdinand was silent when she finished. And then Embrienne said, “I know you might not wish to see Ferdinand right now, but may I come in?”

They’d done this before too, once or twice—Embrienne would shimmy under the door to bump against Mal’s nose, the bee daemon’s version of a kiss before leaving that was less likely to leave poor Bernie a completely incoherent puddle in her room. But this time there was a little bit of extra softness in Embrienne’s voice. So instead...instead...

“Deep breaths Bernie. We can...we can do this!” Mal was in her hand, close to her heart, warm and small, the bearer of her hope. She clutched her daemon closer with one hand, and with the other slowly opened the door. 

The fear shot through her as the sunlight and the outside filtered in, so big and bright and scary. Her knees trembled as she looked up at Ferdinand, his eyes wide in surprise at her opening the door, Embrienne still and quiet on his nose. 

“Bernadetta,” he said, and oh that smile beamed like the sun. “That was incredibly brave of you. You should be proud of yourself, because I most certainly am.”

“R-really?” What was there to be proud of? She opened her door, anyone can do that, it wasn’t that great an accomplishment. Sure she stood up for Dedue, but she passed out after! She—

“Bernie,” Mal whispered, patting her hand with his paw. She sniffled and breathed deeply, shakily, letting a couple of held-in tears roll down her face as she tried to listen to Ferdinand.

“Of course I am proud of you. You faced your fears and protected someone who was unjustly attacked! And look at you now; you have opened your door to talk to me directly!”

“But these are easy things for other people to do!”

“Bernadetta, you are not other people. You are a sweet and funny girl with a warm heart. You are brilliant with your hands and a bow. You have your own struggles to bear that are not any lesser than anyone else’s. And what you did a few days ago and just now are great accomplishments. Would you have been able to open your door to speak with me directly even a few weeks ago?”

“N-no.”

“Precisely! Bernadetta, you have made such amazing strides in just a few months! Take pride in your accomplishments, for they are something to celebrate!”

“I, I guess…” He was right though; she never would have imagined doing this at the start of the year. Maybe she was getting better at leaving her room and talking to people! Mal sat up on her shoulder, proud as she said, “Y-yeah!”

They fell silent for a moment, that fond smile still on Ferdinand’s face and her own cheeks flaming from the blush and smile. And then Ferdinand blushed as well. “Bernadetta? May I kiss you?”

Bernie’s mind went blank, the only sound her heartbeat in her ears. That was a joke, it had to be a joke. Who would want to kiss Bernie? Nobody would want to kiss Bernie!

“Ferdie does, apparently,” Mal thought, his voice soft with wonder. 

Ferdie wanted to kiss her. She couldn’t trust herself to speak. All she could do was make some sort of squeaking noise and nod.

That was enough for Ferdinand to understand. His smile grew broader and his face flushed just a little bit more. They stepped inside her room, back into the privacy she needed, the door half-shut so as to minimize any untoward rumors (though he could close the door! It was okay, she always had her door closed but this was Ferdinand and so as long as she ducked behind the wood where none could see she was okay with the compromise). Bernadetta turned to place Malecki on her desk and there was Ferdinand, his warm broad fingers on her chin to guide her back to his amber gaze, his other warm hand settled around her waist, right on the band of her skirt (and that sent part of her mind spiraling to heated, terrifying, not-unpleasant places), and his face so close to hers. 

What should she do with her hands?! Another squeak escaped her throat as, unbidden, one rose to rest on his waist (warm and straight, none of that slight narrow and flare that her own waist developed over the past several years) and the other rose higher against his ribs. Feridnand’s smile was warm and bright and then his lips were on hers.

He was kissing her. Ferdinand was kissing her. His lips were warm and soft and just a little bit drier than her own, and they brushed against hers in a way that made her sigh against his mouth. Behind her, Malecki made a tiny happy noise as Embrienne nestled against the short fur on his head. She could feel Ferdinand smile against her lips, could hear his soft sigh, and that made her own racing heart slow and calm. 

Just as she was about to screw up the courage to part her lips, Ferdinand pulled away. His hand had moved to the side of his face, his fingers brushing against her ear and hair in a way that made her shudder. And he was smiling even wider. 

“Thank you so much for helping to open my eyes. You are absolutely lovely, do you know that?”

Goddess, she could say the same about him. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, and when she opened her mouth what actually came out was, “Can...can we do that again? Please? It was actually really nice…”

Ferdinand chuckled, low and warm and safe, and their daemons curled up together on the desk behind them both. “It would be my great pleasure.”

---

“Well that could have gone better.”

“Tell me about it.” Halmstadt stretched alongside Hilda, shook off the sweat from the sauna. Ah, that was nice. Nothing like a good steaming followed up by the bracing chill of the autumn air. “Ugh, we should have invited Marianne in with us.”

“Yeah, though she was never really a big fan of the sauna. And Claude is with her right now; she’ll be okay” Halmstadt was right though; she should go to town and pick up something to make it up to her. “Boy that ended up being a mess though. And Mari was so excited about it too, which just makes it super-unfair! Stupid Monica, causing trouble like that.”

“I hope Professor Byleth and the rest of the Eagles can help her out. I mean, poor Monica; she settled while she was kidnapped! I can’t even imagine what she must have gone through for all those months.” And settling as a cuckoo no less. Hilda glanced over to her own dear Halmstadt, his wings flashing a brilliant blue as they gently beat back and forth. He was a lovely blue butterfly, but hadn’t he very nearly settled as a cuckoo himself? 

Halmstadt flicked his wings, his version of a nod. “I almost did, but there was something not...right about it. It was years ago, but something about it felt kind of, like, twisted up inside? I can’t really explain it much better than that.”

“No, it’s fine. And honestly it makes sense. Monica acts all giggly and smiles, but she must be suppressing some serious trauma. Maybe the reason she said such scary things at the club was because of that? Like she was lashing out or something? People do that, right?”

Halmstadt fluttered up and down, uncertain. “I think they can? You think the Professor and Edelgard and all her classmates are looking out for her?”

“Sure hope so.” Should she tell the Professor about her worries? Eh, only if Professor Byleth asked. It was way too much effort otherwise, and there were more important things to worry about; this wasn’t her problem. But other things kind of were. “I’m just glad that Marianne’s feeling better.” That had been scary. She and Claude spent much of that evening doing damage control, Marianne was so terrified about what Monica had said and what that implied. She even got Ignatz and Lorenz to join in! Normally she’d have hated spending all that time  trying to make someone else who was so scared feel better, but it was different with Marianne. Something about her, and Claude made her want to put in the effort, be...better somehow. 

Hilda still remembered how, a couple of weeks ago, Marianne had tried to give her some of her possessions—a dress they had bought together that would easily fit Hilda with a minimal amount of hemming, some accessories, things like that. And that had scared her and Halmstadt more than almost anything else. She and Claude had arranged an emergency meeting for all their classmates after that, and they banded together, all for Marianne. And that’s what they did now after that disastrous club meeting, her and Claude especially, helping to keep Marianne...well, not great, but better. Professor Manuela had spoken to Lady Rhea and procured some powdered herbs that were supposed to lift the mood. They seemed to help, a little bit. Marianne wasn’t quite as bleak or harsh on herself since taking the herbs, which was an incredible relief. She’d be there for her quiet friend. And so would Claude, and the rest of the Deer. Ignatz was actually with her right now; he’d said something to Hilda about sunsets, which she thought was just incredibly sweet. 

Claude…Now there was something she was having some uncomfortable thoughts and realizations about. Claude was half-Almyran, there was no hiding it, no explaining away his brown skin or curly dark hair. She wasn’t there for those heated roundtable arguments when he first showed up, but Holst and her parents came home with stories. And then her parents made their way down to the stables, where the horses were cared for by Almyran servants, and went hunting. 

The Almyrans attacked the Throat over and over again, and her family defended the Throat and took prisoners over and over again. Some of them were, like, really young, which was incredibly disturbing! Putting them to work was more humane than killing them, wasn’t it? They were just teenagers, and it showed just how inhumane the Almyrans were! 

But…

But that was just what she had learned growing up, sometimes without being told. It wasn’t her fault; it was the way things were growing up! But even before Monica ruined everything there were some pretty rough things people were hinting at in the club meeting (like, Sylvain really really didn’t want to talk about his past, and Sylvain was not okay , not after what she saw what ruined what would have otherwise been a pretty damn good one night stand) and she heard the monks tearing apart Claude’s room. He had smiled and laughed it off, but Hilda knew Claude pretty well at this point and she could tell just how angry he had been. 

“And that Cyril kid is always avoiding us for some reason,” Halmstadt added as he landed on his shoulder, his wings brushing against her cheek. “Hilda, you don’t think…?”

“Oh no, oh fuck. ” Hilda slumped against the wall. Some great and terrible feeling, one too awful to name, welled up in her. Goddess, she wanted to fucking puke. Halmtadt landed on her head, those same horrible thoughts bouncing back and forth between them. “Halmstadt, are the Almyrans we captured...slaves? Does...does my family, like, keep slaves?!”

“I don’t know!” Halmstadt flitted from her head to her shoulder to the wall back to her head again. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know!”

“And then, like, weren’t there rumors popping up of there once being an Almyran with the Goneril crest? Oh Halmstadt, we really do keep slaves!” Her last word came out in a horrified hiss, too filthy to even say out loud. “Claude has to know; how can he even talk to us?!” 

“I don’t know! Hilda, what are we going to do about this?” 

“I...I…” Truth be told, she didn’t want to do anything about this. She wanted to slam the lid on the trunk of skeletons she just found in her family archives, or whatever, point was she just realized something awful about her family and she didn’t want to think about it. Hilda truthfully wanted to do nothing more than slam the lid on it and run away and go back to five minutes ago when she didn’t realize or think about it at all.

But...she couldn't, could she. This was going to be one of those things that was too awful to ignore, wasn’t it. 

“We’re gonna have to do something about this, aren’t we,” Halmstadt whined. “Ugghhhh this is gonna be so much work!”

Hilda groaned and tipped her head back against the wall. Ugh, Halmstadt was right. First Marianne, now Claude. She didn’t even know where to start with Claude. How could she possibly fix an entire family history of keeping slaves and all that other stuff? She didn’t even know where to begin! Ugh, just pretending she never thought about any of this would have been so much easier. 

But...nobody else was going to do it, were they? And, just like with Marianne, this might be something worth putting in the effort for. 

---

“There’s no mincing words, Hubert. I got cocky.” I got too hopeful. “I made a mistake.”

“I hate to be so direct with you, Lady Edelgard, but yes you did. Fortunately it appears that most people are chalking up “Monica’s” outburst as just that: an outburst, perhaps exacerbated by her months in captivity. So at least we don’t appear to have any suspicion directed at us for the time being.” 

“Well, at least we have that going for us.” Edelgard sighed and shifted in place. Though Hubert sat in a chair, Thanily paced back and forth in the space between them both, and Avarine fidgeted on her perch. “I should have realized much sooner that whomever that girl is, she’s not Monica. Honestly, I feel terrible for Baron and Baroness von Ochs. To spend months in anguish over their daughter’s disappearance, and then to hear that she’s alive?”

Avarine lowered herself into a hunting crouch, her wings flared out. “Only, this isn’t Monica at all, but one of those monsters in the dark wearing her face. The real Monica probably died all those months ago.”

Thanily’s fur flattened slightly, but she and Hubert were all business. As was Edelgard. As awful as that truth was, they needed to control the damage that “Monica” had done and figure out their next move. “Well,” Hubert said,”It’s clear that Those Who Slither In The Dark sent this false Monica specifically to keep us playing nice and isolated from the others.”

“And it’s working,” Edelgard growled. Flames, she hated this! She hated the complete loss of control, the everpresent reminder that she was bound and at their mercy, nothing more than a puppet dancing on their string. After all they did to her and her siblings and so many others, and she still wasn’t free. “We can’t continue the Fuck Crests Club, not while she’s around. She knows where it is, and there’s no hiding it.”

“They will burn for what they did, El.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Do you think she’ll try and turn the other members of the academy against us?” Avarine asked, and the fear shot through them both of “Monica” poisoning her classmates, even the Professor, against her. Of being truly alone again after a taste of having more people walking beside her and Hubert. She didn’t know if she could handle it.”

“If it is any consolation, Lady Edelgard, I do not believe this, let us call her Monica for now, is stable enough to attempt any long-term subterfuge. Any attempts to turn our classmates against us will likely be obvious enough for us to notice and counter. Additionally, if she intends to monitor our activities, then she cannot interfere with our classmates.”

“True.” Trust Hubert to always look at the tactical side of the situation. “Even if we can’t continue the Club, that doesn’t change our original plans.” They had originally started this year expecting to be completely alone, her and Hubert against their classmates, the church, the world. What had changed?

“We got soft. We started to learn what it was like to have more allies...even friends. I think that was a mistake. Was it a mistake?”

Damn it all, Avarine was right. And now that she had a taste of companionship, it would hurt so much to go back to the dark. Hubert almost certainly felt the same way, deep down, even if he would never admit it. Was it a mistake, when she was so painfully lonely, to not feel quite so alone anymore? Perhaps it was, if it put her scheme at risk. She had to continue, no matter how much it tore her apart inside. Her body was falling apart bit by bit regardless; she only had a decade or two at most left to live. For the future of Fodlan, she could not let its people suffer under the heel of the church and nobility any longer. 

“Even if we can’t continue the club, we still gleaned important information from those few sessions we had,” Hubert mused. “Far more people are suffering under the yoke of the current system than we initially anticipated. You were right Lady Edelgard; we must distribute your manifesto and let it speak for itself. How is it coming along?”

“I have most of the revisions done, but given the inspections and church scrutiny I haven’t been able to really work on it.” Even just having the coded notes here was risky enough. But Hubert was right. They had more people sympathetic to their cause now. And they had a better idea where their classmates would stand. She started counting off her classmates on her fingers, Avarine holding up a taloned foot when they got into double digits. “Lysithea will join us, without question. Dorothea might, and...I think we need to tell her about our plans. Bernadetta may or may not join us, but I doubt she will stand against us. Claude is intrigued but his position is too precarious to openly declare support or find out more. We’ll have to get to him through Petra. And our teacher...”

She trailed off. The thought of her teacher, Byleth, against them was almost too painful to bear. Avarine lowered her wings, seemed to droop down off her perch, and only solidified again when Thanily hopped up next to the perch to press against her. “Thanks,” she said, leaning into the fox daemon’s warmth. 

Hubert stood up abruptly, and Thanily nuzzled against Avarine briefly before returning to Hubert’s side once more. “Hubert? What are you doing?”

“Monica is currently going over makeup lesson plans with the professor. I have some time to go through her room. Do not worry, Lady Edelgard.”

There was clearly no room for argument. All she could say was, “Please stay safe, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Lady Edelgard.”

She did, but they both knew that without saying. So she let Hubert go, and sat alone in her room, with nothing but Avarine, her thoughts, and determination. They had to keep going, for a better future, no matter the cost.  

---

Hubert rifled through another drawer and found nothing but socks, underwear, and lint. “Damn it all, those beasts who slither in the dark are the exact opposite of subtle. There must be something here we can use! Thanily, did you find anything?”

Thanily peeked her head out from under the bed, orange fur slightly ruffled from the tight space. “Just a bunch of standard-issue school weapons. Which is another charge against the church by the way, letting us leave actual live weapons in our room. Mostly swords and knives; I presume this thing masquerading as Monica is fast but frail. There’s another box underneath, let me see if I can drag it out.” She dove back under the bed, the tip of her tail exposed and wagging as she dug through whatever Monica had stashed under her bed. 

Hubert allowed himself a fond smile before returning to search through Monica’s textbooks. Swordsmanship guides, primers on tactics, some essays on philosophy and leadership...there! A thin book, made of a material that he had only seen once before, on one of the worst days of his life. He flipped it open, and just as he expected, there were the glyphs of an unknown dark magic spell. “Thanily, look at this.”

His daemon hopped up onto the desk, picked the dust from her paws, and started sounding out the incantation as Hubert attempted to decipher the spell. “Interesting...I don’t see any actual combat use for this spell, and it doesn’t appear to require a lot of magical energy, but it does seem to be a rather technical little thing. This sigil here markedly extends a spell’s duration—“

“Yah!” Thanily jumped back; her paw had turned silver mid-incantation and the color change was slowly creeping up her leg. The half-formed spell fizzled and her fur rapidly changed back to its normal orange and black. “Sorry Hubert. That was unexpected, but still terribly immature.”

Hubert shook his head but said nothing; apology accepted. “Well, this confirms that those who slither in the dark are using a long-term disguise spell. Perhaps some sort of illusion? If I can deconstruct these sigils and glyphs I may be able to figure out how to dispel the enchantment. I could also cast it on myself, or my spies…”

“My, you’re being a busy little bee, Hubiekins. Or should I say fox?”

Hubert and Thanily froze. No. Where could she have come from? The door was shut and even when reciting the runes Thanily had been facing it the entire time. He cast a quick glance to the window, slightly open, but on the second floor with...a tree just outside, its leaves bright orange but still hanging on, the foliage thick enough to conceal someone at first glance.

Well. Fuck. 

Dark magic curled up Hubert’s hand, cold as the grave and waiting to be released. Thanily snarled, Monica whipped out a dagger, her daemon took to the air, and they began their dance. 

“Dontcha know it’s rude to go searching through a girl’s things, Hubiekins? Or should I be calling you Hubert the Pervert?”

Hubert felt the rush of anger echo between him and Thanily but didn’t rise to the bait. They circled each other, eyeing for a misstep, or a chance to escape. “I should be asking you a similar thing. Do you not realize how you overstepped your boundaries? One could rightfully accuse you of interfering with international politics.”

“My that’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it?” “Monica” laughed again in time with her daemon, sickeningly false as she casually flipped her knife in her hand. “Isn’t your whole little club just heresy under a different name? It’s honestly adorable!”

Another pace around the room, and Hubert had had enough. “Cut the crap ‘Monica,’ or whatever your name actually is. We’ve worked alongside you and your monstrous agenda long enough; we both have the same goal of dismantling the church and current power structures. Your clumsy attempts at observing and intimidating only serve to interfere with our careful balancing act of preparing for the inevitable conflict while still playing as student, so I would highly suggest you back off. ”

Hubert was ready for Monica’s lunge. He flung himself to the side so she couldn’t knock him off his feet, tucked in his shoulder into a side roll and sprung up. In that same moment he flung a fistful of sticky dark magic at her. Thanily did much the same, ducking her head so that cuckoo daemon couldn’t scratch at her face. 

The thing calling herself Monica was faster than Hubert, and more athletic. She dodged the Miasma spell (which left a sizzling hole in the bedsheets), somersaulted between Hubert’s legs, spun to her feet, reached out,

And closed her hand around Thanily’s throat. 

Hubert crumpled. It was as if a wild beast had sunk its claws between his legs, dug into his crotch, and yanked down. No, a pain like that was merely physical. This was worse this was no no please stop please sick no no wrong stop touching her!!! visceral this was wrong this was a hand where none should ever be this was her hand digging into Thanily, Thanily’s! plush orange coat, luxuriating in the feel of it. This was Monica stabbing a blade into his chest and rutting against the wound like a beast in heat. This was Monica pinning him to the ground, tearing his belly open, and feasting on his steaming innards. 

Hubert didn’t beg. He was beyond begging, beyond anything but the whimper of a wounded animal. Thanily kicked and flailed in her grip, but it was weak, she was limp with no fight left in her. 

Monica simply chuckled and sat on her desk, swinging her legs back and forth above where Hubert curled up on the floor. She smiled and Flames no stop petting her please STOP! Hubert couldn’t look away, not when his Thanily cried out at every mocking caress and that indescribable soul-pain tore through him as well. And that accursed cuckoo daemon just sat there and watched. 

“Here’s how it’s gonna go,” Monica said, bright and breezy and still holding her. “You’re gonna let me hang around Edie, because I’m a good student who wants to learn straight from the house leader and graduate without any fuss. You’re gonna let me do that, and if you try anything then Thales will know all about you and your cute little rebellion against us.”

Hubert forced himself to look up and gasped, “You bitch, what makes you think I won’t tell what you’ve done?”

Monica’s response to that was to laugh again, lean down, and pat him on the cheek. “Oh Hubiekins, we both know you won’t do that. After all, you need people to think you’re terrifying. And who could ever be afraid of someone reduced to this?”

She tossed Thanily to the ground, and Hubert surrendered to the human instinct, as natural and necessary as breathing, to curl himself around his daemon, to embrace her shaking form so Thanily could feel him and not her. 

“Heehee, I think I’ve made my point. See you in class!” And she bounced away, that cuckoo daemon tittering alongside her, leaving Hubert and Thanily curled up and gasping on the floor. 

---

And after all that, he was supposed to go to class like nothing had ever happened. He was supposed to watch Byleth and Belial pace back and forth as they discussed nonverbal communication and signaling commands on the battlefield as if he didn’t still feel Monica’s fingers digging into Thanily’s fur. She was in the back row now, directly behind him and Ferdinand and Lady Edelgard, seeming to be every inch the model student. Hubert wanted to vomit every time he heard her voice. The first time he heard it he started to tremble in his seat and couldn't stop himself from roughly petting Thanily, as if the presence of his touch would scrub away the taint of hers. It helped a little bit, in the sense that he was able to stay seated and not run away, and force himself to calm and settle.

Thankfully Hubert was good at compartmentalizing and hiding his true feelings, and people gave him a wide berth anyway. So even if anybody noticed the way that Thanily’s ears were pinned back the entire lecture, the way she wrapped herself around his legs (and oh she wanted to hop into his lap, oh how he wanted to clutch her to his chest as if he were a young child again instead of a twenty year old man plotting a revolution from the shadows), they didn’t say anything at all. 

Edelgard did notice, and though her gaze was fixed on their Professor Avarine kept shooting worried glances in his direction. Ferdinand, the fool, was as oblivious as always. More than once Hubert considered opening his mouth, more than once Thanily considered whispering just what Monica had done to her into Avarine’s ear. But...he couldn’t. This was his burden to bear. Lady Edelgard had enough to deal with; the last thing she needed to worry about was him. And...it was too humiliating to speak up, this admission of weakness, what she had done to them. It was shameful to speak up, to admit just how helpless he had been when she...she…

Thanily pressed herself closer to his feet, wrapped her tail around his legs just to feel the warmth of his skin. Were his classmates going to brush against her? Would he accidentally brush against their daemons? Ridiculous. Everyone was quite aware of their space. And there were no oversized daemons in the Black Eagles classroom. The largest daemon in the classroom was Belial. No red deer like Vincatel, no alligator like Albarrog, and thank Flames no cape buffalo like Levia. Runilite and Peakane were in the daemontank, for crying out loud. But it was a shameful fear that he now couldn’t quite shake. 

The rest of the lecture continued like that, with Monica raising her voice just often enough to remind Edelgard and Hubert of her presence, and Hubert shamefully jumpy and afraid. Flayn was...just happy to be there, and Hubert didn’t have the mental energy to parse out his feelings on that. Because next he had to go to the stables with Ferdinand and Bernadetta. 

Normally he would have looked forward to this, this chance to spar with Ferdinand and put him in his place, the chance to see him flushed and heated and Embrienne buzzing around his head as he argued his point. Or maybe watch Bernadetta feed the horses and ride them around the paddock, not as much of a lost cause as initially thought her to be. But now the thought of seeing them made him feel vaguely nauseous for a reason he could not fully describe.

He lingered on his way to the stables, Thanily once again pressed up against his legs instead of trotting a foot or so away like normal, tarrying long enough that he could hear Ferdinand and Bernadetta talking in low voices.

“...Of course, the role of the nobility is vital in any nation’s stability and security! We have been trained to protect the common folk and in all matters of diplomacy and politics from birth. Revolutions are never nice; even if they are successful they are distressingly likely to lead to violence and chaos. Without a strong end goal in mind, without well-learned leaders of the revolution who know how to properly govern after the regime change, then after said revolution all you have, essentially, are a bunch of idealists and rabble-rousers who do not know how the metaphorical sausage gets made, who do not understand the finer details of bureaucracy or the necessities of diplomacy and compromise.”

“He...has a point, Hubert.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in there, Ferdie.” That was Bernadetta, and she sounded...stronger. More confident. 

Ferdinand’s chuckle was low and warm and weren’t the two of them courting? That sent something flaring through him, something unfamiliar that he did not have time or energy to think about right now. “You are right, Bernadetta, and I have you as well as Dorothea and Petra to thank for it. My ‘but,’ as you put it, is this: I now understand the argument that the fundamental background of Fodlan, the sea in which we swim, to use another metaphor, is poisoned. Therefore, any incremental change would still be operating in an inherently harmful system, and the people who are suffering here and now cannot wait for a slow improvement.”

Hubert and Thanily stared at each other. What? He would have never expected to hear such words coming out of Ferdinand’s mouth. He had to hear more.

“Haha, Ferdie, it sounds like you have a lot of thoughts about how a better government would work?”

“But of course I do! I am Ferdinand von Aegir after all; what sort of noble would I be if I did not consider how to best serve my people? Of course they are only hypothetical plans and half-formed musings at the moment, nothing that would truly stand up to extended scrutiny or real-life application…”

“Well, I mean, we’re still in school, so you have time. “

And then Malecki added, “I, I’d like to help too!”

Ferdnand smiled and kissed the top of her head. “I would greatly appreciate your help, Bernadetta. In fact, I believe I would need it. After all, I admit that I tend to see the best in people until thoroughly proven otherwise.” Or if that person was Hubert or Edelgard, Hubert thought but did not say. “Although your tendency to catastrophize can be harmful, it is an invaluable tool to help spot potential pitfalls or ways the corrupt can abuse power. Bernadetta, if I am to be a shining example of the Adrestian nobility and a Prime Minister for the ages, I will need your help.”

And that was enough sappiness for one day. Or several. “Are we going to clean the stables, or are you just going to whisper sweet nothings to each other all day?”

Bernadetta jumped back from where she leaned against Ferdinand’s shoulder with a shriek; Malecki fell off a post and flung Embrienne into the air on the way down. “AAGGGHH! HUBERT! Don’t sneak up on us like that! Ahhhhhh this is so humiliating!” She ran into the feedroom, beet-red, wailing something about humiliation the whole while. 

“Hubert!” Ferdinand turned to him with fury and stomped over and Flames he’s so close is he going to touch her? Thanily ducked behind his legs and flattened herself to the ground. “What is wrong with you? That was incredibly intrusive and rude, even for you! I know that you are a cold man but you certainly know better than to be cruel like that to Bernadetta.”

“Ferdinand, wait.” That was Embrienne, and she flew off his shoulder down to where Thanily crouched behind Hubert’s feet. “Thanily, is everything okay?”

He wanted nothing more than to open his mouth and share what happened. He wanted nothing more than to tell Ferdinand and Bernadetta just what Monica had done. 

But…

But he still remembered, as much as the indescribable agony and feeling of violation, the helplessness. He, Hubert von Vestra, the grim shadow of the Emperor, devoted to her service unto death, was completely and instantly incapacitated by something as small as another’s hand on his daemon. If he shared this, how would Ferdinand, Bernadetta, and the world think of him? Would they think of him as a victim? Would they look upon him and Thanily with pity?

“No, no, Hubert that’s almost even worse.”

So he and Thanily were in agreement. He couldn’t share. This was his weakness and failing to bear. Damn it all, “Monica” was right. He couldn’t ever share, not if he still wanted to be seen as Hubert von Vestra and all that entailed.

So instead Thanily growled a short affirmation, and Hubert looked Ferdinand right in the eye and said, “We need to clean the stables, not practice kissing. The sooner we start, the sooner we can leave.”

And then Hubert and Thanily walked away. And if they felt heavy inside, well, he just needed to get some more sleep.

Notes:

I'm so sorry. I knew this was going to happen for a few months now, and as excited as I was to get to it I also feel pretty awful about it. Please let me know if you have any issues with the content, Hubert's response, and so forth; I did my best but if I fucked up, then I want to fix it and do better in the future.

And just so you all know, I'm a sucker for the Earn Your Happy Ending trope. Things will get better for our characters.

Thank you all so much for reading, and I'll see you again soon!

Chapter 15: Blue Skies And Mind Battles

Summary:

It's time for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

Notes:

So...yeah, it's been a rough couple of weeks. Please stay safe, everybody. We're basically on lockdown where I live but I'm a veterinarian so I have to go to work.

Good news: I have a job.

Bad news: I have to take on extra shifts in place of the emergency vets who have fallen (don't worry, everyone's okay), and I'm also starting night shifts. I have never empathized with Linhardt so hard in my life.

Regardless, here is the next chapter! As always please read and enjoy and I love to hear your thoughts if you want to share!

Content Warnings: Bernie's dad.

Sothis’s voice was unusually gentle given her dry tone. “Really tells you just how much your father didn’t want you around the church, that he never took you to your mother’s grave.”

Byleth couldn’t help but agree. The monastery graveyard was a quiet place, where certain monks and priestesses and the higher ranking members of the knights and church rested. A puppy with gangly limbs, partway through a growth spurt and clumsy for it, curled up a few feet away from where she and her father stood. She wanted to give him a treat, as thanks for watching over her mom. 

“When did we ever get so sentimental?” Belial murmured. Their tail curled around Domaghar’s leg. 

Byleth shrugged; she wasn’t quite sure. She played her hands over the ring her father gave her, her mother’s engagement ring, beautiful woven silver and opal, a stylized flower in the center. And it was now hers, to someday give to someone who meant as much to her as her mother—Sitri, she had only heard her mother’s name once or twice, as if it were too holy and precious a thing for her father to utter under ordinary circumstances—meant to her father. 

Byleth couldn’t think of anybody who meant that to her. She spent much of her life in a haze, and now...Well, she cared for her father. And she cared deeply for her students. But clearly her father and this ring meant something different entirely. 

“Oh thank FUCK I don’t have to explain that to you.”

“Dad?” 

“Hm? Kid, what is it?” Domaghar lowered her head to Belial with a nicker.

“How did you do it?” How did he take care of her, one child who wouldn’t, couldn’t open up, and raise her to be a functional adult? Now she had to do the same thing with ten teenagers, nearly all of them horribly traumatized in some way, and keep them alive, and things kept happening in the monastery while they were all supposed to act like things were normal, and she had Sothis in her head and the Sword of the Creator chose her for some reason and Rhea seemed to think the world of her and Edelgard  had suffered horribly, wanted to change the world so nobody else would ever suffer again but she was just one woman and needed to take on everything herself and Byleth wanted to offer a hand but— 

“Hey, hey! Kid, breathe.”

She was, but Belial had hunched down, their ears flat and tail tucked between their legs. Domaghar knelt down and nuzzled the thick fur below their ears. Jeralt awkwardly patted Byleth’s shoulder and she felt a knot in her gut slowly unclench. 

Byleth lifted their head from their paws. “Something happened to Hubert, and I have no idea what it is. He stopped talking to anyone unless he has to, he really won’t talk to me, and Thanily is acting oddly too.” They couldn’t put a name to it, only that Hubert’s daemon always seemed to have her tail wrapped around his leg now. 

“Hubert...that’s the tall creepy one, right? The one who looks like he’s half starved to death and invented the dark mage look? You sure that’s not just part of his aesthetic?” Domaghar teased. 

“Have I mentioned I love your dad?”

Byleth nodded to Sothis, but Belial shook their head to Domaghar, which made Jeralt very confused. “I don’t know, this is a bit different from just Hubert being Hubert. But he’s so closed-off that I can’t get anything out of him.” He had threatened her a few months ago, but Byleth didn’t mention that because she didn’t want her dad to kill her student. “How can I lead my students when they don’t even trust me enough to talk to me?”

Jeralt let out a long sigh, and Domaghar flicked her tail against Belial’s flank. “Kid, from what I’ve heard, I think that’s on him and not you. The other brats have spilled their darkest secrets to you too, haven’t they?”

They had. Not just Edelgard, whose story made something burn in her, but also Linhardt, Dorothea, Bernadetta. 

“Speaking of Bernadetta, you think we can cook up some mission in Varley territory? And have the count suffer an ‘unfortunate accident’?”

“Not until she graduates,” Belial muttered, earning another curious glance from Domaghar. 

A huffed laugh from Jeralt brought Byleth back to the present. “You see? Your brats trust you. And if Hubert doesn’t, that’s on him. All you can do is just be there for him, let him come to you in his own time.”

That...was not something she had expected to hear from her father. “Where did you learn that?”

“From your mother, actually.” He ran a hand over the worn-down grave, Domaghar rearing her huge head on his shoulder. Byleth could hear the wistful smile in his voice. “She was pretty sick. Epilepsy, I think it’s called. She’d have seizures without warning, and one of them left her weak on her right side, so it wasn’t safe for her to travel far from the monastery. Sitri, your mother, some days she would find it...hard, emotionally, that she couldn’t see all the places that I told her about and she read in her books. She wasn’t the best at expressing her emotions either, so I learned to sit with her and hear her feelings without words.” He leaned over and ruffled her hair. “It was good practice for you, kiddo.”         

Wait. If her mother was sick, and died giving birth to her, then why did they…? “Dad? If mom was sick, then why did you guys have me?” A dark thought began to well up in the back of Byleth’s mind. Did he ever regret it, trading his wife—her mother—for a child without a beating heart, who could neither laugh nor cry?

Jeralt didn’t say anything, just pulled her close in a one-armed embrace as they both gazed on Sitri’s grave.It was worn but clean; Alois had done the best he could in Jeralt’s absence. Domaghar rested her head on Jeralt’s other shoulder, but she could feel her presence and hear her say, “Something I’ve always told your father is that what’s done is done. You can’t change the past and you’ll just drive yourself mad trying. Byleth, I’m so glad you’re here. Seeing the strong, kind, capable young woman you’ve grown up to be, I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

“Thanks, dad.” This warm feeling in her chest...it had become more familiar over the past few months. She had grown to rather enjoy it. They stood there for a while, in the cool autumn air. “Will you be coming to see the mock battle?”

“Ugh, sorry kid. As much as I’d love to see your brats mop the other floor with the other houses, I got called on yet another mission. It’s like they never want us to spend time together away from the monastery. And of course we can’t talk here because Archbishop has eyes and ears everywhere around Garreg Mach.”

“Sounds like it’s pretty deliberate then,” Sothis muttered, and...actually, thinking about it, that made sense. But her father was still talking.

“...Which means I can’t tell you some really important stuff. Kid, listen up. If anything happens to me, there’s a false desk drawer in my office. I have something in there for you.”

Ice flooded through Byleth, as if she had just fallen into the pond in winter. Was her father seriously implying…? No, that’s not, “Don’t say things like that.” he shouldn’t even joke about things like that.

Her father just smiled. “Hey, kid, don’t worry. It’s just a, what do you call it, a contingency. I have no intention of dying on you just yet.”

That helped, a little bit. But they were mercenaries. They could get killed at any time. 

“And we’ll make sure that time doesn’t happen. I’m with you now.”

Nothing would happen to her father, not on their watch.

---

The weapon the Death Knight had used on Manuela was jagged, and so was the scar.  Linhardt had staunched the bleeding, and the healers had knitted it together well, but it was red and raised and ugly, marring Manuela’s flawless skin. And it was long, dipping below the bust of her already revealing dress. It was going to be an ugly scar and it broke Dorothea’s heart every time she looked at it. Broke her heart and sent her back to that awful moment of Manuela bleeding out on the floor, Puccini just barely keeping himself conscious to tell them just where that horrid Death Knight had gone. 

Flayn looked brokenhearted at the sight of that scar too. “Manuela, I am so terribly sorry that you were injured on my account. I was foolish, and that foolishness led to my kidnapping and your getting stabbed.” 

Why was Flayn apologizing? It wasn’t her fault any of this happened! And Manuela thought the same, and wasn’t ashamed to say it.

“Flayn, don’t worry about it. You weren’t the bastard who stabbed me, and it wasn’t your fault you got kidnapped either!”

Puccini flicked his tail and added, “Sure, that Death Knight may have ruined Manuela’s porcelain skin, but we’d do it all over again if it meant getting you back safe and sound.”

“Really? Oh, thank you ever so much!”

That’s just the kind of person Manuela was. Sure, her personal life was a burning cartwreck, but she was just the kind of person who would reach out a hand to a starving girl in the gutters, who saw her talent and the person Dorothea could be. Of course Manuela would run into danger to save a kidnapped young woman, even if it meant putting herself at risk, even if it meant getting stabbed and nearly dying…

“Look, can we not talk about this?” Cal blurted from her shoulder. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

“I agree; I would rather discuss any topic other than my abduction.” Flayn clutched her capsule as she spoke; it wasn’t until that moment that Dorothea realized that her daemon hadn’t said a word during their conversation.

“Some daemons just aren’t that chatty,” Cal muttered into her ear. “Plus they’ve just gone through a really traumatic experience.” He turned to the group and said out loud, “Well, what about some of the stories from our opera days?”

Manuela’s face split open into a grin and Puccini started cackling. “Calphour, that’s a wonderful idea! Though we might have some difficulty finding an appropriate tale for our dear Flayn. I’ve only just earned myself a reprieve from Seteth’s lectures with this scar and do not wish to squander it so soon.” 

“Okay, you’ve got a point. Most of our opera troupe stories are not appropriate for kids. At all. Ever.”

“I am not a child!” Flayn said with a very childlike pout. “I am a mature young woman who is now also a proud member of the Black Eagles House!" 

“Well, I suppose that is true…” But she really, really didn’t want to spend a whole evening getting lectured at by Seteth. So, perhaps… “Manuela, what about that one with the guy who kept crashing the troupe party and had to be escorted out?”

Manuela broek into her melodious laughter again. “Oh, that’s a good one, Dorothea. Flayn, sit down, have we got a tale for you!”

And so they regaled Flayn with a slightly toned-down tale of a bog-standard entitled minor noble who happened to have enough of the right connections in the right places to sneak into their cast party. Multiple times. It only ended when Dorothea used her brand new Thunder spell to electrocute the fucker and Calphour chased him and his significantly larger daemon out of the opera house with their tail between their legs (literally, in the daemon’s case). Cal made sure to play up the frankly hilarious visual, given the fact that he was a songbird that could fit in her pocket. 

“Haha! That was a quite amusing tale, and a well-deserved comeuppance for such an aggressively intrusive fan. I am almost embarrassed on his behalf, that he so clearly did not understand the directive to leave you be!”

“Oh thank the goddess someone gets it. There are way too many people out there who don’t know what the word no means.” 

“Did they not learn the proper teachings from the Goddess?”

To Dorothea’s horror, Calphour blurted out, “Feh, as if they actually enforce any of that—mmffphh!”

Her daemon flailed in her hands, but Forothea kept them clasped tight around his beak. “Cal, don’t say things like that! Not in the church, and not in front of Flayn!” She knew just what would happen if word of her open criticism of the church got out, and so did Manuela...but apparently Flayn didn’t, judging from the confused look on her face.

“I do not understand why you are so concerned about such things, but...I will not tell anybody, if you are.” 

Oh thank goodness. She was so glad Flayn was safe and sound, and there was no better place to watch over her than under the Professor’s care, but they really had to be careful now, with her around. 

What was Professor Byleth going to do? What was Edie going to do? 

"I don't know," said Calphour, "But...I believe in them."

---

The trip to Grondor Field took several days of traveling in a group, and they lost another one when their tents washed downstream. Flayn was with them but Monica wasn’t, having decided to catch up on her studies in the library with Tomas. The nights were getting cold and Petra was miserable until Mercedes noticed and lent her an extra blanket. But here they were at Grondor Field, all low rolling hills, freshly-harvested and resting for spring. Streams cut through it, and there was a platform in the middle upon which a ballista was set. 

Caspar was, as usual, brimming with energy. “Didja know? Grondor Field is part of my family’s territory! This is only a tiny bit of it but it’s the largest and most fertile field in all of Fodlan! Wait...I sure hope we don’t destroy all that grain. We’re not risking a food shortage in this mock battle, are we?”

Hubert sighed. “Caspar, look around you. The harvest is finished; our mock battle will take place over a tiny portion of territory and do no harm. Historical value aside, it is considered the most suitable place for a large scale battle.” 

Edelgard surveyed the field, arms folded as Avarine flew above to observe it with her falcon eyes. “Professor, what strategies do you have for this battle?”

“Hm…” Belial had just returned; the Deer were to the east taking cover in those scant trees, while the Lions had stationed themselves behind some hasty barricades. Ashe had taken charge on the ballista, but the steps leading up to it would slow the cavalry down. “We’ll charge down as one, take the ballista, and then split up into three groups. Bernadetta, I want you to knock out Ashe, take over the ballista, and knock out anyone within range. Ferdinand, you will guard Bernadetta from anybody who wants to take the ballista back. Flayn, your job will be to heal Bernadetta and Ferdinand; that ballista is a prime target and both Linhardt and Dorothea will need the assistance."

Flayn was delighted to be given such an important task, and that excitement was written all over her face. “Ha! I shall give it my all!”

“As will I, Professor. Dear Bernadetta, you will not have to worry about any attackers with me around!” As they were in public, Embrienne flew over to nuzzle Malecki’s nose before reluctantly sequestering herself in her capsule.

Bernadetta was not so sure. “I know that, but that platform is so big and open and Ferdinand you’re only one person. And what if someone does long-range attacks? Or sets the platform on fire?! Bernie’s flammable, you know! It’s in my name!”

“Bernadetta, I promise you none of those things will happen. There will be no fire here, and you won’t have to worry about long-ranged attacks because you’re even better at them. Have you been practicing that Deadeye combat art?”

“I have...okay, yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got this.” 

“You can do this, Bernie!” Malecki added from inside her hoodie. “We can win this!”

Byleth smiled and returned to the battle strategy. “Once we’ve taken the ballista, we’ll split up. Caspar, you’re going to challenge the deer. Rush in under their arrows and engage in melee before they have a chance to change tactics. Linhardt, you’re on long-range healing duty. Petra, I want you to do the same under Dorothea’s cover fire, but only to thin the crowd for Caspar. Then the two of you will turn back and join Hubert, me, and Edelgard in taking on the Lions. Try not to stay in direct combat for long; neither of you are as sustainable in a direct fight as me or Edelgard.”

Her students all cheered their approval, daemons hopping back and forth and taking to the air in pre-fight jittery excitement. 

And there was Seteth and Rhea, taking their position on a bluff overlooking the field. Edelgard turned back to her, Avarine perched on her shoulder. “Are you ready, Professor? The flag of the Black Eagles will soon grace Gronder Field!”

The battle began just as Byleth predicted it would. With the speed of Bernadetta’s crests and Ferdinand’s strength it didn’t take long for them to knock out Ashe and seize control of the ballista. Bernadetta fumbled with the controls but soon had it set up for her size, and leveled it down the field where the Lions and Deer were already starting to clash, Lysithea overpowering Annette with her dark magic but not without getting a few scratches in, enough for Bernadetta to snipe the two of them and take the two dangerous mages off the field. 

“Thanks for that!” Caspar shouted before lunging into combat with Raphael, just like at the start of the year. Just like at the start of the year, the two of them laughed and bantered as they engaged each other, Oakley yipping with excitement as the two brawlers wrestled and tackled.

“Caspar, remember what I told you!” Linhardt shouted along with his Physic spell, healing Petra’s wounds and giving her the energy to spring off a rock and drag Ingrid to the ground. 

“Got it, Lin!” He went low, swept around to hit Raphael behind his knees and make the much larger and stronger man buckle. A restrained Thoron from Dorothea was enough to knock him out. 

She and Edelgard also worked in harmony, standing shoulder to shoulder as they warded off blows meant for the other with axe and sword. Although Avarine could not bring herself to go as far from Edelgard as Belial could with Byleth, the gyrfalcon daemon did fly overhead and provided a fourth set of eyes from above, gaps in the fighting in which they could slip, or Hubert could swing a spell without worrying about getting one of his classmates caught in the crossfire. 

Wait, where was Hubert?

“I think he’s behind us.” But that didn’t make sense he was in lockstep with them up until…

Hubert was behind them, his footsteps trailing off as they got closer and closer to melee and all the people packed together, trying to dodge each other’s daemons as they fought and knocked each other unconscious with wooden weapons and restrained spells. He was still approaching, but slowly, and...why were Thanily’s ears flattened against her head? 

“He’s afraid,” Sothis said, voice soft in surprise. 

“But he wasn’t afraid during the mock battle. I’ve never seen him nervous before.”

“Hubert?” That was Avarine, because Edelgard was locked in combat with Sylvain, and could not keep her eyes off him for a moment (and he would not take his eyes off of her, and that set off a twinge of something sharp and unpleasant in Byleth for some reason). “Hubert, is everything okay?”

“Of course it is, Lady Edelgard.” He settled his face back into its normal dour expression and took another step forward. And so did Thanily, reluctantly.

No. She didn’t know what was going on, but she couldn’t force Hubert to do this. Belial broke off and ran back to him. “Hubert, I think Ferdinand and Bernadetta need you to provide magical support on the ballista.”

“Professor, you cannot possibly ask—”

“Hubert, we will be fine.” They kept talking, not at all distracted as Byleth flanked Edelgard, knocked out Sylvain, and finished off Lorenz as another one of Dorothea’s attenuated spells knocked him off Vincatel. “But we need that artillery support, and Ferdinand alone may get overwhelmed.”

The fighting was starting to thin out, but there were still so many students. Hubert’s expression didn’t change, but Belial could see some imperceptible tension in Thanily’s form fade. “Very well, Professor.”

They did, in fact, need Hubert on the platform, needed him and Ferdinand both to take down Claude. Just as neither she nor Edelgard could take on Dimitri alone. 

But together, together they forced Dimitri to his knees, made Delcabia lower her head in surrender, and the mock battle was theirs. 

Afterwards the four of them met up, panting for breath, banged up and bruised but smiling from the adrenaline of a good clean fight. 

“Edelgard, Professor, that was a spectacular battle. You both fought exceptionally well.”

Claude shook his head. “Complete and utter defeat...I can’t believe it. I would hate to make an enemy of you two.”

“Ha! You were nothing compared to us and our fledglings!” But even Byleth knew that was too rude to say out loud, even though Belial let out a faint but unmistakable huff of amusement. 

Delcabia shook the dirt off her fur as Dimitri said, “I would hate to know a future where we have to cross blades with you.”

Byleth nodded. “Neither would I.”

“True,” Edelgard added. “Though it is interesting. Today the Battle of the Eagle and Lion is an innocent mock battle between the three houses, but it was originally named after a war between the Empire and the Kingdom. But the memory of all that bloodshed has faded with time. I’m sure one day even the name of the battle itself will fade from history and be found only in textbooks.”

“I hope so,” Byleth said.

Claude chuckled at that. “On that note, Teach, I have a proposition! When we get back to Garreg Mach, let's have a grand feast among our houses, just like at the start of the year!”

“And by ‘grand’ feast, I mean a fairly regular feast in the dining hall,” Simurg added.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Dimitri said.

“Let’s meet up on the night we return,” Edelgard added.

Now Byleth couldn’t resist. “We’ll celebrate our victory.”

That got Edelgard’s attention. “What’s gotten into you today? I’m not used to seeing you so excited and relaxed. Seeing you like this is a rare gift...it makes me feel like I can maybe relax a little too.” 

Claude laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Oh-ho, I see what’s going on here. Come on, Dimitri.” And he led the prince off before he could protest, leaving Edelgard and Byleth alone. 

Edelgard turned to her, a smile and a faint flush on her face. “You know, until today, I thought it would fall to me to command and guide our ranks all by myself. But with you leading us, I've gotten to experience what it's like to fight alongside everyone... And I've realized... how happy it makes me, fighting under your command. The emperor doesn't take orders from anyone. It's their duty to stand alone and lead the entire Empire. But maybe it's better to have someone to rely on... so that you can support and guide each other through the darkness.”

“Am...Am I that person? To you?” The thought made something in Byleth go soft and still, and that made Sothis bubble with suppressed laughter for some reason. 

Edelgard nodded, still blushing for some reason. And for some reason Avarine couldn’t look Belial in the eye. “I may be heir to the Imperial throne, but first and foremost, I'm your grateful student, and your dear...friend. That will never change, even when I fulfill my destiny and become the emperor. I told you long ago that I wished to enlist you in the service of the Empire. Well, I take it back. Now I wish only for your continued guidance during my eventual reign.”

And, for some reason, the thought of that made Byleth and Belial warm inside, made them want to be that person as well. 

---

“We won! Haha, I can’t believe we won! Thank you so much, Ferdie, there’s no way I would have been able to stay on the ballista without you!”

His laugh was melodious and so at ease even with the bruise blooming on his temple. Embrienne flew out of the just-popped capsule, relishing in her freedom before floating down to nuzzle against Mal’s nose. “Bernadetta, I was merely your bodyguard. You did all the hard work of maintaining fire even under stress. And that ballista has quite a heavy draw! You have gotten so much stronger even in just the past few months!”

She...really had. There’s no way she could have pulled back on that huge bow at the start of the year. “And I have to thank Hubert too! Where is he…?” He had been so quiet and withdrawn lately! Something was seriously bothering him; Bernie could tell, but every time Ferdinand tried to get him to open up Hubert would just snap at him even more! Bernie had tried once, just sat by Hubert as he petted Thanily over and over again, and let him know that he could talk to her whenever he was ready. That seemed to work better, in that Hubert had merely looked at her and nodded. She was satisfied from that; he’d open up in his own time. Bernie knew from personal experience that you can’t force these things!

But Hubert wasn’t anywhere in eyeshot. No, wait, there he was, a tall dark figure reluctantly engaged in conversation with…

No. Oh no. No no no no Professor Byleth had promised! She promised that her father wouldn’t show up! 

But there he was, her father, Count Varley with his striped devil daemon as snarling and nasty as always. Except that while she, poor stupid pathetic scaredy-cat Bernie, curled up at the sight of him (Mal had instantly transformed into a tiny quivering ball in her pocket), Hubert was unperturbed. Her father’s daemon was snarling in Thanily’s face, and the fox just looked at her like she was a particularly annoying stain on the wall! Hubert was so brave! He was so scary that nothing else could scare him, not even her awful father! Oh, why couldn’t she be as brave as Hubert?

“Bernadetta, what is going on?” Oh no, oh no, Ferdinand was still next to her she completely forgot. He could see everything, see just how weak and pathetic she was. He wouldn’t want anything to do with her now would he? His hand was strong and steady on her shoulder, and Embry hovered inches from Mal’s quills. “Bernadetta, I am right here. I am not going anywhere.”

Breathe she knew she should breathe but her father was right there and oh no no no he noticed her he was coming over and Hubert was following him, his face set in that vaguely murderous glower like always and Thanily’s ears swiveled towards her father, and Hubert was going to see everything. And after she did such a good job in the mock battle he was going to see just how sad and pathetic she really was!

“Bernadetta,” and oh no his voice was even harsher than she remembered after months of hearing her name without such venom behind it. “What did I teach you about speaking to your elders?” 

The bow dropped from her quivering hands but she snapped to attention regardless, years of discipline drilled into her even as she hated every minute of it.”Y-yes sir, sorry sir!” She and Mal trembled like a leaf, oh pathetic Bernie, Ferdie’s hand was on her shoulder why was it on there he could feel every tremor from her weak body why was his hand still there!? 

“Bernadetta, who is this man? Did I not teach you about associating with men? You don’t want to sully yourself before marriage, now do you?”

“That’s not—father, I swear—” Ferdinand’s grip was even tighter on her shoulder and Hubert was just watching, she could see how he was clenching his jaw he was disgusted with her, did he also think that she and Ferdinand were—that she was—that she had sullied herself?! They had only kissed but aagh was that enough for her to count as sullied for her future husband?

“Count Varley! I am Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir, the next prime minister of Adrestia, and I swear to you on my honor as a noble that I have been nothing but proper and respectful when courting your daughter!” Ferdiand’s voice was heated he sounded angry he wasn’t angry at her, was he? Bernadetta couldn’t say anything, couldn’t do anything except tremble in the face of her nightmares. Mal couldn’t even say anything either, all she could hear from him was an endless whimper. Was that all she was good for?

Her father and his daemon froze at Ferdinand’s proclamation, and then he smiled and she knew that smile, the simpering sliminess to it. He always had that smile when presenting her to the suitor of the month, like he was showing off a particularly valuable broodmare. Because that’s all she was to him. “Ah, Ferdinand von Aegir! Yes, of course I have heard of you; such an illustrious name from such an illustrious lineage.” That striped devil daemon bowed to Ferdinand and it was such an ugly hypocrisy that even she noticed it. “Ah, Bernadetta, it appears that the academy has been useful in some way after all, if you are now courting someone as capable and powerful as Ferdinand von Aegir. Even if it has made you far too willful for a proper lady.” 

No, she wasn’t unladylike! And even if she was, her traitorous mind liked being heard and listened too even if it would make her...unmarriageable…no, no no no how could she think things like that?! “Father, I—!”

“Quiet Bernadetta; the men are speaking.” Ferdinand pulled her a little closer at that and she could see Hubert’s one visible eye flash, could see Thanily’s teeth bared in a snarl, and oh no no no they were angry at her for speaking up weren’t they? They were going to discipline her in her father’s stead as was their right as a suitor no no no he was gonna tie her to a chair wasn’t he?! 

She could hear Ferdinand draw in a deep breath to say something but before he could, oh no no no no NO what was Dorothea doing here?! Go away Dorothea, father hates you, father will hurt you and even if you can break his arm his daemon could and would kill Calphour please Dorothea, Bernie isn’t worth it! 

But Dorothea always, always spoke her mind because she was smart and kind and brave in a way that according to her father a lady shouldn’t be but that Bernie secretly wanted to be anyway, “And Dorothea is super ladylike anyway,” Mal thought, that one sentence breaking through their shared gibbering panic. 

And so Dorothea said, in her falsely sweet voice that Bernie wished she could do instead of just screaming and whining, “I thought I heard the sound of a blustering impotent man. Tell me, who are you to bully my sweet Bern?”

“Dorothea, please don’t…”

“Dorothea?!” Now her father turned to her friend with complete and utter disgust, like she was a bit of garbage that had gotten on his shoe. When he talked he didn’t even acknowledge her. It was like he thought of her as less than human because of course he did her father believed commoners were scum and that she should never get close to one and he was wrong but oh now she was in for it and now Dorothea was in for it too. “As in Dorothea Arnault, the so-called Mystical Songstress of the Mittelfrank Opera Company?”

“The one and only,” Dorothea said with a mocking bow but Cal’s feathers were fluffed up and he sat tense on her hat. “I would say I was pleased to make your acquaintance but even my acting skills can only go so far.” 

Her father wasn’t even paying attention to Dorothea. Instead he turned back to Bernadetta with utter disgust. “Bernadetta, do not tell me that you have been associating with this commoner. And you too, Mister von Aegir, I know your father has taught you better than that. Do you not know how a mere commoner, even an opera star, could have gotten into the esteemed Officer’s Academy? She sold her body to a noble for a recommendation! That harlot may call herself the Mystical Songstress, but a better title would be Whore of the Opera!”

Bernie knew he was going to say something as awful as that, but it was still like a slap across the face. Dorothea gasped, Calphour falling backward with a horrified squawk. She could hear Embrienne buzzing furiously and that was too much. Courage welled up from some unknown place and she shouted at the same time as Ferdinand.

“Father, don’t say things like that!”

“How can you possibly say such disrespectful, demeaning things towards my classmate and friend, or any woman? And you dare call yourself a noble?!”

Her father now snarled, and his daemon tensed as if preparing to pounce and Mal was safe in her pocket in a trembling little ball but Embrienne was still buzzing around Ferdinand’s head and Calphour’s body and no Embrienne get out of the way— 

Hubert’s gloved hand slammed down on her father’s shoulder, and he looked every bit like the grim specter of death, with his voice ice and Thanily’s fur bristled, her tail lashing slow and dangerous back and forth. “I believe you have made your point abundantly clear, Count Varley. Now, if you wished to speak to Her Royal Highness, I am afraid she is currently indisposed. You can certainly make an appointment to speak with her at a later date, but I believe you should take your leave for now.” 

Even her father knew how to take a hint, and so he merely glared her down. “It seems that even the simplest of lessons on obedience can’t stick in your foolish head, Bernadetta. We will continue this discussion at a later date.”          

The moment her father left, Bernadetta crumpled in Ferdinand’s arms (he was still holding her why was he still holding her couldn’t he see just how weak and pathetic she was?!) and sobbed out incoherent apologies to Dorothea, to Ferdinand, to Hubert. Sorry that Dorothea had to be subjected to such awful things, sorry that they had to see her so weak and useless like that please don’t hate her she’d be good she was so sorry sorry sorry!

Dorothea was shaking, Calpour was shaking, but the little goldcrest daemon still flew down to where Malecki curled up on the ground (having fallen out of her pocket at some point, she didn’t even notice) and spread a wing over those quills. “Oh Bern, you have nothing to apologize for. If anybody should apologize, it is that vile beast who dares call himself your father!”

“Actually, sperm donor is more accurate,” Calphour muttered from the ground. “Fucking misogynistic rat bastard I bet he…” he broke off into angry muttering.

The bizarreness of that statement actually broke Bernadetta out of her gasping sobbing panic. “Sperm donor?”

“I believe what Dorothea is trying to say is that although Count Varley, ah, made you, he in no way raised you. The only worthwhile thing he did in his life was assist in conceiving you, but since he has made absolutely no further contribution in raising or caring for you he does not deserve to be called a father.” Hubert was still several feet away, his arms crossed, but his eyes were soft. He couldn’t possibly have been angry at her father instead of her, had he? 

“Seems like it,” Mal said, and he couldn’t really believe it either. Embrienne and Thanily had joined him and Calphour, Embrienne placing little bee kisses on Mal’s nose and offering words of comfort and support to him and Cal both. Thanily wrapping her body around them, guarding them like they were her kits. 

And Ferdinand, oh Ferdinand had pulled her into a tight embrace, pressed gentle kisses into her messy purple hair without regard to Dorothea and Hubert’s presence. “My lovely Bernadetta, it is no wonder that you were reluctant to share. Please, dismiss anything that disgrace to the nobility has told you! His ideas are utterly abhorrent and have no place in society. And Dorothea, I am so sorry that he called you such vile things. Such foul words only bring shame onto himself, and I am proud to call you my ally and friend, if you will consider me one.”

“I...thank you, Ferdinand.” 

“You...you mean you’re not angry with me? You don’t think I’m...unmarriageable?”

His response was only to hold her closer, that she could feel his warm presence soothe her hammering heart. “Why would I ever think that? You are an amazing woman, and seeing what you must have endured growing up only makes me admire you and your strength even more.”

That was too much. “Oh Ferdinand, you guys!” She sobbed into his chest, and in the daemon cuddle pile Malecki finally uncurled and relaxed. Ferdinand held here, and pressed kisses to her head, and Hubert and Dorothea were there too. 

“I...I need to tell you guys about this. I should have before, but I was too scared, and I need to tell you. But...I can’t do it here. It’s too big. I need to be in my room where it’s safe and nobody can get me. Is...is that okay?”

“Oh Bern, of course it is.”

“We can meet you in your room once we return to the monastery.”

“Thank you Bernadetta, for confiding in us, and for being you.”

She was still dizzy with panic but, deep down, she was starting to believe that. 

---

Simurg couldn’t smile, but if she could she would have. “Yep. This was one of our better ideas.” 

The party was even more raucous than the one at the start of the year, that celebration of Petra and Ignatz’s settling that was also a start-of-the-year party. Now, with the adrenaline of the mock battle wearing off and the growing tension of the year slowly wearing away at him and his classmates, they needed any excuse to relax and unwind. 

And relax they did. Manuela had decided to take one for the team and, somehow, managed to procure a large amount of “refreshing beverages” while simultaneously distracting Seteth from interfering with their enjoyment of said refreshing beverages. 

“Look, if we're old enough to fight and kill then we’re old enough to drink,” Simurg said as Claude finished his drink, sharp and strong. He meandered over to one table in the corner, which was getting pretty loud. Anna, the chatty shopkeeper in the forum just outside the monastery, was acting as impromptu bookkeeper as several students were chanting...Dimitri and Raphael’s names?

Ah. They were holding an arm-wrestling contest, teeth gritted and muscles bulging, Raphael yelling in his usual eager way.

“Thirty gold on Dimitri!”

“No, forty on Raph! Look at the muscles on him!”

“Muscles mean nothing if the prince pops his crest!” 

“Yeah, if! ”

“Let’s join in on the fun.” Simurg slithered to the top of his head and shouted out, “Fifty gold on the table breaking first!”

Seconds later the table split in half with a resounding crack to the cheers of the crowd and the jingle of a couple hundred extra gold in his pocket. It was rather hard to top that, plus a couple of the students still had enough sense not to risk drawing Seteth’s attention, so Dimitri and Raphael shook overly-muscled hands, Oakley gave Delcabia a play bow which the boar daemon quickly returned, and they both went off to continue entertaining themselves. 

“No no no, see the point of the game is to stack the cups up as fast as you can, and the loser has to drink! And no daemons, it’s no fair to people like me who settled as fish! Come on, they don’t play this game in your village?”

Kamen laughed in place of Leonie, who was busy replying to Caspar. “We have something similar, but with playing cards instead of cups. Too much risk of the cups breaking I guess. Plus we’re not super-rich nobles so we don’t have quite as many cups instantly on hand to play this as you do.” 

“Well, it’s mostly nobles in this academy so there’s plenty of cups for everyone! No time like now to play then!”

“Claude?”

He turned around and yep, there was Lysithea, a couple of cake crumbs still clinging to the side of her mouth, the rest of that cake in her hands, and Zilbariel as a ferret running around her feet. “Ah, Lysithea! You’ve still got some cake on your face. Do you need a bib? Need me to blot your face for you?” 

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“Come talk to me about that again when you’re eighteen,” he shot back, leaving Lysithea with no response save a gritted cry of frustration. 

“Ugh, and here I was going to talk to you about the club meeting gone wrong but if you’re going to be a complete child over it I guess I’ll go chat with Annette or something.”

“No, look, it’s fine, really. See?” He held up his hands. “No more jokes, we’re all ears. Well, me at least. Simurg doesn’t have ears. Not really sure how she hears but it works somehow. Through the goddess’s grace, am I right?”

Lysitha just rolled her eyes and continued talking, studiously ignoring his antics. Ah well, her loss. “Look, Edelgard is definitely planning something, but she’s also really closed off and doesn’t like to reach out.”

“Just like another future leader of Fodlan we both know,” Zilbariel added from where he had climbed up her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claude replied with his trademark false grin.

“Sure, whatever. Anyway, Monica is clearly trying to throw her off guard as well as scare away potential allies; are you going to let her do that?”

And that’s what he was worried about . “To be honest, I have to. I know you weren’t around for the roundtable conferences to determine my legitimacy, but the final vote was a lot closer than I would have liked. I can’t be seen as directly associated with something as attention-grabbing and potentially disruptive as whatever Edelgard’s planning—probably some sort of massive reform that will inevitably piss off the church with its radical ideas of tolerance and equality—or they’ll use it as an excuse to strip me of my title, maybe even worse depending on what Almyrans are doing around the Locket that day. But I do want to keep tabs on whatever she’s doing. Gotta put my reputation as a schemer to good use, you know.”

“I hear you loud and clear Claude; I’ll keep you posted on the club. Assuming we even keep up at it with Monica around.”

“We need to figure out what her deal is.”

“Hopefully she’s just traumatized. Now I actually do want to talk to Annette before this party’s done.” Lysithea crammed another bite of cake in her mouth and walked off to where Annette and Ashe were singing to a small encouraging crowd. 

“Hey, Claude?”

“Oh, come on, can’t we have five minutes?! Wait, is that Hilda?”

It was Hilda, and she seemed oddly quiet for one who was usually the life of the party. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Well, Claude, can we, like, uh talk over there?” She pointed to a quieter corner of the room; he shrugged and followed her. As soon as things were a little quieter, Hilda came right out and said, “I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

That...was unexpected. “What? For what?”

“For...I…” This wasn’t like Hilda, so uncertain about what to say next. “I’ve said some seriously ignorant and awful things about Almyrans, right to your face! And it’s my family that guards the Locket and has fought and killed a bunch of Almyrans, and then they...Ugh, Claude, I swear I didn’t know any different and I didn’t mean any of those mean things but I still said them!”

Halmstadt’s wings were folded up, not a flash of blue to be seen. “How can you even stand to talk to me?”

Oh, Hilda. “Because of what you’re doing right now. You realized what was going on, and you apologized.” 

“Yeah, but what do I do next? I have no idea what to do, and ugh I don’t really want to do this it’s going to be so much work. ”

Ah, that was the Hilda he knew and was entertained by. “Well, you’re trying right now, aren’t you? I’ve learned that really trying to do better and listening when you mess up is one of the biggest hurdles.”

“Really? Well, either way, I’m not going to mess this up! I think our parents have been messing things up long enough. I’m going to do better, and I’m gonna stick by you, so watch me! Claude, you’ll help me out, right?”

He’d always wondered what a fully unleashed Hilda, a Hilda who tried her absolute hardest, would look like. Seems like they were about to find out. “Of course I will. You and me, Hilda.” 

Better get ready, Fodlan. This racist pit of a continent didn't know what was about to hit it.                                                                         

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this breather episode and I'll see you all soon! I estimate there's about 10 chapters left until the timeskip, and 10-15 chapters after that.

Again, please stay safe out there. Practice social distancing, be nice to the food delivery people, and wash your hands! It's gonna get bad out there.

Chapter 16: Connections

Summary:

It may be cliche, but some of the most meaningful parts of life are our connections with each other, forging those bonds of friendship and trust andlove.

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient, and I am so sorry about the delay. I'm an essential worker in the tri-state area so I'm a stressed out exhausted mess who's filling in for coworkers who are out and have probably been exposed multiple times. And that's nothing compared to the human doctors and nurses and hospital workers. So I've been suffering from some really bad stress-induced writer's block and playing a lot of Animal Crossing because it's the video game equivalent of deep breathing exercises. But here's the chapter! I know there's typoes I missed but I'll fix them throughout the day tomorrow I just want to post this for everyone and get to bed.

Anyway, please read and enjoy and leave a review if you want!

(Warning for some mild sexual content.)

Ferdinand was going to kill Count Varley. He was going to find some loophole in the old dueling codes, and challenge that monster to a contest of honor, and kill him in the streets of Enbarr for what he did to Bernadetta. 

He and Hubert and Dorothea had left the party early; judging by the faint shouts that could barely be heard even through the door it was still going quite strong. Bernadetta, his beautiful terrified brave Bernadetta curled up on her bed. Even with him, Hubert, and Dorothea on the other side of the room maintaining a respectful distance, their daemons bridging the gap when Malecki reached out a paw, and Bernadetta burying her face in her hand-sewn teddy bear, it took her a long time to tell her story. But she told them what she endured, all of it. The “wife lessons.” The knowledge hammered into her that she was nothing more than bait for a rich husband, a vessel to incubate crest babies. That her swift fingers and bright mind were utterly worthless. That damned chair.  

“Oh, Mal, Bern,” Calphour murmured into the hedgehog daemon’s quills. And oh, Count Varley had said such utterly vile things to Dorothea, and here she was comforting Bernadetta. “I’m so sorry. That piece of shit bastard isn’t worth the air he breathes.”

“Calphour is right,” Ferdinand said. “Bernadetta, you are even more remarkable than I could have ever known.”

She looked up at him, over the head of that fuzzy teddy bear, and again Ferdinand felt the surge of warmth rush through him. “R-really?”

“Bern, you went through some horrific shit, and you’re still trying to get out of your room and talk to people. You’re amazing!”

“You have made remarkable strides in your time here,” Hubert added. 

Bernadetta’s only response to that was to sob into her teddy bear, and for Malecki to wail, “You guys! How did I ever deserve you?”

“You always did,” Embrienne said. “And I am so sorry that you were raised to believe otherwise.”

He was suddenly aware of Hubert’s presence close to him, looming over like the ghastly spectre that he was. “Ferdinand,” he whispered. 

Ferdinand fought the urge to roll his eyes. What could Hubert have to say here? He was not a man for words of comfort, or sympathy, or any positive emotion whatsoever. Still, this was not the place for arguments. He remembered the truce. “What is it?”

He could feel the murderous intent roiling off of Hubert as he stared down Bernadetta. He had barely spoken since entering Bernadetta’s room. But now he said, in a low voice, “Count Varley will answer for his crimes.” 

Ah. Now there was something he would gladly ally with Hubert for. This was not the time for crosstalk, so he simply nodded. But that was enough for Hubert to understand.

There was another tap on his shoulder, and he found himself face to face with Dorothea. “I think Bern needs some space,” she said, indicating how Malecki had detached himself from the daemon cuddle pile and made his way back to Bernadetta. The rest of the pile was slowly breaking up; Calphour had flitted back to Dorothea’s hat and Thanily strode back to Hubert’s side. 

“Of course.” Their conversation about things being too much rung in Ferdinand’s head; this must have taken an immense amount of effort for her. Bernadetta more than deserved some rest. 

But Bernadetta was not the only one to be hurt today. Embrienne flew over to Calphour and whispered, “Are you okay? Count Varley said some absolutely vile things towards you.”

Perhaps it was unnoble, but he did feel a small flare of satisfaction at the way Dorothea’s eyes widened at Embrienne’s open concern for their well-being. “I’m fine,” the goldcrest daemon said. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“That does not make it any better,” Embrienne retorted. “People should not say such wretched accusations regardless.”

“And what if they were true?” Dorothea closed her eyes, and Calphour couldn’t quite meet Embrienne’s. “What if we did have to offer up my body for a recommendation?” Calphour whispered those last words so neither Bernadetta nor Malecki could catch them.

Just the thought made Ferdinand’s vision flash red. He did not want to think of Dorothea, fiery brilliant Dorothea, with no other recourse. Oh, please let that not be true! 

“I hope it is not true, but...it does not change Dorothea. Then... Then the fault lies with those who made you have no other recourse,” Embrienne spat.

And oh, if Dorothea was surprised by his concern towards her, then Embrienne’s remarks left her downright shocked. “...Huh. Maybe you did manage to get a clue over the years, Ferdie.”

Hah! Perhaps now Dorothea would grow to like him! But no, this was not the time. Later. For now, he kissed Bernadetta on the forehead, soft and sweet, and joined Hubert and Dorothea as they left her room. Ferdinand was the last out, his hand lingering on the doorknob when he heard her voice. 

“Ferdinand?”

He turned back, and took his hand off the doorknob. Embrienne crawled under the door to rejoin him, buzzing circles around his head that slowly drifted out to Malecki and waited for his acceptance before coming any closer. “Yes?”

“I…” She slowly uncurled, just like those long dewy vines she kept on her windowsill. Sundews, she called them. He never particularly liked carnivorous plants, always found them disturbing. Perhaps it was because his daemon was an insect. But Bernadetta adored the things, so Ferdinand made an effort to at least learn their names. “Thank you, Ferdinand. For listening, and not hating me.” she finished. 

Why would he ever hate her? But now he knew why she harbored that eternal fear. “Bernadetta, thank you. For letting me, and all of us, in.” He took a step, and then another. And when Bernadetta did not protest, he sat on the edge of the bed. Embrienne and Malecki closed the gap first, Embrienne nestling in the soft fur on Malecki’s head like she belonged there. It was Bernadetta who climbed into his lap, and leaned against his chest as he held her and marveled at her warmth. 

Ferdinand was no fan of carnivorous plants, but they were quite fitting for Bernadetta. There was a symbolism there, of plants forced to grow in harsh soil and finding their own way to live and thrive, and he told her as much. 

“I… never really thought about that,” Bernadetta said, her hands playing against each other in her lap. 

Ferdinand let out a low chuckle. “I suppose it is all the more appropriate that my dear Embrienne is a bee. For you have me trapped, my little sundew.”

He was unprepared for Bernadetta’s soft gasp, or for her to surge upwards and capture his mouth with her own. And he was even less prepared for Bernadetta to take the initiative and dart her tongue between his lips. Wholly unprepared, yes, but entirely satisfied with this turn of developments. 

This was dangerous territory, making out with Bernadetta, who was in his lap, in her room, on her bed. But Ferdinand could not quite bring himself to care, not when he could enjoy Bernadetta’s hands in his hair, the warmth of her body as he embraced her, the softness of her tongue curling over his, the contentment from Embrienne as she pressed against Malecki’s now-exposed belly. It was awkward, it was clumsy, and it was absolutely sublime. 

A small part of him, quiet yet insistent and steadily increasing in volume, whispered for more. If proper noble courting leads down the path of what Bernadetta endured, then let us let go of our reservations! He wanted more, more of the heat of her mouth, more of the soft sighs they both made, more of her hands, of her— 

Bernadetta yelped, and scrambled out of Ferdinand’s lap. On the pillows, Malecki gave an equally sharp yelp and reflexively flung off Embrienne. What? What had he done to frighten, no, startle, her so, when they were both enjoying it and she initiated? When they both, when he wanted so badly to— oh.

Curse his body, for reacting so...forcefully to her touch! The warmth was gone, and instead hot shame burned through Ferdinand. He wanted nothing more than to tuck himself into his waistband, hide himself from Bernadetta so she would climb back into his lap, but that would require fumbling in his trousers, which...no. That would be a terrible idea. 

“Bernadetta, I am so sorry.” Ferdinand scrambled to his feet, and...no. That was even worse. Now he was just uncomfortable and looked like he had a spear stuffed down his pants. Ferdinand gingerly sat back down and pulled off his coat to fold it over his lap; Embrienne quivered in shame, buried deep in his hair. “I am sorry that my emotions got the best of me, that I could not, ah, control, my, ah…”

“Ferdie, it, it’s okay!” Bernadetta stammered, her cheeks bright pink as she dug her fists into her skirt. “It’s, uh, not really something you can, you know, control, right? I mean, I can't always control when I, uh,” Her face got redder with every word, until she finished her sentence in a squeak.

“Still! Ah, Bernadetta, this was...enjoyable. Incredibly so. But perhaps I should take my leave, before things escalate further?”

“That, uh, might be a good idea.”

“Not that we don’t want you here!” Malecki hastily added. “It’s just all a bit much at once and this has been a really rough few days and Bernie and I just need some me time for a bit, and agh I’m totally messing this up and it’s coming out wrong isn’t—!”

Ferdinand hoped his lips against hers, Embrienne tapping against Malecki’s nose, was answer enough. But just in case it wasn’t, he said, “You are fine, my little sundew. I will see you tomorrow?” 

Only when Bernadetta nodded did Ferdinand get to his feet, and leave, and then make a hasty retreat to his room. For he was still straining against the front of his trousers, and if Dorothea caught so much as a glimpse then forgiveness of past unknown deeds be damned, she would never let him live it down.  

---

“Come on, you don’t think it’s weird? Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

“Edelgard is the future emperor of Adrestia. Your father is the Minister of Military Affairs. Therefore, it would be prudent for her to speak with him and negotiate whatever future affairs she has in mind.” Linhardt was only half-listening, but that was okay. Caspar knew his best friend, and whatever his family had gotten him as a birthday gift must be amazing for it to attract his attention like this. But Lin had also loved the tackle box that Caspar had gotten him; they’d fish together at some point later. 

“Yeah, but weren’t our parents involved in the whole Insurrection thing? I thought Edelgard hated our parents. Frankly I’m surprised she doesn’t hate us too.” Her and Petra both, they were somehow able to swallow what his dad did to them and their families and not hold it against him. Caspar was trying really hard not to let his anger boil over, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to hold himself back if something like that happened with his parents. He really admired that about Petra and Edelgard, that they could. 

“It says a lot about Edelgard, that she doesn’t hold grudges. That sort of impartiality is going to be very useful when she takes the throne.”

“Wow Linhardt, you’re usually complaining about Edelgard making you go to class and stuff.” Caspar flopped back onto the grass on the quad, Peakane’s knapsack propped up against an adjacent tree. 

Linhardt made some sort of noncommittal noise and went back to his parents’ birthday gift to him. His friend hadn’t been so obsessed with a gadget in a while. “Okay, seriously, what is that thing?” It looked like some sort of wooden tube, with amber lenses attached to each end. Caspar wasn’t that stupid; some people had bad eyes and needed lenses to see okay. His mom had glasses, and so did Ignatz, and Professor Hanneman had a monocle. 

“But aren’t glasses really expensive? I bet there’s lots of peasants and commoners who have bad eyes, but they can’t afford glasses. What do they do?”

“I dunno, Peakane, run around half-blind bumping into stuff? That’s...not really fair though.” And it wasn’t something he could do anything about. It wasn’t a problem he could punch, and his family was in charge of military stuff. But maybe Edelgard or Ferdinand could do something about it, once they were in power? 

Agh, back to the weird tube, Caspar! Point was, Linhardt’s eyes were fine, and this thing was two lenses on top of each other, so what was the point of it? And why were they made of amber?

“It’s a prototype amber spyglass,” Linhardt said, now peering at the buildings as Runilite wrote something down in their notebook. He paused, trying to figure out how to explain it to Caspar. “It’s...you know how when babies are born there’s this cloud of golden dust that coalesces into a daemon, which then dispersed back into that cloud upon death?”

Caspar nodded. He’d seen too much of the latter and not enough of the former, lately. “So Peakane’s made of this golden dust stuff?”

“That’s kinda cool but also kinda weird,” she added. 

“Yes, but there’s also been speculation that this dust surrounds people too, and certain objects that people have made. Specially enchanted amber is able to detect these particles. This spyglass is a prototype tool to measure it.”

“Sounds important. And rare. How did you get your hands on that?” Caspar paused. “Can I take a look through it?”            

There was a very long pause, and then Linhardt handed him the spyglass. “If you break it, the repairs are coming out of the empire’s military budget,” Runilite teased. 

Peakane stuck out here tongue at Linhardt’s daemon. “Dream on!” Still, Caspar was unusually careful as he took the spyglass, peered through it, and, “Woah!”

The entire monastery was glowing , every building draped in gentle golden light. Peakane peered at him, all that golden glow packed into her tiny clownfish form that surrounded her like a halo. Linhardt and Runilite were also ablaze, that golden glow pooling gently around his heart.         

“Aw man, the entire place is glowing! Peakane, you should look at yourself!”   

Linhardt smiled, and he did that finger-drumming thing he liked to do. “It is rather beautiful. There’s some evidence that crest-bearers have a slightly different pattern of dust flow and—“

“Linhardt! Keep talking about crest stuff!”       

“I was, before you interrupted me? I thought this didn’t particularly interest you.”

“I mean, it doesn’t, no offense,” but he’d half-listen because Linhardt cared so much, he could ramble for days about something he enjoyed, “but when you were talking about crests you and Runilite started glowing! I mean, you were already glowing but it was so much more!” It was, there was something amazing about seeing his best friend literally light up, it was like when he looked out his window and saw the endless rows of wheat in Grondor Field, and the forests beyond. 

“Really?” Runilite hopped onto his shoulder, and they lit up again. “Caspar, that’s a fascinating observation! I’m going to have to look more into this.”

---

Excerpts from the research journals of Linhardt and Runilite von Hrevring, Wyvern Moon, 1180. 

Despite being one of the foremost authorities on Crest-Dust interactions, Linhardt von Hrevring came onto the field by happenstance, personally crediting his time at what was formerly called the Garreg Mach Monastery Officer’s Academy. As a student of the fateful class of 1180, Linhardt and Runilite von Hrevring had no shortage of exceptions to the commonly held theorems of Crest-Dust interactions, exceptions which would later lead to breakthroughs in the field and related subjects.

…

One can only speculate the events of the following years would have played out had Linhardt had more time, resources, or support for his research. Regardless, although they have a tendency towards the rambling and tangential, his journals provide an invaluable primary source. An edited except can be seen below. 

Seeing Caspar and Ashe next to each other really helps demonstrate the difference between settled and unsettled daemons. Both Peakane and Fuergios have that golden aura, but it’s much more intense in Peakane. And only Caspar has that golden aura stick to him. Not to say that Ashe lacks it, but it’s much less, and it easily washes away. 

We’re going with water metaphors then? Linhardt, didn’t Caspar mention that he saw that golden glow pooling around your heart? I don’t see anything like that in either of them. 

Hmmm, the only difference between us is that I’m the only one with a crest. 

I think I hear Felix and Sylvain sparring? Ugh they’re so loud. But at least they both have crests. 

…

It’s just as Caspar said. There’s a small nexus pooling around their hearts. But why there?

Hm...could it be because blood flows through the heart? 

Urgh, Runilite, can you not? 

Ick, sorry...Zepida looked oddly dim, didn’t she? I wonder what that’s about. 

Ugh, asking him is going to take so much effort explaining. I need a nap.

[Below the dialogue is a rough sketch of two human men, both with fish daemons. The aura around them and their daemons is the same with one notable exception: the man on the right, with the crest of Fraldarius drawn over his head, has what appears to be a strong concentration of Dust centered over his heart.]

…

That was weird. 

Edelgard also has two crests, doesn’t she. 

I suppose that confirms it. I would have thought that a second crest would increase power and ability, but that looked unhealthy. 

[Rough sketch of a human with a bird daemon flying overhead, a yellow glow scribbled around them. Several arrows, presumably indicating Dust flow, are also present on this sketch. Unlike the other sketches, the arrows are jagged, and many splinter off from each other. It is the most chaotic sketch in this section of the journal.]

Well that explains why Lysithea was so upset with us. Now I feel kinda bad. 

I wonder what it is about the second crest that makes Dust flow so unstable. 

I wonder if it affects them. No wonder Lysithea wants it gone. Could this be why Edelgard has no patience for crests? 

…

I don’t want to look at Professor Byleth anymore. 

I don’t know if I can look at her or Belial without the spyglass. 

Ashe and Fuergios, Lysithea and Zilbariel, even though they were unsettled there was still a faint aura, and their daemons still glowed. 

But the Professor’s aura was around her heart, and nowhere else. Belial was...I could barely tell Belial apart from the dogs. There was a sputtering trickle between the two, but…

Runilite, I don’t want to think about this anymore. 

[The sketch below this text has been scribbled over beyond recognition.]

…

Flayn has a major crest. Perhaps the brighter pool around her heart is due to that? 

Felix has a major crest too, and that secondary crest-glow wasn’t as bright as Bismalt. 

So that’s what we’re calling it now. Maybe her crest is trying to protect her after whatever happened while she was kidnapped?

Possibly, but where is her daemon’s aura?

Her daemon is usually a tiny fish in a pendant-capsule over her heart. Perhaps there’s some interference? 

We’ll put that in the testing notes. What about Seteth? They are related after all. 

[There is a drawing of a young woman, with a bright glow around her heart. Although there is an annotation describing her daemon as a small fish, it is nowhere to be seen.]

…

Can you believe he confiscated the spyglass?!

...Yes, actually. 

Okay, yes, he would. But what kind of excuse was that? Spyglasses are banned because the things we see through them would diminish the mysteries of the goddess, and see things that humans were not meant to?

He just doesn’t want us to dig deeper. He’s hiding something. 

Exactly! And how could finding out more cheapen the mysteries? If anything, knowing how the world and the gifts the goddess gave us work makes them even more profound and meaningful! 

Something tells me Seteth won’t appreciate that argument though, much less the archbishop. 

You’re right as always Runilite. I’m going to take a nap. And we’re not telling our parents we lost the spyglass.

---

“Get a hold of yourself, Hubert.”         

Hubert stared at his sallow reflection for a very long time. He never particularly cared about his appearance beyond the minimum of staying clean--he held no illusions about his attractiveness or lack thereof. That damnable Ferdinand practically glowed at all times, as if the goddess decided to make up for his utter idiocy by making him a caricature fairytale prince in appearance. Hubert, on the other hand, had greasy hair, acne scars pitting his chin, way too many bony angles, and overall looked like a half-starved drowned rat. He was not attractive, and by and large stopped letting it get to him a while ago. 

However, even by his usual standards, Hubert looked terrible . There were dark smudges under his eyes, reminders of far too many sleepless nights. His skin definitely looked paler, those old pitted scars more easily visible. And Thanily...Thanily was the best part of him, her eyes always keen and bright, her fur shiny and sleek, no matter what dark deeds he had to do, because he had made his peace with who he was and what he would do for Lady Edelgard and the sake of everyone a long time ago. But now, Thanily looked...not haunted, Hubert would reserve that term for Delcabia alone, but she was unquestionably withdrawn, her green eyes flat, her orange coat dull.    

Damn it all, try as he might Monica’s attack affected him far more than he initially thought it would or he cared to admit. He still burned with shame at his behavior in the mock battle. There was no true danger there. Everyone here was an experienced fighter and it was a mock battle; even in the thick of melee there was no true danger of accidental daemon combat. 

And yet when Hubert saw the press of bodies, when Thanily saw daemons wrestling just inches from their humans, the memory of Monica’s hand wrapped around Thanily’s throat slammed down into his mind, and he hesitated. He could not follow Lady Edelgard into battle, had to put his faith in the professor. And while Professor Byleth had performed admirably, who was to say she could continue to be relied on? Lady Edelgard placed a disconcerting amount of faith in their professor, but Hubert could not do the same. True, Professor Byleth deeply cared for her students, but what would she do when he and Lady Edelgard exposed themselves, forced their classmates to pick sides, and plunged Fodlan into a war for the hope of a better future? Whose side would she pick? Hubert could not believe that she would side with him and Lady Edelgard. 

“Not to mention that our unwanted allies in the dark are no doubt aware of our Professor’s presence and will likely do everything they can to undermine her relationship with Lady Edelgard. Hubert, we have to tell her, or someone, what happened.”

“No, we can’t,” Hubert said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. The thought made his heart race, his scarred hands tremble, his mouth go dry with an emotion that took too long for him to recognize as fear. Fear, and dread. He had no idea how their eerily emotionless yet deeply protective Professor would respond. Likely rage, or whatever passed for that with her. And as satisfying as it would be to point her at Monica and stand back, the consequences for that would be far too great.   

Bernadetta and Ferdinand had also noticed something was wrong and had confronted him about it. Multiple times, in Ferdinand’s case, because the man clearly could not understand to leave him alone. Hubert (reluctantly) knew Ferdinand well enough by now to understand that he merely wanted to help in his own “special” way, but as if he would ever tell Ferdinand what happened! Just the thought of admitting his weakness and defeat to that vapid fool, of throwing himself onto that overly-optimistic imbecile for comfort and succor, made his stomach twist on its axis and threaten to empty itself. 

“Okay so Ferdinand is a terrible idea, but what about Bernadetta?” Thanily’s tail lashed back and forth as she spoke. 

“Bernadetta would be...a better option,” Hubert reluctantly admitted. The young woman had been making remarkable strides in the past few months; he had to reluctantly admit that Ferdinand was a good influence on her, just as she seemed to moderate his impulsive traits...to an extent. Bernadetta was also much better at knowing not to push; he still remembered how Malecki had called Thanily aside in the stables and quietly said that he hoped Thanily and Hubert would share what was troubling them but understood if they weren’t ready yet. Of course Bernadetta would know what it was like to suffer and not be able to tell anyone—and now he knew why. 

“Shame we can’t have him killed just yet,” Thanily growled. “I guess we’ll have to be creative.”

They would most certainly be creative, and enjoy implementing said creativity. Count Varley was already going to answer for his corruption and participation in the Insurrection, but now he would pay for what he did to Bernadetta. 

“So tell her! She’d get it!”

And she would, Hubert admitted to himself, but how would Bernadetta take it? The idea of her pitying him was less abhorrent than the idea of Ferdinand doing so, but that was damning with faint praise indeed. And that was still...the idea of him willingly opening to her, or anyone, made him feel as if he were in sudden free-fall. And besides, she had enough to deal with, as did Dorothea. His duty was to serve, not burden others with his troubles. 

“So what about Lady Edelgard?”       

Hubert opened his mouth in a retort when they heard a knock on the door. 

He slammed his mouth shut, his heart leaping into his throat. Thanily jumped behind him and pressed her body against his legs. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest with a second knock, and cursed his weakness.         

“Hubert?”

Oh thank goodness, it was Lady Edelgard. Only Lady Edelgard. Thanily detached herself from Hubert’s side as he said, “You can come in.” 

The door opened, and he and Thanily both bowed before Her Highness. Edelgard just rolled her eyes and Avarine said, “Hubert, that really isn’t necessary.” 

“Still.” He stood to attention. “Lady Edelgard, I can now confirm the full support of Countess Varley in your claim. Her only request is that we...remove...Count Varley from power. Which I will gladly do. We also have the support of much of the Varley military and—”

“Hubert.” Her voice was kind but firm, and she gently shut the door behind her. “Thank you for the report, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“How may I be of service to you, Lady Edelgard?” But he already had a suspicion as to why, and the sweat started to prickle on the back of his neck. Avarine, too, did not lift her gaze from Thanily’s. 

“Hubert, you really don’t have to...never mind that,” Edelgard sighed. “What happened back there in the mock battle? I’ve never seen you hesitate in a fight like that before.”

She was right, and that made his shame so much worse. How could he possibly protect and serve Lady Edelgard if a simple mock battle made him freeze up? “Lady Edelgard, please forgive my weakness and shameful display.”

“Dammit, that’s not what this is about!” Avarine snapped, clacking her beak shut when Edelgard held up a hand.

“Avarine, please. But Hubert, she is right. I don’t care about your display. I care that you were frightened. There is no shame in being afraid, but this isn’t like you.”

Here it comes. He could see the intensity in her eyes, the same burning in Avarine’s gaze, as she swooped in. And yet Edelgard was unbreakable as always as she continued. 

“Hubert, you’re not just my servant, you’re my closest ally and my best friend.” Didn’t she used to once call him her only friend? “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your behavior. Ever since that thing calling herself Monica appeared, you’ve been unusually jumpy and withdrawn, and Thanily has been practically glued to your side. Something happened, didn’t it?”

“Hubert, we have to tell her!”

“No, we can’t. If we tell her, she’ll kill Monica, and then we’ll be fighting those beasts in the dark on top of everyone else! My pain means nothing in comparison to this.”

“You don’t think Edelgard can restrain herself?”

“She has enough to deal with. I can’t give her my own burdens to carry as well.”  

“Hubert.” She had been saying her name for some time, as he was lost in his thoughts. “Please, talk to me. What did Monica do?”

“...Nothing I can’t handle, and nothing you should trouble yourself with, La...Edelgard. Your crown is heavy enough.”

He knew, immediately, that it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. Edelgard’s eyes went softer and sadder than he had seen in some time, and even Avarine’s piercing gaze dimmed as she looked upon Thanily. “I’m always here for you Hubert, just as you are for me.”

He stayed in his room, even after Edelgard left, and Thanily hopped into his lap. She curled up there, and he pressed his fingers into her fur. 

“Hubert, we have to tell her.”                                                                                                                         

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed! Next up is Remire, so things are certainly speeding along. As always I love hearing your thoughts and the like, only if you're able. And please stay safe, everyone!

Chapter 17: The Flames Climb High Into The Night

Summary:

Tomas and Edelgard both move the pieces on their respective boards.

Notes:

Another chapter, and this one came much more easily this time! Actually I had to have the very ending bit overflow to the next chapter, which is going to be a blast. But before the blast we have to deal with the drama...

Anyway, as always, please read, enjoy, comment/kudos/bookmark if you wish!

Content Warning: Remire, with daemons added in.

Could he have one month where absolutely nothing happened? Just one? Was that too much to ask? Cleaning up the mess that the Western Church had become took a lot longer than anyone expected, and Rhea was absolutely livid at their report. Apparently the now-late (very late, Catherine has made sure of that) bishop did not take kindly to Rhea’s relatively soft response to the quiet worship of other deities instead of...whatever the heck was going on in those churches that were “educating” the youngest survivors of Duscur. Or some financial and bureaucratic shit that he didn’t really care about. The point was, for some reason, they decided that conspiracy and assassination were the answers and manipulated furious and grieving minor lords into conspiring with them. 

Or, as Ashe had put it, his voice flat with a cold fury, Fuergios an enormous trumpeter swan behind him, they used people like Lonato, and then threw them away. 

So no, Jeralt was not upset over how the missions went, although he was rather miffed that the bishop had taken his secrets with him. All they had to go on were the remnants of some hastily-burned documents. Ashe had taken a copy and was still going over them. 

But that hadn’t been the end of it, because why would it be? Because then some of the survivors of Duscur decided that this would be a great time to rebel. Which it would have been, except for, you know, everything else. So Jeralt had had to rally Dimitri and Dedue and the rest of the Lions, and basically beat the ill-prepared rebels into submission before the Kingdom army and Western Church remnants could get to them and start a second slaughter. Thank the goddess, they managed to pull that off without too many serious complications. But the prince of Faerghus was terrifying in a fight, and Domaghar could tell that his daemon was restraining herself. Jeralt didn’t want to see either of them fully unleashed. 

But wait, there was more! While all this was happening, a few more Western Church remnants decided to seize an old shrine to Saint Cichol, which according to Byleth was where Seteth’s wife was also buried for some reason. By this point Seteth was done with negotiations and honestly, thinking of his own dear Sitri, Jeralt couldn’t blame him. Flayn had basically recruited herself along, which Jeralt couldn’t blame her for either, and thankfully Seteth seemed to take his advice to heart and let her join as long as Byleth accompanied them. Which she did. 

But then Byleth had come back sick. It didn’t seem to be contagious, but it was still frightening. Dizziness, fatigue, and Belial...well, it wasn’t the Bad Days. Thank Sothis, those seemed to be a thing of the past. But Belial was still more sluggish and distant than they had been in some time. Byleth still fought through it, because his daughter never gave up, but she spent much of her free time asleep. Thankfully she seemed to be slowly recovering from whatever that was. 

But then (and here Domaghar started laughing, because what else could she do?) Shamir came back from her scouting report, and, well…

Shamir looked up from her report. Veradis was not tucked away into her vest, but snuggled into Fortinbras’s wool. Despite how much Catherine and Shamir proclaimed themselves to be lone wolves, there was no hiding how happy their daemons were to see each other again after weeks apart on separate missions. Jeralt found it adorable. “That's what we're dealing with. Is there no chance it's an infectious disease?”

Manuela shook her head, as professional as she was capable of being. “There are no absolutes in medicine, but the chances are extremely slim. Restless movements, fits of violence, becoming bedridden or even impossible to wake... With symptoms that varied, there are only a few possibilities. It's either a mixture of poisons or magic. And dark magic, at that.”

“Of course, it could be a disease none of us have ever seen before. And if it’s contagious, then even if it is dark magic it might as well be a disease. We’d certainly need to treat it the same way,” Puccini muttered, whispering commentary into Domaghar’s ear. The lemur daemon draped over in her a way that Domaghar barely tolerated. Manuela did not know the meaning of subtlety, especially when it came to flirting. And while some part of Jeralt did enjoy the attention—he was only human, after all—his heart still belonged to Sitri and he still mourned deeply for her. Jeralt simply could not see himself with another person for...well. Likely not within Manuela’s lifetime. 

But at least when their daemons were like this they could talk without being overheard by Rhea, who never really seemed to notice daemon crosstalk. “What do you mean by that?” Domaghar asked. 

“White magic is a wonderful thing, but it’s as useful as trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble in mass outbreaks like this. Even the best mages in the world can only heal so many people a day, and if you do nothing then the disease, or curse, or whatever this is, will only continue to spread. People might get sick again. Faith magic simply isn’t equipped to handle an epidemic. And medicine doesn’t have the same amount of official church funding, support, or respect.”

“Then how do you know all this?” Domaghar flicked her tail, but both Jeralt and Manuela maintained blank poker faces. This was dangerous, especially in front of the archbishop. 

Puccini realized that too, leaned in closer and whispered more quietly. “Honestly, I got lucky. There’s no standard medical training; it’s mostly a master-and-apprentice type of teaching. The only reason we know so much about this sort of thing is that our mentor was so big on it. Manuela wouldn’t have paid much attention, but then one of his former apprentices basically saved Fhirdiad just through tracking disease and fixing the sewers.”

He’d heard about that, and made very sure to stay as far away from Fhirdiad as possible until the plague passed. Byleth had been a young child at the time. Ending a plague by fixing some sewers sounded like crazy talk, but Manuela did seem to know what she was talking about, and it’s not like he was an expert in the subject. But there were other things he could do. 

“Archbishop Rhea,” Jeralt said. “My child and I owe the people of Remire Village. If something's happening there, we must help them.”

The archbishop had been listening patiently, even though he could see the exhaustion lining the corners of her eyes. 

“Even after all these years, we can still read her.”  

“Both of you?” She asked as serene as always. “If this curse spread so quickly through Remire then you might be putting yourself and your child in danger.”

That was true. But…

“Archbishop Rhea,” Domaghar interrupted. “Pardon my interruption, but Remire Village means a great deal to both me and my daughter. We’ve worked with them several times. It was my daughter who helped them organize a militia and taught them to defend themselves against bandits. That was when Belial settled, actually. If Remire is in trouble, then my daughter would want to help. She deserves to be a part of this too.”

The Archbishop was very quiet for a moment, and Jeralt felt a rush of fear. He didn’t overstep his bounds there, did he? But he hadn’t been on a mission with his daughter in so long, because she was caring for the Adrestian brats and he was gallivanting around the continent by order of the Church. But, eventually, Rhea smiles. “You make a good argument, Jeralt. Very well, as long as you both are careful.”

Shamir gave a curt nod, taking that as her cue to exit. “We scouted the area ourselves. Speak with the knights. Hear what they have to say. I must go. Thank you for your help, Manuela.” And she was out the door halfway through her final sentence, Veradis hopping back into her pocket as she walked past Catherine’s daemon. 

Manuela and Jeralt watched her leave. “Honestly,” she muttered, “I have no idea what Catherine sees in her.”

---

“That’s a lot of vinegar. I mean, I trust you Petra, I’m sure this will taste delicious and I’m excited to to try something from your home, but that’s still a lot of vinegar.”

Somehow, Petra had gotten her hands on some soy sauce, which Dorothea had heard of, and several Brigidian spices, which she had not. The chicken was marinating in the pot of homemade sauce and spices, and Petra was right. Despite the frightening amount of vinegar Petra put in—what did she call it? Adobo?—it smelled absolutely amazing. 

This wasn’t what Dorothea expected from a date with Petra, or anyone. It was so...domestic. Nothing like the torrid romances she sang arias for, or the heated trysts with piggish nobles or (much more preferably) her fellow cast and crew. But despite the quiet mundanity of it all, it was...it was nice. For the first time in years, Petra was able to make and eat Brigidian food, and the first thing she did was share it with Dorothea. That was something which sent a thrill through her in a way that none of the adoring fans of the Mystical Songstress who sent her flowers and marriage proposals and worse ever did. 

Petra smeared a line of spices against her cheek, Ardi laughing bright and clear the whole while. Cal glanced away from Ardior to see her, where the dark orange smudge under Dorothea’s eye mirrored Petra’s tattoo. He chuckled, “Look Ardi, we match,” and Dorothea felt a fizz of champagne burst in her chest. 

For all that Dorothea was older than Petra, for all that she had had romantic liaisons and trusts, and learned all about romance from the world of the stage, she felt so...inexperienced and naive next to the Brigidian princess. There wasn't any ulterior motive here. She didn’t want to be with Petra to marry money. Dorothea wanted to be with Petra because she enjoyed being with her. 

Petra was right. Dorothea needed to secure her future, and would do anything not to wind up on the streets again, but now it was looking like there might be other ways than, well, marrying rich. Money alone would make a bad husband. 

“We spent so much time focusing on our stability that we forgot everything else,” Cal murmured across their link. “And when has that ever worked out in the stories? I can’t believe we forgot just how nice this is.”

“Calphour? What is it you are thinking of?” Ardior leaned his head against the little goldcrest daemon. 

How could he put all this into words? How could the depths of his emotions fit into a body that Dorothea could easily cup into a single hand? This was why people made poetry, or sang. “I’m glad to be here with you.”

“As am I,” Ardi said, stretching one wing over Cal. “You are making me feel like I am flying higher than any daemon.” 

“And you are making my heart feel full,” added Petra.

Dorothea wasn’t sure who initiated the kiss, but Petra’s lips were soft and sweet. Now this was something she was good at, Dorothea thought as she tilted Petra’s chin upwards and deepened the kiss, parted her own lips so her girlfriend—her girlfriend!—could sigh into her mouth. Laced a hand through Petra’s hair, thicker and sleeker than her own fine waves. 

“Dorothea I—oh my. I’m terribly sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The two young women sprang apart, a furious blush climbing up their cheeks in equal measure. They relaxed slightly upon seeing who it was, but only just. “Edie,” Dorothea said, drawing on her training to quickly regain her composure, “Haven’t you heard of knocking? Though if you wanted to join in I’m sure we could work something out. 

“Dorothea!” Petra yelped as Edelgard stammered with a quite unladylike blush. “I am not sharing you with another!” Ardior flexed a wing around Calphour, this time protective. Although that seemed hardly necessary given how Avarine twisted and ducked her head behind Edelgard’s. 

“And I would never share you either, my dear Petra,” Dorothea said, their hands still intertwined. She could feel every callus from her weapons, just as Petra could likely feel the way her lightning magic roughened her own fingertips. She looked over to Edelgard, a smirk playing across her face. “Besides, I think Edie would much prefer the attention of our dear professor.”

Now it was Avarine’s turn to squawk as Edelgard blushed even more deeply. Calphour couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “Dorothea, you are being most mischievous,” Petra said, but she was smiling anyway. 

Edie coughed, tried to regain full control of the situation. Avarine rustled back into position aside her shoulder on those leather pauldrons. “If we’re quite finished with the teasing? I came to speak with you both about a very important matter, and nobody else is here.”

“And nobody else will be,” added Avarine. Dorothea resisted the urge to look around for Hubert, who would only be seen if he wanted himself to be seen. 

“You are having...have our attention,” said Petra, and Dorothea nodded. Cal flitted away from Ardi to perch back on her hat. 

“Thank you, Petra. I wanted to talk with both of you about a rather sensitive and vital matter regarding the future of Fodlan.”

Here? Now? Dorothea’s gaze flitted over to Petra’s; her girlfriend had also gone silent. “Is this about getting as many people as possible to piss off some combination of the church, the nobility, and society in general?”

Dorothea greatly enjoyed making Edie stammer, stumble out of her prim and proper persona that she put up at all times. But she’d never seen Edie completely dumbstruck before.

It wasn’t even Edie who replied, eventually, but Ava. “...What.” 

Nobody was eavesdropping. It was in-between meals, and Ashe and Dedue wouldn’t be in to work with the apples for another hour or so. Well, in for a copper, in for a gold. “Well, your international chat thing was basically a fuck crests club, right? A way to see just how many people are also really pissed off at the way things are right now?”

“Which, turns out, is a lot of people,” Calphour added. “Like, wow, I was not expecting so many nobles to be completely and utterly fucked by the current system it sounds like nobody is benefitting from the way things are.”

“Except for a few nobles and the Church,” Dorothea continued. “And the Church gave us an up close and personal lesson about what happens to anyone who defies them. Edie, I’ve been paying attention. You’re somebody who looks at an unjust situation and goes, ‘that’s bullshit,’ like a leader should. You’re trying to figure out how to reform things, but that’s just going to piss off the people sitting pretty right now. Monica was crass and way too loud about it, but she was right. This is probably going to end up in a massive fight, and you know it, so you’ve been trying to put out feelers for allies. Well, am I right?”

Edie’s response was several moments of completely stunned silence. Ava’s beak actually hung open; it made an audible click when it closed and she finally spoke. “And this brilliance was allowed to languish on the streets for over ten years!”

“There are...other factors, but you have the general idea. I thought I was being more subtle, Hubert will never let me hear the end of this…” Edelgard said, trailing off at the end so Dorothea had to strain to listen. She shook her head. “Never mind that. I came to you because, as you guess, I need allies and I thought you were close to putting things together. Just...not this close.”

“But...why us?” Of course Edie would ask Petra, but why her, an orphan girl turned opera star—

Whore of the opera!

—with no money or holdings or power of her own?

Edelgard smiled. “Because of everything you just said. You are incredibly intelligent and diligent—as are you, Petra. You share similar sentiments and would provide a fresh perspective, untainted by the cultural expectations drilled into the rest of us. You do not have the ties and obligations binding the rest of us. I can trust you both to be discreet.”

“No telling anybody, got it.”

Avarine leaned forward, and Edelgard’s smile suddenly flashed teeth. “And I can’t think of any stronger way to send the message that the old days are gone than to have a commoner and a foreign princess by my side.”

“Holy fucking shit Thea, this is everything we’ve ever dreamed of. This is MORE than everything we’ve ever dreamed of.” Cal practically vibrated on her shoulder. “We’re doing this, right? To a brighter dawn we shall carry on?”

“Hail Edelgard!” The last notes of their impromptu anthem echoed across their link, and Dorothea could feel the predatory glint in her answering grin. “I can’t think of a better way for us to irritate that many corrupt pieces of shit. I’m in.”

Petra had been quiet and contemplative the entire time, likely holding a silent conversation with Ardior. When she spoke, it was with such precision; Dorothea could so easily see the brilliant queen Petra would one day be. “I am having...I do have agreement with your ideals, Edelgard. But I must be thinking of my people first. You are saying this as though I...have a choice. Why should I be making the choice to put my people at risk, when this will likely end in fighting between us and those who are not...do not want change?”

Edie had an answer, because she always seemed to have an answer. “We can work out the details later, but I promise you this, here and now: if you can secure Brigid’s support and alliance, then I will grant your country independence.”

And that was everything Petra dreamed of, wrapped up in a single sentence next to an aromatic pot of bubbling adobo. Dorothea could see the disbelief on her face in the way her eyes went wide, in the way Ardior’s entire body stiffened and straightened out. And, without question, in Petra’s voice, how she was so awed that she momentarily slipped into her native tongue.

“I have been speaking with Claude about the faith of Seiros,” she said, “and he has said some interesting things. The Goddess of Fodlan made humans and blessed them with daemons, but what does that say about the humans outside Fodlan? Are they not receiving blessings? Are they not even people? I am saying this because many people of Fodlan treat outsiders with suspicion and distrust, and they are arrogant at the same time. And the Empire that I know is one that...conquered my nation, killed my parents, and sent me to live in a foreign land. What I am saying is that I would have difficulty believing these promises of independence from another.”

She looked at Ardior, and they nodded as one. “But I am believing you. You have always been treating me as an equal, and you...wish to take apart the old way of things. And you have just given me the choice, when Brigid is a vassal of the Empire and you could easily have been making us. My answer is yes, Edelgard. If you are granting Brigid independence, then we will be allying with you.”

“Even if you’re still holding stuff back,” Calphour added. 

“...You’re right. There are things I can’t say, not yet. But I promise that I will share everything as soon as I can.” And Edelgard smiled. “Thank you, truly. I hope that I will not let you down. You—”

“Lady Edelgard, Lady Avarine.” That was Thanily, trotting into the kitchen as far away from Hubert as she dared. “Monica has been looking for you.”

And just like that Edelgard folded back into herself again, the door that peeked open slamming shut. “Thank you for our discussion,” she said, once again prim and proper, Avarine stiff on her shoulder. “I must be going but I will see you in class.” And then she was gone, leaving Dorothea, Petra, and their daemons alone with the adobo chicken.

Cal was the one to sum it up. “So, Edie really is going to shove massive reforms down the Empire’s throat, and she knows that’s going to result in an equally massive fight. Not just a bunch-of-nobles-yelling-at-each-other fight, but an actual people-stabbing-each-other-fight. And we just agreed to help.”

Ardior stretched open his wing for Calphour to tuck himself in against. “We did, Because we have understanding that things need to change, more than many here are having. And because we are believing in Edelgard and what she is promising us in return.” But Petra was also staring into the pot, also coming to terms with the enormity of what just happened.

“...Do you want my help finishing the adobo?”

“Dorothea. You are wonderful, and beautiful, and kind. You are making my heart full whenever I am around you.” Petra placed her hands on her shoulders, looked her right in the eye. “But if I am eating your cooking, I may die.”

---

Someone was shouting in Cygnis’s ear, but he didn’t really register much beyond his name. Or his name being shouted again. 

He did notice the teeth nipping his ear. 

“Ow! Serrin, what was that for?” Mercedes shared that hurt look with Annie, rubbing her own ear where it echoed with the phantom pain felt across their link. It wasn’t that bad, but it was definitely an unpleasant surprise.

“You weren’t listening to anything I was saying, you were completely zoned out!” Serrin pouted. 

“Seriously, you look like you’re about to pass out on your feet,” Annie added. “Is everything okay? You weren’t up all night studying for your Faith exam, were you?”

Mercedes had been, actually. It wasn’t like she meant to! But Dedue had been going through a pretty tough time after that whole mess with the attempted rebellion. More than once he had woken up with nightmares that he refused to burden Dimitri with, who had his own ghosts haunting him. And it had taken their house leader hours to even hint at that. 

In any case Mercedes has remembered about the Faith exam partway through her knitting “session” with Dimitri, but it wasn’t like she could kick him out! He had finally relaxed a little bit, Delcabia settling down next to Cygnis and letting the painted wolf daemon groom her. By the time Dimitri went to bed, it was well past dark and Mercedes still had barely cracked open her books. The rest of the night was a blur of studying and walking around her room chanting incantations as Cygnis read from the book and corrected her form. When Mercedes eventually came to, it was with her head face-down in her books and a mad dash to the exam room, still in her sleep gown, with ink smeared on her face. 

But she’d passed the exam, so everything was fine. 

Even though Annie wasn’t completely convinced. “Mercie, you shouldn’t stay up all night studying.”

“I know it’s a bit hypocritical, coming from us,” Serrin added from the shelf where she’d scrambled, paws raised as if to ward off ensuing protest, “But this seems kinda different from my situation, or before in the magic academy. And you seem more tired than even during our late night study sessions that really didn’t have much studying in them.” Mercedes smiled fondly at those memories. Even if their group studies started out with them practicing glyphs and incantations, they would inevitably devolve into girl talk over tea and cookies until the wee hours of the morning. Those were some of her best memories of the magic academy, and worth every moment of exhaustion the following day. 

“Well, this year has been a lot more than any of us were expecting.”

Serrin nodded. “You’ve always wanted to help people, and you’ve always been amazing at it, but there’s been so many people who need your help this year. Lonato and Ashe alone was bad enough but then we had Sylvain and Miklan, and my...my father, and Flayn getting kidnapped and...oh, Mercie! I thought this year would be nice and sure I’d have to work hard but I’d get to make a bunch of new friends and yes that’s happened but it’s also been one awful thing happening after another!”

“I miss you, Mercie,” Annie added. “Cygnis, you’re always so tired and I know that you and Mercie are working super hard to take care of all of us. And we need you. But Mercie, you’re my best friend in the world. And it, it hurts me, and makes me a little worried, to see you running around taking care of all of us and not getting enough sleep. I mean, you always tell me to get some sleep and remember to eat when I’m so wrapped up in my studying or whatever that I forget to do either of those things, so I...you need to do the same thing for yourself, okay Mercie?” Serrin leaned against Cygnis and wrapped her tail around his leg. “I worry about you, ok?”

And Annie had a point. Everybody had their own daemons and painful pasts to battle. And while Mercedes had by and large made peace with hers, so many other people had not. Helping them through that was something she was good at. It was how Cygnis had settled after all. She could still remember that warm summer day, how she had spoken with a young woman whose boyfriend had been manipulating her for months. Helped her realize what was going on, helped give her the courage to leave him and made sure she had a safe place to stay. How Cygnis had shifted into a painted wolf somewhere in the middle of that pep talk, initially to better comfort the other woman’s own daemon, and then never changed form again. 

So while Annie was right that she needed to sleep more, this is who Mercedes was, this was what she did. And their classmates needed her help. Why couldn’t Annette understand that?    

But Annie was so worried about her, and she did have a point, and Mercedes just didn’t know how to discuss this right now. So instead Mercedes just nodded and said, “Thank you, Annie. I miss you too.” And she did. 

Cygnis nudged Serrin playfully. “And I promise to spend more time with you.” And he would. 

She just...would keep helping their classmates in the meantime as well. Mercedes and Cygnis knew all about their nightmares. If she sat back and did nothing, then they’d haunt hers as well. 

---

Even before Sothis woke up, Remire meant something to Byleth. It had become a secondary base of sorts over the years, despite its relative proximity to the monastery. Yes it was where she had met Edelgard and Dimitri and Claude and kicked off the weirdest, most stressful, and most fulfilling year of her life, but Remire had meant something before that. It was where the inn always had a large ground room set aside so her father didn’t have to sleep in the stables with Domaghar. It was where she had spent months recovering from what could have been a career-ending injury. 

It was where Belial had settled. Bandits had come after Remire, because it was fairly well-off from being on one of the trade routes to the monastery, and her father was off on another job while she recovered. Byleth couldn’t fight, but that had been one of the Good Days, and Belial had noticed the bandits while flying above her as a hawk. Most of the other mercenaries were gone with her father. It was up to her to train the villagers and, even though she couldn’t fight, direct them to fend off the bandits. 

Afterwards, she noticed that Belial was a wolf. Heard a mysterious voice in her head say, “This feels right.” And that was that.                                      

Remire made up a great many of her memories, at least the ones that she had. Either way, it was important to her and her father.

And now it was on fire. 

Jeralt had dragged her and her students out of the monastery grounds without any preamble, yelling at them to keep up as he threw himself over Domaghar’s back and galloped off to Remire as quickly as he could. Were Byleth any smaller, she could have done the same astride Belial, but she and her students had to get their own mounts and follow along. 

They smelled Remire before the trees thinned out enough for them to really see the town, the stench of burning wood and burning flesh assailing their nostrils. The watchtower she has helped build was now a blazing torch. And the villagers had gone mad. 

It was as if they had all gone rabid at once. She watched, helpless, as people whose daemons she recognized (but not quite their faces, nor their names, as the curling feeling that Sothis had to identify as guilt rippled through her) fell upon their friends and family and butchered them, put their own stores and homes to the torch. Watched as one shrieking man grabbed another man’s daemon, and others joined in to tear them both apart. 

Behind her, Bernadetta made a low keening noise, Thanily pressed herself between Hubert’s legs and made herself as small as possible, and Linhardt threw up.

Domaghar whinnied and reared back, far enough that if she were not Jeralt’s daemon she would have bucked him off. Her father’s face was ashen as he absorbed the horrific sight, and his men were even less composed. “The fuck’s going on here…?”

“This is even more terrible than I expected,” Edelgard muttered, her face stained a faint but definite tinge of green. “Professor, we have to save as much of this village as we can.”

“But if we are not careful as to how we proceed, we will only increase the death toll.” Hubert buried his fingers so deep in Thanily’s fur that his already-pale knuckles went white. 

Caspar flailed in the direction of the savaged man, who had finally died. “We don’t have time to be careful! They’re all attacking each other and we have to make it stop!”

“It’s not just us we have to worry about,” Runilite replied from somewhere inside Linhardt’s uniform, where she had buried herself and curled up into a tiny furry ball against his chest and beating heart. “Peakane, you and Embrienne are safe in your capsules, but the rest of us are not.” 

“Still,” Ferdinand interjected, sealing Embrienne safe inside the sphere, “We must do something!”

“What could have sent these villagers into such a rampage? And attack each others’ daemons?! This is horrific! Who could have done this?!” Byleth could feel the fury build in Sothis, and echo to her and Belial as well. Whomever did this to Remire would pay.

“Wait.” That was Avarine, who had launched herself off Edelgard’s shoulder to observe the chaos. It was a shame that Edelgard and Avarine couldn’t stand to take full advantage of their ability to separate; Avarine would be an even better scout than Belial. “There’s a group of people on the far hill, just...standing there. They seem to be observing the chaos.”

A plan unfolded in Byleth’s head. “Ferdinand, you’re the best on horseback and I know you’ve been working with Bernadetta and Hubert. Take them both with you, eliminate the observers, and save as many people as we can.”

“Understood. With me!” Ferdinand pulled Hubert up onto his horse where the dark mage, after much protest, had to cling to him with one hand, leaving the other free to cast. It was a tight fit with Thanily, but they managed. Bernadetta was right behind them and— 

“Wait! I will go with you!” Flayn had insisted that she come along—so had Monica too, actually, but Byleth had put her foot down there—and now just as Byleth was worried about, here she was putting herself into serious danger. 

“But isn’t that what this is all about, helping Flayn stand on her own? Not to mention that Ferdinand, Bernadetta, and Hubert are absolutely deadly when they work together but none of them can heal for shit.”

Sothis was right, and after all these months of learning to be a person it was too easy to see the grim determination on Flayn’s face, the kind that set in deep and overrode all fear. “Stay close to them,” Byleth said.

Belial snarled, low and dangerous, the kind of deep-throated rumble that ends up buried in someone else’s. “Caspar, Peakane is safe with you. You go down the right and rescue as many villagers as you can. Petra, go with him and get Ardior as high in the sky as you can. Edelgard, you’re with me.” By themselves, Belial and Avarine could get as far away from the chaos as possible without anyone seeing. And Edelgard would only be separated from Avarine in the presence of someone who already knew and understood. 

Edelgard understood that too. “Thank you, Professor.” 

“And what about us?” Dorothea shouted over the din. She propped up Linhardt in her arms; the young man still emptying the contents of his stomach on the ground, Runilite limp and trembling in his own arms. Dorothea didn’t look much better, as if she were using all her acting training to keep herself together.

Byleth looked at her father, who nodded. “Got it, kid. Dorothea, Linhardt, stick close and heal. Get everyone else we can rescue to me!”

The battle wasn’t...Though the villagers had turned to little more than feral beasts, they were still villagers , and Byleth had taught her students well in the art of battle. A cloud of golden dust rose from the funeral pyre that Remire had become to dance among those flames. 

What was far more important was the identity of the old man observing the chaos with mild satisfaction, who chuckled as Byleth and her students worked to save as many of the villagers as they could. Even if they had to kill the ones gone mad in the process. 

“Tomas?!”

“What are you doing here?” shouted Edelgard. “Dare I even ask?!”

The kindly old man...wasn’t. Though the coral snake daemon wrapped around his staff was the same, Tomas—no, something else—wasn’t. His form rippled and changed, the illusion spell dropping to reveal a ghastly pale figure with a magic glass eye, a man who looked like he was formed from half-melted wax. 

“What’s the matter? So shocked you can’t even speak?” Even his laugh, once warm, was now oily. “You were so easily fooled by my disguise...I was hiding away in Garreg Mach to get the blood of that ‘little girl’ you call Flayn. It’s quite special, you know…”

Byleth’s gaze flicked over to Flayn, who chanted a soothing healing light into existence, sent it down to sooth the battered but still-fighting Ferdinand. Next to her Bernadetta went to nock another arrow, but stumbled in her rhythm when…

“Oh shit, oh FUCK!”  

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

From literally nowhere, the Death Knight appeared, that scythe which in another time had so casually ended Ferdinand’s life ready to spill more blood in his hands. And, as before, he had no daemon. If he really was Jeritza, then where was that ill-tempered wolverine?

And his gaze was trained on Flayn. Flayn, who trembled harder than Bernadetta, almost enough for her to lose control of her spell, but who stood firm regardless, even as the Death Knight chuckled, “Ah, so it’s you. Here to lose more blood? Or do you really need both arms?”

And yet Flayn stood, flanked by Bernadetta and Ferdinand who also stood firm despite their terror betrayed in the way their daemons hid themselves. “Never! You shall not lay a hand on me ever again!”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! How far could she and Sothis turn back time? To the start of the battle? Before? Would the Death Knight appear in the same place, or hunt down Flayn no matter what? She was too far away to stop him before he tore through her students. Byleth reached for the power that Sothis lent, began to pull at it, then— 

Hubert hopped off Ferdinand’s horse, Thanily following him with a much more graceful landing. They placed themselves in front of Flayn, looked up at the Death Knight, and snarled as one. “Lady Edelgard and I already said, stay out of our way!”

Dark magic curled up Hubert’s arms with every word, and with his last words Hubert slammed his open palms into the ground and released it. The burning earth split open, jagged spines of dark magic erupting from within as he successfully cast Dark Spikes for the first time. 

Those magical spikes raced towards the Death Knight and exploded beneath him, throwing him off his horse with barely any effort at all. Those intimidating spikes on his armor drove him into the earth, long enough for the Death Knight to realize he had lost and warp away to the howls of frustration from her students.

Howls that she, her father, and Edelgard shared when Tomas...No, Solon , surveyed the scene and chuckled. “A shame. I would have loved to survey the carnage a little while longer, but I suppose I have what I came here for. And now I must take my leave. Farewell, Fell Star and her slavering dogs.”

Edelgard gripped her axe and hurled it at the mage. “No! Get back here!” But in a flash of magic and ultra-black light, Solon was gone. The axe passed through the now-empty space and buried itself several inches deep into the tree behind. Avarine followed seconds later with a screech, divebombing that empty space and clawing nothing but empty air. 

Jeralt rode to the edge of the villagers gathered under Domaghar’s shadow and cursed. “Fucking damn it! He’s gone.” 

“I’ll search the rest of the village. There may be other enemies in wait.” Before Byleth could protest, Edelgard and Avarine were gone.

---

They’d managed to save most of the villagers, and Byleth couldn't be prouder of her students. 

And yet.

Dozens died screaming, and Remire was gone. All because this Solon freak decided they’d make a convenient target.

“I can’t believe you let them escape! What kind of havoc are they going to wreak on other towns? They don’t care about life at all! We have to stop them!”

“I know!” Belial shouted, drawing a curious look from Domaghar. “I know. But I don’t know where they went, and we have all these survivors to take care of.”

Domaghar walked over and leaned her head against Belial’s. She looked and sounded tired. “Hey kid, how you holding up? This is some pretty awful shit, isn’t it.”

“Trust your dad to sum things up like that. But this is some, well, awful shit.”

Her father sighed, scrubbed a hand down his face. He looked so...tired. “I sent one of my men ahead to the monastery, so at least everyone here should have a hot meal and a place to sleep waiting for them. But what kind of monsters would treat people like test subjects and do something like...like this?!”

“There you are.”

There was only one person—if they could even be called a person—that eerily echoing, metallic voice. That armor. That mask. No daemon.

“So you’re the Flame Emperor.” Her father split off from Domaghar, who swished her tail and snaked her head side to side, and slowly circled around to flank the Flame Emperor. “Byleth told me all about you. How you’ve been working with the Death Knight. Which means you’re also responsible for the destruction of this village.”

Did the Flame Emperor know what would come next, when her father surrounded a target like that? When Byleth joined him, Belial also peeling off from her so they could surround their target on all sides? Sure, the Flame Emperor had no daemon to pin, but it didn’t seem like he particularly cared about the worst of all taboos, if what happened in Remire was any indication. Or was all that fear hidden under the mask?

Because the Flame Emperor just shook his head. “Do not get the wrong idea.”

“What in blazes is that supposed to mean?”

“It is true that I am, unfortunately and reluctantly, working with Solon. But only in the sense of the old saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ I despise that beast of a man as much as you do, and you have my word that, had I known they planned to do this, I would have stopped it.”

“Then where were you during all this?!”

Jeralt was much more to the point. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” He lowered the lance into a readying stance. “Now, I’ll have to insist that you accompany us back to the monastery.”

But the Flame Emperor, whomever or whatever he was, was completely undeterred by the threat. “I think not. However, if you wish to join forces, I will hear your plea.”

The sheer audacity of his statement made even Jeralt pause. “What?! Did you lose all sense along with your daemon?!”

“I promise you, I am only working with Solon to defeat a common enemy. But with you and the Sword of the Creator on our side, I would have no need for them anymore. And if left to their own devices, they will commit countless more atrocities like this one. What do you say?”

What did she say? Why would the Flame Emperor be so brazen as to approach her and her father like this? The Sword of the Creator hummed in her hand. Maybe it couldn’t tear through a mountain, but it could certainly tear through that mask and reveal the face beneath.

Still, even though he was surrounded on all sides, the Flame Emperor did not seem afraid at all. “A shame. Though not unexpected.”

The sword glowed, she readied her swing, and— 

“Jeralt, Professor Byleth! Have you seen Lady Edelgard?!” Hubert was panting as he sprinted behind Thanily, whose eyes were wide as she raced towards them.

And when they turned around, the Flame Emperor was gone, vanished in a puff of magic.

Domaghar kicked at the empty air, which did nothing except disperse the cloud faster, and Jeralt roared, “Damn it! He’s gone!”

“Professor Byleth, Jeralt, I’m sorry I intruded…”

“Thanily, it’s okay.” Belial looked around at the burning remains of the town. “Dad, let’s go look for Edelgard.”

It wasn’t that hard to find Avarine, snow white against the gray ash. It was quiet now, the roaring flames dying down to crackles, the screams replaced by quiet sobs and mourning wails. It was in this quiet that Jeralt dismounted from Domaghar and said in just as solemn a tone, “Hey, kid, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Ever since we arrived at the monastery, you’ve changed. Before then I’ve never seen you bear your emotions beyond a tiny smile or frown. Not once. But you’ve been angry ever since we saw the carnage here. And you look so happy whenever you’re instructing or talking about the brats. It’s…” He sniffled. “Maybe I’m just being a sentimental old man, but you don’t know how happy it makes me, seeing you like this.”

“It’s because of the students,” Byleth said, watching Avarine swoop through the smoke, graceful and beautiful. It was Sothis waking up, of course, which was the initial spark. But Byleth wasn’t quite sure how to relay that to her father. And besides, it wasn’t just Sothis waking up. That might have been the first part, yes, but without her students there would have been nothing besides her father for her burgeoning emotions to latch on to, to give her something to work towards, to help teach her to be human.

Jeralt reached over and tousled her hair, just like when she was young. “Then maybe it’s a good thing that we came to the monastery, if only so I can see your face light up like that. Or maybe there was never any reason for us to leave in the first place…” 

Wait, what?

“Leave?”

“Dad, wasn’t I born after you left the monastery?”

Domaghar whacked him in the back of the head with her tail. “Nice going, dumbass.” 

“Ugh, you’re right. I’ve really stepped in it, haven’t I?” Jeralt sighed and playfully smacked Domaghar back. “Come meet me in town next time we both have a chance. There’s something I have to tell you in private.”

Byleth nodded. But what was that about? 

“Remember what dad said when we first arrived?” Belial asked. “About stepping into the lion’s den? And how we’re not lions, but I’m a wolf?” 

Of course she remembered. Her father had been so wary of the monastery, and still was. 

“I wonder just what spooked your father so badly that he would leave with you and raise you completely divorced from the church.”

Byleth wanted to know too, and wanted to know if it had anything to do with why Sothis was in her head, or why she didn’t seem to connect with Belial the way others did, or why, before Sothis woke up, she didn’t feel much of anything at all. But she was glad she came to the monastery. So glad to have met her students, her eagles, her pack, who taught and guided her as much as she taught and guided them.

Notes:

So yeah, things are starting to boil over as we get closer and closer to the timeskip. I really hope you all enjoyed! And god you have no idea how much I wish I could draw.

Also, adobo is absolutely delicious and I don't know why I haven't made it in the past few months I have all the ingredients and no excuses.

Also also, Mercedes really needs to get some sleep.

Important notice: The Hubernie Fanweek is coming up starting on May 3 and I have a couple of things I really need to write for them, one of which is a charity fic, so I do need to work on those first. But don't you all worry, it shouldn't slow the pace of this by more than a week or two, and you'll still get a ton of writing from me!

Anyway, I'll see you all soon; thank you all for being patient and please stay safe out there! We're past the peak here in the tri-state area, but even that is still pretty freaking awful.

Chapter 18: Deep Breaths

Summary:

Everyone takes a deep breath after Remire.

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient! I've been working overnight all month and I had Hubernie week, which is why it took so long to post this. But I think I'll be able to get back into the swing of things soonish; I'm almost done with my internship, after which my hours will become much more reasonable. Anyway, please read and enjoy!

 

Content warning: Some sexual content.

“Professor, I don’t know if this is appropriate to say, but...admirable work out there, guiding us. I truly believe we did all that we could.”

Objectively, Edelgard was right. The part of her without emotions, the Ashen Demon that was quieter with every passing day, knew that they could not have done a better job. They had saved as many civilians as they could have, and stopped those driven mad from hurting anyone else. 

“I just, I wish we were stronger.”

But they weren’t. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people were dead, and Remire was gone. Her father and his battalions had collected those few hundred survivors and were busy escorting them back to the monastery, while she and Belial checked in on her students. 

They were...doing about how she expected. Actually, a little better. They had grown so much since that first battle in the Red Canyon, better able to handle the rigors and horrors of battle. They had learned to help and rely on each other in a way that rivaled her father’s mercenary team at their absolute best. 

“I wonder how much easier it would be, if we were still wandering the continent with your father and his mercenary band. We certainly wouldn’t be thrown into one mess after another,” Sothis said, metaphorically leaning over her shoulder like two friends gossiping into one anothers' ears. 

“Which I guess we are, sort of,” Belial said as Byleth scratched behind their ears. If they closed their eyes they could still remember the soothing phantom touch of Sothis petting them in whatever space they and Belial had been transported to when meeting the girl on the throne face to face for the first time. It would be easier, yes, but it would be so much, well, less than what she had now. She still didn’t understand why Rhea had chosen her to lead the Black Eagles, or why she placed so much faith and trust in her. Either way, Byleth had vowed to lead her students well. And now, after months of leading her students, after watching them grow? After helping Bernadetta come out of her shell and Caspar moderate himself, of supporting Petra through her buried insecurities at being othered and looked down on, of being there for Edelgard to lean on with an outstretched hand, should she ever reach for it?

They were her students, her pups. She would look after them and lead them well, not because anyone told her to, but because she loved them. 

“Well said,” Sothis said, “I never thought we’d grow to care about our students so much.”

Which is why, the nobles who tormented so many of her charges? The Death Knight? Solon? They’d better pray she wouldn’t find them. 

“My teacher?” Byleth’s attention drifted back to Edelgard, who reached up to stroke Avarine’s wing in time with her words. “We’re only human, and we have to keep going and stay positive, even though all the horror.”

“Or at the very least, keep moving forward,” Avarine added, though she looked past Byleth and Belial to Hubert, who nodded politely to Flayn’s effusive thanks for protecting her with his dark magic. Thanily was quiet by his side.

“Good strategies are made of rope,” Belial said. “If one breaks, tie a knot and keep going.”

“Speaking of which, I hear that the so-called ‘Flame Emperor’ also appeared in Remire, and Hubert told me you spoke with him.”

Ah, yes, that. “He said he wasn’t involved, and then asked me to join forces with him.”

  “Which, can you believe that audacity?! And honestly, if the Flame Emperor really wasn’t involved in that, then why didn’t we see him trying to stop it?” She could feel the helpless anger and grief at the massacre in Sothis’s voice as strong as—no, even stronger than—her own.   

“It sounds like you were rather offended by even the suggestion,” Edelgard said. On her shoulders, Avarine clenched her talons so tightly as to leave marks into those thick leather pauldrons. Edelgard continued, undeterred, “That makes sense. It’s hard to trust someone without knowing who they are, or how they’re connected to all this.”

And it was hard for Edelgard to trust people in general. “Thank you, Edelgard,” Byleth said. 

“For what?”

“For trusting me.” For opening up to her.

“I...Thank you, my teacher. I don’t know how this year would have been without you, but I feel I am a...fuller person because of you.” She looked back at the refugees. “Even if the Flame Emperor’s words are true, his objectives are still unclear. But hopefully some day he will reveal his true intentions, without that mask, and you can look into his eyes and decide what you believe.”

That was...odd. Just as Byleth opened her mouth to respond, even though she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say, Monica’s wine-dark hair appeared over the horizon as she sprinted towards them. And Edelgard...froze up. No, closed off, like a turtle in her shell.

Wait, wasn’t Monica with Tomas? Or rather, Solon? “Monica, are you okay? Tomas didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Oh, Professor Byleth! I’m perfectly peachy-keen, thanks for asking!” she all but shouted in her normal effervescent tone, her cuckoo daemon hopping back and forth from shoulder to tree branch. “Though I heard what happened! That’s absolutely awful! I’m so glad you and Edel and Hubiekins and everyone else are all okay!”

“Hubiekins?” Sothis was definitely making mental notes for teasing purposes later. 

“Ah, Monica. It is good to see that you are also unharmed,” Edelgard said stiffly.

“Speaking of that, Edel, I need to ask you something. Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all. If you’ll excuse me, Professor.”

The look on Avarine's face lingered long after they left, though Byleth wouldn’t know exactly why for some time.

---

Bernie honesty almost forgot that it was her birthday. To be fair, she hadn’t celebrated it in years. The last time anybody had thrown any type of celebration for her was when Mal settled, and that was nothing special. In recent years the only marker she had for her birthday was the servants sneaking her sewing and embroidery supplies, or her father skipping the chair for a day. So when Professor Byleth invited her for tea after class, Bernadetta instantly jumped to the conclusion that she was in trouble, and she and Mal frantically rifled through any possible transgressions she may have committed over the past few weeks. 

There…weren’t as many things that they marked down as unforgivable sins as she would have, a few months ago. 

But still! She must have done something wrong! Why else would Professor Byleth ask to see her in private, if not to tell her she did something horribly wrong and was now in all sorts of trouble? And lecture her...over her...favorite tea and yummy-looking cake? 

“Happy birthday, Bernadetta,” Professor Byleth said, and oh. It was her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday. Professor Byleth had remembered, and made a tea party for her just like she did for everyone else. 

“Not just that,” Malecki added from atop her head. “Bernadetta, look around.” This wasn’t the usual spot where Professor Byleth had tea with the students or her father, but the place where Dorothea said Edelgard had held her fuck crests club. It was further out of the way, with slightly higher hedges that would hide most prying eyes. 

“Professor Byleth found a spot where nobody would bother us,” Malecki whispered, still awed despite months of the Professor listening and caring. It was still hard to believe, some days, that there were so many people in the world who cared about her, and didn’t think she was useless. More than that—that she was useful, and worth something. And it was even harder to believe that they would accommodate her and Mal instead of just telling the two of them to suck it up and deal with it. Funnily enough, knowing her professor and classmates—no, friends, she had friends now, and a boyfriend too!—understood when she needed alone time actually made it a bit easier to go outside more often. 

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” Mal murmured, because Bernadetta was too overwhelmed to speak. 

“Thank you for being part of our class,” Belial said as Professor Byleth sipped her tea. She had even gotten Bernie a present, some brand-new gardening tools perfect for the greenhouse! 

The rest of the day was a wonderful blur of support and love that Bernadetta still needed to get used to, a little bit even now. Cake and smiles and Hubert holding back Caspar when his exuberance threatened to overwhelm her. Avarine congratulating Malecki on a job well done in Remire because it was too raw and awful for Edelgard and Bernadetta, or honestly any of them, to talk about it directly. Flayn, who seemed to have no such compunctions, effusively thanked her, Ferdinand, and especially Hubert (who had been amazing with that Dark Spikes spell, his magic was seriously creepy sometimes but also so incredible!) for protecting her from the Death Knight back in Remire. It was, it was too much love and support for someone who had been starved of it her whole life. She needed it given slower, or she’d drown from it.  

“I...I...you guys!” Bernadetta cried, “Thank you so much! You’re all so amazing!” Words failed her, and again she was reduced to incoherent garbling into Malecki’s spines. Although, this time, she was overwhelmed for another reason entirely than she was used to. She liked this overwhelming feeling better than the other kind, but it was still, well, a bit too much. 

And again it was Hubert, Hubert, who saw that it was too much. Ferdinand was wonderful and so good to her, but he still sometimes ran roughshod without someone telling him to hold back. Hubert, however, was somehow able to tell; he and Thanily worked in concert to give her some badly-needed space, just enough to catch her breath and finish the celebration, because it would be way too embarrassing to not be able to finish her own birthday celebration. 

But Bernadetta and Malecki did, even though they needed some alone time in their room to recover from it all. 

“Why is it still so much, to get this much caring from everyone?” Bernadetta said to Malecki, even though it was more talking out loud than everything else. They were two halves of the same being, after all. But that also meant he would understand. Even Bernie needed another person to talk to sometimes—or, well, daemon. Another voice, was the point. 

“It’s not like we’ve gotten much of it growing up.”

But now that Bernie got a taste of that support and affection and love of all kinds, she didn’t ever want to go back. So, when the door knocked, and Bernadetta heard Ferdinand and Embrienne’s voices, she didn’t shut him away, but let him in. 

Kissing was nice. Kissing was really nice, beyond what Bernie had ever imagined it could be. And Ferdinand was so attentive, so good at talking and letting her be heard as well. He was going to be the prime minister—there was practically nobody richer or more powerful than the von Aegirs—and he didn’t want her to be submissive, but to work and speak and stand alongside him. 

“Father was wrong about everything,” Malecki said as he nuzzled and licked Embrienne; the little bee daemon hummed from the contact and Ferdinand’s echoed contentment. 

Bernadetta mirrored the little happy sigh Ferdinand made into her mouth, and curled up into his warmth. She was an eternal loner, had resigned herself to either a loveless marriage or a life as a spinster locked away in her room, but not this. She never thought she would be so lucky as to have this.

She wanted this, and with a growing pleasant squirmy feeling realized she wanted more . The idea was terrifying, but not unpleasant, and it was...kinda exciting? 

So when Ferdinand crept his hand up her blouse and asked, “May I?” Bernadetta nodded, and watched his hand slip under her blouse to gently cup her breasts.

“F-Ferdinand?” His hand was so warm, how could it be so warm? He didn’t think she was too small or anything did he? Father always said that she was always embarrassingly small…

“Goddess, you’re gorgeous,” Ferdinand whispered as he gently kneaded her, his face shining in awe all Bernadetta saw as she closed her eyes and sank into the sensation of Ferdinand’s hands and warmth, of Embrienne nuzzling against Malecki.

She liked this, Bernie realized. Liked the warmth and trust and comfort, having Ferdie kiss her neck as she ran a hand through her hair. Liked their daemons took comfort in one another. She trusted Ferdinand, more than she ever thought possible.

What would she do if he asked her to...well...She looked down at the bulge in his trousers and swallowed. The idea was...it wasn’t unappealing, and the shiver through her wasn’t just from fear alone.

But Ferdinand noticed that shudder and paused. His hand and that warmth abruptly vanished and he sat up again, the very picture of professionalism despite the flush in his face. “Bernadetta, is everything okay? Would you like me to stop?”

“I…” She wanted him to keep going, but at the same time that flutter of nervousness grew. “Maybe we should, ah, slow down?”

“Oh! Of course; I’m terribly sorry!” Ferdinand pulled back his hand, and then pulled his whole body away. When he came back to cuddle, he made sure to wrap up a blanket in between them both. And it was...it was nice. It was soothing, and although that was enough a little selfish part of Bernie was crying out for more. 

Mal kept his thoughts to himself, at least until Ferdinand left for the evening. But no sooner had the door closed than he jumped into Bernie’s lap, tugged the strings on her hoodie, and vented his frustration in her face. “Why did you do that, Bernie?! I was enjoying that! You were enjoying that! Ferdinand and Embrienne were both enjoying that! Why did you stop?”

“I, I, I wasn’t ready!” Bernadetta wailed. Oh, just how pathetic was this, that Ferdinand’s hand under her shirt could make her freeze up like that! “I thought I was but I guess I’m not.”

“Hey, hey, Bernie.” Mal tapped her nose with his paw. “I’m part of you, remember? So if I’m ready to go a bit beyond kissing then so are you! We just need to...to work some things out. Maybe...maybe talk to someone?”

No. No no no no no. How could Mal suggest that? How could Mal even think that?! Talking to someone, even Byleth about, about...Bernie screamed into her pillow. 

“No, agh, you’re right, you’re right,” Mal said, curled up into a little ball again. “I just, I thought that maybe Dorothea might be helpful…”

“Dorothea?” As Bernadetta forced herself to calm down, she slowly realized that this wasn’t such a bad idea. Dorothea was her friend, and she was getting along better with Ferdinand, and, and she knew a lot about this sort of thing. And was comfortable with it in a way that Bernie could only admire, and sort of envy.

Which was how, a few days later, Bernadetta clutched Malecki in one hand for courage and knocked on Dorothea’s door with the other.

“D-Dorothea?”

The door swung open mid-knock “Bern! Come in, come in!” Dorothea stepped aside, Calphour fluttering to the bedpost so Bernadetta could quickly step inside to the safety of an enclosed space. “Wow, you really are in the middle of a growth spurt.”

Bernadetta tugged down her sleeve, which was once again too short—and she had just let it out a couple of months ago! She was taller than Edelgard now which was, uh, wow that was crazy to think about. 

“We can do this, Bernie!”

“You’re right, Mal!” “Uh, Dorothea? I have a question for you. Or, well, a request. It’s about Ferdinand.”

“Bern. Did he do something?”

“No! Not at all! Its, uh, okay…” It took some fits and starts, but she eventually got the whole story out. She wouldn't have been able to do it without Cal placing an encouraging wing over Malecki’s head and spines, and Dorothea spurring her onward.

“So yeah,” Bernadetta said when she was all done, “I kinda figured you’d be able to help.”

“Hm. I definitely could, but Bern, it seems like you need more help with the emotional side of intimacy, not the, ah, physical aspects. I mean, you know what you like, right?” She nodded, and Dorothea continued, “So all you need to do is tell Ferdie that.”

Calphour chimed in, “I never, ever thought I’d say this about Ferdie, but he’ll listen to you.” 

“I know, but,” Aahh it was so hard to talk about even though she and Mal wanted to! 

Dorothea nodded. “Yeah, I need to bring in the big spells. Bern, you are being so incredibly brave right now, and thank you for trusting me. I promise this will be okay.” She ran out, leaving Bernie alone in Dorothea’s nice-smelling dorm. 

“Oh no,” Mal immediately said, “You’re not going anywhere, Bernie. We need to have this conversation, and you know it!”

She did, she knew she did, but it was just so scary.

“I know things like this are scary to talk about, but I think it’ll be okay! I mean, everything has been turning out better than expected so far, right?” 

They had been; this had been the best year of her life, in so many ways. And she could...Dorothea was her friend, she could trust her! 

“Exactly!” Malecki was on the windowsill now. “So this is gonna be a good thing, Bernie!”

“Mal, it’s way too scary!” She was going to bolt, she knew it, her fear was about to completely override her and— 

“No it won’t!” Malecki scrambled through a crack in the window, and glared at Bernadetta from across the glass. “You’re staying right here and we are having this talk.”

Agh! She couldn’t leave, not with Mal on the other side of the window! Bernadetta pulled at the window, but it was closed. “Agh! Mal, you’re a complete jerk! You’re the worst daemon ever!”

And then she heard Mercedes’ soft and tired voice. “Bernadetta, Dorothea told me that you needed some advice and...oh dear, is this a bad time?”

---

Most people would never guess it, but Felix was an enormous crybaby growing up. 

It wasn’t like he wanted to be! It wasn’t proper, it wasn’t manly . Only babies cried; real knights of Faerghus held in their emotions and never showed their weakness or pain. And when Felix was a disgustingly naive child, he wanted to be a knight and a guardian of the king, just like his brother, more than anything. But no matter how much Felix tried to hold it in, or Bismalt told him to be strong and brave like Glenn and Argentia, he could never restrain how he felt. It made him so upset to see his friends argue, or his father’s worry, what else could he have done once he reached that threshold but let out how he felt? 

And then Glenn died, and there wasn’t any Goddess-damned fucking point to it anymore. 

His father was so still at the funeral, his daemon the perfect example of stoicism by his side, and as much as Felix tried to mirror that he could feel Bismalt wavering by his side, doing everything daemonly possible to not shift into a tiny puppy and run away whimpering. Surely his father felt the same way! Glenn was Felix’s brother, but he was also his father’s son. 

And what did the old man say? 

“He died like a true knight.”

Not mourning his death, but lauding it. It was as if the fact that Glenn was dead and gone and never coming back, and that he died horribly meant nothing compared to his demonstration of chivalry. 

“I don’t give a shit about chivalry; I want my brother, I want Argentia!” Bismalt screamed in horrified disbelief across their link. Felix wanted to shout that out loud, but what would it fucking matter? If the old man didn’t care about Glenn’s life, then no way would he care about Felix’s. 

Glenn was dead, and Felix missed him so much but the old man didn’t care. Ingrid was too busy worshiping that “true knight” bullshit instead of waking up to the fact that Faerghus chivalry was nothing more than fucking glorified death worship, Dimitri was...Dimitri had it even worse even before Delcabia showed the world that he was a wild animal and nothing more, and Sylvain went weird. Sylvain was the only one not directly affected, and he tried to hold them all together by being even more of a debauched fool, but Zepida went weirdly quiet, especially when the topic of brothers came up. 

So there was no point to crying, or asking for help, or anything like that. That was weakness in Faerghus, after all. There wasn’t anyone Felix could talk to about the pain inside, the resentment, the deep grief that he wasn’t allowed to express. Nobody other than Bismalt and Felix could only talk to himself for so long. So, eventually, he stopped talking about his feelings entirely. Covered his concern with a veneer of sarcasm and hostility, threw himself into competitiveness and caustic remarks until Bismalt settled as a Brigidian fighting fish and Felix forgot how to do anything else. Until it was nearly impossible to say to even Bismalt, much less anyone else, “I’m worried about the boar.”

Just hearing about what happened in Remire and listening to the survivors completely set him off; Felix shuddered to think what would have happened if the boar had witnessed the carnage firsthand. As it was, the only things left on the boar’s mind were training harder, hunting down that thing pretending to be Tomas and the rest of those sadists, goring their daemons, and crushing their skulls. If the boar wasn’t saying it, if he was smiling and nodding to Hanneman’s lectures and pretending he was fine, then that snuffling beast he dared to call a daemon wouldn’t stop muttering it under her breath. 

Felix was...well. He’d seen this before, when the beast showed the boar’s true face. And despite his warnings, everyone seemed perfectly content to pretend that the boar had settled as a boar for a perfectly benign reason. He’d shouted the alarm for months, years now, and only when Delcabia started muttering about crushing skulls did they listen. 

“It’s not like I want to be right,” Bismalt said, swimming agitated circles in the large classroom tank. “But Dima is gone and he’s not coming back. Why is Mercedes even trying; you can’t reason with a wild animal. And this wild animal is going to be king! Why does nobody else see what a bad idea this is?!”

“Because everyone here seems to have the idea that if you pretend everything is okay hard enough, it will be.” Which was bullshit, of course. You only needed to take one look at Sylvain and Zepida to see just how much pretending everything was fine didn’t make everything fine. But no, everyone seemed perfectly content to pretend that the boar was an actual functional human being with a normal daemon, or that Sylvain wasn’t slowly tearing himself from the inside out, or that the dead were anything other than dead and gone. 

“I feel like we’re swimming in circles, trying to warn everyone,” Bismalt said.

“You are swimming in circles.”

Bismalt flicked his tail at Felix. “I meant metaphorically, jackass.” 

He was right, but Felix had no idea what else he could do. He could leave, he should leave, just wash his hands of the whole fucking place, but...but…

Ugh. Goddess damn it. Not without Sylvain and Ingrid. And who would even try to cage the boar without him?

“Felix?”

He would recognize that deep careful voice anywhere. Great, the boar’s attack dog. Felix suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I lent Ashe some of my cooking tools and he left them in the classroom,” Dedue said, quiet as always. “I would retrieve them myself, but…” he waved a hand back at Levia, whose horns jutted out past the doorframe. The cooking tools were on Ashe’s desk, just barely in range of Felix without having to take Bismalt out of the tank.

Ugh, fine. He made his way over to Ashe’s desk, pretended not to let the tug of separation show on his face, then got as close to Dedue as he could and tossed the tools at him. Dedue easily caught them in his giant dinner plate of a hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. There was an awkward pause, then Dedue asked, “Has His Highness been sleeping well?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“You know His Highness tends to hide the full extent of his condition.”

“So why not push harder? You’re the only one who can get through to the boar anymore!” Bismalt shouted. 

“Then why not switch rooms with me? They have lifts for oversized daemons and you’ll be closer to the boar. And I won’t have to listen to Sylvain’s sex noises anymore, so we both win,” Felix said.

Bismalt swam to the top of the tank to better eye Dedue and Levia, who awkwardly stood behind him. “For the record? No, he hasn’t been sleeping. And he’s been getting sloppy in his training too. What have you actually been doing about that? You’re the only one the boar listens to anymore.”

Felix shot his dameon a glare, but too late. Dedue closed his eyes. “Mercedes has been cooking with me and Ashe for several months now; it’s been healing, in a way. I have been trying to get Dimitri to join, but he refuses every time. I fear this may require the intervention of an authority figure and although Professor Hanneman is an excellent instructor, this may be beyond his capabilities.”

“Hmph.” Felix would never say it out loud, but it was a shame Professor Byleth was so caught up in teaching and guiding her students. The few chances he had to spar with the Ashen Demon were an absolute delight; Petra was the only other one able to match them both in speed but Professor Byleth was more familiar with his fighting style and so was able to give more pertinent advice. More importantly for the boar, despite Professor Byleth’s creepy blankness or their even more disturbing ability to separate from Belial, she was unnaturally good at talking to people. She might actually be able to cage the boar. 

But that wasn’t going to happen, so there was no use dwelling on it. 

“This is stupid,” Felix said, fishing out Bismalt and putting him back in his capsule so he could actually talk to Dedue rather than shouting at him from across the classroom. “I’m serious. If being closer to the boar will help him sleep and you think that might actually help, then go ahead.”

Dedue looked at Levia, who answered in a voice that was just as soft and just as strange coming from one of the largest daemons Felix had ever seen—and Argentia had been a musk ox! “I am from Duscur. From what I understand there was a great controversy with me even attending the academy in the first place; to stay in the upper dormitories even at a time like this would be—“

“Will you shut up about being from Duscur?!” Bismalt snapped, fins beating with every word. “You’re from Duscur, great, like I give a fuck! I hate you, but it’s because you’re the boar’s mindless attack dog, not because of your heritage! I’m not the monks, I’m not Ingrid, and if any of them start in with you I’ll tell them it was my idea because it is! If you want to actually help the boar instead of just killing for him, then how about you stop wallowing and fucking do something about it!”

Bismalt was the one who snapped, but it was Felix who locked eyes with Dedue, staring the giant man down despite the height difference. 

“Very well,” he said. “Hopefully they will not need to modify the lift for Levia’s weight.” 

Felix nodded, and hoped this would at least leash the boar, though he did honestly doubt it would work. But he really didn’t know what would, at this point. 

---

Dorothea learned to slip into four-eye from a very young age. It was something she had to do, to stay as safe as she could on the streets of Enbarr. Nobody could sneak up on her, not when she was watching them through the eyes of a still-unsettled Calphour. He was very good at being a lion, those days. When Manuela found her and the opera saved her, that ability found another use. 

Cal perched on the chair, and Dorothea watched herself dance through his eyes. Sure he was a tiny songbird now, but he didn’t need to be a lion anymore, not when she could make the very air roar with her own thunder.

“Do you think it’s unfair to represent the Black Eagles in the White Heron Cup? I mean, we’re the only ones with professional experience.”

They paused in thought. The other two representatives were Felix and Lorenz. “No,” they said in unison. Besides, as the Golden Deer professor, Manuela would be helping Lorenz with his routine (just how would he incorporate Vinca into it? Most daemons on the stage were smaller. Would she still wear those ridiculous golden horns?) and Dorothea was eager to show her old mentor just what she had learned, and how well she could still sing and dance. 

“Can you believe that Edie is really going to tear down the entire rotten nobility? I never thought we’d have someone that high up actually realizing just how untenable the whole situation is, or actually doing something about it.”

“And she recruited us, and Petra!” Cal flitted from the chair to the desk. “Thea, what do you think Edie and Ava want us to do?” 

“Probably selling her reforms to the general public, as well as whatever nobility might listen. We are still beloved as the Mystical Songstress after all.” 

“That’s true. We should definitely brush up on our politics though. Without asking Ferdie.” True, he wasn’t as bad as he once was, but no way was she going to Ferdie for help on something so important! Plus even if he wasn’t a complete twit anymore, she doubted he’d take kindly to Edie’s plan.  

It wasn’t like they could go to the library right now though. Ever since Solon revealed himself the place was sealed off as Seteth went through the books and documents one by one to see if any of the collection had been tampered with. Even if that wasn’t happening, the entire structure felt cursed, somehow. Just how long had Solon masqueraded as Tomas, and who else could be pretending to be someone else? And just who was this Flame Emperor?  

Something told Thea that she’d find out soon enough, for now, well she’d borrowed some books from Edie and Hubie. Dorothea settled back into the extremely dry theses on tax reform of the early 1100’s when she heard a tentative knock on the door. 

“Dorothea? May I come in?”

“Ferdie?” What was he doing here? Despite Ferdinand’s efforts to turn Dorothea’s hatred to friendship—efforts that were starting to succeed largely due to how good he was towards Bernadetta and his ability to actually get a clue—even Ferdie, nosy little bee that he was, knew not to bug her in her room. This must have been something important, and so she opened the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah, Dorothea!” Despite his usual smile and blustering confidence, Embry was not flying lazy circles around his head but crawling nervously from finger to finger, hand to hand. She crawled up one wrist as he used the other hand to nervously rub the back of his neck. “Thank you so much for answering. First of all, I would like to congratulate you for being Professor Byleth’s selection to represent our esteemed house in the White Heron Cup. I have no doubt that you will perform admirably and lead us to victory.”

“Thank you.” She knew just how much he had wanted to be picked, and he really wasn’t that bad of a singer or dancer himself. And she had to give Ferdinand some modicum of respect for being such a graceful loser about it; most nobles would have thrown a complete shit fit if a commoner had been selected for an inter-house tournament over them. 

Okay, fine, he really had changed from the arrogant and disdainful little boy that had leered at her in the fountains and then judged her so harshly for being poor. “What is it, Ferdie?”

“I, ah, I would like to ask you for some advice, if that is okay? Ferdie asked, still uncharacteristically nervous for some reason. He again cupped his hands together and let Embry walk back and forth across them. “This is by no means an attack on your character, and you are in no way obligated to answer! Please, feel free to call me out for the fool that I am and slam the door on my face if you are in any way offended!”

“Oh?” Now she had to hear what Ferdie had to say. Cal hopped onto the brim of her cap, hopping from one foot to another with anticipation. “What could you possibly need my advice for?”

“Well, you see, oh this is awkward, well Bernadetta and I have been courting for some time, and we have discussed being more...intimate.”

“...Intimate.” Glee began to bubble in her. Was this going where she thought it was going?

“Ah, yes! This is something that both of us have discussed and found agreeable at some point in the near future. However! I am fully aware that my experience in this field is...lacking, and in retrospect I do not trust the information that I have been given, particularly when it comes to pleasing the other party. I...want Bernadetta to enjoy this, whatever we might do. She deserves no less.”

“So...you came to me. For sex advice.” It was way too satisfying to see him flinch at the frank term. Did he know that Bernadetta had come to her for the same thing? Probably not.

“Well, I...Yes. And this is not in any way a judgement upon you! I just, I know that you and Bernadetta are good friends, and I believed that you might have spoken about such...things. I was also...Dorothea, you are very comfortable with your body and, the, ah,” He made a vague gesture; Embrienne had vanished somewhere in his hair out of sheer embarrassment, “So I believed that you might be able to assist me with such a predicament.” 

It took every last bit of Dorothea’s training for her and Calphour to both keep a straight face. 

“You know, we have to give Ferdie credit. Most guys, especially snooty nobles like him, would just consider themselves sex gods when they’re actually two-pump-chumps. At least he’s coming to us for advice, and he wants Bern to enjoy this!”

“Cal? Ferdie. Is coming to us. For sex advice. Sex advice! This is the best thing ever!”

“I...Thea, you talk. I think if I open my beak I’ll just start laughing and I won’t be able to stop.”

And Ferdie looked unusually vulnerable, or rather not his normal overconfident self. Sure that smile was on his face but now it was more of a nervous grin. Embry still wasn’t visible but he could see the little bee daemon fidgeting under his hair. So Dorothea bit back a grin as she said, “Of course I can help you out, Ferdie.” She shot out her hand and grabbed him by the cravat. “Don’t worry, by the time we’re done you’ll have Bern screaming your name. Is she a screamer? I bet she’s a screamer.”

To her and Cal’s credit, they managed to wait until the door was closed for him to fall off her hat cackling in sheer delight.  

Notes:

Thank you for reading I know this chapter was a bit slower, just some humor and a breath of fresh air. But next chapter we'll be back to a mix of fluff, drama, and bending canon into a circle!

Chapter 19: Gambit Boost

Summary:

The students of Garreg Mach try to play at normalcy just in time for the ball.

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient. This chapter was rather difficult to get done thanks to real-world events. I hope you’re all staying safe out there

Black Lives Matter. I’m actually doing some fanfic commissions for charity; check out my twitter (@coffee_included) for details.

Anyway, please enjoy.

CONTENT WARNING: Discussions of the Fodlan version of police brutality and violence against a marginalized group. This was just bad timing; I’ve had this plotted out for a bit and ended up toning it down slightly. It’s section 2 of the chapter and one of those “setting up pieces for later” deals so feel free to skip over it and come back to it later if it’s too much right now.

Claude shivered and pulled Simurg closer. Why hadn’t anybody told him the mountains would get this cold this fast?! It was near the end of the Ethereal Moon and already a rime of white ice clung to the cliff upon which Garreg Mach sat, all the way down to the ravine below.

“And it’s a damp cold,” Simurg moaned, snuggling in against Claude’s fur-lined cloak. “How can anyone live like this?”

“How can anyone sleep like this?” Claude added. “Are people here part bear or something?”

“Sleep? What are you talking about?” Simurg poked her head out from the collar of his shirt and flicked her tongue. 

Claude's response was to point at a figure curled up against the leeward side of a large tree overlooking the ravine. He couldn't make out anything else, but only one person would wrap himself up in a blanket and fall asleep in the winter’s chill. 

“Really Linhardt? There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know. Especially in winter. How are you not frozen solid?”

“Magic.” Oh, right. He struggled with the Almyran magic systems as it was; the Fodlanese systems completely eluded him. Still, it seemed like a lot of effort for the notoriously passive and lazy Linhardt to put into a continuous spell. “Why not use a hammock?”

“I tried that. I’ll just roll over and fall out in the middle of my nap. It’s far easier to just cast a warming spell and not have to worry about waking up with a painful thud. Also, I’d have to find two good trees, and drag around a hammock everywhere I go, which is such a pain. And it’s not like Runilite is large enough to carry it for me.”

“I wouldn’t even if you asked,” the red panda daemon added. 

Okay, that made sense, at least through the...unique lens of Linhardt logic. Still, “Okay, so you don’t want to any physical effort at all, ever. Why are you even out in the cold? Isn’t your room a better place to nap?” And Claude had heard that it was even colder up in Faerghus. No wonder so many of the Blue Lions had large daemons; they’d freeze solid without something to curl up against at night.

Linhardt yawned and pulled himself into an impressively-exaggerated full body stretch. “It is, but I can’t see the river or ravine from my room.”

“Why do you care about the river or ravine so much?” Linhardt tended to flit from one interest to the other, though they tended to link back to crests in some way in the end, but while most people dismissed him as lazy and lost in hypotheticals, the young man was frighteningly intelligent. If something about this monastery and its secrets piqued Linhardt’s interest, then it was probably worth paying attention to. 

“Or Linhardt could be obsessing over the molding in the cathedral or something,” Simurg muttered across their bond. 

“Yes, but I prefer to be optimistic.”

“Look down there.” At the bottom of the ravine, there was a thin river whose banks were lined with ice. Trash piled up on the sides of the river, covered by a thin rime of ice and snow. A mountain goat picked its way through the trash. 

“There’s garbage. And a mountain goat. Linhardt, what’s so fascinating about that?”

“Most of our food waste is composted in the gardens or fed to the fish, and we recycle quite a bit of the rest of it. True, Leonie takes it to an extreme, but even so doesn’t that seem like a lot more trash than what we would produce?” He pointed back at the mountain goat, who pawed at some of the trash close to the trees. “Besides, if I remember correctly, mountain goats tend to live in groups.”

“Claude, is he implying…?” 

Claude quickly wracked his mind. Levia was a cape buffalo, Domaghar a horse. Vincatel was a red deer and neither she nor Lorenz would let anyone forget it. Catherine...No, her daemon was a sheep, and the cheerful gatekeeper had a zebra. No mountain goats that he was aware of. And the river...He traced his eyes upstream, saw where it cut under the bridge leading up to the monastery, then turned back and seemed to vanish just...under…”Linhardt, are you saying that there are people living under the monastery that we don’t know about?”

Linhardt nodded. “It’s quite possible. You weren’t down there when we rescued Flayn, but there is an entire labyrinth of tunnels and rooms hidden away under the monastery. It is certainly reasonable to suspect that, over time, several people took up residence there.”

Simurg slithered out of his sleeve to peer over the ledge, as far as she dared to look. “Okay, but why would people live under the monastery? And the church would have to know about it, so why would they permit such a thing?”

Linhardt shrugged but said nothing, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation. So Runilite picked up where he left off and said, “Well they let you into the Monastery and you’re Almyran, so clearly the Church has its own reasoning for things. Oh, I was supposed to keep that a secret, wasn’t I?”

Slowly, as if he had spotted quarry and could not scare it away, Claude and Simurg turned to face Linhardt, Runilite, and that infuriating look halfway between apathy and mild amusement shared between them both. “You know, Linhardt,” he said in too-even tones, and he knew it, get your shit together Claude! “It’s rather rude to assume someone isn’t from Fodlan just because they’re only half-Fodlanese.”

“I know, but I didn’t say you were from Fodlan. True, it’s a guess, but a rather educated one if I do say so myself. If I remember correctly, the name ‘Simurg’ is derived from a mythical keeper of knowledge in Almyran lore. I can’t imagine somebody in Fodlan naming their child’s daemon after a foreign mythological figure, even if that child is half-Almyran. Especially if that child is half-Almyran, given some of the rumors.”

Simurg whipped around, lightning fast. “Say that again,” she hissed towards Runilite, fangs bared and tail rattling. 

Linhardt shrugged and scooped up Runilite, seemingly unfazed. “I’m just saying, it’s rather unlikely. Furthermore, I heard that you were a complete unknown until you appeared out of nowhere.what was it, a couple of years ago? Let’s say you were the product of a Riegan and an Almyran ‘servant.’ Even if that were the case you would have been kept in Fodlan and trained to be the next heir the moment your Crest presented itself. But that was clearly not the case. Therefore, I suspect that you were born outside Fodlan entirely.” He cocked his head. “Am I wrong? Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. It’s not like I particularly care.” 

“Goodbye, Linhardt.” Claude pulled himself away from the ravine and stalked off. Only when he was sure that the young Crest scholar was no longer following him did he lean against a tree. Fucking dammit. He pushed back the sweat from his brow, beading up despite the chill of winter, took deep breaths and willed his heart to slow.

“Claude, why did you do that?” Simurg slithered out of his sleeve entirely, wrapped herself in a gentle pressure around his waist just like when he was younger and so much more naive. “Linhardt is brilliant, and I think he’s right about the tunnels under the monastery! We should ask him for more details.”

“I know. Just…” He scrubbed his hand down his face. “Not now. Not after what he said. What about Edelgard? Or Hubert? They’re both just as intelligent and I still need to challenge them to a game.”

“Are you mad?!” 

“At least I can get a read on them!” That was perhaps the most infuriating thing of all—Linhardt was somewhere between passive, resigned, and completely apathetic, and Claude couldn’t tell where exactly he was or what threads he could start pulling. 

“Oh, really now? Then riddle me this: what are they plotting?”

“I…” Because that was the problem. Edelgard and Hubert were most certainly plotting something, and he was fairly sure that their goals largely aligned with his. But they were so damn secretive about it! He’d go and ask them directly, but ever since that club meeting gone wrong they weren’t talking. And if he was seen asking too many questions…

Well, Linhardt was right about one thing. His Almyran blood was a liability, especially given just how badly this year was going. But he did have one other piece now in play.

“Let’s talk to Hilda,” Claude said to Simurg. “Every piece of gossip in this academy reaches her ears at some point. If anybody knows anything about people living in the basement, it would be her.”

---

The mountain goat daemon watched until the flutter of motion up on the top of the cliff vanished. Then, in a rare moment of caution, waited a little while longer. Only when she was reasonably sure they were gone did Drusionary finish chipping away the thin sheen of ice covering the waterproofed bag, pick it up, and make her way back to Balthus. 

“You see?” Balthus boasted once they made their way back to the safety of the tunnel, “Told ya I’d have no problem sneaking out there.”

“I still say you’re a complete idiot, B,” Hapi replied. Yuri could just feel the repressed sigh trapped in her throat. Thankfully Hapi’s self-control was like iron, and she had Malka Foss to channel her frustration into. “If the guards saw you they could very well come on running down here. And if one of those students saw us, they might freak and tell the knights, and then we’d really be in trouble.”

“Wow, you’re being really harsh,” Balthus said under Drusionary—the mountain goat daemon had taken the upper hoof and pinned him to the ground. “Come on Constance, back me up here?”

“I think not! That was the utter height of foolishness, Balthus! Do you truly wish to bring the wrath of the knights down upon our heads once more? Or have the last vestiges of brains finally been knocked loose from your skull?” Rubine, as theatrical as his peacock form would suggest, punctuated Constance’s words with pecks to Drusionary’s legs. 

“Ow! Hey Constance, I feel that too!” Still, it didn’t stop Balthus from using the distraction to wriggle from under Drusionary and pin her to the ground. “What about you, Yuri? You wouldn’t abandon your old friend Balthus, would you?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know.” He tapped his chin in mock thought, sharing an amused glance with Icarus. “I’m a lot faster and stealthier than you are. Not to mention Icarus over here is, shall we say, more inconspicuous than Drusionary.”  For emphasis, the blue jay daemon winked and vanished under his cloak. 

“Traitor. Well, either way I got the preserving salts back, and they’re still sealed!” The large sack slumped against Drusionary’s horns. “So we’ll be good for the winter, food-wise! ‘Sides, they found the lost kid up top, right? So there’s no reason for knights down here anymore.”

“Yeah, like that’s ever stopped them,” Hapi muttered. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I kinda miss Aelfric. Sure he was a smarmy paternalistic creep, but he actually gave a shit about us.”

That was true, and his standing within the church—at least before he had been disgraced—was high enough that if he spoke on behalf of Abyss, people would listen. Rhea would have made time for him rather than leaving the place as a vague concern in the back of her mind, swept aside by other Archbishop duties on the surface. But Aelfric had been gone for years, and the little girl up top—Flayn, was it?—went missing about two months ago.

“I mean, I get why the knights stormed Abyss, it’s a maze down here and we know the way around better than anyone. And some of the denizens of Abyss are serious criminals, not just impulsive idiots like Balthus.” Icarus fluttered their wings in distress at the memory. “But it’s one thing to search the place, and another thing to…”

Yuri shook his head, but the images remained. The knights bursting into Abyss with no warning, turning over cartons of carefully salted fish and tearing through what few possessions the people down here had. Responding to his peoples’ protests with shouts if they were lucky and gauntlets if they were not. And then someone threw a rock at a knight’s ibex daemon, and her human drew his sword…

Balthus had managed to pull one of the youths out of the river afterwards, before the waters separated him from his daemon or washed them both away. He’d probably live.

By the second day—heck even by the second hour of Yuri was being honest—he was about to crawl out of Abyss and beg Archbishop Rhea for clemency and mercy, exile and pride be damned. But just as Yuri was about to make his way up top and throw himself at the feet of the church for mercy upon Abyss, Flayn turned up alive and mostly unharmed. The knights all but vanished without so much as an awkward apology for blaming Abyss and taking out their frustrations on a group of people who couldn’t fight back. 

“You know what the really stupid thing is?” Yuri thought to Icarus, “If they had just asked for help, then we would have given it. Sure maybe not willingly, but nobody knows the tunnels down here better than us. But nobody down here would ever lend a hand now after their little stunt.” Any goodwill that Aelfric had generated was gone, unlikely to ever return. Trust really was such a fragile thing. 

“Hey, Yuribird, come back to earth.” Hapi’s hand in front of his face shook him out of those thoughts. “Okay, so we finally got all the preserving stuff back, but everyone down here is still waiting for the Church to come back. So what’s the plan?”

“We shall not retreat further into Abyss!” Constance said. “I am Constance and Rubine von Nuvelle, and we do not surrender!” Rubine’s long train of feathers flared up with her words. 

“Uh-huh, and what about when you fled Adrestia and made your way down here?” Yuri couldn’t help but tease, just to see Constance’s face turn purple and Rubine start shrieking at him and Icarus both. It was also good for breaking the tension that had been building for months, and showed no signs of abating. 

Yuri sighed as he looked upon his...his family, he supposed. His people, same as his old gang were his people (and still would be, if he ever saw them again). Even if it was a shadow, a mockery of the Officer’s Academy, the Ashen Wolves House was still one of the best ideas that Aelferic had ever come up with, a good enough idea that it stuck around even after the creepy old cardinal was gone. It had become a badge of honor of sorts in Abyss to be part of the Ashen Wolves House, and its “graduates” took care of the community when nobody else would. They kept the sewers as safe as possible, mediated arguments, distributed food and shelter, taught the young children down here how to read and write and stay away from those up top…

And couldn’t do anything but watch as the knights stormed Abyss anyway. 

“We hunker down for the winter like always. Icarus and I will keep searching the tunnels for another safe spot, though even if I find a place we can’t move there until after the spring floods.”

“Great. That’s wonderful. And until then? I may be the almighty King of Grappling, but even I can’t take on all the knights at once.”

Hapi chimed in, “I mean, I could summon a whole load of beasts down on their heads but that seems like the kind of thing that would create more problems than it solves.”  

But what would they do? Nobody was coming to save them. The Archbishop may have cared, but Yuri was increasingly convinced that it was in that vague, distantly-benevolent way, much as so many people would tut sympathy and pities at his mother when she couldn’t get quite enough food for them both but then not do anything but toss a couple extra coppers her way. It didn’t matter what kind of game the Church or those people who kidnapped Flayn was playing, because Abyss would lose either way. Yuri had chosen exile over execution all those years ago, not knowing that he had chosen to be thrown in the metaphorical basement and slowly forgotten. As was everybody else here, the outcasts of Fodlan for one reason or another.

Icarus made their way back onto his shoulder, feathers still shining blue despite it all. He was the leader of Abyss now, inasmuch as Abyss had a leader. He needed to keep his people safe, as much as he possibly could. 

---

Times like these, Manuela really wished she had been a student at the academy, swept up in the peaceful days before entering noble life.

“What peaceful days?” Puccini whispered as she sipped her...punch. “It’s been one thing after another this year. Honestly I’m just glad the kids are getting something relaxing and fun.”

Okay, fine, then Manuela really wished she had been able to enjoy the ball as a student, swept up in the dancing and romance and dalliances. But nooooo, here she was having to play chaperone and keep the students from being too touchy-feely with each other. Why couldn’t she have someone to be all touchy-feely with to aggravate Seteth? Instead she was watching him step in between Dorothea and Petra, or Edelgard and Dimitri, admonishing them to “leave room for the Goddess.” Edelgard and Dimitri weren’t even courting! And they had to leave space anyway for Delcabia’s awkward steps (the sight of a boar in the ballroom was almost too much). And like hell was she going to let him bother Dorothea, still clad in her dancer’s outfit as Petra led her through the steps of a Brigidian dance. Calphour and Ardior flew above them in long swoops, darting in and out of the space between couples.

Puccini leaned forward, a fond look on his face. “Remember when we were first teaching Dorothea how to project her voice in the same direction while dancing?”

“How could I ever forget?” Dorothea had looked up to her with so much hero-worship back then, even though she was...well, Manuela. She could still remember how Calphour loved to be a lemur just like Puccini, how disappointed he briefly was when he settled as a goldcrest instead. And now here Dorothea was, all grown up, the Mystical Songstress following in her footsteps all the way to the Officer’s Academy. Manuela couldn’t be prouder of her little songbird, showing everyone here just what commoners could do. Was this what being a parent felt like, when they saw their children grow up and leave the nest? 

Manuela leaned back against the table full of tiny tarts surrounding a carved roast, and watched with mild amusement as Seteth exhausted himself trying to get a bunch of horny teenagers going through an incredibly stressful year to “maintain propriety” or whatever puritan definition of the term Seteth was working with. Come on, it’s not like the kids were feeling each other up on the middle of the dance floor; let them live a little!

“Hang on, is that...no way.” Puccini tapped their side of her face, frantically pointing in the direction of…

No way. Manuela could easily recognize Ferdinand, who attended weekend choir practice religiously and had a surprisingly smooth baritone for someone who never had any formal training. And he was dancing with...small. Purple hair. Hedgehog daemon. Though she’d never spoken with Ferdinand’s girlfriend, only ever saw her in rapid passing, this had to be the famously skittish Bernadetta. 

Bernadetta almost never left her room, but here she was at the annual ball, dancing with Ferdinand. He led her steps, held her close with her head against his chest to block off the view of other people. Bernadetta, for her part, leaned into Ferdinand’s bulky form. As Manuela watched, Embrienne landed on Malecki’s head, and the hedgehog daemon’s quills relaxed against his body. 

“Are you KIDDING me?!” Puccini flailed on Manuela’s shoulder so hard that she feared he would fly off. “Berna-freaking-detta has a steady boyfriend, but WE can’t get past a second date?! Ugh, we’re gonna be single our entire lives, aren’t we.”

It wasn’t as if she wasn’t happy for Bernadetta and Ferdinand—truly, she was! But Manuela also couldn’t help but feel a flare of jealousy flicker through her. Ugh, why couldn’t she have a second date? Or at least a one-night stand? She couldn’t even remember the last time she got laid! Forget marriage; at this point Manuela would settle for a half-decent dicking! 

Still, the two were definitely not “leaving room for the goddess,” and if Seteth called attention to that fact he’d probably send Bernadetta into a panic attack and completely ruin the whole idea of a nice relaxing and fun ball to distract students from the shittiest school year ever. 

Goddess, Manuela wished she had her flask with her right now. One needed a refreshing beverage when dealing with Seteth, who had a metal rod shoved so far up his ass she was surprised he didn’t attract lightning. Well, at least she could ensure that the students had a good time; it was too late for her. “Hey Seteth, had enough fun getting between the kids yet?”

“I—I beg your pardon, Manuela!” She could see the shape of his bearded dragon daemon scuttling to maintain her balance inside her sleeve. Goddess, but it was entertaining to needle Seteth and make his control slip. “Our students must maintain proper decorum as is befitting of our reputation and their place in society. I am simply reminding them of this.”

“Proper decorum, blah blah blah, this year has gone completely pear-shaped, let them live a little!” She took Seteth by the hand—the one whose sleeve wasn’t holding his daemon—and led him out to the dance floor. “You ought to live a little too! Or at least relax a bit. You’ve had a rough time of things too.”

“I…very well.” He placed a callused hand on Manuela’s shoulder (Puccini scampered to the floor to give them some space), and they joined their students on the ballroom floor. 

“This is a really old dance,” Manuela said as she let him lead the way. It felt like one he had learned a long time ago. She herself barely remembered the name, only that it was in style quite a long time ago. “Where did you learn it?”

She watched as Seteth’s face went soft and distant. “My wife taught me, a long time ago.”

Wait, what? “You’re married?”

“I have so many questions.”

He was married?! Who was his wife, and why had nobody in the monastery ever met her? And a long time ago? Just how old was Seteth? There wasn’t a single gray hair in sight, and it would definitely show up against the gray! Lucky bastard. She’d had her first gray hair almost a whole year ago, and yet they still made her teach that day. Couldn’t the academy tell she was mourning her youth?

“I was married,” Seteth said, eventually. He was still distant and soft. “She passed away a long time ago, along with my son.”

Oh. Oh, what kind of self-centered asshole was she, to harp on and on about herself when Seteth had lost both his wife and son?! “Seteth, I am so, so sorry.”

“It...it is not something I talk about much. That was a very painful time of my life. But thank you.” They danced for a while longer, a respectful distance, but still close enough for Manuela to drink in the deep green of his hair, such a rare and striking color. The equal green of his eyes, shimmering with welling tears. His voice cracked as he said, “And thank you, for trying to save Flayn. She is the only family I have left. Without her, I don’t know what I would do.”

“Seteth, it was Byleth and her students who saved Flayn. I just got stabbed.” It was completely humiliating. She wasn’t able to do anything against the Death Knight; Puccini was barely able to tell Byleth which way he had gone before passing out. All she had to show for it was an ugly red scar across her chest. Her beautiful skin, ruined! 

“You took a knife for Flayn, and even if you couldn’t finish the job I saw how you tracked Jeritza down, and pointed Byleth and her students in the right direction. I saw how you sang for her when both of you were recovering.” Flayn had so greatly enjoyed her arias, and Puccini’s censored tales of the brighter side of the Mittelfrank Opera Company. In some ways, it had almost felt like raising Dorothea again. “Manuela, I truly cannot thank you enough for what you have done, and what you tried to do.”

Was Seteth...crying? His voice had gone husky in a way he had only heard when Flayn woke up. “You’re welcome, Seteth. You know, you’re really stuffy and uptight, but you’re not that bad a guy. You just need to lighten up, let the kids live a little. We’re already sending them into battle.” 

Another beat of the dance. Seteth was good at this. “But what happens when they make poor choices and end up hurting others; or—“

Manuela placed a finger to his lips, just to shut him up, and see the flush crawl across his face. She needed to do this more often; it was so entertaining to make Seteth flustered. “Seteth, we’re teachers, not nannies. Our students will soon enter noble life and make policy divisions on their own that will affect all of us. How can you trust them to do that if you can’t even trust them to keep it in their pants?” 

Seteth frowned. “Jeralt said much the same thing, and that is true, but...Forgive me. This is not the proper time for such discussions.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, and laugh even more at his furrowed brow. “Oh Seteth, we simply must meet up for tea later and have a good talk.” 

Puccini flicked his ears to where Ferdinand and Bernadetta had been. There was a flash of purple as she fled the ballroom, and a warm smile on Ferdinand’s face as he made his way to the center of the floor and offered his hand to anyone who wished. Manuela kept dancing with Seteth. At the very least, it was quite entertaining seeing him all flustered like this. And he really wasn’t as bad as his stuffy exterior would suggest. She rather liked a guy who could be so stern and proper, yet so good-hearted and amusing. 

---

In the frozen tundra far to the north, gyrfalcons were the undisputed lords of the air. None could touch them, none could catch them. 

Edelgard hated being too far away from her dear Avarine. Even though they could no longer feel the pain of separation, it was too painful a reminder of what was done to them and their family and so many others. She envied Byleth, a little, for having no such compunctions. And yet, seeing Avarine soar beyond the highest spire of the goddess tower, take to the chilled winter air her shape was born for in a way she never could have otherwise...was it okay, for her to find beauty out of such damage and trauma? 

Two sets of footsteps startled Edelgard out of her thoughts. Avarine dove into a blisteringly-fast stoop, only pulling up at the last minute to landon her shoulder instead of slamming into her back. All of which was unnecessary, because the footsteps belonged to Professor Byleth and Belial. “Oh, Professor Byleth. Were you coming here for someone?” Had she heard about the legend of the Goddess Tower? It was a surprise that nobody else was here; from what Edelgard had heard she assumed there would be multiple couples engaged in trysts on the way up here. But perhaps people were in less notorious locations, or still at the dance. Edelgard had come up here because she figured that Monica wouldn’t...and also because Hubert was afraid of heights. 

Avarine hopped down to Belial’s shoulders and, completely disregarding the flush on Edelgard’s face, started preening their fur. Professor Byleth remained as stoic as ever, but Belial thumped their tail against the ground. “Not in particular, but I’m pleased to see you here. We haven’t had too much of a chance to talk lately; I haven’t even seen you at office hours.”

That was all because of Monica. Every time she tried to speak to Professor Byleth, or Hubert, or anybody for more than a few minutes, Monica manifested out of nowhere, a silent warning that those monsters in the dark were always watching and listening from the shadows. That she had nobody else to turn to in order to take down the church. 

Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had Hubert, and now Dorothea and Petra. But would that be enough? Monica was doing her best to drive a wedge between Edelgard and Professor Byleth...no, between Edelgard and everyone. If not for her, would she have told her teacher already? She very well might have, or at least dropped more blatant hints that even her Professor might have picked up on. Perhaps she could have even gotten through to Sylvain, educated Claude, or even recruited Lysithea outright. But no, there was nothing to be done about it now. Dwelling would only get her stuck; she had to go to war with the resources she had. 

Professor Byleth tilted her head; she’d gone silent longer than she intended. “Has something happened? Is everything okay?”

Things are not fine, Edelgard wanted to scream. There was nobody here on this tower, nobody she could see anyway. She wanted so badly to confess her crimes, beg Professor Byleth to join her and help throw off Fodlan’s shackles, console her and tell her that everything was going to be okay, that it would all be worth it (it had to be. There was no other option left but force. Rhea had taught them well with Lonato.). Tell her about the monsters in the dark shadowing her even now, binding her tongue and forcing her into silence, who did something to Hubert and Thanily that they couldn’t talk about. Would her teacher understand? What would she do? 

But what if Monica was listening? And this fear of that disappointing her teacher...Flames, she had it bad. So instead Edelgard asked, “Have you heard about the rumors of the Goddess Tower?”

Professor Byleth nodded. “Something about two people on the tower making a wish, right? People talked about it like it was romantic…”

Well, yes, it was explicitly romantic...and a bit more than romantic, for those brave and skilled enough to pick the locks and actually sneak inside. “This place, the Goddess Tower... It was special to my parents. My father attended the Officers Academy himself. A few years after graduating, he was crowned emperor. One day, during a visit to the monastery, he snuck into the Goddess Tower on a nostalgic whim. And there she was, my mother. She had just enrolled in the academy that very year. They were instantly drawn to each other. Love at first sight, you could say. It was the first time either had truly been in love... or so the story goes.” Do you get it? Can you hear what I’m hinting at?

But she couldn’t. Professor Byleth was never good at getting hints. “Their first love?”

Edelgard leaned a little closer, ostensibly seeking out warmth against the cold night air. “Yes. Of course, as emperor, my father had already married for political reasons. As the Empire demands many heirs, he also had numerous other lovers. In the end, my mother settled for becoming one of his many consorts. But I choose to believe there was genuine love between them. Heh, I suppose it's a silly story to cling to.” In the end she was just a legitimized bastard, heir to the throne because there was nobody else left but her. She had to do this because nobody else could, nobody else would. 

“I think it’s a lovely story.” Her teacher's smile was faint, but it might as well have illuminated the night sky. “It reminds me a bit of a bedtime story my father told me, when I was young.”

“Isn't it? It's a shame that the lovely stories ended after I was born. For as long as I can remember, my mother had already been exiled from the capital.” And she couldn’t even remember if she had met her mother during her time in Fhirdiad. That entire section of her life was shrouded off for her own sanity, left so she could only remember the silhouettes of things. “It's strange. Something about you makes me reveal all of the things I so carefully keep concealed.”

“But not enough!” Avarine cried out, echoing in both their heads. “Tell her, please!” 

And what would Monica and Thales do in retaliation? Not just to Edelgard or Hubert, but to her teacher? It was too soon. She couldn’t act just yet. And at the very least she could keep her teacher safe from whatever they were planning. Edelgard hated chess, but let this piece remain on the board for now; she wasn’t ready to sacrifice it yet. 

“Anyway,” Edelgard continued, glaring at Avarine (still perched on Belial’s head), “What about you? It's your turn to reveal some long-held secret! You can share a story about your past...or perhaps tell me about your first love?”

Professor Byleth’s gaze slid past her out to the monastery, and the lights of the town beyond the walls. “I...have no such stories. I’m sorry.” She looked to Belial, then for some reason winced and clapped her ear? 

“You're telling the truth. I can tell. Hm... I wasn't even able to make you blush.” She didn’t even bother trying to explain away why it mattered so much anymore. She had a hopeless crush on her teacher and needed to quash it for the sake of her plan. But...she couldn’t. That little flower would likely wither and die in just a few months. Let it at least enjoy that brief time in the sun. What was the point of uprooting it early? 

“Sorry…”

And that was enough for Avarine to fly back to her shoulder, for Edelgard to say, “Professor, I’m the one who should apologize for prying. I...you know about my past, what I was forced to endure, and my vow to change the world so nobody else suffers under the yoke of corrupt nobles and their obsession with crests ever again. But...do you think I can do it? Will you still consider me your student, even after I am crowned?”

“Oh, Edelgard.” Her teacher pulled her into an embrace, and her, uh, her breasts were very large and very soft and very much pressed against her chest guh. They rose and fell with Byleth’s breath and Edelgard tried very hard to focus on her voice and not that, and certainly not to strain to listen for a soothing heartbeat! “You are driven, and kind, and care so much about other people. You’re brilliant, especially at seeing the big picture. I’ve learned so much from you as much as I hope you’ve learned from me. I think you’ll be amazing.”

Would she still think that, even after she declared war and betrayed her teacher? Or would all that affection turn to hatred?

Monica would no doubt find her, so Edelgard leaned into Byleth’s embrace, Avarine flew back to Belial and nestled in their thick fur just a little while longer. Let her enjoy this for just a moment more, even if she couldn’t stay. 

---

Hubert cursed the Goddess Tower for being the centerpiece of so many flights of romantic fancy and cursed himself for his discomfort of high places. What could she possibly be doing up there? He told her not to open herself up too much, especially with Monica breathing down their necks. 

“Hubert,” Thanily whispered from deeper in the brush, “What if Monica tries to send a message to Lady Edelgard the way she did with us?

Flames, no, it was almost too horrible to contemplate. He would thrust Thanily into Monica’s hands a thousand times over if it meant sparing Lady Edelgard that same pain, even as Thanily whined and flattened herself against the ground at the thought. But that was highly unlikely to happen as long as Lady Edelgard avoided unnecessary risks; their causes were aligned for the moment. Monica was gleefully sadistic, but she was not completely deranged.

“And you don’t consider this an unnecessary risk? Hubert, we can’t completely monitor Lady Edelgard from down here and she knows that!” 

“Then we shall do what we must, no matter how unpleasant it may be.” Hubert sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face as he settled back into his hiding spot. Flames, but he was exhausted. He supposed it was fortunate that the ruins of Remire were abandoned after their mission; with nobody monitoring the area it was relatively easy for him to station his spies and troops in the burnt-out village with nobody the wiser. 

“If Dorothea and Petra maintain their promises of alliance, then not only do we have all of Brigid on our side to draw resources upon, but also a ready-made propaganda campaign. Dorothea’s fame and artistic ability will make her invaluable for spready imessages about the war effort and keeping up morale in a way that we cannot,” Thanily said, her ears pricked for people passing by. 

Hubert nodded. He, reluctantly, had to admit that Lady Edelgard was right to court Dorothea and Petra’s attention. Even if they did not know the full details (and would have no need to know until the time was right), their alliance was still invaluable. “It’s a shame that Monica infiltrated herself so thoroughly, and even more of a shame that we have so little time to enact our scheme. Actively spreading our message directly under the nose of the Church is immensely entertaining, to be sure, but it was also an unnecessary risk. Still, I do wish that we had had more time to let the reprehensible actions of the Church speak for themselves and, at the very least, sow discord and thoughts of dissent in the minds of the other students.” Lysithea would very well join their cause; her sheer magical power and knowledge of Those Who Slithered In The Dark would be useful assets indeed. He still did not know what Professor Byleth would do when Lady Edelgard made her stand, could not yet bring himself to hope that she would pick their side when their classmates split. Linhardt was a contemptibly lazy and passive pacifist who would likely stay out of the war entirely. Caspar was a pugilistic fool whose family had already pledged their support for Lady Edelgard’s cause; even if he sided against them it would not be terribly difficult to redirect his attention. 

And as for Ferdinand and Bernadetta…

Thanily’s ears swiveled towards the sound of cautious footsteps. “Do you hear that?”

Only one person, no sound of daemon footsteps, so unlikely to be a couple sneaking off for an illicit tryst. Hubert stepped out of the bushes, Thanily’s teeth bared in a snarl and dark magic flickering in his palm. “I would highly recommend that you vacate the premises immediately, unless you wish to suffer a rather unfortunate fate…”

“AAAHHH!!! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you Bernie and Mal didn’t see or hear anything I promise not to tell Seteth—”

The magic vanished with a snap of his fingers. “Bernadetta, it’s me—”

She stumbled back, her hands clapped over her eyes as Malecki did the same thing curled up in her evening satchel. “I’m sorryimsorryimsorry I’m not looking keep doing what you’re—yah! Ow!” Hubert rolled his eyes, while Thanily visibly winced. Predictably, since Bernadetta had her eyes covered, she stumbled backwards and tripped over a large root.

Hubert sighed and leaned down, extending a gloved hand. “Now that you’ve seen the merits of keeping your eyes open, do you need some help getting up?”

“I...Oh, it’s you Hubert. I’m sorry, that was pretty stupid of me…” Bernadetta reached up and let Hubert help her to her feet. Her dress was quite pretty actually, a soft gray that mirrored her eyes. 

“It’s okay. Like I said, I meant to be frightening.” He chuckled darkly, and noted how Bernadetta trembled, but this time stood her ground. “I’m surprised you’re out here during the ball anyway. I thought you would take refuge in your room.”

“I did! I mean, I wanted to, but Ferdie loves to dance, and he said he wanted to dance with me, and, I mean, it is proper for a courting couple to dance together…”

“Ah, of course. It is so typical for the peacocks to strut and show off their mates. How disgustingly shallow the so-called ‘high society’ is.”

Bernadetta shook her head. “We made a deal. I’d do one dance with him, then I’d go back to my room and he’d dance with other people. He offered to escort me back but I said that he should enjoy himself since he loves dancing so much, I could get back to my room, it’s not that far and I won’t get lost and it’s a nice quiet night and oh no I’m babbling I’m sorry Hubert!”

Huh. Though perhaps he should not be so surprised; Ferdinand was surprisingly considerate where Bernadetta was involved. It had been a...pleasant discovery. “It’s not a problem. I can leave, if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I...I’m fine, actually. The dance was terrifying but once we got into it he showed me all the steps and I was so caught up in that I nearly forgot about everyone else and, really, it wasn’t that bad.”

Malecki poked his little head out from the lavender bag. “I didn’t see you at the ball. I thought you’d be there even just to watch over Edelgard.”

He had considered that, but in the end the prospect of a nearly-empty monastery was just too good to pass up. He had gotten more preparations set up over the past few hours than he had all week, just from not being interrupted and having to look innocent every few minutes. Of course he wasn’t about to actually say that, so instead Hubert just said, “I don’t dance.”

“Really?” Bernadetta craned up her neck to gaze at him, Her eyes were, how could she ever call them flat and colorless? They were like the sea in a story, ready to batter ships into submission and so much driftwood. “But weren’t you taught to dance?”

“I said that I don’t dance, not that I can’t dance.”

“Oh…” Bernadetta dropped her hand,and for a moment Hubert felt strangely adrift, like he had said something wrong.

Malecki leaned a little further out of the bag. “Do you, um, want to dance?”

“Mal?!”

His prickles went up, but he forged onward nonetheless. Hubert and Thanily said nothing, so as not to break the spell. “I mean, it was scary, but not as scary as I was afraid it would be? And there’s nobody else around so maybe it won’t be that bad? Of course, only if you want to, I mean—”

Malecki stopped talking, and Bernadetta turned bright pink, because Hubert had taken her by the hand and bowed in what would be a mockery of an apology to anybody else but, for some reason, was genuine when it came to Bernadetta. The music was loud, and filtered through the door, faint but there. “I believe Icould spare you a brief dance, if I am not too frightening to you.” 

“I…” She swallowed. “S-sure! I’ve got to try harder anyway! And you’re not that, I mean, aaggh shut up Bernie!”

It was a simple waltz, or at least it would have been, Hubert did this dance countless times, and though he was admittedly not as practiced as Ferdinand or other nobles he was certainly competent in it. Thanily, too, was more than able to keep the beat. So then why did the warmth of Bernadetta’s hand occupy his mind so? And when he wrapped his arm around her waist as the dance instructed, the contact burned even through multiple layers of fabric in a way that it had never done before.

Hubert shook away the thoughts clouding his head. Aftereffects of Monica’s assault, surely. Nothing more, and certainly nothing important. 

The music filtering outside was faint, but it was just enough to keep a beat to. She didn’t tuck her myself close to him, didn’t hold her head against his chest, but she did lean against his lanky arm against her back as if she drew strength from it. Thanily moved with him even though Malecki would not join in. 

“I’m surprised you know how to dance,” Hubert said. Bernadetta was clumsy, to be sure, moving along by her natural grace and dexterity more than anything else, but she had clearly received some sort of formal training. “I find it rather difficult to imagine you on a ballroom floor.”

“My...my father made me learn. He said that a proper lady should know how to dance. I mostly remember how much the shoes hurt…”

Oh, her father was going to pay. How would he do the deed? Poison? No, he wanted to see the look of terror in her father’s eyes as he realized that he would die. That was blood he would gladly spill. Or perhaps let him slowly rot away forgotten in a filthy cell, nobody to talk to but his daemon until he forgot his own name. “Your father is a miserable worm whose only contribution to the world was conceiving you.”

Another turn in the dance. Bernadetta accidentally trod her foot on his, but Hubert said nothing. “My father didn’t even name me; it was my mother. Bernadetta means ‘brave bear,’ did you know that? I mean of course you did you’re Hubert you know everything…”

I wish I did know everything; then I would know how to eliminate Monica and Those Who Slither In The Dark, how to demolish the church without their power. “I think it is a rather appropriate name. You needed to be brave to survive in such a hostile environment, not to mention improve yourself the way you have here. True, you may not be as fearless as Lady Edelgard, but you are not the Imperial princess. You have more than enough bravery for your needs.”

“Really?”

“I take pride in my ability to objectively analyze another’s character, regardless of my personal feelings. You are remarkably strong-willed, to have made it all the way here. And, though it galls me to say it, Ferdinand’s influence has been...beneficial to you.”

“Oh...Th-thank you, Hubert. You know, you don’t need to be super scary all the time!”

He chuckled, even through her suppressed squeak. “I shall try to emember that.”

Malecki continued to hum the basic melody of the waltz, even after the ballroom faded away. 

It was easy to tell Bernadetta’s room apart; someone had placed a cheery nameplate on it and she never bothered to take it down. “Well Bernadetta, I believe this is where I must leave you. It was my pleasure to escort you back home.”

“Uh, thanks. Really! It was nice of you, you didn’t have to do that but I’m grateful regardless.” Bernadetta scratched the back of her neck, refusing to look in his direction. Malecki, too, had curled up back in the pouch. “Ummmm, Hubert? This was nice but Ferdinand said that he’d, uh, see me after the ball? And I know you don’t like him much so, uh,”

Oh, of course. It made perfect sense, and would be beneficial for him as well. It would be much easier to work on some of his...noisier jobs if Ferdinand spent the night in Bernadetta’s room. And it was extremely useful to know how deep their courtship ran. 

Hubert swallowed back the sudden urge to run his hand through her hair, washed clean and layered with some of Dorothea’s products so it bounced and curled into soft ringlets, and suppressed the sudden desire to kiss her hand. Instead, he and Thanily bowed deep, deep enough that she couldn’t see his eyes under his dark hair, and said, “In that case, I hope you have a lovely evening.”

“You too, Hubert.” And she closed the door. Hubert found himself standing before it, his skin still prickling like he had spent too much time in the summer sun. 

“Hubert, what was that?” Thanily asked. 

He stared at Bernadetta’s door, resolutely ignored his traitorous hand and the even more traitorous images swimming through the back of his mind. “Nothing important.”

What was important was solidifying Lady Edelgard’s path to the throne. Because once she became Emperor and disposed of that bloviating sack of lard calling himself the Prime Minister, there was no way that Ferdinand von Aegir, as he loved to so arrogantly remind everyone in earshot at any available opportunity, would ever join Her Highness’s cause. And if Ferdinand were to align himself against Lady Edelgard, then Bernadetta would likely do the same. 

“Even if we disposed of her father?” Thanily’s ears went flat against her head. 

He had to assume that; it would be too dangerous to do otherwise. Perhaps that could be a point of negotiation. Ferdinand would be a vexing and possibly dangerous foe; if he could persuade him and Bernadetta to a life in exile—perhaps Albenia, or Morfis? Well, Bernadetta might be able to convince Ferdinand to see reason (a difficult task, to be sure, but one he had growing confidence in her ability to manage), then they would live. Even if he would never see them again. Which would make things immeasurably easier. 

Hubert and Thanily returned to his room and his plans, before he could begin to fully unpack why that thought left such a pang in his chest. 

Notes:

Thank you for reading and enjoying! And yes, Abyss WILL make an appearance, and play a small but important role. And in case you haven’t guessed by now I have very strong feelings about Abyss. Expect it to be played straight and thoroughly deconstructed here.

Also expect an NSFW “bonus scene” side story some time in the next few days.

And, as before, here’s the lineup of the Ashen Wolves’ daemons!

Yuri and Icarus, non-binary blue jay (mockingbird was close, and I really really want to make mockingjay jokes here)

Constance and Rubine, male peacock (I mean, come on)

Balthus and Drusionary, female mountain goat (fun fact: this was a finalist for Peakane’s form!)

Hapi and Malka Foss, male cape pangolin

Gatekeeper: Female zebra daemon

Thank you all for reading, please leave a comment/kudos/whatever if you feel up to it, and if you want to donate please let me know! Stay safe out there; 2020 isn’t even half done. We all need to stick together and look out for each other, and do our part. We can’t undo the damage that’s already been done but we can learn from it, grow from it, and make a better future.

Chapter 20: Breathe, And Let The Human In

Summary:

Snapshots from the Ethereal Moon

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient. Yesterday was my birthday and I have officially started my new job with Better Hours and Actual Pay, so here's the update! I hope you all enjoy and the wild ride will really kick back into gear soon. I've been revising the outline for the next few chapters; there's about 5-6 left until we hit the timeskip. In the meantime, please read and enjoy!

Content warning: Brief mention of non-consensual daemon touching.

For once, Byleth was thankful that she never expressed her emotions. It made it relatively easy to follow Sothis’s hissed commands—she was certainly doing a better job than Sothis herself.

“Don’t smile. Don’t even blink. Do not say something we might regret!” she had hissed into Byleth’s metaphorical ear, yet she was the one flitting back and forth in her head.

Byleth had never heard the name of the goddess. It was a soft taboo to start with, and Jeralt had raised her to be as ignorant of the church as someone in Fodlan could get. But the goddess’s name was Sothis, as was the name of the girl in her head. 

Byleth and Belial looked up at the enormous stained-glass image of the goddess in the cathedral, where her feet had taken her. Clad in purest white, flanked by her draconic heralds, the goddess—Sothis—gazed down in benediction at her worshippers, hands open to receive the prayers that were offered up to her. 

“I’m not the goddess! I can’t be the goddess! The goddess is everywhere, looking down on us from the Blue Sea Star or whatever, not in your head! And if I were the goddess, wouldn’t I hear their prayers and pleas? Or be able to do something about them? But I haven’t heard any of their prayers at all.”

But even without her strange bond with Belial, even without the no heartbeat thing (which was a very large “even without”) nobody else had a pointy-eared green-haired girl in their head who could pet Belial without issue, who offered smart-ass commentary and advice. Nobody else had endless dreams of battle or places they had never been, if they ever dreamt at all. And nobody else could turn back time. 

“But I cannot be the goddess, for if I am then what does that say about you, or the entire faith of Fodlan? I...what am I? And what are you?”

Byleth didn’t know how to answer that. Behind her, Belial let out a low whine. 

“I mean, no offense, but there isn’t much special about you!”

What about her emotionlessness? Or her ability to separate from Belial? Or the fact that she breathed and bled and lived but had no heartbeat?

“Well, okay, but...what if those things are because of me? I’ve always been with you, but it’s not like I chose to be. From my perspective, I woke up one day, and there I was, along for the ride inside your head.”

Byleth scratched Belial’s ears as they stared up at the stained-glass image of the goddess. Around them, worshippers filtered in, praying for wealth and love and glory. She heard their prayers, but only the ones spoken out loud. 

“What am I? And did I do something to you, merely by my presence?”

The goddess looked down, her smile beatific, and said nothing. 

---

The enormous beast, a wolf whose form was twisted and warped by a residual pocket of magic pooling somewhere deep in the forest, snarled and snapped at Belial. They yelped in pain as the giant wolf tore at their tail fur, kicked out and scratched the beast’s face. Byleth scrabbled through the rubble, trying to find enough space to get to her feet and safely swing her blade. 

“This was a terrible idea!”

“This was your idea!” Belial shouted through a mouthful of fur as they bit at the much larger beast. 

It had been Sothis’s idea to go back to Zanado, and Byleth had agreed. The Red Canyon was a holy site to the Church of Seiros, supposedly a place where the goddess had once given a message to the people. Or something. Now it was a sacred location, where nobody was allowed to go, though only rubble remained. Technically, Byleth wasn’t supposed to be there either, but Rhea seemed to like and trust her a lot for some reason, so she would probably be forgiven. Because while the Red Canyon was a sacred location, it was also a place that triggered some faint nostalgia, or deja vu, in both Byleth, Belial, and Sothis. A shiver of recognition, even though Byleth had never heard of Zanado before in her life, that stuck to her back like rain. And what was even more eerie was the architecture. Edelgard was right; it was like nothing else on Fodlan, and though her memories were hazy and piecemeal Byleth had traveled all over the continent with her father and their mercenary troupe. She had never seen anything like the remaining structures on display here. 

“But I once called this place home,” Sothis said as Byleth brushed away the rubble, revealing tan stone and chunks of broken mosaic set in a pattern long since lost. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Belial said, sniffing some old bones. “What if you really are a ghost?”

“How dare you? I gave you the ability to turn back time! How could my existence be so meaningless? I—no. There! Behind that wall,” Sothis pivoted, trying to change the subject, “I remember something once there. A temple, perhaps?”

The wall was crumbling, held up more by the roots of trees jutting out the top of the admittedly tall wall than anything else. There were...things...carved into the stone, their angles too sharp to be natural, but they had been weathered away by centuries of neglect. The cathedral was a holy site and Byleth always saw monks and custodians cleaning every corner, sometimes even saw Cyril on the back of a young wyvern scrubbing the ceiling clean, his bat daemon showing them all the little spots where dust and smoke from burning incense collected. 

Birds nested in this holy place, and centipedes crawled out from under upturned stones. Belial dug under the wall, sending sand and pebbles flying everywhere as they tunneled through to the other side. 

“I mean, the cathedral was completely packed with pilgrims during the Rite of Rebirth, and the Archbishop wasn’t even there! She was in a tower or something, wasn’t she? Though, come to think of it, weren’t Seteth and Flayn with her? Seteth I can make sense of, but why Flayn? 

Flayn was a pleasure to have in class, polite and eager and just happy to be with her classmates. She had a particular talent for magic which she was delighted to show off to Seteth, usually alongside reminders that she never would have learned these new spells without joining Byleth’s class. She had particularly latched onto Dorothea, who was more than happy to teach the younger Flayn some of the songs and dances that she had learned in the opera.

Or at least, Byleth presumed Flayn was younger. Petra was the youngest member of the Black Eagle House, only a few months older than Lysithea, yet she held herself with incredible maturity and poise. She’d had to grow up so fast as a “guest” of the empire, so keenly aware of how much responsibility she carried even at the age of nine. Only occasionally did Petra do something like let her frustration bubble over, or sprawl out when she believed nobody was looking, or have Ardior gossip with other daemons, and let slip the fact that she was only sixteen. Flayn, however, was sort of the inverse. She was naive, playful, almost endearingly childlike, her silent daemon still unsettled. And yet there was a quiet wisdom and determination to her, what her father would call an, “old soul.” If Petra sometimes revealed how young she was, then Flayn sometimes behaved much older and more mature than she seemed. 

But none of that explained why Flayn was in the Goddess Tower during the Rite of Rebirth. And before Byleth had the chance to think about it more, a terrible scream rent the air. 

“ BYLETH!” Belial shouted, over a deep snarl close by. Then, the scrabbling of paws against dirt, more growls and snarls, and the sound of teeth clashing against each other. Then, sudden dull pain ripping through her, referred through Belial across whatever stunted connection they had. Byleth pulled herself under the tunnel that Belial dug and found herself in a small...what was once a room, still bound by old stones laid in a semi-circular pattern. Too close to swing her blade, and yet she needed to, as Belial was furiously fighting for their life with a giant wolf, its form twisted and warped by magic. 

Barking, snarling, fur against fang, blood spattering floor and Belial’s fur torn off in places. Byleth cried out again from a particularly nasty bite—still not enough room to help fight! 

“Belial can’t fight this king of beasts alone! Are you actually going to get us killed by an oversized wolf in the middle of a bunch of ruins?!”

Byleth closed her eyes and reached for the divine pulse. How far back would she have to turn time to avoid disturbing the beast? Only one way to find out—

The shriek of a falcon, an overhead cry of, “Hubert, here!”

Belial rolled off of the giant wolf, took cover just as a long-range blast of dark magic exploded over the beast’s form. The wolf yelped in pain, its fur sizzling. As it clawed at its face, Byleth and Belial both scrabbled back out under the wall, panting for breath with chunks of the wolf daemon’s fur torn off. 

Edelgard and Hubert raced up the hill, Avarine landing back on her outstretched fist just as her other students crested the hill and engaged with a...a demonic beast?!

“We’ll talk later, my teacher! For now, we’ll help!

Byleth alone struggled against the wolf. But with Edelgard and Hubert by her side, it didn’t stand a chance. The demonic beast gave her other students more trouble, but there was only one of them, and Belial to help and shout orders. 

Oddly enough, the demonic beast did not transform back into a person like the thing that had once been Miklan did. Instead it remained that warped beast with the poisonous breath. It looked...small and sad, in death. 

“My teacher. Dare I even ask what you were doing here?”

What was she supposed to say to that? Thankfully Bernadetta’s timid approach meant she didn’t have to answer. “Um...Edelgard? Professor? We’re not gonna get in trouble for being here, are we? I don’t want the Archbishop to punish us!”

No. That would never happen, not on her watch. Another flash of anger, seeing Bernadetta regress to fear at the thought of transgressing against the Archbishop. Anger that Edelgard and Hubert both seemed to share, judging by the glint in Avarine’s eyes, the curling of Thanily’s lip. But what could she say if asked directly?

Hubert rubbed his chin in thought, and ah yes he was the one who came up with the suggestions on how to phrase the club meeting reports to Archbishop Rhea as well. “Hmmm. Perhaps we could pass it off as a training exercise? Would you find that suitable, Professor?” 

She nodded, and Bernadetta sagged in relief. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“Still,” Edelgard added, “We should probably get back before anybody asks too many questions.”

There was one more thing that Byleth needed to do. She hung back, lingered around the corpse of the demonic beast. It looked...kind of familiar, in a way that she couldn’t quite place.

“I feel as if I’ve seen a creature like this before. But...I’m sorry. My memories are still too hazy. But what is that, inside the creature’s thorax?”

The beast’s chest and abdomen were split open by spell and blade alike, its organs spilling out onto the cold canyon floor. And in the middle of the slop...A crest stone?

Byleth didn’t know much of anything about anatomy. Maybe whatever this creature once was ate a crest stone? The sigil on it looked scratched, almost weathered away. She reached out for a closer look— 

“Don’t touch it!”

Byleth yanked her hand back as if burned; Belial yelped and dropped to the floor. What was that about?

“I’m sorry, but just...Don’t touch it. You really, really shouldn’t touch that. Belial can, but not you. It’s...I don’t know why, but it feels wrong.”

She didn’t get it, but Sothis was absolutely adamant on the point. In the end, Belial buried the crest stone in a patch of softer earth, placed some stones from the ruined temple on it to mark the spot. It seemed like the right thing to do. 

---

“Professor Byleth? You wanted to speak to me?” 

Monica was as chipper as ever, rolling her pen back and forth between her fingers as she fidgeted in front of the desk. Her cuckoo daemon was equally restless, flitting back and forth from her shoulder to the perch on which Avarine usually rested to her shoulder again. 

Byleth reached for a stack of essays. “I wanted to talk about your last paper on ambush tactics.”

“Oh yeah! That was a fun one,” she giggled. “Gotta say, I really had to think outside the box for some of your prompts.”

“Yeah, I have questions about your box,” Sothis muttered in Byleth’s head. So did Byleth, which is why she asked for Monica to stay after class. 

“A lot of these tactics are...brutal,” Byleth explained. “Often unnecessarily so. I know that I spoke about efficiency in battle and ending fights quickly, and also spent a lot of time on what some members of the nobility deride as ‘fighting dirty,’ but a lot of your strategies would result in unnecessary collateral damage.”

Monica leaned over her essay, head cocked in curiosity as her daemon landed on the second page and did much the same thing, only even more exaggerated. “But you’re the Ashen Demon, right? So why are you so concerned about collateral damage?”

This was...odd. Monica was usually chipper, cheerful, optimistic, and yet here she was with a proposed ambush that Byleth would have expected to birthed from Hubert’s mind. But no, that wasn’t right either. Hubert has considered a similar strategy in his assignment, wrote it out in his usual meticulous detail. And then he rejected it outright due to that same brutality and disregard for allied casualties and injuries to innocent bystanders. Hubert was cold, callous even, but he did not revel in brutality. Much like Edelgard, he would not shy away from a violent solution if he believed it was the most efficient one.

“Yeah, there’s nothing efficient at all about this. Flashy, yes. Full of explosions, yes. Efficient, no.” A feeling that Byleth now realized was concern bubbled up from Sothis, and mirrored in her as well. “Leaving aside the possibility of killing allies and innocents, if you were to use tactics like this on the battlefield and injured your allies, it would damage morale. It would also make it much harder to recruit allies to your side, much less keep them there.”

Monica studied her paper, or at least kept her eyes fixed on it, while her daemon carefully evaluated Byleth and Belial. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, Professor. I think I’ve been affected by what happened. I couldn’t help but think that if I had been a bit more flashy or over-the-top with things, maybe I wouldn’t have been captured. Or maybe I would have been able to escape sooner rather than having needed to be rescued.”

Oh. Belial reached forward for Monica’s daemon, but the cuckoo fluttered back to her shoulder. “Monica? I am terribly sorry that happened, but I’m glad you’re here and safe.”

“Thanks. I am too. It’s just, it’s a lot, you know?”

Byleth nodded. “You can always talk to me about these things. You don’t need to speak only to Edelgard.”

She had said something wrong, hadn’t she. At the very mention of Edelgard’s name, Monica’s head shot up, her daemon’s dark eyes fixed on Byleth’s. “Edel didn’t say something, did she?” 

“No ,she didn’t.” Byleth took a breath and plunged forward, even though Monica’s response was...not what she or Sothis had expected. And that cuckoo daemon’s gaze was still fixed on her. “But I have noticed that you've been talking almost exclusively to Edelgard and Hubert. I know that you’ve been struggling and have a lot to catch up on, but I think they need a little bit of space as well.”

“Hm, I guess you’re right.” There was another long moment of silence, during which Monica shared a silent conversation with her daemon, presumably communicating across their bond. Byleth leaned back and waited, idly scratching the thick fur around Belial’s neck. Monica jumped back into the conversation without any warning or preamble. “Okay, I can give them a bit of space! But seriously, Edel or Hubiekins didn’t say anything, did they? I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?”

“No, of course you’re not.” Why would she think that?

Monica visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank you! That’s such a relief to hear. Well, I’ll see you around Professor. Thanks for the advice!” She flounced off, leaving a bemused Byleth behind in the classroom.

“That was kinda weird, but I wish I could figure out exactly why. Ah, but there are so many mysteries right now.”

---

There had been a few months, between the time of Belial’s settling and Byleth’s final growth spurt, where she had been able to ride on the back of Belial much as her father did with Domaghar. On the Good Days, she and her father would gallop through the fields, lope through the forests. Domaghar would lower her head, snort out an invitation to race, and Belial would huff and dig in their paws. She and Belial won every time, and now that Byleth thought about it, Domaghar would always pull up just before whatever they designated as the finish line. 

Byleth was too big now to safely ride on Belial’s back, so instead she and her father walked alongside their daemons as they took in the cold winter air. Byleth was quiet as usual, but this time it was because of Sothis. Honestly, she wouldn’t have minded if Sothis took control of her body for a little while back at the dance. She was tired, and drained, and overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the amount of social interaction. It was something that she just...couldn’t get. Couldn’t do. But Sothis, Byleth could feel the energy thrumming through her, could feel just how eager Sothis was to, as she put it, sing and dance until she fell to the ground. It wasn’t quite fair, that Sothis helped her out so much and yet she couldn’t even do this one thing. 

“No, it’s not fair. But I didn’t ask to be in your body either; I’m just along for the ride. I’m not going to violate your autonomy!”

And Sothis wouldn’t budge on the issue, so that was that. 

“Hey, kid?” Jeralt’s soft voice snapped them both to attention. “You've been awfully quiet today. No dreams about the girl last night?”

Actually…”Dad? Can I ask you something?”

“What?!” She felt Sothis flare up. “I told you, we can’t tell anyone about this! Especially not in the monastery!”

She wasn’t going to ask, at least not directly. Or at least, as indirectly as she was capable of being. “Dad?” Byleth asked, “Did you or mom ever sing this lullaby to me?”

Even on the Good Days, Byleth never sang. Not to herself, not to others, not in a duet with Belial like Dorothea and Calphour or Annette and Serrin always did. She never even hummed an idle tune to herself when cleaning her swords or clothes. So Byleth did not sing the lullaby so much as speak it. But that just made the words come out all the clearer.

“In time’s flow, see the glow of flames ever burning bright. On the swift river’s drift, broken memories alight…”

“Kid, where did you hear that song?” Behind him, Domaghar went still, ears pinned and tail lashing back and forth. 

“I heard Archbishop Rhea singing it. But it sounded familiar. Like I’ve heard it before.” Sothis had sung the song, had somehow made the song, long and long ago. And as soon as those words left Sothis’s mouth, Byleth found herself hit with another vision, a flash of memory not her own. Not of an ancient battlefield, but of a woman singing a lullaby to a sleeping baby in her arms. A sleeping baby with light green hair and pointed ears. 

Belial scratched their ear. “Dad? Why did you take us from the monastery?”

It took a very long time for Jeralt to answer, so long that at first it seemed like he wouldn’t answer at all. But after several minutes of nervous glances, of Domaghar swiveling her ears and sniffing at the air for any eavesdroppers, Jeralt sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face. “Kid, have you ever seen a baby?”

Byleth nodded. One of the cooks had had a baby a few months ago; she’d started bringing the child to work with her, in a basket far away from all the fire and knives. 

“And did they laugh? Did they cry? What did their daemon do?”

Byleth nodded again. The baby was either laughing, crying, or sound asleep. She’d laugh when Ashe dangled shiny lockpicks in front of her, cry when she was hungry or needed changing or the air was too thick with smoke and spice. Whenever she was awake her daemon was an inquisitive little thing, and when she was asleep she’d suck on her daemon’s tail like a pacifier. 

“You didn’t do any of these things. Even when you were born, you never laughed. Never cried.”

“And you were such a listless little thing, Belial,” Domaghar added. “I was terrified that if you left my sight for just a moment, a stiff wind would blow you away. It took months, maybe even years for you to start having Good Days.”

Sothis said nothing, and the emotions welling up were too much for Byleth to place, much less name. And her mother had just died too, which meant that her dad had to raise her, when she was like that , all alone. That same hurt-sad-bad twisty feeling surged inside Byleth again, just like when far too many of her students told her about their pasts. 

Jeralt continued, “Rhea said not to worry, but how could I not? I would have worried even if you were a perfectly healthy and ordinary baby, but you never made a sound at all. And I can’t even begin to tell you how terrifying it was, seeing Belial that listless. I think it was the fact that she was so...unconcerned that made me the most concerned. It was like she was telling me not to believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. After a days I—”

“Captain! There you are!”

The look on Domaghar’s face should have vaporized Alois on the spot. But the look of alarm on Alois’s face, the way he shoved Erikaf under his arm to run faster and not be held back by her slower speed, made Jeralt’s face soften from the frustration at being interrupted, especially at such a bad time. “Alois, what’s going on?”

“There’s a disused chapel on the edge of the Monastery which was boarded up and falling apart. And we started seeing demonic beasts coming out of it! Professor, the Lions and Deer are out on their own missions; get your students and hurry!”

“We’ll be right there. Fuck! Sorry kid, we’ll have to talk about this later. There’s no time now, there’s never any damn time. Get your brats and meet me at the chapel.”

He saddled up on Domaghar and galloped away, while Byleth and Belial took off in different directions. It was easy enough to ignore the startled gasps and disturbed looks as she and Belial raced through the monastery to collect their students, even though there were quite a few of them. Even though everyone knew about her ability to separate at this point, it was another thing entirely to see Byleth or Belial actually by themselves, with seemingly no ill effects. 

Within the hour, Byleth and Belial had rejoined, their slightly bewildered and more than slightly scared students trailing behind them as they made their way to the chapel. Which was...well…

The chapel had clearly been condemned for some time, held up more by the stone structure in the back than anything else. The front half, made of wood, was rotting and crumbling in, covered with moss and ice. 

And demonic beasts spilled out of that partially-collapsed entrance, thrashing and roaring in agony as they clawed at each other and attacked anything in sight. 

“What the fuck are these things doing here…” Jeralt turned to shout directions at Byleth and her students. “We can’t let these beasts get to the rest of the monastery!”

Alois stepped back, eyes wide, Erikaf trembling around his legs. “I’ll go get Catherine, Shamir, and the rest of the knights! You’ve got this, Captain!” He scooped up Erikaf again and ran off as quickly as his armor would let him. 

Byleth had just a few moments to observe the beasts before they charged. They looked...different from the thing that Miklan had turned into. Slimmer, with bloody wraps around their legs, and what looked like a piece of...of a crest stone jammed into their foreheads. They looked like they were in agony.

“And those were once people, weren’t they? Their last moments must have been horrifying. We need to stop them from hurting anyone else, and end their pain!”

Her students were able to bring down one demonic beast with difficulty. There were six in front of them. Bernadetta clutched her bow before her like it was her lifeline. Linhardt was fully awake, already chanting the first half of a healing incantation. Edelgard and Hubert were silent, eyes wide, their daemons quiet and contemplative. 

Caspar charged in first, gauntlets tearing at the wraps to reveal what looked like...burnt skin, exposed muscle that glistened, twisted white tendon and an oozing clear fluid that ran over yellowed bone. Petra ran in after him, took advantage of the exposed wound to drive in her sword, straight through to the heart. 

There was a horrible scream, a long gush of dark red blood that soaked Petra and Caspar through and left even Caspar whimpering for just a moment, and then…

The person the demonic beast had once been was a boy who couldn’t have been older than Petra, or maybe even Cyril. Ardior flew down to the boy’s corpse, and that moment of distraction was enough for another, wounded demonic beast to slam into Petra from behind.

Teeth crunching into bone, an awful wet organic tearing noise, an inhuman shriek from Petra as her arm was torn off. And another cry of horror as her arm disappeared down the beast’s throat. 

Belial cried out, and Byleth reached within. A blink later, and it never happened. Byleth rushed forward, the Sword of the Creator glowing with shared protective instinct towards her students, and whipped the extendible blade across the second beast’s eyes, just seconds before it would have torn into Petra. Those moments were just enough for Petra to regain her bearings, for Caspar to dive in and cover her.

The rest of the fight was a similarly chaotic jumble, flashes of battles and deaths that never happened. Her students would dogpile one demonic beast, only to have one of them savaged by another who broke free of the fighting. She’d turn back time, scream for Linhardt to heal or Dorothea to cast her just-learned Meteor, have Belial leap onto a beast’s face or push herself to her limit, even direct her father to join the fray (and oh, the spark of pride

 in her father’s face at that). 

But through it all, she saw her students die and die again. She saw Hubert savaged, Bernadetta torn apart. She saw a demonic beast pluck Calphour right out of the air, heard Dorothea scream once before it crunched down and she went limp. They died and lived, died and lived, and the strain of doing so many divine pulses in such a short time started to hurt, a deep ache inside as if she had run for miles without any water. It mixed unpleasantly with the memory of seeing her students maimed and killed, over and over, until Byleth fought with bile in the back of her throat.

Finally, finally, the last beast fell, transformed back into the broken body of an old woman dressed in rags. Byleth felt her jaw unclench, heard Belial flop to the ground in exhaustion. 

“Everyone’s okay, right? I don’t know if we can do another Pulse. Your body may not be able to handle the strain.”

Edelgard, Hubert, Ferdinand, Bernadetta, Dorothea, Petra, Linhardt, Caspar. Everyone was alive. Scratched up and bleeding, Caspar sporting a broken arm that Linhardt had to temporarily splint by hand until they got back to the monastery because both he and Dorothea were completely drained of magic, but alive. Thank goodness. She was so exhausted, she didn’t even notice her father behind her until his hand clapped down on her shoulder.

“Kid, take a break, you earned it. I’ll check inside the chapel. You make sure your brats are okay.”

Byleth couldn’t do much more than nod and catch her breath. Behind her, Edelgard and Hubert collected the bodies of the poor souls transformed into demonic beasts, musing on their identities (not townies, not students or monks, so who were they?). Before her, Domachar held up the doorframe of the chapel with her massive head while her father crawled inside.

“There’s nothing here, just...What the? Stay there Domaghar, hang on.” There was some thumping, a muffled curse, and then her father came back out, covered in rubble. He dusted himself off and started talking as he made his way back to Byleth. “It looks like there’s a tunnel or something in the back, but the pathway is collapsed. We’ll need some help clearing the path—Domaghar?”

“Monica? What are you doing here?”

She’d left Monica at the monastery, didn’t want her anywhere near demonic beasts. Something was very wrong. But before Byleth could think further, Monica’s hand shot out— 

—And dug into Domaghar’s flank. 

Domaghar shrieked and fell to the ground. Her father, the Blade Breaker, crumpled like he was made of thin birch. 

That was all the time Monica needed to drive a knife into his back.

Byleth’s vision briefly went spotty and she did, in fact, vomit in her mouth as she turned back time, horror at what she had just seen blocking out everything else. Something deep within her, beyond just Sothis, cried out at the strain but horror and desperation pushed through.

There was some thumping, a muffled curse, and then her father came back out of the chapel, covered in rubble. He dusted himself off and started talking as he made his way back to Byleth. “It looks like there’s a tunnel or something in the back, but the pathway is collapsed. We’ll need some help clearing the path—Kid? You okay?”

Byleth wasn’t listening. The world swam, but that didn’t matter. Monica was—Monica was—She needed to stop her.

Belial was faster on four legs. They raced forward, powered by desperation, prepared to leap taboo be damned—

A blast of dark magic, a burst of pain as Belial was thrown aside. Byleth looked up at their attacker, an older man with a white beard, gray skin, a black and white tamarin of some kind whose tail curled around his neck, and an aura of malice radiating from them both. 

And, behind him, her father keeled over, blood pouring from the wound, the stained blade gleaming in Monica’s hand.

The man smirked, his words lost in the rush of horror. Belial staggered to their feet, Byleth was unable to do any more than watch as Monica and the man vanished in another flash of dark magic. 

“DAD!”

There was so much blood, how could he possibly lose that much blood and live. Sothis, please, help!

“I’m sorry, Byleth. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

Dorothea and Linhardt were out of magic, Hubert was so bad at faith magic that he could barely heal a bruise. Byleth struggled to scoop up her father. She slipped in his blood, her hands and knees stained red. “Dad, hold on, please we’ll get help.”

Her father didn’t respond. His breathing was horribly rapid and shallow, his skin ashen. Behind him, Domaghar lay limp on the ground, barely responding to Belial’s desperate nudges.

“Sorry kid,” she croaked. “Looks like I have to leave you now…”

“No! Domaghar, you can’t! We’re going to get help!” Belial tugged at her mane to drag the hue horse daemon along. Just a little longer, there was so much blood…

Heat built up at the corner of her eyes, ran down her face. What was this choking feeling in her throat?

“Heh...To think, the first time you cried, it would be for me…” Domaghar rolled her head towards Belial, not enough strength left to do anything more. “Kid, I’m...so proud of you. You’re gonna be okay…”

There was no change, no shifting of the world. There should have been! There wasn’t even any immediate observable change in her father’s limp form! But there was nothing but a steady drizzle of freezing rain, and in that drizzle Domaghar...vanished. One moment she was there, that indomitable warhorse, and the next she was gone. Nothing but empty armor clattering to the ground, and a stream of golden dust washed away by the rain.

“No! NO! Come back!” Belial ran after the cloud of dust, and all Byleth could do was clutch her father’s corpse and weep for the very first time. 

Notes:

So, yeah...I'm sorry guys, but Jeralt was doomed. Kronya's suspicion and need to drive a wedge between Byleth and Edelgard immediately sealed his fate.

So, who do you think the people transformed into demonic beasts were? How do you all think this will go? Thank you so much for reading and enjoying, and I'll see you all soon! In the meantime, dear god please wear masks and don't go to any celebrations tomorrow if you're living in the US.

Chapter 21: What Comes Next

Summary:

Byleth learns to stand again. Edelgard, hopefully, learns to express herself better. Dimitri learns who to blame. Claude learns the answers to questions he didn't even know to ask.

Notes:

Thanks for being patient, and I hope you enjoy!

Content warnings: hallucinations, brief passively suicidal thinking, harm to daemons, and intercision.

 

The funeral was a blur. Not the hazy blur of the Bad Days, but a grief beyond words, a pain unlike anything Byleth could have even comprehended, even now. The entire monastery, it seemed, had turned out for the funeral. There were dozens of eulogies, from a distraught Leonie to an openly weeping Alois to even Archbishop Rhea herself, all blended together into an endless litany of condolences, memories of her father that...how could she have not known what his favorite food was? Or known all those ribald tavern tales? Or that Domaghar liked to talk to Kamen as he perched on her head, while Jeralt taught a younger Leonie how to brawl in close corners and when outnumbered?

What kind of daughter was she, that she didn’t know any of these things?

She should have stood to give a eulogy, give memories of her father, the only daughter of the beloved, late Captain Jeralt. And Belial did step forward, but...she didn’t follow. She couldn’t. What kind of daughter was she, that she couldn’t even give a eulogy to her own father, when even the gatekeeper was able to share a few words? Goddess, she really was broken in some deep, fundamental way, wasn’t she.

“You’re not broken! You...you just…”

Just couldn’t even speak at her own father’s funeral. Had months— years —of lost memories, meaningful experiences that must have happened but just weren’t there. Rarely smiled and never laughed. Did she ever outright say that she loved Jeralt, her father who did the best he could at raising a broken girl and her too-distant daemon alone? She couldn’t remember, and it was too late now. Her thumb ran over the armor that Domaghar wore into battle, memorized the smooth interlocking iron and steel plates, the dings and dents that were beaten back into place, markers of all the times that armor saved Domaghar’s life—and, by extension, Jeralt’s. But it couldn't do anything for a knife in the kidneys. 

The sound of Domaghar’s armor clattering to the ground would stick with Byleth for the rest of her life. That, and the splat of mud against the lid of his coffin. 

And afterwards, the grief and pain wouldn’t stop. It was an endless series of wave after wave, to the point where it seemed like it would be easier to give up and drown.how could anybody stand this? How could Edelgard, or Petra, or Dimitri, or anyone have possibly survived this grief? All she wanted to do was curl up and sob with a whimpering Belial. Oh Sothis, she’d give anything to not feel this again. Even the Bad Days were better than the endless waves of grief and pain! Her father was gone, and she’d never see him again. She’d never again race Domaghar across the Tailtean plains, never again fight alongside him, never again...

Belial whimpered, their tail tucked between their legs like a terrified pup, and Byleth again tried and failed to hold back tears. She had never cried before in her entire life, but now she could not stop. She would be in the middle of class, teaching her students about some ambush strategy, then remember her father showing that exact same tactic and break down sobbing mid-sentence. Sometimes she could pull herself together and finish the lecture, but other times she stood there and wiped her face dry, her students glancing nervously at her and each other, at a loss as to what to do. Hanneman and Manuela helped as much as they could, but they had their own students to worry about. Oh Sothis, please, make this stop!

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” At Sothis’s nudging, Byleth sat on the frozen ground and let Belial into her lap. “And even if I could, I won’t. This pain is part of being a person, just as much as the love you felt for him. No, the love you still feel.”

Byleth reached out to trace the etching of Domaghar carved on the tombstone, right next to the curved horns of her mother’s daemon. Was there a taboo against this? It didn’t matter now. 

Jeralt Eisner. ???-1180. Resting in the warm embrace of cherished memories.

How could anybody stand this, this awful grief?

“I think because they have to. By not drowning in it. Byleth, I...I’m so sorry that this has to be one of the first things you felt so intently. Especially since I think I have something to do with that…”

Belial looked up from where they curled up before the cold headstone, where the snow started to drift up against their form. When had it started snowing? She had been at her father’s grave for so long she hadn’t even noticed. Yet there it was, a gentle dusting on her hair, her coat, Belial’s fur. “What do you mean?” they asked.

“Well, remember what your dad started to tell us? And what was in his diary?”

How could she forget? Rhea had done something to her and Belial, something that left her unable to laugh or cry or express any emotion until this year, something that left Belial near-comatose...something that made her born having Bad Days. Something that shattered Jeralt’s faith in Rhea, made him set a fire just to take her away from the monastery and cover for their escape. Something that made him raise her as ignorant of the church as it was possible to be in Fodlan. 

“Well...I have a couple of theories. But the implications behind them are, well...I can’t say anything just yet. I need to be sure, with something like this.”

What was Sothis talking about? What did Rhea do to her that was so horrible Sothis couldn’t dare speak even the possibility out loud?! What was going on here? Why couldn't her father have been alive longer, just to tell her!

“Somebody’s coming! Do you want them to see you a wreck again? You are their professor—pull yourself together!”

Byleth swallowed back her tears and pulled herself into a sitting position. She could still feel her face burning, but this would have to do. Especially since the person arriving was...Edelgard.  

Monica was a traitor, she infiltrated the Black Eagles just to get close to her and her father. She was working with the people who kidnapped Flayn, she had to have been. She would pay for what she did. But why had she spent so much time talking to Edelgard and Hubert? The three of them were practically glued together, and all the work that Edelgard and Hubert had done opening up to others stopped—no, reversed—once she showed up. Hubert in particular had become unusually withdrawn, Thanily much more clingy and less expressive. Had she been blackmailing them? Then why didn’t they tell her? Edelgard had shared her past, so why did she not trust her teacher with this? Unless there was something more sinister going on...

“No!” Belial growled, rising to their feet, shaking off the snow. “Edelgard isn’t...she wouldn’t…”

“You’re here again...Oh, Professor...you’ve been crying again. I’m sorry; it’s still hard to believe that even you cry sometimes.”

“Edelgard!” Avarine screeched, pecking at her head, a staccato with each syllable. “How could you say something so thoughtless?”

“It’s fine,” Byleth said, even though it stung in a way she wasn’t quite used to. Edelgard stopped batting away Avarine long enough for her to perch on Edelgard’s shoulder, ignored a final smack of the gyrfalcon daemon’s wing upside her head. 

“You’ve barely left this cemetery. My teacher, are you waiting for time to heal your wounds? Because if you just sit and wallow in your grief they never will. Or have you decided to curl up in a corner and lose the will to carry on?”

Those words were a slap in the face, and even as she spoke them Avarine squawked and flew off her shoulder again. “El!”

Edelgard was always blunt, always spoke her mind, but this? Her student knew the grief that she felt, laid bare her own trauma and got nothing but sympathy in return. “How can you ask me something like that?”

“My teacher, you’ve barely been able to get through a lecture for the past week and a half. I—Avarine!” She shot a glare at the protesting gyrfalcon, who gave an exaggerated sigh and settled back on Edelgard’s shoulder. Still, the look on Avarine’s face was even sterner than usual. “My apologies, my teacher. This is rather unbecoming of Avarine. As I was trying to say, I would never ask you something like that without purpose. You cannot get stuck here, not when you have responsibilities to us and your father’s memory, not to mention those poor souls transformed into demonic beasts. And as for sympathetic platitudes? Only you can truly understand your own sadness. If I cried for you, it would just be hollow. All I can do is promise to reach out my hand when the time comes for me...no, for us, to move forward...That’s all I can do.”

Avarine continued, “The organization including Monica and Solon that was experimenting on people in Remire and the chapel is still here, plotting. The archbishop has sent the knights to undertake a large-scale investigation, but there hasn’t been any information yet. Still, our enemies will soon be discovered. When they are, will you lead us into battle, or just sit here and wallow in your own grief? My teacher, you have a choice here.” 

Edelgard walked away, leaving Byleth alone in front of the grave, with nothing but her thoughts. How could Edelgard have spoken to her like that?!”

“She really is quite arrogant,” Sothis said. “She spoke her mind without an ounce of reservation!”

There was no reservation, no tact at all. But it was genuine, the most that Byleth had seen in several weeks since Edelgard had closed herself off again. It was almost...personal.

“Wait,” said Belial, “Do you think that’s what she needed to tell herself after everything that happened with her family?”

“It is possible. But either way, despite the way she said it, Edelgard is right. You can’t just sit here and wallow forever. The time has come to stand again. If not for your sake, then for our students.”

Later that day, Byleth held a special seminar on how to defeat demonic beasts. And if anybody noticed her red-rimmed eyes, or the dried tear tracks on her face, they said nothing. 

---

Dimitri started pacing the monastery grounds shortly after Remire. If Delcabia kept to the carpet her hooves wouldn’t wake anyone up, and Sylvain usually made enough noise to cover his tracks anyway. They’d make their way down the steps, past the fishing pond. Loop around the marketplace to the stables. Past the training ground, over the fields and trees where live exercises were held. Through the graveyard, into the cathedral with its heavy silence like a blanket. If Dimitri dodged Dedue’s room he would make it back to his own just before sunrise, get a couple fitful hours of sleep that would have to last the rest of the day. 

It was harder, after Dedue and Felix switched rooms. There were a cohort of nights where Dedue caught him and would gently escort him back to his room. According to Sylvain, Levia spent the entire night standing in front of his door, while Dedue slept slumped against the corner of his room, just inside their range. 

Which—he appreciated Dedue’s concern, but he just didn’t get it! Sleeping was useless, and if he was locked in his room he and Delcabia would just pace around it like actual beasts in a cage. The long walks were the only thing that had any hope of tiring him out. He needed to patrol the grounds. There were enemies here, monsters who preyed on innocents and if Dimitri found them they would pay . 

(He’d feel their skulls crack under his hand, hear Delcabia run them through they would know the pain they inflicted on so many others they would feel it a thousand times over before getting to die)

And...and when he was outside, the voices were fainter. They were fuzzier in the cold winter air, their demands for vengeance and shouts of how weak and undeserving of life he was a little easier to ignore.

That was why Dimitri was on the bridge just in time to hear voices filtering up from below, far enough away that he had to strain his voice to hear. Nobody else was awake at this unholy hour. He leaned over the balcony, the chill of icy metal seeping through his gauntlets. 

There was Monica, the traitorous bitch, talking with an eerie man with ash-gray skin and colorless eyes. Only the black and white monkey daemon curled over his shoulder marked him as human. At least technically. And...that was the Flame Emperor, a daemonless monster just as the rumors said. What was he...no, it doing here?

It was working with them. With that traitor Monica and whomever that walking demon was. Quiet. He needed to stay quiet. Hands gripped on the stone ledge tight enough for his knuckles to strain white under the gauntlets. Forced himself to breathe a hiss through his teeth, Delcabia to stamp her hoof on a patch of moss instead of actual stone. If they heard him…He shook his head, strained to listen from below. 

“Those responsible for such gruesome atrocities in Duscur and Enbarr do not deserve salvation.”

“All for your sake, and your power.”

The stone railing cracked under Dimitri’s grip, but he only noticed in a distant, passive way, like one acknowledges the clothes they wear. The war drums began their beat in the back of his head, the screams of the dead roared in his ears in time with the wind. 

Finally. “I found you…” 

Don’t let it get away! 

What are you waiting for?!

Make them bleed! Make them pay!

It’s all you’re good for anyway. Who ever heard of a boar king?

Dimitri eyed the drop. Seven meters? Ten? He’d jumped from higher up when he was young, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter. He’d kill them, even if he broke his legs and had to crawl. Father! Glenn! He’d avenge them both! Just one jump, and—

“Dimitri.”

What?! How DARE Delcabia speak to him?! What could she possibly say that was worth listening to?! He whipped around, quivered fury, demanding answers. 

She just stood there, her eyes big and wide and utterly pathetic. His father squeezed her thick neck, and though his head had been hacked off Dimitri could still feel that judgmental stare. And still she spoke! “Dimitri, I can’t make the jump.”

Because she was a boar she couldn’t jump, couldn’t land. Not like a lion, and he couldn’t carry her over the ledge either. 

So what? GET THEM! Glenn’s specter yanked back on Delcabia’s bristly fur with one hand. With the other, he pulled out one of the spears running him through, pointed down at the conversation below. 

Under his clenched fists, the cracked stone crumbled to gravel. Fine! Then she can stay up there! He didn’t need her anyway! She was nothing but a burden! 

“I’m not Belial!” she hissed. “If you jump down there without me you’ll kill us both!”

So? At least he’d die trying to avenge Glenn and his father and the rest of his family and the knights! That was all he was good for! 

A flash of light from down below, and they were gone.

No! NO! He’d missed his chance! This was the PERFECT opportunity, and now they were gone, and it was all Delcabia’s fault! 

“You stupid boar!” he roared, whipping around, spittle flying out of his mouth. Delcabia cringed and stepped back, haunches pressed up against the railing. The hands dug into her face, wormed their way into her mouth and nose and ears. “Why couldn’t you be a useful daemon?! Why couldn’t you just shut up! Then we’d be free of this!”

The shouting continued for some time. How much, Dimitri didn't really notice or care. In either case, he didn’t return to his room until long past dawn.

---

“What are we doing down here again?”

Simurg’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight, held at arm’s length as Claude said, “The demonic beasts came pouring out of here, right? Which means that they had to have been held here beforehand. All the knights are out looking for Monica, or whomever she actually is, which means this is the perfect time to sneak in unguarded.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “Okay, true, but why are we sneaking down here? I mean, yeah I totally get why you are, Mister I’ll-hunt-down-everyone’s-secrets-but-never-spill-mine, but why did you bring me along?”

It took Claude a moment to respond. Not because he wasn’t listening or needed time to think, but because something caught his eye. The disused chapel was crumbling to pieces, but it looked like someone had been in and out of here in a hurry. Chairs and furniture were shoved up into a haphazard pile against one wall, and there were deep marks gouged into the floor. Heavy furniture, perhaps?

“No. Well, not just that. These look like claw marks.”

A flash of blue—Halmstadt flying right up to Cladue’s face—interrupted his conversation with Simurg.  “Hey, Earth to Claude! Hilda’s asking a question over here?”

Hilda was, in fact, making a show of picking her way through some old rags like they were covered in blood or worse.  “Ah, right. Hilda, I need you here because you know every bit of gossip that makes its way through the Academy. You’re the only one here who knows anything about—what did you call the place? Abyss?”

“Yeah! Can you believe it? All these abandoned twisty passages under the monastery, and there are these super-shady people living under there! It’s totally creepy, isn’t it?”

Well, there certainly was something creepy going on. Even beyond whatever Monica and Tomas—no, Solon—actually were (and truth be told, that last one stung. Claude should have been used to betrayal by now, but he had been completely taken in by the older man’s genial smile, his offer to help Claude’s search for answers, one serpent to another), there were apparently people secretly living under the monastery. And given that the Church was the kind of institution that liked to pretend everything was just fine, pay no attention to the crumbling foundation under the secretly-imported Almyran carpet, he suspected that the people living under the monastery were the kind of people the Church wanted to pretend didn’t exist in Fodlan. 

“Wooaaaaaahhh, Claude, look at this! There really is a secret tunnel back here!”

It was a dilapidated thing, literally propped up by wooden timbers, with more scratches and gouges on the sides. But it was exactly what Claude was looking for. “Ready to go poke whatever’s down there with a stick?”

“Well it’s not like I have anything better to do? Honestly this year has been just one thing after another, it’s not like whatever’s down there can be any worse than what’s going on up here.”

The tunnel changed as they made their way down it. Rough dirt gave way to ancient brick, somewhat similar to the foundations of the cathedral under all the paint and moss. IT was covered in dust and cobwebs, which made the footsteps, scuffing, and claw marks on the floor and wall stand out all the more. And as they walked, the torchlight casting long low shadows on the endless corridor (they were moving vaguely downwards, the air getting slightly damper, but Claude couldn’t tell much more than that), Simurg spoke to Halmstadt. 

“So, where did you hear about ‘super-shady’ people living under the monastery?”

“Oh! Well, some of the shiftier merchants will buy stuff off of us, and they mentioned selling at a markup to...wait…” Halmstadt’s wings drooped, and Hilda made a little guilty noise just behind Claude. “I just totally did that thing where I made judgments about people before actually knowing anything about them, didn’t I.”

“Yeah, you did. But you caught yourself without any prompting.” Claude clapped a hand on Hilda’s shoulder. “That’s already a big improvement.” Baby steps, to be sure, but at least Hilda was trying. That counted for a lot, in Claude’s mind. And wasn’t it exactly what he had thought all along? That if people just listened, and tried, yeah sure some of them would have their heads wedged firmly up their rears but maybe some of them would pull it out instead of being told that everything was fine, that they were good and just and right. 

“I guess,” Hilda said. “But it’s, I still feel like a total idiot, you know? And this is so much effort! I’m constantly having to think about what I’m saying, or even what I’m thinking! And whenever I do that, I wind up feeling awful about the things I said or thought even a few months ago. All the way I accidentally hurt people, even you. Well, especially you. So way to go me, am I right? Honestly I, like, really want to go back in time and smack my younger self, because she said some really dumb things and now I have to undo everything on top of it all, and that’s so freaking hard!”

Halmstadt fluttered his wings from atop Hilda’s head. “Though...I kinda prefer this version of myself. But why does it have to be so hard?”

“You just said why,” Simurg said. “It’s not easy, growing trees in a desert. But do it long enough, and you may eventually have a forest. There’s a whole parable about that which I heard as a kid.”

The corridor was leveling out now, and seemed to be opening up a bit. Not for the first time, Claude lamented the fact that he could never quite get the hang of four-eye, and was instead dependent on Simurg telling him what she sensed, if she in fact picked up on anything. 

“Okay, Hilda, let's play a guessing game.” He forged on despite her groan. “There probably are a bunch of people living under the monastery, but why would the Knights and Church let a bunch of criminals live literally under the students’ feet?”

Their shoes echoed in the cool damp air of the tunnel, still warmer than the winter air outside. “You’re right, it wouldn’t make any sense. And the church doesn’t hesitate to execute criminals.”

“No, they aren’t. So then, who could be down here?”

“Hmmm…Well, you hear stories every so often about corrupt nobles targeting people. Or people who can’t pay their taxes and would be locked up or pressed into service. Maybe they’re seeking sanctuary?”

Claude rubbed his stubbly chin. Oh, he couldn’t wait for his beard to come in evenly. But the Fodlanese in him seemed to want to take its time to grow proper facial hair. “Maybe, but then why would the church keep them in the basement? Doesn’t seem like a healthy place to live.”

“Why not ask us yourself? You did come all this way, after all.”

Claude and Hilda froze, Simurg a rigid coil around his arm and Halmstadt pinned to Hilda’s head. 

A young man about his age with long lavender hair and a vivid blue jay daemon stepped into the dirty torchlight. He had an easy confident air about him, the kind where Claude just knew he  wasn’t afraid to fight, and fight dirty. “You look like academy students. I’d tell you to run along like the good little kids you apparently aren’t, but something tells me that won’t work here.”

“Not to mention that apparently the last one to come down here wore an academy uniform,” said another person—a woman—in a voice somehow flat yet lackadaisical. She slung her daemon under her arm like a stack of books, leaving the other hand free to...oh no, she was a spellcaster, wasn’t she. 

Claude held up his hands, flashed his easy smile. “Hey now, this is all a misunderstanding. Surely we can talk this out.”

“Ha! A likely story!” A third woman strutted in; and what other word could Claude use, with the way she carried herself, or her somehow even flashier peacock daemon? “Your words may fool the fool, but I cannot be so easily deceived! Clearly, if you are not part of those wicked kidnappers, then you are here by order of the church to eliminate the inhabitants of Abyss!” 

So they were on the Church’s shit list. Now Claude was getting somewhere. But before he could elaborate further, another man, along with his mountain goat daemon, stepped into the scene. 

The first impression Claude got of this guy was abs. Those were the second and third impressions as well, because he wasn’t wearing a shirt and he was the most chiseled man Claude had seen in years. “Welcome to Abyss, kids! So your choices are as follows: line up for the beating of a lifetime, or let us lock you up like, as my pal Yuri said, the good little students that you apparently aren’t.” 

Claude’s gaze flitted from person to person, his mind churning with possible outcomes. Four versus two, and that wasn’t factoring in their daemons. Simurg could put up a fight though probably not against a mountain goat, and Halmstadt was useless in combat. Two casters, their leader looked fast and wiry with a trickster’s air about him, and the big guy looked like a good matchup for Raphael. Hilda was deceptively powerful but she really didn’t do well against mages, and close quarters were terrible for archers. These underground residents probably wouldn’t kill him and Hilda—too much unwanted attention—but they could definitely give them a very bad day. 

Now would be a really good time for Hilda to turn on some of her own charm. But instead she was eyeing the big guy with an odd expression. Halmstadt floated off her towards the mountain goat daemon. “...Drusionary? Is that you?”

The big guy’s attention snapped over to Hilda, eyes widening as he really took in. “Wait, hold the quill. Hilda?!”

“The one and only.”

Another pause, and then the dam broke. “Wahahaha!” 

He ran forward, laughing, and swept up Hilda into a hug. Faster than anyone could react, because Hilda dropped her stance and practically lept into his arms. “Baltie! I can’t believe it! I—you’re alive! I thought you were dead!” 

“Are you kidding me! Come on Hilda, it’d take more than a couple bounty hunters to do me in!”

The prissy mage’s mouth hung open, an expression of the disbelief they all felt as Drusionary actually pranced in place, Halmstadt flitting from horn to horn in delight. The other woman was as seemingly apathetic as before, but she had actually dropped her daemon. Claude and the trickster guy openly gawked at the sight. 

“Look at you, Halmstadt! Of course you settled as a butterfly!”

He flashed his wings, the iridescent blue gleaming in the torchlight. “Well, I am a fragile maiden. Did you expect anything else?”

The redhaired mage cleared her throat. “Hey, B, I don’t want to interrupt your reunion, but who are these people and is this ending in a fight?”

The big guy pauses and carefully set Hilda down. “Oh, sorry. Guys, this is Hilda and Halmstadt. Remember how I’m always talking about my buddy Holst? Well this is his little sister! I dunno who the other guy is, but any pal of Hilda is a pal of mine!”

Tensions defused pretty quickly after that. They made their introductions as Claude committed names and faces to memory. Yuri and Icarus (no way were those their real names. What was his agenda?). Constance and Rubine (never introduce her to Lorenz. Gods, one was enough). Hapi and Malka Foss (she was just suppressing her emotions, right? But why was she doing that?). They looked to be wearing a patchwork uniform, faded white cut into an inverse of the Academy standard. Did the people down here emulate the Academy in some way? 

“That would imply education, which would therefore imply that there are children here…”

“So what are you doing down here, Hilda?”

“Chasing rumors of super-shady people living under the monastery. Which were totally accurate, if they let you in!”

Balthus’s guffaw was only shared by Yuri. Constance, or maybe Rubine, made an incredibly entertaining offended squawk, and Hapi gave a thoughtful hum.

“Sorry about that,” Yuri said. “Someone’s targeting Abyss, beyond the church. There’s a lot of people there who would love to see this ‘filthy’ underground city purged. For a moment we thought you were here to do just that. Apologies for the confusion.”

“We’re all pretty on edge these days,” Hapi said.

“Indeed!” Constance added. “That someone would descend to Abyss out of pure curiosity was far too outlandish to even consider!”

“You know what?” said Yuri. “You guys wanted answers. I can see it on your face, Claude. Come with us.”

Balthus laughed, “And don’t worry! You’re Hilda and Hilda’s buddy— the Claude von Riegan I’ve been hearing so many rumors about! All I’ve gotta do is say the word and you’ll be just fine down here.” 

Perfect. This was exactly what Claude had been looking for, even though a sick feeling was starting to curl its way up his body in a sick parody of Simurg’s comforting weight. Either way, he was about to get answers to a question he didn’t even know to ask about.

Yuri didn’t elaborate on himself or his friends, but he did expound on the history of Abyss as they traveled down endless winding tunnels, all alike. He spoke of a crumbling altar to a lost deity, one where everyone worshiped regardless of faith because it was the only place where someone could worship a god that was not Sothis and not have to worry about who would show up on their doorstep the next day. He spoke of a safe place where Almyran fled slavery, where Duscurian families could flee the slums and the slaughter. Where their children could grow up terrified of surface dwellers, never once seeing the sun. He spoke of a cardinal, creepy and patronizing, but cared enough to keep the merchants from price gouging and established a knockoff academy. He spoke of the knights setting themselves on the Abyssinians during that frantic search to find Flayn. 

Yuri spoke of the outcasts of Fodlan, shoved into the literal basement by a church that barely tolerated them and left to rot, forgotten. 

Claude’s hand curled into a fist around Simurg’s tail, muffled her hissing rattle to a dull clatter. Of course there’d be a place like this in Fodlan. The continent was a xenophobic pit. They needed some place to put all the undesirables when it was too much effort to simply cull the herd. Or whatever euphemisms they used. 

Next to him Hilda had gone quiet, and Halmstadt had carefully tucked himself into his rarely-used capsule. Actually, when Claude looked closer, she was practically glued to Balthus’s shadow. 

“What is it, Hilda? Worried someone here is going to mug you?” He immediately winced at the poor attempt at a joke. Come on, Hilda was actually trying here! What was the point of saying something like that just to rub it in? 

But if Hilda noticed the jab she didn’t comment on it. “No, it’s not that,” she said with a shake of her head. “Well, okay, it is a little bit but I’m trying to tell that part of my brain to shut up. I mean, we’re Baltie’s guests, we’ll be fine. It’s...I’m Hilda Valentine Goneril . There’s a bunch of Almyrans here, and everyone in my family has pink hair. Do they hate me? Are they afraid of me? I mean, it’s awesome when bandits are afraid of me but not, like, random people living underground. Ugh, there are kids here; are they afraid of me?” 

They’d stepped off into a tavern serving alcohol that smelled like it had fermented inside Leonie’s socks. Halmstadt was particularly agitated now, practically bouncing off the clear barrier of his capsule. Claude and Simurg were quiet; he had learned some time ago that when someone was thinking things through as Hilda was, the best thing to do was let them talk. Let her come to the conclusions herself. 

Hilda was pacing back and forth now. “I kinda want to go up to one of them and apologize, but would that even do anything, or just make them feel weird? What if I let one of them punch me in the nose?”

Claude bit his tongue. Hilda had no way of knowing it, but she had just brought up an old Almyran custom of retaliation—though that wasn’t the exact word, of course. By paying a tax of some sort to the party that you wronged, it would let blood feuds die. It sounded sort of similar to the duels here, except that duels had a pretty decent chance of someone winding up dead. 

“Hey, Claude,” Simurg whispered, “You think part of the reason Hilda is on our side so much is as a sort of general apology because we’re half-Almyran?”

“Eh, maybe. But either way, she is learning and trying to do better. She’s learning, if we dump too much on her head right now in one go she might break. And hoo boy if we get the Gonerils on our side things are going to be so much easier.”

“True.” Simurg hissed and looked up at the crumbling ceiling, stained from smoke and unknown water stains. “I think we have something else we need to do first though.”

Claude nodded. Cracking open the Throat—that hadn’t changed. But it looked like he had a ceiling to tear open first.

---

She still missed him so much. Even now, most days, Byleth would have the idle thought of sparring or fishing with her father after class. And then she’d remember. 

She was able to get through most days without crying now, at least.

But still, the thoughts would pace around her head over and over. Like an animal in a cage, Sothis helpfully supplied. What could she have done differently? That Thales guy came out of nowhere, but he had to have been nearby to react so quickly. What if she had inspected the chapel with her father? What if she had another Divine Pulse?

“Then you would have traded one of your student’s lives for your father’s. Could you live with yourself if that had been the outcome instead?”

How could Sothis even bring up something like that?! Even just the memory of seeing her students die and die again, even though they all lived and breathed, was enough to set her to screaming. Her father or her students, why did that have to be a choice at all?

Those, along with the grief-fueled rage, were the thoughts circling around and around in Byleth’s head as she guided her students to the Sealed Forest courtesy of Edelgard’s tipoff and the grudging endorsement of the church. Leonie was there too, having refused to take no for an answer when she learned where Byleth’s students were going. For her part, Byleth was all too willing to have Leonie come along. Jeralt was her father, but he had also been Leonie’s mentor. The man who taught her how to fight, how to read and write. The only one outside her village who saw the potential for what she could be, who guided her along, Leonie had said in between the tears. She deserved to be a part of this too.

The Sealed Forest was...odd. Not the forest itself, that was all old-growth trees and thick canopy that remained unharvested despite its proximity to the monastery. But there were weird metallic structures, almost like giant rusted-out dolls, scattered throughout the Sealed Forest and half-sunk into the earth. Whatever they once were, they were now rusted-out hunks of metal, home to birds and squirrels. And as much as Edelgard, Hubert, and Linhardt’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, they had more important things to do. 

Thankfully, Monica, or whomever she was, was far too egotistical to stay quiet for long.

“Hello, hello!” she chirped from somewhere in the trees. “Welcome to the forest of death! So glad of you to come here; my little beast pals needed some new chew toys!”

Ferdinand stepped forward, leaping off his mount in one smooth motion for better mobility in the thick trees. “I think not! Monica, you can come with us quietly and face justice or answer for your crimes here and now!”

“Aww, you really think you’re gonna get me, Ferdie-birdie? That’s adorable! And my name isn’t Monica, it’s Kronya! This is what I really look like!”

She lept out of the trees and...changed. The cuckoo daemon was the same as before but Monica...wasn’t. The general body shape and height were the same, yes, but this woman had ash-gray skin, bright orange hair, and a tattoo on her face. Instead of the Academy uniform she wore an extremely skin-tight, well, outfit was putting it generously. There were odd appendages jutting out from the suit that twisted and writhed in the air, perhaps animated by some sort of magic? Her daemon flitted from one tentacle-like appendage to another as they lazily moved through the air.

“How kind of you to reveal your true identity to us,” Hubert growled, dark magic igniting in his hands, Thanily’s teeth bared in a snarl. “Your death will prove most educational.”

“Oh, Hubiekins, you’re here too! And here I thought I had taught you a lesson. It’s okay, I’m more than happy to teach another! Say, just how did you get Thanily’s fur that soft? I can’t wait to run my fingers through it again!”

The Black Eagles froze. Hubert went still, Thanily rigid next to him with her ears pinned all the way back, her tail flat against her legs. Ferdinand was the first to voice the concern of his classmates. “Hubert, what is she talking about?”

Monica—no, Kronya, blinked. “Oh wow, you really didn’t tell anyone. Such a good, obedient little boy! Not that it’ll help you now, of course!”

Thanily was shaking, a barely-perceptible tremor against Hubert’s leg. Hubert himself was rigid, his jaw clenched, his face red. 

“Monica, or Kronya, or whatever you are. You will answer for your crimes, here and now.”

“Oh? Edel, you’re not seriously here to kill me, are you?”

Avarine mantled her wings over Thanily, guarding the fox daemon as Edelgard scoffed, “Of course I am. All I see before me is someone who killed my teacher’s father, and attacked my retainer.”

Kronya just laughed again. “You’ll have to catch me first!” And then she was off running through the forest, those false arms grabbing onto low branches and propelling her along like a monkey swinging through the trees, her daemon flying alongside her. 

Byleth’s head roared. Monica was Kronya, was someone else entirely just like Solon. She had taken in this imposter who had killed her father, who had attacked Hubert, who had touched Thanily . And she had them work together for months! What kind of teacher was she, that she didn’t notice this, that she couldn’t protect her students?!

“He never told us; how could we have known? But she’ll pay for this now!”

A roar tore itself out of Byleth’s throat, a roar answered by a tortured shriek because there was a demonic beast bounding out of the forest after them! 

“We’ve got this, my teacher.” Edelgard readied her axe; all of her students were already in a fighting stance. “Have faith in us and focus on Kronya!”

Byleth didn’t need to be told twice. Belial was already off running, a gray streak in the woods unhindered by range. Leonie, deceptively strong, pulled Byleth up on her horse. “Come on Professor, let’s get her! I don’t care who she is or what she calls herself but she’ll pay for what she’s done!” 

Leonie’s horse was a lighter and swifter breed, more suited for forest riding than Ferdinand’s preferred breed of stout and sturdy warhorse, but Belial was faster still. As Belial chased after Kronya, murder in their yellow eyes, Leonie urged her horse to tail them, so swift that even at a full gallop they were still out of what would be any normal daemon’s range.

“Seriously, that will never stop being freaky,” Leonie muttered. Kronya was still several dozen meters in front of them, a quickly moving flash through the thinning trees. Her daemon was an even smaller target, too small for Belial to reliably grab. Leonie cursed and grabbed her bow. “Better lean back, Professor.”

The first arrow clanged off of the appendages with the telltale sound of metal on metal. The second arrow went wide entirely. The third lodged into the meat of her thigh. Kronya shrieked, her daemon spiraling outward the ground like he had been shot mid-air, just barely recovering before impact. 

Kronya took a few more steps, then crashed to the ground, a stone platform in the middle of the forest with pillars at each corner. The platform was cracked, with moss creeping in from the edges, but stopping short the moment a worn-down sigil edged into the stone began.

Solon stood in the center of the altar. Belial, the first to reach the structure, snarled. Perfect, they could take out both monsters at once.

“What are you waiting for?” Kronya shouted. The arrow was still lodged in her, blood slowly trickling from the wound. She took a step and then collapsed on her hands and knees. “Solon, I need some help over here!”

Belial tensed, readied for the moment where their daemons would reveal themselves. Solon approached Kronya, leaned on his staff as he bent over to inspect her. “Yes...you most certainly do.”

Quick as a lightning strike, his snake daemon snatched up Kronya’s cuckoo daemon. He shrieked and failed in the viper’s jaws, while below Solon, Kronya screamed. Solon ignored her and changed what appeared to be a scythe of glowing ultra-black magic into being. 

Kronya’s ashen face went even paler, her struggles redoubled. “No! NO! You can’t! Please, Solon, don’t! You can’t! Do it to one of those filthy surface beasts but not me, please! Don’t!”

In the snake’s jaws, the cuckoo daemon similarly begged and cried to deaf ears. 

Solon merely chuckled. “We have no time, Kronya. Do not despair, for your death will be our salvation!” 

He brought the magic-shaped scythe down between Kronya and her daemon.

There was a scream, a muffled thunderclap, the feeling of a too tight band being cut in two, each end snapping back in one movement. Kronya and her daemon both went limp, nothing more than empty puppets.

“Hy...perion…” she gasped, reaching in the direction of the little bird.

Kronya’s last breath was little more than a formality, one that Solon paid no heed to as he started chanting another spell. 

Dark energy—no, dark magic—not unlike Hubert’s spells flared up around the perimeter of the altar, sealing off Solon and Belial from everyone else, nearly throwing Leonie and Byleth off her horse just inches from the steps of the altar. The magic roared, a roar of arcanic flame that, before Belial could react, shot out to engulf them.

Solon and his daemon’s beady black eyes gleamed through the rage of energy. “Be gone with you, Fell Star.”

The last thing Byleth saw before passing out was the earth opening up and swallowing Belial whole.

Notes:

So yeah, it's not Byleth who gets sucked into the space between worlds, but Belial. This is probably one of the last major line-ups with canon in the fic. I hope you're all excited to see what comes next because I sure am.

Thank you all for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy! I'm gonna get ready for work and also work on outlining the next chapter. See you all soon and please stay safe. Seriously, it seems like every day is worse than the last one over here.

Chapter 22: The Lost

Summary:

Who is Byleth, truly? Or, rather, what is she?

Notes:

This chapter was actually done yesterday but then the power went out because of the tropical storm. So here it is--I hope you all enjoy!

Content warnings: Non-consensual daemon touching.

Edelgard yanked her axe free from the demonic beast’s skull and made her way to the altar just in time to see the dark magic engulf Belial. Just in time to see Byleth sway and slump off Leonie’s horse.

“No!”

Her classmates were close behind, close enough to watch Edelgard cradle their unconscious (but alive, her chest rose and fell but where was her heartbeat?!) professor, close enough to hear Leonie spit, “You bastard, what did you do to our professor?!”

Solon merely chuckled, that snake peeking out from his robes to revel in their horror. “I have sent your precious teacher’s daemon to the space between worlds. Of course, since your professor is still here, well, no connection could ever survive the strain.” 

The world stopped, and Edelgard was hurled back into the cells under the palace, rats scuttling at her feet and chewing at her clothes. Watching her brothers and sisters die one by one, unable to even protect herself. Remembering the sight of Greta and Remlis being marched from the cell across from hers. And then, later, Greta dragged back alone. Tossed into the cell, unable to do anything more than lie in her own waste and moan Remlis’s name until she, eventually, died. 

Someone shrieked, or maybe many people. There was the sharpness of Avarine’s talons on her right shoulder, a gloved hand heavy on her left. 

“That’s impossible!” Dorothea cried out, clutching Calphour to her chest as if, were she to loosen her grip, he would crumble away. “Belial has always been able to distance themselves from Professor Byleth! And she’s still alive!”

“Yes, it seems she is made of sturdy stuff, to survive intercision. Certainly sturdier than Kronya.” She couldn’t look at the corpse of the thing that had pretended to be Monica. None of them could. Solon continued, reveling in his lecture, “But there are worse things than death. Her daemon in the endless void, all alone with nothing but the pain of that loss...I cannot imagine a worse torture.” 

Martin had apparently survived the longest after...after. She’d heard snippets, the excitement at how well he followed commands, the frustration at how he needed to be commanded to do anything. Hubert had stolen some research notes as part of the mass of papers he’d snatched up from one of the makeshift labs. She’d stopped reading after the part describing what was left of her eldest brother as akin to a clockwork doll slowly winding down. Hubert had ended his suffering, and that was enough. 

She couldn’t even hold Avarine down there. They’d thrown her into a cage made of a strange metal that caused blinding pain with every touch, that not even Avarine’s bone-crushing hyena jaws could crack. All she could do was reach a finger through the bars for Avarine to lean against, and that contact was all that they could get. 

Avarine’s talons squeezed hard enough to punch through her leather pauldron, hard enough to pierce her skin and draw blood. Hubert was a heavy presence on her other shoulder, and the pressure and pain kept her grounded to reality through the horror and the memories of the palace 

Professor Byleth was limp in her arms, unconscious, Belial nowhere to be seen. If Byleth...if Byleth was...what would Hubert do? He had not hesitated to...help her siblings, in the only way they could be helped anymore. Would he do the same to Byleth? 

“Linhardt, what are you saying?” Caspar’s voice cut through the fog—it could cut through nearly anything, brought her back to reality. 

Linhardt held Runilite tight as he spoke. “Our professor is a quite unusual person. Let’s just say that I believe Solon is operating with incomplete information, and that our professor may very well come back to us.”

“Well then!” Caspar shouted, “Lin’s the smartest person I know! If he thinks the Professor is coming back, then she’s coming back! And you’re gonna have hell to pay!”

Another squeeze of Avarine’s talons, another flash of pain grounding Edelgard. “El, what are you doing? We’ve got to get it together!”

Avarine was right. That part of her life was over and should not be affecting her right now! If Linhardt was right—and she needed him to be right, so badly that it was shameful—then she needed to keep her classmates safe until their teacher came back. And if Linhardt was wrong, well, she would have to do so regardless. 

So Edelgard set Byleth down on the stone altar and drew her axe. “Solon. Our professor is someone special. And either way, you will pay for your crimes.” 

“Even you, Edelgard? Solon did not look at her, but his snake daemon did, swaying back and forth as she peered up from his robes. “A shame. I suppose I will have to kill you all!”

---

Belial drifted. This was not the darkness of sleep or dreams, but something omnipresent and oppressive. Their paws paddled in the void, and when they finally landed on something solid, well. It was like the walking of dreams, only solid because Belial made it so, because tumbling head over tail in this blank space was so much worse. 

There was nothing here. Not the forest, not her students. No Byleth, no Sothis. Just Belial and their own thoughts.and so, for the first time, the pain of that loss howled through them. It was overwhelming, an amputated limb trying to reach out only to realize that the hand at the end was long gone.

It was not a physical pain, would have been preferable had it only been physical. But it was the overwhelming loss, their heart cast out into the ocean and left to drown.

No...the pain had always been there. For as long as they and Byleth had existed, there was this loss, until it was all they had ever known and learned to live with it, did not even realize that there was a world without it.But now,with nothing but Belial and the void, there was nothing to do but focus on it.

“You fool!”

Sothis appeared in a flash before them, and despite the fury on her face, Belial had never been so happy to see another person or receive her chastisement in their life. Sothis, true to form, jumped right in with her lecture. “What were you thinking, charging right into an enemy's trap? Are you just a boulder that rolls down whatever hill it's on? No, even a boulder has more sense!”

Belial’s tail drooped. They were right, of course. Had warned Belial not to charge right in from the moment their paws struck that strange altar. And yet a fury unlike that which they had ever felt before, pure and all-consuming, urged them onwards. “I can explain…”

“Excuses won’t help us! This darkness is terrifying! I never thought I would be back here again…” And Sothis did look scared, her eyes wide in a way similar to the first time they saw one of their students die, but...more intense. Because there was no Divine Pulsing their way out of this one, was there.

“No, there isn’t,” Sothis said, still rooted to her throne. “As you and I are one, I, too, am trapped within this void. Our world is but one of many, like pages in a book, and we are currently trapped in the space between each page. This realm of darkness we are in is separate from the world from which we came, the world in which Byleth still remains. The connection between you could not survive such a separation. You should be comatose, or no more.” She sighed, and suddenly that anger and fear were replaced with what looked like...sadness. Immense sadness. “But instead here you are, unchanged. It appears my hypothesis was correct, even though I did not wish it to be so.”

“What are you talking about?” But Belial could feel the dread creeping up, something awful which they had, on some level, suspected for a very long time. 

Sothis sighed, and though she looked like a young girl, her eyes were so much older. “Do you recall your father's diary? He said you were a child who never cried nor laughed. The reason you are able to stand here before me and speak with me, a daemon without their human, only half of a person, is that you have always been only half of a complete being. I believe you have been severed since birth...and I think I am the one to blame.”

What?! Belial didn’t know whether to scream or cry, attack or deny or run away. They’d heard of severed people, of course. It was one of those awful rumors whispered about deep in the night, usually the result of some horrible accident. A human without their daemon, mutilated in the worst possible way. Some of them approached functional. Most just sat around and drooled a lot. In many cases death was a release. How could they be counted among those ranks?! But...it was true. It had to be true, they realized with a growing horror. But how could Sothis, who watched over her and her students, possibly have caused them to be so...so mutilated? 

Sothis was still talking. “I must have been asleep, but even then, I was, unknowingly, a part of you. My name is Sothis, with everything that implies. I am Sothis, the progenitor goddess. The one who watches over Fodlan and the creatures dwelling there. She who watches and hears their cries but is helpless to respond the way she once could. She who died and then, in a fashion, returned.”

“...” And yet, somehow, they knew it to be true. How else could Byleth turn back time to protect their pups?

“I am Sothis, but...not entirely. Just as you are a part of Byleth, I am...let us say that I am an aspect of Sothis. Sothis’s daemon, if you will. The term is not quite accurate, but it is useful enough for our purposes.”

“What are you talking about?” That didn’t make any sense. She was Sothis’s daemon? But if Sothis was gone, then how was this...daemon of Sothis, who looked like a younger Sothis and bore the same name as Sothis, still here? And why was she inside Byleth and Belial?

“I do not know how Rhea managed it, but she allowed me to exist inside of you. She somehow placed me, the daemon of Sothis, in you. But doing so must have severed the connection between you and Byleth. It was only my presence, when I was awake, that allowed the connection between you to be restored. Meanwhile, I unknowingly and unintentionally was connected, a second daemon to you both, an accidental parasite. The truth is I have always been with you, but although my presence has given you guidance and power, it has also damaged you and Byleth in the worst possible way. It may not have been my fault, but the damage was done. Words are not enough, but I am so sorry.”

So that was the truth of the Bad Days. When Sothis was awake, they and Byleth were one complete being. But when she was asleep, they were severed. “It’s not your fault.” 

She smiled. “Thank you. Still, my existence has only damaged you, and yet it is within you that I found my power yet again. The power of a goddess. The power of the progenitor god. Perhaps then it is only right that I do this to escape this place. You have done and sacrificed so much for me, after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Belial shifted uncomfortably. They didn’t like where this was going.

Sothis closed her eyes. “There is only one thing left to do to save us from this darkness of eternity. I must now use the power of a god. However, though I am Sothis’s daemon, I lack a body of my own. And so, I must relinquish all the power that I have to you. The time has come for you and I to truly join as one. And when that comes to pass...then I shall disappear.

What? No! Belial yelped and snarled, “I won’t allow it! There has to be another way.”

Sothis merely shook her head. “I’m sorry, but those are the laws of the world, or more accurately the space between them. But do not despair. When I say disappear, I do not mean death and oblivion. I am Sothis’s soul, just as you are Byleth’s. I will join with you, and so we will never be apart. But, as I am only akin to Sothis’s daemon, I will no longer have a chance to speak with you. I shall miss it.”

And at that, something in Belial broke. “I...I’m going to miss you, Sothis.” First her father, and now Sothis? Why did she have to leave them? Belial let out a tiny whimper. They were going to be all alone. They were all alone. No Byleth, their other half gone. Never there, never got to be connected the way a human should be. It hurt, so much, and Sothis helped but she could only do so much and now she was going to disappear, or fuse, but she would be gone!

Sothis left her throne to wrap her arms around Bellial. The contact helped, soothed the sharpest edge of the pain, though it was still present in a way so different than the constant background noise of their entire life. “I’m so sorry. If we were back in our world with Byleth, then as much as oblivion terrifies me, I would use my Dust to repair yours. But...that is impossible. So all I can promise is this: I will still be with you, even if we can no longer speak. And although I cannot fully replace the connection between you and Byleth, I can help restore some of what was lost. Though I never asked for it, and never wanted it, through you I got to see and hear this world once more. I got to watch you become a person.” She chuckled, and the gold on her clothes echoed like chimes. “I may not have acted like a goddess, but it was certainly fun. For all that you are, and for all that you have done...thank you.”

Belial felt so small; in truth they wanted to do nothing more than slink up to Sothis and keep them from leaving. But this was the only way, and hopefully she truly would remain a part of them and Byleth both. “Thank you...for everything.”

Sothis simply smiled. There was no more need for words, because after all they were part of the same being. Belial took in the sight of Sothis stepping off the throne and approaching her, the power that filled this space in the void, a defiance of the emptiness surrounding her. When she laid her lips upon Belial’s brow, the touch was just as natural and right as Byleth’s herself.  

And then there was the surge of power.

It should have hurt, this sudden rush, this energy that poured from Sothis into Belial as their bodies merged and fused. They felt something twist and change within them and pour outward, felt their body tremble as the sudden rush of divine energy threatened to tear them apart.

You can handle it! Belial thought they heard Sothis say. But that was just their imagination, the voice in their heads. They gritted their teeth. They had one shared goal. Leave this empty place. Rejoin Byleth. Save their students.

You are my pups, and I will look after you!

Belial snarled, bared their fangs, and lept. 

---

Solon clucked his tongue in disappointment, and his daemon let out a disappointed hiss. “A shame. I suppose I will have to kill you all!”

“...No.”

Byleth, still horrifically alone, staggered to her feet. Lurched off the altar towards Solon. Her face was blank, but her eyes burned . 

Above them both, the sky tore open. Edelgard could only stare at the empty void hanging in the evening sky for a few seconds before the wrongness of it forced her to turn away. But those few seconds were enough for her to see a wolf’s fangs bite down, further widening that rupture in the heavens. 

And Byleth kept lurching forward, her stone-less sword glowing as bright as the setting sun. It was slow, yes, but only in the way that a rockslide was slow, and it was under her own initiative. To think that the sight of her teacher walking would overwhelm her so. 

“You will never touch my students again.”

“So the fell star can overcome even the darkness itself,” his snake daemon hissed, suddenly very still. "Solon..."

Solon stepped back, another oily dark magic spell flaring to life in his hands. “But how? That spell severed the connection between you and your daemon. You shouldn’t even be alive right now, much less able to speak.”

Byleth took another step forward. “I’ve been severed my entire life.”

The Sword of the Creator sliced the lobbed spell in two. Stretched towards Solon. Carved a jagged gash across his chest. 

“This pain is all I’ve ever known.”

Solon crumpled to the ground, his daemon dissolving in a puff of golden light. Byleth and Belial stood there, sword aglow, framed by the setting sun. They were there, they had returned. And yet nobody could quote approach, for they were held back by the sight of—

“Belial,” Avarine asked in a low voice, “What happened to you?”

Byleth blinked, and turned around, and stopped. Her eyebrows rose a fraction of a centimeter and breathed, “Oh.”

Belial was still mostly a wolf. Certainly wolf-shaped. But their silver fur was now light green, like grass hidden away from the sun. Their amber eyes now, quite literally, glowed golden, those round pupils sharpened to a snake’s slit. Large fuzzy wolf paws were now narrowed, with stubby nails now stout claws. And then there were the horns, large and white and sweeping behind their ears. 

Belial looked as though someone had crudely smashed together a wolf with...with the Immaculate One. Avarine quivered under outstretched wings. What had happened to Belial, Byleth’s daemon, the other half of her?!

Linhardt and Runilite eyed Belial with a somewhat detached clinical fascination, and Flayn’s eyes went wide with some realization that she kept to herself. But everyone else hesitated, not that Edelgard could blame them. Truth be told, she was concerned and apprehensive as well. No...she was frightened, on an existential level. What had happened to warp the shape of Belial so? And what did this mean for Byleth? How much of her was left in there?

Her teacher had no answers. She hadn’t said anything yet, instead lost in Belial’s gaze as she knelt before them. Her hand trembled slightly in midair, as if she was reaching out towards a half-feral thing. Byleth closed her eyes when her callused fingertips traced those smooth white horns. 

“I can’t hear her,” Byleth whispered. “Belial, where is she?”

Belial raised a paw to their chest. “In me? With me? Sort of, it’s complicated…I’m honestly not sure about all the details myself. But our students are safe?” Byleth nodded, and Belial let out a huff. “That’s all we both cared about.”

Who was this we ? What happened to Belial in that void between worlds? Was Byleth—quiet and distant but still there in a way her brothers and sisters never were again after—truly...?

“My teacher?” Avarine asked, still pinned to her shoulder. Though that might have been because her talons were stuck in the leather. “How did you manage to escape?”

Belial looked up at her, with those hellish yellow eyes. There was something else in there now, not just her teacher who believed in her. Who listened, without judgement or contempt. Who cared. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but the goddess helped me. Or at least an aspect of her.”

Byleth didn’t lie. Byleth couldn’t lie. “I see. That’s...I’m glad you escaped, however it was.” So that was it then. Her teacher cared, had been raised apart from the church and quietly horrified by every new thing she learned about it and the glorified caste system that was Crest supremacy, had grown up free of such indoctrination and damage, taught to answer questions for herself. But that wasn’t just her teacher in there anymore. The goddess, or a powerful creature calling itself a deity, whatever it was it had helped Belial out of that void between dimensions—and had demanded something in exchange. That was simply the way of the world. Nobody, especially not a deity, would offer such power for free. And if Byleth truly was—truly had been... severed (say the word Edelgard, no matter how awful it may be, you have always harshly spoken the truth!), well then. She knew all too well how most survivors were little more than living husks. Even if Byleth had staggered her way back from that void, the green of Belial’s fur, those horns that had no place on a wolf’s head, they said enough. Whatever had saved Belial had left their mark. Had filled that empty vessel with themselves. And even if Byleth was sympathetic, she doubted that they would take kindly to her war on their church and system. 

Would there be enough of Byleth and Belial left in there to resist, when the time came?

A thud, two thuds, interrupted Edelgard’s swirling thoughts, as Byleth slumped to the ground again, Belial falling unconscious with her. 

“Professor!” The rest of her classmates ran forward to help. Avarine flapped her wings and struggled to pull free of the pauldron—she really had dug her talons in so deep that they got stuck. Edelgard could feel her own blood seep hot down her shoulder from those puncture wounds, then seep into her clothes and dry sticky. They were starting to sting, now that the danger had passed and the adrenaline faded away.  

“Avarine.” A deep breath, forced calm. The awkward fumbling of her reaching up across her shoulder to extricate Ava’s talons from the leather. Finally, Avarine launched free to Belial. 

Lysithea has undergone blood reconstruction many years before Edelgard, and so all pigment in her hair had long since burned away. Even when she hit puberty, the younger student had awkwardly admitted once over their teatimes, the new hair also grew in bone-white without even a flirtation with her natural-born shade. Edelgard’s eyebrows were still brown, as were the last few strands of hair that refused to surrender to the inevitable.

There was no gray left in Belial’s fur at all. No black or white either, none of the subtle complexities of a wolf daemon’s thick double coat. It was all, in an instant, transformed to various shades of green.

“She’s alive, right?” Bernadetta asked, curled around Malecki. “Even if the Professor and Belial aren’t c-connected anymore, they’re still linked in that way, right? I’m sorry, this was probably stupid to ask…”

“No,” Hubert answered. “That, at least, remains. As long as Belial is present, even in this...form, our professor is still alive.” And even among their classmates, his reputation was so fearsome that nobody dared ask just how he knew that information. Whatever they were thinking was almost certainly far more innocent than the truth. 

“She must have passed out from the strain,” Edelgard mused. “I’ll carry her back.” She couldn’t ask Hubert; more importantly, she needed…Well. What she wanted was to feel Byleth’s breath, slow and even against her ear. The warmth of her body, her hair tickling the nape of her neck. But what she needed was this reminder of what she had allowed to happen through her desperate bargain and silence when she could have asked for help. Edelgard needed to remind herself of the human cost of what she was about to do necessary though it may be. Otherwise, even as she forged onward in her crimson path, her heart would freeze and she would lose herself. 

Edelgard’s wounded shoulder cried out at the sudden pressure, but pain was an old friend. Avarine landed between Thanily’s shoulders, whispered, “We’ll talk later,” into her ears. Thanily stiffened, briefly, and Hubert couldn’t quite look her in the eye, but she nodded nonetheless. 

Why hadn’t Hubert told her what Monica had done? He was her retainer, her confidant, her closest and most loyal friend. It stung more than she thought it would, that despite all his devotion Hubert couldn’t bring himself to bare his vulnerabilities the way she opened herself up to him. But there always had been a bit of a disconnect there which Hubert imposed upon himself. They were friends and allies, yes, but Hubert always saw himself as a von Vestra first, with all the implications that entailed. Whether that was born from his devotion to duty or some personal atonement for his father’s betrayal, the outcome was the same. Hubert placed her on a pedestal, almost never contradicted her, and never let himself burden her with his troubles. 

“I swear, if that is why Hubert kept this...this violation to himself, I will be absolutely furious! We could have figured out some way to dispense of Monica without jeopardizing our tenuous alliance!”

Edelgard rolled her eyes. “But that would have required quite a bit of finesse when we are already overwhelmed. Of course we would have done it, but you know as well as I do that Hubert’s only goal is to make our shared path as easy for me to walk as possible, no matter the cost to himself. I don’t think he realizes the effect that has on me as his friend, because he never considers his own well-being unless forced.”

“We’ll talk with him about that later. For now we have a more immediate problem.” Avarine cleared her throat and spoke out loud. “How are we getting Belial out of here?”

The logistical question was an incitement to pause. Avarine, Thanily, and Runilite were the largest daemons in the Black Eagle house. They were, combined, approximately a quarter to maybe a third of Belial’s size. 

Leonie was the first to voice an option. “If we can get Belial on one of our horses then riding back would be simple enough but...yeah, no. Not even with extremely thick gloves. There’s one guy in my village who’s been in a similar situation but he has seizures and talked it out with his friends beforehand.”

Runilite did not even attempt to drag Belial through the snow. “I’m sure you’ll dismiss this out of hand as unreasonably callous, but have you considered the merits of simply leaving Belial here until they wake on their own?”

“How could you even suggest that?” Malecki cried out. “Even if Bernie and I weren’t together—” and he shuddered at the thought; Bernadetta gave an involuntary cry and held him closer to her heart—“I still couldn’t bear to be away from her. Not to mention that there’s all sorts of animals and monsters in the woods.” Edelgard, for her part, held her tongue, but just the thought of leaving Belial all alone also made her want to vomit. 

Flayn said nothing, but quietly observed and took in everything around her. At least she knew better than to interfere. Why did she have to return to the monastery and the epicenter of what was about to occur? She and Seteth could have had a peaceful life had they chosen not to meddle in the affairs of humans once more. 

Runilite shrugged. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

“Hm.” Bernadetta tapped her chin. “Levia’s the biggest daemon in our class, and Delcabia’s also pretty big. What if we split up? Some of us stay here with the Professor and Belial, while the rest of us go get Dimitri and Dedue?”

Petra shook her head. “You are having good thoughts, Bernadetta, but we are being hunted by strong enemies right now. It is too dangerous, for us to be separating ourselves.”

“Hey, Lin, you just figured out that warp spell, right? Can you warp Belial back to the monastery?”

Linhardt just rolled his eyes. “Yes Caspar, I’ll warp Belial over three kilometers to a location I can’t see, and pray that they don’t arrive two stories midair. I can’t see any possible drawbacks to that decision.”

“Yeesh, it’s not like I like know white magic.”

“And I don’t know how to punch people outside of theory, so we’re even.”

Dorothea sighed. “Look, unless one of us brought a giant tarp to drag Belial back on, we’re running out of options fast.”

“Oh! I believe I—ah, yes! I knew I had not forgotten! A noble must always be prepared, after all.”

“...You’re kidding, Ferdie.”

But Ferdinand had, in fact, procured a large and sturdy-looking tarp. “I never kid about such matters! I obtained a tarp shortly after Embrienne settled for these exact circumstances.”

“Of course you did,” Hubert muttered into the palm of his hand. Below her talons, Avarine could feel Thanily quake with suppressed laughter. 

Which was how Belial ended up being dragged back on a makeshift tarp by two horses through the snow to Garreg Mach. As Ferdinand was busy guiding his horse in concert with Leonie’s, Embrienne floated down to Avarine and Thanily. 

“Avarine, please convince Edelgard to allow us to assist her in carrying our professor back to the monastery. There is room enough on our horses to carry her without significant trouble.”

“Thank you, Embrienne, but we truly are fine.” Truth be told, her shoulder was starting to burn, but she’d lived through far worse. This was her fault, and her burden to bear.

But Embrienne, as always, was persistent. “Avarine, this is not about besting you! You may be the imperial crown princess, but even before the insurrection the emperors depended on their ministers for assistance and to share the burdens of the crown.” 

“Careful there, Embrienne,” Avarine coolly replied. Underneath her, Thanily raised her hackles and curled her lip in a flash of fang. 

Much to Avarine’s surprise, Embrienne did not double down but conversed quietly with Ferdinand before floating back to her. “My apologies; I did not mean to bring up painful mesmerizes. What I meant to say was that as your classmate, peer, and—I should hope, your friend—I would like to help, as together we can shoulder more than one person would be able to manage alone. I do not believe I am mistaken when I say that all of us feel similarly. Please, Avarine, allow us to assist you.”

Was it truly so difficult, to reach out a hand, or grasp one offered to her? Even for something so essentially inconsequential as this? She’d already opened up once before and that had gone better than expected. Petra and Dorothea’s allegiance was unlikely to change, not even if something else was sharing her teacher’s body. 

“Caspar, Petra, would you be able to lend me assistance?”

---

Lady Edelgard resolutely avoided the subject once Professor Byleth was safely delivered to the infirmary. She had other things to worry about—her imminent coronation, holding a regrettably necessary but increasingly tenuous alliance together, bringing the rebellious nobles to heel. Compared to those monumental tasks, the state of their professor, even though she wielded the Sword of the Creator, was a mere trifle. A mere trifle that Hubert would be more than happy to consider the implications of and therefore intervene accordingly. 

No matter how unnerving it was on some instinctive level to see Belial so changed, he would gladly contemplate it in full. Once Hubert had hypothesized that there was a second face, of sorts, behind their professor’s empty gaze. Perhaps it made a certain kind of poetic sense, to see that face exposed at the same time when their little game of playing school was nearly at an end. 

He could not bring himself to fully trust their professor the way Lady Edelgard had so foolishly decided to, but to see their professor so forcibly changed into one of those beasts was...distressing. How many orders of magnitude worse was it for Lady Edelgard? 

No, he would not let this trouble her any further. Once Lady Edelgard was crowned and their true work begun, he would release their professor from what must surely be unbearable torment. She deserved that much. 

“Must we discuss this now?” Thanily asked, tail lashing back and forth.

Hubert said nothing, for Thanily knew perfectly well it was that or dwelling on Kronya’s taunts. The way she so cruelly gloated about one of the worst moments of his life to his classmates, to Lady Edelgard. And that would inevitably lead his traitorous mind to remember just what it felt like, having her hands around—

He shook his head. No. He needed to focus solely on the mission. They would be leaving for Enbarr in a few days, and Duke Aegir in particular had to be none the wiser. Best to avoid Ferdinand for now; he could not risk the infuriatingly persistent noble suspecting that something was amiss. 

Hubert opened the door to the classroom, where he had left his books and some supplies. Ferdinand and Bernadetta were waiting for him. 

“No.” He turned around to walk right back out the door. 

“Hubert, wait.” Ferdinand was already up and moving, carefully placing himself between Hubert and the door. Not on the side where Thanily stood, he noticed. “If you truly do not wish to talk, then Bernadetta and I will let you leave. But it seems as though this has been troubling you for some time, and you have not been able to bring yourself to make yourself so vulnerable.”

“And what makes you think I would possibly emotionally expose myself to you? ”

Ferdinand flinched at the blow, Embrienne dropping back down onto his shoulder. “You are right. I am sorry, for acting in such a presumptuous manner.”

“Hubert, please don’t be angry at Ferdinand!” Bernadetta hid behind Malecki’s quills. At his gaze upon her, she raised his body higher to cover her storm-gray eyes. Then, she slowly forced her arms down. “It, it was my idea. We’re your friends, or at least I like to think we are, and something was clearly bothering you but you wouldn’t tell us why. I mean, I get it, I shut out the world and keep things to myself all the time, but I do it so much that it was hurting me. And it was starting to hurt you too.”

How dare she be so presumptuous? To think that she knew best and—

“She’s right.” Thanily looked up at him, her fur so bright orange it almost hurt to look at in the winter evening light. “I’ve been telling you that we needed to let someone in, rather than carrying this burden ourselves.”

She must have seen the miniscule change of expression on his face, a skill surely honed through years of learning to anticipate and avoid her father’s rages (and oh, just the thought of that made him burn. He was going to enjoy meting out justice on Count Varley, as much as Duke Aegir and his traitorous wretch of a father), because Bernadetta swallowed down her fear, placed Malecki on her shoulder where Embrienne could land on his paw, and said, “You and Ferdinand both said that I shouldn’t let what happened to me define me, because it was something that happened to me, not who or what I am. So it, it’s the same with you. Monica, or Kronya, or whatever she was, what she did to you and Thanily doesn’t change anything. You’re still Hubert, you’re still super-scary but also care underneath even if you’re bad at showing it?” Ferdiand said nothing, but there was no way Hubert could miss the way he squeezed encouragement into Bernadetta’s hand, or his confident nod.

Objectively, Bernadetta was right. But there was a difference between staying such a conclusion to somebody else, and accepting it in the context of his own violation. And, furthermore, “Though that may be true, neither of you have to maintain the fearsome reputation that a von Vestra must, as their liege’s second shadow. Any impression of weakness is just that—weakness.” Those words, even this admission was thick and forced on his tongue; speaking them out loud could have only been possible with Thanily’s fur pressed against his legs, her gentle yet resigned encouragement in the back of his mind.  

There was a long pause, long enough for Hubert to wonder if he had said too much, if they truly did think lesser of him. It was foolish, to care about the opinions of Ferdinand and Bernadetta, and yet he found himself caring anyway. But then Ferdinand stepped forward, that familiar glint of a challenge in his eyes, Embrienne buzzing in that vexing way he had come to know so well, and said, “Well Hubert, if that is the case, then I look forward to seeing you in the training arena! Unless you would like to step outside now? In fact, I will be so gracious as to let you have the choice of contest!”

He prattled on like that for several minutes, spouting more inanities about his superiority to Hubert—and, by extension, Lady Edelgard—and offering several poorly-veiled challenges. After about five minutes of increasing horror, Bernadetta had had enough, and dragged Ferdinand out of the room, stammering apologies to Hubert all the while.

“Well that was odd,” Thanily muttered as the door slammed behind them. Even Ferdinand is not usually so...forward.”

“They’re arguing outside the door.” Thanily, quieter and with better hearing, crept forward and pressed her ear against the heavy wood. 

“Ferdinand, why did you do that? What Kronya did to him and Thanily was absolutely awful; if somebody started shouting at me after experiencing something like that I’d probably just start screaming and crying on the spot.”

“Ah, but my dear Bernadetta, that is the key difference! Hubert needs kindness and empathy from you, but I am his arch-nemesis, his dearly detested rival!” And Flames, he could just hear Ferdinand raise a pumped fist in emphasis. “Therefore, I must make sure our interactions are unchanged. To receive kindness and restraint from me would be a humiliation beyond words for Hubert. And I will not allow his attackers another iota of power or influence over him.”

Hubert needed to sit down. Was that...Ferdinand understood?

“Wow, you’ve...you’ve really thought about this. A lot better than silly old Bernie…”

There was the sound of a kiss to her hair, a soft sound which for some reason curled around his heart and squeezed. “My dear Bernadetta, I would not have even considered this if not for your influence.”

Their voices died away as they returned to their dormitories, leaving Hubert and Thanily behind in the empty classroom. Thanily sat on his lap, one hand idly resting on her fur while the other covered his face. Ferdinand and Bernadetta considered him their friend. They were concerned, and cared enough to…

He could no longer deny it. Flames, this would have been so much easier had they not wormed their way into his heart. 

---

Byleth drifted. 

It wasn’t sleep, not quite. It was closer to that haze between slumber and waking. But that was peaceful. This was...well, it seemed peaceful. But only at first. At the edges it was, it was sort of like a soft blanket tossed over a bed of nails. 

“In time's flow, see the glow of flames ever burning bright…”

She remembered being sick once. She and Belial had both been wracked with feverish tremors, and she could not stop coughing. Her father had pulled her into his lap, had carefully spooned bone broth into her mouth and told her sanitized versions of some of his adventures while Domaghar curled herself around Belial’s frame.

This was sort of like that, but inside out. Then she had been sick, but comforted and loved. Here, there was comfort but something wrong at the edge, or underneath.

“On the swift river's drift, broken memories alight…”

Who was singing, and why? That voice sounded familiar…

Byleth’s eyes fluttered open, and met Rhea’s soft green gaze.

“Professor. You must remain still.” 

She was...in Rhea’s lap. Back in the monastery. There was an odd weight on her stomach, like a metal object laying in her lap as she was in Rhea’s. 

“Where am I? What happened?” She almost didn’t recognize her voice, soft and hoarse and a little distant. When she raised her hand, there were red and white ribbons tied to the wrist, and her jacket was gone. She was...wearing Sothis’s clothes? But how? And why? 

“Shh, shh. Everything is all right. There is no need to worry. Those who are trying to harm you are far away, and will not touch you here.”

Rhea hummed the tune she was singing before, and lowered her hand. But not to stroke Byleth’s hair, which now had those same red and white ribbons woven through the locks. Instead, the exhausted Byleth could only watch as she laid her hand on Belial, ran her fingers through their fur in long strokes. 

Even though the connection between them was severed, the amputated stumps held together by whatever aspect of Sothis remained, the sheer wrongness of it tore through Byleth and Belial both. It was as if Rhea had pried open her chest and gently stroked her stilled heart and breathing lungs while singing that lullaby. 

Did Rhea even know what she was doing? She looked so serene. “How lovely it would be for this moment to last forever. I wish I could hold on to this time we have stolen, that you and I could create a world without end.”

What was she talking about? Stop it, please! A thin sound, low and more animal than human, pulled itself from the back of Byleth’s throat. Belial trembled, struggled to stand, but they were still weak and drained from their ordeal. And when Rhea’s hand came down it was heavy as iron.

“Oh, my dear Byleth. Your appearance... You have received power from the goddess. From the moment you took hold of the Sword of the Creator, I prayed that one day the radiant power of Sothis, which bathes Fódlan in its celestial light, might reside within you. But you are so much more than the light. You are my…”

She was Rhea’s what? What had she done to her, long ago and now? The hand came down again, and again, loving strokes along Belial’s horns now please stop please stop! Sothis wouldn’t want this! Why did she think Sothis would want this?! 

But Sothis wasn’t here anymore. At least, not in a way that would change anything.

Byleth tried to fight, to flee, but she was exhausted. Her muscles would not obey and the words would not come. Rhea saw her struggles, but did not understand. “Close your eyes, dear one. Sleep, just a while longer.”

She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to run, to change back into her familiar outfit and break off Belial’s horns and run as far away from Rhea as possible. But she didn’t have the strength. The last thing Byleth heard before falling back into slumber was, “I will be watching over you, always. Always and forever.”

And she knew this to be true. She would never tolerate impudence or disobedience, would never accept a no. Whatever Rhea wanted, Rhea got, and Sothis help anyone who openly defied her. 

At least, with a loss of consciousness, she and Belial wouldn’t be able to feel this anymore. 

 

Notes:

Thank you all for reading! A few things: Yes, Edelgard and Hubert have drawn the wrong conclusion but I hope it makes sense given their knowledge and biases. Don't worry, they'll soon learn otherwise.

And yes, Rhea dressed up Byleth in the DLC Sothis outfit and is petting her daemon because they now so closely resemble Sothis's true form. (She never really bothered to learn human customs and taboos, despite masquerading as one for so long. Meanwhile, Seteth and Flayn are trying.) Did anyone else find that scene in canon creepy?

Anyway, there are 5 chapters left before the timeskip! I hope I can have them done around the time of the first anniversary of this fic (wow). I've got an ubb fic coming up soonish as well as the next chapter, so see you all later and please wear a mask and stay safe!

Chapter 23: Her Imperial Majesty, Edelgard II And Avarine von Hresvelg

Summary:

Seteth grapples with a moral crisis. Edelgard, Hubert, and Byleth travel to Enbarr.

Notes:

This dialogue gave me fits. I might end up editing it later. Either way, I hope you all read and enjoy, and thank you for being patient!

Seteth stared across the hall at the space on the captain’s desk where the diary had been. He had been staring at that space for what felt like hours. Even if he burned those pages, he could not burn away his memory of their contents.

Jeralt’s diary described a difficult birth. A dead wife and mother. And a child who neither laughed nor cried. Who breathed, but had no heartbeat. Whose daemon was all but limp and dead. 

And, according to the journal, Rhea seemed completely unconcerned. Seteth looked over at his false daemon, the bearded dragon Flayn had given him with a laugh of, “Just like you, Father,” before they left the grotto and re-entered society. The lizard was busy scuttling around her enclosure, cramming as many crickets as possible into her mouth. Jeralt had taken the child and fled, raised her as far away from the church as possible. Even when Byleth returned, she had an uncanny air about her. And Rhea, usually so cautious, was distressingly eager to pile privilege after privilege, accolade after accolade upon this strange girl who knew nothing of the church. 

True, Byleth had proven herself more than capable in her role as professor. The students trusted her and she had a knack for working with them. Seteth himself owed her an eternal debt of gratitude for her central role in saving Flayn. 

Just who were those people anyway? He was starting to get the suspicion that they were some remnant of the Agarthans still plotting their vengeance. Whomever they were, they’d managed to infiltrate two nations on the continent and the church. They had likely killed and replaced both Monica and Tomas, planted Jeritza inside their walls. They had massacred Remire Village, killed Captain Jeralt. And when Professor Byleth chased down her vengeance, well…

And this was where Seteth faltered. It was easy enough to know how to handle their enemies. The Agarthans had no morals, no limits. Whether they were indifferent to their atrocities or reveled in them, the outcome was the same and they needed to be stopped at all costs. But it was another thing when an ally was doing something ethically...troublesome. 

The students—no, every human in the monastery—were frightened by Belial’s sudden transformation. They were so achingly similar to Sothis’s true form that it almost hurt to look at. No wonder Byleth had been bestowed the title Enlightened One. 

But that wasn’t supposed to happen to Belial. Belial was settled, their shape fixed for life. What’s more, a daemon was only ever one creature, not a fusion of multiple different beasts. But most disturbing of all was this implication of a fused daemon. From what Seteth understood about the humans’ anchors, or aspects, whatever the term may be, such a thing would be akin to somebody forcibly carving a second Crest onto his Stone. And that was repulsive beyond words. Yet Rhea was still delighted. Ecstatic, even. 

What had she done to that baby? She would not tell him, even when he shamefully lost his temper and raised his voice. The only thing she revealed was that Belial’s transformation was somehow critical to all their plans coming to fruition. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say her plans. 

Seteth watched the bearded dragon bask in the wan winter light as he tried to put what he knew together. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not notice the door open or someone walk in until Flayn’s voice startled him back to the present. 

“Brother?”

“What is it Flayn? You weren’t harmed in that ambush, were you?”

Flayn sighed, and Seteth thought back to his conversations with Jeralt. Yes he made some good points about not smothering Flayn, but look where the captain ended up. He could not call it paranoia if there truly were enemies in the dark after him and his only child. “I am completely unharmed, but I am not sure I can say the same for my classmates, or the professor. Our enemies used a term that my classmates found particularly disturbing, to the point where I do not think it wise to acknowledge my ignorance of what it means.”

And then she asked the question that made the pieces start to fall into horrified place. “Brother, what does it mean for a human to be severed?”

---

Even when it was shoved in the closet, Byleth could feel that mimicry of Sothis’s regalia looming over her. It….frightened her, in a way that Hubert only wished he could have, when he attempted to intimidate her at the start of the year. 

She’d fled from Rhea’s room (her bed chambers! Why had it happened on the balcony outside her bed chambers?! Something about that seemed so wrong) the moment she was able to, racing towards the safety of her assigned quarters. But she could feel the students’ gazes on her the whole way back, in a way she hadn’t before. They’d stared at her and Belial at the start of the year, when they learned about their ability to separate without pain. Her students had almost gotten used to it by now, but nobody would have expected Belial to change so drastically. 

Her quarters were no sanctuary either. Byleth slammed the door behind her, stripped down to her small clothes, chucked the clothes in the back of the closet, and curled up around Belial. It wasn’t enough. The contact slowed her breath and mind but it felt...muted. Like when she poked at the mass of scar tissue making up her smashed knee. It has been like that her entire life, but now that Byleth realized this was not how things were supposed to be, it was impossible to ignore. 

And she couldn’t hear Sothis’s voice anymore. Sothis, her guide and friend for nearly a year, who had been with her in some fashion her entire life, was gone . 

“She’s still here, sort of.”

“But I can’t hear her anymore. It’s not the same and you know it.”

Byleth curled around Belial, but it was all wrong. Their fur glowed gently, the color almost exactly that of Sothis’s hair. Their claws snagged in the sheets. Their horns pressed cool and smooth into Byleth’s neck.

Sothis had fused with Belial, and she was apparently the goddess, or something, so what did that make her?

“I don’t want to be the goddess,” said Byleth. “I want to be Byleth.”

“And I want to be Belial, not a goddess. I don’t even look like me anymore.”

But Rhea was so excited about what happened for some reason. So excited that she...she…

Belial whimpered and pressed themself against Byleth, trying to replace the feeling of Rhea with their human. It helped, but only a little bit. 

Why did she do it? Rhea had treated her like...like a toy. Even if she had been able to say no, Rhea probably wouldn’t have listened. And now there was this mission to the Holy Tomb. Sothis didn’t say anything about a revelation! 

“If there isn’t a revelation, when what does Rhea want to do with us in the Holy Tomb? Byleth, I’m...I think I’m afraid. But we can’t say no, can we?”

“I don’t think so. I think whatever Rhea wants, Rhea gets. Nobody’s going to stop her.”

“Edelgard might. Edelgard would be so upset about this.” After all, wasn’t that what Edelgard was striving for? Her entire goal was to make a world where nobody would suffer the way she had, and she would have the power to do it as Emperor. Assuming that she could force the church to bow. 

“Edelgard is an unstoppable force of nature,” Belial said into her chest, “but Rhea won’t let anyone defy her. This is going to be bad.” 

“But if Rhea thinks I’m enlightened, or whatever? Maybe we can convince her?”

Belial made a small whining noise in the back of their throat. “I don’t know about that. Byleth, I feel like...like she doesn’t see us for us, you know, whatever we are? Edelgard and our students do. Dad did. If we say no she might get even angrier.”

Byleth sprung to her feet and paced around the room, the cold air curling around her mostly-bare body. The monastery suddenly felt like a prison. She couldn’t leave her students here without a teacher, and she couldn’t back out of this mission to the Holy Tomb. But right now, she couldn’t be in the monastery any longer. If she saw Rhea again right now, she didn’t know what she would do. 

Her dad used to think the world of Rhea, but then he was terrified of her, and now so was she. Fear for herself and her students. Anger and sadness at how crests hurt her students and what happened to Ashe. Those were the feelings Byleth now had about Rhea and the church. In comparison, when she thought of her students, she had thoughts of protectiveness. Pride at their growth. Love.

Which is why, when Edelgard asked to accompany her on a trip to Enbarr, Byleth was arranging to have her lectures covered by Manuela and Alois before she could even finish her sentence. If Rhea now brought to mind feelings of wrong and bad, her students—especially Edelgard—brought upon feelings of warm and safe. 

---

Byleth sat on one side of the carriage, Belial awkwardly spilling over the sides of a plush mattress on the floor clearly meant for Thanily. Thanily was in Hubert’s lap, who was on the other side of the carriage next to Edelgard. Avarine rested on a perch next to her, perfectly positioned for Edelgard to reach up and pet her. 

The carriage was clearly custom designed for Edelgard and Hubert. There were writing surfaces that swung out on hinges, and small compartments that held it snacks. There was space for another fox-sized mattress right under Avarine’s perch. Compartments under the seats housed various papers and documents. This carriage was custom-built for Edelgard and Hubert, and Byleth felt a little bit like an intruder. 

“Did it hurt?” Avarine asked, breaking the awkward silence. It shouldn’t have been awkward among the three of them, but Hubert and Edelgard were no fans of the church, and now she and Belial both bore its marks. Not to mention what Edelgard and Hubert had both endured. 

Edelgard shot Avarine a glare but didn’t say anything else. After all she had been just as harsh and blunt. 

Byleth and Belial looked at each other. “It’s...a constant ache, I guess,” she said. “But it’s all I’ve ever known, so I didn’t even realize it was anything wrong or especially unusual until, well, the same time you did.”

“You never saw it,” Belial said, their voice the same despite it all, “but my dad, and then I, called them the Bad Days. Apparently I followed orders but not much else. I didn’t remember much of the Bad Days, not even my own name.”

Hubert made a noncommittal noise, even as his fingers tightened in Thanily’s fur. “Now that sounds more on keeping with what we know of...well, I suppose we all know that of which I speak. Yet bad days imply good days, and in all your time at the monastery you have been present. Emotionally and creatively stunted, yes, but possessing an initiative and presence of self that the typical severed person lacks entirely.”

Sothis would have made some sarcastic remark about Hubert’s blunt remarks, but she wasn’t there to say anything anymore. So instead Byleth just nodded and said, “Before coming to the monastery I’d only have a few Good Days a month. But I don’t think I’ve had a single Bad Day since coming here.”

Edelgard hadn’t taken her hand off Avarine this entire time. “My teacher...thank you for telling me—no, us.”

Byleth nodded, but, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Hubert, why did you hide what Kronya did to you and Thanily from us?”

There was a pause where they both blinked, broken by a suppressed snort from Edelgard. “Well, that was direct,” she said. Though I wouldn’t expect anything less from my teacher at this point.”

“Neither would I.” Hubert leaned back with a sigh. “I suppose there’s no talking my way out of this, is there?”

“I’m also rather bewildered and disappointed in your reticence, so no Hubert, there isn’t. Why did you hide it? Don’t tell me it was for some foolishly self-sacrificial reason that would supposedly make my ambitions easier to attain?”

“Then I shall not.”

“Hubert.”

“Very well. You have me cornered.” Thanily shifted deeper into his lap, white-tipped tail tucked under her chin, his gloved hand between that and the rest of her body. “Before I expound on the second reason, let me ask: what would you realistically have done, if I had told you? Would you have attacked Kronya? Tell me, how would you have done that without alerting our enemies, or further arousing their wrath? And this is completely ignoring any possible response from the Church.”

“They already attacked you, killed my dad, and tried to kill me. It would have just made them move faster. I would have made something work out.”

“And just how would you have done that, Professor?” Hubert asked. “While you may be excellent at battlefield tactics, your creativity out of combat is lacking, to say the least.”

That was true, but… “I would have talked to Edelgard. And if we’re going to discuss battlefield tactics then what about Grondor Field? If I had known what Monica did to you and Thanily, I wouldn’t have told you to go into melee and remind you of what happened.”

Hubert just rolled his eyes, though Thanily muttered something to him. “I will remember that for future battles,” he said. “Though it won’t matter in your case, since we’re about to graduate and go our separate ways, while you’ll remain at the monastery as a professor to the next class of eagles.”

“I’m not going back to the monastery,” said Belial. 

For the next several minutes, the only sounds were the carriage bouncing over the cobblestones, and the heavy patter of freezing rain.

The first to break the silence was Hubert. “I’m sorry, I believe I must have misunderstood. Did you just say you won’t be returning to the monastery?”

This was news to Byleth as well, at least consciously. And it wasn’t like she and Belial had ever spoken without words. And yet… “No, I can’t. I’ll finish the year to take care of you, but then I’m resigning. If I stay…” Just the thought sent those overwhelming feelings of badwrong crashing through her. “When I woke up, I was in Rhea’s bedroom. She’d dressed me in something, and was singing to me.” She didn’t want to say the last part. It was almost humiliating, and she was their teacher. She needed to be strong for them, and...was this why Hubert didn’t want to talk about what Monica did to Thanily? Then she needed to set a good example. “And she was petting Belial.”

Hubert and Edelgard froze. Thanily flattened herself against Hubert’s chest, and Avarine exploded off her perch with all the force of a loosed arrow. “WHAT?!”

She told them everything, and watched as her students clutched their daemons right, and quaked with rage. 

“That—that witch,” Edelgard spluttered, Avarine a ball of feathers and fury. “My teacher, I am so sorry.”

“I wish I could say I was shocked, but this is completely in keeping with her character, and the character of the church as a whole,” said Hubert. 

“I suppose this means we’ve all suffered the same...violation,” said Thanily. “Therefore, let me say that the other reason is because I’m Hubert and Thanily von Vestra. I’m supposed to be frightening.”

“And you believe what someone else did to you would make you less ‘frightening,’ as you put it.”

“Without a doubt.” Hubert pushed back his bangs, exposing the bright green of his hidden right eye. “I was utterly incapacitated. If someone were to learn of it…”

“Then I would tell them what happened to me, the Ashen Demon. It doesn’t change anything.”

Hubert didn’t say much after that, but Thanily and Avarine both approached Belial for the first time. They curled up together, three daemons sharing their pain. 

---

The carriage did not stop until they were within the interior of the palace itself, and Lady Edelgard had not even transferred Avarine to her shoulder when Hubert’s hand-picked attendants ushered them to the central chambers. Thanily kept her ears pricked for any potential threats, and Hubert allowed himself a rare moment of pride in his efforts bearing fruit. The bribery of guards, the forged documents, the careful balancing of favors and threats in turn, all of it in preparation for this moment. Their “allies” were busy assembling in Remire, waiting to strike. Meanwhile Lady Edelgard would be crowned with Duke Aegir and his lackeys none the wiser, and then their true work could begin. 

There was still the question of what their professor would do. Truth be told, just the fact that she was still an unknown factor was especially disconcerting. Yes, another person would say he was being paranoid, yet they would be revealing just how laughably naive they were. Trickery was in his blood, dark schemes woven through his entire life. For now, though, 

“Can we argue about this later, Hubert?” Thanily hissed across their link. “This would be a ripe time for hidden assassins. And if there are none, I would like to savor this moment.”

What could Hubert do but agree? Besides; he was also all too willing to make better memories in this place. 

The last time Hubert had been in the throne room was shortly after the Insurrection. He would never forget the sight of his father looming over the Emperor’s defeated form, a threat rather than a guardian. Emperor Ionius’s daemon was a golden puma, frequently mistaken for a lioness by those who did not know better. She had once stood tall and sleek and proud. But that horrific day, when he learned that Lady Edelgard had gone missing and his father turned traitor, she was slumped under her father's daemon, four of her tentacles wrapped around her neck. A living collar to bind and chain the emperor while Duke Aegir’s daemon sat upon her paw in an utter violation of the natural order. 

When Hubert was a young boy, he’d wanted Thanily to settle as an octopus just like his father had. It was the perfect symbol of the reach and machinations, the many tasks of the Minister of the Imperial Household. After that day the memory made him want to vomit. 

Since that day, the emperor and his daemon were naught but a hollow shell of who they used to be. Even now, she was hollow-eyed, that golden luster dulled, fur threadbare and falling out in clumps. Emperor Ionius himself could have easily fought off the illness that slowly consumed him, but since the Insurrection he had decided to give up and waste away by inches. He sat crumpled, wheezing, a disgrace to the throne. 

The contrast between him and Lady Edelgard could not be more stark. For all her wounds and all her pain, she was unbowed, unbent, unbroken. The light and hope of not only Adrestia, but all of Fodlan. Where her father’s daemon was emaciated and unkempt, Avarine gleamed in the winter sun. Although Thanily kept her eyes and ears pricked for danger, Hubert allowed himself to listen. 

“Thank you, Father. Now, to complete the Imperial succession, you must relinquish your crown here in the throne room. The archbishop of the Church of Seiros would normally act as witness, but my professor will fill that role instead.”

Byleth blinked and stiffened beside him, the gesture as good as a profanity-laden shout of disbelief. Unbidden, the guards turned to look, or rather gawk, at their mysterious Professor and her twisted daemon, and Hubert found himself unexpectedly grateful. He and his peers knew better, but to the pious rabble Belial’s appearance could be nothing less than divine intervention. Therefore her presence was as good as the archbishop’s herself, and perhaps they could spin it as superior. 

“Edelgard..” Emperor Ionius fell into another fit of pained coughing, as his daemon pulled herself away from Avarine to make eye contact with Belial. 

“Professor Byleth and Belial Eisner, correct?” They nodded, and the puma daemon gave a quick tilt of her head in return. “Thank you, for watching over my daughter when I could not.”

“I’m proud to call Edelgard my student...and my friend,” Belial said, and something twisted in Hubert that he really didn’t want to examine. Perhaps Byleth could have been on their side, he would at least concede, but would there still be a Byleth once Rhea was through with her? He could not guarantee that, and so until she proved otherwise the plan had to continue unchanged. 

“If she isn’t, then we shall defeat Rhea and her cult in her memory instead, along with all those who have suffered under the yoke of the church.”

“Father, please...rest. From this day forward, the weight of the Empire's future shall rest upon my shoulders. All that I do will be for the benefit of the people of Fódlan.”

It had to, for her sake and the sake of all of Fodlan. 

Lady Edelgard knelt before her father, as she never would for anyone again, and Hubert’s hidden heart swelled with pride. 

Emperor Ionius and his daemon spoke as one, the same words passed down generation upon generation, unchanged from the original Wilhelm and his black eagle daemon to their eldest son. “Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg, the crown is yours. By the covenant between the red blood and the white sword, and by the double-headed eagle upon your head, I hereby pronounce you the new emperor. Are you prepared to take those responsibilities as your own?”

And Edelgard and Avarine replied together,. “In accordance with the ancient covenant, and in keeping with the Hresvelg legacy... I swear that upon this throne, I shall use my reign to lead Fódlan to a new dawn and achieve peace for all.”

Hubert knee just how heavy the crown was, but Lady Edelgard— Her Majesty— bore it without a trace of discomfort or complaint. She stood, and Avarine took her rightful place atop the throne as she was always meant to do. 

Hubert and Thanily bowed before Her Majesty, and one by one everyone else in the throne room joined in. Even Belial lowered their head, horns scraping against the ground, the rightful place of a church of lies and a goddess long dead, if she ever existed at all. 

The former emperor sat back down and coughed out, “The Imperial succession is complete.” Now, our true work can begin . Let Ionius beg forgiveness from his daughter. Let Her Majesty accept it with far more grace than he deserved. None of it was meant for Hubert’s eyes or ears. He had more important things to do, such as—

“Your Majesty! You must not leave your sleeping chambers in your condition.”

Dealing with the odious little toad known as Duke Ludwig von Aegir. Thanily bit back a snicker. He was going to enjoy this. 

“Ah, Edelgard. I did not expect to find Your Highness here. I certainly hope you are not causing too much trouble at school. After all, it is vital to know one’s place in the world, and not try and rise above their station. 

Big mistake, Duke Aegir. It’s time you learned your place.

A lesson that Lady Edelgard was all too eager to impart. “Prime Minister, you have misspoken. I am no longer ‘Your Highness’ but rather… ‘Your Majesty’.” Avarine leaned forward, white wings outstretched and mantled over the throne. 

“I-Impossible!”

Oh, it is quite possible, you power-hungry fool. The plan had gone perfectly, if he had nothing more than a vague premonition or sense of foreboding. Now all he has to do was conceal it from Ferdinand until the ambush, which would be simple enough. As for afterwards...better to focus on other things not now. Such as savoring the downfall of this bloated sack of lard.

“It is true,” Ionius said. “Edelgard is the new emperor of the Adrestian Empire. We already have an ordinance prepared and ready to be released. And you, Prime Minister—“

“—Are dismissed,” Edelgard finished with the finality of an executioner’s axe. “Be thankful that you are so devoted to your family, for it will be some time before you are allowed to make contact with the outside world again.”

Duke Aegir did not disappoint, turning red as a beet from impotent fury while his daemon screamed uselessly. “No! How can this be?! I- ulk!”

His prairie dog daemon still screamed, but this time it was the shock of being trapped under Avarine’s talons. In the space of seconds she had slammed into her, and now they rested lightly against the daemon’s throat, a reminder that all Avarine needed to do to end them both was squeeze.

There they stood, and let the tableau sink in. There was Lady Edelgard, the crown shining on her head. There was Avarine, mantled over the former Duke Aegir’s daemon, a gyrfalcon triumphant over her prey. And there was Ludwig von Aegir, hatred and disbelief on his face, slowly forced to his knees. “Understood, Your Majesty,” he spat.

“Ferdinand can never know about this,” Thanily thought, spoiling the moment. Still, it was no matter. Hubert gave a bow to Lady Edelgard as Her Majesty finished what would almost certainly be her final farewell to her father, and then slipped out. Rope and poison burned a hole in his pocket. 

“Vestra first, then Varley,” said Thanily. Hubert nodded and made his way to the nobles’ quarters. 

It may be work, but he was going to enjoy this. He could ruminate on the implications of the carriage ride later. 

---

They were held up for a few days thanks to the sudden appearance of her cycle, which always left her curled up in agony and would have made a full-speed carriage ride an exercise in torture. She would have endured anyway, but her teacher insisted on slowing down to give her traitorous body a chance to relax. By the third day she needed to force her teacher to not worry about her so much, that getting back to the monastery was much more important. 

Now, on the ride back to Garreg Mach, though she only wore the crown for a few minutes, her head felt oddly light. Would her classmates be able to tell the difference? How would they react to learning that Edelgard was now the Emperor, that she was about to wage war against the church? 

“I’m telling Ferdinand what happened,” said Byleth in her Teacher Voice. 

What? No! If Ferdinand found out he...well, there wasn’t much he could do, the Archbishop and her cronies wouldn’t have enough information to put her plot together until it would be too late to stop it, yet she still didn’t want him to know. 

“Because he’s going to consider it a betrayal, and so may Bernadetta,”  

Which was a foolish thing to get stuck on. She knew she might have to walk this path alone, she had Dorothea and Petra and Lysithea as unexpected allies, so why did the prospect of losing her other classmates sting so deeply? 

It wouldn’t change anything. She was the emperor now, and the ambush was already set in motion. For the sake of everyone who suffered, she would make a better world, no matter the cost. Her feelings and desires were utterly inconsequential compared to the fate of Fodlan. 

“El, she doesn’t agree with us! Have you ever heard of someone severed disagreeing?”

No. She hadn’t. There was perhaps something of Byleth still in there. Something of a person whom Rhea had so casually—

“I’ll tell Ferdinand after the Holy Tomb,” she said, and at the very mention of their upcoming mission something in Byleth’s eyes went dark. “...My teacher?”

“I have to do this mission, don’t I?” Belial muttered. “You’ll be with me, right?”

She’d never seen her teacher so terrified before, and it was nauseating...no, it was beyond that. She was usually so confident, and Rhea had taken that from her too by treating her as one of her little puppets. “Of course.” Another pause. If she didn’t say something, now, she never would. “My teacher, can I talk to you about something important?”

Byleth nodded, and Edelgard took a deep breath. Even if she wasn’t about to explicitly spell out her plot, she couldn’t take back the words she was about to utter. “Remember I told you I plan to free Adrestia from corruption, and I would stop the nobility from feasting off the suffering of the commoners?” Byleth nodded. “I wasn’t going to stop there. I want to make a world where the strong cannot prey on the weak as a matter of course, and that by definition involves the church. I will do whatever it takes.”

And there it was. Would Byleth get the implications? 

Byleth went very, very quiet, and for a moment fear lanced through Edelgard. She’d argued about telling Ferdinand, she was able to dissent, so—

“At the start of the year, Rhea told me that she wanted to have you kill Lonato and civilian militia as a lesson about fighting the church.”

Edelgard remembered that all too well, especially the aftermath. The look on Ashe’s face alone would have been an effective recruiting tactic under any other circumstances. “Learned helplessness, I think I called it.”

She watched Byleth lean down and hold a whispered conversation with Belial. They were quiet enough that she could only catch snippets which held no context: “—Dad always taught us to—“ “—Remember just how angry and upset she was?” “—I don’t think she would have wanted any of this.” 

Until, eventually, Byleth said, “I never thought I would be a professor. But Rhea told me to lead you well, and I’ve done my best to do that. At least, I hope I’ve done a good job.”

“You have, my teacher. We all rely on you so much.” 

“Thank you. Since coming here; I’ve felt so many things that I’m still learning the names for. Anger and sadness at the way the world has hurt you all. This twisty feeling inside, that my dad raised me away from the church and all the ideas about crests, and how that may have saved me from the same pain. And how much I care about you all. You trust people more. Ferdinand thinks before he speaks. Bernadetta’s so much better about leaving her room. I care about you all Edelgard, so much. More than I ever thought I could.”

“I don’t know if dad knew how much I cared about him,” said Belial, “and now he’s gone and I can’t tell him. I don’t want that to happen with us.”

“That’s—my teacher—“ She wanted so badly to tell her everything, to beg forgiveness for whatever part, however indirect, she had to play in Jeralt’s death. But that final was the one wedge left that Those Who Slithered In The Dark had to drive between them both, and then there was the question of what exactly happened in the void. 

“There’s still something of Byleth in there. The same something of Byleth there always was. She already said she won’t ally herself with the church. Please, El, reach for her hand!”

She couldn’t say what they had planned for the Holy Tomb. But she could say, “You know how Rhea will react when I stand against her.”

“I do.” And was that a snarl from Belial?

“I…needed to make alliances with some truly terrible people, just for the sheer power needed to take on the church. I don’t know if you’ll forgive me for that, and I understand if you can’t, but will you stand with me anyway? I...won’t need to rely on them as much, with you by my side. Even discounting that, it would mean the world to me.”

That was it. Oh, had she made a terrible mistake? Years of pain had taught her the folly of relying on anyone other than Hubert; months of kindness had taught her to try opening up again. Her classmates and teacher had wedged themselves into her heart, taught her that while she could forge the future with nobody but Hubert by her side, she would sacrifice something intangible of herself in the process (Hubert was her closest friend, her one true confidant, but there was a power gap between them which he had no intention of bridging). It was a sacrifice she was willing to make—for what was one woman, even if she were the emperor, against all the people of Fodlan both living and yet to be born?—but what if she didn’t have to?

“Edelgard.” Here it was. “I promised that I would lead you well. And beyond that, you’re important to me.”

“Remember when I stayed with you through your nightmares?” Belial asked, and how could she possibly forget? “Things haven’t changed. And if she were still here, she’d say the same thing.”

“If you’re trying to fix things, and Rhea makes me pick between her and you...then I pick you.”

There it was. She reached out a hand, and found another. Not a knife, not a closed fist, but the warmth of an outstretched hand. 

She wasn’t going to be alone. There was going to be someone standing her equal by her side. 

“My teacher, I—“

Byleth didn’t say anything, but Belial padded over and leaned against Avarine. She threw a wing around the wolf daemon, and despite the horns and green fur, it felt right. 

But she didn’t have time to truly reflect on the enormity. Because the moment they pulled up to the monastery, Byleth was all but yanked out of the carriage and led to the Holy Tomb. 

 

Notes:

So, yeah. Edelgard has just told Byleth. Too late to stop the attack on the Holy Tomb, but...well, you’ll see.

And yes, Marquis Vestra’s daemon is a giant octopus.

I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter; I might edit it in the coming weeks if I have a dialogue breakthrough.

Next up is an ultra-rarepair Big Bang! After that, I’ll see you around for the next chapter: Throne of Lies.

Chapter 24: Throne of Lies

Summary:

She's gone.

Notes:

Apologies for the delay and brevity of this chapter. It's been a very rough couple of weeks; one of my pets passed away and I've been dealing with this.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter, even though it's short.

The buzz, the general haze of anticipation and apprehension hanging over the monastery did not abate with Byleth’s sudden time away. If anything, it only became more oppressive. 

When Claude was about eight, and answered to a different name, he and his family had vacationed at a beach resort when they were caught off-guard by a cyclone. He still remembered the way the sky was a yellow green, the air so thick and heavy that Simurg—who had spent most of that summer in the shape of one bird or another—said it made even the briefest flights a struggle. 

Hilda was right. This year had been just one thing after another, and it felt as if this supposed revelation from the goddess would instead signal a crescendo of a different sort.

“Why did they only let the Eagles in?!” Simurg whined from a dramatic dangle off his hands. 

“They are her students, so I can’t really complain. Honestly I thought Rhea would take Byleth there alone.”

Simurg continued her dramatics, flailing around in his hands in an act that would make Hilda-I'm-A-Delicate-Maiden-Who-Kills-People-With-A-Giant-Axe-Goneril proud. “True, but think of the secrets that shall be revealed! Divine revelations the likes of which prophets can only dream of! Or, you know, whatever Rhea’s actually planning.” She immediately righted herself, shot up his arm to drape herself in a loose coil around his shoulders. “I just wish we could sneak into the Tomb or something.”

What was especially frustrating was that that had been the plan: skip class, make his way to Abyss, bribe someone down there, and take the tunnels to the Holy Tomb. But when Claude brought up the idea with Yuri, he’d been shot down. Yuri was uncharacteristically blunt about it too. He was a little bit vague on the details, but Claude was able to get an idea of what was going on. Apparently one of the runners down there had noticed evidence of movement, lots of it, in some of the tunnels away from the main “town”. The Ashen Wolves went to investigate, at which point Malka Foss took one whiff of some mysterious residue left down there and went scurrying behind Hapi’s legs. That was enough for Yuri and the rest of the pack. Everyone was on edge to start with, and if whatever was going through the tunnels was enough to disturb the famously unflappable Hapi, then it must be quite disturbing indeed. There had been an emergency meeting, and then a vote, where they had overwhelmingly decided to block off all access or travel to those outer tunnels until whatever this was decided to go away. 

The second vote was just as interesting. Apparently there was a long debate on whether or not to alert the Church what was slithering around underground. Despite the obvious danger, years of resentment and persecution had made the denizens of Abyss rather disinclined to help.  

“You know what the worst part is?” Simurg groaned. “I can’t even properly enjoy watching racists suffer the consequences of their racist behavior, because we’re in danger too.”

Yuri was a smart man, which was probably why he had told Claude as much as he did. As a surprise liaison to the surface, and a student of the academy to boot, Claude was likely Yuri’s most reliable opportunity to alert the authorities up top about the danger down below. 

He’d failed. By the time Claude figured out a foolproof scheme to tip off someone high-ranking in the church without getting himself involved or identified, Teach had returned and been escorted down there. 

“Which leaves us where we are now,” Simurg finished for him. “Sitting on a bench between the knight’s hall and the graveyard. Wishing we had some way to sneak in. Actually freezing your ass and my scales off. HOW CAN ANYONE SURVIVE THIS COLD?!”

“Generally by wearing a jacket. You have these things on your uniform, they’re called buttons? Maybe if you used them you wouldn’t be so cold?”

“And fuck you too, Zilbariel,” she shot back to Lysithea’s daemon. “I see you’ve decided to be an ermine today—nice matching color scheme. Since you’ve decided to be a glorified snake with fur, think you can give me some pointers? Oh, wait, I’m settled.”

“Everything okay, Lys?” Claude said in response to her rolled eyes and upturned middle finger. 

“Normally I’d make some sarcastic comment, but actually, no. I can’t help but think about Professor Byleth. What happens to her is...it’s not natural. I wonder what was taken from her in exchange.”

“I wonder if we’re the only ones thinking that question.” Perhaps Edelgard and Hubert, just as skeptical and scheming in their own enigmatic way and much closer to Teach to boot, were discussing that among themselves. But many of his other classmates were perfectly content with placing faith in the goddess and leaving it at that. Not Claude. He was never one for faith—especially not the faith of Fodlan—or leaving anything up to chance. He just wished there was a way to sneak down there without getting caught!

Wait a minute. “Lysithea, you’re practically an honorary Eagle. Do you think you could be part of their little entourage?”

Lysithea just shook her head. “If you think that wasn’t the first thing I tried then you really are stupider than you claim to be.”

“Love you too, Lys,” he shot back. “I don’t suppose you’ve been working on a spell to see and hear things from a distance?”

“...Actually…”

“...I was joking. That was a joke.” 

“I know, but…” She let out a great sigh which Zilbariel answered with a nod. Her daemon then took off running.  

And kept running past Claude, up a tree where he blended in with the snow until he shifted into a bright red cardinal. Several dozen meters away from a Lysithea, farther than any normal person’s range. 

“We’ve been practicing my four-eye. We do have a way to spy on them.”

The questions piled on top of each other in Claude’s mouth, but one look at the expression on Lysithea’s face told him this wasn’t the time. He could glean her secrets later. 

For now, Claude and Simurg stood guard over Lysithea as she meditated until that maple tree with gleaming sap just waiting to be tapped. One by one the other students trickled in, and one by one Claude fended off questions. Nobody else would get her secrets. 

And if anybody noticed the little moth perched in the upper corner of the lift down to the Holy Tomb, they paid it no mind at all. 

---

“Professor, do you recognize this throne?”

She did. The throne, green-tinted like everything else in this vast hidden space beneath the monastery, could only be Sothis’s. It still hurt, to see it empty. Sothis should be sitting on it, or perhaps lounging, feet dangling over the side in a manner entirely unbefitting the goddess and yet still undeniably Sothis. She shouldn’t be sitting on it, for she wasn’t Sothis. 

“So long...I have waited so very long for this day. Sit upon the throne, Professor.”

There would be no revelation, Byleth knew without being told. Sothis was gone. So why was Rhea so adamant about this. Belial whimpered, their tail tucked between their legs. They didn’t like this. Her students also fidgeted nervously; if Byleth could feel the tension then what about them?

Hah, she never would have thought things like this before. Her Eagles taught her as much as she taught them. 

She didn’t want to sit on the throne. But Rhea would never take no for an answer.

The throne somehow felt simultaneously familiar and foreign. How strange to see from Sothis’s— 

Byleth froze. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t move. Belial stood beside her, rooted to the spot as something welled up in, no, from the back of her mind, gripping her muscles, climbing up their bodies. She could only watch as Avarine cried out and flew towards Belial, desperately tugged at their ears and tried to get them to move, respond, do something .

Could only watch as soldiers poured into the Holy Tomb and began to ransack the place. Could only watch as Edelgard revealed herself to be the Flame Emperor and reluctantly led the ambush. Could only watch as those Empire soldiers attacked her other students over Edelgard’s sudden pleas for them to stop. 

She needed to help them! She needed to move! But there was something in her, her muscles no longer her own. And then, suddenly, a voice .

“No! Rhea, what made you think this is anything I wanted?! You are Byleth and Belial Eisner!”

The feeling of hands on her shoulders, pushing her forward. The throne spat her out. Byleth’s head met the stone floor of the dais, and she blacked out. 

---

Lysithea was so deep in four-eye, so blindsided by seeing the events play out in real time through Zilbariel’s eyes while providing frantic live commentary, that she was completely unaware of the events going on up top. Perhaps that was for the best, because the semicircle around them both had erupted into absolute chaos. Claude’s head spun as he tried to make sense of these revelations. Rhea was directly responsible for Byleth being the way she was? Edelgard was the Flame Emperor?! This was, he thought they were playing backgammon only to have the board flipped to reveal a game of shatranj. He was flying in the desert without a map and a sandstorm about to kick up. He—

“Khalid!”   Simurg’s voice echoed through his skull. “Claude, deep breaths. Okay. Okay, okay. Okay. New board, new game, new rules. First things first: what’s the most immediate effect? What are Edelgard’s goals?”

“This means war,”   Claude immediately said. “ Edelgard is the Flame Emperor. She’s been fighting the Church and just led a raid on the Holy Tomb. There’s no way this doesn’t end in war.”

He had been so incredibly foolish, so wrapped up in his assumptions that he fails to consider even the most outlandish possibilities. True, the fact that Edelgard had made the Fuck Crests Club was a strong suggestion that she was looking to work through diplomacy rather than aggression, and he had a lot more to deal with than he had initially expected, but it was still an embarrassing oversight and a mistake he could not afford to make again. He couldn’t even afford to make this mistake, since now there was going to be a war and here he was, Claude and Simurg von Riegan, caught off guard as much as everyone else.

“Hang on, wait a minute,” Simurg whispered with a flick of her tongue. “Claude, didn’t Monica, or whatever she actually was, sabotage the club? And yet she’s working with them.”

“Doesn’t sound like she wants to,” Claude muttered. Lysithea had relayed what Zilbariel could see, and she had emphasized their peer’s extreme reluctance to attack her allies, how her attention seemed to uncharacteristically waver between her personal mission and whatever was happening to Byleth (and oh that was another entirely different sandstorm to forge through). “Hang on, there’s no way Edelgard didn’t know about Monica—no, Kronya—, but there’s also no way she was faking the amount of hatred she had towards Kronya or Solon either. Which means…”

“She’s working with those monsters out of necessity,” Simurg said. “And if Kronya was sabotaging her efforts to reach out towards us, they want to keep it that way. 

And yet— 

“Heheh. HehahahaHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

That was...Dimitri, but rather than being reserved and restrained, he sounded...deranged. His classmate had frozen in some combination of disbelief, confusion, and fury, and...yes, Felix and Dedue had split off to warily circle him, like they were trying to corral a raging beast. Or two, perhaps, judging by the wild look in Delcabia’s eyes.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke?!” 

If only it was! But Claude had never, not once, heard a profanity fall from Dimitri’s lips. Or the kind of twisted broken laughter that tore itself from his throat like its own living thing. 

“There you are!” he cackled to the winter air. “So close and so far; I’ve been looking for you!”

Interestingly enough, Felix—who had always been the one to speak of Dimitri as little more than a feral beast—and Dedue were the only ones to not look upon Dimitri with disbelief and horror. Instead he looked almost...resigned. Disappointed, but not surprised. 

“Dammit, you stupid boar!”

“Your highness!” Dedue and Levia dashed forward with astonishing speed for their huge bulk, towering over Dimitri and Delcabia both, moving to cut them off. 

Dimitri shoved Dedue aside as if he were little more than balsa wood, Delcabia forcing herself past the enormous daemon more than double her size. 

“I’ll kill her!” Delcabia snorted and screamed. “I’ll tear off her wings! I’ll crush her traitorous skull under my hooves!”

“I’ll tear her head from her shoulders, and mount it on the gates of Enbarr!”

“Well, he’s snapped.”  

Well, fuck. Another massive miscalculation—Dimitri always struck Claude as someone who was wound up so tightly he might crack, but he wasn’t expecting something this dramatic. He would be absolutely useless in the war to come if he didn’t snap out of it, little more than the roving feral boar Felix always claimed he was. 

Simurg watched Dimitri run off ranting and raving while Claude retreated into his own mind, rapidly assembling the new game of shatranj he had been hurled into. If Dimitri didn’t snap out of it he would be completely unmanageable, with dire consequences for the rest of Faerghus. Wasn’t the regent a useless lout? And most of the missions and bandit attacks they were sent to put down this year were in Faerghus. The kingdom was already in a quiet simmering chaos, and seemed very unlikely to have any effective leadership that could rise to the occasion. For his part, Claude was certain that he’d be recalled to the Alliance. As much as he wanted to talk to Edelgard, finish their earlier aborted conversation and find out just why she felt she was forced to work with Kronya and her ilk, he was only the half-Almyran future leader of the Alliance.

“We can’t do anything dramatic until we consolidate our support and become the leader of the Alliance...when our grandfather dies.”

The thought of...hastening...the latter briefly flitted across Claude’s mind, but he immediately discarded it. His grandfather was old and sick, and...interfering was excessive, to put it mildly, even for him. He was a schemer, but not like that . He needed to further consolidate his alliance with Hilda and the Gonerils. Bring Marianne out of her shell—Hilda would also be vital here. Bring Lorenz to his side one way or another. And he needed to have a very long talk with Lysithea.

Did the Lions realize the full implications of what just happened? Sylvain probably did; he was much keener than he liked to let on. As for the others...

“Um,” Annette’s tremulous voice broke the stunned silence that hung over the student body. “Does Dimitri actually know where the entrance to the Holy Tomb is?”

An awkward pause. Then:

“Oh goddess fucking—come on Dedue. Maybe we can actually cage the boar this time. Goddess I hate being right…”

“They’ll find out in time,” Simurg thought. “At least this new game is interesting? I wonder what you’ll do, Teach? Assuming you’re still in there, that is.”

Interesting. Hah, that was one way to put it. He’d be enjoying these developments a lot more if he weren’t actually living in them. 

---

Byleth, once again, came to with her face pressed against cold stone. Her head hurt, and not just from the probable concussion. She felt...tingly. In a pins-and-needles almost painful way. How many fingers did she have? How many toes? Ten, and ten. Where was her daemon? Where was Belial?

...Oh. Right. 

She was...she was in the Holy Tomb, with her students. Archbishop Rhea has commanded her to sit on the throne—Sothis’s throne, not hers, even if Sothis was gone it was still hers!—and then, and then…

Edelgard was the Flame Emperor. Was this what she had meant when she said she was working with horrible people?!

“She’s working with the people who killed our father. Why, Edelgard?” Belial howled. 

“Because she is a traitor,” Rhea said, her voice like ice. 

There had been a fight. She smelled...blood?! Her students! She had missed the fight, how long had she been unconscious, were her students okay?!

The Holy Tomb had become a battlefield, with bodies scattered and slumped over the ground and cracked-opened caskets. For some reason, crest stones gently glowed and pulsed within, with more placed on the floor before Rhea. Dread curled in Byleth’s stomach at the sight of the bodies and among her frantic headcount. Ferdinand and Bernadetta were next to each other, shock and fury on the nobleman’s face and terror on Bernadetta’s. Dorothea appeared to be dazed, and though for one terrifying moment Petra could not be seen, Ardior’s white body stood out amidst the gloom of the Holy Tomb. Linhardt appeared to have mentally checked out, standing small and lost while Runilite’s fluffy red tail could just barely be seen peeking out of an opened casket. Caspar was close to him, covered in blood.

Hubert sported a black eye and a wound on his forehead that bled freely, soaked his bangs and ran down his face. He roared Edelgard’s name and strained against the limits of his connection with Thanily, pinned to the floor by the black bear daemon belonging to one of the Knights of Seiros. And Edelgard…

Edelgard’s gaze locked on hers. She struggled to reach Byleth, or perhaps Hubert, but was held fast by two much larger knights and a snapped forearm bent in the entirely wrong direction. “My teacher,” she said, and the look on her face, the sound in her voice, was something she hadn’t ever seen or heard in Edelgard before. 

Was that sadness? Or fear? Or something else?

“It’s me,” she said. Edelgard hated these people, so why was she working with them—how could she stand it? Was their raw firepower that overwhelming? It had to be, there’s no other reason Edelgard would do it. She...yes, she told Byleth as much. She trusted her, in the end. She couldn’t let Edelgard down.

But Rhea wasn’t interested in hearing Edelgard’s explanation, whatever it might be. “How did you....Never mind that. I’ll figure out what’s missing later. Professor, kill Edelgard at once.”

Just moments after it restarted, the world stopped again. “What?”

Rhea’s face twisted into something she had never seen on her normally serene visage. “Wicked girl, you have defiled the Holy Tomb, dishonored the goddess, and humiliated your brethren. That crime will never be erased, even once you burn in the eternal flames and spill all of your blood into the goddess’s soil! You are a danger to all of Fodlan, and such a rebellious heart must not be allowed to keep beating!”

This will teach the students an important lesson about the fate of those who turn their blades against the church.

There were her students. Hubert pinned down, Edelgard restrained. It would have been so easy for her to execute Edelgard—her own student—on the orders of the church. And the rest of her Eagles…

 “You told me to lead my students well,” said Belial, so softly nobody but Byleth could hear. 

Kid, you’re about to enter the lion’s den. You may not be a lion, but you are a wolf. You need to find your pack.

Something great and terrible welled up within Byleth, a swelling of emotion that she had only felt once before…

If you’re trying to fix things, and Rhea makes me pick between her and you...then I pick you.

Ah, yes.

Rage.

Belial sprung like a loosed arrow, tackling the black bear daemon off of Thanily. She scrambled to her feet and raced back to Hubert’s side. A quickly-cast Miasma spell finished off the threat. The Sword of the Creator sliced through the air, tore open the throats of the two knights restraining Edelgard. They crumpled, and a blood-spattered Edelgard stumbled forward, freed.

Rhea roared, and Byleth howled back. 

Notes:

So yeah, that happened. Dimitri was always going to snap; the moment he learned Edelgard was the Flame Emperor he stopped listening to anything else. But what's everyone else going to do?

We'll find out in the next two chapters. I am really looking forward to it, and I hope it'll make up for the weaknesses of this chapter!

Chapter 25: You Are My Pack, And I Will Look After You!

Summary:

Ruling through fear...

Notes:

This was a blast to write, and I’ve had some of these scenes in my head for months. Thank you all for being patient, and please enjoy!

If one is to declare themselves the arbiter of the Goddess and the sole arbitrator of divine decree, then they have a responsibility to use that power judiciously. While they cannot intervene in every possible matter, to fail to intervene entirely can only be described as a dereliction of duty…

...Any institution, be it private or public, religious or secular, must listen to the grievances of its constituents and adapt to change. A static institution is a doomed one. No matter how strong its shell may seem, the shell is frail; meanwhile, unnoticed, the original institution dies and rots away within. While the institution withers away, it will rebuff, often violently, any outside complaints or attempts to reform. Such a response may appear to be the only recourse to the stagnant institution, but all it does is increase the grievances and fury of its more numerous constituents, and make violent retaliation inevitable. 

—Excerpts from the opening paragraphs of The Manifesto, the combination official declaration of war, listing of demands, and exposure of crimes released by Emperor Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg on the eve of the Fodlan Reunification War. An original copy of The Manifesto is on permanent display in the Enbarr Imperial Archives and Museum, and the concepts discussed therein provided the basis for the Rights of Men published and enacted several years later. 

---

Blood ran down his face, blotted out all vision on his right side, and dripped onto the floor. His face hurt with that deep ache that warned of a fracture. Thanily was still sore from where the bear daemon had slammed her to the ground and held her there. 

Hubert had never been so overwhelmed with gratitude, so delighted to be proven wrong, in his entire life. The Archbishop, so rigid she could not even conceive of defiance towards her, responses to them or ambush predictably commanded their professor to kill Lady Edelgard. Even though they were both restrained he still had a contingency, a plan to warp them both to safety and bury the loss of their classmates and peers under all the work to be done. 

Byleth had surprised him, yet again. When she remained fixed to the throne, when that wretched altar to a twisted religion changed her hair green and set her eyes aglow then vomited her back up, Hubert truly believed that Byleth was gone, that whatever force was behind the throne finished the job it started with Belial and completely obliterated their teacher’s identity. What was left would be nothing but some malignant force allied with the church. 

He was wrong. The being that rose up and cut the throats of the knights restraining Lady Edelgard was still Byleth, the warped wolf daemon who freed Thanily still Belial. Lady Edelgard’s foolishly naive gamble had paid off, and now they had the Professor—and the Sword of the Creator, possibly more important in all ways except that of morale—on their side. 

Would the rest of their class follow her lead? Would other students? Look at him, waxing optimistic in the space between moments as Rhea’s shock turned to apoplectic fury, yet it was now a distinct possibility he could no longer dismiss as whimsy. He must have truly been stunned to do such a thing. 

Not everything could be a surprise however, and Rhea’s rage was almost disappointing in how predictable it was. “So, this is the choice you have made,” she spat. “You are just another failure. Your presence soils this Holy Tomb, and disgraces my brethren. I will not allow one who would lend our enemies strength to wield the power of the goddess Sothis.”

“You did this to me in the first place!” Byleth shouted. 

“It’s not your choice to make!” Belial cried out. 

“Silence, traitor! I have passed judgement. And now, I shall rip your chest open, and TAKE BACK YOUR HEART MYSELF!”

That was...evocative. And either oddly specific or layered in some sort of religious metaphor that Hubert never cared to learn—

Thanily’s voice cut to the chase. “Pontificate later; we need to escape! Look!”

In mere seconds, to the horror of his classmates who had already formed a protective semicircle around Byleth at Rhea’s words (Ferdinand and Caspar at the front, Dorothea and Bernadetta behind them, Linhardt within healing range of the most likely target and Petra positioned to the side for easy flanking and retreating; their professor had taught them well), Rhea’s form changed. She quite literally shed the skin of humanity she dared to wear, multiplied many times in size. Wings and horns sprouted. Her soft voice twisted to a guttural roar. 

The capsule containing her praying mantis “daemon” fell forgotten to the floor. A scaled and taloned foot came down upon it, and there was no more mantis. 

Hubert found a chuckle bubbling from his lips. “My my, your true form at last. That must be the Immaculate One.”

“The one who saved Fodlan?!” Bernadetta cried out. 

“It would be more accurate to say the one who controlled Fodlan,” Lady Edelgard responded. “Rhea is their leader; imagine what other lies she has woven.”

“Perhaps we should imagine that later, when there is no imminent danger of being eaten. Everyone! Gather around me if you want to live!”

His classmates didn’t need to be told twice, and piled around the three of them so close that Thanily found herself pressed against Belial’s legs. 

“Words can not express my gratitude,” she said. 

A lesser mage would be dreading this spell. Dark magic-based teleportation was finicky under the best circumstances, and he was about to teleport multiple people to an unseen location several dozen kilometers away with a rushed cast. 

Hubert would gladly pick possible death by spell misfire over certain death by Immaculate One, and his classmates—his comrades —seemed to agree. 

The spell sputtered and splintered as he extended its range, but Hubert forced it outwards regardless. True, he could easily just warp him, Lady Edelgard, Byleth, and their daemons, but abandoning the rest of the eagles was now suddenly unacceptable. 

Or perhaps it had been unacceptable for some time, and he only now allowed himself to embrace that fact. 

The spell finally bent fully to his will just as the Immaculate One’s throat began to ominously glow, and in a flash of ultrablack they vanished. 

And reappeared at least a dozen meters above a tree-studded field. 

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

“Shit! SHIT!”

The ground rushed up, dried grass and covered in bare trees and rocks that they were about to be dashed against he’d splatter and it wouldn’t be a quick death either no he wouldn’t be so lucky he was never that lucky. Faster and faster rushing up Hubert closed his eyes but could still the wind against him the earth pulling him down no ground against his feet help!

Sharp talons digging into Thanily, Avarine grabbed hold of her. She would be safe his dear Thanily but he was still falling far too fast the distance would tear them apart and once he hit the ground she’d die anyway—

A sudden powerful blast of wind. The unmistakable feel of Linhardt’s magic. They slowed, and then bounced instead of slamming against the earth. Hubert came to rest in an undignified heap of Black Eagles. The panic faded and left him a sweaty panting mess, vaguely aware of Belial shaking themselves off, Avarine gently depositing Thanily on a mossy rock, Ardior opening his beak and letting Runilite tumble out. 

“Okay,” moaned Caspar as he uncurled his body around Peakane’s portable tank, “Lin, you were right about teleporting. Ow.”

“That was very well done, Linhardt,” Lady Edelgard said as unruffled as ever. 

“Oh? A complement from Her Majesty herself. Best record this for posterity Runilite; nobody would ever believe it.”

“Hey now, Hubie saved our lives by teleporting us out of...whatever the heck that was.”

Calphour fluttered off Dorothea’s hat and hovered several centimeters above her. “Where exactly are we?”

“As far away from the monastery as possible, I hope!” Bernadetta shrieked, echoing everyone’s shock. 

They were about a half-day’s forced march from a mostly-forgotten garrison that would serve as their temporary base while preparing for the assault on Garreg Mach. But when Hubert opened his mouth to explain this, the words would not come. Instead he found himself weak and lightheaded, his limbs turned to jelly and his heart beating feather-light in his chest. 

Pathetic! He could not simply collapse here, even if magical backlash was inevitable and they were temporarily safe—

The taste of iron. Blood, trickling from his nose into his mouth. Well. That wasn’t good. 

At least they were safe. And with this last concession to his body, Hubert collapsed. 

---

“I can’t believe Edie actually did it.”

Which was silly, of course, as Cal loved to remind her. She’d always known that Edie was going to be the emperor one day. Heck, Edie had outright recruited her and Petra! Still, there was a difference between the abstract understanding that her classmate would be emperor and Edie actually being the Emperor she was directly recruited by the Emperor she flirted with the fucking Emperor holy fucking SHIT! 

That sentiment echoed back and forth between her and Calphour as he flew in tight frantic circles around her head. “Holy shit, if that were anyone else, we’re an orphan commoner how the fuck were we not executed?!”

Ardior, who had been watching quietly next to Petra, finally chimed in, “Why is this the thing which you are being most focused on? Edelgard has never been seeming...has never seemed to mind, and there are much greater worries now.”

“Because this is the only thing I have control over, and everything is just too much to wrap my head around at once!” Calphour dropped back to Dorothea’s open palms and forced down his ruffled feathers. “Sorry, Ardi. It’s just, it’s a lot, you know?”

Petras and Ardior seemed completely unruffled. There was a sort of calm and dignified determination to her, as if she had known this would happen all along and had long ago made her peace with it. She was so steadfast, so singleminded. Nothing would deter Petra, and Dorothea admired that in Petra. Edie too, which is why she chose to follow the Emperor. Even though, well…“It is, but we have been knowing this path for some time. Edelgard was recruiting us directly, and you were the one who was saying that this would be...would end in a fight,” Petra said. 

She had, true, but, “I thought it would be more of a slam reforms down Fodlan’s throat until the Church throws a tantrum and attacks sort of thing, not Edie raising an army and attacking first. Or Rhea turning into a giant monster and threatening Edie and Byleth like that. That was, I don’t think disturbing even begins to cover it.” She ran her fingers through her hair, Cal untangling the tiny knots that formed in the heat of battle and tugged at her roots. Even afterwards he continued to preen her hair and pluck out the loose strands. When she scurried in the streets the church would hand out sermons alongside their bread and soup for the destitute. They would preach of charity and benevolence, blind faith and restraint, and absolutely nothing that Rhea demonstrated when Byleth defied her in the Holy Tomb. 

How much of it was real? And how much of it was like the nobles, all nice words and empty platitudes to maintain control and ignore the actual pain that actual people were going through? She’d always suspected the answer was “a lot” but this…

Petra had trailed off, even as Ardior called down Calphour and threw a comforting wing over him. He, too, seemed slightly distant as Petra carefully picked out her words. “I think I finally have full understanding, of what Claude said.”

“What do you mean?” What was Claude doing? He and Petra had become friends over the course of the year, and Dorothea had talked to him a few times. He was definitely brilliant, and she got the sense of an actor about him. Perhaps not in her sense, but he definitely wasn’t as irreverent as he seemed on the surface. Or at least a trickster in a different way than he and Simurg bragged about being. There’s no way he didn’t hear at least some of what happened in the Holy Tomb, and he never struck her as a fan of the Church. Still, he was the heir to the Alliance and had his own obligations...what would he do? What did he want to do? 

“A few months ago we were discussing why the Church and Fodlan are being...are so suspicious of outsiders, and why the Church is allowing it. I believe I may be having another part of the answer.” Ardi flew up to a makeshift perch, made room for Cal. “In Brigid, many different spirits are worshipped. Some people worship the Dagdan gods. Others are followers of Seiros. But Fodlan, how do I say it, Fodlan... is the Church. The only people in Fodlan who are not following the Church of Seiros are not of Fodlan.”

“Rhea and the Church, all the nobles, they are wanting...obedience. They are wanting worshippers who will follow and bow.”

Which was something Petra would never do. “Witness Brigid pride,” Dorothea murmured, Petra’s mantra. She would never bow, which made her a potential threat. 

Cal must have said that out loud, because Ardi nodded. “Because we will not be bowing, we may teach the people of Fodlan not to bow. Therefore, it is safer to be making the people of Fodlan afraid of outsiders, so they never...are never learning another way.”

“That’s...you’re right. That makes complete sense,” as sickening as it was to think about. The Church and nobility were both rotten to the core, and Edie was here actually doing something about it! It really was her dream, she’d follow Edie to the end, she should have been more excited about this! 

And she was! It was...it was just…

“I really hope our classmates evacuated.” Just fighting the knights she only had a passing familiarity with would be hard enough. 

“...Ah.” Petra softened, and for a moment Dorothea didn’t see Petra Macnery, her brilliant girlfriend, the heir and hope of Brigid but...simply Petra. A girl two years her junior who was forced to grow up far too fast. “I am hoping we do not have to fight our friends as well.”

---

“Hey, Linhardt, wake up.”

No response. 

“Linhardt.”

A snore from Linhardt. 

“Linhardt!” 

A louder snore from Runilite. 

Caspar glanced over at Peakane. From her tank, Peakane grinned back. 

Neither half of them was particularly partial to pranks, but Runilite’s reaction to Caspar dumping Peakane’s tank over her head never got old. For some reason, watching the red panda daemon shriek and leap a good half meter into the air from a sleeping lump on the ground, then run under Linhardt’s clothes to dry herself off while leaving Peakane to flop on the ground was hilarious every time. 

Linhardt stared at him, which didn’t work as well as it usually did  when Runilite was a rapidly moving lump under his clothes and he smelled of wet fur and fish. “Congratulations Caspar, you woke me up from a very pleasant nap. I hope you’re happy. What do you want?”

“Why did you join us? You hate fighting.”

Linhardt just stared at him. Runilite popped her head up from the collar of his shirt and stared at him too. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight Caspar.”

“Hey, you were sleeping on a chair! And it’s barely afternoon!”

“When has that stopped us?” Runilite chimed in. 

Okay, that was a good point! Still! “You never do anything you don’t want to do. I mean, don’t get me wrong Lin, I’m super glad you’re on our side you’re crazy smart and great at healing and I really didn't want to wind up fighting you, but why are you joining us when you’re gonna end up fighting and killing and not just healing?”

“Thank you ever so much for the reminder, Caspar.” Runilite hopped out of his shirt and dragged some old towel over to a patch of sunlight, where she proceeded to roll around in it until dry as Lin continued, “And as to why, somebody needs to make sure Hubert doesn’t kill himself overchanneling his magic, because he seems to have a truly frightening lack of self-preservation.”

Of course that was it! He couldn’t help but grin even through Peakane’s slight sheepishness at not figuring it out sooner. Sure it would be nice if Linhardt just actually said what he meant out loud, but that was Linhardt for you. And it was okay. Caspar knew his best friend well enough to know what he was actually saying underneath his yawning and pretending not to care. 

Which he was doing now. Probably. “If that’s all, then I would like to get some sleep before the medics drag me back to Hubert’s bedside, or perhaps to attend to Edelgard’s arm. Since apparently they’re all too intimidated to do the work themselves.”

“Actually, there is something else.”

“Of course there is. Well?”

“Um, well, you know how there’s been a lot of really disturbing stuff happening to our professor and her daemon, even before everything in the Holy Tomb? You didn’t seem surprised by any of it. What did you figure out?”

The look on Linhardt’s face was sort of like the one he had when he realized something in the back of his head, but the rest of his brain and his mouth hadn’t yet caught up. Usually when that happened Linhardt and Runilite would babble to each other until they figured it out. This time, Linhardt just asked him directly, “Do you remember the spyglass I got for my birthday?”

“Of course I do!” How could he ever forget the way his best friend glowed? Were Lin and Runilite glowing the same way right now? “Wait, where did it go?”

Runilite dove back under Linhardt’s shirt and curled up in a tight ball over his chest. “Byleth and Belial didn’t glow at all.”

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make any sense. You glowed, I glowed, even the buildings glowed. Are you saying that Byleth isn’t a person?”

“Of course not. But I believe the lack of a glow is related to her being severed, or perhaps her transformation. Likely both. There’s so much to research here, but I actually have no taste in doing so.”

“Too much like Remire, huh.” Lin had not taken that well. He didn’t say anything, but the way he went a little pale answered enough. Caspar couldn’t blame him; that had been...bad. 

Was Edelgard even working with them? She did fight with the in the Holy Tomb, but only sort of. Sure Caspar wasn’t the smartest but knew fights, he and Peakane were a born fighter! He knew about the difference between good natured scraps, tournament brawls with all their little rules, fighting in desperation or self-defense, fighting in defense of others , and the kind of brutal knock-down drag-out fight of two people trying to kill each other with their bare hands or whatever weapons were in reach. 

Edelgard and Avarine didn’t act like any of those. She acted more like someone who didn’t want to fight, but had to. Or at least had to put on a good show. 

Rhea hadn’t done that either. Okay he didn’t know if giant monster dragon-thing body language was the same as human body language, and she didn’t have a daemon (?!) to help with the tells, but she acted an awful lot like someone completely lost in berserker rage. Which was seriously scary coming from the Archbishop! 

“Then again, even though she acted all calm and in control, remember Ashe and Lonato?” Peakane poked at the back of his mind. 

Urgh, of course he did, even though he really didn’t want to. Peakane couldn’t vomit, but every time Caspar thought of the look on Ashe’s face she wished she could. Caspar leaned his head against the tank; Peakane swam up and placed a fin against the glass where his forehead rested. This was too big, and it had been going on for years . He’d ask Linhardt, but Linhardt really didn’t care too much about these things. Besides, somewhere in his thoughts his friend had fallen asleep again without so much as a sarcastic goodnight. He must really have been tired. 

Caspar dipped his hand in the tank so Peakane could nibble at his fingers. He’d have to talk to Edelgard after her meetings, but for now all he could do was think. And his thoughts boiled down to this:

Rhea, and most of the church now that he really thought about it, only really wanted people to follow her teachings. He wasn’t the most religious guy but a lot of the monks didn’t treat Petra like the goddess said to treat other people! And that wasn’t even getting into what happened to Ashe, or down in the Holy Tomb. 

It was...he couldn’t wrap his head around it on one go, needed to break it down into smaller bites. But what he knew right now was that it wasn’t justice at all. 

Caspars hand curled into a fist, his mouth curled into a grin. Next to him Peakane fluttered her fins in a challenge. 

And that meant he had to fight. 

---

According to Linhardt, Hubert would fully recover in a week or two, casting included, so long as he never attempted that kind of teleportation magic again. 

Which was good, because Ferdinand did not wish to actually kill Hubert when he inevitably confronted him, no matter how tempting the prospect seemed. 

From what Ferdinand could glean, Edelgard gave the order, and Hubert did the deed. And nobody bothered to tell him until he asked after the chaotic disaster that was the Holy Tomb! There he was, a hopelessly blithe and naive spirit wandering the monastery, so blissfully unaware of what his father and family endured in the capital, completely blind to the true depths of Rhea’s rage and Edelgard’s ambitions! 

He...He was Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir. He had trained his entire life for the role of Prime Minister. His father was corrupt, true,which was why Ferdinand had made it his mission to take over the position and right all the wrongs! He would be the greatest head of state Adrestia had ever seen, superior even to Edelgard when she became emperor! She would need him for advice and counsel, and he would improve the lives of everyone in the empire, be a shining exemplar of what a noble could be! 

Meanwhile, behind his back, Edelgard took the throne, and she cast aside his father like he was nothing, tore the nobility from the von Aegirs with as much effort as one would swat aside a bug. 

“Or a bee,” Embrienne added miserably. 

He was Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir, the noblest of nobles! And now he was nothing.

“You’re not nothing,” Bernadetta murmured into his chest. She had essentially latched himself to him the moment that he stumbled back in their room and refused to leave without his explicit word. Malecki was there too, curled up around Embrienne, spikes out and protecting them both from the harshness of a world suddenly gone askew, and truly quite mad. “You’re not nothing,” she repeated, as if it were a protective spell, an abjuration that would ward him against all his inadequacies suddenly left exposed. Like some vulnerable animal flipped on its back with the veneer of confidence and facade of nobility stripped away, left to bake in the sun. “You’re still Ferdie and Embry, the same person who helped me out this entire year. I don’t know where I’d be without you, and that hasn’t changed whether or not you’re a noble.”

“Oh, my dear Bernadetta…” Truly, he did not deserve someone as gentle and kind as her! But no matter how many times he told her as such in his despair, she refused to budge. Perhaps it was hypocritical, given how much she tended to sell herself short, but right now he was in such shock and abject misery that he could not bring himself to fully realize and internalize it. “I do not know what I could have possibly done to deserve you.”

She could have easily gone home, especially since Hubert had arrested her father and stripped him of his power. That snake had taken it upon himself to deliver the good news to Bernadetta personally, perhaps the one action he had taken in the course of seizing power that Ferdinand could unreservedly approve of and support. 

“Except that her father is also under house arrest.”

Ferdinand groaned. What a fool he was, to not remember that!

Malecki suddenly uncurled, leaving Embrienne shivering and Ferdinand wordlessly yearning for the contact and comfort once again. It returned seconds later, not with the hedgehog daemon curling around Embrienne’s form once more, but with a gentle grooming of her fuzzy body. Embrienne sighed and Ferdinand relaxed into the soothing repetition. Bernadetta was there, even though she should have been celebrating the downfall of her wretched blight on humanity that called himself her father. 

“I’m incredibly relieved, but it’s hard to really celebrate when someone I love is hurting so much, you know?” 

So he had taken that away from her too. Ferdinand, or maybe it was Embrienne, let out a low, miserable whine. 

Bernadetta paused from where she had been rubbing his back. “Hey, Ferdie?”

He glanced over at her  “Yes?”

“Is this one of those things where you want to talk about it, or do you just need to cry for a while?”

He was still Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir! It was not noble to cry...even if he was not a noble any longer. 

“I think I might need both,” Embrienne said into Malecki’s paws. 

So Ferdinand talked, and piece by piece all his thoughts and feelings, his hopes and pains poured out. He spoke about how Ludwig von Aegir was a devoted and loving father while, simultaneously, selfish and corrupt to the core. How his beloved Embrienne has settled in the process of uncovering evidence of his father embezzling funds—and openly confronting him about it. The realization that his noble duty and general responsibility as a decent person would inevitably include a more decisive confrontation, and writing the wrongs he had inflicted upon his subjects. 

Or, in other words: his father deserved what he got and Ferdinand could not fault Edelgard and Hubert too strongly for that particular action. And it was not as if he would side with the church, not after all that transpired down in the Holy Tomb!

And oh, that sequence of discoveries by itself was horrific enough! To learn that the Archbishop had a direct role to play in their professor’s spiritual mutilation and otherworldly transformation that neither she nor Belial wanted or asked for? To learn that the church had, much like far too much of the nobility, degenerated into something so shamefully far from the ideals of espoused and forced upon others and decided to rule through fear instead? Such systems could no longer legitimately exist, or truly speak on behalf of the people they claimed they did. They did not even benefit their own, not when they so grievously harmed Bernadetta and likely so many other nobles. 

In that sense, Edelgard and Hubert were justified to depose his father and bring the other nobles to heel. And yet!

“It should have been me, Bernadetta. Oh, why did they not tell me? Why did they not tell me and then take everything away from me?”

Did they truly think he was such a threat, such a burden? Did they truly hate him so much? Or was he not even worth a moment's consideration to them?

“I thought Hubert and I, at least, had reached an understanding of sorts,” Ferdinand moaned. Malecki had not stopped petting and grooming Embrienne this entire time, and he clung to that soothing contact like a drowning man. Which, in some way, he was. He certainly felt as if he were lost at sea. “I could not imagine that he still held me in such contempt.”

“I...I don’t think that’s it, if that helps at all?” Bernadetta said. “Do you want me to say what I’m thinking, or would that just hurt you more?”

“No, please continue. You always have excellent insight.” 

“Well, I, okay hang on.” She peeled herself off him as she fiddled her hands together in thought, though Malecki still held tight to Embrienne. “Thing is, Hubert doesn’t really hide what he thinks of people. Once you get through his shell and know what to look for, I mean! So I don’t think he was faking that he, I don’t know if liked us is the right term for it, but you know what I’m trying to say?”

“I believe so?”

A sigh of relief. “Okay, good! Anyway, I don’t think Hubert was faking his feelings towards us, but I think he was trying to shove them aside so he could do his job.”

“Actually,” Malecki added, “I think Hubert is kind of like me.”

Embrienne recoiled. “What are you talking about?!” How could his gentle, kind, impossibly brave Bernadetta be anything like Hubert? 

Bernadetta flinched and Ferdinand mentally slapped himself. Yes, pain and grief and the never-ending scream of betrayal still tore through his body but that was no excuse for lashing out, even for a moment! “Please, continue. I am sorry for Embrienne’s outburst.”

“I...okay.” She sniffled, took a deep breath, and forged on ahead. “What I mean is that neither of us really trust other people. For me at least, other people mean potential danger, and it takes a lot to get past that. I think Hubert’s the same way. I think he’s so used to seeing people as threats to him or Edelgard that he can’t bring himself to open up to other people.”

“I was close enough to see the look on Thanily’s face when Belial knocked her away from that knight's daemon,” Malecki chimed in. “She was, well, she was stunned. I don’t think she or Hubert expected any of us to help her at all.”

Foolishness swept over Ferdinand once more, for when Bernadetta put it like that she made a compelling argument. “He could have easily left us at the mercy of the Knights, but instead teleported all of us to safety. At great personal risk, no less. So perhaps Hubert does care, somewhere in his withered heart.” For some reason, although the hypothesis was a balm to one wound, it pierced another just a little bit deeper. And the horrible feeling of having his identity torn away in an instant still yawned around him, a bottomless cavern from which he struggled to see any light or escape. “You are being remarkably charitable towards Hubert. I am rather surprised.”

“Heh. It is kind of odd, isn’t it? But I...oh no, please don’t take this the wrong way, Ferdinand, but—“

A kiss, to interrupt her concerns. “I could never, my little sundew.”

She relaxed against him. Her fingers ran gently through her hair, a repetitive motion that soothed them both. “Thanks Ferdie. I know you wouldn’t, I just, sometimes it takes my brain a bit of convincing. But I think I want to think the best of Hubert because I actually like him, and I care about him.”

Were this the start of the year, he likely would have been grievously offended, overwhelmed by jealousy, pain, and this other feeling that he could not—dared not—name. 

But now that Bernadetta mentioned it, what else could Ferdinand do but let realization creep over him like the sunlight Hubert so often sarcastically compared him to? What else could Embrienne do but say, “I think I understand,” and settle back into Malecki’s fur. Wonder, for a shameful treacherous moment, what it would be like to have a fluffy orange tail wrapped around them both, and ask for forgiveness. 

Because, at the end of the day, Hubert’s actions would not cut so deeply, would not leave Ferdinand bereft and crying out—to Hubert more than Edelgard—, ‘But why? Why did you not tell me? Why did you not include me?’ if Ferdinand did not care. 

---

The pain of the broken arm had faded, leaving behind vague soreness that turned to a dull ache when she overdid it, and the unbearable itching. Edelgard scratched hopelessly at the plaster, scratched the equivalent spot on Avarine’s wing, in the vain hope of tricking her mind into some relief. At least with magical healing it would be better in time for their assault on Garreg Mach. 

Oh, and of course it was her right arm, so she couldn’t write down anything herself. Thankfully Ava had enough dexterity to scribble down personal notes and less formal correspondences with people who could read falcon scratch (Ladislava, for instance. The wyvern rider had more than proven her competency running security at her coronation, and had been promoted to head of Edelgard’s guard). For everyone else, Edelgard dictated her notes to Byleth, as Hubert was still under orders to rest from an unusually adamant Linhardt. It was odd dictating to her professor, and to not read Hubert’s immaculate handwriting, but Byleth’s would do. 

That, the presence of Byleth, that Byleth was here , had truly chosen her after all...Even now, weeks later, Avarine still checked on her teacher’s room every morning, just to confirm that she was still there. 

Right now, however, the scratching of quill on parchment had faded to silence and...slightly harsh breathing? 

“My teacher? Is everything okay?”

Belial wasn’t beside her, but on the other side of the room. Actually, they resolutely refused to look in Byleth’s direction. 

Because Byleth was staring at herself in the mirror, and even with her flat affect there was no mistaking the expression on her face. Edelgard knew that expression because she had borne it for months on end. It was the reason she still covered her bare skin down to the fingertips, the reason she still preferred to bathe under cover of darkness, Avarine facing the wall. 

Byleth just raised her hand to her hair again. Her eyes glowed—did they glimmer in the dark now? Did Belial see a flash of shining green when they woke in the middle of the night?  “...I don’t look like me.”

There was nothing, Edelgard knew, absolutely nothing to counteract that feeling of wrongness in one’s own body. It was pointless to offer empty platitudes, and deeply insulting to boot—at least, to her. Yet, after it went so poorly last time, she had to say something.

“My teacher, you know that there’s no way I can possibly know what your experience is like, so I won’t try to pretend. But,” she added quickly, before what little emotion present on Byleth’s face could retreat once more, “May I tell you what I did, when my hair color changed?” 

“Of course.” Byleth tore herself away from the mirror and sat by Edelgard’s side. Belial picked themselves around the mirror and laid down next to her legs.

“I didn’t particularly care about my hair when I was a young girl. And for months after it turned white, I couldn’t look at it at all. I shaved it all off once, and wasn’t allowed to do so again. I would tie my hair back, hide it under hats...one time I slathered it in mud and paint. Thanks to Hubert’s help, I managed to dodge the servants for two whole days.”

It was impossible to think of that now, not when Byleth held up a lock of her hair, sleek and shining and brilliant white as the freshest snow. Byleth knew of the bottles and jars of products to make her hair perfect, had seen them herself. “What changed?”

“Well...Eventually I realized my hair wasn’t going to turn brown again, ever. At that point, I figured I could either be bald my entire life, or own it. Avarine’s form helped, since at least we match. But taking care of my hair and making it as luxurious as possible was one of my ways of telling my torturers that they couldn’t take everything from me. And if they did, I’d just take what was mine back.”

“We’re working on baring her scars,” Avarine added. “We’ll be able to do it one day.”

“Reclaiming my body…” Byleth mused, staring around her own hair. In the right light, the green looked like fresh mint. In this light, it looked like vomit. “It’s funny. I think that’s what I’ve been doing all along.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Though she had an idea. 

“...I’m Byleth and Belial Eisner. Rhea thought I was someone else. She wanted me to be someone else, and it would have been easy to give it. I may not look like me anymore, but...here I am. Still Byleth.”

“Still Belial.”

“We chose to walk with you.”

And oh, screw the meeting, screw the war council after that, right now Edelgard wanted to do nothing more than grab Byleth tight and never let go. To wrap her arms around her now-former teacher, kiss all the ferocity, the defiance and drive that made her into her, forget the world outside and just stay in this chamber a while longer, an eternity longer if they could have it. Oh, Byleth was such a kindred spirit. The two of them, Edelgard and Byleth, raised and disassembled and reforged into nothing more than tools for their creators’ whims. Tools who rose above their supposed masters and would recapture their own destinies. 

“They made us the Flame Emperor, but we carry our own fire,” Avarine added. And Byleth and Belial were mutilated beyond what any person should endure, then were molded in the church’s image, and they’re still here.”

But as much as Edelgard despised it in that moment, she had a duty, and didn’t know how Byleth would react. “I...I can never fully express my gratitude. But I think we need to speak with the others now, right?”

Byleth jolted upright, her voice flat again as she said, “Yes, we do. I think they’ll appreciate it.”

Edelgard had already given everyone her rousing speech, her call to arms, and they had all responded in...She had expected to walk this path alone, with nobody truly faithful beyond Hubert and Avarine at her side. Yet not only Byleth, but all her fellow Eagles stood with her. She owed them an explanation—no, an apology. 

They’d already assembled in a side courtyard usually meant to practice close-range spells. Likely courtesy of Hubert, who leaned against the wall in concession to his still-healing injuries. 

Edelgard gazed upon her classmates and swallowed. The words that came so easily just yesterday now died in her mouth. 

“Everyone,” she finally said. “I truly cannot thank you enough for standing by my side, even now. I owe all of you an explanation, and an apology.”

“I should think so!” Embrienne exclaimed above Calphour and Malecki’s attempts to hush him. Avarine shifted guiltily; Ferdinand had lost the most, could have easily stood against her or absconded with Bernadetta, and yet here he was. 

“You’re right,” Edelgard said, and Embrienne landed back on Ferdinand’s shoulder in surprise. I am sorry that I deceived you for this long. And I am sorry that, if I were to do it over again, I would still conceal my actions—though not like this.

“Unfortunately embarrassingly few nobles have your integrity—” Ferdinand stood straighter at this remark,  “—and you now know what Rhea and the Church are truly like. Hubert and I hid our plan because we had to. If Rhea had found out it would have been the end of us both, and suspicion would have been cast on you all as well. And as for diplomacy, well, those who act like she does cannot be reasoned with. For them, there can be no negotiation, so the only option left is force.”

She sighed. Was that prickling in her eyes? Was she about to start crying? “But that does not change the fact that I lied to you, and I deceived you. I couldn’t bring myself to reach out until the very end, and you deserved better than that. All I can say is that I am sorry, and all I can promise is that as Emperor—and, I hope, your friend—I will do better. Can you forgive me?”

There was a moment of gut-wrenching silence. Then, two high voices—one human, one daemon—answering in song. Edelgard knew that song. It had started as a way to tease her. Then, it became a rallying cry during the Battle of the Eagle and Lion...that was still embarrassing. 

And now, it was a pledge of allegiance. 

“Hail the mighty Edelgard, though red blood stains her story…”

And one by one…

“Heavy as her crown may be…”

They all joined in. 

“She will lead us all to glory.”

There was no mistaking the tears that shone in Edelgard’s eyes, the way her heart swelled.

“To a brighter dawn,”

She didn’t deserve this. With her blood-stained hands and alliances out of desperation, she didn’t deserve to have so many friends by her side. 

“We shall carry on,”

But they were here, despite it all. And she would do them—and all of the Empire—proud. 

“Hail Edelgard!”

Notes:

This was a lot of fun to write, and there are so many other possible conversations, but at some point I had to stop. Perhaps bonus content later?

And next chapter, oh next chapter.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it! Please, stay safe, VOTE, and I’ll see you all soon?

Chapter 26: Alia Iacta Est

Summary:

...Only goes so far.

Notes:

This chapter contains the scene that birthed this entire AU. I have been waiting to write this chapter for months. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

CONTENT WARNING: As we all know, Faerghus is particularly horrible about mental illness and repression—Sylvain and Dimitri just have the most obviously terrible coping mechanisms—and this comes to a head for the entire Blue Lions class pretty much simultaneously in this chapter. And none of them have the vocabulary to properly express what’s going on. And everyone except Mercedes is a teenager.

For the past couple of weeks Ignatz had been working on a painting of the Deer. He’d thought about setting it in front of their classroom, but the liminal space of the archway wasn’t quite what he was going for. The bridge to the cathedral, then. A hint of the goddess’s grace in the corner, in the same direction as the rising sun. The soft golden rays would illuminate the Golden Deer students, shine light upon them equally, a promise that the Alliance would not rely on kings or emperors like the older nations of Fodlan. 

He needed to finish the base sketch before the Empire attacked, before parts of the monastery were destroyed and lost forever. He needed to preserve these moments in time, so people would remember. 

“And!” said Mistella, rolling over again, placing her paws over Ignatz’s feet, “Who’s in the emergency meetings?”

Not him. Not Raphael or Leonie either, but the nobles of the Alliance. Claude, Hilda, Lorenz, Marianne, and Lysithea, had been in meetings for hours, their own miniature roundtable. Ignatz, Leonie, and Raphael were left outside the classroom-turned-conference-room. Another way that all the talk about the Alliance being more equal was just that.

“And?” said Mistella. Her fluffy tail drooped against the ground. “I mean, that's just the way the world is. What can we actually do about it?” They were the second son of a merchant family. A well-connected and well-off merchant family, to be sure, but still with that uncrossable gap between noble and commoner. 

Ignatz looked back up at the sky. The snow had stopped, and the air was crisp and cold. It was almost peaceful, the bright blue sky, the snow and ice still on the trees, the only foreboding from his own knowledge of what was to come. His mind wandered as he idly scratched his daemon’s soft fluffy fur, and settled again on Edelgard’s manifesto.

A few copies had made their way into the monastery, presumably by spies. The church had instantly banned it, of course, and anyone found with a copy was lucky to merely have it confiscated and burned, but a couple copies of the document had managed to circulate around the monastery regardless. Ignatz had read excerpts, of course—how could he not read something so instantly infamous? The accusations towards the goddess were offensive, almost enraging (especially given what he’d heard happened in the Holy Tomb, the rank blasphemy, the attack on the goddess, whatever happened to Byleth), to someone as devout as him, but the philosophical and political arguments within were...intriguing. He’d love to discuss them over tea with Claude, or maybe even Lorenz, if not for the fact that they were about to go to war!

“Ignatz! There you are!” Raphael, still somehow optimistic despite it all, bounded up the bridge where Ignatz sat. Oakley ran alongside him and bowled over Mistella, wagging her tail and panting excitedly as the smaller spaniel daemon got to her feet. Leonie wasn’t far behind them, her own daemon a small intense blur flitting around her head. “Off doing more thinking and painting?”

“I—” He began to stammer out some excuse about how he wasn’t painting, just practicing his archery or something, but what was the point? Everyone knew he was a dreamer, an artist at heart, only a knight-to-be because he didn’t know how to say no. So instead Ignatz said, “I was trying to get a good reference sketch of the cathedral before...you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Raphael flopped down on the bench beside him; Oakley whined and sat on the stone by his feet. Leonie remained standing, leaning against the railing where Kamen perched. “Man, who would have thought all this would happen?”

“Enough people that we really should have looked into this more,” Leonie said, fiddling with the worn wooden charm she always wore around her neck. “There’s been all sorts of weird things going on this year. At first I thought it was just normal noble hiding things, but…”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Leonie!” Raphael shouted. He flung out his arms and Ignatz had to duck below them. “Not like any of us knew what was going on, so now we’ve got to worry about what to do next, right?”

Raphael always had a way of staying upbeat and focused. Not like Ignatz, who always managed to get lost in the forest of his own thoughts. “So...what do we do next, exactly?”

His much larger friend (were they still friends, after all that? Raphael said he forgave him and his family, but it was still a rough scar over his heart) shrugged. “No idea, but we’ll figure something out!”

“That’s actually why we were looking for you,” Leonie said as she shifted against the stone railing. Her hair gleamed like copper in the sun, and Ignaz found himself wondering just how he would capture her rough beauty in oil and canvas. “The nobles are busy chatting about what’s going to happen to the alliance, so we should have a roundtable of our own!”

“What are we going to do?” Kamen asked, hopping onto Leonie’s shoulder. “We’re commoners, so we don’t have any noble obligations.”

Ignatz pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. There was a degree of freedom afforded to them now. “I guess there isn’t any need for painters in wartime, so it’s a good thing I went to the academy after all. Besides, it means I’ll be better able to protect the people closest to me.”

“Our parents will probably hire us to guard the trade caravans,” Mistella added as she hopped into his lap. “But beyond that, I’m not sure.” Which was perfectly fine by him! He didn’t want to be in the thick of battle, even if he turned out to be frighteningly good at fighting, and there was always something he found incredibly compelling about watching a familiar landscape change over time. It had always fascinated him, the impermanence of the world, and the struggle to capture those moments in time exactly as they were versus the impression and emotional impact of those fleeting moments. 

This war was—everything was going to change, he thought staring up at the sky with Mistella, thought with that one piece of him that was always drifting and dreaming. 

“So yeah, I’m sure the Victors will hire me on as a guard!” Raphael shouted, jarring Ignatz back to earth just in time for him to dodge his friend’s enthusiastically-pumped fist. His glasses flew off his face, but thankfully Mistella was there to snatch them up before they hit the ground. That was—he couldn’t help but wince. The reminder of what happened every day? Still, Raphael forgave him, and he’d managed a whole year anyway. And it wasn’t like he knew how to say no.

Leonie hadn't said anything for a while, and Kamen was a barely-visible ball of red fluff in her cupped hands. She stared out towards the entrance to Garreg Mach and said, “Okay, so don’t hate me for this, but...I’m going to join Edelgard.”

Wait, what? Mistella sat straight up in his lap, and Raphael looked similarly confused. Oakley tilted her head and whined; Raphael scratched his head and asked, “Hang on, isn’t Edelgard the Flame Emperor? And wasn't the Flame Emperor working with the guys who killed Jeralt?”

“She was, but it seems like things are more complicated.” Leonie looked back at the cathedral and sighed. “More importantly, Rhea went after Byleth, and I don’t know all the details about any of this goddess revelation stuff, but it sounds a lot like she was using Byleth for something in hindsight. Captain Jeralt’s gone, but I promised I’d protect his daughter, so…” She gave a little half-shrug. 

Kamen chirped from Leonie’s hands, “We made a promise to be there for Captain Jeralt and Byleth, and we’re gonna keep it.”

Leonie was trying to seem casual about it, but she was terrible about being anything more than her normal intense and determined self, and he could see how Kamen thrummed with nervous energy in her hands. Ignantz opened his mouth to say something, but Raphael—always a man of action over contemplation—shot up from the bench and pulled Leonie into one of his signature massive hugs. Squeezed her so tight that Kamen shot into the air and squawked at Raphael to be more careful!

“Sorry! It’s just, aww, Leonie, you gotta do what makes you happy and feels right! I’m still gonna miss you though. You’ve gotta come back when this is all over, okay?”

Leonie laughed a little bit and patted Raphael’s arm. Did he consider the possibility that she would end up fighting their classmates? Did she? Either way, it wasn’t something anybody was about to mention; even he knew better than to bring up that additional cloud looming over them all. “Don’t worry, Raph. I’ll come back. I promise. I owe too many people, after all.”    

---

Fine then, if they weren’t able to officially join the Alliance roundtables by dint of not being the official heads of their houses yet, then Claude would just bring the roundtable to the Academy!

It had been Lorenz’s idea actually, at least inadvertently. An offhand comment about his father balancing talks with the Empire and the other nobles while lamenting he could not be home to assist sparked the idea. A year of slowly opening up to people did the rest. Even after an entire year, it was still a great leap to put so much faith into his classmates for something as big as this, and even now, Simurg twisted around Claude’s arm to watch all of his classmates as they sat around the classroom-turned-warroom.

Then again, they all had their own habits which they’d need to break very quickly. Lorenz, in particular, still felt like he and Vincatel needed to take up as much space as humanly possible instead of having his daemon stand out of the way as was the polite thing to do! But no, he seemed completely oblivious of the constant posturing and tacit aggression that having the enormous red deer daemon stand practically in the middle of the room elicited. 

“Though our grandfather always complains that his father does the same thing at the conferences. I bet you anything Lorenz was taught to do this and never learned any better.” Simurg hissed. Then again, though, Lorenz was keenly aware of etiquette, something he never failed to take Claude to task for. Perhaps this was a deliberate blind spot.

Claude shook his head. Focus! The first goal was to get everyone on the same page. Well, no. That was the second goal. The first goal was to keep everyone alive. He didn’t want anyone dying on his watch, and he’d made that adamant. You couldn’t do anything more if you were dead. 

“You do realize, though, that some sacrifices will have to be made,” Lorenz said. Vincatel snorted and gave a small toss of her head. “This is, after all, war.”

“It really is amazing though, isn’t it? When you think about it?”

That was Marianne, her soft voice cutting through the air. This was the first time she’d spoken in hours. She stood next to Hilda, clung around Penumbrior like he was a stuffed animal. For her to speak out was rare enough to direct all attention towards her. Claude smiled and gestured for her to continue. 

“I mean,” Marianne rubbed the back of her neck where a few stray hairs fell, “Edelgard holds her convictions so strongly that she’s willing to make the entire world her enemy fighting for them. That’s, even if it’s awful, that she’s going against the Goddess, it’s still incredible.”

“I wonder if we have the power to change the world like that, even a little bit,” Penumbior whispered from her arms. 

It was perhaps the most self-affirming thing he’d ever heard Marianne—either half of her—say. Hilda’s face split into a grin and Claude felt himself smiling at her words. “Of course you are,” he said. “Whatever comes next, I can’t do it without you.” 

“I need you too, Marianne,” Hilda added, sweet but somehow still genuine. “Even if I didn’t—which I, like, totally do—I like having you around.”

“I…” Marianne and Penumbrior looked around in different directions; the armadillo’s claws curled around her wrist. When Marianne closed her eyes, then opened them again, there was a slightly different look to her. It was almost akin, albeit less intense, to the expression she got when working on a patient—especially if the injury was particularly nasty. Penumbrior’s constant worried expression would smooth out, and Marianne herself would straighten out and almost settle into place. It was like the world fell away, and there was only her and the injury she could heal, the thing Marianne knew she could do, the thing Marianne knew she knew she could do. 

“If I say that out loud I’m going to trip,” Simurg couldn’t help but chime in as she leaned against his shoulder. “Still, I hope this is what sticks. Of all the things...think we’ll need to thank Edelgard if it does?”

“Maybe one less punch in the face,” Claude thought back fondly, watching Marianne muse over her adoptive father's connections, maybe shadowing him at the round table, hadn’t Ferdinand mentioned practicing on actual agricultural surveys once?

Thinking about Ferdinand made his heart hurt, made Simurg duck back under his cape. Would they have to face him on the battlefield? What about the other Eagles? Facing down Petra was not a scenario he wanted to contemplate, even though he had to. 

“Nice work there,” Halmstadt whispered to Simurg. “We’ll make a proper motivator of you yet!”

“Motivation. Is that what you call it?” Simurg teased back with a flick of her tail. Claude stuck out his tongue at Hilda, who replied with an upturned middle finger where Marianne couldn’t see. “I thought it was just being lazy and getting other people to do your work for you.”

“Which only works long-term if you make people want to work for you, dummy,” Halmstadt teased back as he fluttered around Hilda’s head. “You’ve got to make people feel good and needed and important to get them to do things for you.”

Perhaps. Hilda was always better at actually charming people than he was, the face to his schemes. Well, making Marianne feel better about herself was one of the more mutually beneficial ones he’d cooked up, so it wasn’t like anyone could complain. 

“Claude,” Lorenz interrupted, “Your schemes for maintaining your position in the Alliance are all well and good, but do you have any plans for right now? My father has ordered me back home, presumably due to Gloucester’s favorable relationship with the Empire, but of course that means if something were to happen to you I would lead the Alliance by default.”

That was true. It was probably also true that Lord Gloucester recalled his son due to even more inflammatory accusations that didn’t make it into Edelgard’s manifesto. Speaking of which, he really needed to make another copy to pass around; Seteth was confiscating and presumably destroying them on sight. Oh, why did he not smuggle a pantograph over the border? How in all the hells did Fodlan not possess such a useful tool? 

Claude did not bring this up, but clamped his hand over Simurg’s tail, rolled his eyes, and said, “You’re so negative, Lorenz. I wouldn’t ask anybody to do something I wouldn’t, and I’m not dying here. I’m certainly not dying for the church.”

Speaking of which, why was Hilda still here? He’d have figured she’d be halfway across the Bridge of Myrddin by now. They were getting better about being on the same page, because no sooner did Simurg look at her with that unanswered question seated in her fangs did Hilda say, “Oh, I’m running the fuck away. I have zero interest in dying here, thank you very much. Frankly, the only reason I’m still here is because I need to warn a stubborn old goat about what’s coming.”

And that was the other thing. Claude couldn’t pace his thoughts into coherency like he wanted to, not with the classroom set up like this and Vincatel in the way, so Simurg slithered up and down his body instead. It helped a little. For all that Edelgard had started this war and was far more willing to sacrifice lives than him, she didn’t seem the type to deliberately put bystanders at risk. From what he’d heard, the townies had no issues evacuating. 

There was no way she knew about Abyss, and no way to tell her about the hidden town in time. Oh, he was sure Yuri and his pack knew something was happening, but there was no way of telling just how much they knew—or, more importantly, if they had any way to escape. The monastery was on lockdown and the monks were barricading every secret tunnel they could find. Sure, individuals could filter out of the monastery, but an entire town of outcasts?

Simurg’s rattle was muffled and dull in his fist. It would be easy, to discard Abyss and focus entirely on the alliance and his herd of misfit Deer. But the secrets locked away in Abyss and the aid of the Wolves were assets too valuable for him to so easily discard. And that wasn’t even getting into the people. 

A day might come when he would have to sacrifice one piece or another. But for now, he didn’t think that would be necessary. 

They spoke for a while longer, planned the battlefield, how they would handle the news at home. Hours later, only Claude and an unusually-quiet Lysithea remained. 

Claude sauntered up to her, and hoped that he was acting more casual than he felt. “So, does Edelgard know you’re joining her?” 

He’d miss pushing Lysithea’s buttons and watch her splutter, watch Zilbariel’s hackles go up and turn into a hissing spitting ball of fur, no matter what he was at the moment. He waited for Lysithea to fire back some profanity-laced retort, lifted an eyebrow, and kept waiting. Eventually, she ran out of words and simply said, “How long have you known you’d do this?”

“The moment Rhea became that thing.” Which—that was—just what was Rhea and the Church? He had so many questions, and he needed to find answers. 

“Though, truth be told, I’ve been expecting something like this for a few months now,” Zilbariel added from Lysithea’s lap, where she held him and ran her fingers through his fur. “Crests bring nothing but pain and suffering; the Church and nobility have enabled it. Sorry Claude, but Edelgard’s way is going to change things the fastest.”

That may be true, but did she have to be so violent about it? He raised his hand in an only slightly teasing salute. “Well, I know better than to keep you from doing something that you’re dead-set on. I’d rather not get Dark Spiked after all.”

Lysithea let out a short bark of a laugh. “You’re not the Death Knight. It would be Luna.”

“My mistake, because that’s so much better.” Claude signed and ran a hand through his hair. “I am going to miss you, Lysithea.”

“You mean you’ll miss tormenting me, asshole.”

“Well, that too.” Simurg peeked out of his sleeve again, and his grin fell away. “But seriously, Lys, the people who hurt you and Edelgard—who are they? Are they associated with the Church?”

Lysithea startled again; Zilbariel tripped over his own paws. “How did you—of course you did,” she groaned to herself. “I’m not sure who they were. All I know is they’re not associated with the Church, at all, but the Church made the environment that let them do what they did.”

That...was something he’d really have to chew on. “And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what exactly they did?”

She shook her head, and her voice became thick. “I can barely talk about it with Zilbariel; what makes you think I can discuss it with anyone else?”

Ah. “Well then, I guess I’ll have to figure it out myself.”

“I expect no less.”

Dammit, why did this hurt as much as it did? “Lysithea, I’m going to give you one last order as your house leader: stay alive.”

…Wow, he actually did make Lysithea cry. She scrubbed away those few tears as Zilbariel curled around her and said, “Don’t worry, Claude. I’m not dying yet.”

---

Annette had walked out halfway through Dimitri’s speech. 

“That wasn’t a speech!” Serrin said around a mouthful of writing quills, waving her paws in the air for emphasis. “That—that was—I don’t even know what that was, except completely deranged!”

Dimitri had only given a few token words about defending Faerghus before slipping into another rant about tearing off Edelgard’s head and parading it through the streets of Fhirdiad. Or mounting it on his spear. Or mounting it on Delcabia’s tusks. Or…

“Annie? Please stop. Things are already awful enough, I don’t want to have what Dimitri was saying going on loop through both our heads.” Serrin tossed down a few sealed bottles of perfume and blush onto the bed, watched them bounce twice and then scurried back down to Annette. “Which of these should we take with us?”

War (!) was inevitable; earlier today spies reported that the Imperial Army (!!) would besiege the monastery around the end of the month, and that Edelgard, Professor Byleth, Hubert, and many—if not all—of the Black Eagles were among their ranks (!!!). The monks started to evacuate the town, the knights were setting up defenses, Rhea and Seteth and the other professors had vanished and were probably in meetings, and Dimitri and Claude had arranged emergency house meetings. 

Aww, why couldn’t Serrin separate from her the way Zilbariel could split off from Lysithea? Sure it was seriously disturbing, but the Golden Deer house meeting had probably gone way better than theirs. 

Felix wouldn’t stop talking about how he was right and Dimitri was a deranged bloodthirsty beast, but he wasn’t nearly as happy about it as she expected a big jerk like Felix to be. Actually, he seemed downright miserable about being proven right. 

She didn’t know why exactly this had set Dimitri off, but he was seriously terrifying now and what was Faerghus going to do without him when the Empire attacked? 

Serrin popped her head up from the rapidly-growing pile of textbooks on the floor. “Maybe we should go find Felix and Ingrid and Sylvain? We’re a noble too, we should be part of whatever they’re talking about.”

The thing was, what were they talking about? Because there was so much to talk about! Edelgard and the Empire declared war, Dimitri had lost it, and then there was everything that was going on in the holy tomb! Annette was never really a religious person. She loved the hymns, but only because they were another chance to sing, and to her the holidays were basically just a nice way to spend time with friends and family. 

Annette’s hand dropped down to her lap, where she could run Serrin’s bushy fluffy tail through her fingers as she thought. Her other hand scrubbed away the welling tears from her eyes. Her relationship with the Goddess was always a sort of vague and distant one, sort of like a distant aunt who came around once or twice a year and you needed to dress extra-fancy for. She attended all the ceremonies, celebrated all the holidays, participated in every feast and fast alike, knew a good chunk of the holy texts the priests read during services, but that counted as about average in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Not like Mercie, who was absolutely devoted to the goddess, who embodied the best of the church and the goddess. 

“Mercie’s version of the church and the goddess is a lot nicer than whatever the actual church is actually doing, or whatever the heck happened down there,” Serrin said miserably. “I like Mercie’s version a lot more.”

Somewhere, somehow, something had gone horribly wrong with the church. It wasn’t like Edelgard was declaring war for no reason whatsoever, but was that really the only way? Especially when Faerghus would inevitably be fighting too? 

“This stinks, Serrin,” Annette sniffled into her daemon’s tail. None of this was supposed to happen! She was supposed to go to the academy with her best friend in the whole world, and learn under people like Professor Hanneman. Find her father, make up for the lost years with him, get him to come home, and make them be a complete family again. 

“Oh Annie, who are we fooling?” Serrin moaned. “That’s never going to happen.”

Annette opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come—only silence. Serrin was right. Her dad decided to leave, decided that being part of a family and being her dad was less important than standing around the monastery feeling sorry for himself. It didn’t matter how many spells she learned, or how hard she tried. Her father broke their family, and as long he didn’t want to be a dad again she wasn’t going to be able to magically fix it, ever. 

It was his choice, not hers, objectively not her fault yet the realization still tore through her, ripped her heart from her chest. What was left behind was raw and gaping and...and more than a little bit angry. “Fine then!” Annette shouted, springing to her feet. Serrin tumbled to the floor and landed on her feet. She scampered over to the pile of makeup jars and tossed them haphazardly into the pack, heard them clink together before covering them with socks and smallclothes. “If dad wants to stay here with a church that doesn’t care about him instead of being with a family that does, then let him! He can stand around and mope and get himself killed; I’m going home!”

“Annie?”

That was Mercedes’s soft voice, floating through the door. Annette scrambled to open it, inviting her best friend to a small explosion of half-packed bags and partially-sorted school supplies. Cygnis carefully picked his way around the mess on the floor and sat down in a bare corner. “Annie? Are you doing okay?”

“I, uh…” Another stack of books fell from her arms onto the folded clothes, and she ran into her best friend’s arms. “No, I’m not. Oh Mercie, this is awful! Why did this have to happen?”

Mercie pulled her in closer, her hand as soothing on her back as always, just as Cygnis let Serrin scramble up his leg. “I wish I knew. I never thought that Edelgard was planning something like this, or that she was hiding so much pain.”

“And then there’s the church, and everything with the Professor!” she cried. “I don’t know which side to take and I don’t even want to take a side, since they’re both so, so—“ Annette broke off and looked up at her best friend, and a wild idea surged through her. “Mercie, you should come with me! My uncle will definitely let you stay at the manor, and you’re everything that’s good about the Church of Seiros! Maybe you can show another way, and then Edelgard won’t invade Faerghus, and then—“

Mercie went stiff and wrong in her embrace. “I…I’m sorry, Annie.” She stepped back, and Annette had never seen her friend so tired—and she’d been exhausting herself all year. “I have to stay here.”

What? Annie took a step back, and Serrin jumped off Cygnis. The squirrel daemon backed up shaking her head in disbelief. No, Mercie couldn’t be serious. “What do you mean you’re staying? You can’t be serious, you’re going to stay even when the monastery’s going to be attacked?”

“I have to,” Mercie said as Cygnis fought back a yawn. “Dimitri needs me.”

Dimitri?! “Dimitri? Mercie, you can’t be serious! You saw what Dimitri was like!” Was she seriously going to try to snap him out of it? “Mercie, you’re fantastic at talking to people and helping them out, but Dimitri isn’t listening to anyone anymore! You heard what he was like!”

But Mercie wouldn’t be deterred. “I know that, but I have to try. I can’t simply just leave him without trying.”

No no no, this was going all wrong! She needed to make Mercie and Cygnis understand, why couldn’t she understand? “Cyg, look at yourself,” Serrin begged. “You’re trying not to fall asleep right now, you’re exhausted. You’ve been pulling yourself in a million directions the entire year!”

“Mercie, Felix has been talking to me a little bit. He and Dedue haven’t able to get through to him; if Dedue can’t do it I don’t think you can!”

Serrin winced, and Annie felt the flash of regret shoot through them both. That was the entirely wrong thing to say even if it was completely, totally right, and from the way Cygnis’s ears went back Mercie was hurt by it. “Annie, are you saying I can’t do this?”

“I-I-” This was going all wrong, and now she was scrambling to keep up and keep it from going even worse. “I’m saying that I don’t want you to get yourself hurt. I don’t think Dimitri’s interested in listening to anyone right now, and if you stay you’re going to get yourself hurt!”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t even try to help our prince?”

“I’m saying you’re going to get yourself hurt or...or worse, especially with an attack that’s coming! Please, Mercie, you’ve been running around all over the place taking care of us but you’ve never taken care of yourself!”

Mercie’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying that I shouldn’t help our prince and our other classmates and friends, even after I helped you back in the School of Sorcery? Honestly, Annie, I never thought you would be this selfish!”

Cygnis’s eyes went wide and Mercedes clapped her hands over her mouth. She started to say something, some sort of apology, but it was too late. The words were out and there was no taking them back. 

How could Mercedes say something like that? How could all this be happening? Serrin raced to her shoulder, tail bristled straight out, chittering furiously. In a moment of impulsivity that Annette would regret for the rest of her life, she surrendered to the urge to make someone else hurt as much as she was hurting right then and there. “Fine then! You can stay here and get yourself k-killed playing...playing I-have-to-make-up-for-not-saving-Emile!”

She shouldn’t have said that. Oh goddess, she shouldn’t have said that! But the words were out and she couldn’t take them back. Mercedes lips pursed in a tight line, and Annette suddenly felt very small, a child being punished by their tutor once again. 

“Goodbye, Annette.” Cygnis turned on his paws, and he and Mercedes left without another word. Annette stood there in her room, clothes spilling from her arms. Serrin chaser after Mercedes, half-formed apologies spilling from her lips, but the door was already slammed shut.  

---

He couldn’t do this again. He’d barely been able to do it after Duscur, when he was the only one of the Faerghus Four who hadn't lost someone who was or would be family. It had fallen on him to try and hold them all together, back when they were all young enough that a two year age difference made him a font of wisdom to his friends. Back when he still thought it was normal—if squirmy in ways he still couldn’t fully articulate—to have women twice his age give him sweets for flirting and more with them and an older brother regularly try to kill him and a daemon who always said nasty things in his head where nobody else could hear. 

As if he did anything other than an absolutely shittastic job at it; given just how much Fe went prickly and Ingrid went cold and Dimitri went absolutely batshit crazy. 

“So what makes you think you’d do any better now?” Zepida hissed. At least now they could play off her agitation on solely what went down, not just partially. He’s always known crests were bullshit, but this?! Hah, guess he figured out the cost of her crest. Congrats, Professor, forget being a human incubator, how about being a human sacrifice?

“Still feel like doing all those things you fantasized about earlier this year, freak?”

“No! Will you shut up about that, it was just an angry fantasy! We have more important things to worry about.”

“You’re right, we do. Freak.”

Sylvain pushed aside Zepida’s head and tuned back into the conversation, right into the middle of a shouting match between Felix and Ingrid.  

“I’m not serving the boar!” Felix shouted. “I’ve been warning people about this for years now; you think I’ll follow him now that he really is on a rampage? He’s just going to get himself killed and I’m not dying along with him!”

“So are you just going to run away and let the Empire tear through our homes? That’s beyond even you, Felix!” Albarrog bared his several dozen fangs, but Bismalt waved his fins in challenge and refused to back down. 

“Tch, that’s not what I said at all.” It was, and Sylvain knew that Felix was now trying to backpedal and explain himself. “I’m not going to get myself killed for the boar, or chivalry, or whatever excuse the Church is spewing now.”

“What makes you think the Kingdom is going to back the Church?” Ingrid asked, but there was no hiding the uncertainty in her voice either, or the way Albarrog scuffed his claws against the floor. 

“Of course the Kingdom will,” said Ashe as he absentmindedly ran his fingers up and down Fuergios’s scales. She was a basilisk now, but the last time Sylvain looked over at him she had been a barred owl, and the time before that, she had been an enormous condor. Every time he looked over at Ashe, his daemon seemed to be something else. “After everything with the Western Church, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus is going to want to show they’re playing nice and supporting the Church. They can’t afford to seem wishy-washy.”

Of course Ashe would know; he’d been keeping tabs on the Western Church and the purges the entire year. So that was it then. One way or another the Kingdom would ally with the Church, they’d all get dragged into a war, and either Edelgard would skullfuck the lot of them or the Church would fetishise their crests even more. Or both. Probably both, given just how his luck went— 

“Sylvain,” Ashe said, and his eyes were so bright and how was he still so honest and earnest despite it all? Faergus turned you cold, if it didn’t freeze you to death first, but there was still a genuine-ness to Ashe that Sylvain had lost so long ago he couldn’t even remember having it in the first place.

“Yeah?” He couldn’t help but feel that old flare of envy and bitterness, because he was nothing more than an ungrateful bastard Zepida was right.

“Are you really going to work with the church? You hate crests!”

“And what, have my father kill me too? Let all of Faerghus die?” Sylvain shot back. 

“And here I thought you didn’t particularly care about anything beyond chasing your own pleasure,” Albarrog muttered to the shocked and angry glares of everyone—even Ingrid herself.”

“Ouch, low blow,” Zepida muttered. “Though you deserve it.”

“Anyway,” Felix said, “Another reason the Boar is completely delusional and we’re on our own is that Edelgard is around our age! You seriously expect me to believe that a, what, a twelve year old masterminded the Tragedy?”

“Of course not,” Sylvain added. “But she is working with them now, in some fashion.”

“And speaking of that,” Ingrid mused, rubbing her hand on her chin, “Duscur really isn’t that far from Fhirdiad. If the survivors still hold a grudge that would be a perfect opportunity for a flank attack. We need to ask Dedue if he knows something.”

“Wait a minute, are you seriously suggesting that Dedue might turn against Dimitri?!” Zepida stalked up to Albarrog’s face, fur bristling nearly vertical. Sure, Ingrid hated the Duscurians—something that Sylvain didn’t like about one of his oldest friends at all but was too chickenshit to do anything about thank you Zepida I didn’t need that commentary— but accusing Dedue made absolutely no sense. Everyone knew that Dedue was fanatically loyal to Dimitri. The entire student body knew that Dedue was fanatically loyal to Dimitri. The monastery dogs and cats knew that Dedue was fanatically loyal to Dimitri. Things that lived under rocks knew that Dedue was fanatically loyal to Dimitri.    

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” Albarrog snapped his jaw at Zepida, who ran behind Sylvain’s feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain saw Ashe and Fuergios silently get up and leave. Good. Let someone save themselves from this clusterfuck. 

“Okay, good, because if you were then you’re talking complete nonsense. And this is coming from me,” Sylvain found himself saying. 

“Hah! You really do deserve each other!”

“Oh, what is it now?”

Zepida’s eyes glimmered up at his where she clung to his shirt. Of course, nobody else could see the way her claws dig into his flesh. “Look at you all! Felix is spinning his wheels and lashing out at everyone, Ingrid can’t stop blaming Duscur for everything, and then there’s you! You’re all pieces of shit who deserve each other!”

“No they’re not!”

“Yes they are, you all are! Why don’t you go join Edelgard, help free Fodlan of the crests you hate so much? Oh, that’s right, you’re too chickenshit to go against daddy. Too afraid of Dimitri popping off your head like a wine bottle cork?”

Yes, actually! But Zepida, the stupid cat, was on a roll and nothing was stopping her. “You’re pathetic! This is your one big chance to actually be free and you’re gonna run away!”

“I’m not! I-I’ll think of something else!”

“Oh yeah? What’s your bright idea this time? What are you gonna do, Sylvain? What are you gonna do, asshole?”

“Shut up!” Sylvain tore Zepida off his chest and flung her to the ground. His eyes flicked downwards to where Felix and Ingrid’s horrified gazes were directed and...well. Shit. 

His shirt was torn open, the fabric carved with long gouges that easily exposed the similar wounds in his chest. Even as Sylvain watched, blood beaded up and ran down his chest, stained his white shirt red and ruined. Zepida, the little fucker, just sat and groomed her paws like she hadn’t just quite possible scarred his perfect chest with those sheathed claws. But Sylvain knew better. He knew she was hiding the pain they were both forced to share. 

What was he going to do?

“So!” Sylvain said, bright and clear and shiny-fake as costume jewelry, as if his own daemon hadn’t attacked him in front of his friends holy fuck what was wrong with him?! “Dimitri’s out of commission, the regent is even more useless than me, and the empire’s about to fuck us all in the ass—and Edelgard’s going in dry.”

Felix rolled his eyes; Bismalt couldn’t even look at Zepida. “Must everything be about sex with you?”

“Come on Fe, it wouldn’t be me without it!” He grinned, and did a pretty good job at not shaking too much. Because ow, his chest was starting to really fucking hurt. 

Ingrid hadn’t said a word, and neither had Albarrog. The look on her face was not one he had ever seen before, especially not directed at him. It was almost like the way Mercedes seemed to look right through him, but with an Ingridness to it that he couldn’t stand to have trained on him. 

Felix just folded his arms and scoffed. Bismalt’s fins trailed behind him and why couldn’t Felix be the one with the cat daemon? Normally Felix would chuck Bismalt’s capsule at his head around now, and the fighting fish daemon inside would tell him off even as the capsule bounced off his thick skull. This time, however, he wasn’t, and Sylvain found him missing that more than he thought he would. “Well?“ he asked, and thank the goddess Felix didn’t openly address what all of them could plainly see. The last thing Sylvain needed now when the world was falling apart outside the quiet of their room was pity.

“Well,” he said, drawing up all his Sylvain bluster around him, “The princess—sorry, the emperor now—has a point, and none of us exactly like the way things are going right now. But we also need to protect our homes. I think I have a plan to do that.”

He didn’t, not really. At least, not beyond a few half-formed threads and flights of fancy. But he’d always been good at landing on his feet, and when he was busy improvising he didn’t have time to listen to Zepida and her siren song of self-hate. If anyone would listen to him anymore. 

They had to. He needed to hold it together a little while longer, even if he didn’t know what he was holding it together for anymore. 

---

Ashe left the room around the time Ingrid started blaming Duscur for the tragedy again. He did not look back. 

His heart twisted painfully and Fuergios (was she a wren now? Or a groundhog? Some sort of tiny lizard? She was shifting so quickly he couldn’t possibly hope to keep up) couldn’t help but let out a small cry at the thought of Ingrid, or the knights. They’d hit it off immediately at the start of the year, with their shared tales of chivalry and dreams of knighthood. Of breaking into an organization that wouldn’t consider the two of them and making them look again at the lady and commoner knights. Of making Lonato and Christophe proud.

He couldn’t help but look back and wince at just how simplistic it all was. Lonato’s execution had been the largest crack, but looking back it was one of many that left him with nothing but shattered fragments of his old dream. Perhaps he would have kept going if it was Lonato alone. Perhaps he would have turned deeper to the church in an attempt to atone for his adoptive father’s rebellion, or to prove his worthiness.

But then he met Dedue.

Dedue never told him about the harassment, at least not directly. Which was probably for the best, as he and Fuergios reluctantly admitted to themselves one dark and especially cold night. It wasn’t—it wasn’t that he wouldn’t have believed Dedue. Dedue was his friend, and he wouldn’t lie about something as awful as constant harassment! Ashe knew what that was like, a little bit. The hiding from the guards. Having to learn to walk, to talk, to carry yourself to avoid suspicion. The little trickle of fear over being caught—what would happen to him? To his brother and sister? 

But that was the thing, Ashe only knew what that was like a little bit. When he wasn’t stealing to feed his family, he was a Faerghus commoner just like any other. Thinner and dirtier than most, yes, but still undeniably Faerghian. Dedue couldn’t pretend to be anything other than who he was, and there was no hiding Levia. If Dedue had told him outright, Ashe would have believed him, but he would also have wondered if his friend was reading too much into it, ascribing hostility where there was none. Because they were knights in shining armor, trained and sworn to protect the helpless citizens of Faerghus. Chivalry was his nation’s highest honor, its ideals written into every story he’d ever heard or read. 

There was nothing in the stories about what the families of the knights who lived on past their glorious deaths. Or following orders even through their daemon screaming at them to stop, and then eventually going silent. Or always assuming the worst about Dedue...or Cyril, or Petra, or Claude. Ashe was good at paying attention to things. He had always wanted to be a knight, but that was before he saw how things really were. 

Fuergios hopped from perch to perch—a red-tailed hawk now, the better to shriek her frustrations with. “The church lied, the knights lied, who didn’t lie?!” There was a smuggled-in copy of Edelgard’s manifesto, quietly passed to a few others, now sitting in a false drawer in his room next to the small stash of food he still needed to have on hand at all times. He had no reason to doubt her claims, not after what he had seen and heard with his own eyes and ears. What was the truth? Who could he trust?

How did the year turn into this? How did Edelgard not crack under the strain, like…like Dimitri did?

Ashe slowed to a stop, for his pacing had led him to right outside Dedue’s room. The door, widened at the start of the year to accommodate Levia’s bulk, was closed and locked. Dedue tended to retreat into himself when he was stressed; he probably should leave his friend alone. 

He knocked on the door. 

There was a pause, long enough that Ashe started to consider giving up and going back to his room, then a click and a creak as Dedue unlocked the door. 

He looked tired. Many people in the monastery wouldn’t be able to tell, since he always looked so stern and serious, but Ashe knew Dedue well enough to see the weariness in his eyes, the way Levia squeezed herself in the corner and slumped her shoulders in a way she never did. 

“I could not get him to leave the training grounds,” he said. “I believe he is still there.”

“...Dimitri’s going to charge the Empire head on when they attack, isn’t he.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Do you think you can stop him?”

“...I will try.”

Fuergios hopped over to a patch of a white on Dedue’s desk. Levia didn’t leave her corner, but she noticed and said, “The air here is too wet for the Duscurian method of flower pressing. Varley territory is close to Garreg Mach, with a similar climate, and so Bernadetta gave me some advice.”

“I hope we do not have to kill her,” Dedue said. 

“We?” Of course, those who stayed would fight alongside the church, and having it laid out in such stark terms...he didn’t want to do that. He’d fought alongside the church one, when they purged the Western Church leadership and Rhea personally executed their bishop. Remembered the cold rage that flowed through him at the realization that the Western Church used Lonato and then threw him away. The flat realization that his grief still stayed even afterwards, and the deeper chill at the unanswered questions. 

The point of it was, he didn’t want to fight alongside the Church. He couldn’t even trust them anymore. Because, even without the troubling connections between Lonato and the Central Church, or the fact that Rhea had just executed him as a lesson and nothing more...she had also planned to use Byleth and throw her away. 

He didn’t want to fight alongside someone who saw people like that! And Dedue was a gentle soul, so he had to try. Fuergios was a little chameleon now, draped over Levia’s horns as Ashe had to ask, “You don’t have to be a part of this. You can come with me?” They could avoid the war entirely, keep themselves safe…

And be cowards, and go against everything they were. Dedue shook his head. “I cannot do that, and you know perfectly well that I can’t. So why are you asking me this?”

Ashe sat down next to Dedue, leaned into his bulk just as Fuergios (now a sandy desert fox with enormous ears) leaned against Levia’s. “I just, I don’t get it. Why are you still following Dimitri? I know he supports you and has been trying to tell everyone the Tragedy wasn’t Duscur’s fault, but nobody’s listening. We took everything from you, and now Dimitri’s completely lost it. Why are you still siding with us? Why do you not hate us?” I used to think the stories were true, and the knights could do no wrong, before I opened my eyes, and before I met you. How can you not hate me?

Dedue let out a long, low sigh. “I think you misunderstand. I do hate Faerghus. I hate the entire blighted nation of rigid dogma and frozen lands and frozen hearts in a way that I can never show, because too many people see me as an animal already, even when I don’t show my rage.” Ashe shuddered at that thought, and when Fuergios looked down from where she wound herself around Levia’s horns she saw deep gouges in the wood, made over months of frustration. “Dimitri tried to save my village and my family, when the soldiers came. He managed to save me, and he has not stopped fighting for me since, even if he has yet to meaningfully succeed. We rode the grief and pain together; I was the only one truly there for him despite what his other friends may say. Faerghus can burn for all I care, but what kind of man would I be if I abandoned Dimitri now?”

“Even if all I can do right now is keep him from killing himself,” Levia added. 

“I…” Fuergios (a tiny monkey of some kind with a long tail, now) made her way back to Ashe’s side. “You’re the bravest, most chivalrous man in all of Fodlan.”

His answering chuckle was low and sad. “And also the biggest fool, it feels like. But I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“I...” Goddess, he didn’t want to say it, but it was starting to feel like this was the only real answer. “I want to fight by your side, Dedue. But the church and Faerghus are going to work together, and I can’t be a part of either anymore.” Ashe took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I’m going to join Edelgard. I feel like it’s the only way to find out the truth, and for things to really change.”

Dedue was very quiet, and very still, until Levia said, roughly, “You realize this means our paths may cross in battle, right?”

“I know.” Though goddess, please have some mercy and don’t let that happen! This was painful and horrific enough as it was. “I-I’m not going to fight you, Dedue. No matter what.”

“No matter what?” He shook his head. “You are one of the few bright spots in your nation, Ashe. Then I shall endeavor to do the same.” He looked out the window, where the long rosy shadows of afternoon were beginning to creep in. “You should leave soon, before anybody spots you or where you’re going.”

He was right, of course, but not before one final hug. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

Levia placed her soft, wet nose against Fuergios’s whole body, for she was now a mourning dove. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

---

Cethleann met Sothis once, back when she was but a wyrmling, so young that she still couldn’t quite keep track of how many limbs she had in each form. Sothis loved children, and as Cethleann grabbed and gummed at her braids she turned to Cichol and said, “You will have to make many difficult, painful choices over the course of your life, Cichol, my son. Listen to your daughter in those times of moral crisis, for she will guide you well.”

Was this the moral crisis that Sothis had envisioned? How could she have possibly seen something like this, and not striven to prevent it? Or perhaps did she only see the general shape and not the fine details? Steth wished he could ask her, but that was impossible. Sothis was gone, and despite what his sister wanted to believe she had been gone for a very long time.it was his duty, after his long period of seclusion in the grotto watching over Cethleann, to guide the humans of Fodlan in accordance with what the Goddess—what Sothis—would have wanted.

How could Edelgard have warred against that?! With her single unthinkable attack, she had declared war on the very soul of Fodlan. She had desecrated the resting place of his kin,   threatened to tear down the entire moral structure of the continent, dared to commit the most vile treason. He could not let that go unanswered! How could he have possibly missed such brazen blasphemy?

If only he were still able to transform; he would fly to the palace and destroy the rebellion himself. But alas, he could never take to the air on his own again, and the Empire was marching on the monastery in another act of desecration!

But Flayn did not prepare for battle the way she had once before. Instead she was quiet and thoughtful...no. she was hesitant, in a way that Seteth could not fully understand. This was a crime against her as much as anybody else.

He did not expect her to disagree with him and Rhea, or to sympathize with Edelgard! How could she do such a thing, knowing what kind of blasphemy and desecration she just committed, how she was undoubtedly working with the Agarthans?!

“I am not saying that I agree with Edelgard, but that I understand her reasoning,” Flayn argued. “You were not down there in the Holy Tomb to see and hear what happened to the Professor and her daemon. You have guided the students, yes, but you have not intimately experienced their struggles, or lived and learned beside them the past several months like I have. Brother, we were in seclusion for too long. Whatever the Church was when you hid me away in that grotto and stood guard, it is no longer that. It has become something else entirely.”

Seteth could not deny that. He had counseled too many of his classmates, and could not agree with the emphasis on Crests to the exclusion of all else that had occurred over the centuries. Yet that was no excuse for what Edelgard and the Empire had done, what they were about to do, and he told Flayn as much.

They argued for some time, but it was Flayn’s final words that stuck in his head. She dropped all pretense of their being siblings and had instead shouted, “Father, for once please listen to me! Even if Rhea is correct and humanity needs a nanny to save themselves from destruction, that is not what she is doing! A nanny is supposed to guide children, yes, and keep them from injuring themselves, but a nanny is also supposed to raise them, and help them become good adults. I do not know what changed when I was asleep, but the Rhea and the Church that I see now are not guiding humanity. They are smothering them.” Cethleann paused, steeled herself, and looked Cichol in the eye. “As you are smothering me.”

Damn it all, he could not get Flayn’s words and insights out of his head! Nor could he forget the way Belial had changed, the fear in Byleth’s eyes. The realization that they were severed, the growing horror that Rhea may have had something to do with that. Oh, if only he had a daemon to discuss this with, another voice his equal and confidant. But his Stone was silent, and the bearded dragon he owned was nothing more. There was no other voice; he was on his own. 

He needed to know the truth, which was why he now entered Rhea’s chambers. For while Edelgard’s actions were horrendous and wicked almost beyond comprehension, he could not shake the growing realization that Rhea had done something truly monstrous to Byleth when she was but a baby.

The look of absolute rage on Rhea’s face was one that he had not seen since the massacre at Zanado, and even though it was not directed at him Seteth could not help but feel the urge to cower when she turned to him. 

“After all we did for her, after all I did for her, she dared to side with that blasphemous traitor! How could she turn on us so?! Seteth! Did you know anything of this?!”

No, of course he had not, and he told her as much. “I need to reflect on how I was so blind to her wickedness, if there was any way I could have kept her from going astray.”

“Forget forgiveness,” Rhea spat. “Sinners must be punished, and there can never be any forgiveness or atonement for the likes of her. For the likes of either of them! Death will never be enough! They can burn in the flames of hell together, and I will have my mother back!”

Again with Professor Byleth stealing away Sothis, which made no sense at all— 

A fused daemon was akin to somebody forcibly carving a second Crest onto his Stone. 

—“Seiros.” 

She looked up and paused mid-pace, her eyes still wild with the rage that blazed within. “Yes? What is it?”

He didn’t want to know. Truth be told he wanted to run away and hide and pretend that these thoughts never crossed his mind. But he needed to know; he owed the Professor that much for saving his daughter, at least. 

“…Rhea, please. You must tell me all that you know. I beg of you.”

“…”

He swallowed. No going back. “The professor, before she turned on us, she changed. From what I hear her appearance began to match ours, and her daemon took on an appearance not unlike Sothis’s true form. Is she an incarnation of the progenitor god?”

Rhea snarled. “That was the intent. Our ‘dearest’ professor is…a vessel. One who carries the power of the progenitor god within. In time, the vessel will become one with the power contained within, and Sothis shall return to this world.” Her face twisted and she slammed her fists onto her table. “At least that was the intent! But no, she spurned the divine fate bestowed upon her and turned traitor. She stole our mother away from me, an ungrateful traitor, a failure like all the rest! She will pay for that!” 

Seteth went very, very cold. “And what about Byleth herself? Did she have any say in this?”

Rhea remained hunched over the table, but she whipped her head around and glared straight at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

No. She didn’t. Oh Seiros, what have you done? “Belial’s appearance changed, which a settled daemon never does. They changed to look like Sothis’s true form. Moreover, I have heard that Byleth and Belial are severed. Do you know what that means, what a monstrous thing that is?”

“What does it matter?” Rhea spat. There was a horrible scraping noise; she had dug long furrows into the old oak table with her claws. “She was supposed to be a vessel for the progenitor god, through her we would finally have Mother back! What does one human’s life matter in comparison?!”

He was in a great pit, the horror yawning up all around him, freezing him to the spot, to the bone, to the Stone. Oh Seiros, my sister, it means everything. How could you have gone so astray? Why didn’t I see this sooner? Why didn’t I do something sooner? “Seiros, surely you can’t possibly—”

“And now she’s just another failure! Nothing but trash, a traitor, a filthy thief!”

“...Another failure?” No. Oh please, let that not be what he feared it was.“Was the Professor—was Byleth —your first attempt?”

“...”

If the floor was not made of wood, but stone, it would have shattered beneath his feet. “How many other people have you tried to mold into Sothis’s vessel, Seiros? How many times?!”

“...Thirteen. Thirteen failures.” Seiros’s eyes were elsewhere, every word was wrenched from her throat. 

“Thirteen. Thirteen.” Thirteen people, thirteen lives that Seiros was perfectly comfortable with erasing if it meant bringing back their mother. Definitely one, and possibly thirteen, human children that—whether unintentionally or by design—Seiros severed in her attempts to resurrect Sothis. Oh goddess above, this was...this was…

The chill remained, the world icy in its harsh clarity. And just as cold was the anger that rose up within. For Cichol went into seclusion to protect his daughter. “When Flayn was kidnapped,” Cichol said, and he sounded very distant and far away, “My greatest fear was not that she would be killed, but that she would be mutilated. That I would find her still breathing but with her Stone ripped from her chest, no longer my daughter, but an empty shell. And now I learned that you have done something similar thirteen times? That you similarly mutilated Jeralt’s daughter without telling him and left him to raise a husk of a child alone?!”

Seiros slumped here shoulders, said nothing, but there was nothing left to say. Sothis was gone, and so, it seemed, was the sister Cichol once knew. Edelgard and the Empire were monstrous, yes, but this too was indefensible. Seteth took a deep breath, his hands curled into fists, his blood thrumming under his skin.  “Out of respect for our relationship, I will not tell the knights what you did to the professor. But I cannot stand alongside you any longer.”

And then he left. Fled, perhaps. But if Seiros had let her heart be hardened so, then it was only a matter of time before she went after him and his daughter. They needed to be long gone before Seiros was shaken out of her dumbfounded shock, because she would never let them leave. 

Cethleann was right. The Church he had helped build was long gone, and he couldn’t be a part of what it had become any more. 

---

There was still time to change his mind. He could head to Gaspar territory, wasn’t he technically the lord of it now? Or was it still Rowe? Either way, he could go there, lay low—

“And wait for the empire to invade, and never find out the truth,” Fuergios said, perching on the stable door. “The church has a stranglehold on Faerghus, and we can’t trust them.”

Ashe waited a moment before responding, so he could focus fully on securing his horse’s tack. Adjust the saddle; secure the straps. Just like Ingrid and Sylvain taught him. “We need to find out the truth. Even if...even if it means turning our blade on Faerghus and the church.”

“Heh. I bet Lonato would be proud of us, if he were around to hear it.” She’d become a mourning dove this time, even as they talked about war. Ashe touched the hollow pendant dangling from his chest, shaped vaguely like an owl. There wasn’t any way to know for sure, so all could do was make his own choices, and hope they’d be enough. 

A flash of movement from overhead caught Ashe’s attention. The skies were filled with wyverns and pegasi circling overhead day and night, and even in the space of two days Ashe had gotten almost used to their presence. Still, something about the movement above was different. Fuergios glanced up and saw one wyvern break off from the purposeful circles of those on patrol, saw it speed off vaguely north at top speed. Ashe gave them a mental salute and wished them luck in their escape, whomever they were.

“Ashe?”

Oh fuck. They found him, they’d drag him back to his room or maybe he’d be forced to explain himself to the archbishop. “Better start thinking of an excuse, say you were going on patrol, or checking on your family, or—”   

“Ashe, are any of the other Lions with you?”

He knew that voice. Leonie worked beside him in the stables, and they often shared archery tips and stories of their families and homes. Hang on, Leonie was basically devoted to Captain Jeralt, and saw Professor Byleth as something like an older sibling or a rival, he wasn’t entirely sure. So if she was here, at the stables…

Ashe turned around. Leonie was already saddled up, her quiver full and her bags filled with food and clothes and other supplies. Behind her, Lysithea sat atop Zilbariel, who had taken the form of a lanky maned wolf. She sported a large backpack that peeked up over her head, and had swapped out her skirt and stockings for some riding pants. She’d clearly prepared for a long ride, and Ashe let himself hope. “Are you joining Edelgard and Byleth?”

Leonie nodded. “I heard what happened down there. Captain Jeralt never really talked about it, and I didn’t pry, but he didn’t really trust Rhea...and now we know why.”

“I couldn’t do anything to help Captain Jeralt, but I sure as hell am going to protect his daughter!” Kamen shouted, flapping his wings. “Especially if Rhea wants her dead. Besides, I haven’t had the chance to properly challenge her yet.”

“And as for me,” Lysithea added, “Crests have done nothing but harm people, and the church’s actions have shown their pathological need for control. Edelgard’s path may be more bloody in the short term, but it is also the quickest path to change.” 

Kamen hopped down to the soft end of the horse’s nose. “Are you the only one here? I really thought Sylvain at least would be with you.”

“I’m not too surprised,” Zilbariel added as Lysithea carefully looked around. “You’re not the noble scion of a prominent house; you don’t have the duties and obligations that many of your classmates do. If your classmates have any sense they’ll use their positions and Dimitri’s violent delusions to surreptitiously support Edelgard’s agenda. Your more lowly position gives you more freedom to act openly.”

And this was Lysithea trying to be polite. He’d have to do all the talking if they ran into trouble, wouldn't he. But as for his explanation, well. “Lonato may have fought the church, but Rhea and the knights killed him, and everyone from our village who stood by him. And they turned his death into...into a lesson.” Like he was a character from the holiday morality plays on the virtues of the saints and the wickedness of Nemesis and his followers, and nothing more. Not the man who reached out to Ashe when he had nothing, who took him and his siblings in from the cold. Who taught them to read and write and made sure they had full bellies and warm beds and hope. Who was his second father. 

Fuergios flew down to his shoulder. “I...he was my father. And with what happened to Christoph too? Even without everything that happened to the Professor, I can’t trust the church after all that.” He didn’t want—he simply couldn’t—be a part of any of it anymore. 

“Hm.” Lysithea looked at him and Leonie. “It appears we have the same general consensus: We may not entirely approve of Edelgard’s actions and certainly don’t relish the idea of a war, but we recognize its necessity and dislike the alternative and distrust the church even more.”

“Yeah, can we talk about this later?” Leonie said, Kamen flitting agitated circles around her head. “The sooner we get out of here the better; if anyone catches us we’re completely screwed.”

“I got it, let me just finish up this—ack!” The saddlebags slid off of his horse and fell to the floor of the stable in a puff of hay dust. Ashe scrambled to pick it up and fix the tangle of straps. He really should have paid more attention to Sylvain’s lessons. He should have asked Christophe more about tack back when he was still alive. Now he’d have to learn on the run once more. 

Leonie scrambled to help out Ashe as Zilbariel rolled his eyes. “We don’t have much time. Fuergios, just go horse or something and let Ashe ride bareback; it’ll be faster.”

“That’s not happening,” Fuergios said. Zilbariel just scoffed, but Kamen flicked his eyes up at her. Ashe felt something prickle on the back of his neck. Wait…

“If you don’t want to be a horse then be a wolf or a lion or something , as long as it’s got four legs and is big and decently fast so we can get the fuck out of here before the knights show up.”

But Fuergios shook her head. “That’s not happening either. I’m, I think this is it.”

What.

Ashe looked at his daemon, really looked at her. Dusty brown feathers, speckled with black. A gracefully tapered tail. A mourning dove, a traditional symbol of peace...settled in their decision to join the war?

“For our family, and for the truth,” was all Fuergios said, and she was his. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Lysithea shouted above Zilbariel’s frantic attempts to hush her. “Am I seriously the only person left in the monastery who hasn’t settled?!”

“Seems like,” Leonie teased. Lysithea and Zilbariel’s responses were limited to strangled profanities and a bitten-back cry of frustration.

Ashe and Fuergios went quiet, eyes locked with each other even as Leonie helped him secure the lack of his horse’s tack. Something unclenched deep within him, or maybe it felt like some obstacle had been suddenly swept away. 

Even as they marched off to war, Ashe felt surreally calm, almost at peace. He and Fuergios stayed calm, quiet, and resolute as they turned their backs on knighthood, and walked away from Garreg Mach. 

Notes:

Humans and settled daemons in this chapter:
- Ashe and Fuergios (female mourning dove)

This AU started with the realization that in a daemon AU Byleth would be severed. From that moment, the scene of Seteth’s defection dropped into my head fully formed. Severing a child would be his breaking point. Seteth and Flayn are now neutral.

I really hope you guys enjoyed the chapter too!

I will see you all next time with the last chapter before the timeskip! In the meantime, please stay safe and for the love of God if you live in the United States, VOTE!!!

Chapter 27: The Battle of Garreg Mach

Summary:

Emperor Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg launch the first attack of the Empire's war on the Church of Seiros.

She's not alone.

Notes:

Thank you all for being so patient. I'll be honest, this chapter was mostly done for a while but I just...couldn't find the mental energy to finish it. But the election is over, and although we have a lot of work to do, and they're still trying a coup, we can still take a breath.

Anyway, enough on musing, enjoy the final chapter of part 1!

“Professor, may I speak with you?”

“Of course.”

Byleth felt completely out of her depth. She’d participated in strategy sessions with her father, those few dozen in the Good Days that she could remember and even more in the Bad Days that were forever lost to her. She’d taught her students in all aspects of combat, helped hastily assemble Remire into a militia to defend itself against bandits a few years before that. But all those were individual skirmishes, not a long campaign where they needed to worry about supplies and movement and an entire army beyond a single mercenary band. 

The location was different too, made what should have been familiar even more alien. Simply because of Domaghar’s size, her father would always have the meetings out in the woods, or maybe the stables. They’d spread out the maps over rocks or flat-enough earth, and have a cloth on hand to clean off the inevitable bird shit. Here, the war room was a plush thing, imperial red leather chairs and dark wood and lamps illuminated with fire magic instead of relying on the sun and maybe a couple of smoky lanterns. There was definitely room for a couple of oversized daemons, but Belial was the largest one here and able to lie under the table, even if their horns scraped the underside. It was comfortable, but seemed so separate from the war to come, the smell of earth and blood. Still, she knew her students, and her Divine Pulse would keep them alive. It had to.  

Edelgard sat at the head of the table, Avarine above her in a perch carved out of the custom chair. Together, they mirrored the emblem of the Empire. Hubert and Thanily were on her left, and Byleth sat on her right with Belial under the table. After the strategy session, after everyone else filtered out, Edelgard remained. Hubert was there too, somewhere, probably lurking behind a corner or pillar or something. And as soon as they were alone, Edelgard let her shoulders slump. She let her brow furrow and her fingers drum on the table. Avarine flew off her shoulder and plucked at a few stray feathers. 

Edelgard didn’t quite look her in the eye. “I appreciate it. I…”

This wasn’t like Edelgard at all, and Byleth was by her side in a moment. “What's wrong?”

As Edelgard spoke, Avarine flew down to perch on Belial’s horns (one good thing out of all this, even if Belial still didn’t feel quite like themselves. “I'm just...anxious. It feels like the weight of this burden is crushing me. I thought I was prepared for this, and I am, but there is such a difference between future plans and the real thing. At this very moment, on my orders, I'm starting a war. An army far larger than the one that attacked the Holy Tomb last month will soon be locked in battle. Long-devised strategies are unfolding across Fódlan. Leaders are deciding their loyalties and preparing to fight... So many generals and soldiers will die.” She sighed. “It's inevitable that civilians will get caught up in the chaos as well. There will be countless casualties. With a single command, the flames of war will consume all of Fodlan. And I am the one who is giving the order.”

“I’m about to do something horrible, because the alternative—a continent continuing to suffer under the yoke of the nobles and the Church, of people who do not care for those they hold dominion over—is so much worse.” Avarine flew to the floor and looked up at Belial, as if she was beseeching forgiveness. “But I’m still about to do something horrible.”

Byleth looked down at Edelgard’s gloved hands, at the neat lines of surgical scars that ran underneath. Remembered a conversation they had under an open sky months ago. “You chose this path a long time ago.”

Edelgard nodded. “I did.” She smirked and let out a short noise of amusement; Avarine rustled her feathers into place. “Even if I wanted to turn back, the church has condemned me. I have no doubt that, if I were captured, Rhea would bring back burning at the stake just for me.” Belial winced from the words alone, and Byleth found herself suddenly thankful that she was incapable of visualizing what she intellectually knew was a horrific mental image and even more hideous death. Yet Edelgard continued on, her hand closed into a fist on the table. “There is no turning back. No matter how much blood flows at my feet, I cannot—I will not relent. We must break the bonds that the depraved church and self-aggrandizing nobles have placed on Fódlan. It’s that, or lurch onward until the entire structure collapses in on itself.”

Avarine turned towards Byleth and Belial. Her eyes blazed, and she spread her wings, mantled over some stray documents. “How many more people will suffer in the meantime? You were with me when we heard our classmates’ stories. How many more people will be reduced to breeding stock for a magic birthmark? How many minds as brilliant as Dorothea’s will—simply because they are not noble minds—languish in poverty and wither away?” Avarine stood up straight, and Edelgard drew herself upright, her presence far greater than her actual height. “These sacrifices now will allow us to create a future where we never have such sacrifices, never have the strong feast upon the weak again. It may seem contradictory, but it's the only way.”

The moment passed, and Edelgard dropped the commanding presence. She gave a rueful smile, one hand playing over the other, and said, “Heh. Listen to me. I made up my mind long ago. Yet here I am, seeking your approval.” Byleth found Edelgard looking her right in the eye. “Tell me the truth, my teacher. Are you happy with your decision to stand by my side? This is a path of war. Can you live with that?”

Why was Edelgard asking her this? War was...She was the Ashen Demon before she was Professor Byleth, and even though she now knew why she was so cold on the battlefield before the monastery it didn’t change her attitude towards fighting. And then there was everything she learned, everything she saw. It wasn’t even a question. “I chose this path too.”

Avarine buried her head into Edelgard’s cloak, and Edelgard’s eyes went a little shiny. “I still can’t believe... I'm sorry,” she croaked. “It was a foolish question. I believe in you, my teacher. And you believed in me. With you by my side, I can fight through anything.”

“Edelgard, I—“ What should she say here? There was something warm and a little bit...sad? Sort of, but not quite, in her at Edelgard’s words and the way she smiled at her, the way she held back tears even though she didn’t have reason to cry.

Belial was a little bit better at this than her, and so they were able to say, “You would have fought on even without me. Nothing can stop you.”

Edelgard scrubbed her arm over her eyes. “That’s—that may be true, but it’s so less lonely with you by my side.”

“I’m not your superior, my teacher,” Avarine added, leaning against Belial’s leg—and then their chest, as they lay down. “If I had to be Her Imperial Majesty all the time, I would...lose perspective. Harden my heart beyond what’s needed until it became ice and inevitably shattered. But with you around, I can remember to set the crown aside sometimes, and just be Edelgard and Avarine.”

That...the warm feeling ran through Byleth, sort of like the feeling she got when she thought about her students and how they grew. It was warm and happy and fizzy and she could not fully place a word to it. All she knew was, “Edelgard...can you not call me your teacher?”

Edelgard stuttered; Avarine flinched back a half-beat. “Of course, my—Byleth. But, why?”

My Byleth. Why did that make her head swim? It was...probably for the same reason she didn’t want Edelgard to call her teacher, which was, “If we’re walking together, whatever we are, I, it feels odd, to call me your teacher now. I don’t want to be above you, especially not with whatever we are now.”

Did she say that right? Belial didn’t have any answers—they probably didn’t really know what exactly the two of them were feeling either. And as for Edelgard, she looked as though she had been struck upside the head. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly opened. Avarine’s tail flicked up and down, but otherwise she was also still. 

Edelgard stepped forward, and Byleth felt that slightly dizzy rush down her spine again, and—

“Your majesty, I apologize, but your presence is required.”

Edelgard jumped back to an arm span away from Byleth; Avarine shot back up to her shoulder. Both of them whipped around and flared at Hubert. Both halves of her faithful retainer gave a deep bow, though Thanily’s tail was pressed between her legs. Belial couldn’t help but let out a suppressed snort; Edelgard looked like she wanted to kill him. 

---

Edelgard was going to kill Hubert. All those years of service and sacrifice in her name, and he throws it all away because he can’t bother to read a room!

“Damnable, traitorous moment-ruiner!” Avarine silently shouted in frustration on her shoulder. “Let’s interrupt him next time he’s monologuing, see how he likes it!”  

Okay, yes, objectively kissing her former professor just before laying siege upon the monastery was an objectively terrible idea, even if Prof—if Byleth felt the same way towards her (and oh please, let that be true!). It would have been a dangerously unnecessary distraction at absolute best. And yet. 

“Grrrgghh, he ruined the moment!” Avarine dug her talons into the leather shoulder guard and flapped her wings in time with Edelgard’s steps. “Whatever he interrupted us for better be worth it!”

Hubert led her and Byleth into the large courtyard, past the grounds where Imperial troops and Black Eagles alike trained for battle, all the way to the entrance of the garrison. Where, flanked by Ladislava and a couple of her soldiers, Lysithea, Leonie, and Ashe stood. 

“Her majesty is here, just as you asked,” Ladislava said. Her daemon, a snapping turtle with a wickedly strong bite, nudged Zilbariel forward. Lysithea followed suit, rolling her eyes the whole while. 

Ladislava didn’t know who these people were, Edelgard told herself. For all she knew they were spies—and they very well could be. Or, perhaps they truly were here to join, all three of them, two more than she had dared hope for. 

She could hope that, now. 

“Hold,” Edelgard said as she held up her hand. Both Lysithea and her daemon took a half-step back, though they continued to watch carefully. “Are you truly here to fight alongside the Empire and depose the Church of Seiros?”

“Of course we are,” Lysithea shot back, presumably speaking for all three of them. She folded her arms. “Did you really think I was going to join the pro-Crest team?”

How could she not chuckle? “Of course I didn’t. What about you, Leonie and Ashe?”

They all told their stories, tales of systemic abuse and shattered trust that just further proved the grim necessity of her war. She stood strong, the Emperor of Adrestia, and listened to it all. When they were done, she said, “And you’re fully prepared, with all it implies, to turn your weapons against the Archbishop? Against what they claim to be the goddess?”

Ashe winced, and his daemon (a dove. A dove , and yet here they were) curled her toes in his hair, and Edelgard felt foolish. He would know better than anyone; it was the very reason he drew his own weapon against her. Still, she had to ask, for the sake of integrity. If she was going to command people to fight and possibly die, then they deserved to know what they were fighting and possibly dying for. 

Ashe clenched his fists and steeped himself. Fuergios, that dusty dove daemon, looked Avarine right in the eye and said, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

That was enough. Edelgard opened her mouth to formally recruit the three defectors, but the memory of Monica made her close it again. She needed to be sure. She pointed at Lysithea and asked, “Lysithea, what was the first thing you said to me when Hubert officially introduced us?”

Ashe looked at them in confusion, and Leonie started shouting indignant defenses of Lysithea, but the young mate held up a hand. Clever girl, she got it immediately. “Charon and Gloucester. Then you said Seiros and Flames.”

“It’s really you,” said Avarine, soft and almost overwhelmed. 

Zilbariel smirked. “Like I wouldn’t be a part of this.”

“Leonie,” Byleth said with a whirl towards the fierce young woman. “What did my father give you?”

Leonie’s eyebrows raised in understanding, and Kamen settled back down on her shoulder. “He gave me this charm.” She reached up to the little wooden pendant, which in retrospect Edelgard never saw her without, and fiddled it between her fingers. It was light brown, worn smooth and slightly shiny with time. There were markings on it, but those were nearly rubbed away. 

“Dad really did enjoy teaching you,” Byleth said, and Leonie was unable to hold back a sniffled smile. 

“Ashe,” and the young man gulped and stood up straighter at Hubert’s question. Thanily stared down Fuergios; Edelgard knew just how intense that stare could be. “Which of the Black Eagle students was the first to notice your distress and alert us after your adoptive father’s execution?”

“Really?!” Lysithea snapped. “I know this is for security but that was a real fucking asshole question to ask! How about—“

Ashe shook his head, and Fuergios met Thanily’s piercing gaze. “Lysithea, it’s okay. It was Caspar, and I can’t be thankful enough.”

Hubert nodded and stepped back. “I believe that is sufficient to verify their identities, Lady Edelgard. If you will?”

Ashe, Lysithea, and Leonie were the three brace enough to join her. How many others had retreated entirely? How many would join her side once her victory became clear, or only reluctantly clung to the Archbishop out of fear of retribution? She could dare to hope these things now. But, outwardly, she cleared her throat and said, “Welcome to the Black Eagle Strike Force.” She was quite proud of the name! It definitely gave a sense of fierce and swift impact, like a raptor’s sudden attack. 

Lysithea raised an eyebrow. “If you’re going for a silly name, why not something like Black Eagle Strike Team? Then you can use BEST as an acronym.”

That frustrated realization sent her eye twitching and Avarine’s talons punching through her leather pauldron. Again. She really needed to get it replaced. 

---

She was the Ashen Demon, and she needed to protect her students...her Strike Force, now. It was easy to focus on that and blot out the familiarity of the scenery. The buildings now smashed and burning. The cobblestones spattered with blood. The vaguely-familiar faces she could halfway recognize but could not name, but cleaved under her sword all the same. 

It couldn’t last. 

The single-minded focus on tearing a path to Rhea stuttered at the sight of Alois. Erikaf was barely visible curled up in his armor, just a whiskered face and a single webbed paw, but there was no mistaking his loud voice and stocky build. No mistaking the wild abandon with which he swung his axe, force over accuracy to the point where it mostly connected with empty air. No mistaking the way his eyes went wide at the sight of Byleth and then charged.

She didn’t want to fight Alois. She didn’t want to fight Alois. But a flash of purple in the corner of Byleth’s eye betrayed Bernadetta’s location as Ferdinand tossed a corpse off a damaged ballista and she strapped herself in. And Bernadetta fighting Alois would be even worse. So Byleth snapped her blade back into its normal sword shape, Belial bared their fangs, and both charged towards Alois. They circled him, just out of axe range, the din of battle and explosions of magic a backdrop to their cautious dance. Alois and Erikaf watched them. He gripped his axe, they turned and turned to keep eye contact with both, but Alois made no move to attack. 

Erikaf moved first, pulled herself slightly out of Alois’s armor. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Another explosion off to the distance caught Byleth’s nervous eye. Belial needed to get back out there and watch the rest of the Strike Force. For now, the ones she could see appeared fine, and she’d have to put faith in those she could not. 

Another quick dart forward-and-back. “The holy tomb. Archbishop Rhea doing something to Belial. Ordering you to execute Edelgard and then attacking you when you refused. Using you for something other than a revelation. Is it true?”

The Sword of the Creator thrummed in frustration—why was it wielded and not cutting through flesh and bone? Byleth gripped the textured sword tighter. “It’s all true. I’m sorry, Alois.”

Alois remained still, but Erikaf squeezed out of his armor and dropped to the ground. She flopped over at Belial’s feet, rolled over to expose her belly, and shouted, “Oh no! I’ve been captured by the Imperial Army! No, don’t come after me, keep yourselves safe! I’ll be fine, I am a Knight of Seiros, after all!”

“Though not anymore, I suppose,” Alois whispered. He lowered his head, and his axe. “My wife and daughter are my whole world, and I know Jeralt thought the same of you and Sitri. When I think of my little girl in your shoes, I…”

The sound of an exploding fireball spell just a few meters away cut them off. Bernadetta was a little bit confused when Alois, disarmed and wrists bound, was made to sit next to her ballista, but she was grateful regardless. 

They fought, and pushed their way through. Imperial forces screamed, and fell, and died, as did the Knights of Seiros, but Byleth saved those precious divine pulses for her Strike Force alone. For the arrow that found its way to Dorothea’s throat. For the pegasus knight’s spear that impaled Hubert to the hilt. For the Bolganone that would have left Caspar a charred corpse had she not forced time to take another path. 

“EDELGARD!!!”

Dimitri’s howl echoed over the battlefield, as frenzied as the look on his face. The last time she saw him, he was in the training grounds, demolishing dummy after dummy as Delcabia swayed on her feet. 

Now, they screamed Edelgard’s name to the sky. Two Imperial soldiers rushed ahead. Delcabia crushed one man’s daemon under her hooves. Dimitri thrust his spear into the cloud of dust and drove it into the other soldiers face until both skull and spear shattered. Blood and worse spattered on them both, but Dimitri just laughed, picked up the dead man’s steel lance, and broke back into his mad dash. 

What happened to Dimitri?! It didn’t matter. He was still screaming Edelgard’s name, and even though Edelgard could hear him she couldn’t see him! She was fending off two knights at once, able to hold her own but otherwise completely occupied. Above them Avarine’s talons were locked with another soldier's daemon, a giant orange-eyed owl the size of an eagle. They screeched and fought for dominance in time with the clash of axe against sword. There was the fearsome visage of the Death Knight and his dark horse galloping their way, but slowed by the ever-increasing rubble, they wouldn’t make it. Belial snarled and prepared to meet Delcabia, or turn back time to alert Edelgard in time to properly respond, or—

There was a flash of light, and both Dimitri and Delcabia stumbled forward, skidded through the mud face-first under their own momentum, and came to rest in an unmoving—but breathing—pile. Belial looked up in the direction of the light. 

Mercedes lowered her hand, where the afterglow of her sleep spell rapidly faded. Cygnis locked his wide-eyed gaze onto theirs, Mercedes’s face was pale, and she trembled as she looked over Belial’s shoulder...to where the Death Knight approached. 

They just stared at each other for several minutes as the monastery burned around them, the Death Knight clutching his scythe and Mercedes clutching the unconscious Dimitri’s cape, Edelgard off to the side and Belial in the middle. Belial frantically reached within for that divine pulse. They couldn’t bear to watch the Death Knight carve Mercedes open! 

The Death Knight whirled around and lopped off the head of the armored knight grappling with Edelgard. He slumped over her and his daemon vanished in Avarine’s grip. Edelgard shoved off the dead soldier, whipped around, and buried her axe so deep in his chest she needed to step on his corpse to yank it out.

There was a bright flash of light, and a nearby wall exploded. Rubble rained down, close enough that the smaller pebbles bounced and struck Belial’s fur. 

Rhea stepped out of the entrance to the cathedral, her robes traded for light armor, her serenity for sword and shield. And wrath etched on her face. 

Three enormous...things that looked like giant moving metal statues flanked her. Two of them held a glowing lance that crackled with lightning like Dorothea’s levin sword. 

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed, and Avarine crouched to attack. “There you are. About time you stopped hiding behind your underlings!”

Rhea snarled, somehow audible above the din and chaos of battle. “You. You wretched traitors! After all I’ve done for you and humanity, this is how you repay me?!”

“All you’ve done? Hah!” Edelgard’s hands curled around her axe. “Do you mean the slow suffocation of humanity under your yoke? The leash and collar you taught us to love?!”

“Silence, wretch!” She turned to Belial, and they could not help but shudder, once. “And you. After everything the goddess blessed you with, you betray her like this once more? You’re nothing more than traitorous garbage!”

Garbage? Garbage? A high snarl rose in the back of their throat; even across the battlefield they could see the Sword of the Creator flash—Byleth must have felt the same fury. Edelgard stepped a bit closer to them, still maintaining that distance between human and another’s daemon, but still in range to defend with her axe. And Avarine,  Avarine hovered protectively over them, said, “Are you going to let that outrage stand?”

No! Belial threw back their head, far enough for the horns they never asked for and never wanted to rub against their shoulders, and howled, “Strike Force, get the metal men! Edelgard and I have Rhea.”

They took a breath, and attacked.

---

The false wall hiding one of the large rooms in Abyss exploded inward. Rubble showered down, and as Claude ran past it scraped his face and cut into his sleeves. 

“This was a terrible idea!”

“This was your idea!” Simurg shouted from within the relative safety of his clothes. 

Surprise surprise, turned out that evacuating a town of people without raising the attention of the thousands of people also evacuating up top was rather difficult! 

“Impossible, actually!” Simurg shouted. 

In the end, the people of Abyss had voted (what an odd concept, voting over major decisions) not to flee up too, or deeper into the tunnels, but to stay put. Objectively Claude understood why. This was their home. They could move the people of Abyss, but they couldn’t move the library of banned books that he had to find several months to lose himself in. They couldn’t move the pagan altar, the only place in Fodlan where Claude could burn incense and worship his gods without having to constantly look over his shoulder. 

This was a town that the outcasts of Fodlan had made for themselves, Yuri had explained with no small amount of pride and rueful foolishness, and as bullheaded as it was they weren’t about to abandon what they had scraped together...well, together. Claude could admire that. 

On the other hand, it meant he had to stand and watch a demonic beast claw its way into the chamber! It trod on the corpse of the one he had just shot down, and with a horrific scraping sound bent the old metal reinforcing the stone doorway nearly in half. Those enormous claws tore away chunks of stone into large pieces of rubble, making just enough of a space for it to wedge in its head and let out a terrible roar. Droplets of acidic saliva singed their clothes and face. Somewhere behind them, a young child started to cry. 

Claude shot it in the mouth. The arrow wedged somewhere in that gaping maw; the demonic beast shrieked and reared backward, slammed its head against the stone. Balthus roared forward. As Drusionary wedged her horns into the tiny gap to hold the beast in place, Balthus threw himself onto the demonic beast’s head. He wrestled and punched and clawed, shrugged off the beast bashing him against the wall and floor, and with a triumphant laugh yanked out the eerily pulsing blood-red shard of something wedged in its forehead. Balthus held it up, then tossed it aside for Claude to catch. 

The shard of—of a crest stone!—dimmed in his hand and went silent. What the heck was a crest stone doing in that demonic beast’s head? 

“Yaaaghh!”

Drusionary yanked herself free from the wall and scrambled backwards so fast her hooves skidded against the stone. The demonic beast had been replaced by a banged-up human in tattered clothes, slumped over the broken wall. Balthus pulled him out, and Constance ran over to cast a healing spell, but one look made it clear that the man was beyond help. 

“Poor bastard,” Yuri muttered as he went to usher the closer civilians further away from the broken wall. “Wonder just who he pissed off.”

“What sort of wretched villain would transform a man into a demonic beast?!” Constance shouted. Behind her, Rubine’s tailfeathers curved over them both, the spots on them a thousand watchful eyes just like the myths about peacocks back home. “And how did that glowing shard do such a thing?!”

Rubine flapped his wings. “I want to examine it some more, but we simply cannot leave such a thing for one of the citizens here to stumble upon!”

Claude looked at the crest stone shard, inert and innocuous in his head. A bit bigger than Simurg’s head, who slithered up to it and provided an easy comparison. She flicked her tongue towards it, and shuddered, and Claude remembered a brief and furtive conversation with Petra after they hunted down Sylvain’s older brother. About how the Lance of Ruin consumed his brother’s daemon, then turned what was left of Miklan into a monster. What if it wasn’t the Lance itself that did that, but the stone within? 

“Who could have done this, Claude?” Simurg asked, slithering up his arm, over his head, as far away from the crest stone shard as she could. “And why? Are they truly that desperate for firepower? Or do they simply not care.”

“If it is who I think it is, they don’t care at all.”

That was Malka Foss. The pangolin daemon had backed up as far as she could, and actively tugged at his reach with Hapi. Hapi did not budge, but her face was pale and her eyes were wide. Dark magic crawled up her hands, and she didn’t even seem aware of it. She stared at the corpse of the man as if he was about to spring back up and wrap his fingers around her throat. And yet she did not scream, or cry, or show any further overt emotion. 

The Wolves knew her tells better than him, and so they ran to her side as their daemons stood guard over the entrance. Claude hung back, kept his eye on the broken wall and his ear on their conversation. 

“Hapi, are you saying that the wretched villains behind the creation of these demonic beasts are the very same one who—“

“Yeah Constance, that’s what I’m saying, and if they learn I’m down here I’m super-fucked and so are you, ‘cause they’ll stop at nothing to get me back.”

Balthus slammed his giant fists together. “We’re never letting that happen Hapi, and you know it.”

Hapi rolled her eyes. “Great, so I get to watch you all get killed. You trying to make me sigh?”

Claude knew next to nothing about Hapi’s past, except that she had some sort of natural affinity with beasts similar to Marianne, and her captors had amplified that beyond any hope of control. 

“Wait, hang on.” Simurg darted around Claude’s shoulder and stared him in the eye. “In the Holy Tomb, they were after the crest stones. What if this is why?”

A chill ran through Claude, and even he had to give a silent prayer of thanks that they failed. A small army of demonic beasts was...not a pleasant thought. “And every last one of them a human life.”

“After everything Edelgard said and wrote about equality and freedom and ending general suffering and all that, why would she work with people who care so little about others?” Simurg hissed. Her head was still but the rest of her body coiled over Claude’s chest in thought. 

“Because she’s as much as a two-faced politician as the rest of us?”

Claude chewed at his lip in time to Simurg’s response. “Is that really all there is to it though? Lysithea’s pretty good at spotting bullshit too, and she wouldn’t have joined Edelgard if she thought that of her.” Gods, he missed Lysithea. If nothing else her raw firepower would be incredibly useful right now! “It just doesn’t add up—at least, not if they’re willingly working together.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions about Edelgard’s character there, Simurg.” Though she was right. Edelgard as a needlessly bloodthirsty conqueror just did not fit, even after all this. And if she was, then the princess—sorry, the emperor—was a far better liar than he could have ever imagined her to be. Okay. So Edelgard was attacking the church alongside, whether wholeheartedly or not, a mysterious group that liked to turn people into demonic beasts. And you needed crest stones for that. 

A roar shattered his thoughts, sent the Wolves scurrying back towards him. Another beast was coming! He could see its shadow cast against the wall, a hulking lumbering thing, with jutting horns and sharpened spikes—

—Wait. Cross his eyes. Ignore the dread presence and just look at the shadow, through the perspective of an outsider. And didn’t it look an awful lot like the stained glass images of the Immaculate One? Or the form that Belial now took?

Claude scrambled for his bow, Simurg a bared-fang coil around his arm. He had to survive this. Crests and demonic beasts, crest stones and the church, they were all connected somehow, but he was missing some fundamental piece of information that would explain everything, he just knew it! Even after everything that Edelgard revealed, all the corruption and lies and abuses of power, there was still something writhing under all of Fodlan. He could figure it out! He knew he could. He just needed to survive first. 

Claude sighed and nocked an arrow. Simurg rattled her tail and bared her fangs. This was a terrible idea. 

---

“I gotta kill you!”

That was Cyril, high-pitched and desperate, his axe gleaming as he dove towards them on the back of his young wyvern. He scored a glancing blow on Edelgard, foregoing power for mobility as he swooped back up before she could retaliate with a crushing strike of her own. Belial tensed and readied themselves to pounce, Byleth was running to catch up, but an explosion of dark magic beat them both to it. 

“Cyril, what are you doing?!” The dust cleared to reveal Lysithea, Zilbariel draped around her neck like a gremory’s traditional stole, except that he stared up at Cyril and Lashkar. “You aren’t killing anyone today, so get out of here!”

“No!” Cyril shouted; his voice quavered and cracked. “I can’t let you hurt Lady Rhea! She’s done nothing but help us!”

“She’s done nothing but lord over us, Cyril!” Lysithea shouted. “She never even taught you how to read! Cyril, please, I like you, so get out of here before you get yourself killed!”

“No!” Cyril cried, and Lashkar let out a pained screech. “I’m not leaving Lady Rhea! Lysithea, you get outta here so I don’t hafta kill ya!” 

Lysithea closed her eyes. “Alright then, I’m sorry about this!” 

The dark magic blast hit the wyvern straight on and clipped Lashkar’s wing. All three of them plummeted to the ground in a screaming—and then groaning—heap on the ground. Caspar was running to back her up, so Belial wasn’t needed here. Time to focus on Rhea. 

Rhea was...far stronger even in her human form than Byleth had expected. Even with both her and Edelgard flanking the Archbishop she was more than capable of fending them both off. That rage she unleashed in the Holy Tomb had returned; it blazed behind her eyes as she blocked Byleth’s strike and sliced open the back of Edelgard’s left arm.  

“I will never forgive you!” she roared, and for the first time Byleth noticed the lack of any daemon, real or false, accompanying her. “After all the Church of Seiros and the faithful have done for the Empire, this is how you repay us?!”

Edelgard panted and parried, Avarine circling above. “I have only made an enemy of the church, not the faith. You were the ones to betray us first, by tricking us into worshipping false gods and loving the shackles you placed on us! What else have you hidden and lied about?! Your tyranny ends here and now!”

Another blow, this one cleaving off a chunk of Rhea’s hair. It scattered in the wind, little green strands everywhere. Were her teeth sharper than before? Were those claws at the ends of her fingers? “You will not be forgiven! Your bones will be scattered throughout Fodlan as a warning to other traitors and your soul will burn in the flames of hell for all of eternity!

How could she say such things? But it wasn’t any different from when she talked about death as a warning, all those months ago. Where was Belial, still bogged down? She needed them! There was no taboo; Rhea wasn’t human, just wearing the skin of one! “Don’t talk about her like that!” Her blade lashed out, sliced across Rhea’s cheek. 

Green blood trickled down, stained those white robes. The Archbishop’s face contorted even further. “And you. How dare you betray me...You worthless piece of garbage, I will punish you myself!”

Garbage?! “You tried to kill me!”

Another clash of swords. “You rejected your destiny!”

Edelgard swung her axe wide and carved into the meat of Rhea’s thigh. “A supposed destiny you forced on her! She is Byleth Eisner, and she made this choice!” Avarine shrieked and dove into a steep dive, startled Rhea just enough for her to pull back slightly on the strike that would surely have shattered bone.

Even here, in the rush of battle, the thrum of the fight, warmth surged through her. The utmost faith Edelgard had in her...was cut short by the dangerous tone Rhea took. “She did...She chose to be a thief, to steal Sothis from me, and now you will pay!”

If Sothis were still here, Byleth knew what she would say. But that was the problem! “I told you! I’m not Sothis! She’s GONE!”

The sword glowed, and Byleth’s Crest glowed bright enough to light up the entire battlefield. Those individual spurs sliced through Rhea’s robes and scored a line against her ribs. She screamed and staggered back. 

And looked up. “I will not allow Garreg Mach...or my mother to fall! GRAAAAGGGHHH!!!”

White wings burst from her back. Horns erupted from her head and a scaled tail sprouted. Within seconds The Immaculate One, her head alone nearly as large as Edelgard’s entire body, stood before them, roared loud enough to leave Byleth’s ears ringing. 

One claw reached out to carve Edelgard in half, and before Byleth consciously registered it she was there, covering the Emperor’s body with her own, her back erupting in pain as those massive talons gouged into it. And then they wrapped around her, and they took off into the air. 

“Byleth!” Edelgard was groundbound, but Avarine shot up after them both. She pecked and clawed at the scaled claws trapping Byleth, but gyrfalcon talons were never meant to cut through dragon scales, and they did nothing. Still, Avarine screamed and tried to pry Byleth free, until Rhea’s tail whipped around and struck her in the chest. Byleth could only watch in horror as Avarine spiraled towards the ground (still an intact daemon, still alive), and Hubert had to drag Edelgard away. 

Byleth clawed, and kicked, and even bit at the scales. Kicked where her spare dagger bumped into both of them. Managed to wriggle a hand free to draw it. Activated her crest again as she plunged that small knife into the meat of Rhea’s palm and dragged down until it slipped out again.

Rhea roared and reflexively opened her hand. Midair. 

The last thing Byleth heard was Edelgard—or maybe Avarine—screaming her name, and the last thing she saw was a flash of green fur and the icy river water rushing up to meet her.   

---

First Battle of Garreg Mach

Date: 31 Lone Moon, 1181

Location: Garreg Mach Monastery, Fodlan

Result: Adrestian victory

• Capture of Garreg Mach Monastery by Imperial forces

• Retreat of Archbishop Rhea to an, at the time, unknown location

• Disappearance of Empress Consort Byleth I and Belial Eisner-Hresvelg

• Start of the Fodlan War of Independence

 

Belligerents: 

• Adrestian Empire

• • Black Eagle Strike Force (list)

• Agartha

 

• Knights of Seiros

• Holy Kingdom of Faerghus

• Leicester Alliance
  

 

Commanders and Leaders 

• Emperor Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg

• Empress Consort Byleth I and Belial Eisner-Hresvelg

• Thales and Keres

 

• Archbishop Rhea

• Prince Dimitri Alexandre and Delcabia Blaiddyd

• Gustave Eddie and Flikris Dominic

• Khalid and Simurg von Riegan
  

 

Strength:

• Total: 13,000 (estimated)

• • Black Eagle Strike Force (list)

• • Eight Demonic Beasts

 

• Total: 9,000 (estimated)

• • Four War Automatons

• • The Immaculate One

 

Casualties:

• Total: 5,000 (estimated)

• • Eight Demonic Beasts

• • Empress Consort Byleth I and Belial Eisner-Hresvelg (MIA during battle)

• Missing: 1,500 (estimated)

 

• Total: 3,500 (estimated)

• • Four War Automatons

• • Alois and Erikaf Rangeld (POW)

• Missing: 1,000 (estimated)

 

—Snapbox from the QuikGrid article on the First Battle of Garreg Mach. Retrieved 28 Guardian Moon, 1634.

Notes:

And there we go, the end of Part 1. Thank you all so, so much for reading. When I started writing this, a little over a year ago, I had no idea this would blow up so much, or that I would still be so sucked into the fandom. Or the friends I've made along the way. I'm blown away by your support and how much this game still means to me. To all of us. Thank you all for sticking around, and I hope Part 2 continues to delight, engross, and entertain you.

To talk shop for a moment:
Who We Are, And What We Are Meant To Be will be going on a brief hiatus. I need to catch up on some of my other writing, I really want to write Haribon, Fernadetta Week is coming up soon and I haven't written anything for it beyond half of a single work, and I need to get all my ducks in a row for Part 2, because things are seriously going off the rails. I cannot wait to share it all with you. Also, I need to reply to comments and that's gonna take a good day, day and a half.

So, please stick around, because Part 2: Saffron Flame will debut in January 2021. I can't wait.

Chapter 28: The Lost Years: Part One

Summary:

It is Imperial Year 1183, and the war has ground to a bloody stalemate.

Notes:

Black Eagle Strike Force

The Black Eagle Strike Force is the Adrestian Army’s primary special operations force, and has existed in some fashion since 1181, when Emperor Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg founded the original Black Eagle Strike Force. Among the Strike Force’s main functions are conducting small-unit special operation missions in maritime, jungle, urban, arctic, mountainous, and desert environments. Strike Force members are typically ordered to capture or to eliminate high level targets, rescue hostages, sabotage enemy equipment and/or structures, perform high-mobility operations, gather intelligence behind enemy lines, and so forth. Unlike their original members (list), the modern Strike Force rarely engages in frontline combat. All members are highly trained in both close-quarter and long-ranged combat, whether it be with physical weapons, magic, or both. All active Strike Force members are part of the Adrestian Army or, occasionally, the Vestra Intelligence Organization. Relatively small and mobile daemons are required, but beyond that there are no restrictions based on sex, gender, ethnicity, and so forth.
—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on the Black Eagle Strike Force. Retrieved 13 Wyvern Moon, 1695.

It is Imperial Year 1183. Three years have passed since the capture of Garreg Mach and disappearance of both Archbishop Rhea and Byleth Eisner, yet the war has ground to a bloody stalemate. Fhirdiad has been captured, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus conquered and carved up between the Adrestian Empire and their mysterious supposed allies in the shadows. Perhaps due to the exposure of church abuses and corruption, Gautier, Galatea, and Dominic lands surrendered to Imperial forces before heavy fighting descended. Imperial occupation in those territories is firm but less harsh than many expected... 

The snow crunched under Sylvain’s boots but Zepida practically floated on the slightly icy surface. He followed the set of footprints to the clearing and about freaking time. “There you are, Felix, I’ve been looking all over for—what the fuck.”

Sylvain had been trekking through the forest for hours, following Felix’s meandering footsteps and odd dragging marks, when he finally found him kneeling in a small clearing of trees, elbow deep in a buck’s stomach. Blood soaked his sleeves even though they were rolled nearly all the way up his arms. Sylvain looked at the bloody drag marks from the buck’s body, followed them back to Felix. There was no bow or arrows, but the buck looked like it had been cut open and next to Felix there was an extremely bloody…

“Did you just kill a deer with a fucking sword?!”

“Yes. And?”

“I don't even know with him, some days. He’s as much of a freak as you.” Sylvain ignored his bastard daemon and leaned down to help him dress the buck. They usually had servants or pages on the hunt do this sort of thing, but it was only the two of them now, wasn’t it. He knew the theory, at least. Get out the guts, don’t cut into them or let them spill. One of the cooks could do amazing things with the heart so save it, and he could always give the lungs to the hawks, or dry them for the hounds. 

The intestines were much more slippery and heavier in Sylvain’s hands than he expected, and the enormous stomach melted the snow as soon as it hit the ground. There was much less blood than he expected; most of it was from where Felix had killed the buck with his fucking sword. Felix grunted in thanks and started shoving snow into the now-empty cavity to cool the carcass down.

“Wonder how they cool down their game in the Empire,” Sylvain mused, and immediately mentally kicked himself before Zep had the chance to do it for him. Way to bring that up, dick. 

Felix hoisted the dressed carcass over his shoulder. It was almost taller than him. The antlers poked into his face, the front hooves clacked against Bismalt’s capsule and the back ones dragged against the ground. The now melted snow dripped light pink onto the ground. “Why don’t you ask the guards Edelgard stationed when we get back yourself?”

Okay, he deserved that. Sylvain wanted to shoot back that Felix could ask them himself; he was also heading back there, but that wasn’t what this was about, and it would probably escalate this barbed banter into a full blown fight. Which, he really wanted to make something hurt, and from the look of the buck Felix probably felt the same way, but that was what Zepida was for. He could always make himself hurt, he deserved it. He deserved worse. So instead Sylvain said, “Hey, Fe, I’m sure your dad made it out alive. 

That was, as it turned out, the absolute wrong thing to say. Felix froze, and Bismalt slowly turned in his capsule and said, “Sylvain, if you’re going to be a dick, then let me carry this deer back to the kitchens myself.”

“I—” Sylvain sighed, and ignored Zepida’s threatening claws against his skin, enough to be uncomfortable but not enough to draw blood. “I wasn’t being a dick. Your dad is a stubborn old survivor.”

Felix was practically shaking now under the carcass; Sylvain could see it in the way the antlers quivered. “No, he’s a stubborn old coot who doesn’t know when to quit! There’s no way he’d cut and run, not when he could prove a point to a dead man!”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” Sylvain said. “It would really suck if you were taken prisoner by whomever those freaks who took the rest of Faerghus are.” Thank the goddess his and Ingrid’s parents got talked into surrendering. The occupation wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. Edelgard made sure they got food, and the money in taxes was being used to build bridges, and they weren’t being completely skullfucked like the rest of the kingdom was if the rumors that floated out from the border towns were true. 

But they weren’t Faerghus anymore. They fought a war hundreds of years ago for independence, and now here they were, back under Empire control. And what did they show for it? A freakish obsession with crests and chivalry and the church to the point that it felt like he grew up breathing in poison, a whole bunch of dead people, even more hurt people, or as Felix would put it, a whole lot of bullshit.

Sylvain readjusted the carcass so the fluids wouldn’t drip on his shoes, and motioned for Felix to keep walking. There was never any reason for it to have gone on this long, or get this bad. But it did, and it had, and now they were going to lose their nation for it, so it wouldn’t happen again. 

Wasn’t it just fan-fucking-tastic, getting what he wanted? 

---

While Emperor Edelgard secured her claims, her so-called allies in the dark conquered most of the remaining Faerghian lands that did not surrender. The rest of the former Holy Kingdom now suffers mightily under the yoke of Those Who Slither In The Dark, who take all they can from their conquered subjects. Rumors abound of mysterious mages holed up in castles filled with eerie equipment, and dungeons howling with the screams of innocents. Ominously enough, for those who care to pay attention, the slums of Fhirdiad and other cities are beginning to empty out. The Empire rages against these crimes, but cannot yet openly turn against Those Who Slither In The Dark. Their reluctant alliance grows increasingly strained by the day, and is rapidly approaching outright collapse…

Ashe hadn’t seen the slums of Fhirdiad before all this, but there really wasn’t much difference between these and his former home. There were the one-room hovels which entire families would cram into to keep warm. Which was probably the smarter choice, because Ashe personally knew that lighting a fire in those homes had an equal chance of keeping its occupants warm or burning the house down. Or the block. Or half the city. There were the dark and narrow alleys used as communal toilets. It wasn’t so bad in the winter, other than the inevitable misery that came from exposing oneself to the freezing air, but during Faerghus’s brief summers the stench would ooze through the entire slums. On the worst days it was almost cloying, so thick that he could taste it on the back of his throat, so heavy that Fuergios felt like she would drown in it. Everybody knew about the slums, but nobody went there unless they had to. So nobody noticed if people from there started to disappear. 

There was an older man with a torn ear and some type of gecko daemon who always slept by this corner. He’d shown Ashe around in exchange for his scarf, and kept him abreast of news in this part of the slums. 

Ashe hadn’t seen the man in three days. 

“We can’t stay here much longer either,” Fuergios whispered from the roof above. Up there it was much easier to scout for signs of trouble, or shadows that shouldn’t be there. Though other people had tried it and, well, there weren’t as many bird daemons on the roofs, these days. “It’s not just us, we’re putting Syene in danger too.”

“I know.” He reflexively patted his coat. There was the mini bow, the short sword, the throwing knives, all concealed just the way Hubert had shown him. If he ever got truly pinned down though…Ashe shook his head. “But if we leave now, we won’t be able to tell the rest of the Strike Force what’s going on here. And we won’t be able to help anyone else either!” They’d already smuggled over a hundred people to the relative safety of Dominic territory, then to Empire lands as soon as they were able because at this point nowhere in Faerghus was really safe for Duscurians. At least ever since Baron Dominic surrendered things wouldn’t really get out of hand, and they had shipments of food and guards to ward off bandits and keep the roads mostly safe. But for every person they saved, five more vanished. 

Fuergios flew down to meet him in the eye. “If we get caught, then we’re dead and won’t be able to help anyone else either, right?” Ashe locked eyes with his daemon, the part of him that knew first that the stories of knights were nothing more, but he didn’t say anything because Hubert’s words echoed in his ears. Hubert had been very insistent on a few things when he agreed to let Ashe follow the rumors and go on this mission. The most important thing he emphasized was to never, ever let these villains in the shadows take him alive. Death would be far preferable to whatever they’d have in store for him, and if they managed to connect him to the Strike Force, well…

“I still don’t understand why—I mean—agh!” She flitted from tree to tree, feathers puffed out in agitation. “We’re—why are we working with such awful people?”

“I—I wish I knew.” Ashe leaned back against the wall and scrubbed his hand down his face. He hated it so much, that the Strike Force— his Strike Force, he had Bernadetta’s badge just like everyone else, he was part of the group fighting for the future of Fodlan—was working with awful people. Even if they had to, even if Edelgard and Hubert and everyone hated it too, even if it seemed like, from the way it was described, two people circling each other holding knives behind their backs. 

Fuergios landed on his shoulder with a resigned sigh. “I know it’s necessary, I just...it makes me feel sick, actually making that decision.”

“There’s no way we would have been able to do it. We’re too honest.” At least he wasn’t alone in hating it; that’s why Edelgard agreed to send him on this mission, and why Hubert took the time to debrief him. The initial plan was limited to gathering information and sabotage, but that fell apart the moment he realized people really were disappearing. Thank the goddess, or...something, for Syene. 

Speaking of which, “Ashe, there they are!” She shot up in excitement, then wilted. Her wings hunched up in sudden uncertainty. “Wait...what’s Aswan doing out in the open like that?”

Ashe looked out, and felt his heart sink. Syene, like most people in the Fhirdiad slums, was Duscurian, and so they blended in. But Aswan was a bright red parrot, and he stood out, and he was out in the open, a ruby streak in the sky. 

“We’ve got trouble!” Aswan squawked, and Ashe already had his mini bow nocked and half-drawn. And—there was Syene, sprinting towards him with several angry shouts behind them. People shrieked and ran out of the way, tried to pretend they didn’t see it to avoid their attention. One of their pursuers tried to suck them down with a Mire spell, confirming their identity. But Syene was a mage—Earthcaller, right—and shrugged off the spell without stopping. With a rapid-fire incantation and a diagonal chop of their arm, Syene sent a stone wall crumbling into the narrow path. The rubble wasn't that thick, but it was enough to slow down the dark mages chasing them. 

“Ashe, we gotta go!” Syene noted. 

“What happened?!” They’d had close calls before, the two of them, but nothing like this. They’d never had almost a dozen members of what could only be Those Who Slithered In The Dark chasing after them with intent to kill or worse. 

“I saw a couple of kids about to be shoved into a wagon— broken stone, heed my cry!— and just, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing!” Aswan babbled as Syene somehow made the rubble explode, sending the two dark mages crawling over it flying, and a third shriek and collapse as his daemon was caught in the blast. “So I buried their abductors, saved the kids, got the information we needed, but it was an ambush, there were even more hiding, Ashe, someone saw and he’s holding off even more but he’s only one man buying us time, we have to go now! ”

“Do you know who he was?” Ashe felt sick. He wanted to vomit but he couldn’t; he needed to keep shooting. He would have done the same thing a hundred, a thousand times over; how could he not? And Syene did so much better than him, he would almost certainly have been captured and killed—or worse—right away. He needed to know who he was, who was sacrificing himself to save them. He deserved that. 

“I’m not sure!” Another explosion of rubble that sent more cultists flying, but Syene was panting now, their white hair plastered to their forehead. Annette once told him that the bigger spells like Cutting Gale or Excalibur took a lot out of you. Duscurian magic was like that too, wasn’t it? That spell looked really flashy, how long could Syene keep it up? “I’m not sure,” repeated Aswan. “All I know is that he was huge, even for us, and so was his daemon. She was some sort of buffalo?”

Fuergios nearly fell from the sky. Male. Huge. Duscurian. Buffalo daemon. No. 

“What are you doing?!” cried Syene, Aswan, and his own Fuergios as one, and he couldn’t answer. He should be escaping, taking advantage of the opening that Dedue (maybe it’s not Dedue, please let it not be Dedue!) was giving him, but he couldn’t. So instead Ashe’s feet took him through the narrow, filthy paths that only the people who lived here knew about, back to the bridge where Syene had run from, where—

It was Dedue, on that bridge, fighting off even more of the monsters who terrorized the people here, Levia by his side but otherwise terrifyingly alone. Blood ran down his face and dark magic residue clung to his clothes, but he fought like a man possessed, all for the people on their side of the bridge. 

He’d heard the rumors, but couldn’t believe them to be true. No way would Dedue have died in the palace dungeons. But to find him again here and now, of all places?! No! He couldn’t lose Dedue again! 

“Levia!” Fuergios cried, shooting forward alongside the arrow that lodged into a kidnapper’s neck. She went stiff around at the shout of her name, and Dedue startled even as his gauntlets were buried in another kidnapper’s chest.

Levia spun around with astonishing agility for her huge bulk, her eyes wide. With a sickening crack, she trampled a cultist’s snake daemon under her hooves. The dust floated up around her as she cried out, “Fuergios? What are you doing?! Get out of here! Tell Ashe to go; I will hold them off!”

“I’m not going anywhere—Ashe, look out!” Another flurry of arrows, but there were so many, and he’d never heard Levia so frantic before. Dedue didn’t even have time to speak but she saw the fear on his face, the way he buckled under the press of so many enemies. He couldn’t leave him! Where was Syene? She had to be on her way, right? Fuergios frantically beat her wings midair, not daring to land, not even on Levia’s horns. “I’m not leaving you, not after I just found you again!”

Another punch, the cracking of bodies under Dedue’s gauntlets and Levia’s hooves, the horrible smell of dark magic slamming into him. How long had Dedue been fighting them off? Long enough for Syene to make their way to him, and there they were now, running up behind him. They reached into their pouch and sent a spray of sharpened pebbles and dust flying towards the kidnappers. It blinded some of them, sent them staggering long enough for Ashe and Dedue to follow up with their own attacks. But even as they fought, Ashe could see even more of Those Who Slithered In The Dark pouring out of hidden locations for a chance to finally take him and Syene down. A sick laugh threatened to bubble up—they really did make an impression after all. They had to have done a lot of damage to get this kind of response.

 “I am sorry, Ashe, but you must,” Dedue panted out in between swings of his fist. “These people want you and—Syene, was it?—far more than me. Do not give them what they want. You must leave, you have to live!”

Dedue was right, he knew that, but he couldn’t. He didn’t realize just how much he had missed Dedue until finally seeing him again, and to see him again, only to see him throw himself away? For him? Ashe tried to steel himself but he, he couldn’t. Not this time. Why did Dedue have to be so self-sacrificing? 

Everything happened so fast after that. Dedue and Syene said something in rapid-fire Duscurian, too fast for Ashe to catch more than a word or two of. Then, just as Dedue was about to be overrun, Syene collapsing the bridge. His last sight of Dedue, as he was being dragged away, was of him and Levia surrounded by dozens of cultists. Then, running, and pain. When Ashe’s mind caught up to the situation, they were outside Fhirdiad, with Syene, and at least twenty refugees. 

“Dominic,” Fuergios thought dimly, through the haze. “We have to get to Dominic. Have to tell the Empire what happened. They have to know, they—”

“Ashe?” Syene’s voice was softer than he had ever heard them to be. Aswan sidled over to Fuergios and ran his beak through her feathers before she broke off and flew back to Ashe. “That was the Dedue, right? The one you always talked about?” A pause. “I’m so sorry.”

That was enough. There were over a dozen people here, over a dozen people they saved, but now he couldn’t go back, and Dedue...The dam broke, and Ashe curled up on the cold ground around Fuergios and cried.

---

In the Alliance, Claude—now its leader—takes advantage of this turmoil to maintain Alliance independence from Imperial intervention. Previously content to slip beneath the notice of those who chose to not look past their own prejudices, Claude now bares his fangs. He works with his former classmates to play the nobles of the Alliance off each other and feign neutrality, thus staving off invasion for now. Or at least, he did. Perhaps the stress was too much for even him, because about four months ago, he mysteriously vanished…

In the privacy of his personal study, Claude sprawled out on his desk and groaned. He turned his head over to the custom perch where Simurg draped herself. “Simurg?”

She lifted her head from the polished branch and flicked out her tongue. “Yes?”

“Give me three good reasons why I shouldn’t make Acheron have an unfortunate accident and be done with it.”

Another flick of her tongue. “Does it have to be three?”

Claude thumped his head back onto the desk, and allowed himself another groan. At least, Lorenz, for all that they butted heads nonstop, had actual principles! There was a consistent moral code in there, under all the pomp and circumstance and annoyingly purple hair. At least the haircut wasn’t so...astonishingly awful, now. 

But Acheron! That gods-damned weathervane had no goals beyond whatever would give him favor or money or influence that moment, no code beyond ingratiating himself to whomever was in power then and there. Claude wasn’t stupid, he knew the power of an occasional thorough ass-kissing, had done it himself a couple of times or more. But it was as though it was all Acheron knew how to do. Normally he’d just ignore the vacillating sycophant, build a coalition without him, but not when the Bridge of Myrddin, the largest connection between Empire and Alliance, was at stake. 

Simurg shifted from her relaxed draping over the branches to a stiff coil. “Do you honestly think the Weathervane hasn’t talked to the Empire behind our backs? 

Woof. Simurg was right. Even if he had good leverage on Acheron to keep him in line for now, gods knew what the Empire was also holding back that didn’t make it into the initial manifesto. Claude stood up and made his way to the large window in his study (warded against arrows and long-range spells, of course, and he checked the wards himself every week), Simurg a smooth curve on the ground behind him. He hated doing this, but Acheron left him with few other options. The godsdamn Weathervane was just too unreliable and ruled over too critical a location during too precarious a time to let him live. 

“So how should we do this?” Simurg asked. She curled up his leg and squeezed, a comforting weight. “Should we arrange for a hunting accident?”

It was dangerous to stand in front of the window too long, even if it was warded, but Dierdru was so—it was a beautiful city, built out onto the sea, the sails in the harbor a thousand white banners against the deep blue. In the streets below, people were hawking wares, buying food, setting up games in street corners and living their lives. Meanwhile, the rest of the continent was engulfed in war. He wasn’t going to let that happen to Dierdru. “Mmm, that’s old hat. And his daemon isn’t huge but opossums are pretty tough from what I’ve heard, so we'll have to be careful from that angle. Acheron’s touring the Throat at the end of the month, right? It would be a shame if there were a sudden Almyran ambush, wouldn’t it?”

Simurg circled around his neck and leaned out to share his view for just a moment before turning around and training her eyes on the door. “It would be. Tragic, truly. We’d have to call in a lot of favors from Hilda and Holst and Nader though, both to properly arrange security in the Throat that day and to keep things from escalating out of control.”

Claude nodded. “Chalk that one up as a maybe. It’ll work for sure but that’s a lot of favors to trade in. What about that delayed-release ricin we were toying with?”

“Sure thing, if we can get him to take a capsule without knowing.”

He signed and stroked his beard, which had finally, finally come in properly. It was almost ironic. After all his work, after all this time, he finally got what he wanted—or at least part of it. Duke of the Leicester Alliance, Head of the Roundtable, Herder of Squabbling Cats. And now he was tasked with navigating the Alliance through a war that just about engulfed the entire continent! Not that Edelgard didn’t have a point. Frankly, he agreed with her on the broad strokes of...pretty much everything, actually. The Church needed to go, and so did basically all of the outdated ideas holding Fodlan back and stepping on the throat of everyone who was just a little bit different. 

Except that too many people in the Alliance didn’t agree, so he couldn’t just roll over and surrender, or even negotiate openly from the start without painting a giant target on his back. And he saw the destruction that happened to Abyss, who Miss Emperor didn’t even know was there. He wasn’t going to let that happen to Dierdru and the Alliance, not if he could help it. When he engaged Edelgard, it was going to be on his terms. 

“Though if we don’t strike soon she’ll turn her sights on us regardless,” Claude mused out loud as he turned back to the papers on his desk. Most of it was smuggled from the Shadow Library, either directly or copied and then smuggled courtesy of Yuri, and none of it was in the best condition. Still, there was enough for him to make some extremely disturbing hypotheses. He didn’t like leaving things to chance, but if they were running out of time he might need to reach out to her without hard proof...

“Edelgard’s got to know about the Shadow Library by now,” Simurg hissed from where she curled around the diagrams. “What if she’s already come to the same conclusions?”

“Then we’d see a change in her policy and tactics,” Claude bantered back. “Besides, Edelgard is completely single-minded. She’s probably so wrapped up in smashing this injustice to notice any deeper ones without an extra push or an outsider’s perspective.”

“Which is where we come in.” Simurg lifted up her head. She swayed back and forth slightly, as though she were about to strike. “We just need that proof to—“

“Your Excellency!”

Thankfully the messenger accompanied his statement with the secret knock that Claude and his friends shared (a riff of the Golden Deer Anthem that Hilda had made up on a lark one summer day), so he didn’t immediately attack. He put away his bow, a little sheepish. When the door opened, Claude stood poised in the room, Simurg curled around his shoulder, every centimeter the Duke of Leicester. “Yes?”

...He wasn’t going to deny it, it felt good to have the same people who whispered poison about him just a few years ago now bow to him and pay their respects. 

The guard stood up, his dragonfly daemon buzzing in the large capsule, and handed over a sealed cylindrical tube. “Von Edmund‘s spies just returned from Lake Teutates. As requested, here are their findings.”

“Thank you. You are dismissed.” Claude’s fingers trembled over the tube, but he didn’t tear it open until he heard the guard’s steps disappear down the hallway. He opened it up, read the report, and looked at the sketch. Then down at the diagrams. Then back at the sketch again. 

“It’s a nearly perfect match,” breathed Simurg. Sure, it was one thing to hypothesize it, but to see the proof sketched out in his hands…

“Think it’ll be enough for Her Majesty?”

“Only one way to find out.” Well, he’d set up things as best as he could. Time to see if Hilda, Marianne, and Lorenz could keep it all going while he was temporarily off the board. 

---

Meanwhile, Emperor Edelgard and the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force have finally repaired the captured Garreg Mach Monastery and turned it into a base of operations. The plan is to use the former monastery as a launching point to connect surrendered Dominic, Galatea, and Gautier lands to the rest of the Empire. A fierce debate rages over whether to attack the Alliance or turn on Those Who Slither In The Dark once this task is completed. As spirited arguments fill the stone halls, other rumors grow, whispering of a creature that is almost—but not quite—a ghost that stalks the underground…

The Bert looked absolutely exhausted, which was kinda impressive given that his normal appearance was halfway to a well-dressed corpse. Just as well for Hapi; it meant more coffee during their meeting for her to enjoy. Sure she should probably be more worried about the coffee being poisoned given that it was, you know, The Bert, but eh. Foss sat on her lap, only half curled up, and eyed Than. 

The Empire finding what was left of Abyss, well, it coulda been better, coulda been worse. Coulda been a lot worse, if Hapi was being honest with herself. They kinda made a terrible first impression, what with the invasion and the monsters and the general destruction and all. But then Linny found the Shadow Library and basically moved down there, and The Bert found the survivors of Abyss, and a few days later Foss overheard ‘Rine going absolutely ballistic to Eddy about Abyss even existing in the first place. For an awful moment Hapi thought that she was about to purge Abyss entirely and kill everyone there, but then Eddy launched into an entire speech about the injustice of a place like Abyss, how disgusting the Church was to lock all these people in the basement just because of who they were, how she needed to fix this crime against humanity now, yadda yadda yadda. 

It was...something, alright, realizing that after Emperor Blood Eagle cared more about Abyss than Archbishop Fodlaners-Are-My-Children-And-I-Am-Their-Smother or basically anyone in the church except for Elfie. Also, finding out that Eddy was as disgusted about the Church as she was and actually started a war to make them stop was pretty cool, as long as she didn’t think too hard about the war bit. 

Anyway, Eddy had basically recruited the Wolves to officially help out the people of Abyss and share all the secrets of the underground (and she would never forget The Bert’s horrified mutter of, ‘Flames preserve me there’s two of them,’ when he met Coco for as long as she’d live). Then she found out about Hapi’s special talents, but instead of running in the other direction or locking her up, Eddy and The Bert, well…

Well, Hapi had seen enough of the other experiments in that witch’s palace to have a pretty good guess about why Eddy and Cici had white hair, or could be far away from their daemons. It sorta felt like she’d been invited to a club none of them wanted to be part of. 

That “special talent” was why she’d been summoned, even if the rumors were all wrong. “It’s not a monster,” Foss muttered from her lap. “I keep telling people that.”

“I defer to your superior expertise on monster identification,” said The Bert between long sips of coffee. “Which is why I requested your presence.”

“You know the underground, can more than hold your own in a fight, and can accurately report what you find. Whether or not this creature is a monster makes no difference,” added Than. Odd, she’d had a paw on his foot the entire time. 

“Or you’d rather throw someone less important at a potentially dangerous not-monster thing,”  Foss muttered across their link. 

Hapi should have told him to fuck off. She found herself wandering the underground’s guts with Yuri-bird, since he actually saw the thing. 

“Well, technically it was me,” Mockingjay chirped from his shoulder with a bob of their tailfeathers. “And it really wasn’t much, just a weird flash of green.”

“Still something,” Foss replied. Hapi wasn’t even sure where they were any more, beyond ‘some random dank tunnel.’ Yuri-bird was as silent as always when he walked, but her steps and Foss’s claws made a weird almost squishy sound, even though they were walking on what Hapi really really hoped was stone. Frankly, it was kinda gross. 

Why were they even going after this creature, if it was so deep underground and hadn’t actually attacked anyone yet? But apparently it had made its way up into town a couple of weeks ago, and when Eddy heard about it she wanted to know more immediately. No way was she doing it just to help Abyss, but Hapi had no idea what else her angle could be.

“I’m surprised you actually agreed to this,” Yuri-bird said. “You’ve never exactly jumped to anyone else’s requests, especially not authority figures.”

That was true, but, “Eh,” said Foss along with her shrug. “I am kinda curious.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been curious before and not signed on to stuff like this back then.”

Hapi shrugged again. She didn’t particularly feel like having this conversation right now, not even with Yuri-bird. Maybe she was feeling a little petty about it, because Foss went and straight up asked Mockingjay, “Why are you still here working with the Empire when you were the closest with the Church of all of us?”

Neither of them skipped a beat; Yuri-bird’s footsteps were still nearly silent. “I know who’s going to win this fight, and Icarus and I don’t back the losing team. Besides, I think my people will do better in Edelgard’s world, once it’s all over.”

Always about his people, never about himself. Hapi was about to drop that when Mockingjay chimed in from his shoulder, “So why are you sticking with the Empire? I know you hate the Church but you’re okay with them getting killed?”

It’s not—it wasn’t— ““Frankly what I really want is to not have to think about them or the goons who kidnapped me and Hap ever again. It’s not like I’m out there cheering for their deaths!” Foss said because Hapi didn’t really want to look anywhere but straight ahead right now. “But I don’t particularly care about what happens to them either. Honestly, what we’ll do is go, ‘Well, that happened,’ and move on with our lives.”

Hapi found herself gritting her teeth. Get a grip, Hap, no emoting, especially not in a tight corridor like this! She really wanted to hold Foss, but his claws were probably disgusting from whatever was growing on the ground down here. “Why do I have to have compassion for the Archwitchop and her lackeys, when they never had any for me?”

Yuri-bird—both halves of him—went quiet, but now she couldn’t stop talking. “I dunno if I told you this, but when the church couldn’t fix my curse they spent a while deciding what to do with me. And don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I’m here and not in a cell, or on a deserted island, or dead, all of which they were thinking about doing. But, I’m dangerous. My curse means I could seriously hurt someone. And the church locked me up in Abyss so I couldn’t hurt anyone. That’s their words, not mine.”

“Even though there’s lots of ‘anyones’ in Abyss. But it’s not like our lives actually counted as, well, anyone,” Foss finished. 

He let out an exhausted sigh, lucky bastard, and said, “I…didn’t know those were their exact words.”

“Well, not like I was going to tell you when you were our main point of contact with the church.”

“Heheh, true. Still, thanks for telling me.”

“Hang on.” Foss stopped, reared back on her haunches, and held up a grimy claw. “Anyone else smell that?”

Hapi shook her head, as did Yuri-bird and Mockingjay. “You’re the pangolin, Foss.”

She could see him rolling his eyes. “Well, I smell….wet fur? I think?”

Yuri-bird drew his sword and Hapi let a Miasma flicker up her fingers. Mockingjay chirped from his shoulder, “Yuri, there’s some...thing in that chamber down there.”

Foss pressed himself against Hapi’s leg, his scales smooth against her skin. “Hap, I don’t like this.” She stepped forward, tugging him along. “We should go. I really, really think we should go.”

They stepped into the chamber, and the light from Yuri’s torch cast long shadows against the wall, and Hapi realized just what everyone was so terrified of. 

She’d never seen a creature like that, sharp teeth and horns and matted green fur, hunched against the wall and watching them with wide and glowing yellow-green eyes. It wasn’t a monster, at least not the kind that Hapi was usually associated with, although she really really really wished it was. 

Because what it was was a daemon. With no human anywhere to be found. 

Notes:

And I'm back! I really hope you all loved this chapter; it felt good to write again! There's already quite a few changes as compared to any of the canon routes...I would have posted it a bit sooner, but I got COVID (don't worry, I'm fine, I was barely symptomatic) and then, well, look what's going on in the US right now. But we're back and I hope you all enjoyed it! Even though they're not. War, even a necessary and justified one, is still hell. The next chapter will focus more on the Black Eagles. Things might be a bit more optimistic there?

In regards to Syene and Aswan: Even though the Duscurians are in a horrible situation here, I wanted to give them more agency. So here's my efforts at doing so. Syene is a nonbinary Duscurian Earthcaller (a mage specializing in earth-based spells) with a male scarlet macaw daemon named Aswan. You'll see some more of them later on!

Chapter 29: The Lost Years: Part Two

Summary:

What have the Black Eagles been up to?

Notes:

All reason magic must be channeled to properly cast a spell. Casting a "raw" spell, as black mages call it, can technically be done. However, even the slightest loss of concentration will lead to a runaway detonation of pure magical energy that has been recorded to level entire city blocks and will invariably end in the violent death of the spellcaster. Every culture has created its own magical focus that fits its own needs. Brigidian spirit charmers use staves and runestones to call upon the spirits. Fodlanese black mages use glyphs to shape their spells. Duscurian callers rely on spell components, such as a small handful of sharp pebbles to represent a Sandspray spell. Perhaps due to their early adoption of the pantograph and high literacy rate, Almyran mages utilize spellbooks and scrolls. Agarthan black magic feeds upon the body's own energy, possibly even its own Dust; excessive use tends to result in significant scarring and physical disfigurement over time. Morfis wizards have mastered ritual magic...

--From the introduction to a text on comparative black magic among cultures, published shortly after the end of the Church Era of Fodlanese history.

This wasn’t at all what Dorothea thought it would be like. And no, of course she wasn’t foolish or naive enough to think that war was anything like the operatic portrayals of it! She knew going in that war wouldn’t be all glorious marches and grand songs and people being able to give impossibly long speeches before dying, their daemons covered in a shower of glitter instead of dissolving into golden dust. If nothing else, she was part of the Black Eagles house! She and Cal studied and fought and killed alongside everyone else, just like everyone else, and now they were doing it for the notion of a new nation, a better nation, that they would build together. And even before that, she was no stranger to death. 

But. But there was a difference between the small class size and cozy intimacy of the Black Eagle House, and the anonymous machine that was the Adrestian army. True, she was part of the Strike Force, still with her classmates, above and apart from most of the army, but only to an extent. In class, even on their missions, she was first and foremost Dorothea Arnault. Here, the moment they stepped on the battlefield, she became mage infantry, equally adept in faith and reason, specialized in long-range spells. And if she died, they could always find another. 

“Remember the opening performance of Elibean Nights?” Cal thought, dull and distant even though he was on her shoulders, watching her comb out the knots of tangled hair. It took a moment, but then she nodded. Of course she did. There had been a horrible accident—a runaway carriage, a tiny daemon, and the actor playing the male lead had died. The whole troupe went into a panic even as they mourned; how could he possibly be replaced? Yet they had an understudy who took center stage at the end of the week, and almost nobody in the audience noticed the difference. 

The hair was sleek and shiny once more, just as it should be. For good measure, Dorothea scooped out some of her leave-in cream and ran it through the wavy tresses. “Edie and maybe Hubie are the only truly indispensable ones. If the rest of us die, the show will still go on.” Even if she, or the people she loved, were gone. And it could happen so suddenly, so ignominiously in war. Which, again, was something Dorothea was intellectually aware of, but there was such a difference between that, and viscerally seeing a quarter of her battalion die in an ambush, then be replaced within a week as if nothing had happened at all. 

Dorothea tied Ferdie’s hair back in a deep purple braid, a bit darker than Bern’s own shade. Cal leaned forward and pointed out any missing strands on the underside. It looked good on him, and she wanted to go back in time and Thunder her younger self. Ferdie was a good person, once he pulled his head out of his ass at least. And even if he did end up being as pompous as his first impression suggested, did it really matter on the battlefield? They kept each other alive, and that was more important than anything else. Again, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know this going in, but...Dorothea swallowed a sigh into Cal’s drooped wings. She was just so tired of all the fighting, and all the death. Every night she could, when she and Petra had time together, she’d hold on to her lover and refuse to let go. She’d memorize every inch of skin, every braid, every new scar. Cal would bury himself deep into Ardi’s thick white down until only his tail peeked out, and they’d comfort themselves with the knowledge that Petra was here, real, alive, and somehow found it in herself to love her. 

Embry floated behind him and murmured something about how the ribbon looked just like Bern’s hair, and Ferdie’s cheeks and shoulders pinked. “This is a truly lovely ribbon, and you did a marvelous job with my hair. I have not had the time to care for it properly, so I truly thank you.”

“How do you do it?” Dorothea asked instead, and immediately felt like an idiot. What kind of non sequitur was that? Why did she drag that up! He’d lost his title and status! His father was arrested! His losses were so much greater than her petty unimportant troubles, and yet he handled them with so much more grace. 

“Or at least he seems to,” Cal pointed out, because even though the longer length was good on him, it looked like it had been weeks since Ferdie properly cared for his hair. 

Ferdie, of course, didn’t comment on her insensitivity, which was just like him and also completely unfair. He never even gave her the chance to rub in the loss of his status, and to tell the truth she didn’t really want to anymore. Instead he said, “We are fighting for something greater than ourselves, are we not?” and seemed weirdly at peace about it. Then again, he was a bee. 

“And you’re okay with…?” She raised her hand up to Cal’s level, then let it drop limp to her side. What words could she possibly use to sum up everything? 

Ferdie let out a sigh and turned around in his chair to look her in the eye. Embry crawled on his shoulder, a flash of black and gold against the bright red of his jacket. “I learned a great deal during my time at the academy. Perhaps one of the most valuable lessons of all was the harsh realization at the depth of depravity among the so-called nobility of Fodlan, and Rhea’s pathological need for control.” He shook his head, and a few orange strands came loose and surrounded him and Embry both like a halo. “People like Rhea and, well, like my father,” he paused for a moment, Embry briefly landing on his shoulder, “They cannot be persuaded to relinquish their power simply by asking nicely. That is not even considering what happened to our Professor as a newborn baby…” He broke off with a shudder. 

Embry picked up where Ferdie left off. “But if Edelgard is going to demolish the old order, there must be something waiting to immediately step in, else we risk complete anarchy and chaos. I have come to believe that my purpose is to help build this more equitable world, whether or not I am prime minister. For instance, those blueprints for moveable type will revolutionize education. Think of the possibilities that come with a mostly-literate general populace!”

For a moment Dorothea nearly forgot how to breathe. She didn’t know how to read or write anything beyond her and Cal’s name until Manuela and the rest of the troupe took her in. From what she’d heard, Leonie was barely literate when she entered the academy, and thank Flames Manuela was the Golden Deer professor, for Leonie’s sake. If books were widely available, and people to teach how to read them, that...that wouldn’t happen anymore. 

“But…”   Cal’s thought floated across their link, and she had to say it out loud. “Ferdie, that—that’s amazing. But it’ll take years. Decades, even. There’s a lot of minds that you’ll have to change.”

“Then that means I have all the more work to do. And is it so selfish, to wish to build something that will outlive me?”

Long ago she would have teased him, something about being all high and mighty, but now? Edie was fighting for a world where the strong no longer feasted on the weak. She was looking to overturn the entire underlying structure of Fodlan itself! Petra was going to make Brigid Adrestia’s equal, not its vassal. If Edie was tearing down the old and broken world, then Ferdie was helping to build something better, something truly great that would stand long after he was gone. Compared to them, all of them, her dreams were so selfish, so petty and small. At the end of the day, Dorothea was just a little bird looking for a home. 

At least she could help her friends, so they could turn their hopes and dreams into reality. At least she was good for that. 

---

Just looking at Peakane bouncing around made Malecki dizzy. “How are you not nauseous?”

Peakane, upside down in her capsule as Caspar kicked it between his feet, said, “It’s fun!”

“It looks like a good way to vomit!”

“Good thing I can’t!” Peakane shot back. 

Caspar swung up his foot behind him and kicked Peakane’s capsule over his shoulder into his hand. “Yeah! Ten points!”

Petra walked into the room, Ardior nearly invisible against the snow outside until he passed through the doorway. “There is a score to keep track of here?”

“Eh, sort of?” He shrugged. “Hey, Bernadetta, want to play with Malecki?”

“What?! No! I’m not bouncing Mal around like a ball!” she spluttered, and Mal forced himself out of that shape though his spines were still up. “I mean, first of all, yes he curls up into a ball, but he’s got spikes! Second, he’s not in a capsule like Peakane, and third—“

Caspar held up his hands, “Okay, okay! Sorry if i freaked you out there.”

Wait, he was right, she was being way too rattled for that kind of question. Probably because she was rattled already from—Bernadetta took a breath and settled her nerves. Mal’s spines relaxed, though they weren’t flat against his body. 

Petra was patient, like always, and asked, “Have you considered my proposal yet?”

She had, but, “I guess I still don’t really understand why you want me to go with you to these talks,” Bernadetta said, vaguely aware that she had adopted a bit of a guarding posture. “I mean, seeing Brigid’s plants for myself would be amazing, and I’m honored that you invited me, but there’s going to be so many people there and these talks are so important and I don’t know any Brigidian beyond how to say hi, it just sounds like it’ll be completely overwhelming!” Sure she was doing so much better than before, even with the war, but Petra’s idea sounded like a panic attack just waiting to happen! 

“Eehhh, I’m not sure about this either,” Caspar said. He held Peakane’s capsule with one hand and nervously scratched the back of his neck with the other. “I mean, yeah, I get why you gotta have a von Bergliez coming to the peace talks, but why me? Yeah I’m part of the Strike Force, but I’m a second son, I’m not heir to anything. My brother and my dad are the ones with all the power and weight behind their name, and I’m...kinda blunt. What if I say or do something offensive? I don’t want to be who fucked up this huge treaty just because I went and did something dumb.” 

“I do not think you will have to worry about that.” Ardior stretched out a wing towards Bernadetta; Malecki made his way down her arm, reached out his little face, and leaned against the offered comfort. Meanwhile, Petra smiled at Caspar, who still held Peakane in his hands instead of putting her back in his armored backpack. “You are...you may be a second son, yes, but you have also been fighting at my side for three years. In my culture, this is saying that you are a man who can be trusted, and this is even more true because I am...I will be the next queen of Brigid. And if you are the son, that is also saying that the new...generation, yes that is the word, generation will have peace and understanding where their parents and grandparents only had war and disrespect.”

Caspar chewed his lip. “Okay, that makes sense, but what if everyone else isn’t as forgiving as you are? And what if I say something like that stupid boodle party comment? Which I’m still really, really sorry about, and I’m also sorry it caught on like that!” In the capsule, Peakane covered her face with her fins and swam around in agitated embarrassed patterns. Bernadetta wasn’t sure what exactly he was talking about, but she had an idea.  

“There is no need to apologize, Caspar,” Petra said, as even as always. “You are saying these things because you do not know, not because you are cruel or do not care to know. From what you have told me of your brother, he does not share that characteristic. My grandfather and the other, I suppose you would call them nobles, though that is not quite the right word, will see that you are genuine, and that Edelgard does not wish to exploit us.”

It was honestly incredible. Event after all her improvement, Bernie was still shaky and jumpy when startled. It was almost funny in a horrible way, but the calmest she ever felt outside of her crafts or all snuggled up with Ferdie was when she was about to snipe someone, and had to slow down her breathing and heartbeat to become one with the bow. Petra acted so calm and controlled all the time, which was honestly incredible. So did Edelgard, and Hubert, and agh she still had such a long way to go to be just like all her friends. But she’d get there!

Ardior’s voice shook her and Mal out of their thoughts. “Malecki, Bernadetta, I would like you to come along because you are my friend and I believe you would enjoy the plants, but there is a political reason as well. Your family has always been the Ministers of Religion, yes?”

Bernia nodded, though that was kind of up in the air right now. Since her father was stripped of his title and placed under house arrest and watched by some of Hubert’s hand-picked guards—which she really had no idea how to thank Hubert enough for, he’d thought of every single thing that her father could have done to snatch back power or make her life hell and found a way to counter it—she wasn’t really sure who was in charge now. She’d never learned anything about the Ministry of Religion or how to manage Varley territory beyond the basics. Her father never bothered; he always said that the only thing she was good for was being a proper wife (and that she couldn’t even do that, so she was a waste of space whose only saving grace was having a daemon who settled into something small and easily manageable) and that her husband would do the actual important work of managing a ministry and the territory. Her mom would have helped, Bernie was sure of it, but she, well, wasn’t there. Ferdinand had been furious when he learned this, and immediately devoted what little free time he had to giving her a crash course on everything he had learned from his parents. They didn’t really talk too much about the religion aspect, not after everything that had happened. Would there even be a Church of Seiros after all this? It’s not like Bernie really believed anymore, not after, well, everything.

Petra didn’t know that, though, and honestly if what she said about Caspar fighting with her was true then it wouldn’t really matter too much. So she continued, “You know that I do not worship your goddess or follow your church, but make offerings to my own guardian spirits, correct?” She waited for Bernie’s nod before saying, “The Church has always been angry with us, for not following their goddess. They have sent priests and monks to Brigid to make my people worship their Goddess. What is worse, they have been…punishing my people for still worshipping our sprits. These priests have cut down sacred groves, defiled altars, and worse.” Ardior’s wings spread out and as Petra’s voice and fists shook, he hissed in equal rage.

Bernie lept back as if burned, the helpless fury surging through her. There was no way that sort of thing would have happened without her father’s approval, or maybe even his direct orders! How could she have not known anything about this?!

“Wait,” said Malecki, his spines upright and his little teeth bared. “If you’re asking us directly, for the same reason as Caspar, then—?”

Another nod. “You are having the right of it. Ever since Edelgard took power the conversions have stopped. Though the Church of Seiros may be gone once we win this war, my people may not be fully trusting. Bernadetta, I know that this is asking much of you, but if you are present as a von Varley, then you will be telling my people that the nobles are continuing to stand with the Emperor, that there will be no Insurrection, and that the Empire will be keeping its promises."

That was, that was so much that Petra was placing on her! Could she do it? Part of her still didn’t want to, and was screaming at all the ways she’d mess it up and make things worse and maybe even start a war but—no! Bad Bernie! 

“Petra’s asking so much of us! She believes so much in us!” Mal thought, his voice trembling across their link. “We, Bernie, we can’t let her down.”

Mal was right. She had this. She could do this. That was why she took a deep breath, just like she was taking a distant shot, looked to Caspar, and then to Petra, and said, “I-I’ll do it.”

---

Abyss was definitely warmer than up top, but there was a dampness that sunk into the bones. Edelgard rubbed her painfully stiff fingers, and Avarine wished she could help massage them without piercing the already throbbing joints. 

She could show that pain a little, now, to people other than Hubert. It was terrifying, yet liberating. So Edelgard kept massaging her hands as she asked Ferdinand, “How long do you think it’ll be before your team can fully work out the kinks in this latest prototype?”

Ferdinand looked down at the blueprints; Embrienne crawled over some key section and looked up at them. “About two weeks, if we get enough time in the forge to ourselves.”

Moveable type! What a brilliant concept, and yet another thing that Rhea withheld from Fodlan presumably “for their own good” but in actuality to maintain her pathological need for absolute power and control. How many more people could learn to read and write with this technology, if the written word became as commonplace as rain? It had taken her and Hubert weeks to reproduce a few hundred copies of her manifesto; how far could they have spread it with this “printing press”? How many more minds could be risen to greater heights? Could this concept of moveable type work for images too? 

“How much else has been hidden down here?” Avarine murmured, as if the printing press and an entire town of outcasts wasn’t enough. She glanced over to the other corner of the library, where Linhardt had built a nest of blankets and pillows and a hammock for Runilite between two shelves. Another space had been converted into a cramped workshop. Lysithea was there too, and the candlelight cast harsh purple shadows against her hollowed cheekbones and sunken eyes. Avarine’s talons clenched against the leather pauldron, but Edelgard refused to turn away. Linhardt had to be making progress. 

Footsteps and a falsely-cheery birdsong drew her attention back to the corridor outside. Sure enough, there was Yuri, echoing his daemon’s signaling whistle. “Ah, Your Majesty! Behold, Icarus, the emperor comes down from on high to mingle with the forgotten of Fodlan! 

It was, perhaps, the most barbed teasing that Edelgard had ever received. Despite the way it made Avarine’s feathers go flat, she accepted the taunt. She deserved Yuri’s ire, for leaving Abyss in the line of fire. 

“Irresponsible doesn’t even begin to cover it,” said Avarine, and she was right. Hubert had caught wind of occasional rumors, but both of them had dismissed those whispers and focused on getting through the year undetected, trying to surreptitiously recruit allies and feel out where people stood. But while she did that, she left the inhabitants of Abyss, the most distilled essence of everything monstrous about the Church, the perfect representation of whom and what they were fighting for, and she let them be ravaged by her own attack! Because she was too singleminded; she could not make this mistake again. And then there was...Byleth. Edelgard clenched her fist, even though it grated her knuckles to do so. Her, whatever she and Byleth were now, she had to be alive, somewhere. That was why she asked Hapi to check on those rumors. It was likely just another false lead, which was why she didn’t go herself, not when there was a war to fight and reforms to be forced through, but it wasn’t something she could leave unevaluated either. She couldn’t let the thin flame of hope die out, not when it had been so carefully stoked again.  

And...now that Edelgard looked more carefully, there was a tension to Yuri. He was also a remarkably good actor, but his mouth was set in a thin line, and Icarus hopped from shoulder to shoulder. He’d found something , then, and he refused to even discuss it until they were out of the Shadow Library, past the self-styled Abysskeeper, and in a deserted hallway that smelled faintly of old water and mold. 

“What did you find?” Avarine asked. 

“Tell the truth, I’m not really sure,” Icarus answered, and there was definitely a forced levity, a definite strain at the edge of their flippant tone. “Hapi knows more about this than me, so I’ll leave the explanation to her.” 

That wasn’t necessary either, as it turned out. The moment they rounded the corner, and looked past the visibly disturbed Hapi, all the answers fell into place. Their fur was dull and bedraggled, their gaze distant. They leaned against Hapi’s much smaller pangolin daemon for support. But they were, unmistakably, Belial. 

Something in Edelgard, the part of her that was still El even after all this time and could now openly be so again, broke open at the sight, and she let out a pained cry. Edelgard raced forward, then pulled up short just as she was about to reach Hapi, for Byleth was not there. It was only Belial. Avarine shot forward, faster than Edelgard had seen her outside of her highest stoops, and slammed into Belial with all of her might. The wolf daemon (they would always be a wolf, whatever magic that was may have changed their appearance but would never change who they fundamentally were. Edelgard wouldn’t let that happen) was knocked backwards onto the muddy ground. They looked up at Avarine, and those glazed eyes became just a little bit more focused. When they spoke, their voice sounded like broken leaves, and very far away. 

“...Avarine?” 

Curse the taboo! She wanted to do nothing more than to sweep up Belial in her arms, hold them close and tell them it would be okay. Because right now, what Belial needed more than anything else, was the touch of another person. What they needed was their Byleth. Flames, what had happened to the two of them? Byleth had to be alive; the fate of her brothers and sisters proved as much. Even severed from their daemons, one never outlived the other. Just how long had they been separated for?

Edelgard couldn’t do it, but Avarine could. She swept her wings around as much of Belial as she could reach. Nestled against them, buried her beak into their bedraggled fur, soothed their whimpers for Byleth, and whispered, “It’s me, Belial, it’s Avarine. Edelgard’s here too. I’ve got you. We’ll find Byleth. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” They were alive. Somewhere down here, Byleth was alive, and they would get her back. 

---

“Again.”

The snowshoe hare daemon hopped off the top of the bookshelf and padded over to Hubert. She nuzzled up against him, and Hubert allowed them both a fond scratch behind the ears. Then he stepped back and wove the dispelling glyph. It shattered over Thanily’s head, and she shivered as white fur darkened to bright orange, her body lengthened, and the illusion of the snowshoe hare melted back into the bright red fox. Thanily inspected herself, licked a black paw, and said, “I think something like that form is about as far as I can disguise myself. So at least we don’t have to worry about lion daemons disguised as mice, or cat daemons as lizards.”

Hubert nodded. Any limitations to the Slitherer’s illusion magic was essential knowledge, especially because the dispelling incantation took the better part of a minute to cast and left him frighteningly open to attack. For now they were verifying identities with passwords and personal questions, but he wasn't sure how long that would last. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I’ll keep working on the dispelling glyph, but constructing it from scratch is markedly hampering my efficiency and results. A shame our so-called allies are reluctant to share their research.”

So-called allies. Even that term was becoming increasingly strained. The only reason they still relied so much on the power of Those Who Slithered In The Dark was due to Byleth’s disappearance, and the prospect of fighting a war against three forces at once. However, even though their professor, or their daemon at least, was still...incapacitated (he had done his best to silence any gossip about the severity of Belial’s state, but even he could only do so much to suppress rumors born from so dire a truth), Belial’s reappearance along with the knowledge that, by definition, Byleth had to be alive somewhere had bolstered morale in a way that even Lady Edelgard herself couldn’t match. Hubert would have been jealous, were he that kind of man. Meanwhile, the Alliance had remained frustratingly neutral, to the point where gathering enough support for an invasion would have been more trouble than it was worth. What this meant was that, with the Kingdom’s corpse carved between the two, the knives were out. Hubert gave it four months before the “alliance” between Adrestia and the Slitherers outright collapsed, sooner if Ashe slipped up and exposed his little side game of sabotage. 

“Which is why we need to tell Lady Edelgard about this newest report,” said Thanily. She hopped onto the desk and looked him in the eye. “You’ve triple checked the source, as we both know she wasn’t compromised.” 

Claude would be a genuinely enjoyable foe to engage, if only they were playing with lower stakes. Much to Hubert’s eternal shame, Claude had discovered two of his spies and, rather than publicly revealing or executing them, fed them false information—and it had taken until Acheron’s death for him to notice! True, he had been rather preoccupied with preparing Ashe for his infiltration into enemy territory, but that was no excuse for the head spymaster of the Adrestian Empire. Because of Claude’s play, it took him weeks to confirm the rumor that the Duke had, in fact, mysteriously vanished. 

“Which is why we need to inform Lady Edelgard of this development, and our next strategy,” Thanily said. She nudged the papers into Hubert’s hands, then hopped down to the ground and made her way out of the study, tugging Hubert along.

He rolled his eyes and followed his daemon. “Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she teased back. 

“I can’t get anything past you, can I.”

“I should hope not; I’m your daemon.” Thanily stopped short and turned around. She swept her tail around her legs and looked him in the eye. “Talk to me, Hubert. It’s Belial, isn’t it.”

He wanted to argue that of course it wasn’t, how could he possibly be unnerved by the ghostly daemon. How, even if he was disturbed, he would never let it affect him, but would rather master the fear just as he mastered all the other evils in his life. As though he could fully ever conceal his true feelings from himself, or from Thanily, his heart made solid. 

Hubert leaned against the wall, where together he and Thanily could easily see the entire hallway. “It’s...humiliating,” which is why he could only ever say this to himself. “Every time I see Belial, a part of me is back in the dungeons below the palace, and I become a teenager thrashing about in helpless rage once more.”

Thanily let out a soft noise, probably remembering Martin’s blood staining her fur as her form changed for the last time. That day, finding Lady Edelgard in the dungeons and the living husks of her remaining brothers and sisters, was easily one of the worst of his life. At the same time, it was also a day that filled him with a grim pride. It was, after all, the day where his mission, his purpose, laid itself out in stark clarity. 

That feeling did nothing to alleviate the...unease...Hubert felt when he witnessed Belial’s state. During their year at the academy, they and Byleth were always distant and flat of affect, with very little creativity off the field of battle. Still, they were present in a way that none of Lady Edelgard’s severed siblings had been afterwards. 

But now…

They didn’t talk much, except to call out for Byleth, or sometimes, for some reason, Sothis. They didn’t move much either, and barely reacted to any stimuli. They did seem to recognize their old students, though. Belial quieted down whenever any of the Black Eagles were around. Lady Edelgard’s presence in particular had the strongest effect. She had moved Belial to her chambers, and would spend as much time as she could with the bereft daemon. On the days where she could not, Lady Avarine stood guard. She would perch over the wolf and spread her wings over them, guarding them from the world. 

They did not know where Byleth was, beyond, “alive,” and, “probably on a riverbank deep in Abyss somewhere.” Once and only once, Hubert suggested ending their professor’s torment, much as he had done for Martin and Joanna and the other lost Hresvelgs all those years ago. 

He did not raise the subject again. 

To be fair, the circumstances surrounding Byleth were rather different than that of Edelgard’s brothers and sisters. Hubert had stopped believing in the goddess long ago, but there was clearly some force—call it divine or whatever you will—surrounding their old professor that was simultaneously more powerful than her and yet thankfully did not completely take control. Perhaps this quasi-divine force would protect Byleth and Belial from even this. Hubert was not holding out hope.

“This is probably the one thing we can’t do in the shadows on her behalf, is it.”

“Unfortunately that seems to be the case.” Thanily flicked her ears in annoyance at his blunt assessment. 

Hubert rounded the corner, and Lady Edelgard was standing outside the room. She must have anticipated his arrival and hastily presented herself; her hair was still down but she was wearing a  robe over her evening gown. Lady Avarine was not present; over her shoulder Hubert could see a flash of white feather and a hint of green fur through a crack in the door. They had found one of Byleth’s spare uniforms in the old Black Eagles classroom, and it seemed to calm Belial down, being wrapped up in it. Hubert forced his gaze back onto Lady Edelgard, and bowed. “Your majesty, I have some important developments to share with you.”

Of course, she rolled her eyes. “Hubert, how many times must I tell you that you do not need to be quite so formal with me every waking moment.”

“And how many times must I tell you that I consider such a lack of formality to be the height of disrespect.”

Lady Avarine was not there to express Lady Edelgard’s amused exasperation, but Hubert knew it was there regardless. He bowed deeply once more, studiously ignored Lady Avarine’s faint frustrated groan from inside, and said, “I have important developments regarding the rumors from Deirdru. I can now confirm that our old friend Claude von Riegan has, indeed, left the Alliance for reasons that have yet to be determined. In the meantime, he has left Hilda Valentine Goneril and Marianne von Edmund effectively in charge, with Lorenz Hellman Gloucester and his father still representing the pro-Empire faction of the Alliance.”

“So it is true. I wonder what Claude has discovered or secured that is so important he left the Alliance entirely. Do you think it could be an alliance with Almyra?”

Claude’s Almyran ancestry was no secret; one would have to be utterly blind or even more ignorant than the average Fodlanese citizen to not see it quite literally written all over his face. Of course, there was a rather large difference between having a parent who happened to be Almyran, and being the offspring of a powerful member of the Almyran government. Hubert was almost certain that the latter held true (for one, Fodlan’s Throat had been suspiciously quiet the past two years), though he had yet to positively identify who in the Almyran inner circle fathered Claude. “It is possible,” he conceded, which meant he had already thought of two contingency plans if that was the case. “So far I have not heard of any unusual activity from Almyra, or new troop movements around the Throat. However, the possibility cannot be eliminated, and is all the more reason to strike quickly.”

“Hubert, there’s no way that Claude left the Alliance, especially Deirdru, unprotected. If nothing else, the Gonerils are incredibly fierce fighters.”

Thanily flicked her tail in mild exasperation, but without Avarine present politely stayed quiet. Hubert said, “That is also true, but rather than fight our way to Deirdru, I believe that it would be far safer to secure the Bridge of Myrddin, especially with Acheron’s tragic death due to ‘mysterious circumstances’.” He mimicked quotation marks with those last two words, not even bothering to pretend that Acheron’s death was anything other than engineered. It did not matter terribly; he was a self-serving pawn in games far beyond his comprehension. Perhaps he should thank Claude for removing a mutual thorn in their sides. “Regardless. With the Bridge under our control we will be significantly safer against a land-based Alliance invasion, thus allowing us to focus on conquering the remnants of the Kingdom and wresting them from the clutches of Those Who Slither In The Dark.”

“I still say that’s an unnecessary mouthful.” Thanily smacked her tail against the back of his leg. 

“I still say I am quite proud of it.” He nudged her back. 

Edelgard raised an eyebrow. “And if there is an aerial assault—say, from Almyran wyvern riders?”

He had considered that possibility as well, along with the remote possibility of an attack on Enbarr itself. “It is fortunate, then, that Varley territory and their famed archers are so close to the monastery.” Though the idea of leaving Bernadetta and her troops to face down a hypothetical Almyran invasion alone was unthinkable. Perhaps the negotiations with Brigid would yield several battalions of Brigidian archers, or their shamans. Wyvern riders were also notoriously weak to Fodlanese magic; Hubert hypothesized that the same would hold true for Brigidian magic, but the only way to know for sure would be to actually deploy it. He was immeasurably proud of Bernadetta for agreeing to accompany Petra on her diplomatic mission.

“I suppose,” said Lady Edelgard. “And given just how hostile Ailell is, and that we control Galatea land, we should be reasonably safe from being caught between both armies.”

“Just say the word, Your Majesty, and we will be at the shores of Myrddin by the end of the month.” She gave a nod of her head, and it was done. 

Neither of them mentioned Belial’s incapacitation, for neither of them had to. Either Byleth would return or she would not, and the war would not wait for them either way. Hubert gave his customary deep bow and returned to his study, Thanily pressed against his legs. There was work to do. By this time next month, the Bridge of Myrddin would be secured and Ashe would have returned with his latest report. From there they would receive Ashe’s latest report, consolidate forces with the troops stationed in former Kingdom territory, and wipe Those Who Slithered In The Dark from the surface of Fodlan. And after that...Hubert allowed himself a grin. After that, House Vestra’s war would truly begin. 

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient! I'm so sorry about the delay; I've been exhausted, but I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'll see you all soon and please stay safe.

Chapter 30: From The Rain, Comes A River

Summary:

Ashe arrives with news. Things slowly start moving once more...

CONTENT WARNINGS: Medical horror, and post-timeskip Dimitri in general.

Notes:

What then is the nature of power? Perhaps the nature of power simply boils down to the ability to inflict harm on another. Even the threat or mere capacity to harm another person makes them hold power over the weaker party. This dynamic extends to nations. The ultimate expression of sovereignty is the ability to determine life and death; the capacity to point the royal scepter at a person or even a group of people and say whether or not they should perish...

--Excerpt from the personal journals of Hubert von Vestra.

At least Annette was, all things considered, doing well. Ashe hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed his classmates until he met them again. Not enough that—he’d never go back and not join Edelgard, not after everything, and everyone in the Strike Force was wonderful and amazing friends, but he still glad to see that some of them at least were doing well. 

Especially after, well. 

Annette always gave wonderful hugs—not as good as Mercedes, but definitely up there, and she hadn’t let go of him for several minutes. 

“Dedue survived near-certain death twice before, right?” Serrin chittered to Fuergios. “I’m sure he made it out of this too!”

Fuergios turned her head towards Serrin, her mournful look the only required response. She did not bother to get up from where she sprawled on the table, wings outstretched so the tips of her feathers skimmed its edges. 

“Back in the academy, I had this, this dream I guess,” said Ashe. “Dedue and I would open up a restaurant. We’d make Duscurian food for the whole kingdom, and you and Sylvain and—“ Ashe couldn’t quite say his name either, “—You and all the other nobles would back us up, and we’d make Faerghus see that Duscurians are people too. Or that nobody who makes food as good as Dedue could possibly be evil. Or something.” He let his hand fall. “It was a silly dream.”

“I think it’s a very nice dream, and you should still make it happen!” She was still hugging him. 

There was another reason it was silly, a much more private reason that he only realized after seeing Dedue again, a reason that made heartbreak the only possible word to describe how he felt. But he couldn’t say it out loud, especially not now. So instead Ashe just made a wordless noise into Annette’s shoulder. 

She stepped back eventually and said, “Look, you’ve brought all the refugees here for a reason, right? Even if they’re not staying, they’re still here and nothing bad has happened. That’s a start!”

“Uh-huh.” That was Syene, tossing an half-eaten apple in their hand. “Tell me Annette, can you honestly say that there wouldn’t be attacks, if this place wasn’t occupied by Imperial troops?”

Annette glowered, Serrin’s tail bristling, but said nothing. Aswan flew down from their shoulder to stare the squirrel daemon in the eye. “Exactly.”

Syene shook their head. “Look, I get it. I know exactly how much it sucks to be occupied and taken over by a foreign country.”

“And yet you guys still have it worse. We—I mean, Adrestia isn’t committing genocide!” We? Did he really think of himself as more Empire than Faerghus now? 

Annettes foot, stomped against the ground, shut them both up. “Look, can, can we just stop having a misery contest! There’s enough of that in Faerghus; can we just say the whole thing stinks!”

Ashe and Syene stopped and looked at each other. “Annette, you’re right. Sorry. It’s—“

She nodded. “It’s a lot. I know.”

A memory floated unbidden into Ashe’s head, Dedue’s admission that he did not know the prayers of mourning to properly send his village to rest, since he was the only one left who could do it. Could...If he asked Syene, would they teach him to…

Fuergios wailed in his head, and utterly derailed the conversation. Or any attempts to think about, well, anything. Ashe spaced out for a few moments, and returned to Annette and Syene talking.

“—So, we can definitely set up a place for you, if you want to stay and make this a base of sorts?”  

“No.” Syene shook their head. “Once everyone else is over the border and settled in, I’m going to the monastery and talking with Emperor Edelgard myself.”

Ashe’s eyes widened at their proposal. “Wait, seriously? I mean, I’m going to tell the rest of the Strike Force everything that happened, they’re going to have to step in…” Even if Edelgard was still at the monastery, Syene didn’t have a direct in like he did. It could be weeks before they could speak with her, and what else could they be doing in the meantime?

They let out a harsh bark of a laugh, familiar enough to scratch at his heart. “Ashe, this was their stepping in! Now that our cover is blown, they’re not going to send in anyone else. I know how this goes. They offer sympathies and platitudes and a few crumbs—“

“—Not to say you’re a crumb, honestly Ashe you’re more than I ever expected from someone like the Empire but you’re still just one person—“ Aswan quickly added at his even more crestfallen expression, though it didn’t exactly help.

“—But nothing more,” Syene continued. “The Empire would never bring their full force to bear on our behalf. No nation would. But I want Emperor Edelgard to look me in the eye and say she won’t help my people to my face.”

This seemed a bit much, though Syene was never one to hide their feelings. Dedue (another stab at his heart, might-have-beens up in smoke, Fuergios would never perch on Levia’s horns again, would she? Agh! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Ashe!) was always so reserved and stoic, to the point where people questioned if he felt anything at all. Of course Dedue did, he felt and grieved and loved and had to do it all behind a mask because the world he was trapped in lost the right to see who he was. Everyone who said Dedue didn’t feel anything was just saying he wasn’t human. But where Dedue simmered, Syene burned. They were loud and passionate and completely unashamed of it. 

“They would have gotten into so much trouble at the academy for it. Dedue was right, to keep his head down.” Even though it killed Fuergios inside to say it. 

“It’s a good dream, Ashe,” Syene said in some attempt at comfort. “Even if Dedue is gone, you should still do it. I think he would have liked it. But…” They shook their head. “It wouldn’t be enough. It’s too dependent on the mercy and kindness of those who gave us none.”

Annette, still grappling with Syene’s frank admission that Dedue was, was probably gone, found it in herself to whisper, “What’s your dream then?”

Syene pulled themself up to their full height (Duscurians tended to be tall; they towered over Annette, was easily taller than him), Aswan a brilliant flame on their shoulder. “I’m going to help rebuild Duscur. We’ll rebuild our home on our own land, and we will never live or die on the whims of another again.”

---

Avarine was better at holding a separate conversation from Edelgard than most daemons were. It was probably another effect of what they did to her, another way those monsters mutilated the bond between her and El. Still, a boon was a boon, and they would be foolish not to use it. It meant that, as El reviewed her notes from the emergency meeting, as her mind hastily recalculated the political terrain and bile burned the back of her throat, Avarine could still be with Belial. 

“Things are going pretty well, all things considered,” Avarine said into their fur. It was filthy and matted from months or more down in the sewers, and they couldn’t exactly bathe the wolf daemon. Zilbariel had turned into an orangutan (he was still unsettled despite Lysithea’s age; there was no doubt that this was also thanks to those sadistic experiments) and done what he could. Avarine carefully preened out the remaining tangles as she spoke in as soothing a tone as she could manage. “Petra and I have been drafting the language of our treaty; it should be finalized in a month or two. Imagine, true peace and alliance between our nations, not the parasitic relationship that we have now! We really are changing the world.”

There was no response. There never was. Just the slow rise and fall of Belial’s chest.

Avarine kept talking. “We are running out of time though. If we don’t wrap up things on the Alliance front, well, it’s only a matter of time before those monsters outright attack us. Hubert gave it four months before our ‘alliance’ broke down entirely, but given what happened with Ashe I think he’s being optimistic. Heh. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

Belial was still silent, their paw curled around one of Byleth’s old blouses. Back at the desk, El crumpled up the memo in shaking hands, which curled into trembling fists on the table. She couldn’t hide their status forever. What would happen when everyone knew that Belial had been reduced to this horrific state, with no clear idea on when—or even if—they would recover?  

And to make matters worse, Those Who Slithered In The Dark (they really needed to come up with a name that was less of a mouthful, or find out what their cult actually called themselves) absolutely despised Byleth. They stayed their hand for now, but the moment their tenuous alliance that was more forced than anything else collapsed, she was in grave danger. And in the state Belial was currently in, both they and Byleth were utterly defenseless. 

“Stop talking like that!” El said, pulling herself back up into the regal posture that Avarine reflected in her own stance. “There’s nothing we can’t do together, if we set our will to it.”

Avarine nodded. El was right—look how far they had come already! Which, looking back, “None of this could have happened without you,” she admitted as she cleaned their horns. She wished she could break them off, the stark reminder of Rhea’s attempted claim over Byleth’s very soul, but—no, Byleth did it herself. The scars may be forever, but she freed herself. 

“You taught us to reach out our hand, and to trust others. You should us that maybe we didn’t need to walk this bloody path alone, that we didn’t always have to be Emperor Edelgard and Avarine, but could sometimes just be El and Ava. But we’re not alone now. And we’re here for you too, for however long you need us.” And beyond that too.

El stood at the door and motioned for her to follow; Linhardt needed both of them present to properly examine her, as much as she wanted to stay. The words stuck in her throat, much as they had every other time before. Was it because of this final admission of vulnerability, offering the softest and most vulnerable parts of herself in the hope they might be approved? Was it because Belial was in a place beyond hearing? Was it because they might not be? 

There was nothing left for it now. They had been here for over two weeks, and who knows what Linhardt would say on examination? 

“Probably something horrifically rude, no doubt,” El said with a fond smile. “Ava, if you’re going to say it, then—”

She nodded. “I love you,” Avarine said to the silent daemon, and how could she possibly describe the warmth that flowed through her at the utterance of those words? “You shined a light on the darkness that I did not even know was there. You walked by my side, you broke free from the clutches of those who would use you, you—you saved me, again and again.” Avarine’s voice cracked. She lowered her head and pressed it into the crook of Belial’s neck. They were still warm, still alive, Byleth had to be somewhere , she’d survived worse, there was hope. “I love you, and we will find Byleth, and you will be whole again, so I can say those words so you can properly hear them.” 

Avarine flew to Edelgard’s shoulder, and they left the room, making sure to lock and ward the door behind them.

She could just barely hear a single thump of Belial’s tail through the door.

For now, she would take it.

---

Linhardt had already started his exam by the time Edelgard arrived; Lysithea was stripped down to her smallclothes, her robes folded neatly on the chair. Her face was impassive, but she clutched Zilbariel’s paw hard enough that her knuckles stood out white. Neither Linhardt nor Runilite commented; the red panda daemon simply worked around them, and occasionally inspected with what appeared to be a long tube with amber lenses at each end.

“Edelgard, thank Flames, you’re here to save me.” Edelgard answered Lyithea’s tense wave with an equally brittle smile of her own that she just knew was more of a grimace than anything else. 

Linhardt didn’t notice, or didn’t care, she could never quite tell with him. She also wasn’t quite sure if that made things better or worse, because these checkups were an utterly hellish experience and would be no matter what. Every time she stepped into the exam room and mutely followed Linhardt’s orders to undress and measure her height and weight, had Avarine step up onto perch for proper examination, she was back in the dungeons under the castle. She was a helpless child again, with masked monsters holding down her and Avarine, the screams of her brothers and sisters and others whose names she didn’t know but should. Hands digging into Avarine’s fur and then feathers. Her bare back against cold metal, restrains digging into her limbs. A hot knife digging into her flesh. Screaming until her voice gave out. 

A hand slipped in hers, rough scars meeting. Lysithea’s sharp gaze softened by concern. Edelgard returned to Runilite gently examining Avarine, her paws running over the speckled white feathers to see if any of them were loose or ragged—things that were supposedly signs of spiritual or emotional illness, or a further weakening of their bond. Linhardt, for his part, was busy frowning and gently prodding at a patch of pinpoint bruises that bloomed at the crook of Lysithea’s neck, and her inner thighs. But Lysithea was looking at her, not Linhardt, as they relived the same memories. Sometimes, after these checkups, they would sit in her room together for hours. Hubert would stand guard but would otherwise leave them be unless they asked him otherwise. Some pain was not meant to share with others, and Hubert knew that not even he would fully understand, that this was something Edelgard and Lysithea needed to hold each other for and nobody else.

Maybe it was better, in that regard, for Linhardt to be...well, him. The concern did show through; he wasn’t like those masked monsters who saw her and Lysithea as nothing more than meat. He stepped back from Lysithea and took in her bruises, what looked like a rash but was actually pinpoint bleeding across her skin and on her gums and even the whites of her eyes, and asked, “Have you been taking your medication? Because you don’t look like you’re getting any better.”

“Of course I’m taking my medicine!” Lysithea snapped. “Why do you think I’m so hungry and thirsty all the time?! I’m not getting any worse!”

“But you’re not getting any better,” Linhardt said as he measured the largest of the bruises. “I’ll have to increase the dose again, though I don’t know if that will have any further effect...Tell me, Lysithea, are you still having,” he shuddered, “Excessive menstruation?”

Lysithea rolled her eyes and, seriously Linhardt? “I haven’t cycled at all in months; you know that!”

“Good! You’re liable to bleed out if you menstruate again.” He shuddered again. “Honestly I don’t know how you stand it. I’m not particularly obsessed with my penis the way some men are, or even the concept of being male in general, but the idea of bleeding every month, ugh. It makes me queasy just thinking about it.”

Okay, that was enough! Edelgard pulled herself up to her full height, and on the perch beside her, Avarine flared her wings. She summoned every inch of her imperial majesty and pushed aside her nakedness, the scars that were dull against the winter air, the part of her stuck in the dungeons waiting for the knife, and said, “Linhardt. Enough. ”

“That was quite unnecessary,” Linhardt groused, but at least he shut up, and Runilite bowed her head in acknowledgement as well. 

The thud of a book against the table drew their attention. “Linhardt, cut the crap,” Lysithea interrupted. “How much time do I have left?”

What?! Avarine screeched once in protest, because how could Lysithea start thinking like that? They’d sworn to fight together, to never meekly surrender to the early death they were both condemned to. That was why she recruited Linhardt, why he was so busy studying their bodies’ slow degeneration and making medications to slow it further, why he was working on a way to restore their stolen years in full. “Lysithea, you can’t—“

“Edelgard. I’m pissing blood, I’m shitting blood, if not for Linhardt’s concoctions I’d be puking blood too. I’m dying, so stop trying to pretend I’m not. How much time do I have left?”

The room went silent, all eyes on Lysithea, and her eyes were locked on Linhardt. And—Flames, she never really noticed before, so powerful was Lysithea’s force of personality—but she was so frail. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, the bruising and the pinpoint bleeding speckled under her skin. Lysithea was terrifyingly pale, down to her lips and tongue. Though that tongue was as barbed as ever, there was a deep weariness to her voice that Edelgard had never heard before. There was no point in denying it: Lysithea was dying. And yet, even as her crests tore her apart, Zilbariel was as fierce and vibrant as ever.  

Except for the deep sadness and fear in his eyes. 

“...I can tell you it’ll be a lot sooner if you keep throwing yourself into combat. One hit to your head and you’ll bleed into your brain. You’ll be dead in minutes, if you’re lucky.”

Lysithea shook her head. “And I already told you, if I’m going to die, I’m going to do it fighting for something, not huddled in a sick tent waiting for my stupid body to finish falling apart!”

“Is this going to happen to Edelgard too?” Avarine suddenly asked as the images flashed through Edelgard‘s mind. Her stiff and swollen fingers, blooming with bruises. The smallest wounds bleeding uncontrollably, invisible until she removed her armor. Would she pass out from blood loss during one of her speeches? Would she get weaker and weakened as she died by inches? Or would she simply drop dead after some random battle? 

“I don’t think so,” said Linhardt. Behind him, Runilite scribbled down something with a stick of charcoal. “Your crests are different, so your degeneration will be different too. Lysithea won’t have your rheumatoid arthritis—which, by the way, is the cream helping?”

“A little.” She flexed her fingers and winced at the way her joints scraped against each other. “My fingers are still painfully stiff in the morning, but it’s easier to massage that stiffness out with the cream.” Though now her wrists were becoming ominously sore too. How long would it be before the creams couldn’t hold the decay of her joints back, before they locked into painfully gnarled claws and she could no longer wield an axe or a pen— “Hang on, El, what was that?”

“What was what?”

Avarine flew to the table beside her. “Linhardt. What did you mean by, ‘Your crests are different, so your degeneration will be different too.’?”

“Oh, that. Exactly what I meant.” Linhardt started to shrug, but then set down the spyglass. “Wait, you don’t know about certain diseases being linked to crests?”

He seemed perfectly happy to finish the conversation then and there, but Edelgard wasn’t having that. This was something entirely new. Avarine stared Runilite down until Linhardt sighed and said, “Fine. Haven’t you heard of diseases running in noble family lines? Ferdinand had two siblings who died of diabetes before they were five. There are dozens of Hrevrings reported to have been constantly tired and easily fatigued. You’re far from the first Hresvelg with rheumatoid arthritis, though at least by the records Hanneman found you are the youngest by nearly twenty years. What’s fascinating is that these diseases show up in the general population but are more common in noble lines. Even then, only crested nobles get these diseases. Not every one, though, or Ferdinand wouldn’t be with us.”

Edelgard schooled her face back into nonplussed neutrality, but inside she reeled from the implications. Crests, in and of themselves, hurt people. It wasn’t just the system. It wasn’t just the false sense of superiority that had been built up for nearly twelve hundred years. The crests themselves were hurting people. 

Avarine leaned forward, ready to strike. “Linhardt has to find out the truth about this. I don’t care how much money and equipment we throw at him, he has to figure this out so we can shove it in the nobles’ faces. They’ll be a lot more sympathetic towards dismantling the Crest-caste system once they learn their necks are on the line too.”

“Fuck this tangent about noble illnesses!” Lysithea threw up her hands; Zilbariel’s fur bristled, his lip curled in frustration. “Is this going to help me not bleed out before I’m twenty?!”

“It might,” Linhardt shot back. “There’s clearly a pattern, and if we can figure it out I may be able to find a treatment, because right now the only option I can think of is to drain all the blood from your body and replace it with a donor, and it should be obvious why that wouldn’t work.”

Runilite interrupted his lecture with a yawn to their face. “This is all very fascinating but I’m too tired to discuss this with you and make your medications, and even the idea of exsanguination makes Linhardt lightheaded, so we’ll be going now. You’re done too. Let me know if there’s any other issues.”

Neither of them made any move to leave after Linhardt did. Lysithea didn’t even bother to get dressed. She curled around Zilbariel, back in his favored sable form, as he pressed himself against her beating heart. 

“Edelgard?”

Edelgard moved closer. Lysithea’s voice was disturbingly small. 

“...I don’t want to die.”

---

Time had tempered Hubert, and he could now acknowledge the benefits of Ferdinand’s relentless optimism. It granted him a remarkable resilience to traumatic events, and an ability to occasionally envision scenarios and strategies that Hubert and his more dour cynicism could not possibly conceive of. For some reason (he could feel the sarcasm roll around Thanily’s tongue at the words), Hubert was, shall we say, lacking proficiency when it came to raising morale among the troops. Professor Byleth was in a category, all to herself, of course, but Ferdinand was surprisingly adept in his own right—once his ego had been properly cut down to size. 

There were other times, however, where that aggressively optimistic outlook drove Ferdinand solidly into the territory of completely unrealistic and occasionally further into its neighboring lands of disgustingly naive and utterly divorced from the reality of the situation at hand , and Hubert wanted to strangle him. 

This was one of those times. 

“As I have already explained, multiple times, we must tread carefully where Those Who Slither In The Dark are involved. We cannot hope to fight them and the remnants of the Kingdom and the Alliance simultaneously!” He twisted his wrist and let the beginnings of a Mire spell ooze up, then smoothed it back down. “If you think my dark magic is disturbing, it would do you well to remember that what I know was stolen from them. Furthermore, recall that Solon and Kronya were among their ranks and had access to illusionary magic beyond our own. Or did you think I asked you all those questions simply to hear you boast about yourself some more?”

“—Um—“

Embrienne all but vibrated off his shoulder; Ferdinand utterly radiant in his indignation. “So you are content with letting thousands of innocents endure a similar fate as Edelgard and her siblings?! If our goal is to create a world for humanity where nobody suffers like that again, then I say you are duty-bound to intervene!”

“—Guys—“

Anger flared in Hubert’s chest. How dare he make such an accusation? “And here I thought you had finally outgrown some of your foolhardiness. Yet here you are, positively eager to start a war on three fronts simultaneously.” He spread out his arms, leveled a goading smirk. “Indulge me, Ferdinand. Let us hear your oh-so-brilliant strategy to win such a lopsided contest.”

“HEY!”

Malecki jumped to the table between them, his quills puffed up. Bernadetta wrang her hands in the space where he was sitting. Though she was quiet, her bolder half glared at them both under his prickly brow, as if to say, “Well?”

Thanily’s fur flattened back down; Hubert felt something in him do an embarrassed shuffle and unclench. Perhaps Bernadetta had a point. “Perhaps my accusations were...excessive.”

Ferdinand was similarly humbled by Malecki’s outburst, and knew him well enough by this point to recognize his version of apology (wasn’t that a thought). “I am also sorry. What I said was also out of line, especially when you entrusted me with such sensitive and personal information. It was a violation of that trust to throw it back in your face; all I can do is promise that I will never do so again.”

Well then. Let it never be said that Ferdinand was anything but thorough. And he had said far worse back at the Academy, when they genuinely loathed each other. “The nobles and toadies we are forced to endure would do well to learn the art of true apology from you, rather than offering the same meaningless platitudes time and again,” Hubert conceded. He looked over to Bernadetta and her satisfied smile, then back to them both. “Let me rephrase: We already have intervened. Ashe has established a rapport with an important figure in the nascent Duscurian resistance. Together they smuggled hundreds of civilians to the safety of Empire territory.” Thanily lashed her tail back and forth. “But now our operation has been exposed. Retreat before discovery of our involvement was the only reasonable option. 

“We could have saved so many more,” Ferdinand mumbled, ever fixated on how much more he had left to do. Bernadetta squeezed his hand, but otherwise stepped back and let the two of them finish their thoughts. More calmly now, thanks to her. Bernadetta was remarkable in her ability to get the two of them to take a step back, to defuse any simmering eruptions. 

Hubert just shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. What price are you willing to pay for that? How many Adrestian soldiers? How many Adrestian civilians?” He found his hands curling into fists despite his deep breaths. “I feel for them, truly, but as Emperor of Adrestia and her left hand, Lady Edelgard and I have an obligation to the people of Adrestia over the people of other nations...or the people of no nation.”

“So then, well, what if we offer them citizenship in the Empire?” Bernadetta asked as Ferdinand slowly worked through all the emotions from indignation to trying and failing to find a good counterargument to deciding to table the discussion for later debate. “I mean, then they’ll also be Adrestian citizens, and then nobody’ll be able to touch them.”

“It is a good idea, but what about the people—Duscurian and Faerghian alike—who are still trapped over the border?” Ferdinand argued. He stopped himself and held up a hand. “I know, we still do not have a clear answer. However, given that these are people, we cannot leave this question unanswered.

“Additionally, from what Ashe has said, it appears that the Duscurians are more interested in self-determination and restoring their lost homeland than becoming part of another nation. A completely rational sentiment of course, especially after all they have endured.” The actual idea itself held merit, and now another one struck him. “We only need Those Who Slither In The Dark for as long as they share our common enmity with the church. However—” he paused and braced himself, “As much as it loathes me to admit it, they are stronger than us. Ferdinand, Bernadetta, as much as Lady Edelgard and I despise those monsters, we are stuck with them for the time being. We cannot strike until we have more information about them—their numerical strength, their base of operations, the extent of their technological prowess.”

Ferdinand looked as though he had swallowed a lemon; Bernadetta seemed more contemplative but still quite upset. “So then what?”

Hubert smiled. “Ashe warned me that Syene, their contact among the Duscurians, was quite furious with our withdrawal of assistance and would like to speak with Her Majesty directly. I say let them. The negotiations with them and any nascent resistance force they are the representative of should prove...quite fruitful to both parties.” He would not say the other part out loud, the relief he felt that Dedue was out of the picture. His pathological loyalty to Dimitri would have made him a dangerous foe. He was fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement, but it did not make it any less true.

“Well, then I expect to see great results from these negotiations!” 

“Heh. I would expect no less.”

That was as good a signal to the end of their conversation as any. There was something else, but how to say it? “Ferdinand. Bernadetta. Hold a moment longer.” They paused and turned back to him, mild confusion on their faces. There were many things that Hubert wanted to say, words that stuck in his throat, clamored for release as they tangled together in a bubble of trapped air. Instead, he said, “I do hope you understand that our foes could never hope to accurately impersonate you. You are truly irreplaceable.”

All he could do was hope that they understood the context in which it was given. 

“Or you could just tell them, you silly man,” Thanily said once they left with a roll of her eyes and a flick of her tail. 

“Oh hush, you overly-sentimental fox.” Hubert leaned back into the chair and allowed Thanily into his lap.

Thanily placed her paws on his chest and looked him in the eye, just like when they were young and the world was so much more simple, but only because they did not know . Even after, they would sit like this when Thanily needed to particularly implore him. They stopped behaving like this in public when he needed to hone his intimidating aura, at least until Kronya’s...attack and they needed the contact more than anything else. For Thanily to do this again, now, even when the room was empty, meant that whatever she had to say was important. So instead of urging Thanily off his lap and onto the adjacent chair, Hubert ran his fingers through her fur and let her speak. 

“I’m being serious,” she implored. “It’s not just Ferdinand and Bernadetta anymore either. Everyone in the Strike Force is important to us.”

“They are,” Hubert said. He could say it out loud, now, now that their loyalty was proven. He could finally acknowledge what had been growing unbidden during their year playing as student, that he cared for his fellow Strike Force members. No longer was he a solitary faithful crow, but part of a flock of birds, flying alongside the sovereign of black eagles. They had his devotion almost as much as Her Majesty did. 

“But Ferdinand and Bernadetta are different,” Thanily said. Her paws still rested on his chest, just above one of many hidden knives, though she turned her head towards the now-closed door. 

“They are,” Hubert conceded. Oh Flames, he had fucked it up so badly with the two of them. He had been growing...something with them, back at the academy. Against all odds and all desire he had started to build a relationship with them. Then he put a knife in it and twisted it and twisted it and Ferdinand and Bernadetta were still here. Truly, he did not deserve them. Lady Edelgard did, of course, she deserved Bernadetta’s kindness and Ferdinand’s advice now that it was tempered with humility. But he did not—not after what he put Ferdinand through.

“But they’re still here!” said Thanily. “Somehow they forgave us, and we’re growing something again. Maybe something new. Haven’t you noticed the way that Ferdinand sometimes looks at you, or Malecki rubs up against my paws?”

He had, and—polyamory was an accepted practice in the Empire, though he never would have expected Ferdinand and Bernadetta to choose it for themselves. Not with Bernadetta’s trust issues, and not with Ferdinand’s father’s famed fidelity (his devotion to his wife perhaps that degenerate’s sole redeeming feature). Obviously he could not ask them directly, but the mere thought that they had discussed opening up their hearts to another (to, possibly, him) filled Hubert with such a rush that he was immensely grateful to already be sitting down. Still, “Thanily, even if what you are implying is true, we cannot tell them. Doing so is just cruelty, to nobody’s benefit but our own.”

“What are you talking about? Why must you deny yourself a chance at happiness?” Thanily cried out, and she was the part of him that felt so deeply, loved so thoroughly (because despite what the world thought, nearly everything Hubert did was out of care and love. Let him take the burden of darkness on, so those he loved would shine all the brighter. Let him do the dirty work for the nation he loved, for the hope of a better world and if the general public misunderstood and cast him a villain, then so be it), that if he was torn by this then how was she enduring it?

Of course she knew why. They had talked about it, and even if they had not there was no hiding anything from the part of them that made him human. He opened up his palm for Thanily to burrow her head against. “I will always deny myself a chance at happiness if that chance must come at the expense of those I...care for.”

“Those you love,” Thanily insisted. Her paws were still on his chest. 

Rather than argue semantics, Hubert simply nodded. “In either case, why would I deepen their emotional attachment to us, when we’re probably not going to survive the war?”

Thanily stopped. He could see her pull back, see her work her jaw and try to come up with a response. There was none, of course. They had discussed this time and again. Hubert would fight for Her Majesty, and now the rest of the Black Eagles, until his dying breath. With both this war and the second, hidden one against Those Who Silthered In The Dark, that would likely come within the next few years. Hubert was fully prepared to sacrifice himself for the sake of...everything, and had made peace with the fact that he likely would several years ago. It was something that he had cautiously decided to keep from Lady Edelgard, for her sake. As to whether or not she already suspected, he did not know for sure. 

Why, then, would he invite Ferdinand and Bernadetta to further heartbreak? Even if they reciprocated his...affections, that would make the pain of his demise all the worse. He would not do that to either of them, not for his own emotions!

“I know!” Thanily yiped. “...I know. What I mean to say is...I shall miss them.”

It was so much more than that, yet it went beyond anything easily summed up by words. Perhaps that was one of the purposes of daemons, for Hubert was able to pull her close and say, “I know.”

---

daylight meant patrols meant enemies meant they would kill him if they caught him unless hunger killed him first

the voices howled dug into the boar stuck her with spears screamed for their blood our tool AVENGE US

Fingers curled around a battered lance splinters dug in what was left of his eye burned 

let them come pawns of the emperor hed kill them all

the boar followed him a useless beast but they were stuck together

he trudged through the snow and the mud white and brown his feet sunk deep his toes were numb thorns whipped at his hands and there it was 

a fort in the forest there were empire troops but he killed them all felt their skulls crack and their blood hot and sticky and the voices went quiet for a little while until a wall fell and he was forced outside again

crushed shell meant meat within he kicked the boar she dug through the rubble the soldiers inside were rotting but deeper within the food was not

he would get to eat tonight

why are you here why are you eating THEY KILLED US KILL THEM ALL AVENGE US  

yes yes he would eat and he would sleep and he would kill every last one of them

smoke on the horizon a tendril of haze through the trees

he pulled himself up the lance he got ready

he had visitors

===

Queiet. Darkness. Cold. 

Floating, and adrift. For how long? 

So tired. So empty. Sleep. 

…

“You...How long do you intend to sleep? Your body is healed, and now you must awaken once more!”

No. Still tired. Still need to sleep. Something...was missing. Something deep and yawning, loss beyond words…

“Get on your feet. Right now! I’ll coddle you no more! You must find Belial!”

Belial? 

...Belial!

Where was Beilial wherewasBelialWHEREWASBELIAL?!

“Alive, somewhere! I do not know, for I have slept within you as well! Find them, and end this land’s suffering! AWAKE!”

Byleth’s eyes slammed open and met a pile of wet dirt. Cheek pressed into the mud. Cold water lapped at her feet. Her boddy immediately wracked itself with shivers. 

Deep underground. Deep down and very cold. All alone. 

She needed to find her students. 

She needed to find Edelgard. 

She needed to find Belial.

Notes:

Thank you all for your patients! Some personal stuff happened that delayed the chapter, but things are mostly okay now. If nothing else, my parents and I got our Covid shots!

So, Linhardt doesn't know this yet, but my headcanon and canon in this fic is that, because Crests are implantation of foreign genetic material, they are associated with an increased risk of various immune-mediated diseases. Linhardt has hypothyroidism from auto-immune destruction of his thyroid gland. The von Aegirs have a high rate of Type 1 Diabetes, which was a death sentence before insulin. Edelgard has rheumatoid arthritis. Lysithea is dying from immune-mediated thrombocytopenia (she has no platelets, which means uncontrolled spontaneous bleeding. Everything that's happening to Lysithea is something that has happened to one or more of my own ITP patients). Linhardt is giving her crudely-brewed and poorly-isolated prednisone (no trained organic chemists or pharmaceutics yet!), a steroid that causes immunosuppression and a shitton of other side effects at high enough doses. It's keeping Lysithea alive, for now, but...

Thank you all again so much. You're absolutely amazing and I don't know how to express my gratitude for sticking around on this crazy ride. Please join me in screaming over Edeleth, Hufernie, and Ashedue feels until the next update and beyond.

Chapter 31: Making Up For Lost Time

Summary:

For the Empire!

Content warnings: Brief mention of suicidal thoughts/ideation (mostly in the past), and temporary character death.

Notes:

...What, then, is the purpose of a daemon? As wonderful a blessing their companionship is, we must admit that they can be a great inconvenience at times. Who among us has not heard of someone with an oversized daemon who finds their mobility significantly hindered as a result? We must make accommodations for our corporeal souls in a way that we would not have to were they internal...Perhaps the goddess blessed us with daemons to force us to acknowledge the humanity of others, and remind us that we are but mortal beings who should grant the same kindness and dignity to other people as we wish upon ourselves...

--From the assorted sermons of Deacon Seteth.

Ben wasn’t really sure what to think anymore. Yeah, sure, the empire could go fuck itself on the general principle of the thing, but they did fix his stable and as far as he knew the Emperor was actually a human being. Yeah, he heard the rumors, and he saw that giant flying demonic beast thing head off towards the Ohgma Mountains. Feh, just the wandering monsters were hard enough on his sheep and goats! Assuming he even had a flock in a few years time. Sure, the imperial troops actually paid most of the time—all of the time now that the Emperor had rolled back into the monastery—but they were so hungry! At this point they’d eat all his flock by the end of the year! 

“What if we petition the emperor?” Kas hummed from his pocket, the inner lining keeping her beetle body comfortably warm. Once a week she opened her hall to the general public to hear their concerns and complaints. In practice, since thanks to her there was a war, it meant standing in line in the freezing cold for hours, staring at the rubble of the monastery, flanked by guards and her infamous manservant. He’d heard the rumors about the grinning shadow of death itself, and if even half of them were true he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the specter that called himself Hubert. 

Still, it would be the only way to make sure the emperor heard about her soldiers eating him out of house and home. Ben let out a long-suffering sigh. “Guess we’ll have to see if the kids can handle things for the day.”

There was a loud splash behind him, and the sound of water, dripping steadily. 

Ben slowly turned, and found himself staring at a monster. 

It had to be a monster. A woman-shaped monster, yes ( extremely woman-shaped, given just how little of its body the soaking mildewed rotting clothes managed to conceal), with scraggly hair and clad in tattered rags. It...her eyes seemed to burn right through him. A fire spell was actually burning in her hand. She didn’t seem bothered by the freezing cold despite being nearly naked. Oh, and she had no daemon. 

Kas whimpered and sunk back down into his pocket, out of sight. 

The monster opened her mouth, and her voice was a rusty croak. “Where’s the monastery?”

Ben swallowed, unable to tear his eyes from the space where a daemon should be. What? Why was this monster asking where the monastery was? Had she been living under a rock the past two years? Did she have a death wish? Could monsters have a death wish? Oh goddess, she didn’t have a daemon. She didn’t have a daemon! Was she a ghost killed in the attack? Was she going to steal Kas for herself?!

His other hand curled around Kas tight enough to almost hurt, Ben rapidly pointed in the direction of what used to be Garreg Mach. Let the Emperor and her soldiers deal with it! 

The...whatever she was nodded and ran off. The part of him not frozen in terror hoped she’d be okay, whatever she was. Ben didn’t let go of Kas until she was well out of sight. Screw the petition, he wasn’t going anywhere near that place for a good long time.

---

The crash of shattering glass was the first thing that grabbed Edelgard’s attention. 

The second thing was Belial screaming. 

A little over a year ago a young buck had crashed into the fortress where she had been staying; it must have lept through a window trying to escape some wolves. It ran around the fortress in a frenzy, antlers tangling up in tapestries and hooves slipping on worn stone. It crashed into several weapons racks, slammed into the cooling food, and brayed in confusion the whole while. Eventually it stumbled out the front door with one of Hubert’s cloaks wrapped around its antlers, leaving a fortress of smashed furniture in its wake. 

That same wild panic was now in Belial’s eyes and Belial’s voice. As Edelgard raced to the breezeway, Belial’s pained yelps morphed into something audible, a frenzied cry for Byleth. 

Edelgard skidded to a stop at the sight of Hubert behind a column; Avarine, arrow-swift, flew ahead. “What happened?”

Hubert shook his head. “I’m not sure. Shortly after I passed by the professor’s room, I heard Belial scream and start hurling themselves against the door. Before I was able to double back, they jumped out of the window and ran to the breezeway, where you see them now. 

Where they were now was pacing back and forth, calling for Byleth to the early morning air. Edelgard wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than their near-comatose state. 

Avarine landed on Belial’s horns. They bucked and thrashed and she flapped her wings and fought to stay on. She wasn’t a hawk, her slim talons weren’t made for this, but she held on regardless. “Belial, calm! Hold! I’m here!”

Those talons scored thin lines into Belial’s horns as they flailed and panicked, but Avarine held on. Eventually their thrashing did not stop, exactly, but it became slightly less frantic under Avarine’s wings. “Where’s Byleth?! I can’t see them, I can’t sense them, I woke up and I was alone!”

“Definitely better,” Edelgard said to Hubert. She stepped out into the breezeway, and Avarine gently turned them towards her. Woke up? Could Belial possibly mean what Edelgard so badly wished it to mean?

Belial sank to the floor with a pitiful cry for Byleth, for Edelgard, for the safety of their students, and it tore at Avarine’s core. Even after all that happened, Avarine could fly to the other side of the world still and feel the tug of Edelgard, her lodestar. Belial didn’t have that; Rhea had taken it from them and left them and Byleth both adrift, flailing for whatever anchor they could reach. Yet still, they slept and woke together. They lived and died together. Not even intercision could take that away—which meant that, somewhere …

Edelgard forced her hammering heart to slow, even as Belial calmed under Avarine’s wings, calmed further at the sight of her and Hubert. And Hubert, ah, her dearest friend knew before asking that for better or worse this first moment of reunion was not for him. 

“You’re okay?” Belial whimpered. 

“We’ve made it through,” Edelgard said and oh, to see the fog slowly lift from Belial’s being and clarity return to her gaze! With every step, Belial recovered a bit more of their humanity. Avarine leaned down and pressed her face against Belial’s, where they must have craved touch but Edelgard’s hand could never go. “All of us. I’ve kept us alive, somehow. Come, Belial. We’ll find Byleth, and then everybody’s been waiting to see you again.” 

Trepidation, anxiety maybe, filled her once more. It had been nearly three years. What kind of condition would Byleth be in after all this time? Where was she, even? Belial whined in distress, because their severed connection meant they were adrift with no way of knowing where Byleth was (Avarine shuddered, torn between comforting Belial or being close to Edelgard again; she settled for stretching out a wing for Edelgard to stroke). She just had to hope that Byleth wasn’t too far, and would think to make her way back to Garreg Mach, if Belial’s concern for the Black Eagles was any indication. 

Thankfully it was still early in the morning, so there weren’t enough people in the courtyard to see and ask questions. They slipped out into the forests surrounding the monastery, and atop their horns Avarine gasped.

Her hair was scraggly, her clothes worn to tatters. She looked exhausted, and cold. But she was still Byleth, standing before her, alive.

Edelgard stood, trembling in place. She couldn’t trust herself to make a sound, or else she might break down into tears. Years of searching, with not a single trace. Until Yuri and Hapi found Belial. 

Her teacher, her Byleth, was alive before them, recognized them by the way her shoulders rounded, and Edelgard was seized with yet another childish impulse to rush forward and embrace her, her teacher, her Byleth, the one who taught her that it was okay to reach for a hand again, to tentatively trust again. But...no. Belial quivered beside her, and Avarine retreated back to her shoulder. This first moment needed to be between human and daemon. 

“...Byleth?” One step, then another. They cautiously padded forward, each step almost—but not quite—mirrored in Byleth’s tentative approach. Until Belial pressed their head into Byleth’s open palm. 

There was no full-bodied embrace. No tearful reunion like when she and Avarine were let back into the sun and could finally properly touch again. But there was Belial relaxing into that open palm, Byleth’s face softening, and that was more than enough. 

Byleth looked up, said, “...Edelgard,” for just a moment she smiled, and all of Edelgard’s fears melted away. It was her. Quiet and distant but not that empty broken shell that was what they found of Belial. 

Three years since she vanished, and everything Edelgard had been holding back surged forward like a rising tide. How long she searched, how broken her heart was! How she led everyone as best she could, and how difficult a path it was to walk alone.

She embraced Byleth, felt a tentative hand wrap around her side in return, and it would all work out again. “Welcome back, my Byleth.”

Byleth relaxed around Edelgard’s embrace. That one hand tightened around her waist (the other one dug into Belial’s fur), and the sense of comfort and touch was almost overwhelming. “It’s good to be back, Edelgard.”

There was so much to say. So much lost time to make up for. She didn’t want to leave, wanted to hold Byleth here in this clearing and never let go. Yet...she couldn’t be selfish. “Our Black Eagle Strike Force never lost faith.”

Byleth stepped back and nodded. Her face was blank but oh , she could see the happiness behind it now. “Then let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

Avarine held up a wing, and now it sunk in with a deepening blush. “...But first, let’s get you some clothes.”

---

Her pack had grown so so much while she was gone.  

Nearly three years at the bottom of that river, and Edelgard, her students, her Strike Force, had all grown and fought alone. The continent was engulfed in war, the Kingdom was gone, and her students were so happy to see her back. They crowded around her, out of school uniforms and in their own styles, showing off how well they had carried on in her absence and fought with everything she had taught them. They were truly a well-run pack now. It was overwhelming, her students crowding around her and their daemons surrounding Belial. It was too much, after years of being asleep, or in a state between life and death, or whatever she was. Bernadetta (who had grown so tall, who had straightened her hair, who stood up straight instead of slightly hunched over and prepared for any possible assault, whose had a new pouch for Malecki that let him easily observe the world around him) was the one to notice, who gently ushered her away so she could catch her breath. Her pack found her one by one after that. 

There was Ferdinand, his hair down to his shoulders, Embrienne resting in his capsule as he mused about his place in the world to come, his pride tempered with humility, the arrogance melted away. Petra was incredible, proudly bearing Brigidian garb, almost daring the world to take her on and tell her no. Caspar threw his arms around her, then punched her in the arm hard enough to make her stagger and shouted how great everything was going to be now that she had returned. Leonie nearly started crying with relief at her being alive, then buckled down and promised to continue not letting anyone down. Hubert had lost the very last of his adolescent gangliness, trimmed his hair, and put on clothes that actually fit him. He looked like he was thriving in the war, in his official role. 

“Not everyone is doing okay though,” Belial said. “Ashe and Fuergios look a lot like we did after Dad died, and Linhardt seems really quiet.”

There was more that she shared with Belial. Dorothea...When Byleth became more aware she started to notice a deep, what people said was sadness under Dorothea’s smiles. But now she didn’t smile much, and that sadness was easy to see. Yet when Byleth asked her, she said that she would see this through to the end, no matter what. What had happened to Dorothea? 

For that matter, what happened to Lysithea? She looked absolutely horrible. Pale and drawn where she wasn’t blotchy and bruised, muscle and fat in all the wrong places where they weren’t missing entirely. She was still fierce, could still cast spells, and Zilbariel was the same as ever, but Lysithea’s voice had become weak and raspy around the edges, and she ran out of breath so easily.

“Lysithea has two crests too, right?” said Belial, and suddenly ice filled Byleth’s stomach and ran down her spine. If those two crests were Killing Lysithea so slowly and painfully, would this happen to Edelgard too? What if it already was?! Byleth’s hands curled into fists on the table. She couldn’t lose Edelgard like that! Not after everything, not after she had just found her again!

Belial said that Edelgard and Avarine took care of them when they were found. They didn’t remember much, it was all hazy, but they remembered Avarine on their horns, the two of them saying things that made Belial feel warm and safe even though they were horribly alone. 

The warmth of that twisted painfully with the icy realization of Edelgard possibly being sick. She didn’t look sick now. She looked regal, with her hair wound around her crown (Her horns and Belial’s almost matched, and if she could she would have smiled at that), her Imperial regalia, Avarine on her shoulder. More than regal. She...Byleth noticed a strand of hair come loose and her fingers twitched with the urge to tuck it in place, then run her fingers through the white silk to see if it was as soft as it looked. 

Byleth shook her head. What was going on? She needed to focus on the next battle and catch up on what she missed the past three years, not…whatever these thoughts were going through her head about Edelgard. Belial nipped her fingers and brought her back to the meeting, the student now with Hubert and Edelgard as teachers. 

Her pack had done admirably in her absence, the Kingdom conquered, nobody killed, the most serious injuries a collection of scars and Caspar losing an ear. But now they were going to finish the war once and for all—first the Alliance, then the remnants of the Church, and then…

“Why are we cooperating with these monsters? I agree with Ferdinand and Ashe, they must be dealt with.” It was not terribly difficult to put aside the faces of people—even the students in other classes—and think of them as obstacles, or meat to cut down. It was less simple when she remembered the look on her father’s face when Kronya’s knife went into his kidneys. 

Hubert sighed, yet remained resolute. “I know it must be foul to even consider cooperating with their kind. However, their power is essential for us at present. Edelgard also strongly opposed the idea at first. Our enemy is the Church of Seiros itself. It cannot be toppled with the Empire's might alone. Those working under Lord Arundel, Those Who Slither In The Dark, are extremely hostile toward the church. And the enemy of our enemy is... Well, I think you sufficiently understand by now.”

Byleth was not convinced. “Hubert, do you really think this is a good idea?”

Hubert’s pause went on for a long time. Long enough for Byleth and Edelgard both to shuffle in their seats, for even Thanily to look up at him. “Until all of Fodlan is united and the church crushed, it is a necessary evil...At least, that is what I first believed. I knew how...painful a decision it was, because both Her Majesty and I regard that group as enemies to her and her family.”

Edelgard looked up. “Remember what I told you, about my family and my second crest?” Byleth nodded, just the thought of it made her rage rise again. How could she forget? “They are the ones behind it.”

“We—I—made this infernal bargain years ago, long before you appeared,” Hubert explained. “I do not know if you are fully aware of the effect you have had, Byleth. Not merely on us, but on the continent at large. Rhea committed an unspeakable evil against you and your daemon. Rumors only grow,” rumors that Hubert made no attempt to quench, Byleth suddenly knew without him saying. She wasn’t sure what to think of that, and simultaneously realized that she would have something to think about that, were she fully intact and capable of doing so, “And news of this atrocity has shattered the Church. With much fewer allies and reinforcements than any of us had hoped for, Rhea has vanished—at least for now. Because of you, we can dispose of Those Who Slither In The Dark and put an end to their evils as well, much sooner than we would have been able to otherwise.”

“Of course, they’re fully aware of this as well,” Thanily added with a flick of her tail. She looked like she’d filled out some over the past nearly-three years, now that Belial looked closer. 

“Essentially, it’s a question of who sticks the knife in first,” Edelgard summed up. She leaned over the maps, close enough for her hand to touch Byleth’s. “And that is why we must eliminate the Alliance as a target now, so we have fewer foes when that fight comes.”

---

Professor Byleth couldn’t have waited one more moon before her miraculous return, could she. If only it had been a little bit longer, Hilda would have made it to Myrddin with Claude’s letter, they’d parley, and—

“What’s done is done,” said Penumbrior, curling and uncurling into a tight ball as he always did before a speech. “We just need to hold the bridge until she arrives.”

After Acheron died, Marianne was sent to survey his former territory—and instead of befuddlement at why someone like her would be given such an important assignment, would have protested that there was a mistake she wasn’t worthy, now she knew why . The official von Edmund stance was vaguely pro-Alliance, nowhere near the extremes of either the Gloucester or Goneril official positions and so less likely to destabilize Claude’s careful balancing act in his absence. Her adoptive father was still Margrave Edmund, so sending him to the bridge would have raised eyebrows. Not to mention he couldn’t fight. Marianne , on the other hand...

It was all such a cautious dance between what was and what merely seemed to be, and Marianne couldn’t help but marvel at Claude’s mastery of all the steps. It was something that her adoptive father had been carefully teaching her, but only when she lived it did she fully understand. 

“Enough with the chess metaphors,” Penumbrior said. He playfully nosed the back of her leg. “You’re sounding too much like the both of them again.”

Marianne nodded with a small noise of approval—her daemon was right, of course. Besides, it didn’t matter as much now, because now they were going to have to improvise again. The original plan was for her to secure the Bridge, make some noise to attract Empire attention (not too much, her presence wouldn’t be as outright aggressive as Hilda’s but would be more worrisome than Lorenz’s), and then have Claude swoop in with whatever information he found that he was so confident would stop Edelgard cold. Sure, technically everything was now happening according to Claude’s plan, but it was happening too early ! Byleth’s return meant the Empire was swooping in with far more aggression and speed than anyone in The Golden Herd (as they liked to semi-jokingly call themselves) accounted for. If the Strike Force launched their assault before Claude returned from wherever he had run off to, then Dierdru would be lost along with their plans for an end to Crest supremacy and the associated baggage while still maintaining Alliance sovereignty. 

“At least Byleth’s a moderating force on Edelgard,” said Penumbrior. “Hilda will be here in a couple of days, and this might make the Emperor more likely to take pause.”

Only one thing to do now—hold the bridge long enough for Hilda to get back from the Throat. Marianne’s hand curled around Blutgang; the Crest Stone seated pulsed and glowed in time with the beating of her heart. The sword twitched, and she felt her blood sing in anticipation of battle, a thrill, itch under her skin that surged like a rising tide when the scent of blood hit her nose. She took a deep breath and let the churning waves settle, let Penumbrior’s stance relax. The Beast may be a part of her, her crest a blessing or curse she never asked for, but she was not The Beast. Together she and her friends put Maurice to rest, and together they would protect the Alliance. 

Marianne still had Bad Days, sometimes. Days where the world weighed her down like an avalanche, where she felt like a useless waste of space, where even getting out of bed seemed like an impossible task. On the very worst days, the thought of praying for the Goddess to claim her life in her sleep, of Penumbrior pushing her face into a pillow and letting it steal her breath away, was horrifyingly tempting once more. 

But those days were so much rarer, now. On those worst days Lorenz would take over her duties, Hilda would spend all day in her room talking fashion and gossip and other inanities to fill up the empty space before Marianne could pour her own darkness into it. Ignatz would deliver his sketches, his capturing of beautiful fleeting moments for somebody to remember them by. And Claude was always there. Her friends needed her. The Alliance needed her. 

Marianne walked over to the window where Penumbrior already leaned against and looked outside where the troops were beginning to assemble. She’d have to officially rally them soon.

For most of her life, when Marianne thought of the future she could only see a dreadful bleakness, stretching outwards forever, until it finally suffocated her. But now, she wanted to see what would happen next. 

---

Calphour pressed against her neck, a thumb-sized shield against the cold wind that blew off the river. “More fighting,” he sighed. 

Three years ago, they’d crossed the bridge from the other direction on the way to the mock battle in Grondor Field. She’d hung back with Annie and Hils, watched their daemons play-spar with each other as they bragged about who would win the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. The three of them were part of the Garreg Mach Choir Club, singing together every week, and so it ended with the three of them flyting in song to the cheers of their classmates about how their own house was clearly superior and would wipe the field with the other two. For three hours straight. Unlike the actual battle, they decided that the flyte ended in a three-way tie, with Annie’s lyrics the most creative, Hils’s singing the most aggressive, and Thea herself (of course) with the best overall voice. Despite the barbed insults, they grinned and laughed and picked it up again all the way back to the monastery.

And now Dorothea waded through a river of blood, with Annie on an island and Hils on the far shore to which she trudged. How long before she faced Hils in combat? Hils was always famously lazy, would she surrender? Oh Saints, please let Hils surrender! Killing familiar faces was horrible enough, but Hils was her friend. They sang together every week for nearly a year, they shared gossip and talked shit about Sylvain (another name, another face, she couldn’t bear to think about whatever may have come of him), she’d opened up her heart and bared a corner of her insecurities when Hils sat down and said just how worried she was about Mary. Hils was gorgeous, could command attention like no other, was completely comfortable in her skin and physical appeal in a way that she—tainted by the leering gazes and wandering hands and knowledge of what her body was worth and what she was willing to pay to get to where she needed to go—never quite was nor would be again. She didn’t want to kill Hilda. She didn’t want Hilda to die.   

“But if it’s her or us…” Cal trailed off and shuddered into her neck. 

Byleth’s return was the first glimmer of hope Dorothea had felt in a long while. Edie had broadcast the news to absolutely everyone; there’s no way it hadn’t reached the Alliance by this point. Maybe now they’d realize the utter futility in fighting and surrender? Please?

A volley of arrows was her answer: it was too much to hope for. Now, it was win or die. 

“For the Empire!”

Edie’s cry was a clarion call, one that Dorothea and everyone else in the army join in on as she raised her brave axe to the heavens. Under her and Byleth’s command the Strike Force split in two, a smaller group securing the secondary eastern passageway closer to the Empire side while the rest of the Strike Force pressed on north to defeat the commander and secure the Bridge of Myrddin once and for all. 

Petra kissed her, a soft press of lips, a promise without words, and headed east with Ferdie, Ashe, and Cas to secure that entrance. Her and Ashe and Edie’s daemons were the last to vanish from view, three birds silhouetted against the rising sun. Dorothea hoped with everything she had that she’d see Petra again. 

Hubie cut a bloody path, an inexorable march towards the guardstation in the middle of the bridge where several snipers were stationed. Edie and Leo moved to cover him the moment they were in range. Still, there were three snipers atop a tower; they had more than enough time to whittle down her friends. 

Or they would have, if not for Dorothea. 

“NOW!” Belial shouted, and Dorothea poured everything she had—the pain and misery of war, her rage at the fucked-up world, her faith in Edie and Byleth and hope for a better future—into her most powerful spell that left Cal gasping and her arms feeling like jelly. 

The meteor slammed into the guard tower, crushed two snipers and sent the third flying, tore apart one of the walls and sent it crumbling into so much rubble. But the rest of it, and one ballista, was useable. Bern scrambled up and strapped herself in. Leo hung back to keep guard, and the rest of them continued to follow Edie’s charge with Bern’s cover fire keeping them just a bit safer. 

Battle had a rhythm all its own, and it was a rhythm that Dorothea could not help but find herself moving to as if she had done so her entire life. She stepped with her foot and called forth the fire, ran her Levin sword through the slim gaps in a general’s armor and ran more lightning through the blade just to be sure. She cried out at the slash of an axe to her side, the blood spilling out until Linhardt’s magic stitched it closed enough to carry on, and finished the job by sucking the very life from the soldier (she knew him oh Goddess that was Clay, his name was Clay and he was part of the Golden Deer house, he’d flirted with her but actually backed off once their first date went nowhere, sure he was too bland for her tastes but he was a genuinely kind person and now he was dead she killed him, just another faceless corpse with his vitality stolen to restore hers, his sparrow daemon nothing more than a shroud of dust hanging over his corpse, one breeze and it was gone) who tried to kill her. Blood on the ground, time to move to the next.

Her battalion of mages clashed with another, the magic ran thick in the air, heavy enough to flatten her hair and coat her tongue and every breath. Around her men and women screamed and died, she reached out in her mind's eye and called down the thunder—

—and the incantation died in her throat. 

Silence. She opened her mouth and Cal opened his beak and there was nothing, nothing, but silence. She couldn’t talk couldn’t sing couldn’t cast! Helpless, defenseless, the older kids who pushed her in the sewage and stepped on her fingers and stole the food she’d stolen for her and her mom, the men who ran their hands up her legs and daemons who nuzzled Calphour and she couldn’t say anything or she’d lose her sponsorship no magic no song no voice nothing!  

No voice no orders the remnants of her battalion retreated or were struck down she couldn’t fight back her magic was silenced.

Run. 

She turned, she ran, stumbled over the bodies of her enemies or maybe the people under her command people she killed people she failed and slipped in blood and all but smashed into—

Powder-blue hair, tied back instead of tangled and limp in front of her face. Eyes still soft but with an inner fire Dorothea had never seen on her before, her daemon keen instead of hunched over and disheveled. White magic flickering in her left hand, a sword—a relic— in her right. 

“Marianne,” Dorothea wanted to say, and her heart broke. “You look well.”

“Dorothea,” said Marianne. “I’m sorry.”

Marianne swung her sword. And killed her in a single blow.

She turned, she ran, stumbled over the bodies of the people under her command people she failed and slipped in blood and ran into—

Powder-blue hair, tied back instead of tangled and in front of her face. Eyes still soft but with an inner fire Dorothea had never seen on her before, her daemon keen instead of hunched over and disheveled. White magic flickering in her left hand, a sword—a relic— in her right. 

“Marianne,” Dorothea wanted to say, and her heart broke. “You look well.”

A flash of green robes. A body not much taller than her pushing her aside with what little strength it could muster. Strength enough to knock Cal to the ground where Rune curled around him. Lin, Lin , grunting in pain where the sword cut into him but it snagged against his robes and tore them open and only lightly damaged him Linhardt ignored the blood and saved her life. 

“Marianne,” Lin said. “You look much happier than I remember you ever being. I want to make a quip about your Crest and misfortune, but that would take far too much effort than I can spare right now.”

“Linhardt. I’m so sorry, but I can’t let you pass.”

The magic gripping her tongue and holding her voice captive faded away. It took all she had not to sink to her knees and clutch her throat, all she had to hold on and heal Lin and hear him say, so tired, “And I’m terribly sorry, but we can’t let you hold the bridge. How many more times can you cast that spell, Marianne? Once more? Twice? Marianne, please, don’t do this.”

“...” Mary’s daemon (what was his name?! Try as she might it slipped through her mind like sand) reared up on his back legs and bared his claws. Lin seemed impassive, but Rune’s hackles rose in response.

Dorothea reorganized her magic, yet Cal couldn’t help but let out a cry. Flames, no, she remembered how much time they spent together. It couldn’t end like this, killing each other! They used to be friends, and now they were going to kill each other! 

A great howl rent the blood-torn sky, and Dorothea had never been so happy to hear a wolf in her entire life. 

Belial tore across the slippery stone and slammed into Mary’s daemon, forced him to the ground and locked them between their horns. Mary screamed and fell to her knees, and before her armadillo daemon could curl up Belial’s horns locked his natural armor in place and forced him open and helpless.

“I...I made it this time,” Belial panted. “Good job, Linhardt.” Byleth was nowhere in sight, but it was okay, how eerily used to it she had become, seeing them alone.

Mary’s gaze flicked back and forth between the three of them, the roar of battle quieting slightly as more and more soldiers saw their commander surrounded. They stepped back, broke off and made their way to reinforce her. So many that not even Ashe and Bern combined could shoot all of them down— 

Mary looked to the sky, smiled, and closed her eyes. Her daemon went pliant under Belial’s horns. She set down her sword with a hollow clatter and raised her empty hands to the air.

“...I surrender.”

And somewhere, at the edge of the horizon, Dorothea heard the faint rush of wings. 

Notes:

Happy Passover/Easter/Spring Break/Light at the end of the tunnel for this pandemic! Thank you all for being patient and I promise I'm not going anywhere--I'm seeing this fic through to the end.

As for what else happened in the battle for the Bridge of Myrddin, we'll see next time...

Speaking of the Bridge of Myrddin, here’s my thoughts on how, statwise, that scene happened.
1. Dorothea gets in heavy fighting and is injured, though not badly.
2. Marianne Silences Dorothea. She panics and flees. Her wounded battalion withdraws.
3. Marianne crits Dorothea with the Beast Fang combat arte and oneshots her.
4. Byleth realizes Dorothea is dead, Divine Pulses, and has Belial and Linhardt go to reinforce Dorothea. Since Blutgang is a magic weapon Linhardt tanks the blow.

Flyting was sort of the Viking/medieval equivalent of a rap battle, trading insults in verse. Which, come on, Dorothea, Annette, and Hilda in a rap battle over whose house is the best?

I hope you all enjoyed, and see you next time!

Chapter 32: A Change In Scenery

Summary:

Claude makes his move.

So does Thales.

(Content warning: another Dimitri-POV scene)

Notes:

In modern times being a good host is a sign of politeness and manners, but before such modern amenities as hotels and rapid transportation being able to safely bed down in another’s home could literally be a matter of life and death. Different cultures created their own rules for sacred hospitality, and violating these rules was not only often considered an act of war but would always incur the wrath of that culture’s deity or deities...

Despite popular perception, Hubert didn’t inherently revel in the loss of life. He reveled in the destruction of Her Majesty’s enemies and in clearing her path, true, and he wasn’t about to lose sleep over the lives he took, but that didn’t mean he was a cackling bloodthirsty maniac like too many of the propaganda posters (which also loved giving him horns and always put his part on the wrong side) claimed he was. But if his enemies could recognize the inevitability of their defeat and surrender instead of throwing their lives away, then that was all for the better. 

“Especially when the one surrendering is someone like Marianne,” said Thanily, stunned by their stroke of good fortune. “A member of Claude’s inner circle, in our captivity! Even if she doesn’t share any information, her inherent value as a bargaining chip is incredible.”

Which was why Hubert was overseeing Marianne’s transfer into custody personally. “Silence and disarm Marianne, and make sure her daemon is safely restrained, but make sure no harm comes to either of them,” he ordered his battalion. “Her life is worth all of yours combined at the negotiating table.” A simple statement of fact, one which his soldiers took as such. Fortunately Marianne —Marianne of all people, which left Hubert reevaluating every impression he had of her back at the academy, was the highest ranking soldier on the field; when she surrendered so did most of those under her command. Fortunately Judith was too busy staring down conquered Galatea territory across the wastes of Ailell to make it down to the bridge; Hubert had no doubt that if the famed Hero of Daphnel took the field they would have had a much tougher fight. 

Thanily flicked her tail back and forth in uncertainty. “Even taking that into account, something doesn’t feel right.”

Of course, almost as if on cue, Dorothea shouted, “Wyverns, coming from the east!”

Bernadetta, Ashe, and Leonie were instantly at his side, arrows nocked and drawn and ready to be loosed. There was a flash of white and gray, rapidly growing larger as Lady Avarine dove towards them. She pulled up from her stoop centimeters from Thanily’s face and shouted, “Hold your fire; they’re flying a banner of parley!”

Byleth (back from the dead, still at their side, words could not express the depth of Hubert’s eternal gratitude. In his more fanciful moments he liked to imagine that she was an emissary of some rival deity, sent to bring the goddess low) frowned as she and Belial stared up at the descending wyvern. Her fingers played along the handle of her sword but she made no movement to attack. Hubert readied his longer-range Mire spell and prepared himself to face down…

Hilda?

It had to be Hilda. Nobody else had that Goneril-pink hair and an enormous axe. And there was her butterfly daemon in her bejeweled capsule, confirming her identity. The wyvern landed; she slid off its back and popped open said capsule in one smooth motion. Her daemon spiraled up around her and crowed, “Aw yeah, who’s here in the nick of time? Hil-da! Hil-da!”

Thanily couldn’t help but laugh in response and sneer, “I’m afraid you are dreadfully mistaken. If you were to actually take the time to look around, you would see that the battle is over. Marianne surrendered and is now our captive. The Adrestian Empire now has full control of the Bridge of Myrddin.” Just like Hilda, the very avatar of slothfulness, to swoop in after a crushing defeat and claim that she actually contributed something useful. From what little Hubert remembered of Hilda in the academy she was nothing more than an indolent waste of air. Possessing a talent for manipulation and delegating tasks, but little else, she was more than content to laze about and paint her nails rather than actually learn to be a leader, then take all the credit for the work she cajoled others into doing for her. She deserved precisely none of the privilege that was handed to her on a silver platter, never experienced a single day of labor or loss. It disgusted him, with only the distance of being in different houses a moderating influence. At least Linhardt was an excellent healer who kept them all alive, and was putting all his effort into trying to save Her Majesty and Lady Lysithea’s lives! 

Hilda just smirked, perhaps out of some ludicrous notion that her “delicate maiden” persona would have any effect on him, and said, “But you’re still here, flush off victory, with Marianne alive and in your custody just like we planned.” 

Planned? Hubert’s eyes narrowed—what was Hilda getting at? Her daemon was still fluttering around her head, his vulnerability a clear message that she wasn’t expecting a fight. “What do you mean, as you planned? What scheme has Claude cooked up this time?” Whatever it was, there was no way that Hilda had come up with it herself. 

“Oh, just a little message from the man himself.” Why Claude—who, mind you, had mysteriously vanished!—would entrust Hilda of all people with hand-delivering a message to him or Her Majesty was beyond Hubert. Nevertheless, Hilda had produced a scroll sealed and stamped with the Crest of Riegan, and handed it to him with a flourish. 

Her Majesty and Byleth were already there and read over his shoulder with him—first slowly, then with increasing speed as the letter went on. 

To the Princess and Hubes, 

How goes conquering the continent? Seems like Faerghus got carved up pretty quickly but the Alliance is proving a tougher nut to crack. Simurg says I should take all the credit but that just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the Deer, would it? Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting you to wage war on the entire continent, not that Fodlan isn’t in dire need of some major changes It really is a shame we never had a chance to talk about those changes, since I think we’d see eye to eye on quite a few issues. Except for, you know, the whole conquering bit. Violence never really was my style, especially not as a first option. 

I want to fix that now—the part about us not having a chance to talk, anyway. I found some information I think you’ll really want to hear, the kind of thing you’re going to have to see for yourself because no way will you believe me if I just tell you without direct visual evidence. It’s the kind of thing that’s going to change everything, because despite what some people want to say you’re not doing this just for kicks and giggles. Hubes too, I guess.  

If you want to know more, then come to Lake Teutates. We’ll parley under the covenant of Mithra and Rashnu, and then, well, we’ll see. Mithra and Rashnu are the Almyran gods of oaths and covenants and justice, by the way, among other things. You’re probably smart enough to realize who I might be and why invoking their names is such a big deal, and how serious I am about this that I’m basically showing you one of my biggest cards. 

Prove me right, Princess, that you’re really doing this for the sake of everyone in Fodlan. I’ll be waiting for you in Lake Teutates. 

P.S. Tell Lysithea I said hi, and to remember our promise for her to stay alive.

—Claude and Simurg von Riegan 

Hubert said nothing by the end of it, so offended was he by the single most irreverent and unprofessionally-written letter from one leader to another that he had ever read in his entire life. Thanily worked her jaw for several minutes and eventually weakly offered, “...At least we know this is actually Claude and not an imposter?”

Her Majesty frowned, clearly seeing the potential risk. “Even if it is Claude, how do we know this is not some sort of trick, some attempt to kill us all in one fell swoop?”

Hilda just shrugged. “Well, you’ve got Marianne captured, right? If anything happens to you guys she’s good as dead. And I know you’re not gonna hurt her as long as you’re safe because of how valuable she is as a hostage. I can offer myself up as a hostage too, if you need more leverage.”

“Also, Claude invoked the Almyran gods of oaths and hospitality,” her daemon added with a flutter of his wings. “That’s, like, a really big deal. Like, divine retribution and an eternity of torture in the afterlife if he stabs you in the back big deal. He knows this is a hard sell, whatever it is.”

“And do you, by any chance, know what this is?”

“Not a clue!” said Hilda, as if that were somehow a point of pride. “But whatever it was, it was important for Claude to run off and basically leave us in charge of the Alliance. Which sucks! I can’t wait for you guys to chat and, like, figure something out.”

Lady Edelgard turned to Byleth and said, “What do you think, my teacher?”

Belial shifted back and forth; they were never comfortable at being put on the spot like this outside of battle, and now that he knew why, it was another unforgivable crime against Rhea and the church that she would answer for. But Byleth had clawed her way back, and said, “You trusted me. I think we should trust Claude too.”

Her Majesty nodded, and that was that. Looks like they would be putting the conquering of the Alliance on hold to learn whatever Claude had discovered in Lake Teutates. Wasn’t that a consecrated lake of Saint Indech or something? And also, “How do you know about Almyran rituals of sacred hospitality?”

Now, it was Hilda’s turn to shuffle uncomfortably, “Honestly, it’s because of Claude. I know what you’ve been thinking, that I’m lazy and useless. And yeah, I hate doing any work! But Claude showed me that I could be, I dunno, like...better.” She paused and looked up at him with an intensity that was simply incompatible with what little Hubert knew of Hilda. Yet there it was on her face all the same. “One of the things he taught me is that I need to look beyond my own nose and preconceptions of other people. Agh, I’m not really sure how to say this without sounding like an ignorant boob, because I kinda was, and I bet I still am in a bunch of really embarrassing ways. But...Claude makes me want to put in the effort, to try not to be.”

It was the most earnest that he had ever heard Hilda be, very nearly had Hubert reevaluate his view of her, if only slightly. And then she ruined it.

Or rather her daemon did, breaking the mood with a snicker of, “Hahaha, good one, Claude. ‘Hubes.’ You know, like—”

“Yes, I am well aware, ” Thanily growled through flattened ears and gritted teeth. This was going to be a remarkable test of his patience indeed. 

---

After a battle, Dorothea needed Petra like she needed to breathe. 

It wasn’t like that, like she was some freak turned on by violence! Actually, it was pretty much the opposite. After a battle, when she washed off the blood and rubbed out the scorch marks, when the adrenaline faded from her veins and left her shaking and hollowed, she needed to fill that scooped-out part of her with something better. 

She needed to see Petra with her own eyes, needed to memorize every new wound and healing scar, needed to have Cal bury himself in Ardi’s plush down. Needed to hear Petra gasp her name to the night, needed to know that her hands could bring pleasure instead of pain and desire instead of death. Needed to know that she and Petra were still alive. 

Sometimes, Dorothea was actually able to get a few fitful hours of sleep in Petra’s arms. Tonight, though, was one of those nights where sleep eluded her entirely. She’d stare up at the ceiling until the pale light of dawn filtered in and drag her exhausted body though another day, but Cal was restless and would wake up Ardi and Petra both. 

So, reluctantly, Dorothea peeled herself away from Petra’s embrace and put her clothes back on. She lingered at the front of the room just to watch her lover flop an arm over the empty cot and sleepily mutter something in Brigidian about sailing. It was so tempting to go back to bed and join Petra in whatever faraway ocean she was dreaming of, but she needed to walk in the freezing air. 

They’d taken over the barracks after seizing the bridge, mostly because nobody was passing up the opportunity to sleep in an actual cot surrounded by actual walls. She waved to the night patrols, who walked in pairs and could only be discerned by their daemons, and made her way to the edge of the ramparts. Dorothea leaned against the crenellations; unafraid of the drop Cal hopped down her arm and peered over the edge. The reflected moonlight shimmered in the inky darkness of the Arimid River, which almost sparkled from pinpoint starlight. She wondered if it would still be dyed pink with blood in the morning. 

“Picturesque view and dramatic tableau notwithstanding, I would strongly recommend against brooding adjacent to a hundred meter drop.”

“Hubie, you know it’s impolite to sneak up on a lady like that.” And sneak up he did—if not for Thanily’s bright orange fur he would have been nearly invisible in the dark. There was a light breeze that set Hubie’s cape billowing out around him in a manner that would have left the Mittelfrank costume designers salivating. Honestly, and he called her melodramatic.  

He chuckled, the kind of velvet dark thing that the actors playing villains in her company would also kill for, and said, “You performed admirably yesterday. I daresay your Meteor secured our victory.”

“I...Thanks, Hubie.” Even though that was one of the last things she wanted to hear. She didn’t need to hear those screams in her mind again. There must have been a dozen soldiers in the lower level of the tower..and when it crumbled, they all died. Include the ones on top, and she ended fifteen lives with a single spell. 

“Your contributions to the Black Eagle Strike Force are invaluable,” he continued. Dorothea ran her fingers through her waves as he spoke; Cal nipped off some of the split ends. What else could she do? “Nobody has the combination of ranged magic and flexibility with both offensive and healing spells quite like you. I remember you saying back at the Academy that you would learn magic to spite the nobles who said it was too good for commoners, and I daresay you have more than succeeded at that task.”

He fell silent and joined her vague stargazing, silent for several minutes until Thani nudged his leg. Dorothea narrowed her eyes. Where was Hubie going with this?

“But as prestigious as your battlefield accomplishments are, your potential off the battlefield is just as impressive. Your charisma is quite literally unparalleled. Dorothea, you have connections with potential benefactors that both Her Majesty and I lack, and an ability to charm even the most pigheaded of the rot.” He sighed, and looked her in the eyes. “If you wish to be taken off the front lines, then we would have great use of your skills elsewhere.”

What. Dorothea blinked rapidly and forced her mask back into place; Cal hid behind her so Hubie couldn’t read any potential tells. “Hubie, are you...Are you telling me to leave?” Didn’t he just say that she was incredibly important? And now he was suggesting she leave the rest of the Strike Force, and all her friends? Cal fluttered back and forth behind her with her thoughts. No, no, she couldn’t be abandoned again, even, even if—

“Dorothea, I—” Hubie pinched the bridge of his nose. “My apologies. Allow me to try and explain again. Not everybody is meant for the battlefield, and you have always been a gentle soul. What I am offering you is a way to still be a vital part of our fight to liberate Fodlan, without being on the front lines of combat. You could be the honeyed words to my subtle knives and Her Majesty’s axe, still crucial and needed.”

Silence hung in the air once more, because Saints above, or wherever they actually were, that was so tempting. She didn’t have to fight anymore. Hubie—cold, grim, undyingly faithful Hubie—was offering her a way out. Cal very nearly opened his beak to accept, but she held up a hand in front of his tiny form. “Hubie, I’m, I don’t know what to say. But...didn’t you just say that you need me on the battlefield too? That nobody is as flexible as me with magic?”

“I did. It would be terribly unfair for me to offer you this alternative position without thoroughly listing the benefits and drawbacks. An uninformed decision is no decision at all. Yes, your battlefield contributions are invaluable. However, we have managed to muddle through without Byleth for three years. With her return, we will find some way to make it work.”

Which...brought her right back to the thoughts swimming around her head, about actors being easily replaced on a stage. Even her, in the end. 

“That’s not what Hubie meant, and you know it,” Cal weakly protested behind her back. And sure, she knew that logically, that Hubie was really only trying to help and meant well, that it was all her own stupid shit in her self-loathing mind, but knowing that didn’t make it go away. She could feel her fingers trembling on the ramparts under Hubie and Thani’s patient gazes. It was so, so tempting. She could be out of the war. No more fighting, no more killing, but still useful in other ways. She didn’t have to take any more life. 

She could be a massive fucking hypocrite, and put everyone she loved in danger because she wasn’t able to personally see through the very thing she had desired as soon as she was old enough to understand. 

The breeze still made Hubie’s cape billow out around him, gently ruffled Thani’s fur. Flames, and to think she once believed that Hubie only followed Edie for a simple and base a reason as pining. She still remembered everything he said about how she inspired him, left him in awe like someone staring at the brilliance of the sun. Edie made her feel that way too; she had that ability to make everyone feel like they could be part of something much greater than themselves, of keeping everybody’s morale up even through the darkest days of the war. And for her to think that Hubie would burn himself to ashes for...for what?

“I mean, it’s not like we ever grew up knowing anything else,” Cal said. “This is the first time we’ve been really worth more than our face and voice.”

Hubie was the first man she ever really knew who had undying loyalty for a woman, for a reason other than wanting to get into her panties. Dorothea couldn’t comprehend it, at first. It humiliated her to think back on it now. Frankly, if it weren’t for Hubie’s absolutely adorable crush on both Ferdie and Bern that he was completely hopeless at hiding, she’d think that he was an utterly sexless being.

Bern was...she was doing so well. Her friend, always gentle and timid even as she became so brave over the course of the year, now squared her shoulders, said, “I do this for all of us,” and walked straight into battle. And afterwards, she would take another breath, say, “Still here,” and somehow still her mind. Bern was handling war and death and killing better than her. 

She...kind of resented her friend for that, and hated herself even more for that spark of bitter jealousy that flared within her. 

“Thank you Hubie, Thani, truly.” Cal said while she was still trapped in indecision, his golden crest standing straight up. She could hear the faint tremor in his voice, knew what uncertainty looked on her own face, but could Hubie? “But we’re going to stay.”

She couldn’t abandon her friends, couldn’t live with herself if something happened to Petra without her cover thunder. She was the highest ranking commoner in the army, and like hell was she going to give those who had no faith in her another excuse to say she wasn’t up to snuff. She was going to prove herself, no matter what.

Did Hubie buy it? He was awfully quiet. But eventually he gave her one of his signature low bows, said, “As you wish, Dorothea,” and left to wherever he was skulking this time of night.

Thani may have whispered something to Cal, but Dorothea didn’t catch it. She stared out at the water and wandered back into her own thoughts again, and hoped she wouldn’t regret her decision to stay. 

---

The path to Lake Teutates was cautious and nervewracking. They needed to march back to the monastery, which was more time-consuming than anything else, but the real danger was the second leg of the journey. Lake Teutates was surrounded by lands conquered by Lord Arundel and his cronies who slithered in the dark—in other words, hostile territory. They could have slipped in on the Empire side, except that side was Arundel’s own territory, which was even more dangerous. And if any of those mysterious mages recognized Ashe, they were all screwed. The safest option was to fly into former Gaspard lands with Ladislava’s battalion, then make their way to Lake Teutates on foot. 

Ashe knew the way, of course. Gaspard was his home, so he was able to guide them through the fastest routes through its territories. 

Which was why, even though he was thankfully never a part of that fight, he instantly recognized the Magdred Way. 

To the unknowing eye, there was nothing special about it. A decent place for an ambush, to be sure, with several dense stands of conifer trees and a crumbling fortress atop a hill, enough of the walls intact for even a large daemon to find adequate cover. This section of the Magdred Way would have been completely forgettable, except that Ashe knew this was where his adoptive father and so many of the villagers who cheered him on the way to Garreg Mach fought and died. 

Caspar, who was busy chatting with him about the cat they had found and basically adopted, fell out of step with and tripped over a root. “Yo, Ashe, what’s…” he trailed off at the sight of Ashe clutching the pendant that contained his adoptive father’s ashes, and Fuergios trembling like a leaf. Caspar took a good look around, then paled and breathed, “...Oh.”

Ashe wasn’t really listening anymore. He moved towards the nearest copse of trees as if in a trance, Fuergios tugging him along by her slow wingbeats. He wasn’t really sure what she was looking for, but he knew she found it at the pained cry that echoed across their bond. A glimpse of white, and he fell to his knees with that same keening cry.

After the battle, Catherine and some of her battalion stayed behind to dispose of the bodies, dumping them in a nearby river. Annette, Mercedes, and Marianne fished out Lonato’s...corpse, and gave him a proper funeral. Ashe was pretty sure they did the same to the rest of the villagers they found. Except they must have missed a few, because at their feet lay a rusted axe and a scattering of bones. 

Everyone was there for Ashe in minutes, supporting him and Fuergios both in a warm embrace. He trembled in their arms, took deep shuddering breaths that wracked his frame, but he did not cry. The time for tears was over now. “We’re not leaving without a proper funeral,” he said, and not even Hubert would argue otherwise. 

There were other skeletons, all of them picked clean by the years, none of them complete. Four, maybe five bodies total. They probably didn’t collect every last piece, but they tried their best.  Thank the goddess, or whomever was listening, that he couldn’t recognize who they were. Though that also meant he couldn’t give their daemons the proper memorial either. Nothing about this was proper but rather the ramshackle attempts of him and his allies, his friends, doing the best they could. 

The ground was too frozen for them to dig proper graves, and nobody in the Strike Force knew the funeral prayers, much less cared. The pyre, at least, kept the living warm. 

There was an old legend in Faerghus that repeated itself in Ashe’s head on loop as he watched the flames consume what was left of villagers. Bones that could so easily have been his brother’s, or his sister’s, or his. The legend said that those who died with unfinished business were doomed to become ghosts, wandering the land for all eternity unless somebody else could complete their final requests. Ashe was always terrified of ghosts, and the thought of the villagers, of Christope, of Lonato becoming one of those wandering spirits literally kept him up some nights.

It won’t be in vain, he silently promised those spirits, and he almost hoped the ghosts of his adoptive father and brother were watching. I’m going to make things right, and nobody will ever hurt like you did again.

As Ashe stood before the pyre, Caspar placed his hand on his shoulder, and Ardior threw a wing around Fuergios. Byleth, Edelgard, Hubert, everyone was there for him. He stood strong, helped up by his friends. He wouldn’t be doing this alone. 

At least, in spirit. Because when they reached the border of Rowe territory,  Ashe split off from their group entirely.

“We’re heading into effectively enemy territory, right? Syene and I made a huge ruckus; if I’m caught with you then they’ll know we’re connected for sure,” Ashe explained, Fuergios at military attention on his shoulder. Ruckus really was putting it nicely; he couldn’t dare risk their enemies catching him with the rest of the Strike Force. Not with whatever Claude was about to tell them while they were in Lake Teutates, surrounded by lands conquered by Those Who Slithered In The Dark.

Hubert motioned for Ashe to continue, and how did he know? There was something else too, something else just as important. “And I need to rendezvous with Syene,” he added. He couldn’t leave them to work with the Duscurian resistance alone, couldn’t leave them alone in peril! And...he needed to do it for Dedue’s sake, as well. 

And Hubert understood. When they first started working together months ago, Ashe was intimidated...no, frightened by the man. Now, though, he could see that under his grim exterior, Hubert cared so deeply it almost consumed him. That was why he bowed and said, “Then we shall see you and Syene in Castle Gaspard once we are done.”

---

Arundel.  

he worked with that witch, killed his family nearly killed him and now here he was

the ghosts howled the board stamped her hooves and tossed her head she was good for something they would gore him tear him in two and then on to that woman she would pay she would burn

he wrenched a spear from a corpse there was the crack of bone he flung it over the wall where it embedded itself into Arundel’s side

not enough it would hurt but it wouldn’t kill he wanted Arundel to suffer before he got the chance to die the boar lowered her head and prepared to charge

His daemon some sort of long-furred long-tailed tiny golden monkey screeched angrily Arundel looked up and said, “Dimitri, I’m surprised to see you alive.” 

“You!” he roared, “I’ll soak the earth with your blood!” 

Arundel didn’t move an easy target he smiled and said, “And miss your best opportunity to enact revenge on Edelgard?”

...

what

this was a trick had to be a trick he grabbed a second spear raised it in time with Glenn’s headless ghost pin him down then tear him to shreds and his entire battalion he’d hear them scream and it would be music and then he would kill that woman

Arundel still didn't move was still smiling and said, “I may have allied with her when the war began, but she has gone too far. And that business with the Tragedy of Duscur,” he shook his head what right did he have to talk about it?! “Well, she simply must pay for her crimes. And as you are the sole survivor, I would be more than happy to help deliver her into your hands so you can exact your rightful vengeance.”

the boar tossed her head but his father’s mutilated corpse grabbed her muzzle and shut her up. revenge. Arundel was offering revenge. Dimitri lowered his spear. “I’m listening.”

---

“Wasn’t the sky clear just half an hour ago?”

It was, the kind of bright blue day where one could almost see beyond the edge of the horizon, not a cloud in the sky. Then, the moment they crossed some unseen boundary, heavy fog descended like a blanket, and almost as smothering. Ferdinand’s hair, usually a bright torch to guide them, was barely visible. Torches only burned off a meter or two of mist. Linhardt launched a Cutting Gale where he was certain none of their allies were standing. It sliced through the fog just long enough for them to get a glimpse of still water before the fog slammed down again. 

Avarine nodded and launched herself straight upwards off of her shoulder. Within seconds she was lost in the fog. 

Edelgard shuddered; though she could still feel the strength of their connection no matter how far apart she and Avarine were, though the strategic advantages of a gyrfalcon daemon untethered by range were far too great to ignore and had saved one or more of the Strike Force’s lives on multiple occasions, she still utterly despised having Avarine anywhere other than her side. At least Byleth had returned, her presence a balm—if an occasionally distracting one. Still, it was one she was beyond grateful to have back.  

There was a tiny shimmer of motion through the fog. Ava’s call stilled Edelgard’s hand; she calmed her wary comrades and waited for her daemon to reappear out of the gloom. Within seconds Avarine plummeted into view, pulled out of her stoop, and landed on her shoulder. They pressed their faces together in greeting, cheek to cheek, for just a moment until they let the mantle of leadership fully cover them once more.

“The fog is definitely magical in origin, and it covers the entire lake and surrounding area,” Ava reported. “It’s shaped like a dome, about a kilometer high and several kilometers in diameter. The fog functions like a one-way mirror. There’s a faint shimmer marking the boundaries; I don’t think a human or non-raptor daemon would notice it unless they were using some sort of spell to detect magical energy.” She shook her feathers, bobbed her tail up and down, and added, “Also, I think I saw something in the woods a little further along.”

“Was it an enemy?” Byleth closed her hand around her sword. Now that Edelgard looked closely, the fog seemed to retreat from the orange glow of her Relic, if only slightly.

Ava shook her head. “I didn’t see or hear any movement, though I can’t think of a better possible setup for an ambush than this heavy fog.”

“If this concealment is magical in origin, then we must assume that its casters are not subject to its effects.” Hubert let a spark of dark magic test the mist; Thanily closed her eyes and sniffed deeply. Though Hubert’s expression remained neutral, Thanily’s stance went a bit more tense. “Any ongoing spell with this large an area of effect would be extremely difficult to cast. We must remain on our guard.”

They had no way of knowing what awaited them in the woods, so they advanced in battle formation. Byleth was at the front, the Sword of the Creator a faint orange glow to guide their way. Bernadetta had taken Edelgard’s place on the front lines; for some reason she could see through the haze better than anybody else. At first Edelgard thought it was her naturally excellent eyesight—Bernadetta was a sniper and had the visual acuity to match—but Avarine’s was even better and she was nearly as blind as everyone else. They could have time to figure out just what it was about Bernadetta that let her gaze penetrate this magical fog. 

She was immeasurably proud of Bernadetta and her progress. Overcoming such continual ingrained trauma was no mean feat, yet Bernadetta got up each day and moved forward regardless. Her progress over the last three years was remarkable. Bernadetta was yet another living example of what humans were capable of when they were not stifled and smothered and actually given the tools and support to succeed, and Edelgard could not wait to see what she would do after the war in their new and better world. 

Bernadetta stopped short, suddenly enough that Leonie bumped into her back. There were a few frantic apologies that Malecki stopped with a held-up paw and a mutter of, “There’s something on the forest floor. It looks like...a grave?”

That stopped the apologies quickly, along with any other chatyer. Hubert tensed and let the magic flicker up his hands again, Zilbariel immediately turned into a wolverine, and even Linhardt fully roused himself. 

“Do you think it could be Claude?” Ferdinand asked, his hands curling around his halberd. 

Bernadetta drew her reinforced killer bow and approached the gravestone, all but vanishing into the mist. There was a pause, then her strangled cry of, “The Crest of Riegan is on the gravestone!”

A moment of fear shot through the group. Was this another trick, an ambush?! Was Claude truly dead, and if so then what could have killed the slippery Duke? She and Byleth didn’t need to tell the rest to slip into their battle stances; well-practiced, they did it on their own. She and Byleth turned to cover each others’ backs, while fighters moved to cover mages (Petra and Dorothea, Caspar and Linhardt, Leonie and Lysithea, Ferdinand and Hubert with both of them edging towards Bernadetta). Peakane screamed out a challenge from her backpack; both Belial and Thanily snarled deep and readied themselves to strike. 

“Wait!” Bernadetta cried out just a moment later. “The name on the gravestone isn’t Claude, it’s...Chulainn?”

Chulainn? What kind of name was that? It wasn’t Claude’s middle name, nor the name of any recent Riegan that Edelgard was aware of. She and Hubert shared a silent look as they slowly approached the lone grave. 

It was...peaceful. Almost pretty, in a serene way. The forest around the grave looked like gray-green smudges in the fog, and if it ever lifted it would overlook the shore of Lake Teutates. And the name on the tombstone, below the carved Crest of Riegan, was unquestionably the name Chulainn.

Caspar cautiously approached the grave, fists up as if it were about to rise up and strike. “Was Chulainn an ancient Riegan or something?”

Lysithea shook her head; Zilbariel sniffed the loose earth over the grave. “No. This is nowhere near Riegan territory, modern or historic, and the grave is fresh. It can’t have been dug more than a couple of months ago.”

Linhardt hadn’t said much, but he had that look on his face which tended to precede either a brilliant observation or a complete non sequitur. 

“What kind of name is Chulainn?” he muttered to his daemon. “The etymology sounds very similar to Saint Cichol and Saint Cethleann.”

Runilite shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking, but Riegan is an Elite’s Crest, not a Saint’s Crest.”

Linhardt’s eyes lit up. “Which only deepens the mystery! Who is this Chulainn? What is their connection to the Crest of Riegan, and why are they buried on the shore of a sacred lake with explicit ties to Saint Indech? Could Chulainn possibly be a forgotten saint?”

“In a way, yes.” 

Edelgard and her friends froze. She knew that voice. And as she turned around to see the man with the serpent daemon emerge from the fog, she knew the man who bore that voice. That voice was a little deeper, and the man looked a lot more tired, but it was unmistakably Claude and Simurg von Riegan.

Notes:

Guys. Guys, guys guys.

@_einzbern did some absolutely GORGEOUS fanart of Byleth and Belial, and Edelgard and Avarine that can be seen below! Seriously, it is absolutely astonishing and I am still blown away and stunned and grateful beyond words.
https://twitter.com/_einzbern/status/1383839603761713156?s=21

Thank you so much, @_einzbern! And everyone who's reading, thank YOU for reading and enjoying! I hope you enjoy what's coming next as much as I am.

Chapter 33: The Truth

Summary:

...Will set you free.

No more deception. No more lies.

Fodlan's bloody history must be shared. Fodlan's bloody history must end.

(TW: More of Sylvain's POV)

Notes:

I do this for all of us.

That is what I said before every battle, and it quickly became my mantra. I hated battle, still hate it, even if I was a frighteningly good soldier. There are still nights where I wake up shuddering from the memory of it, where both Embrienne and Thanily need to soothe Malecki back into a state of calm. So why did I fight on regardless, when I could have easily stayed home? Because the people I loved needed me more. I was powerful, somehow, both physically and in terms of influence, and my crest made me even more so. What would I be if I abandoned all that for my own selfish desires if not...well, selfish and irresponsible? Though I never asked for such power I possessed it regardless, and so had the responsibility to use it for the benefit of others. 

After all, the church had the power to step in and force the nobility to cease the worst of their excesses, and they did nothing. We all know where that led, in the end. Ferdinand speculates that even without our war, the entire system would have collapsed in on itself during the next famine or plague, likely with much bloodier results. It’s difficult to argue otherwise. 

I see my children playing in the garden outside, their only worries their lessons for tomorrow, or not to fall into the rosebushes or Hubert’s poisonous plants. They are growing up in a home full of all the warmth and love I never received, and will never know the pain and deprivation that so many of my peers and friends did. It will never matter what gender they are, or whether they bear the crest of Cichol, or Indech, or none at all. 

I fought for them, became a soldier so my children and all the other children of Fodlan can grow up to be physicians and writers and artisans, so they can grow up free, so that they never learn how it feels to pick up a bow and fire an arrow into the heart of another human being. 

—From the diaries of Bernadetta and Malecki von Aegir (nee Varley). Although she and Ferdinand von Aegir shared a romantic relationship with Hubert von Vestra for the duration of their lives, and he was the father of (at minimum) her second child, she did not use his last name in official correspondence for several years, and even then only rarely.

It was because of Byleth that Edelgard had enough faith in Claude to even agree to this in the first place. The man flaunted his reputation as a devious schemer back at the academy, almost as if he was playing to the assumptions people would automatically have of a half-Almyran man with a viper daemon. Edelgard had immediately pegged him as a threat back then, especially thanks to his constant concealment of his true intentions; by the time she was even able to consider him a potential ally or at least neutral party, it was far too late. 

Of course, now that they were on opposite sides, Claude more than confirmed her initial assessment, while stunning everybody who managed to fall for his misdirection. To hold the Alliance together for nearly three years was a remarkable feat. To do it under nearly three years of constant pressure and threat of warfare was unheard of. And now she was about to find out what was so important that he dropped it all to run off to a lake in the middle of nowhere, then call her after him. 

That was, of course, assuming this wasn’t a particularly convoluted ambush meant to kill all of them in one fell swoop. 

“Don’t think about that, El,” Avarine whispered in a sharp voice, though of course that was impossible. 

Claude looked...good. He’d fully grown into his adult frame, grown a chinstrap beard, turned his loose waves and curls into something windswept and...rakish. He was devastatingly handsome—even she, who generally preferred the company of women over men and was Claude’s foe to boot—could easily see that. He wore padded clothes, reinforced for the chill of high altitudes and high speeds of flying, and Simurg was draped around his waist alongside a sash with classically Almyran patterns he wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore, was he. 

Claude just looked them over and flashed his signature smirk, Simurg slithering up his side to drape lazily over his shoulder. “Ah, what an honor to meet the princess and Hubes in the flesh once more. You’re as lovely as ever, Edelgard.” There was a brief titter of laughter at Hubert’s nickname, probably from Calphour. 

“Her Majesty is the emperor of Adrestia, and you will address her as such,” Hubert growled, Thanily curling her lip in a slight snarl beside him. 

“Ah, my apologies, Hubes,” Claude answered with a mimic of his signature bow. “I’ll make sure to address her with the respect she deserves. Still ‘Her Majesty’s’ faithful hound trotting in her wingbeats, aren’t you?”

“Careful now. Some of us hounds were created to hunt duplicitous serpents such as yourself.”

There was another long pause. Then, “You still owe me that game of chess,” Claude said with a grin. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten.”

“This conflict isn’t enough entertainment for you?”

“Eh, I prefer my chess games to be played for lower stakes.” 

“Ugh, get a room,” Dorothea interrupted with a roll of her eyes. 

The simultaneous affronted glares from four sets of eyes was enough to crack smiles on the faces of Edelgard and several other of her friends, enough to set everyone just a little bit more at ease. That moment of relaxation must have been what Claude was looking for, because he procured a stretched-out piece of soft flatbread, slightly spongy-looking and with an almost undulating texture as if it was cooked upon a bed of pebbles. “I know these rituals have fallen by the wayside in Fodlan, but if we eat this bread together then you’re my guests and I can’t do anything bad to you—and yes that includes traps or ambushes by another person. If I do I, I’m not even sure how to explain just how bad a thing that is. I may be a schemer but I wouldn’t do that. ” 

Hubert eyed the flatbread as if it was suddenly going to launch out of Claude’s hand and bite him, and honestly she was of a similar mind. This was Claude after all, and didn’t he always boast of his proficiency with poisons?

The standoff continued for several more minutes, until Byleth said, “We came here for a reason,” marched out of the fog, snatched the bread out of Claude’s hand, tore off two pieces of it, gave one to Claude, and crammed the other into her mouth. 

“If’f goog,” Byleth said as she chewed the bread, and Edelgard was left with the reality that this was the woman she had fallen in love with. 

Simurg reared back as if struck by the sight of Byleth; Claude ate his bread before talking but she could see his eyes widen at the sight of Byleth. “So, Teach, you really are alive,” he said. “I’d say you should have joined the Deer all those years ago, but nothing to be done about it now, right?”

“I’m right where I want to be,” said Byleth, and the warmth flooded through Edelgard once more. 

“So are all of us, I hope,” Claude answered; Simurg had recovered and was curled around his body once more. “Well, we’ve broken bread, so might as well get on with it?”

“Yes, please, ” Thanily muttered to Avarine. 

The bread (called sangak, apparently) was, in fact, delicious. Chewy, spongy, a little bit stretchy, with a depth of flavor that few Adrestian breads possessed. It would definitely go well with a savory cheese, or a tart jam, or—what did Claude call it? Babaganoush? How much of the world had been hidden from them because of Church doctrine that Fodlan was superior, the only land blessed by the goddess, and didn’t need the barbarism of any foreign nation? How much more had they lost because of such myopic arrogance? 

Avarine focused her gaze on Claude’s back, on Simurg’s undulating scale pattern. “When we take back Fodlan, and create a more equal society, we’ll open up our borders and participate in the world once more.”

“I daresay that Claude would be more than happy with such a proposal,” Edelgard mused.

Edelgard didn’t trust Claude as far as Hubert could throw him, and their chess rivalry aside Hubert trusted him even less. What she did trust was his apparent desperation. 

With Claude here, and both Hilda and Marianne in her custody, it would have been so easy to just march on to Deirdru and capture the aquatic city. Not to mention that, even after they broke bread, this whole endeavor would also be an incredibly easy way for Claude to decapitate the Imperial army in one stroke. Yet here they were. 

“Because there’s no way Claude wasn’t aware of this,” Avarine whispered. “ Claude made himself incredibly vulnerable for this one chance to tell us what he learned.” And Claude was one of the most evasive people Edelgard knew. Yet here he was, leaving the capitol frighteningly vulnerable. He essentially offered up both Marianne and Hilda, his closest allies and friends, as leverage. And immediately opened with the strongest oaths of hospitality he could think of, oaths that made Petra gasp once she mentally translated them and left her slipping in and out of her native tongue as she attempted to explain the full depth of their significance, if Almyran culture had a similar emphasis on hospitality as her own. And casually flung around references to his Almyran heritage after years of alluding to it at best. 

Put simply, as she and Hubert eventually concluded, Claude always gave himself an escape route, yet here he gave them all the tools and information needed to make him a powerless pariah should he stab them in the back. 

Edelgard clenched her right hand, her substitute for nodding whenever Avarine was perched on her shoulder. “If Claude is willing to make himself so uncharacteristically vulnerable to deliver this message, then we should listen to what he has to say.”

Even if Claude’s incessant need to be the gadfly was making her strongly regret the decision. 

He was still rambling, peppering his chatter with little jabs that were enough to constantly irk her and Hubert without actually crossing the lines of what either of them would tolerate. “You’re better than most, Princess—sorry, Emperor—but none of you here in Fodlan ever really learned to look beyond your own noses. Or ask why the supposedly holy relics twitch like a dying animal. Can’t really blame you when you were taught not to question, not that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.”

Avarine blinked and twisted her head almost to a right angle with her body. “Hang on, what was that?”

The Hresvelgs and Vestras alone knew the truth of the Heroes’ Relics: they were not divine gifts but rather made from human ingenuity and by human hands. How did Claude find out about this? And the way he said it…

There was something else to Claude’s smile now. Maybe it was the way he ran his thumb down Simurg’s scales. “I’d tell you, but it’s not my story to tell.”

Right on cue, they crossed some unseen boundary, and the fog lifted all at once. Now everyone could see what Avarine had described, the slight shimmer almost on the edge of seeing that denoted the boundary of whatever magical concealment this was. The water was also unnaturally still; when Edelgard looked down she could see her reflection, undistorted, gazing up back at her. There was an altar, so old and forgotten that algae smeared every one of its surfaces. An elaborate keep, closer to an actual castle than not, rose from the water. On second glance, it was too well maintained to be the sunken ruin that first impressions suggested. But who—or what—would live in a partially-underwater castle? 

Two figures approached, and as they came into view...Claude wasn’t lying about it not being his story to tell. Avarine curled her talons in anticipation; it was time to get answers.

Because, walking up the moss-slicked pathway, were Seteth and Flayn. 

---

Being held in custody wasn’t as bad as Marianne was afraid it would be. 

She’d heard the rumors, read the propaganda, and having gone to school with the Black Eagles dismissed most of them as hyperbole. Mostly. 

Edelgard wasn’t a power-hungry tyrant who would round up captured clergy members and execute them in front of their flock, Caspar probably wasn’t the blood-crazed berserker people whispered of, and Hubert definitely didn’t eat babies. She was still a hostage, a prisoner of war—her weapons confiscated, a silencing shackle placed on her wrist that interrupted the magical flow of even the most basic heal spell—but she was treated well. The food was bland but filling, with a lot of root vegetables, dried fish, and crackers, and her room was comfortable and full of books. They mostly left her alone, which was always fine by her. It gave Marianne a lot of time to herself, to write and pray. 

Being alone like this made it easier for the bleak thoughts to whisper in her head once more, but she was better at fending them off these days. The writing definitely helped, more than Marianne thought it would when she first picked up the quill. Though she still wrote about the goddess, it wasn’t the desperate confessions, offerings of penance, or prayers for death that she wrote of a few years ago. Now they were more...musings. Thoughts on what the goddess meant to her, the way faith could be a balm, how it could provide comfort and not just be wielded as a cudgel like Edelgard thought it was. Crests were awful, but, maybe if she read what other people felt and believed, maybe—

Penumbrior looked up from the bed, his ears perked. “Someone’s coming.”

That was odd. Marianne was pretty good at sensing time, and the troops here kept to a fairly strict schedule. She should be left to her own devices for a few more hours. Marianne scrambled to her feet and approached the door. 

There were three people, two men and a woman, their daemons small and unobtrusive (a skunk, a shrike, some type of hawk not native to Fodlan). They were mages—warlocks—Marianne recognized their uniform and could sense the aura of magic around them. 

“Hello?”

The mages didn’t say anything at first, just filed into her room. The leader of the three, a clean-shaven man whose skunk daemon didn’t even bother to introduce her(?)self to Penumbrior, made his way to Marianne and waved what looked like a portable version of one of Hanneman’s devices over her. It beeped, and he said in an odd accent, “Maurice’s crest, just as they said.”

The cold prickles running down her spine instantly iced over. Who were these people? How did they know about her crest? Where were the regular guards?

Penumbrior stiffened, “Marianne, I smell blood!”

The three mages (dark mages, she could see their magic crackle and ooze just like Lysithea’s) surrounded her, lunged—

—And The Beast roared to meet them.

Penumbrior sprang nearly a meter in the air, crashed down on the female warlock’s shrike daemon, the warlock screamed and crumpled— 

Dark magic from the leader, she heard the name Myson , pierced through her innate resistances, left her gasping and boiling from the inside out but The Beast kept her fighting on—

No magic, Blutgang locked away, nothing but her bare hands and the heavy silencing shackle on her wrist. Heavy metal...She punched the male mage in the throat, felt his trachea collapse. Saw him clutch his throat gasping for air with honking coughs, stomped down until he went still— 

The head warlock cast another spell, her strength flagged but her blood compelled her. Penumbrior was a rabid beast screaming and scratching at the skunk daemon his armor ignoring her tough claws. Marianne grabbed the dark mage’s face and clawed down. He shrieked, blood spurt and oozed between her fingers—

He snarled, blood dripped from the ruin of his eye, and cast another spell at Penumbrior himself— 

Pain, too much for even The Beast. The floor rising up, the sound of rope and chains. Then, darkness.

---

The last time Edelgard saw Flayn, she had been left behind when Hubert warped them all out of the Holy Tomb, had been frozen in place by the horror of the situation and the sudden betrayal she must have felt. There had been no time to lament her loss, with all that needed to be done. Ashe had mentioned that he saw a single wyvern head north, and neither Seteth nor Flayn appeared during the battle for Garreg Mach, but then the war started and they were quickly forgotten. 

Seteth was complicit, frozen by inaction and his own personal weakness, but Edelgard never held any blame or hatred for Flayn, just sorrow that she had chosen to take arms up against them. Until she and her father (because there was no way they were brother and sister) hadn’t. “I didn’t see you at the battle for Garreg Mach, or since. So you did retreat...Thank you. But why?” Seteth was the Immaculate One’s right hand; where she went, so did he...until now. Edelgard had held no hopes for his defection—or, by extension, Flayn’s. Yet here they had retreated and effectively become a neutral party. Here they were, in a sacred lake, in comfortable robes, the tips of their pointed ears sticking out from their green hair. 

Avarine focused on the bearded dragon perched on Seteth’s shoulder, and remembered how Seiros crushed her false mantis daemon without a second thought. Now that she looked she could see the blank animal stare of that lizard instead of the intelligence of a true daemon. Seteth still cared for his false daemon, even now, and Flayn must have kept the capsule and let hers go. She knew why Seteth kept that bearded dragon, for the comfort of her and her friends. Yet she still found it incredibly offensive to see Seteth continue to play at being human when he clearly wasn’t. 

Seteth closed his eyes; there was a deep weariness to them that she had never seen before. “As you have probably surmised, I was a major figure in the Church a long time ago, in a time before I was Seteth. I retreated to care for Flayn, and when we returned, both Rhea and the Church had morphed into something...unrecognizable. Something that I could no longer in good conscience support. I suppose I have both Flayn and you, Byleth, to thank, for you forced me to open my eyes.” They were open, now, and narrowed. “Why are you allied with the Agarthans? Do not lie to me and say you are unaware of their atrocities.” 

Agarthans, so that was their name. It was certainly less of a mouthful than Those Who Slithered In The Dark, that much was certain. Avarine rustled her feathers as Edelgard looked upon Seteth, Flayn, and Claude. Without words, both Hubert and Byleth stepped up to flank her in turn, and she heard the Strike force approach as well. She wasn’t alone, and never would be again. “We needed their power, nothing more,” Edelgard said. “Believe me, they will pay for what they have done.” Hopefully sooner, rather than later.

“Do you know everything they have done?” Flayn asked in a soft voice. 

Of course, Linhardt chose this exact moment to push himself to the front and interrogate the both of them. “You clearly aren’t human, so are you related to Rhea, or I suppose the Immaculate One? Does that mean you can also transform into creatures such as her?” Linhardt had procured a quill and scroll from somewhere, and Runilite nearly vibrated with excitement. “If the Archbishop, Seiros, and the Immaculate One are one and the same being, then does that mean that you are—hey!”

Thanily picked up Runilite by the scruff of her neck like she was an unruly kit; Hubert pushed Linhardt back and said, “Apologies. Continue.”

Seteth shook his head, punched his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should be grateful, that you and Claude were never in the same class. You are both far too observant and inquisitive.”

“Ah, so you finally admit that your goal was to stifle the intellect, the creativity, the sheer potential of humanity for your own power and hidden agendas,” Hubert drawled. “Tell me, Seteth; or whomever you truly are, did you enjoy crushing the world beneath your heel?”

“Hubert, not now.” She held up a hand to still him, though she felt the same way. Did Seteth actively raise his axe, or fangs, or whatever, against humanity? Or did he simply wring his hands and lament without doing anything to stop it? And how complicit was Flayn in all this? 

“Still,” Avarine reminded her across their bond, “They finally left. It won’t do to antagonize them now, not when they finally walked away. Not to mention they’re standing right here in front of us, and know everything.” And so she held her tongue, because as satisfying and deserved a tongue-lashing would be, antagonizing Seteth and Flayn wasn’t worth it. 

Did they think the same thing? Because instead of lecturing her, Seteth merely asked, “What do you know of the origin of the Heroes’ Relics?”

Ah, now they were getting somewhere. “That they were not gifts from the goddess at all, but rather crafted by human hands and human ingenuity,” she said, to the gasps of many of her friends at the casual rejection of one of the tenets of the Church’s teachings. And then the church took that creation away from humanity as well, because it was so much easier to say humans were helpless children in need of a smothering nanny rather than capable creatures who could stand on their own. And yet...Claude was silent, and a small frown creased both Seteth and Flayn’s faces. That was the condensed truth of the relics, as passed down from Hresvelg to Hresvelg. Was there more to it than that? Edelgard’s gaze slid over to Hubert’s, stoic as ever. Avarine, out of the corner of her eye, could see Byleth take out the Sword of the Creator and hold it in her hands. For a moment, Edelgard felt as if she was standing at the edge of a cliff, flames at her back and sharp rocks below. What more had been hidden from them, what had Seiros deemed so terrible that she couldn’t even share it with Wilhelm?

There was a wordless noise of triumph from Flayn, a glimmer in her eyes, the same that she would make when she grasped a difficult subject in class or successfully performed a complicated combat maneuver for the first time. “Father, did I not tell you? Edelgard does not know the full truth; there is no way she would have worked with the Agarthans if she did!”

“What is the full story of the Heroes’ Relics?” she said with narrowed eyes. And… “Claude, you’re now Duke Riegan, so where is Failnaught?”

“Buried in that grave,” was all he said. 

“Buried under—why would you do that?!” Failnaught was an incredibly powerful Relic, even leaving aside how it was one of the symbols of House Riegan and the entire order she was tearing down. Why would Claude bury such a powerful asset? “If Chulainn was a saint, was Failnaught originally his bow, taken from him after being slain in battle?” Even as Edelgard said it, it made no sense. The Relics were crafted by human hands, that much she was sure of. And as far as she knew, taking weapons as battlefield trophies was accepted practice in both Fodlan and Almyra. Hell, her own short axe was taken off an enemy warmaster after the one she had at the academy finally broke mid-battle. 

Claude’s answering laugh was far more bitter than she expected; Simurg’s tail wouldn’t stop rattling. “Oh princess, it’s so much worse than that.”

Seteth‘s voice was rough around the edges—was he holding back tears? “Chulainn is Failnaught. His tendons and bones stolen to make the weapon, his Stone torn from his chest. His blood consumed, then passed down through the line of Riegans to become their stolen crest.” There were tears, a thin line of them streaming down his face. “And Chulainn was my son.”

---

Every sentence Seteth uttered was somehow worse, somehow more monstrous, than the one before it.

Or perhaps he should say Cichol, because Seteth was Saint Cichol—as in the very saint who bestowed a crest onto the first von Aegir, the crest that now ran through Ferdinand’s own veins and saved his life more than once in combat, except that crest was from Cichol’s blood —and Flayn was Cethleann and Linhardt had to sit down and clutch Runilite as the story continued so that he would not pass out. 

And yet those Saint’s Crests were obtained honorably and honestly. For the Ten Elites and Nemesis himself were not heroes or saviors but rather a pack of thieves and murderers. 

They stole upon the goddess Sothis, murdered her in her sleep, then slaughtered her children, the Nabateans. But the atrocities did not end there. Those so-called heroes then proceeded to mutilate their bodies, turned their hearts and bones into the relics so revered today, drank their blood and stole the crests for themselves. The entire system of nobility, the crests that made one better in Fodlani society, all of it was born from murder and torture. 

Somehow, it got even worse. 

The Nabateans’ hearts, the Crest Stones that powered these so-called relics and turned Miklan into a demonic beast, were also the equivalent of their daemons. 

Ferdinand tried to imagine himself in their position—his throat cut, his flesh and bones twisted into a weapon powered by Embrienne’s very dust, then his mutilated remains used to murder Bernadetta and desecrate her and Malecki in the same way—and found himself unable to fully do so. Even delving too far into that hypothetical scenario made him want to vomit. 

As Ferdinand beheld his comrades he could see that they were also horrified beyond words at Seteth’s tale. Linhardt and Lysithea both vomited; Lysithea’s was a strange color akin to Hubert’s coffee grounds. Hubert, for his part, curled his hands into fists that were now shaking. Hubert was remarkably caring and sensitive towards daemon-related trauma, especially since his own, though he would never dare openly admit to such a softer side of himself. Bernadetta clutched Malecki with one hand and slipped the other into Hubert’s; if not for the fact that it would offend him more, Ferdinand would have done the same. 

(He would have to consider that later, how Bernadetta taking Hubert’s hand did not invite jealousy, but a forlorn hope that the dour man would allow Ferdinand to offer similar comfort, one day.)

“How could you let such a thing continue?!” Edelgard roared. “The so-called Heroes’ Relics were made from the desecrated bodies and souls of your kin, your son , and yet you let them be revered? How could you help prop up the false superiority of those who took everything from you, and then perpetuate such a lie?!” Avarine’s wings stretched out behind her, and she looked so much like some of the images of the Goddess that...well, perhaps it was wisest to hold his tongue on that particular observation.

Seteth—Cichol—was silent, and let the accusations wash over him. Cethleann, still standing on a sandbar of sorts with her feet trailing in the cold water, said, “Some of the blame lies with me. I was grievously injured after the final battle, and was forced to enter a state of hibernation to survive. My father withdrew from society and watched over me all that time. By the time I woke and regained my strength, we re-emerged into a world that had greatly changed.” She squared her shoulders and looked Edelgard in the eye. “My father and I are still furious beyond words at your war, Edelgard. However, it is not without justification.”

“Do not blame yourself,” rumbled Indech—because, yes, Saint Indech himself had arrived partway through the conversation. Saint Indech, as it turned out, was a gigantic turtle-like magical beast with the attitude of a genial old grandfather and more than a hint of Bernadetta’s timidity. Bernadetta herself cautiously approached Indech with wide-eyed disbelief; Ferdinand just stood on the platform and tried to take it in as Embrienne muttered, This may as well be happening now.

Regardless, Indech provided additional context. “It started from a need to protect ourselves,” he said. “Humans were too many, and too powerful as a group, and we were terrified that if the truth of the Relics spread then the survivors of Zanado would be hunted down.” He shook his giant head, which sent a light shower of water over him and his comrades. “Cichol was focused on Cethleann, and I...was never one for confrontation. By the time I realized the Church was twisting into something else entirely, I did not know how to challenge Seiros. Or perhaps I was too afraid to do so. Regardless, I wanted nothing more to do with what the Church was becoming, so I fled here.”

“So you abdicated your responsibility instead,” said Hubert. Indech was quiet; what could one say in response to that?

And, as to what the church was becoming…

If it started as a way for the surviving Nabateans to protect themselves, it quickly became a front for two other things entirely. The first was to maintain control over humanity. Moveable type, lenses that could let one peer into the heavens, all of it suppressed so humans would not question or possibly rebel against the church again. Rhea—no, Seiros—had appointed herself as humanity’s nanny, and decided to smother them instead. 

The second was to revive Sothis at all costs, and their professor was a result. 

It was no secret by now, the horrible truth that the connection between Byleth and Belial was severed, that somehow the two of them had clawed their way back to something approaching one complete being, and that Seiros was responsible. But to hear the full truth...that Seiros had placed the crest stone, the daemon, of Sothis inside a newborn Byleth, in hope that she would become a vessel for the progenitor goddess? Without any regard to the actual living being who would be sacrificed in exchange? Such a person had no business ruling over humanity, or declaring themselves the moral shepherd thereof.

There were more crimes besides, but this was already almost too much to take in at once. Ferdinand felt as though he were drowning; even after three years fighting at Edelgard’s side to overturn this corrupt society, even after learning just how corrupt and rotten the underbelly of Fladlan was, this full truth was so much worse than he could have ever imagined. An oppressive and totalitarian church on one side, a glorified death cult on the other, and all of Fodlan crushed in between. 

“What did I tell you, Princess?” said Claude, and Ferdinand had never heard him sound so weary before. Hubert must have been horrified too, to not respond. 

Embrienned pressed herself against her neck, right against the pulse of his carotid. They were human, not the playthings of other beings. He and the rest of Fodlan had the right to walk their own path, just as the Nabateans had a right to live. 

The history of Fodlan was written in pain and blood and lies and blood and oppression and blood, and it needed to end.

---

Another day, another reminder of how he was a useless piece of shit. 

“Oh, I know what you can do!” Zepida hissed, her tail lashing from side to side as they paced the frozen gardens of Castle Gautier because what the fuck else did he have to do beyond that or listen to whatever crap was spewing from Zepida’s mouth? “Why don’t you head up to Sreng and wave your lance at them a bit? I’m talking about the actual Lance of Ruin, not your dick, though that’s also a Lance of Ruin. Oh, right, the Empire stationed troops there, so you’re not needed anywhere anymore.”

“Will you shut up already?!” But his damn daemon was right, wasn’t she. What point was there to him anymore? 

“You could have joined the Strike Force, actually gone and done something with your sorry life, but noooo!” Zepida was on a roll now, hissing and spitting and practically hopping in place. “Instead you ran back to daddy because you were too chickenshit to actually go against him and Dimitri, and look where it got you!”

“I got my father and Ingrid to surrender without a fight!” 

Zepida whirled around; for a moment Sylvain was afraid she’d claw him up again, but she was able to do the same with her words alone. “Yeah, and what have you done since? Take in Felix? Sat around feeling sorry for yourself! You’ve always relied on your crest to make life easy for you but now it isn’t gonna matter anymore. Hip hoo-fucking-ray, what do you have to offer? Your dashing good looks? Your winning personality?”

“I’m still going to be the next Margrave!”

“Yeah, for whatever that’s worth! You had your chance and blew it Sylvain, and now I’m stuck here languishing with you! Why don’t you go off with Felix, the both of you can stand around whining and feeling sorry for yourself!”

“I—It’s not—” Zepida had to be lying, she had to be, but Sylvain had no idea how to counter her. Because it was true, he and Felix were just standing around feeling sorry for themselves instead of actually doing something like he heard Ingrid and Annette were doing. Felix, okay, yeah, his dad was dead and his territory was completely overrun by those shadowy dark mage creeps, but what was Sylvain’s excuse? 

“None, you piece of shit!”

“Shut up!” He tried to hit Zepida, but she dodged and swatted and hissed himself again. Sylvain screamed into his hands; his cold palms and the snow swallowed the sound. He was getting worse, he knew it, but he had no idea what to do about it! Mercedes wasn’t around, and even if he could talk to Felix about this sort of thing, which guys never did, nobody in Faerghus ever talked about their feelings especially not if both were guys, he couldn’t. Not with everything Felix was going through.

He had to laugh, low and rough as he trudged back to the castle, Zepida finally blessedly silent. The only thing people in Faerghus were ever really taught was how to die for king and country, and now that both were gone he had no clue what to do next. 

Maybe he’d go write some angsty poetry, then get drunk with the servants. Not as if he had anything else better to do.

...Or he could catch up with Ingrid. Because as Sylvain entered the main hallway, there she was next to Felix, Albarrog curled up under the bench just like old times. Except the old times were gone, and they weren’t coming back.

In the spot where Dimitri would stand and Delcabia would pace, there was instead Mercedes and Cygnis, and Goddess Mercedes was absolutely gorgeous. Don’t get him wrong, Mercedes was always a complete knockout, but now…

Damn, the only reason that he didn’t immediately ask to get in bed with her was because he respected her too much. And was more than a little afraid of her, actually. Mercedes had this ability to see right through a person and go through the throat, and Cygnis didn’t beat around the bush. Plus, there was also, Mercedes also had her life dictated by her crest and people who wanted to use her as a broodmare and nothing else! So why was she mostly okay in her head and he was a dysfunctional piece of shit! It wasn’t fair!

Deep breath, Sylvain. Need to seem fine, can’t have anyone else seeing what a wreck you are. Sylvain grinned and gave his friends a cheerful wave. “Ingrid! Mercedes! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“Sylvain, it’s good to see you and Felix. I’m glad you’re doing well.” Well was probably an overstatement, but man Sylvain had no idea just how much he missed Ingrid. 

Even Felix looked happier, Bismalt more relaxed in his capsule, though he’d never admit it. Instead he folded his arms and asked, “What are you doing here?” Which was...actually a really good question. Wasn’t Ingrid supposed to be back in Galatea territory, actually doing something with her life? And Mercedes had vanished around the time Dimitri was arrested and executed…

“I’ll let Mercedes answer that,” Ingrid said. “I’m still trying to process it myself, honestly.”

At that cue, Mercedes and Cygnis stood up and spoke. Apparently she’d been wandering around Faerghus for the past three years, helping orphans and puppies and generally being a good person. Apparently every nasty rumor they’d heard floating out of the parts of Faerghus captured by those not-Empire goons was true, and didn’t even scratch the surface of what was going on. Entire sections of city slums were practically ghost towns, and yeah he didn’t want to think too hard about what could be happening to those people. He still had nightmares of Conand Tower and Micklan.

And then Mercedes said the one thing they had all secretly hoped but didn’t dare to wish. “Dimitri is alive, and last I heard he was heading towards Arianrhod.”

---

“I knew the Relics were made by human hands, but not from bones and souls.”

She was still reeling from Seteth’s revelations. They all were. Claude’s gambit had paid off; the entire Strike Force had broken up in groups to grapple with the truth of Fodlan, the truth of the Crests and the Relics and the Nabateans and her , and figure out what to do next. Here she and Edelgard were, side by side, overlooking the ancient half-submerged castle. It was almost sunset, and the fading daylight glimmered on the water like diamonds. 

She never would have been able to make similes like that before Sothis, and now she knew exactly why. Sothis had been with her because Serios had placed her crest stone inside Byleth when she was born. It was why she had no heartbeat, why she grew up severed. Why she was only half a complete being.

“You’re not going to stop the war, are you?” she asked.

Edelgard recoiled, Avarine went stiff for a moment against Belial’s side. “Of course not! How could you even ask that?!”

“I...I knew you wouldn’t.” Byleth looked down at Belial’s green fur, the swoop of their horns. She didn’t look at her own reflection in the water. “I just needed to hear it.

“Rhea always treated me special, up until the moment I went against her. She was fattening me up like...like a pig for slaughter.” And then there was the whole thing with putting her in Sothis’s garb, and petting Belial, and she really didn’t want to think about that anymore. “She never cared about me. Sothis did. Sothis always said that I was Byleth and Belial Eisner, that I was my own person.”

Edelgard shook her head. “I still can’t believe that you have Sothis’s crest stone inside you, or that her...daemon, I suppose, was with you the entire time at the academy, even though the evidence is literally written all over your face. And that Seiros wanted to replace Belial with her, use your body as a vessel to reincarnate Sothis…” She shuddered. “It’s hard to think of something more monstrous, especially considering that this was from the supposedly holy and morally-superior Archbishop. Somebody who would commit acts like that has no business ruling over humanity”

“Sothis never wanted any of this to happen. I think she would approve of what we’re doing, even if it would make her sad.” Though, even if she didn’t, Byleth could never side with somebody who planned to use her and throw her away, who told her to lead her students into battle so they would learn never to defy the church out of fear, who ordered her to kill Edelgard when she rose up against them regardless. After all, she wasn’t Sothis. She was Byleth and Belial Eisner, no matter what Seiros said or did.

Edelgard laughed and it was...she needed to hear that laugh more often. The setting sun cast her white hair in an almost golden glow, and Byleth was filled with the almost overwhelming urge to run her fingers through it. “Well, it’s good to know that I have divine approval on my mission to attack and dethrone a demigod, though it’s not exactly an endorsement I ever sought out.” 

“If anything, Seteth’s—or Cichol, I suppose—tale only serves to reinforce my argument. There is absolutely nothing divine about the origin of crests, or the Relics, or the nobility at all. It is just a sordid tale of murder and betrayal, falsified and mythologized in a desperate attempt at self-preservation,” Avarine continued. “Though we do need to ensure Cichol, Cethleann, and Indech’s safety. They have every right to live openly and unmolested, if out of human affairs, and they will have justice. Seiros too, should she surrender, though obviously stripped of her power and influence.”

“She won’t surrender,” said Belial.

“I know. But I have to make that offer regardless.”   

They were silent for a while, watching the setting sun side by side. Several minutes passed, time enough for Edelgard to move a little closer and say, “I...Thank you, Byleth, for being here. For being by my side.”

“I’m glad I’m here too, Edelgard.” And yet it was more than that. Her emotions were blunted, usually only the extremes poking through, but those extremes were…she wanted to see Edelgard happy. Wanted to keep her safe. Wanted this moment, just them and the sunset, to stretch out for a very long time.

“El,” said Edelgard.

“Huh?”

A bit of pink crept up Edelgard’s cheeks, and she smiled again, and she was beautiful. “You can call me just El, instead of Edelgard. If you want. That’s what my parents and closest sisters used to call me when I was little. Now Avarine is the only one left who calls me El. But if you called me that too, I...It would mean a great deal to me.”

Edelgard...El...went quiet again, playing her hands over each other, and only stopped when Belial spoke. “I...don’t remember much, when Byleth was asleep. But I was with you and Avarine near the end, right?” Edelgard nodded, and they continued. “I don’t remember what exactly you said, but I felt...warm. And safe. So incredibly lonely, yet somehow at the same time I knew I was safe. With you.”

“I...Belial…”

Silence, again, and she and El were so close that their shoulders nearly touched. Before Byleth realized it, she asked, “El...can I kiss you?”

El spluttered, and now her face and neck were bright red. Avarine shrieked and nearly fell into the lake. “I, I, w-what?!”

Was that the wrong thing? Did she say or do something wrong here? “I...Edelgard, El, I don’t...feel much. Didn’t feel much before the monastery, before I got to be your teacher and take care of you and everyone else in our class. But when I’m around you, I feel safe. And happy. And I want to make you feel safe and happy too. I want to be by your side, through this, and afterwards. So, I...can I kiss you?”

El swallowed but didn’t say anything. But then she nodded. And so Byleth did.

El’s lips were soft, and warm, and she made a little noise that made Byleth shiver. It was nice, and when she pulled back El’s eyes were huge. Byleth opened her mouth, and Edelgard surged up, grabbed her arms, and kissed her again. 

It was warm, and wet. Nothing like the sparks or fervent passion that was in books and Dorothea’s talks about romance and love. Was this something else that Seiros had taken from her? 

Still, there was her and El, there was Belial curled around Avarine and embracing her from the world. It was them, and it was warm, and it was right. 

Notes:

That's right, boys and girls and non-binary friends, Edeleth is official and this is (sort of) a Crimson Flower and Verdant Wind joint route. Well, only sort of. This story is its own thing at this point. The moment that Seteth and Flayn went neutral this was almost inevitable. And yes, Chulainn, who was murdered and turned into Failnaught, was Seteth's son.

I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it; let me know what you think if you want! And I'll see you around in a few weeks for the next chapter which, agh, I am so excited for.

Oh, and sangak is an Iranian flatbread that is soft and a little stretchy and a little chewy and is absolutely AMAZING, especially with babaganoush and agh I just bought some earlier this week and ate it all in literally two days and now I want more.

And don't worry, Marianne isn't dead! I'm not going to kill off a character who was canonically suicidal in part one and is slowly getting better! You'll see what happens to her...

Chapter 34: Tzedek, Tzedek, Tirdof

Summary:

Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof. "Justice, justice you shall pursue." (Deuteronomy 16:20)

Or: Three Adrestians and an immigrant walk into a room, sympathetically aligned foes.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Near character death, Feral!Dimitri at his worst, and non-consensual daemon touching.

Notes:

One of the harshest lessons my younger self had to learn was that of my own obscene wealth, privilege, status, and separation from the rest of society. My time at the academy, and for years thereafter, could be described as one embarrassment after another as seemingly every single person I knew took it upon themselves to say that I was a pompous and arrogant fool, a hopelessly naive and spoiled young man. A bee, as Dorothea loved to put it, and not for the most obvious reasons of Embrienne’s form. Their words were harsh, but they were right. I knew, of course, that my father was corrupt to the core, that far too much of the nobility did not act noble and failed to protect their charges. However, I failed to recognize the sheer scale and scope of this injustice. The truth was revealed to me, piece by piece, until I willingly fought by Edelgard’s side.

And yet, even then, we were all essentially a group of idealistic yet still naive children, aware that something was horribly wrong with the state of society, aware that something needed to change and willing to raise our blades to do so when it became clear negotiation would be pointless, yet there were still so many injustices that we were simply not aware of, because we had never conceived that they could be wrong, or anything else than what they were. Even today, in Parliament I am often approached by younger men and women, their eyes bright with youth and infinite possibility, who take it upon themselves to admonish and educate me on inequities that I had never considered. It is simultaneously embarrassing and a joyous moment to see the next generation grow and surpass me; I cannot help but wonder, when these youths are as lined with wrinkles and gray as I am, upon what their successors will take them to task. It is times like these that Embrienne and I feel most at peace, when we see the fruition of our legacy, the building blocks of something that will outlive us.

I wish that Embrienne and I had the long lives of the Nabateans, so that we could see further down the long road to justice. Alas, I am only human, and will have to settle for laying down the first cobblestones. I hope that future generations will continue down this winding path, and when they look back they will both marvel at how far humanity has come, and not judge our generation too harshly for our failures to move further along this road than we already have, or that we could not foresee every twist and turn along the way.

—From the personal writings of Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir, Guardian Moon, 1215

Flayn—or Cethleann, as the case may be—roared her joy to the sun as she soared through the open air. Her scales glinted in the light and almost mirrored the still lake below. The part of Hubert, mostly found in Thanily, that still gazed up at pegasi herds and yearned to join them could not help but admit that the sight of her was beautiful. 

Cethleann landed and donned her human skin once more. There should have been a grotesque warping of flesh, the crack of bones rearranging, but there was only the soft glow of light and a silhouette of a shifting form. Her wings folded up into her back, the light faded, and Cethleann stepped forward. She was much like the Flayn of the academy, though with a certain presence that the Nabatean masquerading as a young girl lacked, and of course she did not bother hiding her pointed ears. 

“I am still quite furious with you,” she said to Hubert, “And I do not expect to stop being furious for a very long time.”

Given that Cethleann was over a thousand years old and still appeared to be an adolescent, “A very long time,” probably meant, “Far beyond Hubert’s natural lifespan,” and so was none of his concern as long as she failed to act on it. “I did not intend for you to be kidnapped and tortured by the Agarthans, but unfortunately I was involved with them regardless. You have every right to feel however you may towards me; I won’t deny you your feelings, nor will I dare say they are undeserved. Just be aware that, should you decide to act on your fury, I will defend my life and the lives of Her Majesty and the Strike Force with all my might, and they would do the same for me.” It was still somewhat incomprehensible to Hubert, that he could make such a claim with such certainty now.

Cethleann rested on a large mossy rock and motioned for Hubert to sit beside her. He cautiously did so, Thanily curled up at his feet. “My father and I discussed this for some time after retreating to Lake Teutates, and all I can say is this: What would be the point? This entire war was founded on years of injustice and concealment, on our need to keep ourselves safe warped into pathological control and, perhaps, cowardice. If we are to truly make this cycle of abuse stop, then we must also stop this cycle of people who are hurt inflicting their pain upon others in turn.”

“Are you suggesting that we end the war?” Hubert asked. Perhaps it was an unnecessarily inflammatory remark, but it was one he could not help but make despite an admonishing flick of Thanily’s tail. 

Cethleann shook her head. “Perhaps I would have, years ago. But I am not naive. Things will never be as they once were, no matter how much Seiros wishes to make it so.” She flexed her hand in the sun, pink and small, indistinguishable from a human’s hand. “I may be Nabatean, my lifespan measured in centuries or even millennia rather than decades, but even I am not immortal. All things strive, but so, too, do all things end.” Cethleann let her hand fall to her side and press into the soft moss. “Even if you were to lose the war, Seiros and the church will never be able to regain power like they once held again. The crest system has been thoroughly discredited, the commoners have realized that they can and should demand more. This is not something that can be undone.”

“Not without turning Fodlan into a charnel house of a continent,” Hubert mused. If people thought Her Majesty’s war was brutal, they would be in for a nasty surprise if the Immaculate One were to somehow win and sink her iron grip into humanity once more. 

“I can tell you right now with certainty that neither I, nor my father, nor most of the surviving Nabateans, do not desire such needless bloodshed. I was not even an egg when the first calamity happened, but from the stories my father and uncle told me, one such catastrophe was one too many.” She fiddled with the capsule that once held her false minnow daemon. Though Hubert knew it was empty, it still gave him some odd instinctual…comfort, in a way he suspected to be related to the daemon-related trauma he had endured and witnessed Her Majesty and Byleth endure, to see a human-shaped creature appear to have a daemon. 

“And what of Seiros?” Thanily asked.

Cethleann was silent, which was enough of an answer in itself. Instead she said, “What I truly want, most of all, is to live as myself, openly and in peace. Is that not what most everybody wants?”

A more than reasonable desire, with the one caveat of, “In a more perfect world, it would be. As long as you understand that does not give you leave to rule over humanity.”

“I suppose that is as much of an acknowledgment of my fundamental right to exist that I should expect from you.” Cethleann rolled her eyes and stood. “A final word of advice: Hubert von Vestra? You, too, are alive, and you should enjoy your brief time on this planet rather than deny yourself on account of…whatever is going on in your head. Even you deserve some happiness.” And with that, she dove into the water. Moments later, a light green fin sliced through the stillness of the lake, moving directly for the sunken castle. 

Hubert remained on the rock, his hand running down Thanily’s back as he began to grapple with the immense and terrifying realization that he might, in fact, survive the war and live to see whatever would come next.

---

“I’m surprised you’re not part of the official peace talks.”

“When Edelgard stripped my father of power, she also stripped the role and title of Prime Minister from the Aegir family. I will earn that position once more, this time through my own merit rather than the weight of my name,” Ferdinand explained. There was also the fact that the Prime Minister generally was not involved in peace treaties. It made sense that he would not be part of the initial negotiations, though the rejection still stung. “Why are you not part of the negotiations?”

Seteth (or did he prefer to be called Cichol? To think that the man before him, was the very Saint Cichol whose crest, whose very blood, echoed through his own veins! Ferdinand felt as though he was gazing upon a living legend; it was truly quite dizzying) looked out to the horizon and said, “The entire purpose of these negotiations is to forge a new Fodlan free from the influence of the Church of Seiros. My presence would be…counterproductive, to say the least.”

Embrienne let out a slow buzz of contemplation, staying as far away as she could from the bearded dragon basking in the pale sunlight. Bearded dragons ate insects, did they not? Did it see Embrienne as a tasty snack, or as an extension of himself? It certainly did not see her as a fellow daemon, and Ferdinand wished that he knew of a polite way to ask Seteth if he could drop the facade. “That may be true. However, from what you have told me, you and your kin are also in great need of a safe harbor; so to speak. The more just Fodlan that Edelgard and I wish to create can only be so if it is also such a place.”

“Edelgard and Hubert may be uncompromising, but they are not unreasonable,” Embrienne added from his shoulder. “They were also quite horrified to learn of the truth of the relics…and the crests…and, well, everything. And I am so sorry, for your son and your family. If you do not wish to speak with them directly—an entirely reasonable sentiment—then perhaps we could negotiate an agreement ourselves, and I could present it on your behalf.” 

Seteth remained silent, long enough that Ferdinand began to worry that he had overstepped some invisible boundary once more. Eventually, however, Seteth said, “The original church of Seiros—even the post-Unification church that I helped create—was nothing like what it has become today. Don’t misunderstand me: I am still enraged at Edelgard’s actions, and yours by extension. But I also understand how these actions came to occur. Seiros…has become a tyrant who will never cede the power she no longer deserves to wield. And I stood by and let it happen.”

Ferdinand was not quite sure what to say to that, because…it was true. And the man lamenting before him was not merely Seteth but also and simultaneously Saint Cichol talking, one of the founders of the church of Seiros. The man who selected Bertrand von Aegir as his champion and passed down his crest (his blood, that’s all the nobility he revered his whole life ever was, blood and lies and abuse and blood) all the way to Ferdinand himself. 

“We should not be so lost for words,” said Embrienne. “After all, when we chose to stand with Edelgard, we pointed our blade at the church itself alongside her. What is this if not yet another falsehood belatedly exposed?”

One lie on top of the next should not affect him so. And yet, “Perhaps it is because this is Cichol himself, or perhaps the sheer number of lies, each more horrific than the last, has finally become too much to bear.”

“You’ve gone quiet again,” Seteth interrupted. “Are you speaking with your daemon?”

Was it that obvious? Or perhaps such moments of introspection were normalized to the point of being unnoticed among humans, only commented upon by those who lacked daemons entirely—a sentence that was still quite incomprehensible. “How do you do it?” Ferdinand found himself asking. “Is it not terribly lonely, being daemonless, having nobody else beside you to share in your hopes and dreams, your joys and sorrows?”

“Perhaps,” Seteth answered, “But in the same vein, do you not find it incredibly crowding, never having your thoughts and feelings entirely to yourself?’

“Of course not!” He recoiled, curled his hand around Embrienne over his heart. “Embrienne is, she is everything to me. Without her I would not be myself.”

Seteth went quiet again, and now Ferdinand had to wonder—with no daemon, only a silent Crest Stone that, somehow, served as his kind’s equivalent, what conversations did he have in that silence? He did not turn back to Ferdinand but continued to gaze upon the open water and asked, mused perhaps, “I wonder, if we had daemons, that second voice in our heads, would Seiros have strayed so badly? It was Flayn who forced me to open my eyes and acknowledge what I was seeing with my own eyes and hearing with my own ears. If I had a companion with me, if my Stone had a voice of its own, would I have been forced to acknowledge these truths sooner?”

That...was not quite how daemons worked. “I am not so sure,” Embrienne said. “I am Ferdinand’s daemon, which means that we are but two halves of a greater whole. If you are a complete person even without a daemon, then that must mean that voice is wrapped up in your single narrative. Perhaps splitting it off would have helped you reach this conclusion sooner—I have read your sermon on daemons reminding us of our common connection with other humans and even now still find great meaning in it—but that is not necessarily the case. You need only look at my father, and his utter contempt for the very people he had a duty to nurture and protect.” He would not make those same mistakes!

“Ultimately, there’s no excuse,” said Seteth, eventually. “As Seiros’s closest confidant, I had multiple opportunities to turn her off this path, and I squandered every one of them, because I was frozen and too scared. I can’t help but be a little envious, when I see you moving forward despite all your misgivings.”

“I...I am not sure what to say.” Overwhelmed, perhaps, that Seteth somehow held him in such high regard? “I have always aspired to be a noble among nobles, though the exact definition of that phrase has changed with time. Bernadetta told me something back at the academy that has stayed with me ever since: There are days where nothing goes right, where even getting out of bed is a struggle. But the next day is new, and the mistakes from before do not necessarily ruin the path ahead forever, as long as you are willing to put in the effort and keep moving forward.”

“Given the Archbishop’s rigidity and the nobility’s greed, peaceful negotiation was never an option. I see it as my duty to build something better out of the rubble of the old ways, and help guide my companions down the path to a more just society,” Embrienne finished. “Even if this more just world is not yet a reality, if we do not strive towards it, then how can it become?”

Seteth looked back at him for the first time in their conversation, and smiled. “I hope, with all my heart, that you will meet those lofty expectations, and be better caretakers of Fodlan than we ever were.” 

---

How was Linhardt not terrified? Yeah, Leonie wasn’t scared, but that’s because she wasn’t scared of anything. And, okay, yeah, Bernie wasn’t terrified of Indech either, but that’s because she knew what real monsters looked like. And sure, Indech was a giant turtle thing—and also, you know, Saint Indech, and she had words to say to him about winding up with a crest she never asked for that ended up almost completely ruining her life—but he kind of reminded her of her uncle in a weird way. Indech was probably great with kids too, and for some reason she got a vision, all at once, of Indech in a park, surrounded by flowers and kids climbing over and sliding down his shell. He’d probably do that and also answer any weird questions they might have without getting upset or mad or calling them unladylike, or...

Okay, maybe it made sense that Linhardt wasn’t terrified. 

He stared up at Indech, a smile on his face and his journal already open to a blank page, Runilite quivering with anticipation. “So, I noticed that both you and Bernadetta are both rather reclusive. Many of the legends surrounding Indech make note of his superb crafting ability, and Bernadetta is one of the most creative and, well, crafts-loving members of our team. I wonder, is this related to your shared crest, or is it simply a coincidence? Indech, do you share any other personality traits with Bernadetta?”

“Wow Linhardt, rude much?” Leonie folded her arms and glared at Linhardt; Kamen puffed up his feathers and tried to look as impressive as possible in front of the enormous turtle-like beast that was apparently Indech himself!  

Indech could have easily chased Linhardt off, or gobbled him up in one bite, or done all sorts of horrible things to him. But instead he laughed, “I don’t know, but I can definitely say that you are just as nosy as Cethleann!”

Linhardt’s eyes widened; Runilite perked up in interest. “You’re right, and now with their secret out Seteth won’t have any reason to keep me from interviewing his daughter! Thank you, Indech.” 

Indech watched Linhardt and Runilite stride off towards the larger pier; only when his retreating from was the size of a small green dot did he blink and chuckle. “That was not exactly my intention, but it should be amusing to see.”

“As long as Seteth knows that killing Linhardt isn’t going to be good for a peace treaty,” Leonie muttered and agh! Why did she have to bring up something like that? 

Malecki’s paw on her hand brought her back down again, and yeah it was just as stupid joking comment thing but, well, what Linhardt said was still rattling around in her head. 

Indech craned his long neck and giant head down to peer her in the eye, except that his eyes were larger than dinner plates. “Little One, what is troubling you?”

“...How much of it is true?” Because Linhardt was right, she’d always felt a bit of a kinship with Saint Indech. At first she thought it was a nice coincidence, because they shared the same crest, but if crests were blood, and they shared the same blood passed down over generations, then how much of Bernie was actually Bernie?

Indech hummed, and because he was so huge it actually sent the water rippling, just a little bit. “Perhaps slightly, but not as much as you are afraid of. You’re worried that my—our—crest has had an undue influence on you, are you not?”

She nodded, and Leonie raised her hand like they were back in class. “Um, is it okay if I stay? This seems like it’s a bit of a private conversation.”

“I’m okay with it either way,” Bernie replied, wringing her hands. Leonie didn’t leave, though she still looked a bit uncertain and Kamen shuffled from shoulder to shoulder. “But yeah. I, well, if it’s true, then how much of me is...me?”

“All of you,” Indech said, with surprising confidence. “How much do you know about the first Varley?”

“Um...their name was Hayden, and they were really religious, and...not much else, I’m sorry. I never really paid too much attention to my family history.” Too many bad memories associated with it all.  

There was another gentle splash of water as Indech settled deeper into the lake. “I can tell you that Hayden von Varley was a gentle yet bold soul. And yes, they were adept with their hands, but they possessed that talent long before I met them. That manual dexterity did not extend to crafts like painting and kitting, though. And do you know what Hayden’s daemon was?”

Bernie shook her head. If she had ever been told, then she’d forgotten long ago.  

“Their daemon was a thunder eel.” Indech rumbled in amusement. “They told me so many times how they struggled to easily transport their daemon before crafting a portable tank.”

“Hang on, doesn’t Hanneman have your crest too?” Leonie asked. “And his daemon is a wolf spider.”

“Not to mention that you and Hanneman are basically nothing alike,” Kamen added from her shoulder.

Bernie frowned. “That is true…” They definitely shared a crest, Hanneman was super-excited when she activated it at the academy, and while he did have some useful advice on how to control it in battle and activate it at will, she definitely didn’t feel any odd kinship with him.

“Oh!” Malecki scrambled out of her pouch and onto an adjacent broken pillar. “And Bernie, remember? I was almost never a fish or a bug before I settled, and I was definitely never an eel or a spider! I don’t think there’s ever been a Varley with a hedgehog daemon.”

“Yeah! Bernadetta, maybe it’s because I don’t have a crest and grew up with them kinda removed from my life, but the fact that you have one never really mattered to me. You’ve always been you.”

“Not to mention you’re a much braver person than me,” Indech rumbled.

“...What.” That, what? That didn’t make any sense. This giant turtle dragon creature was Saint Indech! He fought in the original war of heroes! How could she be braver than him ?!

“I mean what I said,” Indech continued. “Cichol retreated from society to protect Cethleann, but I remained by Seiros’s side a little while longer, long enough to become uncomfortable with the path she was walking down. And instead of remaining to try and correct her course, I ran away. Yet here you are, Little One, terrified yet fighting on regardless, while I hid in a lake away from my mistakes.”

Maybe, but, “But, I don’t really blame you. Even when she was Rhea, Seiros was terrifying! And now she totally wants to kill us all!” Just the memory of her rage was enough to make Mal curl up again! And now she and her friends, and especially Ferdinand and Hubert, had her “special” attention. Oh, they had to win, she didn’t even want to think about the alternative!  

“And yet here you are, fighting on regardless.”

“...” Oh. She never really thought about it that way before.

“Precisely.” He gazed upon her and Leonie both with what could only be pride, even though it was a little sad at the edges of it. “I’ve always admired the children of men, your boldness and vivacity. I can’t keep hiding from the consequences of my actions, unintended as they may be.”

“Are you saying you’re going to fight with us?”

Indech shook his head. “Not now. Not when I will be hunted, specifically. But I can aid you in other ways. And, I hope you can allow an old man to get to know his distant kin in the future.” 

---

The gods couldn’t have given him better weather for such a monumental treaty. It was bright and sunny, warm for winter, with barely a breeze. Edelgard, Hubert, and the rest of the Black Eagles had reacted to Seteth’s tale exactly like Claude hoped they would; he couldn’t have asked for his gambit to work out any better than it had. 

Perhaps it was that paranoia rearing up again, or more likely his anticipation and nerves looking for an outlet, but Simurg wouldn’t stop making smart-aleck comments. 

“I know we’re nervous and Hilda isn’t here to be witty, but will you focus?”

“What? Teach has clearly been a good influence on the Princess and they’re clearly a romantic thing now. You don’t think that’s worth a bit of gossip?”

“Not now!” Claude hissed. 

Simurg slithered down his arm and peered out towards the six figures approaching: Edelgard, Hubes, Teach, and their daemons. Sure, Teach and the Princess were trying to keep quiet about their relationship upgrade, but even he could catch the way their gazes lingered, the way Avarine more often perched on Belial’s horns. Good for them, though he had to wonder how Hubes managed to stand all of it. “Sorry Claude, I’m just nervous. It’s like when we were waiting for the Roundtable to determine our legitimacy, remember?”

How could he forget? It was only, literally, a single up and down vote to decide whether he would be the next Duke or a filthy foreigner only good for exile or execution. This really was a similar situation. He’d made his moves, laid out the shatranj board as best as he could. No more gambits to set up or schemes to play. All he could do now was wait and see how things would shake out. “I don’t think Edelgard will kill us or let Hubes kill us though, unless we’ve made a seriously grave miscalculation,” Claude muttered.

“And if we have?” Simurg flicked out her tongue

“Then Edelgard won’t be the person we thought she was,” Claude answered. “Fodlan will be fucked, and we’ll be dead.”

“And if I perish, I perish,” she said. “We thought things through this time, didn’t we?”

They were close enough now that he could see the looks on their faces. Teach was blank as always (and now he knew why, another atrocity under their watch, Rhea and the Church had to go), but both Hubert and Edelgard had carefully schooled their expressions into impassivity. Claude swallowed; no more stalling.

“Claude,” said Edelgard. Avarine had flown back onto her shoulder, the imperial herald. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said.”

“Oh? For what?” Of course he knew why, but it was always best to hear the admission straight from the Emperor’s lips. 

Hubert grimaced, but Edelgard waved him off and said, “For leading me to the full truth of Fodlan’s bloodstained history. Did you know that Emperor Wilhelm I was supposedly Seiros’s closest human confidant? Some banned books found in Abyss and half-forgotten legends even described them as lovers.” She shuddered, and frankly Claude couldn’t blame her. “And yet she kept even that from him and the Imperial lineage.” 

“There’s a delicious irony to it,” Hubes said, and gods above the man could make ordering lunch sound like a murderous scheme. “Their secrecy only contributed to their eventual downfall.”

“But now that we know, we need to make sure nothing like this ever happens to the surviving Nabateans again,” Byleth said, her hand on Belial’s head.

He might as well offer a verbal concession in return, a sort of thank you for not having to drag it out of Edelgard. “I suppose I should thank you as well. I was not prepared for the sheer depths of Fodlan’s depravity when I waltzed onto the stage with dreams of my own. I spent so much time gathering information that I didn’t realize you were going to outright attack until it was too late.” Much as he hated to admit it, she was right. Wow, he had not been prepared for just how fucked Fodlan was. Have fun fixing things, Princess! 

The nod he got from Edelgard would have to be good enough. “Well then,” Hubes drawled, “Shall we begin?”

And so, three Adrestians and an immigrant walked into a room, sympathetically aligned foes. The compromise they emerged with was nearly everything Claude had hoped for. 

The Kingdom was dead and done, and Claude barely made even token protests for its sovereignty, not that he had any standing to speak for or claim to Faerghus anyway. Frankly, from what he understood Faerghus was a borderline failed state even before war broke out. They had a chance to join Edelgard at the negotiating table and blew it. It was a shame, but there were far more important hills for Claude to die on…or live, in this case, because wasn’t that what this was all about? Heck, maybe they’d do better under Imperial rule. Actually, given what he knew, given what Edelgard had in mind it would be kind of hard to do worse. 

There were other, actual concessions to be made. The dissolution of the Eastern Church. Stationing Imperial troops at the Throat (which was actually an excellent idea. Edelgard briefly discussed opening a dialogue with Almyra once the church that proclaimed all foreigners backwards barbarians was no more, and he intended to take that opening and run with it as long as he could). Ownership of the Bridge of Myrddin (he fought hard over that one. Hubert wanted complete imperial control over that vital choke point, which, no. They’d argued for what felt like and may have actually been hours, but eventually decided on joint jurisdiction of the Bridge. Sure, the Alliance would have to foot a bigger portion of the bill, but it was more than worth it to not cede the bridge to the Empire entirely). Trade deals, route guarded by Imperial troops and the flow of both goods and coin rearranged so nobody could ever do something like the shit Lord Gloucester pulled again.

And then, the two most important terms, upon which neither of them would budge. There would be a fundamental change in Leicester’s government: a second, Commoner’s Roundtable, free of noble influence. The exact details were a bit fuzzy around the edges, but what was there was through. It didn’t completely make the noble roundtable redundant, but it stripped them of a lot of powers. There were some protections to make sure that the Commoner’s Roundtable didn’t get immediately filled with noble puppets, and their legislative powers had teeth. Edelgard had thought about this. With the dissolution of the Eastern Church, the scandals surrounding the nobility thanks to Edelgard’s manifesto, the current politics chessboard, and the simple fact that Leicester had a merchant and professional class as big as the Kingdom and Empire combined…yeah, he could get everyone else to accept these terms. Especially because, in exchange, the Alliance would stay the Alliance. There would be no conquering of Leicester today, or any time soon.  

As the sun shone upon them, and they signed the Treaty of Teutates, as Claude and Edelgard shook hands and Simurg curled herself around Avarine’s outstretched talon while Hubes and Teach looked on in approval, Claude let the part of him that had been clenched tight as a fist for three years straight finally unfurl and relax. 

He did it. And sure, he wouldn’t be returning to Almyra with tales of having subdued a continent that turned out to be rotting from the inside out, but staring down the soon-to-be-Godslayer was just as good in his books. 

---

Stealing, sniping, and spying all required a certain presence of mind that Ashe had perfected over the years out of sheer necessity. Now, if he had to, he and Fuergios could all but vanish into the background for hours or more. That alone made him the best candidate on the Strike Force for these spying and sabotage missions. 

It was also why he made his way to Arianrhod after splitting off with the rest of the Strike Force. He’d be able to slip into the fortress city alone, but his friends…

Ashe shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it. And truth be told, he wanted to be out of here as soon as possible regardless. 

He’d been to Arianrhod once before, about eight years ago, on official business with Lonato and Christophe, and remembered being awestruck by the majesty of the Silver Maiden. He’d craned his neck up at the stone walls that reached for the skies, ran his fingers along the stormy granite, and imagined the incredible battles that Arianrhod must have seen. Near the end of the day, just before dinner with Count Rowe, Ashe had given into childish instincts and ran up one of the towers, Fuergios a silver pit bull bounding at his heels. He’d grabbed a training lance taller than him and shook it at the sky, Fuergios shifting to an enormous buffalo behind him who bellowed out a challenge to anybody who would dare threaten the Silver Maiden or any of the innocent civilians who lived within. When Christophe found him, instead of the dressing down that Ashe expected, his adoptive brother instead joined him on on the ramparts, and taught him the Blue Lions battle cry he’d learned at the academy before they returned to Lonato, their daemons howling out the chorus together.  

Arianrhod was always a stern and stoic place, with the grimness that was pretty much universal to Faerghus. But the Silver Maiden of Ashe’s memory was an actual city, alive in a way that it now...wasn’t. 

There were always soldiers and knights patrolling the streets of Arianrhod. But now those soldiers wore a uniform that was neither kingdom nor empire, and there was nobody else on the streets. Restaurants were boarded shut, open-air markets utterly deserted. Those few times Ashe saw civilians outdoors, they did not amble or even walk, but rushed from place to place. Not a sprint, that would attract too much attention, but they walked as fast as they could. They kept their eyes down and their daemons close, and not a single one dared to even acknowledge the armored and masked men. 

The walls of Arianrhod were still as solid as ever, but that was all that was left intact of the Silver Maiden. 

A handbill, damp from the melting snow, tumbled across the ground and wrapped itself around Ashe’s ankle. He peeled it off his boot, read it, and felt his breath catch in his throat. 

Few commoners in Faerghus were literate, so the wanted posters had symbols to accompany the listed crimes, a sketch of the accused, and the sum of the reward. Thievery. Horse rustling. Murder. 

But Ashe had only ever seen this particular symbol a few times before, mostly next to Duscurians targeted for the Tragedy. Yet there it was, plain as day: the symbol for Treason, next to his and Fuergios’s face and their names. 

Ashe shoved the handbill into his pocket, his face blank, his heart hammering bird-swift and feather-light in his chest. 

“It’s not true,” Fuergios moaned. “It’s not—the Slitherers took over Arianrhod, they’re the ones who—“

“But we did join the Strike Force,” said Ashe. He wanted to scream, to cry, he needed to get off the streets now, where was Syene? “We left Faerghus, and joined Edelgard and the Strike Force, which meant joining the Empire, which means—“

“And I’d do it again, and so would you,” said Fuergios. And she was right. The decision had been agonizing like no other, but once it was made he had not been so sure of anything in an incredibly long time. 

It was when Fuergios had settled, after all. 

“But what does that mean for us?” He whispered. Catherine’s daemon had settled when she turned Christophe over to the church, and tore his second family apart. He chose his family, and the truth, and everyone still alive in Faerghus, because he couldn’t trust the church anymore, and because...because Faerghus was dying. 

Faerghus was dying, slowly and in spasms, even before the war. After the Tragedy, the kingdom responded with slaughter, as if the massacre of an entire people would magically make everything better. Meanwhile, the kingdom was falling apart. Even without his adoptive father and the Western Church, most of the church missions were in Faerghus. At first Ashe thought that was a get-to-know-your-own-territory thing, but then the Eagles and Deer had missions in the Kingdom as well. And almost every time they were fighting bandits, their weapons battered, their faces hardened and gaunt with desperation. More than once, Ashe stood over their corpses and saw what could have easily been him, if not for Lonato. 

And then there was—Ashe had been so awestruck by the idea of fighting alongside the Shield of Faerghus and so taken aback by the venom in Felix’s words that he didn’t really think about what Lord Rodrigue said, or why it sat wrong in his chest, until weeks later. How he was glad they saved the village from bandits because it was important to King Lambert, but didn’t say anything about protecting the people in the village for their own sake. 

Felix was right, even if he was a massive jerk about it. Somewhere along the line, the idea of chivalry had morphed from protecting innocents even at the cost of one’s life, to glorifying an honorable death without any regard to one’s life. 

Or life in general. 

How could a nation survive like that? 

“It doesn’t,” Ashe said, miserably. Because it could also just as easily have been him throwing his life away on a doomed battlefield for a dead king. Then again, that other Ashe would have probably been just as horrified and disgusted with the man he had become. It would have been so easy, after Lonato, to turn deeper into the ideals of chivalry and honor that he had grown up learning, to take the shattered pieces of...everything, and form it into something else.

“Don’t think about the might-have-beens,” Fuergios admonished from an awning up above. “We’re here, we’re doing our part and...and...Ashe. Look. ”

There was somebody else walking the streets, other than the guards. It wasn’t Syene, who, perhaps due to their being an earthcaller moved heavily but with a sense of connection with the ground beneath their feet that endured no matter what. No, the man skulked, hunched over and covered in matted furs, and beside him was a disheveled 

Boar

It was impossible. He’d been executed years ago. And yet, if Dedue had made it out, then...then…

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri—for it could be nobody else—startled at the sound of his name, Delcabia turning in time with him and goodness, he looked horrible. His hair and clothes and Delcabia’s fur were matted and filthy, and the smell radiating off him was almost a physical thing. And—what happened to his eye? Dimitri’s left eye still shone, that ice-blue gaze that seemed to pierce right through him, but the right was covered by a faded eyepatch. 

Logically it made sense, Dimitri had been presumed dead for years but if he was actually alive and on the run, then of course he’d end up like this. But, but this was Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd , the prince of Faerghus and, somehow, his friend. Even if he was part of the Empire now, to see Dimitri like this…

“Ashe?”

His voice was rough and rusted, as though he had not spoken much in a very long time. He needed help, and, and they may be enemies now but he could convince Edelgard and Hubert! Or he could definitely convince Ferdinand and then Ferdinand could persuade everyone else! “Dimitri, you, you’re alive, I can’t believe it! Come with me, we’ve got to get you off the streets, I know a place where you can get a hot meal and some new clothes—“

Dimitri didn’t say anything, or move, but stood and stared at him with this almost crooked stance. The smile froze on Ashe’s face. Something wasn’t right. 

“Yes, yes, you’re right. He betrayed everything he held dear, everything we stand for, and threw his lot in with that woman…”

Who was he even talking to? 

“Dimi—urk!”

Dimitri grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. A crack of skull against stone, a wave of blinding pain. His consciousness momentarily dimmed, returned to find himself dangling several centimeters off the ground, Dimitri holding him up by the neck. The other hand curled into a fist, his eye blazed with cold fury. 

“TRAITOR!” He roared in Ashe’s face, set his ears to ringing. “Not only have you become the emperor's lap dog, but you turned against your own people! I’ll send you straight to hell!” 

Ashe couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It hurt, he couldn't breathe, he clawed at Dimitri's hands, Dimitri was strangling him,  I’m being held by my throat and I can’t breathe and I’m going to die!  

“Dimitri, this isn’t you!” Fuergios pled as Ashe struggled for one more breath of air. “Please, stop, you don’t have to do this! Please, I don’t want to—!”

Dimitri slapped Fuergios and knocked her to the ground. 

Ashe went limp, weak with horror and shock and the clawing wrongness , couldn’t do anything but stare at Dimitri’s pitiless gaze. That didn’t just happen. That couldn’t have just happened. But his daemon was on the ground, the impact of Dimitri’s hand on her a burn, a brand. 

The hand around his throat tightened and crushed and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t speak or breathe or even struggle, and Fuergios was on the ground a broken bird, and his vision was starting to go dark—

The ground erupted. Dimitri roared, a wounded beast. Ashe crumpled to the ground and laid there, gasping. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

A tall figure leaning over him. A dark-skinned hand crackling with magic, white hair cut short. Syene?

Aswan hovering over Fuergios so close to him please don’t touch me! “Fuergios? I’ve got you, but you need to move, now. Are you okay if I help you fly?”

Fuergios made some noise of assent, then Aswan was propping her up and helping her fly. Syene helped him to his feet, whispered, “I’ve got you. You’re doing fine,” then launched a Sandspray and a shout at Dimitri. “Are you seriously going to call yourself noble?! You beast!”

Dimitri clawed at his eye and let out an incoherent roar. Through glimpses of shock, Ashe saw Delcabia...standing there, her eyes glazed over, staring at nothing. 

His head throbbed, his throat burned. Every swallow felt like knives, every footstep like molten lead. Consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide as Ashe struggled to grasp a continuous thought, as Fuergios struggled to stay aloft. That didn’t just happen. Dimitri couldn’t have done—what he did. 

But the pain that echoed through him to his daemon and back again said otherwise.

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient; real life has been horrible to me lately but now I'm able to write again. I have been looking forward to this one for so long! I hope you like the banter between the Strike Force and the Nabateans as much as I did--amusingly enough, I had an easier time writing Hubert and Flayn's dialogue than Ferdinand and Seteth's.

So, yeah, that happened. Much as the chapter title suggests, this whole chapter is about pursuing justice. Maybe you never reach it, but you always try and do a bit better. People running from their mistakes, people trying to fix their mistakes, the continual steps towards a better society...and then, at the end, as a contrast, Dimitri continues to lash out in his despair and desire for mindless revenge and does something obscenely horrible.

Feral Dimitri is cruel, and capable of doing truly monstrous things. This is his equivalent to trying to torture Randolph to death in Azure Moon, and if you go all the way back to his section of chapter one...well, there's always been a part of him capable of doing something as horrible as this.

(As an aside, I was not expecting Ashe to have as much screentime in part two as he has, but I'm not complaining! He's got a lot to say and do. Ashe, I think, has one of the biggest changes in his character arc depending on the route. Because his entire academy arc is dealing with the fallout of Lonato, and deciding what to do next, and this makes him change drastically. To the point where I’d say Fuergios would settle differently on each route.

For instance AM!Edelgard is the worst version of herself and CF!Edelgard is the best, but Ashe is sort of an entirely different person depending on the route he takes and whether or not you recruit him—especially on Crimson Flower, since in Verdant Wind he leaves no matter what in part 2. Because in Three Houses, Ashe’s trauma and disillusionment happens during the game. so his arc in part one is coming to terms with it and scooping up the pieces and figuring out what to do next And the route you choose plays a huge role in that especially in Crimson Flower. In Crimson Flower if you recruit him he joins the strike force. His trust and faith are shattered. He decides to figure out the truth and fight for something better, the people who are alive. Even if it means betraying Faerghus. While, if you don't recruit him, you fight him in the endgame, in the flames of Fhirdiad. Fighting for nothing but cinders and corpses and ghosts--the ultimate expression of Faerghus knightly dying with and for honor.

And also, completing his parallel with Catherine it’s not a coincidence both of them are on that map and share a paralogue together, the way their stories are intertwined AGH SO GOOD)

But back to what I was saying before, now Dimitri has strangled Ashe and smacked Fuergios, and, well, what's going to happen next? Especially given that Edelgard and Claude have just signed a treaty and the Alliance will be spared? I hope you all stick around to find out because honestly I can't wait!

Chapter 35: All Roads Lead To Arianrhod

Summary:

In which multiple plot lines converge…and detonate.

Greetings from North Dakota everyone! Thank you for being patient; I’m currently on a much-needed vacation with my family on a cross-country road trip! And yes, we’re all fully vaccinated. I had some computer issues so I wrote a decent chunk of this chapter on my iPhone on the interstate. I hope you all enjoy it regardless!

Content warning: A Dimitri-POV section, and a Sylvain-POV section.

Notes:

The Commoner’s Roundtable is the lower house and primary chamber of the Leicester Alliance’s bicameral legislative system of government. Initially established in the landmark Treaty of Teutates, after several years of turmoil it rapidly increased in authority. Today, although the Noble’s Roundtable is still called the upper house, the Commoner’s Roundtable holds the majority of power in the Alliance. The Commoner’s Roundtable is an elected body whose members are elected to represent constituencies in a ranked-choice system for four-year terms. Responsibilities of the Commoner’s Roundtable include, but are not limited to: introducing and passing legislature, overturning the veto power of the Noble’s Roundtable, and removing the Grand Duke of the Alliance from their position via a no-confidence vote.

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on the Commoner’s Roundtable of the Leicester Alliance. Retrieved 21 Garland Moon, 1571.

They spent a couple more days in Lake Teutates, resting and finalizing their agreements. Byleth had insisted they take the time to process all that had happened, all they had learned, and for once Edelgard wasn’t inclined to argue on the need to relentlessly press forward. There was an agreement with Cichol, a promise to return the remaining relics to him and his kin for burial, when all was said and done. Edelgard knew that Ferdianand was discussing a treaty with Cichol, an agreement to guarantee their right to exist safely, as long as they did not reign over humanity as lords and gods, and decided to leave him to draft the initial agreement himself. She trusted him, and whatever he would write and present to her. Ferdinand had truly grown and matured, and she found herself...actually looking forward to his advice and their debates, now that he no longer sought every possible opportunity to declare his own perceived superiority. 

It was...discomfiting, to say the least, to sleep in a place surrounded by Seiros’s kin, yet it was simultaneously the most relaxing few days she had had in years. There was work to be done, but there was a chance to sleep in, little risk for attack. There was time to spend with Byleth.

There was time to sit beside her, to reach for Byleth’s hand and feel the warmth and of another person’s touch, the comfort in the simple act of holding hands. Time for Avarine to run her beak through Belial’s fur, not to pick out the grime but just for the physical contact. Time to indulge in a thousand kisses.

Edelgard had read hidden books, had furtively imagined what it would be like to be in the arms of another. The reality was so much more awkward, and so much better, so much more real. It was warmth, her own pounding heart and Byleth’s slow breaths and stilled chest. It was hands running through hair, exploring the shape of another’s body, learning the scars and spots that made another person reflexively squirm. It was the awkward clack of teeth, the fumbling to not accidentally press down too hard or strain a muscle. It was the lingering whisper of breath and tongue, the edge of cool enamel nipping against Edelgard’s ear that made her reflexively whimper Byleth’s name to the warm space between them. It was Avarine, pliant and relaxed against Belial as they nuzzled her and luxuriated in their closeness. It was fishing in the lake, Byleth’s intense concentration as she pulled up an enormous Teutates pike, Belial’s single huff of amusement as Avarine wondered if this would be considered sacrilege or some part of a religious ritual, not that either was particularly important to them. It was Edelgard leaning up to kiss Byleth’s warm mouth and chapped lips once more, and Byleth learning to move her hands and pull her in close. It was the two of them trying to squeeze in every moment they could. It was simple, and it was real.

Of course, even this indulgence was just that, and not something that she could ever let supercede her goals. She may have achieved compromise with Claude, but there was still so much work to be done. Let this be but a taste of the joys of idling that would await them once their work was done. 

There were several traps woven into the language of the treaty, and though Claude almost certainly picked up on them he remained silent. The biggest one, of course, was the compromise over the Bridge of Myrddin. Given that the Empire had seized the bridge and Acheron was dead, agreeing to joint jurisdiction in exchange for the Alliance footing a greater portion of the bill seemed like a fair deal. And it would be…as long as the Alliance could pay up. 

Which is where the Commoner’s Roundtable came in. Edelgard had no illusions—people like Dorothea were rare and the first crop of bureaucrats in the post-noble society would largely come from those wealthy enough to afford the idle time needed for study. The Alliance, with its merchant families and large professional class, had quite a few of those indeed. About as many as the Kingdom and Empire combined. They moved money around the empire, they did far more actual work than the idle nobility, and they were furious at what Count Gloucester did. Cracks were already starting to show, even without her. The nobility would ignore the Commoner’s Roundtable at their own peril, lest they violate the terms of the treaty, lose the Bridge of Myrddin, or drive the Alliance—and themselves—into bankruptcy, and give the Empire another reason to step in and take them over. 

Oh, Edelgard could see it, bright as dawn. The nobles would suddenly find themselves defanged, the regular people would have a say in their own affairs. And, yes, the first representatives would come from merchant and professional stock; such a thing would likely happen in Adrestia as well, but it wouldn’t stop there. Everybody had the same potential; the only difference lay in available opportunities. The first printing presses were already in production, and of course they would be distributed to every corner of the Empire, sold throughout the Alliance. Hubert would almost certainly ensure that Imperial soldiers escorting merchants would possess loose tongues, all the better to share stories of imperial reforms throughout the alliance. Combine that with increased literacy, an exposure of Church and noble crimes and corruption, and the very presence of the Commoner’s Roundtable a goal to strive towards, and more and more citizens of all stripes would strive to have a say in their own affairs and destinies. 

If things continued along this path, then Edelgard expected significant reform and defanging of the nobility beyond the treaty within the lifetime of those who would have died in a battle that now would never be. Longer than she would have liked, perhaps, but given that their “alliance” with the Agarthans was about to collapse, it was still an acceptable timeframe. 

“Not to mention that tensions have been rising between the nobles and merchant class for a while,” Avarine mused from her shoulder. “Even without us, it would only be a matter of time before tensions between them became untenable.” She shook out her feathers; droplets of water scattering on the ground and her face. “Of course, the church would respond with the same brutality and oppression that they always have.”

Just like they did with Lonato, what they wanted to do to her and her allies and friends. Of course, ruling through fear and the iron fist would only go so far. “I wonder what the breaking point would be without us.”

“Probably a famine or plague, honestly. The sort of thing that mostly happens to commoners, and that Rhea never really cared about.” Avarine shifted her weight onto one talon and scratched her face with the other. She settled back into place, sighed, and continued, “If people are going to die anyway, many will rather go down swinging at the ones holding their chains. If it’s the entire content, that would be too much for the church to control.”

Edelgard closed her eyes; she could see the orgy of violence and bloodshed in her mind and shuddered at the needless brutality of it all. But now, it would never happen. 

“We’re so close, Avarine…” Edelgard held her daemon close, gazed upon Byleth and Belial approaching, the way they practically gleamed in the sunlight, the subtle fondness shared on their faces, and reminded herself that this was real.

“El.” Byleth came up, her lips curved in what would be a beaming grin from anyone else, and kissed her. Avarine flew off her shoulder and Belial, a half-step out of sync, nuzzled up against her. It was…she was still El, under and after it all, and every kiss, every embrace reminded her of that. 

“Are you ready to go?” Edelgard murmured into Byleth’s neck. 

“Almost. Indech said he had something for us. Are you okay with talking to him? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I—“ she took a shuddering breath, leaned into Byleth’s shoulder as Avarine flew up and was a comforting weight on hers. “I’ll be okay, as long as you’re here.” Indech wasn’t as bad as the others, having decided to walk away when Rhea sunk in her claws rather than be an active participant in the Church’s stranglehold over Fodlan, and Byleth…with Byleth she could be safe, somehow. 

It didn’t take long for Indech to arrive, and Byleth and Belial flanked her the entire time. The first sign was a slight ripple that interrupted the stillness of the water, then the shadow of Indech’s enormous carapace approaching. Just as the fear began to rise, of dark waters and monsters in the deep, of drifting out to sea, of slipping beneath the waves never to be seen again, Indech breached the surface in a shower of water that doused the four of them; Avarine shook herself off and further wet the side of Edelgard’s face. 

“Ah, good, I found you in time,” Indech rumbled. He leaned in close, his giant head nearly as big as her whole body, and said, “I can sense the blood of both Seiros and Sothis warring within you…I am sorry, for all of this.”

Hah! Well that was something she never would have expected, one of the so-called children of the goddess actually apologizing, empty as it might be. She folded her arms and stared down “Saint” Indech himself. No beast or Saint would ever hold power over her again. “I appreciate your regrets, but words are meaningless without deeds to back them up. Now, are you going to offer meaningless platitudes, or are you going to actually right the wrongs of inaction that you committed years ago?”

Some part of her was aware of how ridiculous this must have looked to an outsider, a human woman and her falcon daemon staring down an enormous turtle-like supposedly-divine beast. What the outsiders didn’t know is that she was Edelgard and Avarine von Hresvelg, and there was nothing she could not achieve, especially with her friends and companions at her side. 

It seemed that Indech had learned it too, for he broke their stare first and said, “That’s why I’m here. I should have made Seiros see reason, back when she could be reached. I cannot join you, but there is something else I can do.”

Indech uncurled his enormous paw and revealed his assistance. 

The weapons—an expertly-crafted bow, a staff with two entwined snakes and wings on the top, a large shield with a lion’s head—were crafted from silvery mythril and shimmered with an almost bluish glow. They were exquisitely crafted, and looked nothing like the so-called hero’s relics. 

“I crafted these for myself, Cichol, and Cethleann during what is now called the War of Heroes. Anyone can use them safely, but they’re stronger in the hands of someone who shares our crests,” Indech explained. “The Inexhaustible is my bow, with a rapid rate of fire only approached by the best brave bows. It also restores vitality to a wielded who bears my crest; I dare say Bernadetta will find safety and comfort with that knowledge. The Ochain shield is my brother’s; it protects from devastating attacks and also restores vitality to anyone with Cichol’s crest. The staff is Cethleann‘s Caduceus staff. If Linhardt wields it, he will find the range of his magical attacks improved, and it will also restore his health.”

This was, truly, a precious gift. “Thank you, Indech.” She would never bow, but she would always give gratitude where it was due. 

“It is, truly, the least I can do,” said Indech. He sighed and settled back into the water (it swelled up under his bulk and splashed over their feet) to look her and Avarine in the eye. “What sublime children of men you and your friends are. I haven’t seen somebody with your force of will in a very long time.”

Avarine spread her wings. “You’ll see plenty more, once humans are free to seize their own destinies and live on their own terms.”

---

The air was cold but the sun was warm on her face, gently warming Lysithea’s body and making the blanket even cozier to snuggle up into. Zilbariel curled up under her head as a sea otter, his warm body and plush fur a perfect pillow. She hated this, having to ride in the cart while everyone else marched under their own power (or their mounts, but still). Yet here she was, the lone invalid of the Strike Force. It was completely humiliating! Even though, as weariness clawed at her breath and bones beyond even the normal background pain that was the daily existence of Lysithea and Zilbariel von Ordelia, it was getting harder and harder to truly care. 

Light, springy footsteps bounded up to the carriage, paused in time to a hand against the wood and a familiar grunt of exertion as the person these sounds belonged to hopped into the cart. Lysithea opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. 

A bronzed face with a broad grin and a second, much smaller but equally brown serpentine one gazed fondly at her. Lysithea groaned, Zilbariel curled his lip in warning, and she flipped off Claude with one hand while pulling the blanket over her head and daemon with the other. Of course, that was just inviting Claude to a challenge. Even with the blanket over her head she could hear the easy smile in his voice. “Aw, long time no see! Really now, is that a way to greet your old friend?” 

Fuck. She should have expected this. Frankly it was a small miracle that she’d been able to evade Claude for as long as she did. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Claude, even if he was an annoying asshole whose favorite thing in the world seemed to be pushing her buttons. It was that—

The grin faltered on Claude’s face. “Wow, Lysithea, you look terrible.” How did even Simurg look horrified? She couldn’t even do facial expressions; she was a snake!

—That. “Thank you for stating the obvious. Clearly, your intellect and observational abilities are unparalleled. Who betrayed me? Was it Leonie?” It probably was. 

“…Does it hurt?” asked Simurg, and goddess this was exactly why she didn’t want to see Claude. The absolute last thing she needed from him was pity. Not from Claude. She didn’t need to see Simurg cringe and draw back the moment she hissed out such an asinine statement, didn’t need to see Claude wince. 

Zilbariel shifted to a bristly honey badger; Lysithea sat up on her elbows. She glared at Claude and lashed out, “Not at all! Turns out that a slow death by crests is completely painless! Thanks for telling me that pissing and shitting and puking up my own blood on a daily basis is not, in fact, endless agony! I never would have guessed, but clearly you know everything!” 

At least he managed to keep eye contact with her through her barbs, which was something. If Claude hadn’t been able to do even that she seriously would have blasted him right out of the cart. He held up his hands in supplication and said, “You’re right, that was stupid of Simurg to say. She can really be incredibly rude sometimes, not that you’d expect anything else from a snake.” Simurg didn’t say anything, but Lysithea noticed her attention drift to Edelgard’s back, saw her tongue flick out at the wind that sent her white hair streaming like a banner. Stupid clever Claude, he’d probably put that together too and wasn’t about to tell anyone. 

Of course, he scrambled up next to her, on the side opposite Zilbariel, but still close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Her fingers and toes were so cold now; could Claude feel that chill? “Are they treating it? Has anything helped?”

Lysithea shrugged. “Linhardt’s put in more effort than I thought him capable of. He’s made some potions that have slowed down the worst of it, but we’ll probably need to get more information from the Agarthans to really make progress…”

Claude looked her over again, her pale face, the pinpoint bleeding and bruises, the deep sadness in her daemon’s eyes. “You’ll be able to hold out that long, right?”

“I’m doing everything I can,” she said, somehow keeping her voice level. But how long would it take? Linhardt said he couldn’t increase the dose of her medications much further, and the Agarthans didn’t give a shit about…anyone, really. She buried her shaking hands into Zilbariel’s fur; he pressed his head into her waist. She didn’t want to die! But if whatever little time she had left was going to be more of this, a slow drip of agony finally sputtering to a stop, then…then…

“Don’t think like that!” Zilbariel pled in her lap. “I don’t want to go anywhere, not without you.” They’d spent so much of their early life torn away from each other, so many more years learning each other’s new scars. Edelgard and Avarine were lucky, in a way—they could remember what it was like to be normal. 

“I know you are,” Claude muttered, and then he was silent for a while, long enough for the rattling of the cart to echo across their silence, and then become awkward. He fidgeted next to her, Simurg slithered anxious curves up and down his side, down his legs and on the ground before his feet. Finally, Claude slapped the ground and said, “Dammit, I’m no good at this, but I’m going to try anyway. I…You can’t do anything if you’re dead. A corpse is useless. And I know you won’t believe me when I say it, but I do care about you. But…” He slumped over, and looked more tired than she had ever seen him. “Please don’t torture yourself on account of a stupid promise I asked you to make.”

Seriously? Seriously?! “You seriously think this is about you?!” Lysithea spat, then coughed, Zilbariel a hissing polecat around her neck. She tried to lean up on her elbow but the sharp discomfort made her settle back down into her blanket. “I’m not planning on dying, regardless of any stupid promise you asked me to make!”

Claude flung up his hands to ward her off, and for just a moment it was like the old times. “Hey I said I wasn’t any good at this!” Then he frowned, and they were back to today, where Claude was older and wiser and devastatingly handsome, and she was dying by centimeters, and all the rot of the continent was finally exposed and stripped clean. 

“Seriously,” Claude continued, “I just, this is awful, what’s happening to you, and I wish it wasn’t.”

Wow, he really was bad at this. “Is that what the oh-so-brilliant Claude von Riegan came all this way to say?

…Then again, she probably wasn’t much better either. 

“Of course not!” Simurg glared at Claude and he amended, “Well, maybe.”

Simurg slithered down Claude’s arm so she could look both Lysithea and Zilbariel in the eye at once. “What this dunderhead is trying to say, if he can actually stop tripping over his silver tongue long enough to spit it out, is that…it’s okay if you don’t want to torture yourself any longer. But I’m also going to do whatever I can to help you. It’s not like I’m flying out of Fodlan tomorrow.”

There was something about the way Claude said that, or maybe it was the impossibly flippant tone of his voice that made Lysithea turn her head and actually look at him, even though it strained her neck to hold it that direction, the way that the cart rattled along the rough road. “Are you sure about that? I’m not stupid. I read the treaty and if I could spot the loopholes then I know for a fact you did too.”

Claude’s stupid perfect grin stretched just a bit wider. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and wow that might have been the worst lie she ever heard him say. 

Lysithea just rolled her eyes and flipped him off before settling back into a more comfortable position where she was padded and wouldn’t add to her already enormous collection of bruises for Linhardt to worry over; from her lap Zilbariel picked up where she left off. “The Alliance is halfway to each others’ throats on the best of days, and now you’re going to add the commoner round table and joint control of the Bridge of Myrddin and the Throat to the mix? How long do you think it’ll be before someone decides to be petty and withhold funds? The moment that happens, everything will collapse. A broken treaty is all the Empire would need to take over the Alliance once and for all, and the Alliance wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.”

He didn’t say anything, and neither did Simurg, just gave that little smile, and that was it wasn’t it? Zilbariel briefly became a hefty wolverine, then shifted back to a sable when the weight on her chest made it uncomfortable to breathe. “How can you throw the Alliance under the cart like that?” Zilbariel spat. 

“Wow, bold claims, Zilbariel!” Claude held up his hands as of warding the two of them off, Simurg coiled up his arm. “I didn’t throw anyone under any cart. All the other nobles have to do is figure out how to get along.” 

“Claude.”

Zilbariel glared him down. How the hell could Claude say that with a straight face? The Alliance always fought, and could be incredibly petty with their political games. Frankly, she was almost insulted! Claude was practically setting them up to collapse, and be absorbed by Adrestia in a few years if they couldn’t get their shit together! 

…A few years. By which point Edelgard would have secured her rule, implemented her reforms, and likely taken care of the Agarthans. Where there would be no other distractions, and it would not be a distraction. 

Lysithea stared up at the blue sky, the white clouds rolling past, the crimson streaks of sunset on the western horizon. It would be cold tonight, and tomorrow would be a gorgeous day. It had been so long since she’d seen her classmates. Would they have learned to figure it out? “Claude von Riegan, you magnificent bastard,” Zilbariel croaked from her chest. 

Simurg loosened herself from her tight coil, moved down his arm in a relaxed squiggle. “Figured it out, didn’t you? Truth be told, I agree with pretty much everything Edelgard says, I’m just not entirely comfortable with her using this amount of violence, or working with the Agarthans.”

Lysithea scoffed, but she was too tired to say much. Zilbariel continued for her, “Really? That’s high and mighty of you. Do you honestly think the church would have ever gone, ‘Gosh! You were right, we have been strangling Fodlan in our iron fist! Let’s fix that!’ No Claude, nobody ever lets go of power and hurting other people until they’re forced to. Besides, we’re not working with the Agarthans anymore, thanks to you and your gamble.”

That made Claude sit back up and drop the smile. “I said I didn’t like it, not that I didn’t think it was necessary. Not after everything I’ve learned. And this little gambit, as you put it? It’ll also give the Alliance one more chance to learn how to work together. I think we can figure it out.” He leaned back against the hard wood of the cart and put his hands back behind his head. “For now at least, I’m still the Duke, and it looks like I’ll be that way for a little while longer. I’d rather not have a war on my hands, or explain to your parents how I let you die.”

She was too tired to talk anymore, or even keep her eyes open. But Lysithea could still feel Claude’s presence beside her, the comforting weight of Zilbariel as he said, “Fuck you, Claude.”

Claude chuckled, and Simurg draped herself over Zilbariel’s body, no pressure, just—there. “In your dreams, Lysithea.”

---

The plan had been for Claude to accompany them back to Garreg Mach, spend a night regrouping, then head back to the Alliance to ratify the treaty. On the way he and Claude would engage in a mental battle of wits. Hubert would glean as much information about Claude’s Almyran origins as he could, while Claude would undoubtedly try to suss out just what he knew about the Agarthans, or the truth of Lady Edelgard’s crests. 

Thanily had suggested feeding Claude more details of the latter. Lysithea was also dying from the two crests tearing her body apart, after all, and though Claude acted flippant it was clear that he greatly cared about Lysithea. His brilliance and alternate perspective could be the breakthrough they needed to cure both Lady Edelgard and Lysithea once and for all. 

Of course, it would never be so easy as all that. They had set up camp for the night, everyone setting up their respective tents and deciding on an order of watch. Hubert studiously pretended not to see Bernadetta furtively glance back and forth for any potential onlookers, then grab Ferdinand by the lapel of his jacket, pull him down into a deep kiss, then lead him to their shared tent. They had each other, and they were happy. Thanily forced herself to turn away and ignore the pain in her heart; Hubert had work to do. 

There was a shift in the air, the presence of someone where there was none before. A flash of light on the corner of his vision, the unmistakable acrid smell of dark magic though he had not cast a single spell all day. Slowly, as one, Hubert and Thanily turned. 

There, teleported behind him from Flames knows where, was Myson and his equally vile skunk daemon. 

“Myson. What a surprise to see you.” How had he found them? They were unnervingly close to Arundel’s territories, yes, but this was a clandestine mission. How had they been compromised? Had Ashe been captured? 

Of course, Myson would never answer any of these questions. “You were quite difficult to find, Hubert,” and now that Hubert looked closely he could see the sheen of sweat on Myson’s face, the telltale signs of magical overexertion. How many times had he teleported to find them?

The tent flap opened behind him; Lady Edelgard, Byleth, and Claude stepped out to flank Myson in a semicircle. Thanily caught a flash of moment as Belial veered off from their patrol route to flank Myson. “What are you doing here, Myson?”

Simurg slid up to Claude’s shoulder and craned out to whisper to Lady Avarine, “Is that one of—?”

“Yes. Now hush,” she whispered back. 

Myson’s gaze slid over to Claude, his eyes went wide, and his daemon’s striped tail shot straight up. Oh shit . 

Myson’s tongue darted out and he licked his thin lips. His eyes also darted back and forth between Lady Edelgard and Claude. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this. “I’m just here to remind you who your true allies are,” he said, and produced an axe. 

Not just any axe, but Aymr, the artificial relic axe built to Lady Edelgard’s specifications. Built before they knew that the so-called relics were built from flesh and bone and souls. How many spare parts from how many different beings were mutilated and pieced together to make Her Majesty’s devastating weapon? And the Stone that powered it—

Harsh buzzing suddenly filled the air; Simurg had curled up, her tail rattling too fast to be seen. Claude’s face twisted into an expression of naked fury which Hubert had never seen on his face before. “That’s Blutgang’s crest stone! What did you do to Marianne?!”

“Heheheh. Like I said, you should know who your true allies are.” There was another flash of teleportation magic, and then Myson was gone. 

“Simurg, Claude, I swear, I had nothing to do with this,” Lady Avarine said, beak open as if she were panting, hunched on Her Majesty’s shoulder as she held the axe.

“I know you didn’t,” Claude said through gritted teeth. “It’s almost laughable, just how ham-fisted their attempts to drive a wedge between us are. Do they truly believe us to be mindless beasts?”

Hubert’s pulse roared in his ears; Thanily’s hackles stood straight on end as if she’d been electrocuted. This was out of his hands now, much faster than he anticipated, and now he had days at most to establish an upper hand, anticipate where they would first strike…He whipped around and stared down the impossibly annoying, impressively brilliant, “Claude.” 

“What do you need me to do to outwit them?” Clever man, he was already at attention, already knew what was required. 

“Return to the alliance, immediately. Once you arrive, enforce this treaty at once, so if something happens to you it will live on. Do not communicate with anyone alone unless you can absolutely verify their identity. I’m sure you already have secret code phrases in place.”

“Ones that even you couldn’t dream of, Hubes,” Claude said with a grin, and Hubert resigned himself to the mild indignity of having that nickname be Claude’s way of proving his identity from now on. 

Thanily motioned for Simurg to slither closer to her. “The Agarthans’ illusory magic extends to their daemons, but only to a point. I can disguise myself as a hare, for instance, but not a bear, or a snake, or a sparrow. And no matter what my illusion may project itself is, my true shape would remain the same, as would the shadow I cast. Look for those inconsistencies and if you see them, attack immediately.”

“Seems like I can’t bide my time anymore,” Simurg said as Claude shrugged. 

“Look closely,” and Thanily lowered her head so Simurg could see the back of her ears. The serpent daemon slithered as far off Claude’s arm as she could to get a better look, but that outstretched hand was far too close to his Thanily. Sweat prickled the back of Hubert’s neck and brow, and he forced himself to remain impassive, utterly unaffected by such a trivial thing as—no. Don’t think about it. 

There was another grin from Claude as Simurg pulled up, just a little bit. “At what, the once in a lifetime opportunity to see Hubes or his daemon bow before someone other than her majesty?”

Better Claude than the Agarthans, Thanily forced herself to remember. “There’s a patch of black fur at the base of my ear that an Agarthan daemon would never think to include in their disguise. Look for similar unique markings on your allies’ daemons. Memorize them, and have them memorize yours.”

“You are an incredibly intelligent and cunning man, Claude,” Hubert admitted, his voice falling back into a deep hiss. “Do not disappoint me.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Claude said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Simurg and I will be looking for that dark spot when we see you again.”

“We’ll get Marianne back, safe and sound,” said Edelgard, in all her imperial authority, and Claude just nodded with equal barely-restrained rage. 

Hubert waited for Claude and his brilliantly white wyvern to leave his earshot, then whipped around and bowed. “A change in plans, Your Majesty. I suggest that we launch our operation on Arianrhod immediately.”

Her Majesty was still somewhat subdued, as she still could sometimes get when directly confronted with the worst that the Agarthans had to offer; some part of her was likely back underneath the palace. She quickly shook it off, though, Avarine rustling off her feathers as she said, “Understood. I’ll ready the Strike Force at once.”

Surprisingly enough, though Byleth was at Lady Edelgard’s side the entire time only Belial followed Her Majesty off to their companions. Meanwhile, Byleth stayed behind. Her face was blank as always but…no. It wasn’t. It seemed blank at first, true, but the way her brows furrowed, the slightest hint of a frown…she was confused. When had he learned to understand the subtleties in Byleth’s seemingly impassive face, or grown almost used to the lack of Belial at her side?

“Arianrhod is a fortress city near the border of Faerghus and Adrestia, no more than about four days forced march from here. It is controlled by a woman named Cornelia, who saved Fhirdiad from a terrible plague about twenty years ago, only to orchestrate its prince’s execution and turn the city over to the so-called Dukedom.”

Byleth tilted her head for a moment, considering. “Agartha?”

His answering laugh was almost a purr in the throat. “Precisely. The woman who rules Agartha is merely a serpent wearing Cornelia’s face. Their only similarity is in the strength of their magical ability.” A low snarl rose from Thanily’s throat as he continued, “There have been rumors of people dissipating from the cities of Faerghus. The poor, the surviving Duscurians, nobody those in power consider important, so they were never investigated. Ashe and his contacts have traced these rumors back to Arianrhod—and therefore to Cornelia herself. Marianne may be down there as well.” Whatever was happening to those unfortunate souls, they would undoubtedly be utilized against the Empire the moment she learned of this deal. Best to eliminate her in a preemptive strike. 

There was another brief pause of contemplation, time enough for Byleth’s eyes to slightly narrow and for her to actually growl, “She won’t be able to hurt anyone else. We’ll get Marianne and anyone else she captured back.”

---

Even before Mercedes had arrived with the impossible news that Dimitri was alive, some part of Sylvain had always hoped it. The news of his execution had broken some small part of Sylvain, and those shards were left hoping, praying, begging to see Dimitri again. 

Just…not like this. 

They’d ridden their horses, well, pegasus in Ingrid’s case, to about half an hour from the gates of the city, waited for Ingrid to detach Albarrog from his special saddle, then slipped inside. Made their way through the desolate streets, the closed storefronts. Then, finally, found him. 

It…the physical state that Dimitri was in didn’t bear repeating. Sylvain wouldn’t be able to get the stench out of his nose for days. What scared him far more were the things that Dimitri said, the specifics of which bore repeating even less, if only so Sylvain wouldn’t get nightmares.  

He couldn’t maintain eye contact, just this intermittent intense glare as he paced back and forth, swearing vengeance to dead people and promising blood for blood. Delcabia just stood there, or trotted along after him like she was being dragged.

Dimitri didn’t even seem happy to see them. Just said that he was going to kill Edelgard, tear off her head and pull off Avarine’s wings, parade them through the streets of Fhirdiad then mount them on the gates of Enbarr. Commanded them to join him in his suicidal mission to bring the dead peace by adding to their ranks, then charged inside. 

And what did Sylvain and his friends do? They all just stood there and watched Dimitri and Delcabia walk straight into the gates of Arianrhod castle like the pack of idiots they were. And stood there, all alone as the snow began to fall as if they didn’t probably have a gigantic price on their heads. Even Zepida had finally shut the fuck up which, maybe Dimitri should go completely fucking insane more often if it would make the stupid cat be quiet for once. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen enough. The boar can run headlong into that death trap for all I care, I’m getting out of here.”

“So what’s our plan for extracting Dimitri safely?”

Felix and Ingrid stared at each other. 

“Are you fucking serious?!”

“Are you completely out of your mind?!”

Well great, this was going exactly as badly as Sylvain figured it would. And because he was a complete fucking coward, he just stood back and watched the fireball as his friends exploded. 

Felix he wasn’t too surprised about, he’d been shouting about Dimitri for years and weren’t they all fucking morons for not listening the first time, or the fiftieth, as if that made it any better. And Ingrid…yeah, of course she’d still, she never gave up once she was fixated on something, even now after everything she still dropped everything for the chance to be a lady knight of Faerghus, or what was left of it anyway. 

“Were we even looking at the same creature back there?!” Felix paced back and forth, shouting with every step. He was way way too loud, one of the patrolling guards would hear them and spot them and then they’d all be completely fucked. Sylvain garbled something and tried to shut Felix up, but when Fe was like this there really was no stopping him. “Were you even listening to the words that were coming out of its mouth?!”

“Don’t you dare talk about Dimitri that way!” Ingrid snarled, and Albarrog’s mouth was open as wide as it could go, wide enough that Sylvain could see every one of those sharp white dagger teeth, wide enough to swallow Bismalt whole. 

“That’s not Dimitri anymore!” Felix roared and shit shit they really had to get the fuck off the streets! Felix brushed off his frantic gestures and continued shouting, “Sorry Ingrid, but Dimitri died a long time ago, and all that’s left is the boar! I’m not going to follow him on some half-cocked suicide mission because chivalry demands I throw my life away!” 

Ingrid—shit, Sylvain didn’t think he’d ever seen her so furious in his entire life, not even after she spent nearly an entire week cleaning up after his messes which, why was she so upset about it? Ingrid was always so good at it, she was always there to take care of him! “How can you possibly throw away both our prince and one of your oldest friends like that?!”

“Have you been listening to a single word the boar or I have been saying?!”

“Okay, okay, Felix, Ingrid, we both need to be quiet now!” Sylvain hissed. He scrambled between Felix and Ingrid, both of them red in the face and glaring daggers at each other, and Zepida found herself facing Albarrog head-on as if she could actually do jack against the alligator daemon. “The streets are full of Arundel’s lackeys, and if we get spotted we’re fucked!”

Great, now Ingrid looked like she wanted to kill him for interrupting, and Albarrog was seriously scary when he got like that. At least she quieted down and actually whispered, “Exactly! I’m not going to let Dimitri walk into that death trap while he’s…not himself. What kind of person would I be if I did?”

Felix actually looked kinda scared as much as he tried to hide it, Bismalt swam in tight little circles in his capsule and Felix said, “Somebody who doesn’t want to go and die like a true knight!” and oh shit that’s what this was about of course that’s what this was about why was he such a dumb fucking idiot?  

Do something, say something you idiot! Open your fucking dumbass mouth! “Guys—“

Oh shit, now Ingrid seriously looked like she was going to kill Felix. Albarrog didn’t even have his mouth open anymore, he just stared down Felix and Bismalt. “How dare you. Glenn was—“

“—my brother too, so don’t act like you have a monopoly in this!” 

“Okay, I think that’s enough!” Mercedes, thank the goddess, actually stepped in where as usual he was too much of a fucking coward to do anything. “I know tensions are high, and it’s incredibly distressing to see Dimitri like this, but let’s not take it out on each other.”

Sylvain watched in awe as Mercedes talked Felix and Ingrid off the metaphorical cliff, then in horror as she proceeded to fuck it up. 

“I’m not as invested in the concept of chivalry as you two, but I’ll be going after Dimitri regardless. He needs help, and I can’t just leave him in mental anguish.”

Oh no. No no no no, not her too! How could Mercedes, who was sweet and kind and far too good, who always saw the best in everyone, who never gave up on anyone, not even a piece of shit like him…Zepida flattened herself to the ground, made herself small. Of course Mercedes wouldn’t give up on Dimitri. She’d set herself on fire if it would make someone else warm. 

Felix just threw up his hands in resignation. “Fine then! Apparently I’m the only one here with a lick of sense!” He stomped out of the alcove, stormy-faced, grabbed the back of Sylvain’s jacket to drag him along away from this tomb of a city—

And Sylvain just stood there. 

“What are you doing ?” Felix pulled on his jacket like they were little kids again, but Sylvain was and always had been bulkier than Felix, if less agile, and so he didn’t move. 

Now Zepida was stretched up his leg, she dug in her claws just below his knee almost enough to pierce skin, said, “Stop making twisted jokes only you find funny, this isn’t the time!” and that…Sylvain felt something snap deep within him. 

He grabbed Zepida by the scruff of her neck and yanked her off his leg. Ignored the tearing fabric, ignored the sudden blast of cold, ignored the horrified looks from his friends. Held her up to his face and growled, “Oh, now you have something to say?”

His daemon twisted out of his grip, kicked out and landed on her feet. Hissed up at him with her fur standing on end and yeah, he just about had it with Zepida and her bullshit. “What were you going to say, that I’m a coward? Going to berate me some more?”

“Holy shit,” one of them muttered and stop it stop making a scene in front of everyone! You want to drive away Felix and Ingrid and even Mercedes? They’re all you’ve got left, Sylvain! 

Zepida rolled her eyes. “That’s because you are! When have you ever actually gone for something instead of rolling over and giving up?” She flexed her claws into the ground, and now she went quiet with her rant, now that both Albarrog and Cygnis were staring at her and Cygnis seemed about to step in directly. “You could have joined Edelgard, could have told the crest system that ruined us to fuck off, but nope! Instead you just stood there and let things happen to you, like always!”

How dare she? How dare she! Something dark howled within him, surfed up and out and he shouted out, “You know what? I’m with you Ingrid! Let’s get Dimitri out of that death trap! Ha! How’s that for being a coward!”

Oh man, that look of utterly dumbfounded shock on his awful daemon’s face, and even better the silence! He should have done this ages ago! Though he could do without the way that Felix and Ingrid and Mercedes looked at him. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Ingrid said and there it was again, that completely un-Ingrid softness, utterly foreign and wrong coming from her and Felix better not be about to do the same thing! 

“Of course I am!” He shook the Lance of Ruin for emphasis and hoped they couldn’t see just how fake his smile get on his face. 

Mercedes and Cygnis shared a long look; Sylvain really didn’t want to think about just what might have passed between them. “If you’re sure,” she said, and why wouldn’t he be?!

Then there was Felix, who looked like he was about to explode. “Fuck you Sylvain, I can’t fucking believe you’re doing this and making me go along!” 

“What are you talking about?” Wasn’t he supposed to be the one who made it out? Except Felix didn't either, did he. They had their chance two years ago, he blew it, and now he was bobbing along like a cork in a river once more. No more crests, no more nobility, assuming that everything worked out as neatly as Edelgard wanted it to, but how? How could she still remain so optimistic, so strong, after everything? How could she do that? Didn’t she know how it goes? Nobody ever gets what you want in life, even if you’re born with everything, and then you die. How could Edelgard fight so hard against that? How could she be winning?

Sylvain envied her. Sylvain hated her. 

But Edelgard wasn’t here right now, was she? Instead they were in Arianrhod, with Dimitri apparently having gone completely around the bend, and fuck Zepida he was going to actually do something for once! 

But, but Felix…

“I don’t—you didn’t actually think—“ Felix groaned and threw up his hands again; Bismalt wouldn’t stop swimming in circles. “I’m doing this for you, not the boar.”

Either way, they were following him into the pits of Arianrhod. Sylvain resolutely ignored Zepida screaming in the back of his head with every step. When had she ever actually given him good advice anyway? 

---

Descent into Arianrhod through white streets into dark tunnels Arundel promised him power he would take it he would take what we he needed and kill that women 

Then he would kill Arundel and that traitor Ashe and anyone else from the Empire

They killed his friends his family they were responsible for Duscur they would suffer they would burn for what they did

Deeper into Arianrhod strange lights and wire and machines everywhere weapons of war of killing of blood and vengeance

The ghosts howled for vengeance for edelgard’s head for “someone help! Please help!”

No. Not just ghosts. People 

(Something wasn’t right this was wrong Dimitri do something stop this!)

SHUT UP!!!

Why was the boar following him he was a monster not a man

Monsters didn’t have daemons

People were screaming just like his father just like Glenn just like in Duscur just like the rebellion

The screams were of traitors

This was Faerghus justice. 

“Your Highness? Your Highness!”

No 

Impossible 

“…You’re alive?”

He was dead thought he was dead but he was alive  

The Cape buffalo chained and caged but head still up high

Scarred and beaten but never broken

Dedue. 

Notes:

I have…thoughts…on Dimitri. I’ll share them in another fic. For a hint, the title of that will be You Only Became What We Made You. I have other thoughts on the Nabateans too, which I hope have been made clear by now.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading and let me know what you think, if that’s ok? I mean, only if you want to. A lot is about to happen at once. I promise that one of those will be Hufernie at least!

Chapter 36: The End Of Everything

Summary:

Actions have consequences. Sometimes those consequences hurt the people around you too.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Discussion of genocide, discussion of cultural genocide, references of harm to children, oblique references to sexual assault, major injury of a playable character, and death of a playable character.

...I'm so sorry.

Notes:

…One of the more enduring questions in the history of the Fodlan War of Independence was that of the utter failure of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus to properly respond and fight back. On paper they were the most combat-ready nation in Fodlan, with a culture that revolved around warfare and the highest population of people trained for it. Sources at the time indicate that combat training was prioritized over any other type of education among all classes in society. Even today, Adrestian soldiers disproportionately hail from former Faerghus territories. So why did they crumble so thoroughly in the face of Adrestia’s assault?

One answer may lie in the culture of Faerghus itself. An extremely militaristic culture is often an extremely violent and inflexible one, and Faerghus is no exception. By the onset of the Fodlan War of Independence, Faerghus had become a nation that responded to insult and injury with overwhelming violence. In 1176, less than five years before the start of the war, Faerghus responded to regicide with genocide, one in which most of the country gleefully participated. Two years later, a rebellion was met with equal slaughter, this time inflicted upon the nation’s own citizens. Faerghus justified such violence with its culture of chivalry, “honorable” combat, obedience, and a need for military might. Their culture prized canine and ungulate daemons due to their “pack” or “herd” mentality, and over time stereotyped and exaggerated these traits. Primary (albeit biased, according to recently discovered documents) sources indicate that Rodrigue Achilles Fraldarius, a major noble in the Faerghus court at the time, reportedly took pride in his son’s death in combat, instead of mournful at the loss of his eldest son and heir. After the death of their king, the nation was increasingly unstable, with bandits running rampant and multiple territories on the brink of starvation. One cannot wage war on harvests, and by most modern definitions Faerghus was on the brink of becoming a failed state… 

…Although it is impossible to definitively diagnose the much-discussed last prince of Faerghus, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, with any specific pathology centuries after his death, it is clear that his mental illness was significantly influenced by his culture steeped in violence and vengeance. One could say that he was in many ways the logical conclusion of what such a culture leads to, a crumbling of society concentrated into one man. By the onset of the Fodlan War of Independence, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus had become a nation that did not value life and how one lived, but instead death and how one died. 

And, in the end, that is what they did.

 

—Mother Tongue and Father Land:  How Culture, Language, And People Shape Each Other. Nicole and Caskadil Victor, Dierdru University Press, 1454.

There was no sunlight in Arianrhod. 

There was light, of course. There was dim torchlight that cast smoke and did nothing but make the walls dirty, and there was odd almost blueish light that buzzed and flickered and made his head hurt when he looked at it for too long. But there was no sunlight in Arianrhod. 

Levia settled young, when Dedue caught someone in the act of bullying his younger sister after she’d complained about it for weeks. He’d finally found the bully throwing snowballs at his sister with small sharp stones buried in their core. Dedue hurled him to the ground, and after Levia flipped his lioness daemon over her horns then pinned her to the ground, she tossed her head, snorted, “I like this,” and that was that. 

The celebration lasted until the following day, and even now Dedue could remember the words of the priest, calling him solid and strong, how Levia showed he was of the earth just like his parents were, who pulled metal from the ground and wrought it into horseshoes and plowshares. He and Levia had never felt so strong, so proud to be of Duscur as they were when he wove the cloth around her horns, when she pressed her enormous nose against his forehead. 

Dedue could still remember the sound of the bully’s flesh crackling as it burned in the priest’s Bolganone, could still remember the feel of his sister’s blood, hot and sticky as it spattered across his face. 

The soldiers descended on his home like…not like wolves, because there was no malice in what wolves did, only the drive of hunger and need to feed their pups. The soldiers came out of his nightmares and and left murder in their wake, for the men of Faerghus were savage beasts who called murder justice and paid for blood with blood. 

Except for Dimitri. 

The men of Faerghus tore his family and town and world apart, and yet Dimitri ran through the streets slippery with the blood of his mother and father, begging for them to stop in words that went beyond a need for translation. Dedue remembered Delcabia, wrestling with a soldier’s hyena daemon, subduing her long enough for his neighbor to flee into the woods. He hoped she survived. He remembered himself and Levia standing before his sister, between her and the blades. 

He remembered one of the men trampling over him like he was nothing and running his sister through. 

He remembered staring up at the soldier as his sister’s lifeblood dropped from the lance onto his face, Levia beside him, silent and defiant as he stared down his inevitable end. 

He remembered Dimitri, screaming and crying, throwing himself in their path, doing for Dedue what he could not for his sister. 

Then there were the dark days, the days where Dedue sat alone in the frigid castle waiting for somebody to hunt down a surviving boy of Duscur. Months, years, where his only company was Levia, and Dimitri. They rode the pain and grief together, and though Dimitri was filled with the same spirit of bloodlust that consumed the rest of Faerghus, he fought it. Dimitri saved him when he could have participated, or stood by and done nothing. 

But even though Dimitri was the prince, he was but one person and could only do so much to protect a boy of Duscur. 

Faerghus hated Duscur. Faerghus blamed Duscur for the murder of its king, and believed that only the slaughter of the entire nation would be an appropriate penalty to pay. Dedue couldn’t make sense of it, how his parents and sister could possibly have anything to do with the death of a king whose name he did not know. He couldn’t understand how his little sister’s murder could possibly make that better. Dedue wondered if all of Faerghus was possessed by a demon who demanded sacrifices of blood. A part of him still wondered that today. And the men, the monsters in human form who made up Faerghus, were more than happy to remind Dedue that it was only with Dimitri’s permission that he still lived. And that he should be grateful for it. 

He fought when he was younger, so much. Fought to prove he was a boy of Duscur, that there was pride in being of Duscur. That they were innocent. That his mother, his father, his sister, his home, they did not deserve to die. Every time he fought, he was beaten. When he spoke the language of Duscur, he was beaten. When he cooked the foods of Duscur, worshipped the gods of Duscur, wore the clothes of Duscur, he was beaten. When he was quiet, when he spoke the language of Faerghus, when he was a good and grateful servant of Dimitri…he was still the target of venomous words and spit and glare and hatred. But he wasn’t beaten. 

Levia would fight viciously, but though she was enormous she was still young and alone, and could be overwhelmed. Eventually she stopped, because every time she fought back it would only hurt Dedue. She was a mighty Cape buffalo, he was meant to be a headstrong and staunch shield, but the only person in the world worth protecting was Dimitri. 

And so the years passed. Dedue grew and grew and grew into a man of Duscur, because in Faerghus he could never be anything else. Little by little, month by month, he stopped trying to be anything else, because trying just got him beaten. He was trapped in a place where everyone hated him, actively looked for any possible reason to see him as an animal and not a man. He was enormous, even for a man of Duscur, and anybody who knew anything about Cape buffalo knew that they killed lions. 

Eventually, Dedue gave up, and sunk deeper into himself. Better to be quiet. Better to be out of the way. Better to be Dimitri’s sword and shield and nothing more. Duscur was gone anyway, and he would never be anything more to anybody else. And after years and years of hatred, of being told that to be a man of Duscur was something to be ashamed of, he started to believe it. He began to wonder if one day he would wake up and find Levia suddenly in the shape of another form entirely. 

How ironic that it was only here, in a place empty of light and full of death, that he would remember what it was like to be a man of Duscur once more. 

Dedue had expected to die that day, when he saw those masked men chasing after Ashe and his Duscurian companion. Without even thinking about it, without even talking it over with Levia, they lept in to help him and his ally. 

Ashe was too good for Faerghus. So were Mercedes and Annette, but Ashe was everything Faerghus was not. Ashe was honest, and kind, and true. The blighted land of Faerghus was not worthy of someone as good as Ashe and Fuergios, and as terrified as Dedue was of the possibility of facing Ashe down in combat, he was also...happy. Happy that Ashe had managed to break away from the demons that plagued Faerghus before he was consumed by them as well. It wasn’t until he saw Ashe again, and realized that he was one of the people freeing captives, that the true depth of his affection bloomed like the desert after rain. He sacrificed himself for Ashe, and the Earthcaller with him, without even thinking about it, but he did not die.

At least, not right away. They interrogated him, and tortured him, but Dedue had learned long ago how to stay silent and stoic and endure. Eventually they gave up and threw him in the cell with others. He had no illusions; they would probably turn him into a demonic beast, and a man of his size and strength would make a powerful monster indeed. There was no hope for his fellow survivors of Duscur down here either, but much to his shock there was still life down here. A teenage boy’s daemon settled into a hummingbird with a bright red gash of feathers across her throat, and they celebrated with circlets of woven rags and hoarded food before the cultists took him away and he was never seen again. A language that Dedue never thought he would hear again was whispered among his people, and blended with the Fodlani language of the Faerghus prisoners also taken from the slums to make a new pidgin tongue. He heard old stories of gods once more, shared his town’s versions of them. There were no altars and incense, but the prayers to his gods still echoed through the walls, and for the first time mingled freely with prayers to Sothis, because what difference did it make when their fates were all the same?

Down here, in this place of death, the people of Duscur still lived. How could Dedue have ever forgotten that? He was ashamed, at first, of how much he had forgotten,but then he remembered what it was like to be proud of his Duscur blood once more.

When they came for him, he would die defiant, and he would not surrender again. Dedue had no illusions of surviving this place, but he would not be ashamed to be a man of Duscur ever again.

And then, as they moved him from one cell to another, he saw Dimitri, as if he were one of the ghosts that tormented his mind. 

Dimitri stood there, stunned. Then his face twisted into something beyond rage. He howled to the empty chamber, and charged. With a wordless scream of feral rage, he wrapped his hands around the bars caging Levia, and ripped the metal apart. 

Levia barged forward and tore the chains binding Dedue in two. 

He moved his arm further than he could in weeks.. Clenched his hands into a fist. Slammed it in the direction of Arundel’s face. 

Arundel teleported away moments before his fist connected, and inertia sent it crashing into the wall with a shower of rubble and a visible dent. 

Dedue shook off the dust and rubble. “Tch.”

“TRAITOR!!!” Dimitri roared and charged down another corridor, lost to his rage. 

“He’s going to rampage through the entire building,” said Levia, pressed against him. He’d missed her, her bulk, her presence so much. 

Good. This place deserved to be torn to rubble. 

Levia stamped her hooves. “But what about everyone else trapped in here?”

That…Dimitri was lost in the inferno of his rage. It used him, blinded him, burned him up from the inside out. He wouldn’t notice if he hurt anyone in his destructive rage. 

But Dedue…Dedue…

He hated Faerghus. Hated it with a depth of fury that he could never, ever show, because the moment he showed his well-earned rage they would call him a beast and slaughter him like one. So, for years, he suppressed the rage and let it simmer. 

Dedue looked over at Levia’s horns, her powerful body, her formsake that could kill lions. He looked down at the shackles attached to his wrists, turning his arms into a hammer. And clenched his hands into fists once more. 

His own fury was a calm lagoon, with a depth spanning years. And a calm lagoon could be sailed and controlled. It was time to finally, finally let that rage out. 

---

Arianrhod had Arundel’s fingerprints all over it. 

As Emperor, as a point of national pride, the very presence of Arianrhod was a bitter potion to swallow. It was, after all, founded out of duplicity and treason. 

But this…

Edelgard reached for Byleth’s hand; the answering squeeze grounded her almost as much as Avarine’s weight on her shoulder would. Hubert to her left, Byleth to her right, her Strike Force at her side; Edelgard chewed at her lip and allowed herself to acknowledge the old terror that rose within when she began to contemplate what horrors dwelled within those silver walls. 

A shadow rapidly descended from the gray skies above; Edelgard‘s heart surged at the sight of Avarine’s return. Her daemon pulled up from her stoop to perch on an abandoned platform, took the time to nuzzle both Belial’s face and her outstretched hand, then announced her findings. “It’s just as we thought. The streets are emptied out, and many of the slums show signs of forcible eviction. All of the guards surrounding the castle appear to be Cornelia’s cronies. I didn’t dare go any closer, but it looks like there were a lot more people going in than out.”

“So what’s happening to them down there?” Dorothea asked. She was already winding her hair wound her fingers; Calphour had a bare patch on his breast from feather picking. Cornelia would undoubtedly unleash demonic beasts in this battle along with whatever horrible experiments she was creating; would Dorothea be able to handle fighting those poor souls?

Linhardt answered for her, his face already slightly green. “If what I understand is correct, and it probably is, then think Remire, but worse.”

“Don’t think about it, El,” Avarine warned. She’d flown up to her shoulder and come to rest on her pauldron, dug her talons in so nobody could ever tear them apart. There were similar looks of horror and disgust on the faces of all her friends, and as much as she blustered otherwise Lysithea looked like she’d fall over if not for Zilbariel propping her up and the help of the magic staff she’d reluctantly started using as a cane. 

There really was no reason for Lysithea to be here; her friend should be conserving her strength. Cornelia would undoubtedly have some research, or clue, or something that would help the two of them. Yet the moment Edelgard approached, before she even opened her mouth, Lysithea held up her hand and shook her head. Zilbariel said for her, “I know what you’re going to say, and absolutely not. I know this could kill me, but I’d rather die fighting on my feet instead of wasting away in a tent.” 

Which, Edelgard couldn’t honestly deny Lysithea that request, not when she was prepared to walk that very same path herself, before learning she didn’t need to be alone. Lysithea believed in their cause enough to risk her life for it in a way that the rest of the Strike Force never would, and as painful as Lysithea’s loss would be, Edelgard would never take that agency away from her friend. 

The point was, Avarine reminded Edelgard, guiding her back on topic, she, Hubert, and Lysithea were the only ones who had a full idea of what horrors lurked beneath the palace. Her friends would have to steel themselves, and from the way Bernadetta squared her shoulders, the way Petra swallowed and readied her kampilan, they were performing as admirably as she knew they would.

Belial suddenly stiffened, swiveled their ears and turned their body. “Someone’s coming,” they said, and only then did Byleth whip around, sword drawn and instantly ready for battle despite the lag. 

Avarine launched herself off Edelgard’s shoulder and took to the air long enough to identify whomever approached. She felt her daemon’s recognition, surprise, and concern—though not outright alarm—across their link before Avarine landed and announced, “It’s Ashe and his Duscurian contact, Syene! But something’s wrong; Ashe appears to be injured.”

That got everyone’s attention; Caspar and Linhardt ran forward to see to their friend. 

Ashe seemed okay at first, but when he got closer Edelgard could see what her daemon meant. Syene seemed uninjured, if livid, but as for Ashe? A ring of purpling bruises circled his neck, and red dots speckled the whites of his eyes. Then there was the haunted look on his face. 

Hubert was already at her side; she snapped into a salute. “Ashe, give us your status report.”

Linhardt cast a Physic spell that erased the pinpoint bleeding and the worst of the bruises. Still, Fuergios was the half of Ashe that spoke. “Edelgard! Most of the people the Slitherers kidnap are sent here. I’ve seen carts of people go into the front gates, and nobody come out. About a week ago a demonic beast burst out and ran rampant for a few hours before it was captured; I didn’t see what exactly happened after, except that they threw a body filled with arrows into the river not long after.”

“They prioritize people from the slums because they won’t be missed, and gods know Faerghus has plenty of those to choose from,” Syene added. “Of course, my people are disproportionately represented ever since the Murder. But anybody who speaks out or causes too much of a scene also mysteriously vanishes.”

“I can show you the entrance they used, though I don't know where it leads inside.” Fuergios paused and hopped up Ashe’s shoulder to nestle in the crook of his neck as if to gather strength; Linhardt had run off back to his supplies. “There’s something else. While I was scouting I ran into…well, I ran into Dimitri.”

“What?” Arundel and Cornelia had him framed for avunculicide and executed over two years ago! She’d been horrified but unable to deny the effectiveness of their coup at destabilizing Faerghus…and also suspicious, at the lack of a body. She’d wondered if he’d been kept as a hostage by the Agarthans, or did he manage to secretly escape? 

Or (and here Edelgard remembered the wild look on his face as he charged her back in the battle of Garreg Mach, the way that he screamed her name), had they managed to sink their claws into him?

“Edelgard, I—” Fuergios broke off and shared a silent conversation with Ashe for a moment before continuing, “You don’t know Dimitri as well as I do, but he’s not the person he was in the academy anymore. He’s, he needs help but I don’t know what to do, the only thing he talked about was killing you, and anyone associated with you. And not just killing but…” She broke off with a shudder, and Ashe made a horrible rasping noise in his swollen throat as he wiped away tears. “He saw us, and called Ashe a traitor, and strangled him. And then he…”

Fuergios broke off and curled into Ashe. Edelgard stood back and let them recollect themselves. Hubert leaned down and whispered, “Your Majesty, remember those reports of Imperial troops, both ours and those under Arundel’s commands, who were found dead and savaged?” She had, and the reports of what had been done to some of the bodies were...nauseating. She hoped they’d been picked apart by scavengers after death, and that was what she told the families of the dead soldiers when the bodies were...unsuitable...for viewing, even after all the morticians could do. “It’s quite possible we found our culprit.”

BOOM

An explosion from the palace shook the air and ground like a thunderclap; Syene flinched, Ashe jumped, and Fuergios bolted off his shoulder with an audible flurry of feathers. 

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “I presume that’s also the work of Dimitri?” 

If he was truly as unhinged as Ashe claimed, he was probably wreaking havoc inside right now. It would be risky, especially if he caught sight of her or her Strike Force, but with Cornelia’s forces split there wouldn’t be a better time to strike.

“I know what you’re thinking, but before you send us all on another dangerous mission, Ashe’s throat is incredibly swollen from Dimitri strangling him, and I need to treat that.” Linhardt appeared out of nowhere and shoved a small cup of thick, chalky liquid in Ashe’s face. “Drink this. In one swallow if you can, and I’d prefer if you didn’t vomit but if you must please do so in the other direction. I just washed my robes yesterday.”

Ashe glanced at the proffered potion with suspicion, but drank it anyway. Then, the moment the chalky off-white liquid passed his lips, Ashe started coughing and spluttering it back up. “Blegh!” Fuergios choked out, “That’s absolutely vile!”

“And it tastes even worse coming back up, so don’t,” Lysithea muttered.

Edelgard saluted to Ashe, who shakily returned the gesture; Fuergios bowed to Avarine. “Thank you, Ashe. You did marvelous work, infiltrating and sabotaging the group we now know as Agarthans, and delivering us this valuable information. You are dismissed, Ashe. Please, focus on resting, recovering, and regaining your strength.”

Ashe slumped gratefully against the wall; Caspar moved to help him up; Syene all but pushed him away when he approached the side where Fuergios perched and with a cold feeling down her spine Edelgard started to have an unpleasant inkling about just what Dimitri did. 

It was unthinkable but…no. Dimitri always had a strange obsession, an intensity about him. Like there was something roiling under the surface that he could just barely keep leashed. 

“I’ll be with Ashe; he’s in no condition for combat right now,” Syene said. The undertone was clear: We’re talking later. Logically, Edelgard knew she should be offended at Syene’s presumptive attitude, but in reality she was impressed by their bold confidence. 

More shouts, increasingly frantic, could be heard from the direction of the castle. If Edelgard strained she could hear a muffled explosion, just on the edge of hearing. 

“Black Eagle Strike Force!” Edelgard commanded, and they had already fallen into formation. “Our mission today has multiple goals. Our overall objective is to infiltrate Arianrhod castle, eliminate the mage known as Cornelia, and rescue as many prisoners as we can.”

Byleth stepped up and took it from there, “Apparently Dimitri is alive, and in an extremely agitated and dangerous state. Avoid engaging him in combat if possible, especially since Arianrhod Castle is under siege by an unknown third party. If you have to engage Dimitri, subdue and capture him if possible, but kill him if you must. I don’t want any of you dying today, understood?”

They all assented as one, went over plans, and then it was time. Edelgard gripped her reinforced silvered axe, raised it to the sky, and shouted, “Black Eagle Strike Force, move out!”

---

It hurt, seeing Dimitri like this, succumbed to the spirit of violence and slaughter that seemed to inhabit every man of Faerghus (except for Ashe. Gods of the earth and home, please let that wicked spirit continue to have overlooked Ashe). Perhaps because he was the prince, he seemed to be overtaken by the most malicious spirit of them all. Regardless, in the state he was in Dimitri was utterly berserk, and could not be directed or commanded so much as unleashed in the appropriate direction. 

He hadn’t even said anything coherent since tearing Levia loose with his bare hands. Just wordless screams of rage and vows to kill every single person responsible for capturing and torturing Dedue with his bare hands. 

Not that he had anything against the depths of Dimitri’s loyalty, but this…this wasn’t the man to whom he had sworn a life debt. 

The Dimitri that Dedue knew was still in there, somewhere. He had to be.

“For now though,” Levia said as they charged down the hall, “we need to rescue as many people as we can.”

Dedue eyed the rampaging prince and his daemon. “Dimitri is in no condition to rescue anybody right now.”

“Do you think he has the presence of mind to avoid injuring anybody?”

Of course he wouldn’t! But when Dedue opened his mouth, the forceful denial simply wouldn’t come. Could he guarantee that Dimitri, in his current state of being consumed by that fury, could avoid hurting someone by mistake? 

…He couldn’t say for sure. But perhaps he could guide Dimitri well. 

Echoing shouts, the acrid stench of what Dedue now knew to be charging dark magic. This felt wrong, directing Dimitri in battle—but he would get himself killed rampaging around the complex like this. Dedue wrapped the broken chains dangling from his shackles to make gauntlets, and Levia bellowed, “Dimitri! Your highness! Enemy mages on the other side of the wall!”

Dimitri roared as one with Delcabia, more a wordless bellow than anything else, grabbed a piece of masonry that jutted out, and tore the wall apart with his bare hands. Delcabia rammed into the crumbling wall again and again, and Dimitri peeled away the stone with bleeding fingers like it was tissue paper, and—

The two guards lay in a crumpled heap before the cells, their throats and torsos sliced open, their daemons already gone. And, in their place—

Felix wiped down his sword but kept it at the ready. Sylvain watched the other one end of the corridor, the Lance of Ruin clacking in anticipation of more bloodshed. Luin, in contrast, was as patient and still as Albarrog, yet Ingrid’s hands flew over the keys she stole from the dead guard. She…gazed into the faces of dozens of people, mostly Duscurian, crammed up against each other and equally cramped daemon cages, with an expression of almost-guilt that was utterly foreign on her face. And then there was Mercedes and Cygnis, calming their fear, healing their wounds. It was the two of them who noticed him and Levia first.

“Dedue! You’re alive!” Mercedes’s face lit up like the sun, and her joy spread among his old classmates much like the growing dawn. It spread to him as well, a lightness that he honestly thought he would never feel again. His old classmates all looked so healthy and strong. Dedue never thought he would be so happy to see them in his life. 

Dimitri grunted and charged two mages who ran around the corner. Delcabia trampled the small daemon of one of them, then kept going to impale the dying mage on her tusks. Dimitri snarled and grabbed the other one’s head. Then smashed him against the wall over and over and over until the stone cracked and the man’s head was reduced to little more than a mess of pulped flesh and splintered bone. Dimitri snarled, wiped his hand on his trousers, grabbed his battered spear, and kept running. 

“Dammit, you stupid fucking idiot boar!” Felix screamed. And made no move to go after him. Neither did Ingrid, or Sylvain, or even Mercedes. 

“Aren’t we going after him?” Dedue asked and felt like an idiot the moment the words left his mouth. Because, instead…

“Change of plans,” Ingrid muttered; she’d opened up the door to the cell but seemed at a loss as to how to break open the daemon cages. “We can’t leave these people here at the whims of...whatever the heck is going on here. Goddess, I wish Ashe were here, he’d have this thing open in seconds flat.”

The thought of Ashe sent an odd pang through Dedue’s heart, but no time for that. This was something only he could do, something that he had been aching to do for a long time. “Everyone?” he asked his fellow men and women, “I need you to stand back a little.”

Perhaps it was because he was just like them, or perhaps it was desperation, but nobody protested when he stepped forward towards the daemon cages. Or when he wedged his hands between the bars and forced the already cramped daemons on top of each other to avoid brushing up against him. Levia couldn’t join him in the cell, but she uttered words of comfort and encouragement in a tongue Dedue feared he had forgotten over the long years but was always there and waiting for him. And there were certainly no protests when he tore the daemon cages apart with his bare hands.

But there was no time for celebration, not when they were still down here! Not when the sounds of combat, of Dimitri’s feral howls and the stench of dark magic and the sound of tearing flesh and cracking stone echoed through the corridors. 

Cygnis’s huge ears swiveled, he turned and snarled, “The fighting’s coming from the atrium we entered, the big room with all the pillars and multiple hallways.”

“How did we even find our way down here with all those paths anyway?” Sylvain mused, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off the people they’d just freed. At their tattered clothes, their gaunt faces. At the life and defiance still in their eyes. 

“Does it even matter?” Ingrid said, drawing Luin. “What matters is getting everyone out.” As if she didn’t notice that they were mostly men and women and children of Duscur at all. Dedue really wasn’t sure what to say. 

“We’ll bring up the rear; I’ll only drag Ingrid behind on the ground anyway,” Albarrog chimed in in their well-known tone that brooked no argument.  

They ran into a scene of absolute carnage. Of Dimitri tearing apart an entire battalion of dark mages with whatever weapons he could find, and his bare hands and Delcabia’s tusks when he couldn’t find any. Of Dimitri ignoring the dark magic that tore at his vitality and sapped his strength and left him dripping blood with every step. Of only the fact that it was one man against many, and their terrifying zealotry, that kept the dark mages attacking him. 

Mercedes healed him, and he didn’t even notice except to use his regained strength to impale two dark mages upon a pillar, drive a lance in so deeply that he buried the steel tip deep into the stone. There were similar smears of ruin that used to be people slumped against the ground, with cracked craters in the pillars and walls and floors behind them. How much of this was Dimitri’s crest, and how much was him alone? Dedue turned back to the horror in Ingrid, Sylvain, and Mercedes’s faces, the bitter lack of surprise in Felix’s, the terror on everyone else they were helping to freedom. 

“How are we going to get everyone to follow Dimitri?” Levia asked. Left unsaid, of course, was the second and even worse question of should we?

Thank the gods, they didn’t have time for those two words to be more than a traitorous thought shared across their link when he saw a young girl, no more than seven or so, cornered by a masked dark mage. She screamed, “GET AWAY FROM ME!” and her terrified daemon shifted into a Duscur bear. He lashed out blindly and tore into the mage’s bat daemon. At that moment of contact there was a flash of light, and the unmistakable sigil of the Crest of Gautier briefly illuminated the room. When it faded, there was the dead mage on the floor, and the trembling girl clutching her daemon, tears in her eyes and...light red hair.

That was the lightning of horrified realization, as both he and Sylvain stopped in their tracks. Then came the thunder of his and Sylvain’s unbridled rage. 

“DAMMIT MIKLAN, WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Sylvain’s own crest, perhaps encouraged by its counterpart living in the half-Fodlani child of Duscur (Ravna, that was her name, they’d pulled her from the cells some time ago, then some time later thrown her back in. Everyone wondered just how she’d returned from the dead when nobody else had and she just laughed and sobbed into her daemon’s chest and said that “it” was finally good for something, and now they all know what “it” was and why), lit up the room once more as he swung the Lance of Ruin down, and Zepida’s screams when she launched herself at the closest enemy daemon seemed to come from a creature much bigger than herself. There was confusion on Ravna’s face at Sylvain’s recognition and fury, confusion that Dedue both envied and pitied, for it wouldn’t last.

And there was Dimitri, who didn’t even seem to notice as he tore apart the poor demonic beasts that their apparently desperate captors unleashed. They were enormous, and it took all four of them with Mercedes healing nonstop to put down a single one, yet Dimitri and Delcabia managed all by himself. Against him, all the demonic beasts did was leave a bigger crater on the ground.

“Dammit, how are we going to do this?” Sylvain shouted above the din of battle. “They just keep coming!”

Ingrid yanked Luin out of a masked brawler’s chest, looked around frantically, then pointed at the corridor to her upper left that looked just like the rest. “I haven’t seen any reinforcements come out of there; it’s probably the exit!”

“And if it’s not?” Zepida spat.

“Um, guys?”

Somehow, the voice that spoke with such concerned uncertainty belonged to Felix, and that got everyone’s attention. Dedue and Levia slowly followed Felix’s outstretched finger, along the crack that ran up the wall, up to the ceiling where it spiderwebbed out even as they watched. As if on cue, a small shower of crumbled stone fell upon them both.

Sylvain’s eyes widened. “Okay, time to go!” 

“This way if you want to live!” Felix shouted, and all his fellow prisoners streamed after him with whatever weapons they managed to grab. Mercedes and Sylvain guarded their flanks, and Dimitri—

To Dedue’s horror, Dimitri chased down the remaining cultists who had retreated in the opposite direction. He ignored the larger chunks that bounced off his head and roared, “Traitors! Cowards! Monsters! I’ll hunt and gut you like the beasts you are!”

“Your highness!” Levia threw herself between them and Dimitri, and he pulled up short. 

“Let me go, Levia! You know what they’ve done! They deserve everything I’m going to do to them!” “You’ll die down here!” Levia stamped her hooves. 

“They’ll still be avenged!”

Dimitri snarled and leaned forward, centimeters from Levia’s nose. Levia snorted in response, stood her ground even through that traitorous flicker of uncertainty. Dimitri wouldn’t dare…right? 

“Your highness.” Dimitri jumped—flinched—at the hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he was not the beast he claimed to be but the terrified child who woke up screaming and clinging to whatever was in reach. “We need you. I need you.”

By some miracle Dimitri nodded and turned around to rejoin the rest. But he had cost them precious time,  and now they lagged behind everyone else except for Ingrid. Sylvain had noticed their absence and dashed back; Zepida clung to his cloak. 

“Come on guys! Ingrid, what are you doing?!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her forward, and only stopped when Albarrog growled. 

“Cut it out, Sylvain! I’m an alligator, I can’t run!”

“Sorry about this.” Levia scooped Albarrog up in her horns and threw him onto her back before he or ingrid could protest. For a moment Ingrid looked like she was going to explode, but then she muttered a thanks and took off running to the sound of the underground chamber caving in. 

It happened slowly, then all at once. A twisting, creaking groan rose from the very walls, followed by a deafening roar and a rumble through the earth like drums. The cracked pillar finally gave way, and as it crumbled it tore the ceiling and the supporting beam above down with it. All at once, the ceiling caved in. 

Dedue and his companions ran up the funnel as the deep fissures in the ceiling and the piecemeal collapse of an entire palace chased them out of the bowels of Arianrhod. 

They almost made it.

Almost.

---

There weren’t as many reinforcements as Edelgard thought there would be, but she wasn’t complaining. She almost wanted to thank Dimitri, if not for his appalling obsession with her, murdering her, and parading around her mutilated corpse. 

For fuck’s sake, they were the same age! How could he seriously think that she was responsible for the Tragedy of Duscur? Even discounting the fact that she was a child back then, she was busy being experimented on at the time!

“Dimitri was the prince of Faerghus, shouldn’t he have been tutored in math?” Avarine shouted from partway down the inner courtyard, high on adrenaline. 

“Given what Ashe said about instruction in Faerghus, maybe not? Apparently it’s the norm to learn how to swing a sword before holding a pen!” Which—and she thought the Vestras were bad, but at least Hubert learned how to read and write and do basic addition before he was assigned to her service and learned what it truly meant to be a von Vestra, and yet he still defaulted to skulking, intimidation, and worse in his plans! No wonder Faerghus was like that, if violence and warfare was baked into their being from before birth. 

“Don’t write off all of Faerghus like that, El. That’s not good for anyone,” Ava chided her, then dove right back into combat with a flurry of feather and talon.

Edelgard finished off the brawler (not as many human enemies as she initially expected, it seemed as though wherever Dimitri was he was distracting them admirably), stepped back, and assessed the situation. Cornelia had unleashed four of those mechanical monstrosities—no, three now, the echoing clatter of metal and Belial’s satisfied huff marked the destruction of one. Byleth and her unholy sword, not to mention the apparent literal divine intervention for whatever that was worth, were able to take on the machines without too much trouble. Still, she was only one person, and as powerful as her friends were these machines were enormous and completely covered in a strange and extremely durable metal. 

Caspar had scrambled up to the top of one of the machines, had wedged his claws between the overlapping metal plates, and was trying to pry them apart so Lysithea could blast apart the vulnerable inner workings. Linhardt had melted the shield of another, fused it to the arm joints and rendered that arm useless. Doing that had burned through his higher level magical reserves, though, and the other arm with the giant blade was still very much functional. Petra was more than able to dodge the worst of its powerful and slow attacks, but she could only chip away at it in exchange. Ferdinand was able to withstand the attacks of the final one, especially with Leonie’s cover fire, but actually destroying the machine would take time which they were quickly running out of. 

All of this would be manageable, if not for Marianne. 

Edelgard didn’t want to think about what they did to her old classmate, because if she did then she would invariably think about what they did to her , the monstrousness that now ran through her veins, and—no, El. Not here, not now, not ever. 

It was easy to recognize her silhouette and armadillo daemon, and Dorothea had called out to her before drawing back, uncertain. Had she managed to free herself in the chaos? No, something wasn’t right. She was limp even though standing, her limbs slack in a way that reminded Edelgard of a marionette with its strings cut, and her daemon’s movements were sluggish and detached in a way that they never were even in the worst of Marianne’s depression and malaise at the academy. And then they saw her warped shape, as if she had been halfway transformed into a demonic beast, and just as the horror registered she attacked.

“Marianne!” Calphour cried out as Dorothea stumbled back, those monstrous claws catching her hair and slicing off chunks of it. “What happened to you?! Snap out of it!” Bernadetta broke off from Ferdinand’s side to reinforce Dorothea, and she frantically wove a counterspell, but even at their distance Edelgard could see Dorothea’s fingers trembling as she wove the glyph. Even to her untrained eye the spell glyph looked misshapen and she wasn’t surprised when it unraveled and shattered, the magical energy fizzling out in a puff and a few scattered sparks. Dorothea tried again and pled, “Whatever they did to you, we can fix it!”

But Marianne wasn’t listening, at least not now. And even if she could be saved (and it might be possible, Avarine pointed out. Though black scales twisted up her neck and face, though her hands had warped into misshapen claws, her hair was still blue, her daemon still staggered by her side), it did not change the fact that she was attacking them, and her twisted form was enough to make Dorothea hit some inner limit and mentally shut down. 

Edelgard knew that look on Dorothea and Calphor’s face when she saw Marianne warped and forced to attack, had lived it herself before that pain had honed itself to razor sharp focus and fury. Hubert had learned to recognize it and guide her through the worst of the fog, which meant he had to pull himself away from supporting Ferdinand and Leonie to drag Dorothea off the battlefield and guide her back to the world. That left Bernadetta alone against Marianne, with nothing but her new bow and mastered Encloser art to protect her. 

“We need to be in four places at once. El…”

“I know.” She didn’t want to use Aymr, not after learning how it was forged. How many sentient beings were murdered to create such a powerful weapon? Did the Stone that powered it originally belong to any of them? Now that she needed to use Aymr, though, she wouldn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t disrespect or patronize those who were murdered in that way. 

“I’m sorry to use you,” she said. “I promise that your death will not be in vain. We shall break the cycle of torment that has plagued Fodlan for too long, and then I will lay you to rest.”

Edelgard pulled out Aymr, and—

Power, crashing into her, over her, a sudden surge of energy, filling her with the need to move, to strike, to never stop. Power that threatened to overwhelm her and drag her down but it would not! Power that seemed so much more than the shape of the axe it was forced into; no wonder the Relics wiggled and twitched. Aymr was so much more than a simple weapon. Did all these mutilated remains have this—this intent?  

While at Lake Teutates, Byleth had said that the Sword of the Creator felt like an extension of her, more a part of her than Belial had ever been—and now she knew why. Aymr wasn’t like that at all. Wielding Aymr felt like, like…riding a wyvern, perhaps? There was no definitive motive, no hostile or malicious intent, nothing that had words to it. But there was most definitely the presence of something, no, someone, that was not her. 

Edelgard grinned and readied her axe. Power like this couldn’t be driven, couldn’t be controlled. Not fully. 

But it could be steered. 

Edelgard slammed into the first machine with all the force of a raging storm. Aymr’s jagged edge dug into the metal sheeting and peeled it back like an orange. The metal dangled in the wind, and the back of her neck prickled as Lysithea prepared to tear it apart. A flash of mint, and Byleth was at her side. 

“You go left, I’ll go right.”

“Got it.”

“HYAAAAA!!!” Aymr opened wide, and bit down on the machine’s arm-sword. Edelgard lept up, bent the weapon around itself, then pushed off the mecha, launched herself into the air under her own momentum. For a moment she was flying, and when she came back down it was with a vibration that rattled through her bones, threatened to shake even Bernadetta off her feet. 

Bernadetta recovered quickly, fearful but in control. “Edelgard! We aren’t going to have to kill Marianne, are we?”

“She’s not fully a demonic beast like Miklan became and she’s got a Crest to protect her, we can save her, right?” Malecki cried out. 

It was folly, to wish for something like that in the middle of combat, but Edelgard suddenly found herself wishing the same thing. She wanted Marianne to live, wanted to directly save someone from the clutches of her tormentors. And, maybe, if there was hope for Marianne there was hope for her— 

The earth shook beneath their feet. Marianne, already entangled from Bernadetta’s trick arrows, fell to the floor and thrashed and cried but couldn’t get up because of her warped shape. The rumbling of the earth continued, little pebbles bouncing off her shoes, and—

Nausea rolled through her, a sharp headache briefly exploded behind her eyes. The blinding stars faded,the world refocused and snapped back into place like a band. Bernadetta seemed unaffected, maybe confused, then Belial’s shouts rang through the inner courtyard, “OUT OF THE COURTYARD! NOW!”

Nobody hesitated. Bernadetta hesitated when she ran past Marianne, but when she growled and swiped out at her Bernadetta yelped an apology and kept running. The shout shook Dorothea to her senses; she stumbled but followed Hubert to the perimeter. Caspar gave the machine one last punch, then hopped off and raced after everyone else. Leonie and Ferdinand were on horseback, pulling up people as they rode. 

Edelgard was the last to leave, and she just made it out of the atrium when the third and loudest rumble screamed through the room and tore it apart. 

---

Darkness. Darkness, and pain. 

Heavy weight, sharp rocks on his chest, pinning him down. A blanket of fallen rubble over him and Levia. 

It would take more than that to bury him. 

Deep breaths—no, no. Pain shot through Dedue, a fiery lance across his chest; at least one rib broken. Shallow ones then, at least right now. One arm free, bruised but not broken, five fingers, no blood. Grab the rubble, free his other hand. Then he’d have to pull himself free. 

A snort, the sound of rubble sliding and falling. “I’ve got you.” Levia pulled herself free and made her way over to him. She tossed away the rubble covering Dedue’s chest and lower body with her horns, and he was free. Dedue pulled himself to a sit and threw himself around Levia, against the softness of her nose, the warmth and bulk and sheer presence of her. Held her properly for the first time in weeks. 

“We have to check on everyone else,” Levia said eventually, and Dedue nodded even though it took everything he had to pull away. 

They were in a large tunnel, large enough that he and Levia would be at the limits of their range if they stood on opposite sides. The tunnel was lined with chipped tile and gently sloped upwards. The walls were lined with torches that had mostly blown out. A couple still flickered dimly, casting just enough light to see dim shapes, the collapsed tunnel behind them, the green glow reflected off Cygnis’s eyes. 

“Levia! Thank the goddess you and Dedue are alive! You don’t know how good it is to see you!”

“Likewise,” said Levia. Mercedes placed her hand on his chest and said a prayer to a goddess who apparently hated him and his kind. But the magic worked regardless, bathed him in a cool light and soothing the fiery pain to a dull ache. 

“Thank you, Mercedes.” He’d missed her terribly the last three years, her kindness, her patience, her bottomless wellsprings of compassion and empathy which he had been starved of for years. 

“Is everyone else okay?” Levia asked. They could reminisce later; for now they needed to get out.

Cygnis hunched his shoulders. “Dimitri’s okay, and I think most of the people we rescued down here are okay as well. Oh, Levia, that was absolutely horrible!” He paused and looked around, worried. “Though I haven’t seen Felix, or Ingrid, or Sylvain. Dedue, you don’t think…?”

They looked around frantically, their eyes adjusting to the dim light. Dedue’s heart lept to see, clustered closer to what Dedue hoped was the exit, the shadows of most of the people they saved, Ravna sitting on her daemon who was now a smaller black bear. Closer to him and Mercedes stood the shapes of Dimitri and Delcabia next to an uneven slope of collapsed building, and next to the two of them was Felix. 

And Felix was screaming. 

“Well, boar? Are you happy now?!”

Dimitri stared at the ground, and for the first time since seeing them again Delcabia was not pacing or lashing her tail or stamping her hooves but was utterly still. “I, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t you dare give me that bullshit!”  Felix roared, his voice bouncing off the walls. “You’re the one who dropped everything to avenge people who are dead and gone, you’re the one who ran into this fucking death trap, YOU’RE the one who literally brought down the ceiling on us! You really are just a crazed animal, rampaging blindly and not caring about who you hurt because of whatever madness is in your head! Well now you hurt people you say you care about, so congratu-fucking-lations!”

Felix’s hand clutched empty air by his side; about a meter away Bismalt’s capsule rested against some fallen chunks of ceiling leading up to the edge of the cave-in. And, pinned under the rubble and unconscious, was Sylvain. 

Sylvain was unconscious, his right leg vanishing under the fallen masonry, a bloom of dark blood steadily creeping outwards by the minute. Zepida sprawled out on the floor next to him, too weak to even lift her head. “Sorry, Bis. Looks like I won’t be able to keep our promise.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that, Zepida!” Bismalt cried, flopping and thrashing against his capsule in helpless rage.  “Levia, Dedue, help them!”

They were already there, scooping away the smaller chunks, wedging their hands and horns to loosen the larger ones. Ignored how some of the pieces closest to Sylvain were slippery, a little sticky as they dried. Stopped when he heard the harsh grind of shifting stone and a muffled voice shouting, “Agh! Stop, stop, don’t bother, it won’t work!”

That was Ingrid, muffled and pained, on the other side of the cave-in. 

“Both of you stop talking like that!” Felix screamed, tearing himself away from Dimitri, throwing himself to Dedue’s side to dig both her and Sylvain out while Mercedes scrambled to heal Sylvain and Bismalt begged for Zepida to please hold on, don’t leave them. Dimitri stood there, trembling. He didn’t even look off the floor. 

“Felix, look up,” said Ingrid, so they all did, and—

One of the columns jutted up in the air, all the way up to the hole in the ceiling, too large for anybody to lift. What was worse, it was propped in a way that moving too much of the rubble would cause another rockslide that would crush and kill them all.

“No no no no NO!” Felix screamed. “We’ll dig you two out, we can do this careful, you’re not going to die here—”

“Felix, we’re out of time,” said Ingrid, and Dedue could hear the edge of fear in her voice, but she was so...stoic. Just like the knight she always said she would be. “There are other members of this...group...outside, and all the people we freed are still in danger. Don’t sacrifice them for me. And what about Sylvain?”

“Felix.” Mercedes was as gentle as she could be, but she couldn’t hide her feelings like Ingrid could. “Sylvain’s bleeding faster than I can heal him, and we can’t pull him out.”

Even in the half light, Sylvain’s face was turning ashen, and Zepida had fallen silent. Dedue closed his eyes. There was a way to free them. “Mercedes. I need you to prepare your most powerful healing spell.”

He marched over, Levia a shield so Felix couldn’t stop him. Tied his scarf above Sylvain’s knee and cinched it down as tight as it would go. Raised his axe. And brought it down.

Dedue tried not to think about the sickeningly wet organic sound it made, or the way Sylvain twitched, or the way Zepida jerked and screamed until she passed out. Instead he focused on Felix beating his fists against him until he helped Mercedes pull Sylvain free, holding him steady so she could pour as much healing magic at once into him as possible. The bleeding slowed, but the...stump...was still a raw mass of oozing flesh.

“Mercie, we’ve got to get Sylvain someplace better to actually treat him, fast, before he starts bleeding again or rot sets in,” whimpered Cygnis as he went to pick up Zepida. 

“Just go! I’ll be fine!” shouted Ingrid. Was her voice a little fainter? 

“Bullshit!” Felix cried. 

“...You’re right. I’m sorry, Felix. But if I helped save you and everyone else, then that’s okay. Dimitri!” He didn’t look up, but Delcabia did. “I have no regrets, and I want you to live, not eaten alive by revenge. If my ghost says anything different, it’s not me but a liar! And Dedue…I’m sorry. Everything I said and thought about Duscur, everything I said to you and how I treated you in the academy, it was horrible, and it was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“…Thank you, Ingrid. I’m sorry we couldn’t save you.”

“I’m protecting you. I couldn’t think of a better way to go.”

Dimitri said nothing, not even as Dedue ushered him out of the darkness and back into the light.

---

It hurt to breathe. Ingrid’s chest grew tighter every second, as though it were slowly being squeezed in a giant vise. It wasn’t her pain, not exactly, but rather an echo of Albarrog’s pain as the rubble slowly crushed him.

She’d tried to dig him out, managed to free his nose and one paw, when she’d been stopped by the enormous pillar that nobody, not even Levia, not even Dimitri, could move. 

Some part of Ingrid, deep down, felt like it should be angry at Dimitri for this. But everyone chose their paths, and she chose hers long ago. She was a knight of Faerghus, and even if the empire took over she was still a faithful knight to the end. Don’t think about it Ingrid, don’t think about how Faerghus is gone, don’t think about how you could have joined Edelgard outright instead of this half-assed negotiation, don’t think about the new world where you’re more than a dowry and a crest, except it’s a world you’ll never get to see, don’t think about—

“Ingrid!” Albarrog tried to move, and groaned in pain when her efforts to dig him out drove a sharp piece of twisted metal in deeper, and oh this was bad. “It doesn’t matter. They’re coming, I can feel them through the floor.”

Ingrid nodded, and readied Luin. She caught a glimpse of the unholy technology beyond all human comprehension down here. They’d blast through the rubble eventually, but every moment she fought them off was another moment for her friends to escape. She couldn’t think of any more honorable death for a knight. 

I’ll see you soon, Glenn. I hope you’re proud.

“I’m here,” said Albarrog. “I’m with you until the very end.”

The first three—a swordmaster, a grappler, a dark mage—rounded the corner from a side chamber they had passed, and Ingrid was ready. She couldn’t fight like normal, couldn’t dive down, erupt the earth into a burning quake then retreat, but she was still a force to be reckoned with. She twisted out of the way of the silvered sword so it skipped across her ribs instead of piercing through them, then let Luin guide her counterattack. She tore open her throat, spun around and stabbed the dark mage. The brawler and his porcupine daemon turned to run, and Ingrid chased after them—

Her connection with Albarrog yanked her back with such force that she nearly stumbled to the ground. He blinked and ran off, his daemon shouting something in a language she couldn’t understand. 

“You think we scared him off?”

“If only.” Though it was so tantalizing to hope, that she’d be able to dig Abarrog loose, dig themselves free, make their way back into the light together. 

The grappler returned with a smirk and two snipers, and it became horrifyingly clear just what they were going to do. 

Luin was powerful, but it didn’t have range. Ingrid was pinned down, grounded. With Albarrog stuck, she was little more than a baited bear, chained to a pole and savaged by dogs until it died to the cheers of the crowd. Her father had wanted to set up one of the arenas back home, but they couldn’t afford to feed and house the bears between fights. What kind of death was this, a glorified target for them to shoot?! There was no honor or glory in it at all!

“This is my fault,” Albarrog cried. “If I were something smaller or faster I wouldn’t have slowed you down or gotten you stuck. Things would have been so much easier.”

Heartsick grief flooded through her; how could he ever say something like that? “I’m only me because of you, Albarrog. I never wanted you to be anything else, so don’t ever regret being who and what you are either.” She had plenty to regret—all the years she was stuck, all that passed her by and she’d never get to do, the way she treated Dedue—but not that. Never that. Ingrid would never regret who or what she was, so neither would Albarrog. 

The snipers fired. One arrow buried itself in her arm, the other hit the rubble above and sent more of it shifting. Ingrid fought for air, fought against the pain, fought to stay upright. It was almost impossible to breathe. Still, she fought on. She switched out Luin for a javelin, hurled it at the songbird daemon of one of the snipers, smiled grimly when the woman screamed and collapsed—

—The other sniper fired an arrow into her chest. 

Ingrid stumbled back, and the rockslide crushed Albarrog further. She could only gasp, feel the scrape of the arrowhead and her blood flow out. There was only pain, bright and then fading alongside her vision. She slumped, but braced herself against the rubble, so close to Albarrog. She would die standing, not on the floor, never on her knees. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t hold on much longer.”

“We did what we could. We bought them time. Felix…Sylvain…Dimitri…Everyone…”

“Please, live. Tell us…how it goes. In…grid…”

Albarrog whined, and pressed his snout against her hand. Ingrid pressed back, and then she closed her eyes, and then she died. 

Notes:

I'm so sorry. I didn't want to post this, but. But this is war, and if you throw yourself into dangerous situation after dangerous situation, sooner or later your luck is going to run out. Ingrid drank the kool-aid, and Dimitri...wouldn't it be nice, if the consequences of people's actions only affected themselves and didn't hurt others around them? But they hurt other people as well, and now Dimitri is going to have to face up to the fact that, even if Ingrid made her choice, he put her and Sylvain and people he claims to care about at risk in the first place. And I haven't even gotten into Sylvain. You'll see.

Still, I'm so sorry, Ingrid. I'm so sorry, Sylvain.

Faerghus really is a horrible place. I love the Blue Lions, I really do, but Faerghus is just the worst part of Fodlan, and Fodlan is terrible. It's a place that responds to regicide with genocide, that throws out children who don't manifest a magic birthmark, that values fighting over learning...There's a fic I want to write that explores this, how Dimitri is who he is because Faerghus sees vengeance as justice, and extreme overwhelming violence as good and right.

I mean, Adrestia and Leicester are also awful, but they don't commit genocide, so, uh...yeah.

Thank you, CaptainFlash, for going over Dedue's section with me and being a sensitivity reader. Dedue's character is a very narrow tightrope to walk and I hope I managed to do him justice here. And thank you, marmaladeSkies for this haunting work linked below and your permission to use Ravna here!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30723059

I hope you all enjoyed this regardless, let me know what you think if you want, and I'll see you all soon!

Chapter 37: Shattered Pride

Summary:

Hubert takes a leap of faith. Rhea will not be denied. And Sylvain has the worst day of his life.

Content notes: Discussions of non-consensual daemon touching and depictions of extreme self-harm, daemon-style. Dimitri and Sylvain are honestly their own content warnings at this point as well.

Notes:

Once upon a time, in a far-off forest, there lived a family of rabbits and a flock of crows. The crows lived in the trees and ate the abundant seeds that grew from its branches, while the rabbits lived on the lush earth and the grass that grew from it.

One day a young rabbit was no longer satisfied with the bounty of flowers and grass, and wished to eat the seeds from the trees above. The other rabbits warned him against this, and said that he would not be able to live in the trees, but he did not listen.

 The young rabbit tried to climb the trees, but he had neither wings to fly nor claws to grip the bark. He kept trying, even when he hurt his paws on the rough bark, but when he climbed up to the first branch he found that it was too narrow to hold onto, and that the seeds were too hard to eat. The rabbit tried anyway, and when he moved onto the branch it broke beneath him and he fell to the earth.

Injured and hungry, the rabbit tried to return to his life as before, but now his paws were too hurt to burrow, and his teeth were too hurt to chew on the lush grass. The rabbit failed to listen to the warnings of his elders, and now he had nothing.

 And so it is that we are all best suited to our station in life, and should accept our place in the world without complaint.

—A well known childrens’ fable produced, sanctioned, and distributed by the Church of Seiros, first mentioned c. 1132. This fable rapidly fell out of favor and distribution after the Fodlan War of Independence.

“Is everyone okay?” 

There was a faint chorus of her friends’ replies, but was it everyone? The shattering echoes made it difficult to tell. Avarine took to the air to see for herself while Edelgard went to where Byleth was waving her down. 

It seemed like the cave-in had mostly stopped. What we had brought down part of the palace had left an enormous hole in the center of the inner courtyard that was still crumbling at the edges. Even as Edelgard watched a light shower of gravel fell from the edge of the crater to the floor below. She shook her head and turned back to picking through the small rockslide up top. They needed to get out of here, and quickly. 

Byleth met her with a quick kiss, which was both highly inappropriate in the middle of what was just a battlefield and also she couldn’t get enough of it. 

“Where’s Avarine?” Belial asked the missing spot on her shoulder. 

“Checking in on the rest of the strike force.” Edelgard felt Avarine’s echoing pang of jealousy that she couldn’t join them, and felt it shift into soft affection when Belial split off to join her. “You didn’t have to do that,” Edelgard said, trying not to focus on the empty space where Belial was just a moment ago. 

Byleth just shrugged. “You seemed sad. I know you don’t like having Avarine away from you, so if Belial helps out then our daemons will be together and done faster.” As if it was that simple! As if such kindness and consideration was so easy and without any strings attached! 

Trusting others was…After the experiments, it was something she’d never be able to automatically do again. But she’d learned to trust Byleth, and her friends in the Strike Force. Even as her body slowly tore itself to pieces, her mind was healing every day. 

“Found it,” Byleth interrupted. She waved down Edelgard again and began digging out a half-buried figure in the rubble. A moment of terror seized Edelgard—did everyone make it out? Avarine spotted Hubert and Petra by Dorothea, saw Linhardt and Runilite heading her way, but that was only half the Strike Force—and then the head of an older woman with pale pink hair lolled out of the smaller rockslide. 

“Other side,” said Byleth and it wasn’t that different from when they had to clean up the monastery after thoroughly trashing the place, even if she had to stop every few minutes from the pain shooting up her hands with every curl of her fingers. This time, however, they pulled out the very smashed and very dead body of Cornelia. Or whomever she actually was.  

“I thought I saw her heading into the courtyard when Bernadetta was holding off Marianne,” said Byleth. “I guess that hanging bit over the doorframe came down and smashed her.”

Well. That was anticlimactic. Edelgard had been looking forward to the chance to personally execute one of her torturers, had even played at channeling Hubert during some of her more vengeful moments and thought up good one-liners. Perhaps this was just as well; no grandiose speech, no defiance. Just a swift and ignominious death crushed under a metric ton of rock. 

It still irked her, a little. 

“I don’t think there’s time to explore. Let’s get out of here, before the rest of the palace comes down on us.” Losing the laboratory equipment and data that was undoubtedly in the basement was a terrible blow, but it was probably destroyed at this point anyway. It wasn’t worth risking her friends. 

Another wave of nausea swept over Edelgard, then just as quickly retreated. Was her cycle giving her advance warning for once? No matter; they needed to return to the monastery as soon as possible. 

“Wait,” said Byleth, suddenly on her other side and holding a couple of leather-bound journals (was she holding them before? For some reason it gave her a massive headache to think about it too closely). She paced over to the enormous hole in the middle of the floor, at the rockslide, and pointed down. “El, look.”

Without Avarine’s eyes, it took her a moment to track where Byleth was pointing—there! A figure was slumped at the base of the rubble. Edelgard focused her eyes and saw the slightly warped shape, powder-blue hair—Marianne? And next to her, her armadillo daemon. They were unconscious, but alive. 

Marianne had been captured and tortured by the Agarthans, turned into a weapon and a monster just like her. Would her lucidity return when she woke? And Marianne was always terrified of becoming the monster that she believed she carried within her. Edelgard didn’t even want to imagine the state that Marianne would be in once she woke and regained her sense of self. 

Because Marianne would wake up. Even before the treaty with Claude that made them allies, Marianne was as much a victim of Fodlan’s society and crest supremacy as everyone else who suffered under the yoke of the nobility and the church. She had been taught from birth that she was cursed and condemned for the misfortune of being the descendent of the so-called Elite Maurice—who, as it turned out, was nothing more than the designated scapegoat for a group of thieves and murderers—and would bear that stigma for the rest of her life. Worse still, Marianne was taught that she deserved that stigma, and that the goddess would forsake her, all for the crime of being born with the Crest of the Beast. Small wonder she was so…broken…upon her arrival at the academy. 

Edelgard picked her way down the uneven slope of rubble behind Byleth, silently called for Avarine to bring over Linhardt. Marianne would live; Edelgard would make sure of that. Marianne would live, and heal, and thrive in a world where society would not consider her Crest a curse, or at all. 

Avarine dove down moments later and scooped up her armadillo daemon—right, Penumbrior, that was his name—while she bundled up Marianne in her arms. Two Bernadetta’s arrows were lodged in her calf, her face was scratched and bruised from the fall, one tooth chipped and another knocked out entirely. 

And then there was the transformation. It was partial, thankfully, nothing like what happened to Miklan or what could happen to her. Still, what was present was…unpleasant to see. Both hands were warped and twisted into monstrous claws. Black scales wound up her right arm and disappeared under her clothes, only to reappear crawling up her neck and invading part of her face before normal skin reappeared. 

Avarine adjusted her grip. “I saw everyone else alive. Linhardt can fix this. He has to.” And if he did, then maybe, just maybe—

“Oh.”

Edelgard turned around at Byleth’s voice, and locked eyes with a corpse. 

The corpse was vaguely familiar, and it took her a shameful moment to identify it. To be fair, her hair was shorter than she remembered, and she was dressed in light metal armor and green furs, and her body was feathered with arrows and covered in blood. But it was still Ingrid’s body, cool and still. 

Avarine bowed her head; she closed her eyes and sighed. So it goes. They weren’t especially close in the academy—which was a shame; from what Dorothea had spat in fury with Calphour a tiny ball of rage spinning around her head shortly after their failed attempt at the Fuck Crests Club, she would have been a valuable ally with her own demands for change. But Ingrid has made her choice, and Edelgard would not deny her the respect or agency she deserved.

At least, thanks to Galatea’s surrender, they could bring her home. 

Byleth slung Ingrid’s body over her shoulder and grabbed her cloak for leverage. “We’re not telling Dorothea about this until later.” 

“I agree.” Dorothea was already in an extremely vulnerable state; learning about a close friend’s death might be too much for her to bear right now. 

They made their way back up the slope, more slowly this time so as not to stop their charges. Belial poked their furry green head over the rim above; an extremely tired Linhardt followed soon after. 

“Linhardt, I have a new patient for you, and I’ll need you to get started right away.” Linhardt rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to start complaining, but instead his eyes lit up in horrified fascinated delight as he took in the sight of Marianne. 

“Fascinating,” he immediately started musing aloud to Runilite, the rest of the world fading away to the background. “The transformation is not unlike what happened to Miklan, but Marianne has a major crest. That should have protected her.”

“Maybe it did,” Runilite replied, sniffing the unconscious Penumbrior. “Marianne is still mostly human, and still connected to her daemon. I wonder if—“

“Linhardt!”

Linhardt flinched and Runilite yelped at the jarring volume of Leonie’s voice. He actually did roll his eyes and mutter, “Oh great. What fresh hell are you going to inflict upon me now?”

Leonie was frantic, Kamen shouting frantic alarm calls in a circle around her head. And then she said what Edelgard had been dreading for weeks. 

“Lysithea was shaken off her feet during the cave-in. She must have hit her head at some point, because she collapsed and now she isn’t getting up!”

---

All in all, the mission went better than Hubert feared it might go. In fact, upon summing up the achieved objectives, he concluded that it actually went quite well. 

“We killed Cornelia and destroyed her laboratories. They won’t be able to kidnap people and experiment on them or turn them into demonic beasts for quite some time,” Thanily summed up during their draft of the mission debriefing. The destruction of the demonic beasts and their…creation process…would be incredibly helpful, as it represented the loss of their greatest physical weapons. 

“I do wish we were able to obtain more records and data, for Her Majesty and Lady Lysithea’s sake, but that was always a secondary objective. The journals that Byleth managed to retrieve are already more than I expected and certainly enough to work with.” Said journals, partially-complete personal records of “Cornelia’s” experiments, now lay open on the table before Hubert and Thanily (they had occupied a now-abandoned minor nobleman’s house not too far from the palace). They were still perusing the contents; Thanily sat on a stool beside him and quite literally pawed through the papers as they split the work, but so far the writings largely described something about how the natural abilities and effects of crests could be amplified. Interestingly enough, although most of the records discussed Marianne, some of the older ones seemed to refer to Hapi. 

“Well, that’s one more way to guarantee the personal loyalty of Hapi and everyone else in Abyss,” Thanily chuckled. An unnecessary bargaining chip, perhaps, but why leave one on the table? Hapi and her pack considered them an ally of convenience and the least bad of all available options; securing her loyalty would have no significant additional cost and would help increase the security of the maze of tunnels and church-sanctioned ghetto beneath Garreg Mach. 

Hubert flipped through the next few pages in his open journal; Thanily placed her paws on his back, peered over his shoulder, and grunted in frustration. The moment the notes changed subjects from dark magic to the specifics of crest theory and manipulation they  became nearly impossible for the two of them to read, much less understand. Reaching his hand up to scratch under his daemon’s chin, Hubert said, “We should get these files to Linhardt right away; he’ll be able to make use of them, and they should be sufficiently interesting to hold his attention and effort.”

Linhardt was already simultaneously obsessed and horrified by Marianne’s condition. From what Hubert could understand of his ramblings on the subject, her crest’s effects and influences had been amplified to a self-perpetuating and barely-controllable state, similar to an overchanneled spell or possibly even a raw cast. 

“Of course it’s actually nothing like that, but it’s a useful enough analogy for your purposes,” Linhardt had said, and Hubert could hear Thanily grit her teeth and swallow down the urge to grab Runilite by the scruff and literally shake some sense into her. Of course, he had to leave Linhardt to it, because there was a very good chance that if he could cure Marianne, he could use those findings to treat both Lady Edelgard and Lysithea. 

Hubert closed the journals. Best to leave the research to the most qualified of the Strike Force. He left his room and slipped the journals under Linhardt’s door as he walked past. There were more important things to worry about right now—mainly, Dorothea. 

He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, especially after the last one ended in her predictably stubborn refusal. But whether or not she would admit it, Dorothea had hit her mental limit in this last battle, and it would not be safe to have her fight on the front lines anymore.

Thanily sighed as she walked in step with him. “And now we must impress upon her the severity of the circumstances without having her view it as a personal attack or failure. Lovely.” 

Dorothea was exactly where Hubert expected she would be. She generally drifted towards sweeping vistas and high places in her moments of spiraling melancholy, the better to vex him with. There was no more sufficiently dramatic place than the top of the ramparts overlooking the ruined manor. Thanily glued herself to his side as they walked along the ramparts, and Hubert steadfastly refused to look down. Hubert was not surprised to see Dorothea up there, the sleek brown streamer of her hair fluttering in the breeze. He should not have been surprised to see Petra by her side. The two of them leaned against each other and gazed out at the partially-collapsed manor, hand in hand. Or perhaps they were gazing at their daemons, who flew next to each other as far into the open air as their bonds could handle it. 

Hubert generally endeavored to make himself invisible, but now he aimed for the exact opposite. Without saying a word, he and Thanily shifted to make themselves as conspicuous as possible, did the exact opposite of what years of training told them to do. Even so, Dorothea jumped back when she finally noticed him; Calphour shrieked a single cry and nearly fell out of the sky. It seemed as though only Petra’s presence kept her from bolting entirely. 

The war had not been kind to Dorothea, nor the constant fear of death. Truth be told, the only thing that surprised Hubert about the situation was that it took so long for her to break. The shattered pieces of Dorothea curled around themselves before him, Petra’s hand on her back as Ardior shielded Calphour in his wings. 

“I-I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what happened. I promise I won’t freeze up in battle like that again, and that I’ll be reliable.” Please don’t deem me useless and throw me away, she all but begged.  

Hubert sighed. “Dorothea, by any definition you are a valuable companion and comrade. Regardless, we must still discuss your mental incapacitation in this past battle. You put yourself and all of us in danger by freezing up.” This could all have been avoided if she had accepted his offer to work behind the scenes. No matter—he also knew full well why Dorothea would have never agreed, her desperate need to contribute in an obvious and direct way, her inability to understand that people valued her for her own sake and not just as an asset that could be discarded once its usefulness had run its course. Such a deeply-ingrained lesson could never be fully erased.

“I, I’m sorry,” begged Dorothea in between gasps for air. Calphour screamed on her shoulder, a harsh staccato cry of panic. “I won’t let something like what happened to Marianne affect me again, I can handle this. I have to. Edie recruited me, after all. And I always wanted to give those corrupt monsters what they deserved, so I would be a complete coward and a massive hypocrite to back out now and leave you in danger. I—” 

“—Enough,” Petra interrupted, and Dorothea froze. “I am not letting you wound yourself with your own words!”

“It’s no weakness to say there is something you cannot do alone and need help with,” he tried to explain. This wasn’t working—her emotions were rapidly spiraling, there was the grief of the war that she refused to voice, and unlike Bernadetta with her known triggers he didn’t know how to calm her down. 

“Oh come off it, Hubie, you’re one to talk,” Dorothea scoffed in tune with Calphour’s angry squawk. “You hid what Kronya did to Thanily for months!”

“And look what it did to me,” Thanily said. She detached herself from Hubert’s leg and stepped forward. So, this was a conversation that was happening. Thanily shouldn’t be talking about this, shouldn’t be openly discussing that moment of complete violation and powerlessness. 

Hubert took a deep breath and let Thanily speak. 

Thanily forced herself to stand tall, “Hubert and I hid what Kronya did out of terror that we would be seen weak, if we admitted it. We hid it for months, all while dealing with the trauma alone.”

“And yet you are still not able to be saying the words out loud,” Ardior challenged, leaning forward with his neck outstretched. 

Thanily’s fur bristled, she grit her teeth. “Kronya touched me, okay?!” she spat, and it gave Hubert no comfort to see Calphour flinch, or Petra shield Ardior with her body. “She grabbed me by the throat and pet me like a kitten, and Hubert and I are going to have to remember that every day for the rest of our life!” Hubert squeezed his eyes shut, back in that indescribably horrific moment when he was helpless on the floor and she in her lap, Kronya casually violating them. “We bottled it up for months and pretended it did not affect us, when in truth we were so traumatized that we could not perform adequately in melee combat.”

“I froze up in the middle of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion,” he added, waiting for his friends to remember, humiliating though it was. “Imagine if it had not been a mock battle. By pretending nothing was wrong, we could have gotten Lady Edelgard, or you, or myself badly injured or even killed.”

Thanily was back against him again, his gloved hand buried in her plush fur, grounding them. She closed her eyes and for the first time voiced out loud to another what Hubert had reluctantly accepted about himself. “Hubert and I will likely have to deal with the scars from that day for the rest of our lives. Thanks to her assault, there are certain…scenarios and circumstances that we cannot tolerate in battle or even off the field, certain missions and tasks that we must delegate to others because we ourselves are compromised. And that does not make us any less Hubert and Thanily von Vestra.” 

“I…Hubie, I had no idea,” Dorothea said, and if she responded with pity he would never forgive her. 

Petra, who wasn’t reeling herself, picked up on that, that awful vulnerability, a flayed open thing that could never be directly addressed. “That is not an easy thing to be sharing, Hubert,” she said, though her voice was somewhat muffled into Ardior‘s feathers. “Thank you, for sharing it with us.”

The silence that fell over them again was more amiable this time, with Calphour buried in Ardior’s feathers to obsessively preen them, the feel of Thanily’s fur even through his thin glove and scarred hand. Now that the pain was spoken aloud, an abscess lanced and drained, it was…still tender to the touch, yes, but not the blinding agony of before. 

“I get what you’re saying, Hubie,” Dorothea eventually said, not to him so much as to Calphour, now nestled in her cupped hands, “And I know what I need to do. I just…I need some time to come to terms with it, you know?”

“Given that it took me the better part of three years on my part, it would be the height of hypocrisy not to extend the same patience to you.” The two halves of him bowed towards Dorothea in unison. “The empire needs you, Dorothea. You are, and will always be, a member of the Black Eagle Strike Force. You can find me when you’re ready.”

It would not take terribly long—Dorothea was a remarkably intelligent and logical woman, who just needed time to mourn and come to terms with the fact that her time on the battlefield was done. Now he needed to set arrangements in order, so that when Dorothea was ready she could get right to work. There were dossiers to write, potential targets to identify—

He looked up. 

Thanily had led him to Ferdinand and Bernadetta’s room. 

Of course she had. It—it was thanks to Ferdinand and Bernadetta, their infinite patience and kindness that he did not deserve, that he was able to accept that the scars of that day, his…pressure point, when it came to daemon-related trauma, did not define him. That he was more than the helpless man on the floor and fox in her lap. 

Thanily stared at him and sat right in front of the door, as if Hubert couldn’t just pick her up and walk off with her slung under his arm. He should do that. Ferdinand and Bernadetta had each other, and they were more than happy. They shouldn’t be burdened with him, his ugliness, everything he was. He would just be a burden. 

Hubert took a deep breath and, with the first half of their weekly password, knocked on the door.

There was silence that stretched far past the point of awkwardness, the soft murmur of two voices and the rustling of clothes (Hubert flushed and stared at the opposite wall, even though a closed wooden door separated them). Another mortifying moment dragged out, and then Ferdinand replied with his half of the password, and then he opened the door. 

Oh, he was radiant even with his features softened with sleepiness, his hair mussed in that particular way which came from someone deliberately running their fingers through it, Embrienne lazily floating behind him to catch up. And Bernadetta was just as lovely, the way the tense coil of her body relaxed upon recognizing him, the way Malecki’s spikes smoothed down, the fondness on her face (which had to be reserved for Ferdinand; it couldn’t possibly be for him). 

“Hubert? Is everything alright?” The soft sleepiness vanished instantly, replaced by Ferdinand the soldier, reporting for duty—and behind him, Bernadetta did the same. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I…” Hubert trailed off. Words fled him, replaced with a most embarrassing silence. Thanily had nothing to say either, the traitor. Flames, what was he even doing here? Their room, their lives were no place for a man such as him. 

Ferdinand smiled, somehow forgiving of yet another of his transgressions. “Would you like to come in?”

What was happening? This had to be a bizarre dream, it was the only explanation. Hubert drifted into the room, vaguely aware of being guided to the chair so close to their unmade bed. 

He sat there, hands folded over each other like he was a small child again, utterly lost and reaching blindly for a teather. This wasn’t—he wasn’t supposed to be here, in their space. He was an intruder, his desires an unwelcome guest into their space. 

“I…wished to thank you,” Hubert found himself babbling, “For your remarkable patience, and kindness that I do not and have not deserved. I have behaved in an abominable manner for someone you consider a friend, I betrayed your trust for the sake of Her Majesty and Adrestia and would do it again, I—“

“—am forgiven,” Bernadetta interrupted. “I get it, we both get it. You like to hide it but you actually care so much, Hubert. You went out of your way to make me feel comfortable. I know you’ve been looking out for Dorothea. You’d burn yourself to ashes for us. Okay, yeah, you didn’t tell us about Ferdinand‘s dad, but I know how hard it was to trust anyone at that time. And I really don’t think you’d do the same thing now, because you do trust us.”

“We have, all of us, come such a long way,” Ferdinand added, so close he could feel the warmth radiating off his body. “Do not deny your own growth!”

How could he even respond? How was this conversation happening? He needed to warn them what a terrible mistake this would be. Everything they said was objectively true, yes, and yet, “You do realize what…being with me…would entail, yes? Our clandestine battle Our next war will be against the Agarthans, those enigmatic vipers who slither in the dark. It will not be a war of swords clashing on the battlefield, but of knives in the dark. It will be House Vestra’s war, and I will be on the front lines. There is a great likelihood that I will not survive, so why would you open yourself up to such pain and loss when you’re already happy with each other?” 

“Ah, but Hubert, even the darkest shadow needs sunlight to be cast!” Which was such an insipid and utterly Ferdinand thing to say that Hubert could not help but snort. 

“We’ve, uh, we’ve talked about this, actually,” Bernadetta added, fidgeting with the hem of her clothes. “And we are happy with each other! I love Ferdinand, so much, and I never thought I’d find someone as amazing as him.”

“And I feel the same to you,” he said with a kiss to the violet crown of her head and what was the point of this other than to twist the knife in deeper?

“But,” Bernadetta continued, a flush creeping up her cheeks, “even with everything you’re saying, I mean, we could die tomorrow too! And…sure, Ferdinand and I are happy together, but we’d be even happier if you were here too.”

Thanily, the traitor, had relaxed into the presence of both Malecki and Embrienne. That strange warmth of acceptance and belonging flowed through her body to his, which had to be why he didn’t stop Ferdinand from kissing him. 

Kissing Ferdinand was nothing like he had imagined in those most secret and shameful of moments. It was warm and wet, rough lips and stubble scraping against the acne scars pitting his chin. Ferdinand was so close, so incredibly solid and strong against him, how did Bernadetta withstand it?

“Finally,” Malecki sighed into Thanily’s fur, his daemon utterly relaxed, her eyes closed in bliss. An impossibly soft and undignified noise slipped through Hubert’s lips and this was happening, this was somehow real. 

It was all so much, the sounds of their sighs, the warmth of their bodies, the closeness of their daemons. The realization that despite being surrounded he somehow still felt safe, not cornered but shielded, not trapped but secure. His hands grasped for anything solid—the edge of the chair, Ferdinand’s solid arms, the soft angle of Bernadetta’s jaw—else he would come untethered and fly away. 

And as Hubert shared in and supped on the sweetest of kisses, a selfish thought slipped into his mind, and for once he did not banish it. 

Let him worry about the consequences tomorrow, of letting Ferdinand and Bernadetta in. 

---

The world was wrapped in a soft blanket. 

Consciousness returned piecemeal and muffled, fuzzy and pink. There was unbearable pain on some distant island, an edge of discord somewhere on the horizon, but for now Sylvain was drifting. 

Milkpoppy, it had to be. Sylvain had taken it once before when they fished him out of the well and set his broken bones, and within minutes of drinking the bitter potion the pain and betrayal drifted away. It was incredible, the best and most euphoric feeling in the world. How had he forgotten how wonderful it felt? The pain didn’t matter, the vague wrongness at the edge of his mind didn’t matter. He was adrift in the ocean, and Zepida was finally quiet by the bedside like a good daemon should be, and milkpoppy wrapped him up in a soft blanket and said everything was going to be okay. 

…

Sylvain woke to pain. The milkpoppy faded and in its place was the deep ache of healing wounds, cuts and bruises and broken bones that magic could only do so much before the body had to take over. His right leg was somehow numb and itchy and on fire at the same time. 

He needed that milkpoppy. That milkpoppy scared the fucking shit out of him. He needed to feel okay again he was in so much pain and the world was shit and something bad happened and milkpoppy would make it better. He couldn’t give up what little control he had left to a fucking potion! It was so tempting and so scary…Somewhere next to him and far away Zepida was screaming. Sylvain squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, something incomprehensible and a, “Fuck.”

“Oh thank Flames, you’re awake.”

Sylvain grumbled an incoherent protest—he didn’t want to be awake! Being awake hurt!—but forced his eyes open anyway. 

Where was he? Some sort of cellar by the feel of it, no windows and the air a little cool and damp. The cot and blankets he was tucked into were clean at least, as was the rest of the room. And, for some reason, Felix was there too. Sylvain chucked, grasping on to anything to distract from the pain and make his worthless daemon stop her yowling. “Hah! If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were holding vigil over me!” 

Silence, long enough for Zepida’s screaming to peter out into plaintive mewls. Felix wasn’t looking at him, which pretty normal he could barely look anyone in the eye, but he looked exhausted. His hair and clothes were a mess; even the bags under his eyes had bags. The last time Felix looked like this was when they learned about Dimitri’s execution. 

Which—

—Dimitri’s crest activating over and over, searing his eyes until the white glow was burned there everywhere he looked—

—Another crest flashing, his own but not from him. From a little Duscur girl with red hair like him like Miklan who went to Duscur for vengeance of course he would of course he did congrats Sylvain you’re an uncle—

—cracks in the ceiling the world crumbling Dimitri kept raging but they needed to run—

—Sylvain dug his fingers into Zepida’s fur. Something bumped against her belly. Bismalt’s capsule; Felix’s daemon pressed himself against the enchanted glass. Shame this place was too cramped and Zepida was too weak to move, otherwise they could play catch with Albarrog just like old times. Anything to not think about what happened down there. Fuck, how could his leg be numb and itchy and burning simultaneously?!

“Aw come on, Fe. That was funny.”

Felix’s sigh filled the room as much as the silence that it chased away. “You reckless, inattentive, irresponsible…Do you realize you were unconscious for nearly two days?!”

Bismalt flattened himself against the bottom of his capsule, buried into Zepida’s fur. “I don’t care what Mercedes said, I thought you’d never wake up.”

“Come on, have a little more faith in Mercedes. I swear, she’s practically the living incarnation of Cethleann.” He was still too weak to really move but for some reason Zepida curled herself around Felix’s capsule and started purring. And she called him a freak. “Yeah, my leg is killing me now, but a bit more of her magic and some rest and I’ll be good as new.” And ready to do it all over again, until one day it stuck. 

Silence hung heavy and thick in the air once more. What was Felix not telling him? “Heheh, uh, Fe? I know you love being all brooding and sarcastic and rude, but you’re starting to worry me.”

Felix still wasn’t looking at him. And it wasn’t his usual staring at someone’s shoulder or the wall instead of looking them in the eyes because for whatever reason Felix couldn’t do eye contact with anyone, but a fidgety, desperate desire to look anywhere in the room other than his face. What’s worse, Bismalt had suddenly gone unnaturally stiff and still. “How much do you remember?” 

His memories after a point were a red haze mostly defined by pain, and Zepida’s tail lashing against his left leg in time with the burning pulse on his right didn’t help any. “Uh, you mean after we chased Dimitri down into that…that…I don’t even know what to call it other than one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever seen in my life, then staged a prison break? Well, Dimitri went completely apeshit and decided to tear the place apart, which normally I’d be completely on board with except we were all still down there when the ceiling started falling on us.” 

No reaction, not even a reluctant chuckle from Bismalt. A horrified chill slid down Sylvain’s throat and made itself at home in the pit of his stomach. “Dimitri made it out…right, Felix?”

“I don’t ever want to hear you talk about that beast again!” shouted Felix, his voice and fists clenched tight.

“It should have been him!” growled Bismalt. 

The sheer venom in his friend’s tone shook most of the remaining haze from Sylvain’s head; Zepida uncurled herself and crouched down right next to Bismalt’s capsule. “Woah woah woah, that’s a bit much, isn’t it? Yeah, Dimitri fucked up big-time but you’re here, and I kinda remember Dedue helping Mercedes treat me, and sure I’m hurt pretty badly this time but I’ll walk it off in a few days.” He laughed, hoping that maybe this time Felix would join in and somehow they’d banish the dread mounting in his chest. “Come on, go get Ingrid. I know she’ll be happy to see me awake, and I bet you want to rub it in her face how you were right about Dimitri, and I can tell you from personal experience that rubbing it in is a lot more fun with an audience.”

That spreading chill froze solid in an instant, through his marrow and to the room as if he were stranded on that mountain once more. Bismalt froze stiff and Felix was shivering. No…shaking. He was shaking. 

“I can’t get Ingrid,” Felix choked out. “She’s dead.”

A nightmare. This had to be a twisted nightmare, or a particularly sick joke. “Ha ha. Very funny, Felix.”

“You think I’d joke about something like this?!”

He had to be, because otherwise, otherwise—who knew that Felix had such a fucked up sense of humor?! “Alright I get it,” hissed Zepida. “You want to show just how much you hate it when Sylvain throws himself into dangerous situations, even though Ingrid’s life is worth ten of ours so it’s not the same thing at all. Point taken and ignored. Now come on, give Sylvain a hand up and let’s show Ingrid and Albarrog our miraculous recovery.”

Sylvain thrust out his hand—he’d kick his bastard daemon for that once he was actually on his feet— but Felix didn’t take it. His hand dangled in front of Felix’s face, which was bright red, and his eyes were screwed up—oh goddess, oh fuck, was Felix actually crying?

The bedsheets tore in his curled fists. “I told you, I can’t!  I can’t get Ingrid because she’s not here and she’ll never be here again! She’s dead, Sylvain! That cave-in crushed Albarrog along with your leg and trapped Ingrid on the other side! She told us to leave her behind, then went and sacrificed herself like the true knight she i—was! Ingrid’s gone and she’s not coming back! Ingrid’s dead and he killed her!”

This was a sick joke. It had to be, because the world was still standing. Felix was still standing in front of him. The air Sylvain breathed was the same as before, the walls of the cellar hadn't crumbled. Everything was exactly the same as it was before Felix said those impossible words, that Ingrid—who never gave up, who settled as an alligator and still found a way to fly—was gone. The world hadn’t fallen to pieces, so how could Ingrid and Albarrog Brandl Galatea be dead? 

“You’re wrong Felix, Ingrid isn’t—she can’t—“ Ingrid, who always cleaned up his messes, who always held the four of them together because Saints know that he bungled the job spectacularly when it fell on him, how could she be dead and he still alive and the world keep going?! Felix was wrong, he needed to find Ingrid, he pushed himself up off the bed—

…

Slowly, he sat back down. 

If he didn’t look, it wasn’t real. 

If he didn’t look, Ingrid was still alive. 

If he didn’t look, everything was still okay. 

“If nothing else, you’re going to have to get up to piss eventually. Or do you want to wet the bed like some invalid?”

Bismalt’s capsule had rolled off the bed and landed somewhere on the floor. Felix stood by Sylvain’s bedside, his eyes squeezed shut, with no motion to pick him up.

With trembling hands and under Zepida’s condemning glare, Sylvain peeled back the blanket. 

…

Mercedes did an excellent job, as always. The bandages were fresh and perfectly wrapped. There was no redness, no pus, none of the discharge or foul smell that warned of rot setting in. The stump of his right leg would heal clean. 

Sylvain closed his eyes, leaned back, and let the world fall to pieces, then continue on uncaring. 

Zepida stared at the empty space where his leg once was for what felt like years. When she spoke, her voice was flat and far away. 

“Looks like your cock really is all you’re good for now.”

She jumped off the bed, and did not come back up again. 

---

Dedues ghost vanished when he returned from the dead. Now Ingrid took his place. 

Sometimes her body was crushed beneath rubble or scorched with magic or pierced with spears. Sometimes it looked like Ingrid. Her ghost howled the same thing either way. 

Edelgard killed me! Arundel and the monsters who tortured Dedue killed me! Avenge me! 

Yes…yes for Ingrid and Glenn and Father and everyone. He would tear that womans sick head from her neck. He would kill Arundel and all those monsters. It was all he was good for. Then they would have peace. 

“I have no regrets, and I want you to live, not eaten alive by revenge. If my ghost says anything different, it’s not me but a liar!”

No. Lies. How could Ingrid not have regrets? Edelgard killed her! 

Didnt she?

How could she want him to live?! He was a monster a beast! He only survived that day seven years ago so he could deliver vengeance for the dead. They were quiet for a while down there but now they screamed again. When he smashed the walls and…

The boar that followed him kept muttering something. It didnt matter. He would kill that woman. She ruined everything! He would parade her severed head through the streets! He would offer her body to the ghosts! 

The others were quiet. They avoided him. Good. They needed to know that he was closer to the dead than the living. He knew what they needed. 

The boar that followed him still muttered. No matter. He would go to Enbarr. He would have her head. He would kill every last one of them!

Felix stood there. Bismalt swam in circles but Felix was still. Was he really trying to stop him? 

Foolish. Felix should learn to fear him. He was a monster nothing more. “Out of my way. Now.”

Felix didnt move. Rage boiled through him. How dare he?! He would teach Felix to fear him! He towered over Felix and roared, “I’m going to Enbarr. Don’t stop me. Out of my way!”

“…Shut up.”

What?

Felix did not cower. He did not flee. Bismalt flared his fins at him just floated there. Felix closed his eyes and sighed. “Shut up. Just, shut the fuck up.”

Felix was always angry. Felix was always loud. He shouted he cursed he called him the boar and beast he was. But now Felix sounded tired. “Ingrid is dead because of you. Sylvain is crippled because of you. Go to Enbarr and kill yourself. Go be a gravekeeper and rant to ghosts. I don’t care what you do anymore. You’ve caused enough damage. I’m done. Once Sylvain is well enough to travel, I’m leaving. Don’t ever speak to me again.”

Felix walked away and left him with the ghosts. And the boars words. 

“Your fault.”

The boar spoke to him. How dare she speak to him! “Shut up!” He was a monster monsters had no daemons! 

She stood her ground. How dare she speak! “Your fault. I warned you. You tore down the palace. You killed Ingrid! You maimed Sylvain! Your fault!”

No. No. It wasnt his fault it was Edelgards and if it was his fault then it was “Your fault! Ever since the rebellion! You’re a monster! A violent beast!”

The boar snorted tossed her head. “I AM you! The evil and violence in you is me! You can’t run from me, you can’t pretend I’m not here, we're stuck together!”

They were stuck together. Wherever he went she followed. He hated her that ugly vile wretched daemon.  “Fine then! Let’s end this farce!”

“I couldn’t agree more!”

He lowered his lance she bared her tusks they both screamed

And charged.  

---

Mother had made the Oghma Mountains as sharp as her teeth, their peaks just as white. They were supposed to be forbidding to all but her mob and those few truly faithful and worthy humans under Mother’s protection—and now hers, until she killed the wicked evil traitors and got Mother back and everything would be okay again. 

The air here was thin, and even for a sky dragon like her, her wings struggled to catch and grip the air. It was almost a relief to land, fold them up and let her muscles rest, weak as they were from disuse after being hidden away in that frail humanoid shape for so long. 

Cethleann’s grotto was nestled just where she remembered it would be, carved from a natural cavern and half-buried in the snow. Weak sunlight filtered into the entrance, bounced off the snow, glimmered and sparkled like a million gems. Seiros crossed the threshold and felt the comforting weight of Cichol’s protective wards settle over her like a shroud. They were thinning at the edges from lack of upkeep; in a decade or two the protective spells would fade away entirely. Cichol only agreed to assist at Garreg Mach for short bursts of time when Cethleann finally began to stir from her hibernation; though Seiros had only visited this grotto once or twice before she remembered it well. 

This mountain grotto was far too small to comfortably house both of their true shapes for long—Cichol was truly trapped in his weak humanoid body then. There was an old desk where he would write his fables, as if the ungrateful masses would ever listen to his words of wisdom. The books themselves were long gone, but there was study, the bed, the remnants of a small workshop. And there, in the back of the grotto, flanked by limestone and flowing water, was where Cethleann had slept. She’d slept in cold mountain streams that flowed through the grotto, shielded by pillars that Cichol had carved out himself. Even when Cethleann woke, she had been weak as a wyrmling with eggshell still stuck to their horns, in need of constant guidance and protection. 

Seiros screamed her rage to the blocked-off sky and tore the place apart. 

Cowards! Traitors! What did they think they were doing?! Oh, she got their reply, she got it indeed. Indech, Cichol, Cethleann, they knew the stakes, for Mother was theirs too! They had fought once before, to defeat that evil Nemesis and his vile Elites, and remind humanity of their proper place. Ah, Wilhelm, if he knew how far his kin would fall, he would punish that wicked Edelgard himself! They would join forces once more; and she would smite that failed vessel, that vile thief, and take Mother back! But this…

Traitors! How dare they! How DARE they! Not only would her kin not join her, they had the gall to suggest that she surrender, they dared to say that she had lost her way! Who wrote those lies?! It was probably Cichol! He always was a coward! 

Seiros smashed the remains of the grotto flat, then obliterated them with her breath for good measure. The ashes clouded the ruined grotto; she bounded out, launched herself into the sky, and screamed to the empty air. Her howl was a thunderclap, and she could see the mountain goats scatter beneath her wings—they, at least, knew their place!

Traitors! Even her own kin stood against her! Even her own kin have turned away from the goddess! Mother will not forgive their rebelliousness! She’d smite that thief and send her to hell where she could burn for all eternity alongside Wilhelm’s deceitful kin, and then Mother would return and punish these deceitful blights upon Fodlan, all of them! 

The Church would need to be purged as well, Seiros mused as she glided between the peaks. So many so-called acolytes had sworn loyalty to her and Mother, only to turn traitor and side with those wicked heretics! Did they not read her books, her revelations, her commandments?! Dare not kill, harm, lie, or steal, unless such acts are committed by the will of the goddess! That commandment was given at every holiday, they had heard her utter the holy words herself! Nothing was a sin if it was done in Mother’s name! That vile failure was to be a vessel for Mother—it was to be a cause for celebration, not apostasy! Yet the humans left anyway! They never learned, they bathed in the yolk of mercy for too long and had forgotten, and now she would have to show them the wrath of the Goddess and teach them their proper place once more. She would cast down the wicked traitors into hell, display them as a warning for all who would dare oppose her and Mother’s will! She would make an example of them and there would be a great cry, a wailing and gnashing of teeth such as Fodlan had not seen in millennia! 

Ah, but she still had her true allies with her. She could see then now, leaving their encampments, bowing before her magnificence as they should. These good, loyal humans would be spared. They would have a place at her side, serving Mother once she wiped Fodlan clean of the wicked ones!

“Lady Rhea! Praise the goddess, you have returned safely! Catherine bowed low, her eyes trained on the frozen ground in deference as was befitting for a human in her presence. 

She landed and donned the skin of a human once more, folded away her wings and scales for soft skin and flat teeth, motioned for Catherine to rise. She did, though still kept her head low—such a good girl. “There is nothing to fear, my dear faithful Catherine,” she said and under her hands her loyal knight shuddered at the praise. “The goddess is at our side; with her blessing we will triumph against the wicked ones!”

“And you have my sword and loyalty, Lady Rhea, until my dying breath.”

Ah, it was such a shame that Catherine bore her brother’s remains that Charon stole long ago, else Seiros would bestow her own blessing upon her. She could, at least, take comfort in the fact that Taranis would be able to exact his vengeance through Catherine’s body. There was one other warrior who deserved her blessing, and ah she could hear his arrival on the wind now. 

The silhouette of Cyril’s wyvern grew larger; circled, and landed with a shriek. He hopped off the beast and bowed so she could welcome him into her loving embrace, then gave his report. “Lady Rhea, the rumors were true. Most of the enemy army left Garreg Mach;  there’s only a small skeleton force guarding the monastery.”

Such a good boy, such a sweet and obedient boy, nothing like that greedy, duplicitous Shamir, who had fled during their retreat to the mountains. Seiros smiled and bid him to rise. “Thank you, Cyril. You have always been one of my faithful servants.” Ah, she taught Cyril well. He was such a pitiful lost child when she found him, a lost soul desperate for guidance and salvation; how could she not give him shelter under her wings? 

He rubbed the back of his neck, still rightfully in awe at her presence. “Aw, it was nothing. You saved me, Lady Rhea, and anyone who thinks you’re awful is wrong. I’ll make anyone who hurt you pay!” To think that this Almyran youth was one of her most faithful adherents. Most foreigners were dangerous, with their heretical faiths and blasphemous ideas—the Almyrans with their lenses that let them dare to look upon Mother’s heavens and the Blue Sea Star itself, the Dagdans with their healing magics that did not rely on faith at all. The humans of Fodlan were rebellious enough without such wicked ideas and technologies polluting their unfaithful minds and leading them further astray. All they needed was her and Mother’s embrace. And Cyril, such a good boy, even though he was Almyran he was one of the good ones, who followed her words and teachings with more fervor than most natives of Fodlan. 

“Such loyalty must be rewarded, especially in these trying times that test our faith and resolve. You have passed every test and remained strong. Stand tall, Cyril,” and when he did, for she had prepared for this rite, though he did not yet understand its significance Catherine gasped in recognition. 

She held before Cyril a fragment of her Stone and a small chalice of her blood. In the church of Seiros, there was no greater honor. Catherine’s animal companion—daemon, yes—moved towards Cyril’s. Seiros ignored whatever they were saying and waited for Cyril to respond. 

Understanding dawned with a gasp and Cyril staggering back and falling backwards into the snow. He scrambled to his feet, dusted off his trousers, and stammered, “L-Lady Rhea, I don’t—I don’t deserve this honor!”

“Of course you do,” she said. “This has been a time of great trials and tribulations, a test of faith like no other. Cyril, you have passed where so many of the supposedly pious have failed, and so you shall be rewarded for your faith while the wayward and false ones shall be condemned. This is a blessing from Seiros herself, and I can think of nobody more deserving than you.” Certainly not that traitor to the Hresvelg name. 

He accepted, of course, because an honor like that was not to be denied. She walked him through the rite, and as Cyril drank of her blood and Stone, as he cried out just as they all did and Catherine supported him through it, Seiros gazed upon her faithful Cyril and saw that it was good. 

He would recover in a few days, and when he did he would bear her Crest and her bond. In the meantime, they could not afford to tarry. “Catherine, assemble the troops!”

The wicked ones had left the monastery, just in time for the spring thaw. Truly, this was a sign from Mother! The long wait was over, and she would cleanse Fodlan of the wicked ones, of the heretic Edelgard and that wretched thief who stole Mother and all the apostates who dared follow her banner! They would rue the day they left her embrace, and though they would beg for mercy she had none to spare! She had passed judgment!

It was time to take back Garreg Mach! 

Notes:

Oh no, Lysithea!

It took long enough, but it’s finally time for Hufernie. I really hope I did it justice here. Gosh, two years(!) on and I love them so much.

If you want to cry some more, go take a look back at Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain’s introduction in Chapter 4, then read through Sylvain’s section again and see if you can catch the callback.

And yeah, Cyril now has a major crest of Seiros and a sliver of Rhea’s Stone. I’m sure that won’t have any future consequences at all!

It would have been neat to see in-game though, Rhea giving Cyril her crest before the final battle in Fhirdiad.

Thank you all so much for continuing to read and enjoy, even with all the pain that the characters are going through right now. I hope you continue to enjoy the ride with me, and I’ll see you all next time! We’re still not done with the fallout of the events of last chapter.

Chapter 38: The Long Road Back

Summary:

After the cataclysm at Arianrhod, everyone stops to lick their wounds and plan their next move.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Attempted suicide by daemon.

Notes:

Flames lick up from what should be sturdy ground, and the earth itself glows in places. Hike along the marked trail to Albarrog Lookout, gaze into the canyon below, and you can still see smoke rising from deep fissures in the bedrock. Look closer, and you can see sturdy brush and other life stubbornly clinging on, unconcerned by the eternal smoke and flames. Whether spoken of as a warning of divine retribution or studied as a horrific collateral damage of war, Ailell has remained a fixture of Fodlani tales, legend, and history for millenia.

—Opening description of Ailell National Park, from the Adrestia Parks Service website, retrieved Wyvern Moon, 1635. Though the perpetually-burning subterranean fires of Ailell were originally said to be a result of divine retribution, research over the past decades has confirmed that these flames are the result of accidental ignition of an underground coal deposit during an incendiary missile strike. This coal seam fire, one of the largest in the world, is predicted to burn for approximately another 600 years. 

What was she even doing here? She should be sleeping outside in the woods, like the beast she was. She didn’t deserve a warm bed, or their kindness. Monsters like her didn’t deserve anything at all. 

The pain had faded, but Marianne was still a monster. She woke with her claws snagged in blankets and tearing at sheets. Her cheeks and tongue constantly bled from where her new fangs accidentally bit down. There was a slight edge to her, The Beast constantly awake and growling and scuffling back and forth in her brain. 

All that work, all that time, everyone saying that she wasn’t The Beast, and for what? She really was just a wretched abomination. What Cornelia did to her just made it impossible to pretend otherwise anymore. Penumbrior didn’t dare come out from under the bed in their misery, not even when she walked all the way to the other side of the manor. She could do that now, separate herself from her better half without agony, yet another marker of how she truly was more monster than woman. He didn’t deserve to be stuck with an inhuman creature such as her. 

Why did she even bother? Why did anyone else even bother with her? Why did Edelgard and the Professor and her classmates-turned-comrades take the time to rescue her instead of leaving her to the wilderness like what happened to Maurice? It had to be because of her cooperation with Claude. Heh, as if she’d have any value as a hostage or bargaining chip once he and the rest of the Roundtable learned what happened to her, that all their efforts at taming a savage beast were nothing more than a waste of time. She couldn’t play a role in society, and monsters had no friends. 

…So why was Linhardt wasting his time with her? He had much more important things to worry about, actual people whose lives were worth more than hers. 

Lysithea, for one. 

Her friend had always been frail; Marianne would never forget the feeling of forcing healing magic through her body, the twists and knots of scar tissue that filled her body inside and out. Lysithea steadfastly refused to discuss what happened to her, and Marianne inferred enough from all the time healing her classmate (not friend, she didn’t deserve friends) to get the gist. Whatever had carved Lysithea up and crudely stitched her back together again was beyond Marianne’s ability to fix; all she could do was make her more comfortable. 

Lysithea lay unconscious—no, comatose—on the cot, so pale and still that she might as well be a ghost. The unmistakable signs of internal bleeding—more accurately, an inability to stop bleeding, were quite literally written all over her face. Linhardt had explained what happened, but he really didn’t need to. Lysithea had hit her head, and started bleeding into her brain. That was the sort of thing which crippled and killed more often than not.  

The rest of the world fell away as Marianne focused on Lysithea. She ran healing magic through her talons, same as always, and spread it out over Lysithea’s body. For this moment, at least, nothing else mattered. There was only her and Lysithea, and the light of the goddess’s magic connecting them both. At least, even after everything, she still had that. 

There was always so much life in Lysithea, vigor and fire and defiance. Spit and fury and ferocity that constantly burst at the seams of her, as if it was too much for her small body to contain. Lysithea didn’t have long to live—though she never told her outright Marianne was a healer and she could feel the mage’s body burning itself up with every cast, could feel the flame of her life burning out far too fast—so she compressed an entire lifetime into the scant years she had left. From what Linhardt said, even as her body began actively falling apart she was still brimming with that defiant vitality, Zilbariel sleek and strong even as Lysithea wasted away. 

The Lysithea lying on the bed now wasn’t her. The body there was quiet and still, her face slack instead of scrunched up in frustration or concentration, her hair neatly brushed instead of a flyaway mess, her hands still instead of constantly moving. Only the slight rise and fall of her breath, only the haggard form of Zilbariel vaguely curled up and limp on her chest showed that Lysithea was still alive. 

White magic flowed through Lysithea’s body, slowed and diverted by the stagnant scarred knots of...whatever had happened to her. Her fingers twitched over Zilbariel, but that was all. At least he had stopped wasting away; the first few days she could quite literally see her daemon’s fur falling out, the sleek sable coat becoming unkempt and ragged, his eyes sinking in and stout muscles wasting away to a scrap of fur and bone. Both Lysithea and Zilbariel were still unconscious, but at least Zilbariel’s slow wasting had stopped. Lysithea would live, and she would wake, but what condition would she be in when she did? 

Two yawns marked Linhardt and Runilite’s arrival; the red panda daemon slunk in behind him and flopped into a hammock in time with Linhardt slumping into the adjacent chair. She curled up into a fluffy russet ball and the only reason Marianne knew she was awake was that Linhardt was looking at her. Sort of. The bags under his eyes were deeper than ever, he was clearly running himself to the ground, and, “Why are you wasting time on me?”

Goddess, Linhardt was so exhausted that he didn’t even look up at her, just tilted his head a bit and let the flick of his eyes do the rest of the work. “Pardon me?”

How could he not see it?! “Look at you! You’re driving yourself to exhaustion for everyone else, and you’re still spending time on me? Look at me!” She waved her talons over herself, her twisted form, the horns and scales, finally as ugly and wretched and cursed on the outside as she always was within. “I’m a monster! Why are you wasting time on me when you could actually be helping people who matter!”

Linhardt blinked and tilted his head like the little owls who nested right by her window, and Runilite actually bothered to lift up her head and rest her chin on the edge of the hammock. “I still think you’re incredibly lucky. Learning the intricacies of your condition will be a great boon for my research, as well as helping treat Edelgard and Lysithea as well as fixing you,” said Runilite.  

So that’s all this was about then. She should feel fortunate, that at least she’d have some use. What Runilite said shouldn’t hurt her at all.  

“You know, I still don’t understand why you’re so utterly distraught.”

“What?!” The Beast roared at the insult, demanded his blood as recompense. How could Linhardt say something like that?! Yes, he was profoundly rude, and Runilite even more so, but this?!

“Hear me out,” Linhardt continued, holding up a hand as though that would protect him from The Beast. “Because of your crest you’ve been terrified of turning into a monster your whole life, right? Well, now it’s actually happened, and you’re still you. There’s a reason I asked you to help me with Lysithea; I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

What? The Beast stopped, and blinked. It didn’t understand, and so crawled back confused into the deepest depths of her. Marianne opened her mouth to demand an answer, or at least an explanation, but Linhardt had fallen asleep. Runilite slept on her back, her soft belly and tiny paws up in the air and exposed, completely helpless and at her mercy.

Marianne sighed. Nothing else to do but tend to Lysithea until he woke. 

For the first time since they woke in the care of the Empire, Penumbrior uncurled from his protective ball and poked his nose out from under the bed.

---

At times like these, Mercedes needed to busy herself in her work. It cleared her mind, and made her feel like she was doing something productive, something worthwhile.

Sylvain’s wounds were healing well, but he still needed daily bandage changes, and she had no idea how to properly fit him for a prosthesis so until she could find a craftsman he would be stuck with a crutch. Felix was going to travel with him and help, so that was his physical needs attended to, but emotionally and spiritually…

He wasn’t even hiding it anymore. The last time she went into his room to change his bandages, Sylvain had said something disgusting about crest babies, bitterly laughed in her face, and didn’t even wait for her to leave before breaking down into tears. Mercedes herself barely made it back into her room before wrapping her arms around Cygnis and sobbing. How had it all gone so wrong? Dimitri clearly needed help, and she thought that he just needed to work through whatever he was going through, and she wasn’t going to stand by and let him kill himself in the meantime. 

Instead she stood by and let Dimitri drag everyone down with him, and because of that Sylvain was maimed and Ingrid was dead. 

“Mercie?” Cygnis stayed flopped on the ground, he turned his head up to look at her. “I think Annie was right, back in the monastery.”

“I...think so too.” Her friend had been horribly insensitive and needlessly cruel, in the way that only a close friend who knew all your darkest secrets and was simultaneously desperate and lashing out could be, but...in the end, Annie hadn’t been wrong. Dimitri was in a state of impossible mental anguish, yes, but that wasn’t an excuse to hurt people, or rampage and let other people get hurt! In the end, Mercedes had indulged him instead of reining him in, and this was the result.

Cygnis flopped his head back onto the cold floor. “What’s done is done,” he murmured to the wall, and her daemon saying Annie’s old phrase scuffed at her heart. “Mercie, now what?”

She opened her mouth, to say what she didn’t know, because right then a hideous squeal and a horrible roar shattered the air.  

“That sounded like a boar! Mercie, we need to go!” Cygnis jumped to his feet and tore out of the room down the stairs at a speed that she couldn’t possibly keep up with. She threw down the bandages and stumbled after her daemon, her legs and lungs burning in protest. The sounds got louder as they raced to the sitting room, and became interspersed with the unmistakable din of a brawl, and the iron tang of spilt blood. 

Downstairs, in the middle of the abandoned sitting room, Dimitri and Delcabia were attacking each other. 

The sheer horror of the scene rooted her to the spot. How could this be happening?! A human and their own daemon attacking each other was unthinkable! 

And yet Mercedes had seen the scars of cat scratches on Sylvain’s chest, and right now, right before her eyes Dimitri and Delcabia were trying to kill each other. 

Delcabia charged at Dimitri. She drove her tusk into his calf, and with a shake of her mighty head flipped him over her back. He slammed face-first into the table; it snapped in half under his weight and drove splinters into his face and throat. Bloody foam gurgled from his throat, and that broke the spell. 

“What are you doing?!” Mercedes cried out. She poured healing magic into Dimitri, and as Delcabia lowered her head to gore him Cygnis launched himself into her back and clamped down on her ear. Instead of thanking Mercedes for saving his life, or stopping his suicidal rampage, or anything sensible, Dimitri threw himself at Delcabia. 

“Stop! Cygnis is right there!” But Dimitri wasn’t listening, or he didn’t care. His fist swung out wildly, and Cygnis had to let go and fall to the ground or be slapped. Her Cygnis rolled out of the way, just barely, and got to see Dimitri claw at the soft vulnerable pink of Delcabia's nose. She squealed horribly and crushed his foot under her hoof. Dimitri howled and clamped onto her face, tried to gouge out her eyes. 

Something small and hard hit Cygnis on the back of his head. Felix darted forward, snatched up Bismalt’s capsule before it could get caught up in the fight, and retreated to the doorway to the cellar. “Mercedes, get the fuck out of there!”

“What, and let Dimitri kill himself?” Even after everything, she couldn’t just stand back and let him do that!

“YES YOU SHOULD! How many lives has that beast ruined already because people keep indulging his bullshit?" Something heavy slammed against shattered glass, there was the smell of blood, the snap of bone, the wet organic sound of tearing flesh. Felix goggled in horror and shouted, "You know what, fine! You want to add yourself to that count? Be my fucking guest!” He threw up his hands and stormed out. 

Mercedes healed Dimitri again, watched those terrible self-inflicted wounds seal up only for Delcabia to gore him again and again, for Dimitri to try and tear his own daemon apart again and again. Feet and hooves alike skidded in his own blood; far away and getting closer by the second were the heavy sound of Dedue and Levia please, hurry! But she and Cygnis could only watch, helpless, as Dimitri and Delcabia staggered and with matching wordless shrieks charged at each other. 

The moment of impact, those horrible sounds she would never forget, they were too much to watch. Only at Dedue’s horrified cry, Levia’s low bellowing moan of horror, did Cygnis lift his head from beneath his paws and Mercedes crack open her eyes.

At first glance, it was almost as if they were embracing. Except that Delcabia had impaled Dimitri on one of her tusks, and Dimitri had snapped off the other one and driven it into his own daemon’s throat. Even as she watched, blood trickled from Dimitri’s mouth, and more welled up from the horrible wound. 

“Dimitri!” Dedue helped her pull him off of Delcabia, and Levia knocked his dying daemon away. She didn’t protest, just twitched as her form rippled and Dimitri finally went quiet in their arms. Even as Mercedes watched, his face took on that waxy pallor of the dying and his eye went glassy and unfocused. He would be gone in seconds if she did nothing.

With the guidance of Lamine’s crest, Mercedes poured the last of her magic into sealing Dimitri’s wounds. If it wasn’t enough, if he still tried to kill himself after all this...then she’d done everything she could. 

It took a moment for Dimitri to stir, a moment where Mercedes feared he was too far gone. But Delcabia’s form solidified once more, and Dimitri began struggling in Dedue’s arms. He kicked and screamed and thrashed like a toddler to no avail—he was still weak, badly injured, and Dedue had leverage. Levia had also pinned Delcabia down, and she would not move. 

They kicked and thrashed, they screamed and squealed horribly. When the fight ran out Dimitri went limp and howled the wordless howls of a shattered man that rang in Mercedes’s ears, made even Dedue flinch, and would continue to ring for days after. Eventually, even the screams gave out, and died down to shuddering broken sobs. The fight went out of Delcabia, and she went limp, and in between sobs Dimitri finally gasped out the one thing he should have said from the beginning.

“I need help.”

---

They were going to be stuck here a while; Byleth couldn’t see any other way around it. Lysithea was still comatose—the only divine pulse she tried that didn’t end with her or someone else dead—and in no condition to be moved, Marianne had been forcibly partially transformed into a demonic beast herself and was in their care, and Dimitri and the rest of his classmates were still somewhere in Arianrhod, an unknown and hostile force. 

And then there was the state of Arianrhod. Cornelia and her lackeys had turned the place into a nightmare devoid of life, where people couldn’t even leave their homes without fear of mysteriously vanishing and being dragged into the depths of the palace, never to be seen again. El had been so incredibly strong during the battle, relentlessly moving forward, but the moment the fighting stopped and the first rumors of survivors from under the palace trickled in she couldn’t stop shaking. They couldn’t go down there safely, but what they saw was enough. El woke up screaming in the middle of the night, Ava shrieking a staccato alarm call loud enough to wake Hubert and send him running, a knife in one hand, Banshee half-cast in the other, and Thanily’s fangs bared in a snarl. Even after they calmed El down and she was able to dismiss him, sleep eluded her. For the rest of the night El trembled in her arms, and Ava perched on the pillow above them, preening her hair. They’d talked until dawn about everything and nothing, especially nothing about the war. Byleth already knew that carnations were El’s favorite flower, but not that she had a small garden outside her room where she crossbred almost a dozen varieties. She learned that though El enjoyed board games she wasn’t particularly fond of chess. She never really liked the idea of pawns mindlessly following the bidding of powerful bishops and an impotent king. Byleth told her all the best spots to fish, and the blackened crayfish recipe that her father taught her on one of the Good Days. When this was all over, they’d go fishing together, just the four of them. 

By the time they finished breakfast together (Hubert had delivered sweet buns and bergamot tea to their room) and started their meeting, Byleth and El were exhausted, but she wasn’t shaking anymore. There was absolutely no evidence of last night’s vulnerability as she read over Ferdinand’s report, no hesitation in her response. 

There was quite a bit of what Byleth was learning was resigned exhaustion though, from the way El pinched her nose and closed her eyes. 

“So, to sum up, once the Agarthans took over they completely destroyed the city, treated the inhabitants as livestock and experimental subjects, and didn’t even make a token attempt at governing,” El sighed. “I didn’t expect anything else, but it’s still horrifying to hear.”

“Somehow, the situation is even worse than that.” Ferdinand seemed a little dazed, as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the sheer level of destruction. “I highly doubt there is not a single person in Arianrhod who does not know somebody forcibly disappeared by Cornelia and her cronies. There are no stores, no intact supply chain. Many people are at threat of disease and starvation, most of the survivors from the basement of the manor are in extremely poor condition from what Syene has told us, and spring comes notoriously late in Faerghus. If we do not do something soon, thousands more may starve.” His hands clenched into fists on the table, he took a deep breath, and Embrienne settled down on the top of Thanily’s nose. 

Huh, finally. Good for them.

If El noticed, she didn’t pay any attention. “Is there anybody we can put in charge as a middleman figurehead? Perhaps one of Count Rowe’s lackeys? I must admit it would also be quite ironic to bring them back under the banner of the Empire again.”

“Unfortunately not,” said Hubert, who didn’t sound upset about it at all. “After turning his back to the Kingdom and surrendering to the Agarthans, Count Rowe was rewarded as a traitor deserves. Heh, such a shame.”

“But it is a significant problem!” Ferdinand interrupted; Hubert rolled his eyes and Thanily flicked an ear when Embrienne flew over to the other one. “Like it or not, the Rowe family has controlled Arianrhod for centuries. A traumatized populace will instinctively look to their leaders for aid and succor. Without even one we can install as a puppet, our task of restoring order and some semblance of normalcy will be that much more difficult.”

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “My my Ferdinand, that was astonishingly calculating for you. We’ll make a proper politician of you yet.” 

“In addition!” shouted Embrienne over Feridnand’s sudden flush. “There are hundreds of Duscurian refugees, too many to evacuate to friendlier territory immediately. We need the correct person in charge to minimize the risk of reprisal attacks.”

“The only way that’s going to happen is if we stay here, personally,” said Ava. “We can’t get bogged down in Arianrhod!”

“Ashe.” 

El, Ferdinand, and Hubert all stopped to listen. Wasn’t it the most obvious pick? Why didn’t they bring up his name? “Ashe should do it,” Byleth explained. “He was Lonato’s adopted son, and Lonato served Count Rowe, right?” El nodded—good, she remembered correctly. She may not be clear on the exact web of relations, but she’d never forget just how much Lonato’s citizens loved him, loved him enough to throw down their lives for him and not have it be because of duty or chivalry. “Ashe and Syene have been working together for months, so the Duscurians will trust him too, and he won’t let anything bad happen.”

“And what about Ashe’s welfare?” Ferdinand argued and slammed a fist on the table, then dropped it to his side but still argued. “He was just brutally attacked and nearly killed, by Dimitri no less! Byleth, are you sure this will not be too much for him?”

Byleth shook her head. “It won’t be,” she said. “Ashe has always been strong; he had to be to join us and stay with us.” 

Ferdinand was still unconvinced. “Byleth, I do not doubt your assessment of the situation. My hesitation is not a question of strength, but of needless cruelty. We cannot leave Ashe, or anyone, in charge of a shattered city while their former friend turned attempted murderer is still on the loose in said city.”

“We won’t,” growled Belial. 

“We aren’t leaving this city until Dimitri is apprehended and neutralized as a threat, one way or another,” Ava finished. “He’s probably somewhere in Arianrhod licking his wounds. Perhaps we can lure him out—”

“No!” Byleth had no idea what happened to Dimitri since the academy, but whatever it was he was dangerous! She wasn’t about to let El use herself as bait!

“Absolutely not, Your Majesty!” Thanily lept into Hubert’s lap and forced him to stay seated. “You cannot put yourself in harm's way when the target is an unpredictably violent, utterly deranged madman! I won’t allow it!”

El was stubbornly unmoved, and as much as Byleth loved that about her it was...frustrating, yes, that must be what she was feeling, frustrating right now, to see her put herself in danger. “It would be the swiftest option, and we need to be swift. There’s no way that the Agarthans will leave our ambush unanswered.”

Even Byleth could tell that she was trying to change the subject, but it made Hubert settle back down anyway. He scratched under Thanily’s chin and said with a frown, “I...haven’t heard anything from Arundel, or Myson, or anyone. Claude sent word of odd movement from Goneril territory, but he can’t investigate properly at the moment because of the Treaty of Teutates. Other than that, however, the Agarthans have gone completely silent.”

That...couldn’t be good. El chewed her lip and said out loud what they all must have been thinking, “What the hell are they planning…?”

---

Hanneman wasn’t yet sure if building the device in the shape of the Crest of Gloucester was necessary for its construction, but it was quite striking and thematically appropriate regardless, without adding any unnecessary additional burden of cost or labor. Aaron said that it did not physically impede them when using it either, so for now it would stay. 

His newest research assistant tightened the straps on their arm, flexed their fingers under the wires and fabric. Their jackdaw daemon hopped over to a nearby perch to not get in the way. “Are you ready?” Hanneman asked.

Aaron nodded. “On three. One...two...Three! Cutting Gale!”

The device glowed in time with the black magic glyph that appeared under their feet; Aaron spun around and launched a scythe of compressed wind magic straight at the targets. It sliced three of them clean in half and badly damaged the fourth, making the wood buckle and splinter. Once the spell dissipated, he went over to the targets and measured the residual magical energy along with the diameter of the spell’s radius.

“I can tell you that at least from my perspective this device is able to consistently increase my spell output without any significant loss in stamina,” their daemon added as Aaron removed the device and checked for any damage or injury.

Hanneman ran a few preliminary calculations and smiled. “I’ll need to make sure these calculations hold up, but it seems like the increase in your casting strength is consistent and comparable to that provided by the true Crest of Gloucester.” He had more than enough samples of Lysithea’s blood to prove that claim. There was a reason this Crest-mimicking device was the first one he produced and tested after all.

Aaron flexed their fingers and adjusted their cape. “No physical damage, no signs of magical burnout or fatigue. Zamana says he’s fine too. I think we can call this one a success?”

“At the very least, we can call the initial trials successful.” One could never be too careful when it came to replicating the abilities of Crests, especially given the catastrophic consequences if they erred. “But we’ll need to make sure that this can be easily reproduced among multiple people, not to mention made easily available for almost anyone’s personal purchase and use.” Such a shame that Crests were mostly used in combat; he could think of a dozen ways that increasing magical capability could help improve lives rather than end them. Alas, combat-related Crest uses were the most studied and documented, and so gave the best baseline for him to compare his inventions against. Outside of the battlefield, he would simply have to extrapolate and hope that successful replication of one area would extend to them all. 

Thankfully Emperor Edelgard saw and understood his vision, and had instantly set him to work making Crest-equivalents easily available to all. Once everyone had access to them, the nobles’ monopoly on and subsequent obsession with blood-borne inherited Crests would be utterly meaningless. Nobody would ever suffer like his sister had again. Flames, being born with a Crest could even be considered a handicap, since a Crestless individual could easily use a different Crest according to their needs at the time, while someone already born with a Crest would…

Well, he was the master of Crestology. He and Linhardt had already made great strides towards being able to suppress crests, but their research was still incomplete. Depending on how quickly Emperor Edelgard and Lady Lysithea sickened, they might be forced to treat them even without complete and proper testing. 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that point,” Theophania murmured from the bookshelf close to his head. She scuttled a little bit closer, her forelimbs dangled off the edge. “After all, she’s given us everything we could have asked for and more.”

His daemon was right. Money was literally no object to the Emperor, and she had given him an effectively unlimited budget to perform his research. Within just a few months, he had been able to set up a laboratory in Enbarr the likes of which he only dreamed of back in Garreg Mach, and was actually able to hire full time assistants without worrying about his budget. That was where Aaron and Zamana came in, actually. The young mage and their jackdaw daemon came from a decently prosperous family in Enbarr, but they were not nobles, had no crests, and—much like Dorothea—Aaron had been unable to find any official classes to improve their natural talent for wind magic until they hired a personal tutor. And of course, once they actually received proper instruction, they blossomed! He never got tired of it, that moment of comprehension and joy on a student’s face when they grasped the intricacies of black magic and successfully cast a spell for the first time. There was a joy, a poetry without words, that came from the simple act of learning and discovery. So many of the noble class were content to remain arrogant, slothful and indolent and fat on their birthright, while countless others like Dorothea and Aaron thirsted to push their limits, if only they were given the opportunity to do so. 

Theophania scuttled back over to rest in the palm of his hand and splayed out her many legs to cover it. “She’d be proud of us, wouldn’t she.”

There was no way to know for sure, of course. His sister was dead, killed from the strain of bearing too many children in too short a time, all for the hope of one coming out crested. Any speculation on her wishes or desires or pride would remain that way until he too passed beyond the veil and saw her again. But perhaps some portion of the dust that once made up her daemon was still here watching them, and remembered. 

He hadn’t been able to save his sister, or his nieces and nephews. He couldn’t do anything about those despicable nobles who would do anything for a crested child. But at least he could save so many others from such terrible fates. 

A sharp warbling whistle pierced through Hanneman’s thoughts; the tea was ready. Another perk of being directly employed by the emperor herself—as much Hresvelg blend as he could steep. Hanneman took a deep whiff and allowed himself a smile; the aroma was exquisite. “Come now, pour yourself a cup.”

Aaron remained standing in place, their hand hovered over he half-unbuckled device, the oddest expression on their face. They turned towards the window, slowly, and asked just as slowly, “Zamana? What’s going on?”

The jackdaw daemon hunched into himself, his head peeking out from black feathers and tilted towards the sky. “Um, question. The augurers didn’t predict any meteor showers or eclipses today, did they?”

With a flick of his wrist, Hanneman extinguished the flame. Theophania re-emerged from his long coat and scuttled down to his fingertips. He slowly walked them both to the window. “No, they haven’t.”

It was a bright winter day, the kind where the little snow that fell last night and hadn’t quite yet become filthy by the grime of Enbarr, and the sky was impossibly blue. Hanneman followed Zamana’s gaze up, then back down, as what appeared to be three pillars of glinting light streaked towards the ground. 

And exploded.  

Three flashes of light, summing up to a second smaller sun, lit up the horizon, and even though neither he nor Aaron nor their daemons looked for more than a moment, but even that moment was still enough to sear the afterimages into his eyes, spots which would not fully fade from his for weeks. 

Then came the thunder. 

It was a thunderclap louder than all the hurricanes that lashed the coast of southern Adrestia in the thick humidity of late summer, as loud as the one time a tornado spawned beside his family’s estate when he was very small. It shattered the windows, sucked the air right out of the room in a sudden gust that extinguished the lamplight and dragged out stray papers. It tore his monocle off his face, very nearly sucked Zamana off Aaron’s shoulder. The air rushed out towards the hellish glow of lit fires, and the smoke from the burning city curled upwards into what was nothing less than an enormous mushroom cloud. 

What had just happened?! Even the most powerful meteor spells recorded, even amplified by a major crest of Gloucester, did nothing like this! Even the Hero’s Relics were never mentioned to have caused this level of sheer destruction! 

“There were three of those…javelins of light,” Theophania whimpered from deep within the safety of his longcoat. “Hanneman, this wasn’t an accident.”

The mushroom cloud turned orange before Hanneman’s eyes as the fires spread through the central district. Their workshop was only at the edge, he was inside, he couldn’t hear the screams, but so many people…

Aaron rushed past him, Zamana screeching alarm calls as he flew in panicked circles. They’d strapped the device back on and shoved the schematics and research notes into their folder. “Professor Hanneman, we have to get out of here!”

Where could they go—ah! Yes! “We need to get to the palace; the dungeons should withstand the conflagration, as well as any other potential blasts!” There was no other option; staying here would invite death. They raced down the stairs, he threw open the door—

—And was met with an inferno. 

In just the time it took to run downstairs, the fire had torn through a fifth of Enbarr’s central district. It literally roared, a wall of flame that seemed to whip up its own winds that drove itself along to consume all of Enbarr. The air was hot, and quickly filling with smoke, and painful to breathe. 

Faintly, interspersed among the howl of the flame, Hanneman heard screams. 

Worse still, he heard some of the screams fade out. 

Hanneman’s hands began moving on their own accord, tracing out the long-since-memorized glyph for Bolganone; he could feel Aaron against his back doing the same with their own spell. Perhaps by manipulating the sigil he could gain some measure of control over the flames surrounding them…but could he maintain the spell all the way to the palace?

“There they are!” A wyvern and a pegasus dove from the smoke, and Hanneman very nearly blasted them both with Thoron before he saw the crimson banner of the Empire screaming behind the wyvern. He held his fire, motioned for Aaron to do the same, until their riders came into view. 

Hanneman had never been so happy or relieved to see Manuela in his life. 

“Oh, good, your experiments didn’t turn Aaron into a demonic beast and burn down the city,” his impossibly vexing colleague weakly tried to joke, but her face was pale and Puccini was a trembling lump buried in her robes. 

“Manuela!”

“Okay yeah that...wasn’t the best time.” At least she had the dignity to look embarrassed. 

“I should think not!” 

Ladislava rolled her eyes. “Bicker when we’re not at risk of burning to death. Come on, Hanneman.” She guided her wyvern to the ground and shifted her snapping turtle daemon to her lap so Hanneman could climb on board.

“Ugh, we haven’t done this since we were a student,” Theophania muttered as he scrambled up the side of the beast. The wyvern’s sharp scales cut into his hands and snagged at his coat. 

“It’s not like we have any other choice,” said Hanneman. He looked down at the saddle attached to the enormous flying creature whose mercy he was now completely at. “I have no clue how to fly. I’m sure I’ve forgotten everything.”

“You never forget,” Ladislava replied, not even looking over her shoulder. “It’s a muscle memory thing.”

“And if I get airsick?”

“Don’t. I just bathed Flash, and he won’t be shedding for another couple of months.” The wyvern rumbled, or growled, or something, beneath his feet, and all around them old timber crackled and popped like straw, and Hanneman hastened to secure himself in the second saddle. The wyvern took off, and Hanneman felt his insides lurch and fight to stay on the ground before they were dragged along with the rest of him. Flash’s takeoff was smooth and perfectly executed, of course; he just was meant to stay on the ground. Once they were airborne and his ears stopped popping, Hanneman cracked his eyes open. Beside him was Manuela and her pegasus, Puccini shoved down the front of her dress with his head peeping out (he quickly averted his eyes) and Aaron behind her with their free hand clutching the saddle, Zamana flitting above. Heat radiated from below; he dared to look down, and— 

The central district of Enbarr was unrecognizable. Smoke covered what the flames didn’t, and even as Hanneman watched the fire raced through the streets and consumed everything in its path. It truly was whipping up its own winds as it went, propelling itself along. Acrid smoke rose, it seared his throat and made his eyes and chest burn. Feeling sick, he looked back up to the sky and saw dozens of wyvern riders dotting the sky, bearing the colors of Brigid. They were the battalion Ladislava was training and commanding as part of the treaty with Brigid, and even as Hanneman watched they dove into the flames, re-emerged with civilians. deposited them somewhere safe, then circled back to do it all over again.  

“They’re something else, aren’t they,” Ladislava said with pride—her daemon said nothing, his jaws clamped down on her uniform for support. Then a plume of smoke enveloped them all, interrupting her next sentence with a spasm of deep coughs. Below then, Flash roared and instinctively beat his wings; Ladislava fumbled to get her wyvern under control. How long could they stay aloft in the smoke? Not to mention it was rapidly becoming impossible to see anything! 

A gust of wind sliced through the fog and blew off his monocle. Hanneman snatched it at the last minute, and put it back in time to see just who cast it. 

“Aaron! What are you doing?!” Damn it all, of course Ladislava knew too little about magic to be worried about what they were doing, and Manuela was far too lackadaisical to say anything!

“Clearing a path!” Even as he watched, his assistant leaned off the side of Manuela’s pegasus and cast another wind spell to cut through the dark smoke. Their forest-green cape billowed aloft from the rising heat, the device glowed brightly enough to shine off the haze that remained, and they weren’t giving it enough time to cool down! They shouted above the roar of the flames, “You said that we needed to test these artificial crests in actual combat conditions, right? This is as good a time as any for a field test!” 

Puccini spoke up for Manuela, since she was too busy keeping control of her mount. “There’s no actual crest stone in there, right? Then they’ll be fine! We’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like, you know, Enbarr burning down!” He snaked his tail out from where it was buried in the infinite expanse of Manuela’s bosom and jabbed it downwards for emphasis.

Hanneman didn’t dare look anywhere other than the horizon above, but Theophania crawled out from his sleeve and as far down his hand as she dared. The wolf spider daemon peered over the tips of his fingers, then gasped and ran back into the safety of his coat. 

“The canals are the only thing holding back the fire from destroying the rest of Enbarr,” Theophania said, and shared the horrifyingly vivid image of what was nothing less than a firestorm below, licking at the banks of the canals that ran through Enbarr. If the flames crossed those waters…

There was only one option. “Manuela, Ladislava, we must get to the sluice gates immediately!”

Ladislava pulled up mid-air; Flash screeched and Manuela’s pegasus whinnied as she did the same. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Ladislava screamed. “Enbarr’s burning to the ground; you want to flood the ashes?!”

“I want to do the exact opposite!” Hanneman shouted, then broke into another series of pained coughs before Aaron cleared the air again. “Those canals are firebreaks. We can’t let the fire destroy the upper district, and even before Her Majesty’s infrastructure campaign the slums were crowded and full of essentially kindling! If the firestorm makes it there, it will be slaughter!” 

Manuela and Ladislava looked at him, then at each other, then flew towards the sluice gates. Just as Hanneman thought, those enormous structures held back the ocean, only letting in a small trickle of seawater into the canals. Destroying the gates would let loose the torrent of the ocean, overflow the banks...and hopefully stop the fire from leaping the canals and spreading through the rest of the city.

Wyvern riders were not spellcasters, as a rule, and the motion of the beast flipped his stomach and threw off his aim. But Meteor did not need to be accurate, especially not here. 

The water rushed in with such force as to turn foamy and white, and still the roaring of the flames drowned out the ocean’s surge. They did not look back, but instead flew to the palace, leaving Hanneman and Theophania alone with their thoughts, and the hope that they made the right choice in the face of this firestorm caused by...by javelins of light. 

All this destruction, all this death…This wasn’t an accident. Someone attacked Enbarr with weapons beyond his comprehension. 

But who could have done this? 

And how?

And why? 

Notes:

Thank you all for being patient! I had a lot going on this month so I wasn't able to finish the chapter until just now, but--yeah, a lot happened. Dimitri quite literally tore himself apart and is splattered along rock bottom, Enbarr got attacked this time...what's going to happen next?

I do like Dimitri; he's a fascinating character! But his actions this go-around have largely hurt his fellow Lions and not "just" NPCs or enemy units. This can't be glossed over as easily.

Oh, and as an aside, go read Edelgard and Hanneman's A support, think of the implications, and try not to vomit.

God I love this game so much.

By the way, there were a couple of cameos here, as a huge thank you! First off, Aaron and their jackdaw daemon Zamana are a cameo of my friend Poetry, who is in the process of writing an absolutely phenomenal daemon AU of Animorphs called Daemorphing. Seriously, check it out. It is The daemon AU. Accept no substitutes.
https://archiveofourown.org/series/8983

Second, a huge thank you to my other online buddy Captain_Flash, who is writing The Emperor and The Goddess. I'm blown away by the shoutout to my fic in your latest chapter and helping me out with Marianne's section, and as a thank you, Ladislava's wyvern is now named Flash as well.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed, and let me know what you think if you want? I'm gonna go reply to the comments from last chapter, and see you all soon for the next chapter!

Chapter 39: A Knight’s Duty

Summary:

But it’s not just about duty, or at least it shouldn’t be. It’s about what’s right.

CONTENT WARNING: A character asks another character to kill them because of their deteriorating physical condition. This character does not die.

Notes:

Great Fire of Enbarr

The Great Fire of Enbarr was a major conflagration that swept through central Enbarr from 8 Lone Moon to 10 Lone Moon, 1184. Initially started by a missile strike from the Agarthans Javelins of Light, the fire destroyed most of the Central District of Enbarr. It threatened but did not significantly damage both the Upper District (which contains the Imperial Palace, the Mittelfrank Opera House, Saint Cethleann’s Cathedral, and several former noble manors) and the lower slums which housed the majority of Enbarr’s population. The fire is famous for being one of the first universally accepted descriptions of an urban firestorm in Fodlani history. It destroyed 11,000 buildings, most of them residential and commercial, and killed over 1100 people.

(This article is about the 1184 fire of Enbarr. For other “great fires”, see List of historic fires. For other sites of Agarthan missile strikes, see…)

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on the Black Eagle Strike Force. Retrieved 15 Wyvern Moon, 1695.

They had saved people. 

Dozens, hundreds of people had made their way back from the dungeons of Arianrhod. Many of them were in horrible shape, bruised and beaten and the kind of thin that happened when a body went without food for so long that it started to consume itself. 

Ashe would never forget how that felt, the way Fuergios went dull-eyed and even the keen hunger faded to a fuzzy ache. He’d gorged himself that first night with Lord Lonato, and had been horribly sick for days after. Turned out that when you went without food for that long, you needed to slowly work your way back up to a normal diet. Even now he was still lean and wiry, and one of the first things he did when setting up the office was stash some hardtack and jerky in one of the drawers. 

“Given the food situation…” Fuergios trailed off. Ferdinand had taught them how to read agricultural reports and even though the math made his head swim the numbers looked really bad. Spring came late in Faerghus, and they might not have enough stockpiled food to bridge the gap. They’d have to ship in food up from Dominic territory immediately, which meant diverting Imperial troops stationed there, which meant hoping that Annette and her family were able to keep a lid on things, which meant—

“Argh!” Ashe flopped back in the plush leather chair— his chair now, and he doubted he’d ever get used to it—and Fuergios spiraled down to the equally plush rug like she’d been shot out of the sky. “How does anybody keep all of this straight?”

Fuergios turned her head though she remained sprawled out on the rug. “You think we should have said no? I’m sure Emperor Edelgard and Byleth and everyone else would have understood if we said no.” 

“They would have, but…” He really was the only person qualified for the job. Count Rowe had controlled Arianrhod, and while right now everyone was just happy to have Cornell gone, how long would that last? Lord Lonato had answered to Count Rowe, so as his adopted son Ashe had inherited that connection, that legitimacy as literally the last one left alive with said connection…who was also a member of the Black Eagle Strike Force. 

“But that’s not the only reason. It can’t be the only reason.” Fuergios fluttered up to the perch. Count Rowe’s daemon had been a vulture, and her perch was more of a platform under Fuergios’s feet. She shuffled along it and pressed her head against his wrist. 

Ashe ran a finger along the back of his daemon’s head in time with her coos. “You’re right,” he mused. “Sure, it makes things easier, but our whole goal is to dismantle the church and nobility. Emperor Edelgard is always talking about building a Fodlan where people become powerful because they work for and deserve it, not because they were born into it.” He splayed his hands out over the reports and looked at the numbers again. “Okay, yes, we’re here to answer to everyone else, but that still means that everything that happens in Arianrhod goes through us . If we don’t find out or tell about any problems, our friends will never know.”

“She put us in charge because she thinks we can do it,” Fuergios said. Which was—there was something about Edelgard, something magnetic. Being around her made him want to do more, be more than what everyone said he could be. And Byleth made him feel like he could be, throughout it all. And they believed in him. 

Which...Lonato must have seen the same potential in him too, when he saw the human behind the thief who broke into his manor and got distracted by books and dreams of something better, and reached out a hand instead of cutting his off. 

“Lord Lonato would be so proud of us,” Ashe murmured, and this time he had no doubt at all. He pushed aside the food reports—he could afford to come back to that problem tomorrow—and went back to the other project. 

The stories that came out of Arianrhod were too horrible to believe, but they had happened anyway. He—The story of the Relics and the Elites was nothing but lies. There wasn’t anything honorable or holy about it at all! If Rhea had her way she would have covered up everything about Lonato and turned him into a cackling villain. They already had covered up everything with Christophe, and even with the papers Ashe didn’t think he’d ever know exactly what was going on with his brother and Duscur and the church, or why he ended up the sacrificial lamb. Fodlan was built on lies and blood, and as long as people kept lying and making up stories then things would never get better. 

So Ashe asked his friends to help interview the survivors and write down everything they said, everything they went through. They had to do it in pieces, because nearly everyone except Hubert needed to stop and throw up. And yet they continued anyway, even though they had only interviewed about fifty people so far. 

“You are not only our ally, but also our friend,” Ardior had said during a breath of fresh air, even though it was one of those damp and cold days where freezing air collected on their daemons’ wings and the chill sliced through to the bone. Petra was a shivering mass of furs piled on so high that she couldn’t even put her arms down, but Ardior seemed completely in his element. They flew together, him and Fuergios, and the snow goose daemon supported her. “The lies should have stopped long ago, but we are having to make the first step somewhere.”

Maybe the Imperial troops could do interviews once they arrived too? There were still all the Duscurian refugees to interview, and Ashe was not confident enough in the language to do it all by himself. Syene said they’d be back soon, there was a name that kept coming up…

Ashe shook his head; Fuergios hopped off the perch and nestled into his coat. No, he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to hope again after already having it dangled in front of him and then snatched away once before. Learning about Ingrid was painful enough. She’d deserved so much more, could have, should have been the knight she dreamed of being, and now she was gone. Any more, and…no. He needed to not be stuck. He’d experienced firsthand just what chasing ghosts led to. 

“Lord Ubert?” asked one of the workers in time with her knocks, and—no. Not Lord Ubert. He was Ashe. Just…Ashe. A decade ago this same worker would have literally spat on him in the street, or walked past him begging for food, and now, “There’s someone at the door for you.”

“There wasn’t a meeting we forgot about, is there?” Fuergios asked with an audible flurry of wings as she followed him off her perch. 

“I don’t think so?” It was still early in the morning, the sun only half-risen, but they had so much to do each day. Ashe made his way downstairs to the foyer, and opened the door, and—

…

With a muffled sob, Ashe flung himself into Dedue’s arms. 

This had to be a dream, or some cruel hallucination. But Dedue had wrapped him in an embrace, and though he was thinner and more scarred than before he was still so solid and strong. And Levia was by his side, and Fuergios landed on her horns like she was made to perch there. 

“I thought you were dead,” Ashe sobbed into Dedue’s chest. The fabric of his shirt caught in the stubble growing on Ashe’s cheek, and he smelled of sweat and spices, and this was no illusion, no cruel dream. 

“I’m here,” said Dedue. His hands were solid and warm. Levia closed her eyes and gave a little sigh of contentment. This was real, Dedue was alive, and maybe things really would be okay. 

---

Normally, the sky was Ladislava’a favorite place to be. She could spend all day in the saddle, and watch the world move by around and below. Ferdinand loved his morning rides, and she lived for her evening flights. Normally, she’d close her eyes, let Wealdyn clamp his jaw down on her uniform or the saddle, let Flash ride the thermals, and lose herself in the wind.

This wasn’t a normal time.  

Ladislava leaned forward in the saddle and pressed herself as flat as her armor and body would allow. She spurred her faithful wyvern onwards, faster and faster, until Wealdyn’s carapace thumped and vibrated dangerously against her back, and his jaw ached painfully. She looked for the slight shimmer of thermals and guided Flash towards those columns of rising warm air. They couldn’t afford to stop for anything.

Her Majesty needed to know what had happened to Enbarr.

What had happened to Enbarr?! Horrific destruction beyond all comprehension, yes, but what the fuck kind of weapon could burn down an entire city?! Even Hanneman was stumped, and he was one of the smartest people Ladislava knew. 

“What if it’s those weird masked people hanging around Arundel?” Wealdyn thought frantically through the turbulence both in and around him. “Her Majesty always ordered us to stay away from them, but the look on her face…”

The look on her face—and Marquis Vestra’s—when discussing those men didn’t bear repeating. She’d worn that same expression herself far too many times when dealing with arrogant nobles who held her life in their hands and didn’t particularly care if they dropped or crushed it. Her Majesty had to succeed, so they would never be able to casually destroy lives on their whims again. 

It had to be those mysterious mages, who dressed in black and with masks that covered their faces and gave them the appearance of vultures, who terrified even Lord Hubert though of course he would never admit it. Ladislava’s pulse pounded in her ears in time with the roaring of the wind around her. Was this an attempted decapitation strike? Were Arundel and his unknown allies attempting another coup? But why would they try to destroy Enbarr just to rule over the ashes? This couldn’t be just to send a message, could it?

Flash roared as a sudden gust of wind made him wobble; Ladislava quickly banked to the other side, righted his path, and sent them both into a column of calmer air. She couldn’t afford to speculate or put her own biases into her report, especially when she didn’t know all the details. Her job right now was to get the news to Her Majesty as quickly as possible, because Arundel’s men would undoubtedly keep her in the dark. 

“Speaking of, aren’t we passing through Arundel’s territory right now?”

Perhaps it was stupid, but Ladislava glanced downwards anyway. It was always thrilling and humbling, seeing the landscape soar past. There were the thickets of trees reduced to fuzzy gray blobs, rows of brown as fields lay fallow and ready for planting, rolling fields sliced by winding ribbons of blue, dotted by the gray walls of villages and towns. There were no borders up in the sky. 

But there was another odd shimmer of movement on the winding road below. A cluster of silver, their armor glinting slightly even all the way up where she flew. Soldiers, and a lot of them, marching down the road from Arundel’s keep to Enbarr.

Perhaps Flash noticed her sudden tenseness, because he growled suddenly and she found herself reflexively scrambling to quiet the wyvern, even though the only living beings who could hear them this high up were the geese making their way back to their springtime nests. Rage rose in her chest, along with the sudden surging foolish urge to fly down and engage them herself. 

“Even though they’ll shoot us out of the sky the moment they see us?” Wealdyn reminded her through his clenched jaw, though of course he didn’t need to. It killed her, but Ladislava guided Flash up into the unpleasant mist of the clouds above, into the safety of their cover. 

Her duty was to warn Lady Edelgard.

---

The spoon was right there. It was big, with a soft handle meant for toddlers who had not yet figured out limbs or proprioception, much less proper etiquette when handling silverware. The porridge smelled divine, blended with honey and cream and sprinkled with shaved nuts and some dried fruit on top. Dammit! It should be easy! Even at her worst, even when she was doubled over in agony and the stitches split open and her blood welled up again she could still feed herself! Just pick up! The fucking spoon! And eat! 

Lysithea’s right hand twitched and clumsily closed around the handle. She could sort of sense the pressure of the spoon on her palm, which was better than a couple of days ago. Step one completed, she guided her shaking hand to the bowl of oatmeal sitting by her side. 

Her hand and the spoon thumped against the edge of the bowl and overturned it. The thick sludge of hot oatmeal poured onto her right hand faster than she could withdraw it, and of course that she could still feel without any issue at all. 

Devoid of strength to do anything else, Lysithea closed her eyes and let out a choked scream of frustration. Zilbariel had a bit more strength. “FUCKING DAMMIT!” He threw himself onto the table, grabbed the bowl of spilt oatmeal in his teeth, and smashed it against the floor. “Stupid, useless, FUCK! WHY?!” and flopped onto the table, panting and physically spent. 

Heavy footsteps announced Marianne’s arrival, and fuck she really shouldn’t have been so suprised that somebody would come running. What else did she expect, making a ruckus like that, and throwing a tantrum like a helpless little baby? 

“Then again, that’s...all we...are now,” Zilbariel said, every word a struggle.

Marianne entered the room at that point, and thank Flames she didn’t open her mouth with any stupid expressions of pity or admonishment or handling her like tissue paper. She just cleaned up the mess of broken pottery and cooling beige sludge, and didn’t even approach her. Which—of course Marianne couldn’t. They’d gotten to her too, and turned her into the monster she was always terrified of being. If Marianne’s talons snagged against Lysithea’s skin, she’d start bleeding and wouldn’t be able to stop. And unfortunately Marianne was too good a medic to do something like that by mistake. 

She’d thought about taking the matters into her own hands, maybe have a fall and press a little too hard into those dark claws when Marianne would have to scoop her up and tuck her back into bed, but—no. The last thing Marianne needed was that on her conscience. 

“I’ll go get another bowl,” said Marianne once she had cleaned everything up. “Lysithea, do you want some applesauce or rice cakes?” Her voice had an odd timbre to it now, almost like a natural echo. What did it feel like, in the back of her throat? Did it hurt? Or had Marianne also grown used to the pain, because she seemed to give it no notice as she continued, “Or would you prefer to rest? Leonie said she found a new board game that she wants to play with you later.”

It was probably half a step up from putting shaped blocks into shaped holes or something equally insultingly infantile that Leonie would have to struggle to stay awake through and pretend to care about. She pulled herself as upright as her useless body would let her, and tried to tell Marianne exactly what she thought of that idea. But of course her mouth and tongue didn’t work anymore, nothing but wood and lead in her mouth since she woke into this nightmare, and so the only sound that could come out was, “Fffff, ffaaaaahhh—“

“Fuck…you!” Zilbariel spat, too exhausted to stand, every word wrenched from some deep place beyond naming. “Why make me…live like this?”

“Lysithea, I—” Marianne closed her eyes trying to think of some bullshit excuse, and good.  Let her think about the living hell that she’d trapped her into under the stupid explanation of I was only trying to help!   “You only just woke up. I’ve seen these injuries before, and they improve with time. I promise, you won’t be like this for more than a few months.”

A few months? A few months?! “I’ll be...dead by then!” Zilbariel screamed, a keening noise curled in the back of his throat. Lysithea curled her left hand into a fist; her right remained limp and useless at her side. How could Marianne not see that?! She’d just doomed her to months of agony, trapped in a body that could no longer walk, or feed itself, or cast magic, or even speak, until it finally gave out! What kind of existence was that?! 

But Marianne just shook her head, and her hair caught on those tiny horns, and when she opened her eyes they were actually glowing now. “You won’t be. Linhardt is working himself ragged finding a cure. He’s getting closer every day.” She stole a glance down at the empty floor, and come to think of it, where was Penumbrior? Zilbariel stretched out but couldn’t see the armadillo daemon anywhere. Fuck, was Marianne like her and Edelgard now too?! 

But her hair was still blue, so she still had all the time in the world to fix what she had been turned into! And hah, that was fucking rich, Marianne, telling Lysithea that she should live! “Hhhhh—Hhhyyyy—”

“Hypocrite!” Zibariel snarled from where he had fallen into her lap. At least she could still feel his warmth, the plushness of his sea otter coat. “That’s rich, from you! You prayed...for death, all year...at school! Now you won’t…give us mercy?!” Lysithea had been prepared to die in battle, not wake up partially paralyzed with the last of her independence torn from here, unable to do anything more than sit and be fed while she slowly wasted away! What did she have to hope or live for now? She couldn’t cast spells, couldn’t even speak, the right side of her body refused to work, and on top of all of that her crests were still slowly killing her! Marianne had to know there were worse things than dying, and right now she was living them, for whatever definition of living she was currently forced to endure!

Zilbariel made a low whining noise in her lap, and Lysithea shuddered. Her eyes burned, a lump rapidly grew in her throat, her breathing turned harsh and wet, and no. Don’t cry, Lysithea, don’t you fucking dare cry. No matter what, she couldn’t cry. Crying was something only babies did. Crying did nothing, and it certainly wouldn’t save her. It never had, and it never would. 

Marianne still said nothing from the blow of her words, and Lysithea knew that she should feel bad about what she said, but right now she couldn’t bring herself to care. Maybe Marianne knew she was lashing out too, or maybe…maybe she was actually listening. Because Marianne sighed (long and low, far too low for Marianne, it rattled in her throat like dried bones) and said, “Lysithea, how about this. Please, give it some time and try your best to get better. But…if it’s a couple of months, and you’re not any better, and you still feel the same way, then…then…I’ll help you.”    

A month. She could tolerate a month, if at the end she could, well, end it. And at least she wasn’t going to be cut open this time. Lysithea nodded, then let her eyes close, too drained to do much more today. 

---

Dammit, had he actually bet on the wrong fighter this time? 

“That’s what you get for betting against our friend,” Icarus muttered right into his ear, the traitor. 

Ah well, even he couldn’t win every single bet. There wasn’t much else left for Yuri to do but watch as Balthus wrestled Randolph to the floor while Drusionary pinned Nycterune between her horns, counted to ten, and divested Yuri of several hundred gold that he only sort of had. 

“Is it really losing gold though, if it’s being invested right back into Abyss?” Icarus chirped with a bob of their tailfeathers, because not only were they a traitor, but they were also an obnoxious traitor to boot. 

Truth be told, it was a concept that Yuri was still getting used to, and one that he was kicking himself for not thinking of sooner. Though again, to be fair, it wasn’t exactly his fault. Most people in Abyss were too focused on surviving the day to day and snatching crumbs of pleasure where they could to really focus on something big and collaborative like a charity fighting tournament. Maybe Alferic could have done it, but that bird had flown years ago. No point reminiscing on the might-have-beans, especially since help was in the picture now. 

Even if said help came in the form of a young girl with oversized armor and a very insistent finger jabbing at his midsection. “Pay up,” said Flèche, her daemon in the shape of a very fitting magpie on her shoulder. “And don’t try to pull one over on me like last time—I know my sums.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my lovely young lady,” Yuri said with a deep bow that was only somewhat exaggerated. Another flourish of his wrist, and a sack of gold drilled into Fleche’s hands, and she only rolled her eyes once. Clever girl, her daemon turned into a sandy desert rat and hopped right into the bag, rooting around and counting out the pieces a second time. He waited patiently until Flèche was satisfied, then said, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Ugh, are you always this flippant?”

“Hey, you don’t have to be so serious. Trust me, being an adult is nowhere near what it’s cracked up to be.” Not that it saved him, but at least it somewhat softened the blow, at least until Dorothea became Enbarr’s newest star and every rich sick fuck who couldn’t get a piece of her but was willing to settle for a knockoff turned their beady eyes towards him. He tried not to blame or resent her for that, or think about it too much at all. 

“He’s right, you know!” Balthus shouted from down in the arena, where he was busy shaking hands with Randolph. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri could see Nycturene play bowing to Drusionary in return. “Trust me, you’re gonna want to be a kid as long as you can!”

“Well, this kid is helping free a continent from the Church,” Fleche pouted and Goddess she was absolutely adorable. He wanted to pinch her cheeks ruddy, even though she’d hate it and he would never, ever touch someone without their say-so. 

Balthus and Randolph had made their way out of the arena, still joking and teasing in the way men like that always did after a good brawl, since fighting took the place of feelings for them. Even several meters away, Balthus’s voice boomed and echoed around the natural acoustics of the underground arena. “Hah, that was a good effort, but you should have known better before taking on the King of Grappling, six times running!”

He shouldered Randolph, and Randolph shoved him back. “Next time, axes. You may be the king of grappling, but can you take me on in an axe fight?”

“Ooh, ooh, I’ve got a better idea!” Drusionary split off from where she was jostling Randolph’s Aegir hound daemon and pranced around the three of them; her hooves clicked and echoed on the stone. “When Caspar gets back from wherever the heck Little Miss Revolutionary dragged him this time, we should invite him down here for a proper brawl! Gosh, when was the last time, a year and a half ago?”

“More, I think,” Randolph mused, and then his eyes lit up like a kid whose parents managed to get their hands on some honey candy for their birthday. Yuri had the sneaking suspicion that Caspar’s sudden deployment had to do with the materials he’d smuggled to Claude, but he wasn’t about to voice that out loud. Meanwhile, Randolph was still gushing with boyish enthusiasm. “Wait, I’ve got a better idea: a battle royale instead of the one on one elimination tournament we’ve been doing! You may be the king of grappling, but can you take on both me and my nephew at once?”

Balthus pumped a sweaty fist in the air. “Heck yeah I can! Oh man, this is gonna be a fight for the ages, right here! You think we can get Edelgard down here as well?”

“That’s Her Majesty,” Randolph chided, though he didn’t seem particularly upset.

As always, Balthus didn’t particularly care. “Either way, I’d love to see her down here slumming it with the locals and that enormous axe of hers, and I bet everyone else would too!”

“Okay, I’ll bring it up—come on, Fleche—when Her Majesty gets back. She’ll probably want to see for herself how you’re doing down here anyway…” Randolph’s voice trailed off as they headed down the corridor, though Yuri could still hear snippets of echoing formless sound mingling with foot and hoofsteps. It wasn’t worth listening to; Balthus would spill any important details later regardless. 

Surprisingly enough, the answer to that question was, “Pretty good, all things considered.” Edelgard had been beside herself in apoplectic fury when she learned about Abyss and that the Church had basically sentenced generation upon generation of the dispossessed to exile in its forgotten depths, and he got the sense that she never quite forgave herself for the damage she did to Abyss in the initial assault on Garreg Mach. Since then she had invested quite a bit into the place, especially after learning about the Shadow Library and the secrets housed within. A few months ago someone in her army had found out about the merchants price gouging the people down here, Randolph had thrown him into the river in front of everyone while the Ladybird herself handed out all the food and fabric they’d been hoarding, and they’d had the support of everyone down here ever since. Not loyalty, never loyalty; the people of Abyss had been hunted and hounded and quite literally burned too many times to never trust anyone ever again, but at least they didn’t have the constant threat of the Church getting bored or fed up and deciding to finish them off hanging over their collective heads anymore.

Heck, it wasn’t just that. Bernadetta and Leonie had repaired the broken-down bazaar, and the pagan altar had been renovated to make room for the deities of everyone who called Abyss home. For so long their existence had been a defiance; it was still bizarre to comprehend that they could be allowed to just…live. 

“What do you think they’ll vote to spend the money on?” Icarus asked as they flew beside them. Abyss was pretty big on the whole self-determination thing; since the world threw them away they needed to stick together, but even they needed things like ‘money’ and ‘food’ to not just survive but thrive. These tournaments were a boon, especially ever since Empire soldiers started joining in to spectate and bet and sometimes even join in fighting with a rougher crowd than the ones who appeared up top. “Renovating the communal kitchens still seems like the most popular choice, but the group calling for our own printing press and expanded classrooms are refusing to back down.”

“Hm…” Yuri rubbed his chin. “We need the latter to thrive, but you can’t read on an empty stomach. Caspar better get back here soon so we can have another battle royale to find both.” First things first though, they needed the delivery of food and materials up top, and—

Where were they? Where were the merchants? Ben was always on time. 

“Yuribird, you and Mockingjay haven’t heard anything about a delayed shipment, have you?” Hapi asked. Her lip was swollen from where she’d chewed it raw, and she held Malka Foss tight in her arms like a child with a stuffed animal. Closer to the entrance Constance paced back and forth, Rubine occasionally flying partway up the closed tunnel as if doing so would magically summon the merchants. Yuri shook his head, and tried to fight down the pit growing in his stomach. 

Ben was always reliable and fair, if gruff, so where was he? Where was their weekly delivery? 

What was going on up top? 

---

It had all happened so fast. The morning had started just like any other, bright and cold and icy, all the snow that had melted over the course of the day refrozen into patches so slick that even the sheep skidded. Ben had gotten his wool and sausages and leathers in order for a day trading down in Abyss. To think that there was an entire town full of heathens and apostates right under the monastery!

“Except they’re not all heretics, since apparently we can’t have anything straightforward and simple in our lives,” Kas said, his jeweled beetle daemon buzzing around him in wide arcs (the day was clear and sunny, so they had left her capsule at home). There weren’t just heretics down there but…families. Refugees. People whom Fodlan had forgotten about or thrown away. When Ben thought about his youngest son growing up down there in the dark…

Kas shuddered in time with him. “We’ve been doing a lot of thinking these days, haven’t we?

They had; it seemed to be a theme ever since the empire took over. It was annoying, and uncomfortable, and made him feel really shitty a lot of the time…but it was also kind of worth it. He hoped. 

All in all; it had been shaping up to be a pretty standard day. Then his friend’s hawk daemon had noticed the shapes on the horizon, and they watched as those shapes revealed themselves to be Archbishop Rhea herself and the fucking Knights of Seiros. 

Ben and Kas would have greeted them as liberators. Maybe. She was still the motherfucking Archbishop, he was a townie and had been one most of his life, he still worshipped the Goddess even after everything. It was still her monastery, even if she was a terrifying monster thing, so…

But then they attacked. 

They fell upon the Empire soldiers with a savagery Ben had only ever heard about, and tore them apart like wild beasts. He recognized some of them—there was the Archbishop, of course, and Thunder Catherine herself! There was Gilbert, who bought his wife’s carvings every time he was in town, and the Almyran kid with the bat daemon who was always so polite and ushered him to his seat during services. And they and the other knights utterly destroyed the Imperial troops stationed in town, showed just why the Knights of Seiros were to be feared. The Imperial troops fought valiantly, but nobody, except maybe the Emperor herself and her Strike Force, could possibly stand up to Archbishop Rhea or Thunder Catherine. Those that fled were cut down by Gilbert or shot by the Almyran kid, who rode a fucking wyvern and—was that a fucking crest?! That was a crest, wasn’t it?! Since when the fuck did an Almyran kid who cleaned the fucking floors have a fucking crest?!

Okay, time to get out of here and why did he leave Kas’s capsule at home?! Ben turned, and ran, and barely made it twenty steps before damn near impaling himself on Thunderbrand. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” growled Catherine, and Ben wasn’t about to argue with several very pointy things aimed right at his throat. 

Catherine herded him and his friend to the snowy central square, now stained pink with blood, and forced them to their knees. The chill set into his bones in moments, the pain of his freezing flesh nearly unbearable immediately after, but the sharp weapons aimed right at them said that standing up would also be a very bad idea. 

Behind her, Gilbert pulled the carts full of wares into view. “Lady Rhea gave you everything,” said Catherine, and she sounded so disappointed. “You were blessed enough to live right in the shadow of Garreg Mach, directly in the Goddess’s grace, and this is how you repay us? With treason?”

“I—Lady Catherine, Your Grace, I’m afraid there’s been a horrible misunderstanding,” Ben stammered. He clutched Kas in his hands like a goddess icon and tried to breathe in time with the vibration of her wings. They were always so nice during services, they had to listen to reason! Right? “I’m just a farmer, and I can’t relocate my flocks so easily. I may have been forced to work occupied land, but I promise you I never stopped worshipping the Goddess and praying for your return!”

“Then what do you have to say about that?” Gilbert said, jabbing a finger at the wagons. “Selling goods to those imperial apostates and vermin in Abyss, aiding and abetting those who would dare defile the Goddess and her works?! And you dare call yourself faithful!”

“We still needed to live,” Ben babbled, and it was so obvious why weren’t they listening? “They bought our goods, or would have taken them anyway, and we need the money to buy food and clothes to live on! Please, Your Grace, you have to understand—“

“Silence,” said Rhea and Ben snapped his mouth shut. All the warmth and serenity that had guided Ben and comforted him his entire life was replaced by cold hatred and…something else. Ben felt like a dog who had gotten a taste for the very sheep he was meant to protect, and would be drowned in the pond as punishment. 

…Fuck, he was completely fucked, wasn’t he? 

Rhea continued, and in a moment of bone-chilling clarity Ben realized that she had no daemon. The praying mantis he had always seen on the altar beside her was gone. “The Goddess provides for those who remain faithful, and you turned your back on her. You have aided our hated enemies, who have stolen Mother from me and have pointed their blades at the Church and heart of Fodlan itself. In the name of the Goddess Sothis, I have passed judgement! You are all damned, with no hope for salvation!”

Fuck! No! “Your Grace! Please! You’re—“

Catherine struck out with Thunderbrand and carved him open. 

Ben felt his skin catch and tear on Thunderbrand’s curved spikes, felt his innards bubble out over his hands and the sudden chill as they splattered onto the ice. Then the pain, hot and overwhelming and freezing where it shouldn’t be and all he could do was scream until his lungs gave out. No—this couldn’t—he had to run—

He fell onto his face. He heard his friend’s head get chopped off, felt her body slump to the ground. Kas was upside down right before him. She twitched her legs but couldn’t get up. 

“A shame. They never learn,” said a man above him. 

“We’ve been too soft for too long. It’s time to punish the sinners and purge the wicked from the world,” said a woman. 

“About time. Those rats in Abyss have been a thorn in our side for decades,” said a daemon. 

Everything was so cold, and so dim, and hurt so much. Ben flopped his arm against the ground, groped around blindly for Kas. They were slippery. Why were his fingers slippery? Why were Rhea and the knights doing this?!

Need to get up…need…get help…

The last thing Ben felt, and the last thing he saw, was his daemon crushed into the ice as Rhea’s foot trod down. 

Notes:

I’m sorry! It’s going to be a little bit longer before things stop being at rock bottom!

Okay. Okay, that section. First off all, I want to give CaptainFlash another huge thank you for being the sensitivity reader for the section with Lysithea, and making sure it didn’t come off as ableist. This was a very difficult needle to thread, because Lysithea values her independence over almost everything else. And now? She can’t walk. She can’t cast spells. She can’t feed herself. She can’t dress herself. She can’t even speak without Zilbariel. From a clinical standpoint, Lysithea had a hemorrhagic stroke from a brain bleed after hitting her head, because she has no platelets, which resulted in expressive aphasia and right sided hemiparesis. She would recover over several months to a year with physical therapy…except that unless Linhardt has a breakthrough she’ll be dead before then. And it’s not a pleasant death. So, from Lysithea’s point of view, now she’ll be completely depends on others while she continues to die by inches. And that’s why she wants to go out on her own terms. I hope this explanation makes sense.

As to what happens…you’ll see! God I can’t wait for the next few chapters. Especially since we’re off the map plot wise. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, let me know what you think if you want?l, and see you all soon!

Chapter 40: The Value Of Life

Summary:

Edelgard strikes and ends the mess in former Faerghus. The shattered pride of lions make their choices. And Claude, Rhea, and Thales realize that things aren't going to go as smoothly as they anticipated.

Content warnings: Attempted genocide, Sylvain's POV, implied/referenced sexual abuse to about the level that's already depicted in canon, and death of playable characters.

Notes:

Ashe and Fuergios Ubert (17 Wyvern Moon, 1163 - 21 Red Wolf Moon, 1235, mourning dove) was a member of the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force, temporary governor of Arianrhod, and founder of the Crossing Roads Inn and Restaurant. Originally orphaned in a cholera epidemic, he and his siblings were adopted by Lonato, the ruler of his home territory, and later attended the Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy as a sponsored student. He declared allegiance to the Adrestian Empire during the War of Liberation and served in Emperor Edelgard’s Black Eagle Strike Force. After the war, he was appointed the temporary governor of Arianrhod as it recovered and rebuilt. In 1189, he and his husband, Dedue Molinaro, resigned and opened the Crossing Roads Inn and Restaurant, which is still in business today.

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Ashe Ubert. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

This wasn’t warfare. It was a massacre. It was wanton slaughter the likes of which Balthus had only heard about second-hand from the survivors of Duscur who had managed to find refuge down here, and hoped that he would never, ever have to see for himself. 

Constance had been teaching a class on basic magical theory when the alarm sounded and Randolph and his men retreated to the network of tunnels. Half her class got split up as they fled, and the place where she and the other half joined up with Balthus was the perfect vantage point to helplessly watch her lost students get murdered. 

With a cry Constance launched Bolting onto the so-called Knights, then another, then a third spell as her crest flared to life and left her eyes aglow and her hair practically levitating off her shoulders. But even as Constance did her thing and did the whole smiting death from above—which fuck yeah, his friend was so fucking cool—there were more of them than she had spells in reserve. When she ran out they surged on the stragglers, and all they could do was watch as they cut down their fellow Abyssinians, hurled them into the river, then fired arrows upon them until the air went golden and the water ran red. 

“They’re everywhere,” Yuri panted, flanked by Hapi and a sea of terrified people as they raced towards him. People were whimpering, kids were crying and, and, look Balthus always knew that the church had it in for Abyss, but this wasn’t their normal bullying. This was—

“I saw Rhea,” said Hapi, and that was the tone of voice she had when she was so fucking terrified that it went out the other side into this weird calm that wasn’t her normal forced flatness. “She’s with Gilbert and Catherine,” Yuri went white at the second name, “and Foss overheard them. They’re gonna kill all of us.” People started screaming and praying and crying at those words. Icarus launched off Yuri’s shoulder and tried to quiet the panicking kids with a calm that none of them felt. Malka Foss was probably doing the same in the back, since splitting off from Hapi was another freaky cool thing they could do. 

“Fuck. We can’t take on Rhea. Gilbert and Catherine, yeah, maybe, but not Rhea.” Yuri looked back at the sea of people. Some of them could fight, sure, but most of them were old, or random-ass villagers, or little kids who lived pretty much their whole lives down here! 

“We gotta get out of here, now!” Drusionary shouted with a shake of her head and a stomp of her hooves. 

“Dammit, I can’t get a clear headcount,” Icarus said from above. “Most of Abyss is here, but not everyone. We can’t leave anyone behind to be slaughtered.”

“Uh, too late, Yuri-bird.” Hapi jabbed a finger down below. “I don’t think we have a say in that anymore.”

“Don’t look!” Drusionary cried out, rearing up on her hind legs and drumming on his chest with her front hooves, but it was too late. The sight of Gilbert pulling two screaming children out from behind a pile of crates, tearing them away from their daemons, and tossing them to Catherine to butcher would haunt Balthus for the rest of his life. 

Fuck, they needed to run, yesterday. An enormous explosion from several doors down sent a shower of dust and pebbles and everyone screaming and ducking for cover once more. Just before panic completely broke out Constance returned, spot on her face and several of Rubine’s tail feathers singed off. 

“What the fuck, Constance?!” Yuri snapped; above the crowd Icarus flew back and forth trying to calm everyone down. “Are you trying to cause even more of a panic?”

“I was merely sabotaging our food stores,” she shot back. “If our enemies are to recapture Garreg Mach and Abyss, then let them seize control of a hollow building, bereft of all sustenance needed to sustain life!”

Yuri paused. “Okay, that was a good idea, but fucking tell us next time!”

“Has anyone seen Flèche?!” 

Randolph burst around the corner with a couple dozen soldiers and even more of his fellow Abyssinians, his eyes wide with panic, his daemon barking a nonstop alarm call. “Flèche! Where are you?! Flames, please, are you okay?!” 

“I’m here! I’m fine!” a small voice shouted from the crowd. A tiny songbird daemon flew up and Randolph nearly sagged to his knees in relief.

“Oh thank Flames,” and he moved towards Flayn but the sheer press of people and their daemons held him and Nycterune at bay, while also keeping Flèche and her daemon from getting any closer. 

“They’ve blocked off half the tunnels,” Nycterune barked. “Rhea knows the layout of them all; the mages are fireballing every one I saw.”

Constance let out a shocked noise. “Have they gone mad?! Even the most halfwitted mage should know that too many fire spells in an enclosed space will turn the air foul and unbreathable!”

“Coco, I think that’s the point. If they’re gonna kill us all, I can’t think of a better way than mass suffocation.” That was—Goddess, Balthus didn’t even want to think about that, clawing at the walls until his fingers went bloody, desperately gasping for another breath that wouldn’t come…

“General Randolph, you should go,” Yuri said in his serious voice, the one where he got all noble and self-sacrificing. “You and your men have done more than enough for us; take care of yourselves.” 

“That’s not happening,” said Randolph along with his men, and really Yuri should have seen this coming. Then again, he wasn’t the one brawling with the guy for weeks. “You’re under the protection of the Empire, and even if you weren’t I won’t stand by and let you get murdered!”

Nycterune took a deep breath and bayed out with all the force of an Aegir Hound, “Men, we’re covering their retreat! Every person here leaves Abyss alive!” 

A mighty cheer echoed through the cavern, loud enough to catch the attention of the so-called knights below. Fuck. 

“Time to go. Hope this works and doesn’t kill us all,” Hapi sighed. 

Everyone in Abyss knew by now to brace for impact, but not their killers! With another deep rumble a gigantic worm burst through the wall before them, while two more exploded onto the scene down below and got to work savaging the soldiers there. 

“Aw heck yeah, Linny’s advice worked!” Hapi hissed with a pump of her fist. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

They didn’t have much time. Balthus could faintly hear their shouts of confusion and panic, and then fucking Rhea herself shouting, “There is an apostate, a woman with dark skin and red hair, a wicked dark mage who has abused the powers gifted to her by Timotheos himself! A reward to whomever brings me her head!”

Hapi blanched and they finally got moving, making their way through the tunnel as fast as they safely could. 

Well, most of them. 

“I’m bringing up the rear!” Balthus shouted, and made no effort to move. So this was what it felt like, knowing you were about to die. His senses were on overdrive, right down to the feel of the slippery stone under Drusionary’s hooves, her thick fur and heavy weight in his hands, as if he was trying to cram a lifetime of sensations and experiences into these last few minutes. The air was sharp with the ever present mildew of Abyss and the iron tang of blood. Over his shoulder, he looked at Randolph, whose daemon pressed against him as well. His mouth set in a thin grimace, Randolph nodded back. 

“If it ensures everyone’s survival, it’s worth it.” Randolph smiled, and Nycterune bowed. “It’s been an honor, sparring with you.”

“Same to you.” Balthus turned back towards the staircase. He could hear shouts, and footsteps, growing louder. Drusionary lowered her head and struck her hoof against the ground. “Chevalier, don’t fail me now!” 

Chevalier didn’t. His crest activated again and again, glowed bright enough to leave afterimages behind his eyelids, activating again and again to keep him alive as long as possible. It healed his wounds as he tore through the troops, the almighty king of grappling bringing his full force to bear. Randolph was right behind him, and though the guy didn’t have a crest, or Vajra-Mushti, he also knew what was right and who to protect! 

His relic glowing, both of them roaring a battle cry, Balthus and Randolph crashed into Catherine and Gilbert. 

Their relics clashed against each other with a horrible grinding shriek that reminded Balthus of shattered bones rubbing together. Pieces of their relics chipped off and scattered to the ground, where their creepy orange glow slowly faded out. 

He and Catherine sprung apart, panting, mindful of the sheer drop to the raging river just a few meters away. “Of course your daemon’s a sheep!” he taunted Catherine as their daemons lowered their heads and charged. Their horns interlocked and he shouted above the noise of battle, “When’s the last time ya ever made your own choices? Any second thoughts about Rhea ordering you to murder old grannies and little kids?”

“Lady Rhea gave me my commands, and so they are just,” she spat. “They are my orders, and I will follow them! If she says they are right, then they’re right!”

“Wow,” he muttered. “You’d be pathetic if you weren’t also, you know, a crazed killer. Either way, I won’t let you hurt anyone else!” Balthus swung out his fist at her; she parried the first but the second swept under Thunderbrand and sliced open her chin to the bone. Blood ran down and as she hissed Balthus could just about hear Randolph taunt Gilbert in much the same way.

“What a big strong knight you are, murdering citizens who can’t fight back,” he spat, and even above the clash of weapons and the roaring of water he could hear the venom and hatred in Randolph’s voice. Nycterune snarled and circled Gilbert, looking for a glimpse of his daemon to bite down on. “What, got a taste for blood after Duscur? Was one massacre of innocents not enough for you?!”

“The Goddess gave us our orders. I don’t expect an apostate like you to understand,” Gilbert spat back. 

“Hah! Well, any authority that tells me to murder children isn’t one worth following! Now DIE!” With a roar, Randolph raised his hammer and brought it down on Gilbert’s chest. It didn’t kill him outright, but the metal buckled and cracked, and he saw the jointed legs of a crab daemon emerge to frantically escape the armor.

Yeah, Randolph was fine. Balthus turned his attention back to Catherine and eviscerating her. The problem was getting past that stupid Thunderbrand! Every time he reared up for a killing strike that damn sword was there, turning lethal blows into scratches or deflecting them entirely! And yeah, sure, he was doing the same, but down the hall he could just barely make out Rhea stepping in to destroy those monsters Hapi summoned, and once she was on the scene they were completely fucked. 

Their daemons, the bighorn sheep and the mountain goat, circled each other and crashed their heads and horns together again and again. Except that Catherine’s daemon didn’t seem to pay any attention to their surroundings. 

Big mistake!

This time, when they slammed together and their horns interlocked, Drusionary let Catherine’s daemon push her around. “Hah! Tiring already? So much for the king of grappling!” he bleated out a taunt.

Drusionary just smirked, and let herself get pushed around, subtly altering her movements, until—there! She lowered her head, twisted her neck, and threw the larger sheep daemon, bleating and babbling, into the river!

“Fortinbras!” Catherine cried out, but it was too late, he was already swept downstream! Balthus knew the exact moment the distance tore their connection apart, because Catherine screamed like she was stabbed in the heart and crumpled to the ground, dead. 

“Catherine! No!” shouted Gilbert, and in that moment’s distraction Randolph struck! He slammed his hammer into Gilbert's armor hard enough to crush the metal plates and leave him gasping, and then just as the older man staggered Randolph brought down the hammer on his head. Balthus felt as much as he heard the visceral crunch of his skull caving in, the splatter of blood and brain matter on his cheek. Gilbert collapsed, twitching even as his crab daemon vanished into golden dust before Nycterune could even bite down, until those random muscle spasms slowly died away. 

Just in time, because that’s when Rhea herself rounded the corner. She cried out at the loss of her most faithful lackeys, then turned towards them and snarled, “You...how dare you! Heathens and apostates, you are damned! The goddess condemns you, and in her name I will cast you into hell! You’ll wander there until the flesh burns from your bones!”

Rhea was actually snarling, her teeth fangs, her hands bared into claws, and were those horns growing from her head? Haha, they were so fucked! Nothing left to do but laugh in her face! “The goddess ain’t with you, lady. All those awful things you do and tell others to do? That ain’t the will of the goddess, that’s all from you!”

Rhea—the Immaculate One, whatever she pretended to be because she sure as fuck wasn’t anything divine!—roared, and as she turned into the monster that would end their lives, Balthus and Randolph charged.

He couldn’t think of a better way to go! 

---

The stump itched. Why the fuck did the stump itch? He didn’t even have a lower leg anymore, so why was it fucking itchy?! 

At first Sylvain thought the wound had gone bad, and he didn’t know whether to be terrified about dying from wound rot or relieved that he wouldn’t have to endure this farce of an existence any longer (he eventually decided on the former. Wound rot was a hideous death), but then Mercedes changed his bandages and said no, the stump of his leg was healing well and itchiness was normal and expected. Another thing he’d have to live with for the rest of his pathetic waste of a life. Hoo-fucking-ray. 

The easiest thing to do would have been to lie in bed and wait to die, but Sylvain had always gotten antsy sitting in one spot for too long. By the third day of miserable consciousness he needed to see something, anything other than the same four walls of that fucking cellar. Mercedes had cleared him for walking around, but he wouldn’t be ready for a prosthetic for weeks, so that meant he was stuck hobbling around on crutches. The last time he did this was when Miklan shoved him in the well, and it sucked just as much as he remembered. The crutches jammed in his armpits and slipped on the ice, everything hurt, and he didn’t even have the dangling broken leg as a counterbalance this time! 

Sylvain hobbled around the manor and the overgrown garden in back. Maybe if he hid in the bushes and covered his hair he’d freeze to death before anyone noticed. Ugh, but that was way too slow and miserable. Spite aside, he wanted to die warm, not literally freezing his nuts off. So much for dying on his feet. Or foot, now. Ha. Hahah. 

He missed Ingrid. 

At least Zepida had finally shut up. She followed him at a distance because their connection forced it, and he could still feel the rage and loathing and despair radiating off her, but at least she wasn’t actually talking. If Sylvain didn’t look down, he could almost pretend that she wasn’t there at all. 

Sylvain had intended to spend Goddess knew how long hobbling around outside until…something happened. And because the goddess hated him, that something turned out to be a tiny figure in the snow with a shock of sickeningly familiar light red hair. 

The girl was crouched on a bench she had wiped clear of snow with her sleeve, her daemon curled around her in the shape of a fluffy white puppy. She scratched idle patterns into the snow with a stick she’d found somewhere, and seemed completely unaware of his approach. She didn’t look older than seven, couldn’t be older than seven, because Duscur happened seven years ago, and seven years ago was when Miklan eagerly raced to the slaughter, when he must have decided not just to pillage and burn in the name of King Lambert but also…

The large puppy daemon noticed him first; he jumped down and started growling. Her head jerked up and she locked wide red eyes with him, scrambled to her feet and brandished the stick as if it would actually do something against a serious attack. Then again, anything could be a weapon, if the Crest of Gautier was driving it. He’d had that taught before he could properly speak in full sentences, as was proper for a Gautier. Had she figured that out on her own?  

This was a bad idea. What was Sylvain even doing here, bothering her? He should go, before he sucked her further into his pit of an existence. But something deep within him whispered tantalizing kinship, and Sylvain had never made a single good decision in his entire life, so he lifted his hand off the crutch long enough to give a little wave and said, “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

She (her niece, this half-Duscurian girl was his niece; Sylvain couldn’t ignore the family resemblance in the slight wave of her hair, the slope of her nose, and of course the fact that she also had his fucking crest, which apparently had the sick humor to skip over Miklan and show up in his fucking daughter), eyed him warily. Maybe she felt the same pull of familiarity, because although she was still wary and guarded, she lowered the stick. “I’m Ravna,” she said.

“Rhenner,” said her daemon. 

Sylvain smiled. “Those are nice names. I’m Sylvain, and the cat is Zepida.”

“Those are weird names,” said Ravna. Rhenner stepped back and pressed himself against her leg, probably for warmth. She gave him a long look. “I remember you! You helped us escape!”

“I did.” Damn, he forgot how much he missed talking to kids. They didn’t have any bullshit at all.

Ravna gave a shaky smile. “Thanks.” She glanced down at his bandaged stump. “Did it hurt, when your leg got squished?”

…Never mind. This would be the part where a better man would say  something like, “Think nothing of it,” or, “it’s a price worth paying to protect you.” But Sylvain wasn’t even a half decent man, he was complete trash, and so instead he just sighed and said, “Yeah. A lot.”

Silence hung between them again, this time broken up by Ravna’s sudden fidgeting. Rhenner became a snowshoe hare and twitched his ears in time with her fingers, and after a few minutes Sylvain just said, “Hey, it’s okay if you need to tell me something. I’m really good at keeping secrets.” It helped when nobody would believe you, so there was no point in trying. 

Rhenner hopped forward a half step, crouched down as if ready to bolt. With more than a little hesitation, he said, “In the fighting, I saw you also do the thing where—“ The young daemon broke off, and Ravna held out her hands before her as if preparing to catch a ball. A few wobbly arcs of light sparked between her fingers, and curved into a horribly recognizable shape. Flickering between her hands was the minor crest of Gautier. 

A single sharp laugh bubbled from Sylvain’s chest, too bitter for him to entirely force back. Thankfully Ravna didn’t seem to notice. Sylvain twisted his wrist and summoned his crest, the steadier twin to the one shimmering between his niece’s hands. “Heh, would you look at that. We match.”

Dammit, how could she have even the tiniest hint of a smile now? Yet that was what Ravna bore right now, a hint of a smile as she dropped her hands and let the summoned crest vanish. “The first time this thing showed up was when other kid was making fun of me for being half-Faerghus. I punched him in the face, but then this thing showed up and I hurt him a lot harder than I meant to. Mommy cried when I told her, and said to never ever let anybody find out, especially the Kleiman people.”

“Your mom sounds like a very smart and wise woman,” Sylvain said. If only he’d been so lucky, but he had been tested and marked and condemned at birth. Shut up Sylvain, you haven’t been the one hated and hunted and forced to probably literally slave under Kleiman and then shoved in that nightmare dungeon. Don’t shove your stupid pain onto your fucking niece! He swallowed down that sick feeling bubbling up on the edge of him, where he wasn’t sure if it was coming from him or his stupid daemon, forced a winning smile so Ravna could get it all out.

“She was,” she said. Ravna sat down on the bench, curled up into a ball with her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, Rhenner also curled in the little divot made by the folding of her body with his head poked up and his chin resting on her knees. “Does this mean I’m gonna become a monster too?”

“What?” He startled, utterly taken aback. That was literally the one and only good thing about having this fucking crest, he didn’t have to worry about becoming a demonic beast like Miklan did, no matter how much he waved around his Lance. “No, you won’t. I’ve had this Crest my whole life and I can promise you you’re not gonna become a monster. Why are you worried about that?”

“Because I’m part Faerghus,” Ravna said as if that explained everything. “The grownups say that Faerghus people are possessed by monsters that gobble them up from the inside out, and that the monsters make them hurt people, and make them like it.”

“Why else would they want to kill us and take our homes away?” Rhenner tried to elaborate. “We didn’t even do anything!”

A monster inside them that gobbled them up and made them bloodthirsty, well, monsters...Sylvain had never heard it put that way before. But now that he looked at it from the perspective of all those they slaughtered in the name of the dead, the way Faerghus happily devoured even its own for what Felix was totally right in calling glorified death worship, it made a horrible sort of sense. “I wish I knew,” was all Sylvain found himself able to say.

“That guy down there, with one eye and the giant pig daemon? He was really, really scary.” Rhenner shrunk down into her lap, a shivering ball at the memory. Sylvain shivered too, at just how completely unhinged Dimitri was down there. At everything he did. “I think he’s got lots of monsters gobbling him up from the inside too.”

If only she knew about the ghosts. “I think you’re right, and he’s been fighting off those monsters for a long time. I wish I knew how to help him.” 

Ravna gave him a long look, and fuck it was weird being sized up by a seven year old. “You were with him, but you’re not really scary, and you’re not acting like you’re gobbled up by monsters that make you want to hurt people.” She paused. “You just seem really sad.”

Seemed really...how could she have the right of it so quickly? Was it that obvious?! Were all kids this perceptive, or was it just her? Agh, say something don’t just stand there like a slack-jawed fuckhead idiot! “I think Faerghus taught us to love the monsters, and put them in each other. I know some people who managed to fight them off.” Ashe, Annette, better people than him. Felix pretended his monster hadn’t consumed him. Ingrid could have fought it off, maybe, if she ever realized it was there, but now she was dead and that chance was gone. 

“Why would anyone do that?!” Ravna shouted with wide eyes. “Why would anyone want to turn themselves and others into monsters?!”

Sylvain shrugged. “I wish I knew. We all called it strength. Or maybe it’s been going on for so long that we can’t think of anything else. But you weren’t raised like that, so you’ll be okay, I promise.” He broke off for a moment; his leg was starting to hurt terribly but it felt weird to ask her to scoot over. “I couldn’t fight off my monster, I guess. But I made it so that my monster hurts myself and not other people.”

Fuck, was that look on her face pity?! Was he being pitied by a little kid? Ugh, he fucking deserved this. “Why?” her daemon asked.

“Because…” Because better him than anyone else? Because he was total trash who deserved it? Because he deserved to be hurt and it would be better if it was just him? Every single explanation suddenly sounded stupid saying it out loud to his niece’s face, so he just ended up not saying anything.

Silence fell again, but it was a bit more amiable this time. Then Ravna looked up and asked, “Sylvain, you’re not my father, are you?”

Well, he should have seen this coming. Frankly, he should have expected this question sooner. “No,” he said with a hefty sigh. “He was my brother, so I guess that means I’m your uncle.”

“Oh. Okay.” Ravna played with Rhenner’s ears, the way Sylvain once did with Zepida before they turned against each other. “I’m glad you’re my uncle and not my father. Mommy always cries when he’s brought up, and I know he was one of the people who killed us. You seem nice, not awful. So I’m glad you’re not that awful person. I’m sorry he was your brother though.”

This time he couldn’t even pretend to hide the soft bitterness in his laughter. “Heh. I am too.”

“Sylvain,” Zepida said, her voice a hot knife in the back of his mind and just as unwelcome. “We can’t just leave her!”

“Why not?” Sylvain argued. “You heard what she said. Faerghus already took everything from her. We shouldn’t get involved; we should let her live in peace.  She deserves that much.”

“I don’t think that’s possible!” Zepida said, and the sheer fear in her voice made Sylvain pause, “She can’t hide her crest forever, and once they find out it’ll be like ringing the dinner bell!”

Zepida forced open the connection between them, and that sick feeling bubbling at the edge of his consciousness slammed down with all the force of an avalanche. 

Or a collapsing ceiling. 

Another crest of Gautier? In a girl? In a Duscurian girl? Holy fuck, that news would spark the mother of all feeding frenzies from every single noble looking to make more crest babies! Zepida was right, they’d snatch her up, train her to be a good wife, and make up an excuse after the fact to justify what they wanted and felt entitled to do anyway. They’d probably say something about how it meant she had all her childbearing years ahead of her and plenty of time to train her out of her savage Duscurian ways and raise her as a proper daughter of house Gautier beforehand. 

Her youth wouldn’t protect her. It hadn’t protected him.

“Fuck fuck fuck, Zepida, they won’t care about anything but her Crest! I mean, they wouldn’t care about anything else anyway but I’m a Gautier so they need to give me my gilded cage. But Ravna? They wouldn’t even pretend to give her the comfort and title of a lady of noble society they’d just..." Sylvain broke off for his own sanity, before he puked all over the snow. 

He knew all too well what they’d do to her, because it’d be what they did to him, only worse. If they saw him as nothing more than a studhorse, then how would they see her, who didn’t have noble blood to protect her? Ravna, his niece, a child, and they didn’t see her as anything but a future broodmare to auction off. Ingrid’s only value her womb, not her brilliance and tenacity and trying to be the good person that he'd never be, or just the worth of her fucking life. His only value a couple milliliters of warm wet nothing that he could pump out in less than five minutes now. Their lives had meant nothing, not even to the ones who birthed them, and, and Ravna was seven and his country had already taken everything from her and if they found out she had a crest they’d take away even more. 

He looked at Ravna and Rhenner, his niece and her puppy daemon, a child, and how could anybody do to her what they did to him? To Ingrid? To…to…

Sylvain was falling, a great dark pit rushing up around him, all the walls of sarcasm and cynicism and bitterness and resignation crumbling away. 

What they did to him and Ingrid and everyone, what Faerghus did, what Fodlan did, what the church condoned but humanity did to itself. It tore humans apart and made them into monsters, then taught them to love the monsters and force them to betray their children and consume one another in an eternal cycle of pain and suffering. It was cruel. It was sick. It was wrong. It was evil. 

He couldn’t run from this, or pretend. Not anymore. This cycle needed to…no. He needed to help break this cycle. 

And right now, he needed to protect his niece. 

---

“We’re technically still enemies,” Levia silently reminded Dedue, but she didn’t even pretend that her statement was anything more than a formality. 

Ashe had grown to fully fit his adult frame. His face had shed the last of its youthful roundness, and wiry muscle fully spanned his shoulders and arms. 

Most of all, Fuergios had settled. 

She was a mourning dove, a symbol of peace and family both here and at home, and Dedue could not think of a better shape for Ashe’s soul. She perched on Levia’s horns and nestled into their curve, just as Ashe curled up in his lap and leaned into his chest. The scene was oddly familiar in a way that pulled at the back of Dedue’s mind; it took him a moment to bring up that memory of their last embrace at the monastery before the war, how Fuergios climbed onto her horns as a chameleon and flew off as a mourning dove. 

Had he been there, when Fuergios settled? Had he been blessed enough to be part of that moment? A soft noise rumbled up from Dedue’s throat, and he had to lean down and kiss the crown of Ashe’s head. 

“Hm?” Ashe turned his head just so, and Dedue’s lips slipped down his face, brushed his nose, and met their slightly chapped counterpart, impossibly warm.

“I missed you,” said Dedue, and he had, but hadn’t realized just how much until this very moment. As if that were a magic passphrase, Ashe smiled like the sun and shifted in Dedue’s lap so he could more properly kiss him. 

For just a moment, the safehouse that was most certainly safe no more, the war, the rest of the world, it all didn’t matter. Not when he could hold Ashe against him, not when Fuergios could coo soft words into Levia’s ear. 

Until his hand slipped down to rest against Ashe’s throat, Ashe froze stiff under his massive hand, his eyes wide and focused somewhere else entirely. A high-pitched fluttering of feathers broke the quiet; Fuergios launched off Levia’s horns and flew as far away from them as her connection with Ashe would allow. 

Dedue yanked his hand back and shoved the offending limb under him, out of sight, but the moment of softness and peace was gone. His lap suddenly became cold and empty as Ashe pulled himself back to the space on the seat next to him. He hunched over, his shoulders drawn up as if bracing himself against possible attack; one hand shielded Fuergios who had made her way back to his lap while the other gingerly touched his neck as if expecting to find bruises there. Dedue reached up and scratched Levia’s chin; he couldn’t do much more except sit there and wait for Ashe to come back to himself. Forcing the issue while he was adrift in that other place would only make things worse. 

Eventually the hand dropped and curled into a fist; the other one still guarded his daemon. With a sheepish expression Ashe turned his head and murmured, “I’m sorry, I…”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” said Dedue. “I must be the one to apologize, for bringing up those memories and causing you pain.”

Because there it was, the specter looming over them: what Dimitri did. Ashe and Fuergios had told him in fits and starts, and he’d pieced together the rest. To think that he had let the monsters that consumed all men of Faerghus devour him so utterly, that he would so brutally and viciously attack Ashe, that he would hit Fuergios…

No, he wasn’t shocked. Horrified and disgusted, yes. Disappointed beyond words, yes. But not shocked. Not after Dimitri had lost himself so thoroughly in the dungeons of Arianrhod that he destroyed the place without regard for the lives of those he cared for and wanted to protect. Not after he howled and screamed about slaying Edelgard, torturing her daemon, desecrating her remains as an offering to the dead. Not after he and Levia had to literally pull Dimitri and Delcabia apart from each other, and the blood ran down his hands. 

Perhaps that was why he was here with Ashe, despite him technically being the enemy, and despite it being only a matter of time before the Emperor came knocking on their door. The kingdom was finished, and good riddance. More importantly, Dimitri needed help that was beyond their ability to provide, and to make matters worse was a danger to others and himself at the same time. Dedue was ashamed to admit it, but Dimitri needed to be stopped and kept from hurting others, or himself, before the healing could truly begin. 

Ashe had recovered somewhat, muttering a few sentence fragments as he tried and failed to wrap all his tumultuous thoughts and cram them into the space provided by words. Dedue let his hand creep over to Ashe’s and smiled when Ashe let him run his thumb over his knuckles. 

The door creaked open and Syene walked in. Fuergios flew out of Ashe’s hands to greet their bright red parrot daemon; the earthcaller raised their hand and greeted Dedue in a language that he had missed terribly in all his years trapped in a strange and vicious land.

“So you’re the famous Dedue that Ashe has been talking so much about,” they chuckled. “I can definitely see the appeal.” Ashe went pink from his cheeks to his shoulders from embarrassment—it was honestly quite cute. 

“And I have heard much of you as well,” Dedue replied, and he could feel his cheeks burning as well. “Did you need us for something?”

“Yes, actually.” They flopped down on the seat next to him and Ashe; Ashe had to scramble back into his lap as if it were a great burden. “I’ll be speaking with Emperor Edelgard tomorrow. Directly.” They ran their hands through their hair; above them their daemon made a small noise of shocked disbelief. “She said she wanted to talk terms and the future of Duscur, when everything’s over. I...I can’t believe it. That another person, another nation actually gives a shit about us.”

“I—Syene, that’s incredible. Congratulations! I told you she’d do it!” Fuergios nudged his hand, and he sort of startled and turned to Dedue. “Oh, but that means…Dedue, I’m sorry.” 

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have loyalty for Dimitri,” and it scuffed his heart, to see Ashe flinch at the very utterance of his former prince’s name, “not Faerghus. What matters to me now is that Dimitri gets the help he so desperately needs.”

Syene said nothing for some time, just played their hands over each other. He wasn’t expecting them to ask, “How did you do it, living and working alongside those monsters for so many years? To be the loyal servant of their beast prince? Why did you do it? It was horrible enough under Kleiman’s yoke, but you were right in the center of it…”

How could he even reply to that? How could he put all those years of pain, of abuse that he was forced to swallow with a smile until he accepted it and began to believe it? All the years where it was just him and Dimitri, clutching on to each other as they were adrift in the storm? “There was nothing else I could have done,” he said. “Dimitri and I understood each other, and his companionship was the only thing that kept me alive in that place. I only existed thanks to his mercy and friendship, and all the other men of Faerghus never let me forget it. Dimitri promised that when he became king, there would be justice done for Duscur, and I held him to it. It was one of the only things he cared about.” The other, of course, being vengeance for his family. But they were all part of the same thing in his mind, and those around Dimitri whispered poison that they called justice which only made things so much worse. 

“Duscur was gone,” Levia continued, her breath warm against his ear. “My family, my town, they were all gone. I saw my family’s forge put to the torch. I saw my younger sister murdered in front of me, and the person who did it laughed. Laughed and said, ‘one less pup to grow into a rat’. Dimitri was the only one left to hold on to, and all around us were—”

“People—if I can even call them that—” Ashe flinched but didn’t say anything; there really wasn’t any way to respond to Syene’s deserved venom—“who treated us like animals, treated you like a savage beast for so long you began to believe it.” Dedue nodded; that was essentially the heart of it. 

Syene went quiet again. They played their hands over each other, darted their tongue out as they collected their thoughts. “You know, they love it when we’re dead,” Aswan eventually said. 

“Of course they do?” Of course Faerghus loved it when they were dead. Murdering everyone from Duscur was the whole point of the Slaughter; why was Syene saying it like it was such a profound statement? 

“What I mean is—ugh,” they broke off, scratching their head as they tried to place the words. “It’d be easier to say this in Duscurian, but I want Ashe to hear this too and I don’t know if your Duscurian is good enough to follow along.”

“No, don’t worry about me!” Ashe leaned forward and waved his hands. “I can’t speak Duscurian too well yet, but I’ve gotten pretty good at understanding it!”

After a moment’s thought Syene nodded, and when they spoke again it was in their native tongue. “They love it when we’re dead because corpses can’t fight back. Corpses can’t speak up. When we’re dead they can tut over our bodies, they can put words into our mouths. They can turn us into puppets and manipulate us to their whims, and we won’t be able to do anything about it because we’re dead. But when we’re alive we can speak up. We can fight back. It’s much harder, to force words into the mouth of a living being than a corpse. Duscur still endures, Dedue. You’ve been listening to words placed in the mouths of the dead by our enemies for too long.”

Ashe gripped his hand tightly enough to almost hurt, and now Dedue recognized Syene’s daemon. A scarlet macaw, a bright red parrot whose voice easily carried through the thickest of jungles. A bird that would not—could not—be silenced. “They treated you as the dead, Dedue. They put words in your mouth and thoughts in your head, and taught you to never speak your own mind. Levia is one of the largest daemons I’ve ever seen, and yet you hold yourselves so small.” They looked up, their eyes blazing like the coals of his family’s old forge. “But you and I are alive, Dedue. Our very existence is a defiance. They hate that we are alive, because that means we have a voice with which to protest. Here and now, Dedue, you are alive. You can’t be ignored! Do not let them rob you of your voice and treat you as the dead any longer.”

---

Caspar clapped his hands and grinned. “Come on Lysithea, you can do it!”

“I’m not a…fucking dog!” Zilbariel spat, and Lysithea glared at him but hah! If she wanted to strangle him she had to get over to the other side of the room first! 

Lysithea’s arms trembled; her left hand gripped the balance bar tightly enough to make her veins stand out while her right hand slipped from the looser grip and her sweat. She recovered, fumbling her right hand in the air, and after a few minutes managed to grasp the right balance bar again. She stood there, chest heaving from the effort, but this time she didn’t fall. Lysithea stood there for a moment, quivering from the strain, just like when Caspar psyched himself up to lift a really heavy set of weights. He couldn’t rush something like this, it had to be all on Lysithea to lift her leg and take that first step. 

Her right leg dragged along the mat, the knee buckling under her weight. Lysithea stumbled with a shout and for a moment Caspar worried that she was going to fall and he’d have to get Marianne. But then—yeah!—Zilbariel became a wolverine, leaned against Lysithea, and helped push her upright again. 

They made their way down the balance bars as one, Lysithea bracing her right side against her daemon. A grin crept up Caspar’s face, widening with every step. She was already more than halfway across! She was gonna do it, because she never gave up! 

Caspar watched as, shaking and sweating, Lysithea closed her hands around the padded ends of the balance bars and practically pushed herself off them into the waiting cushions. 

“YEAAAAHH!!” The anticipation burst in a fierce shout from him and Peakane. “See? I knew you could do it!”

A wordless grumble rose from the cushions. Lysithea didn’t get up to explain, but she did flip him off. Good, she was pissed off at him! Caspar wasn’t sure about what, but it meant she was fighting again instead of being miserable!

“Great,” Zilbariel muttered. “Twenty minutes…to walk across the room…not even under our own power. In three months, maybe…graduate to a cane. Just in time to die.”

…Or not. 

Peakane drifted back down to the bottom of her tank and let herself drift in the movements. This was awful, seeing Lysithea like this, hearing her like this. It was completely upside down and wrong in every way. “Don’t say that. Linhardt’s going to find a way to get rid of your crests!”

For several minutes Lysithea shifted and struggled to right herself. Zilbaril tugged on her clothes and nosed her into a more comfortable sitting position. Caspar pretended not to watch and definitely didn’t say anything; she hated showing weakness and no way would she want anyone else to help her sit up. It took a bit but Lysithea did it, and then she started to say something that her daemon finished for her, “What makes you so sure?”

Um, because it was Linhardt? “Because Linhardt is the smartest person I know,” and Caspar hoped that Lysithea could hear the certainty in his voice. “And I know he always seems super lazy and okay yeah he is, and he can also be really rude and annoying, but he’s also my best friend in the world; I’ve known him since forever and I’ve never seen him work as hard as he’s working right now to fix you.”

Once Lysithea got comfortable, Zilbariel became a soft otter and flopped across Lysithea’s lap. She scratched him behind the ears with her good hand, and he closed his eyes and yawned. Several minutes passed before she turned her head and Zilbariel asked, “Why are you…even doing this? Why bother?”

“Well,” Caspar started, then cut himself off and flopped down on the small hill of cushions so Lysithea didn’t have to look up at him while they talked. Restless as always, he pulled off Peakane's backpack and tossed it up and down rather than jiggle his legs. “Okay, remember when I got my ear chopped off about a year and a half ago?” It had taken him forever to get used to the changes in sound, or the way the hole going directly into his skull felt or how it all looked in a mirror. 

“Y-yesssss,” Lysithea said, then she and her daemon went all still and started blinking rapidly in surprise. Caspar couldn’t help but smile; that was the first clear word he’d heard her say since she woke up! 

“Well, that axe chopped my ear right off but it also fucked up my arm real bad.” Just for emphasis, he set Peakane aside to roll up his sleeve and showed her the long divot in his upper arm. “Linhardt said that it hit a nerve there, not just muscle. It took me months of therapy to feel comfortable using it again, and my hand still gets kinda numb sometimes.” It was numb right now, actually, little prickles running down the outside of his hand and lower wrist, his fingers unable to fully move. But it was way better than it was at first, and that’s what he needed to get Lysithea to understand. 

“Okay, so you know how my dad’s the Minister of Military Affairs?” Peakane tried. She waited for Lysithea to nod before continuing. “It’s not just about fighting and battles, even if I’d really want it to be. The Minister also needs to worry about budgets, new types of weapons and stuff, and taking care of injured soldiers.”

“Sounds like…the Officer’s Academy.” Zilbariel said. 

“Eh, sort of. The Officer’s Academy is a bit more on-the ground though,” Peakane said as Caspar shrugged. 

Zilbariel nosed Peakane’s tank and voiced his human’s confusion. “Then why attend, instead of being…tutored at home?” Lysithea had gone quiet and was staring at him intently. 

“Because of my brother,” explained Peakane. It was kinda soothing, the way she bobbed up and down in her tank. “He’s the first-born, so he was set to inherit everything. My family focused most of their effort on him because of that, and I was kinda left to do my own thing, forge my own path. I mean, my parents tried to teach us both equally, they really did! But my brother hated studying, or training, or just about everything you need to do to be a good Minister, so my dad wound up spending basically all his time focusing on my brother, and I ended up picking up most of the stuff secondhand. I figured I’d learn it all better at the Academy than by trying to listen in whenever I could.” 

Which…huh. That was kinda messed up, now that Peakane laid it all out like that and he was using what he picked up about physical therapy to help Lysithea. He always took it in stride, but no wonder Edelgard was disgusted with his brother and was talking about making him Minister of Military Affairs once this was all over. 

It seemed like Lysithea was thinking something similar, since Zilbariel went quiet and Lysithea was giving him that considering look sort of like the one Hubert did when he was reevaluating everything he knew about someone or something. 

“A-anyway!” Caspar stammered, trying to pull himself back on track. “I know how to help with these kinds of injuries. They take a really long time to recover from, but you’re already doing better than many, so if you work at it I know you’ll be able to walk and talk and do everything on your own again! But only if you work at it. There’s a window, or something? After which it doesn’t work as well.”

Lysithea glared at him and folded her arms, or tried to. She managed to fold her left one, and sort of force her right one into something close to a fold. “Dead by then,” Zilbariel reminded him. 

This time though, he was ready. “Then you’ll die fighting like you always say you want to; it’ll just be a different kind of fight. And what about when Linhardt figures everything out? Don’t you want to be in the best position possible to heal?”

Silence hung in the air again, long enough that Caspar started to worry that he’d done the exact opposite of what he wanted to do. Just as he was about to say something, Lysithea thrust her hand in his face and her daemon said, “Again.”

They practiced on the balance bars until Lysithea could barely hold herself up on her good side, then worked on her hand strength by squishing a soft ball until it slipped through her fingers. Okay, maybe they overdid it, but either way Lysithea needed to get back to her room so Marianne could help her with dinner and getting dressed for bed. Hopefully Lysithea could do this on her own soon! 

When Caspar wheeled Lysithea back to her room, Marianne was already there, but so was Linhardt. And he was smiling. More than smiling, actually. Runilite looked like she was practically vibrating out of her fur and Caspar just knew that if he had that spyglass thing again they’d be glowing. 

Linhardt opened up his hand; nestled in his palm were several tiny glossy black scales. And on Marianne’s face, the black scales that framed her face had retreated slightly, replaced with the bright pink of healing skin. 

His annoying, obnoxious, brilliant, very best friend in the entire fucking world couldn’t stop smiling. “I think I have it.”

---

Edelgard itched to just kick down the door and get on with it, but not before the signal. Byleth had drilled into them that the most dangerous time of an ambush was that period where the ambushers had fully committed to the operation but were not yet fully situated. If the target became aware of the ambush at that point, then the ambushers would be both inadequately situated and unable to retreat. Because Edelgard favored the direct strategy in all circumstances, she only slightly reluctantly let Hubert and Petra work with Byleth to plan this raid of the Blue Lions Safehouse, as she insisted on calling it. 

So far, so good—she hoped. Only silence came from inside, and Dimitri was even less subtle than her. Avarine soared far above, a barely visible dot to even those who were looking for her, yet she could easily watch for signals and survey the streets below. Bernadetta, Leonie, and Ashe were stationed on rooftops, while on the ground Byleth had to rearrange their usual formation both for the ambush and to cover for Lysithea’s absence. The gap where she should have been, the absence of her and Zilbariel’s commentary were felt keenly. 

Edelgard gripped Aymr and grit her teeth through the pain. Linhardt said he’d made a breakthrough, and she trusted him. They just needed to hold on a little longer. 

A red-tailed hawk’s cry—or something close to it—pierced the air. That was the signal. Avarine folded her wings into a steep dive, and over Edelgard‘s shoulder Dorothea blasted down the door. 

“In the name of the empire, I command you to surrender!” She slammed Aymr into the splintered remnants of the door and tore it apart; in the same moment they burst into the foyer and fanned out. 

The only person present to answer them was Felix, currently in the middle of shoving too many swords into too small a bag. He took a very long look at them and a quick step away from the table full of live steel. 

“Oh thank fuck we can finally end this farce,” said his fish daemon from inside his capsule. Behind her, at the very edge of her senses, Edelgard could just about hear Ashe breathe a sigh of relief. 

“I’m getting Sylvain. You better be serious about surrendering.” Unarmed, Felix rounded the corner out of sight. Petra and Belial split off from everyone to follow at a distance.  

They all shared bemused glances, though nobody dared lower their weapons. This couldn’t be it, could it? Could the last members of the old Faerghus order truly abandon their indoctrination and surrender so easily? Hubert had sidled closer to her left side, which meant Ferdinand moved a bit closer to him, and then Byleth had to quietly order them back into position. She brushed her fingers against Edelgard’s, and even here she felt her pulse briefly stutter at the warmth. 

An earsplitting squeal pierced the air. Loud footsteps, shouts of, “Dimitri, stop!” A cacophony of crashing furniture shook the house. They automatically went into a defensive formation, braced for impact—

“EDELGARD!!!”

Dimitri flung himself off the upper balcony with a roar of her name. He somersaulted off the impact and instantly sprang to his feet, the Lance of Ruin raised above his head ready to run her through. Behind him, Delcabia slammed to the ground from the balcony above and made no effort to rise. 

“Edelgard!!!” he bellowed, berserker rage made manifest, and before anyone else could react he was upon her. 

She stepped back and lifted up her shield and Aymr just in time for Dimitri to slam into her, for the Lance of Ruin to scrape the painted metal and catch in her Relic’s jaws, slice her cheek instead of opening up her throat. The clang of metal on bone echoed through the room and rang up her arm. Her arthritic fingers screamed in agony; outside Avarine cried out her pain. Dimitri snarled, his single eye blazing, his breath hot in her face as he howled blind fury. His crest activated; Edelgard found herself sliding back; her arm shaking, her shield all that kept those animated bones from brutally ending her life. 

For just a moment, a spike of fear shot through Edelgard. This must have been the last thing that so many under her command saw, the last thing hundreds of her soldiers experienced before being torn apart by the personification of blind vengeance. 

No! She would not die here! Not when there was so much to do! Not when she had her Byleth and her Strike Force at her side! 

And though Dimitri was stronger than her, even with the hideous power forced unto her body, Edelgard had one thing that Dimitri never would. 

A shorter woman’s balance and lower center of gravity!

Edelgard surged up and grabbed Dimitri around the waist. She swallowed back the stench, an almost physical thing that coated inside her nose and clung to the back of her throat. He stumbled back with a grunt of surprise, not expecting her sudden attack. 

Just like Caspar taught her! Edelgard surged up and twisted just so. The Lance of Ruin shattered in Aymr’s jaws; the pieces of bone clattered to the ground like so many scattered pearls. She used her body, her balance to throw Dimitri’s off his, hurled him over her and slammed him to the ground! Dimitri’s head cracked against the stone; right above them spells and arrows filled the space where he just was. He snarled and moved to his feet, but before he could even sit up Edelgard’s foot was on his chest and Aymr was at his throat. 

The fight was over. 

“Bloodthirsty bitch!” Dimitri snarled up at her, his one eye burning in hatred. “Can’t you hear them?! The howls of the dead of the Tragedy of Duscur, screaming for justice? Screaming for vengeance?! They demand their due!” 

Oh Edelgard heard them, alright. She heard them all too well! She heard them in her brothers and sisters, torn apart for crests, slowly cut to pieces until there was nothing left to cut! She heard them in the cries of those incarcerated in Abyss for the crime of being born non-Fodlani or choosing to worship a different god, punished by being locked away, open to harassment and abuse, never to see the sun! She heard them in the plight of people like Dorothea, abused by those who felt entitled to her because they had power and she did not! She heard them in the pleas of people like Bernadetta, whose only worth under the old Crest-based system was in her reproductive potential, and not the inherent value of her life!

But those weren’t the ghosts that Dimitri was howling of. He wasn’t worth the time or debate, because a debate implied a good-faith effort from both parties, and there was neither to be found in whatever Dimitri had become. “Your obsession with me is appalling,” was the only thing worth saying to him. 

“Fuck you, El, ” he spat in her face. 

…El? 

How could he…?

“No,” uttered Avarine, and in that moment of shock two things happened. First, Dimitri screamed and for a moment Edelgard thought Aymr slipped from her failing fingers to cut into Dimitri’s body, until Delcabia let out an earsplitting squeal as Dedue’s enormous buffalo daemon and Mercedes’s smaller painted wolf one kept on her and pinned her down. Second, Dorothea blasted a Thoron over her shoulder and centimeters from Dimitri’s head; it left the floor scorched and smoking. 

“Will you shut up already?!” Dorothea shouted, tears welling in her eyes even as she readied another blast of magic. “Flames, I thought you were just another uptight, vaguely well-meaning noble twit, but you...you’re just like those vile, pathetic men back in the opera who built up a fantasy of me in their heads, felt entitled to me from that fantasy, and then turned angry and violent when I denied them!”

“She was twelve , you fuckhead idiot!” screamed Calphour from her shoulder and oh, Edelgard should have been used to it by now, but it was warm and new every time, that she had so many friends and companions now who were there for her, no matter what. “Can’t you count?! Or are too busy on your oh-so-manly roaring rampage of revenge? Which, might I remind you, got Ingrid killed!” The tears streamed down Dorothea’s face, one fist clenched with the other hand still crackling magic and trained on Dimitri as Calphor let loose. “Did you think about that? Did you care about her at all?! Or are you so obsessed with the dead that you forgot about everyone who’s actually alive?!”

Something softened in Dimitri’s face at his words, some of the blind rage smoothing out to confusion. “...Ingrid?” 

“Remember what she said?” Delcabia cried out from under the pile of daemons pinning her down. “Her ghost is a liar!”

“You’re not an irredeemable beast! Stop trying to kill yourself!” shouted Mercedes’s daemon. 

Mercedes ran up to them and threw herself onto her knees, which—no. “Please, Your Majesty,” she begged. “I surrender. We surrender. Just, don’t kill Dimitri. He needs help, not death.”

“And what happens if we spare him?” said Hubert behind her, looming over her shoulder. “You see how Dimitri is. He is nothing but a liability and a danger to Her Majesty, and that is before the possibility of people learning of his survival and rallying around him.”

“Then put him in your custody, or send him into exile!” Mercedes got to her feet, and stared her in the eye. Impressive. “I can—” She broke off and stared back at her daemon, who gave her a huff. A silent conversation passed between the two of them; Mercedes swallowed and amended, “I can't save him on my own. But Dimitri said earlier that he needed help! That’s the first step, he's finally taken it, but it’s only been a couple days…”

Dedue whispered something in his daemon’s ear, who was standing over Delcabia, then stepped forward. Edelgard didn’t remember too much about him from their school days. Most of her knowledge of Dedue was limited to his unwavering loyalty towards Dimitri, and his generally taciturn nature. He probably kept to himself to avoid drawing attention, for whatever little good that did him. Now though, Dimitri’s eye went wide. “Dedue, no…”

“Dimitri.” He didn’t sound angry, or vengeful. Just tired. “I’m a human being. And right now, I need you to be one too.” 

She should kill him, and end this. But for some reason (no, she knew the reason. El. It couldn’t be him, of course it was him, it didn’t change anything, it was another thorn in her heart) Edelgard needed to see what would happen next before she ended it. It wasn't as if Dimitri was in a position to do any harm, not anymore. 

Beneath Aymr,, Dimitri closed his eye. Whatever thoughts passed through his head were for only him to know. But when he opened it again, he said the last two words Edelgard ever expected from him. 

“...I surrender.”

---

“Master of poisons, they said! Your daemon’s a venomous snake, they said!”

“You are, and I am,” Simurg pointed out from her perch as if that made anything better. 

“And yet I drank that poisoned chalice like it was wine anyway.” Claude slammed his head against his desk and groaned. Only when his lungs were empty did he take a deep breath, turn towards the sky, and cry out, “Is everyone in the Alliance this gleefully suicidal?!”

He’d practically gift-wrapped Leicester independence for them! All they had to do was sign the fucking piece of parchment and actually let go of some of their power! They’d have to do it anyway at some point—the merchants of Leicester wouldn’t put up with the shit Count Gloucester pulled with the monsters and the trade routes forever, and when the merchants did start throwing their very justifiably angry weight around they’d be a lot less nice about it than the terms Hubes and the Princess were offering here! Really, he was offering them a fucking gift, and they were throwing it back in his face! It’d be one thing if the rest of the Roundtable saw the trap in the treaty, the gradual erosion of their power—at least then they’d have some level of political acumen—but they were far too myopic and, well, stupid to notice it. Instead they were tearing each other and the treaty apart over…over…trivialities! 

Utterly aghast, Claude clapped his hand to his forehead, then flicked it outwards as if doing so could cast away the idiocy. “Do they want the Empire to waltz in and take over as part of their cleanup? Because this is how the Empire waltzes in and takes over as part of their cleanup.”

“There are much easier ways to abdicate responsibility,” Simurg said with a flick of her tongue. “Guess they like the complexity.”

Claude pulled himself back up to a seated position with a hearty grown. “It’s too late to abandon wyvern and watch the carnage from afar with some halva, isn’t it, Simurg?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate, the bastard. Because if he left now, on top of everything else, he’d be an oathbreaker. He had to be the genius, didn’t he? Had to find a path that would prevent further fighting and also give him bragging rights? And now he’d shackled himself to the marching morons of the Roundtable. Why was it this difficult to get them to agree on a treaty that would prevent a fucking war?!

Simurg slid off the branches of her perch into a limp noodle on the desk. “Our expectations were low, but holy fuck. ”

Claude turned back to look at his copy of the treaty, at the ultimately inconsequential clauses that were scribbled over and edited again and again while the most important parts of the treaty were left essentially unchanged. Simurg righted herself and slithered over to the core part of the text, staring at it as if she could magically will it into ratification. “We can definitely ram this through the roundtable with some more time, but that’s the problem,” she hissed.

“We’re running out of time,” finished Claude. 

Hubes and the Princess weren’t even the problem anymore—at least, not the main one. The main problem were those Agarthans who writhed underground and acted like they were entitled to the world, and that everyone else were little more than playthings to toy with, crush, and throw away. They had the Princess dancing on their strings for years, from what he could surmise, and were furious and way more surprised than they really should have been when she turned around and chopped those strings to bits. Furious enough that they had captured Marianne and did gods-knew-what to her, Meanwhile, because of them, Lysithea was slowly and painfully dying. 

The only advantage, the only advantage, was that the Agarthans were so fucking arrogant in their supposed superiority that they only made the most token of efforts to cover their tracks. They saw humans as little more than dumb beasts, and there was no need to be subtle around dumb beasts. He and Hilda had figured out that they had a base of operations somewhere in Goneril territory based on oddities in movement and supplies, things that had in humiliating retrospect been around for a long time but were now blatant enough to catch for those who bothered to dig a little deeper. The Goneril lands were big, though, and a good chunk of it was made of the forbidding mountain range known here as Fodlan’s Throat. Parts of it were still completely uncharted, and thanks to all the other bullshit they were dealing with he hadn’t been able to narrow down the base of the hideout beyond, “Not near Kupala,” which only helped so much. 

“How much longer do you think Nader will be able to put a hold on any more raids on the Throat?” Claude asked.

“Without trading in any more favors?” 

“Fuck.”

Simurg slithered up his shoulder and draped herself over his head, more for the cheap joke of being a literal serpent in his ear than anything else. Look, he had to laugh about something or he’d start screaming. “Why are you asking me questions? I’m your daemon; we’re working from the same knowledge pool here.”

“Because maybe I want to hear someone other than myself talk sense for once?”

“Again, I’m your daemon. That won’t help here,” Simurg said with multiple jabs of her tail, because she could also be an utter bastard. 

Claude flicked the top of her head; she faked baring her fangs in response. “We’ll table this riveting debate for later.” For now, he had to figure out how to cram this treaty down the Roundtable’s throat before his careful dance fell apart.

“Alright, let’s think this through.” Simurg curled up in her familiar coil on his arm as he began to pace out their thoughts. “Everyone who was pro-Empire is going to be pro-treaty, so we’ve already got the Edmunds and Ordelias. We can get Goneril in our camp with hard proof of the Argathan hideout in their territory, and Hilda’s already basically on our team anyway even if she doesn’t hold any official weight. So that just leaves…”

“Fucking Gloucester,” Claude groaned, his hands over his face. Of course it had to be him, the perpetual scheming paranoid thorn in his side. If only he could arrange for Count Gloucester to have an unfortunate accident that would suddenly place Lorenz—who was equally annoying but at least reasonable and less blinded by avarice than his father—in his seat at the Roundtable right now instead of having to wait a few years! Alas, that would raise far too much suspicion, especially with Acheron’s sudden and tragic demise just a few months ago.

“That’s only one person adamantly against us,” said Claude with a sign of relief. One incredibly annoying person, but still. He could force this treaty down the throat of one person without having to call in any favors he was quickly running low on, but it would take time. A few weeks, most likely. He had a few weeks—right?  

Simurg went quiet, and he could feel her body shift as she gazed out the window towards the harbor. “Say...we haven’t heard from our spy in Enbarr yet, have we?”

“...No.” No, they hadn’t. It had taken him an incredible amount of effort to place that one and only spy in Enbarr, and she rewarded him with weekly updates. But the one due this morning hadn’t arrived yet. 

Perhaps she got delayed due to bad weather; the roads were notoriously bad this time of year. Still, Claude couldn’t help but feel unease prickle up and down his spine. 

---

Enbarr would survive. It always had, and it always would. Even among the funerals, the mourning, the clearing of rubble, people still lived. The more forward-thinking administrators that Edelgard had appointed and elevated after bringing the old corrupt nobility to heel had opened up their food stores and coffers, feeding the populace until outside supplies could arrive, and sponsoring the rebuilding of some of the businesses that had been destroyed in the flames. Those roads connecting Enbarr to the rest of the empire were already clear, and the battalions of Brigidian wyvern riders that Ladislava had been training…they were hailed as heroes. It was nearly impossible to imagine, but it was true. 

The attack on Enbarr was horrific beyond words, and there was still the looming dread of another strike. But the city would survive.

And then Arundel marched in. 

She didn’t know much about Arundel, except that he was Emperor Edelgard’s uncle, and her very reluctant hand on the leash was the only thing that kept Hubert from shanking him. It became very clear, very quickly just why the two of them were so incredibly hostile towards Arundel. Almost immediately upon his grandiose entrance, Arundel had set the people to work at nonsense tasks that didn’t actually do anything to rebuild Enbarr. He didn’t just skim off the top of the money and supplies meant for those devastated by the javelins of light, but lopped it off for himself! Those remarkably disturbing masked soldiers of his hovered over the city like vultures, and in just a few days they had begun picking Enbarr to bones in much the same way. It was like the bad old days of Duke Aegir, except with more of what was effectively slave labor without even the veneer of bread and circuses. 

Then there were the speeches. Every evening he stood in the center of the Upper District and gave some of the most egomaniacal speeches Manuela had ever heard. Three minutes into the first one she had heard enough, but those masked soldiers at the corners “persuaded” her into staying. She would have drunk herself into a stupor to make his yammering more tolerable, but then she noticed the crowd.

Okay, fine, Puccini had noticed them. He knocked the flask out of her hand, and as she went to complain about taking away her favorite coping mechanism, her daemon jabbed his tail and whispered, “Look.”

When she did, it immediately became clear just what Puccini was talking about.

See, Manuela was a woman of many talents. The famed Divine Songstress. Former professor at Garreg Mach. Esteemed physician. Dorothea’s guardian and all but second mother. But most of all, she was a performer. And like any performer worth the title, she knew how to read and work a crowd. 

Whatever blather spilled from Arundel’s mouth didn’t matter. What did matter was the general atmosphere of the crowd. And this crowd, for all that it warily eyed Arundel’s masked cronies, was looking for any excuse to become a riot. 

She had to laugh, and Puccini did, so hard that he fell off her shoulder and she had to snatch him by the scruff of his neck before he landed in the dirty snow. The goddess may have been Manuela’s silent foundation, but for too many people that just meant she was absent when people cried out for her succor. Edelgard inspired people. With her physical presence, her own flesh and blood, she called for the people of Fodlan to be more than what they were ordered to be, and blazed a trail for all to follow. Manuela knew that Edelgard and the vision of a brighter Fodlan she and her friends fought for were the reason some people found strength to get out of bed in the morning. 

Or, to put it another way, Edelgard gave the people of Enbarr hope, and now Arundel wanted to take it away. That was enough to make anybody dangerous, and Arundel didn’t seem to care!

It took all that Manuela had to wait until they were out of earshot before joining in with her daemons howls of laughter. Oh, this was not going to go the way Arundel thought it would. 

Notes:

Me: Why is this chapter taking so long to write?
Me: *looks at word count*
Me: ...Oh.

Happy Turkey Day to my fellow Americans! Thank you all so much for reading, and thank you to Volossya, Bellarch, Spectre, Quote, and Captain Flash for taking a look at this chapter before posting it! I promise, it's going to be mostly uphill from here for Edelgard and the Black Eagle Strike Force, even if the road has been long and rocky. As for everyone else, you'll see. I love this game and the characters, and I hope to do them all justice.

I'm sorry, Balthus! Gilbert and Catherine are fascinating characters even if they are horrible, horrible people, and they definitely had it coming here. I don't know if I'll ever post it, but in this story Catherine's daemon settled after the decision to turn in Christophe. As a bighorn sheep. Because at that point she had to blindly follow orders. If she ever stopped, then she'd have to think. And realize that maybe, just maybe, it was wrong to turn over Christophe to the church. And at that point her entire world would come crashing down.

Also, Caspar would be a fantastic physical therapist.

Thank you all for reading, let me know what you thought, and I hope you all enjoyed! See you next time!

Chapter 41: Hold On To Anything

Summary:

"What the gods said was heard by each combatant in his own language, and according to his own understanding. It boiled down to:
I. This is Not a Game.
II. Here and Now, You are Alive."

--Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

Content warnings: Mentions of genocide, and death of children. Both are offscreen.

Notes:

Leonie and Kamen Pinelli (21 Verdant Rain Moon, 1160 - 13 Great Tree Moon, 1240, Fodlani Robin) was one of the first members of the Commoners Roundtable. Born in Sauin City, she was one of the few commoners to attend pre-war Garreg Mach Officers Academy (citation needed). After the War of Liberation, in which she declared allegiance to Emperor Edelgard and became a member of the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force, she became a member of the Commoners Roundtable for several years. During her brief tenure she spearheaded over a dozen initiatives that drastically improved social mobility and standards of living in the Leicester Alliance... 

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Leonie Pinelli. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.
===
Lysithea and Zilbariel von Ordelia (28 Pegasus Moon, 1164 - 9 Lone Moon, 1214, unsettled) was a Leicester Alliance warlock who made fundamental contributions to understanding dark magic and transmutation of energy, for which she received the Thabes Prize In Magical Theory in 1201. A member of the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force who was grievously wounded in the Fodlani War of Liberation, she was also a passionate advocate for medical and magical research, and founded the Institute of Dark Magical Research at Dierdru University, now known as the Ordelia Institute. She mentored and collaborated with many mages, including Annette Dominic…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Lysithea von Ordelia. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

Seiros looked in the mirror and gingerly poked at the gap where her cheek once was. Though her mouth was closed, her finger went right through and prodded her molars. She snarled, and her rage burned further when she saw how her face twisted. Even if that disloyal Cethleann were to return and beg forgiveness and fealty, even she couldn’t do anything to fix this gash in her muzzle. Wounds made this deep, made by relics, never fully healed. 

They weren’t able to do anything more. That wretched filth who stole Chevalier’s crest and the crestless human who dared consider himself superior to her and her chosen were dead, of course. She had easily dispatched them both, defiled their remains, then threw them off the cliff along with those wretched bereft souls lurking the sewers to be torn by beasts like they deserved, but that would not restore Catherine or Gilbert. Two of her most loyal and capable knights, cut down before her eyes. They had received funerals and full honors, of course. They would have been such good and loyal humans in her restored world once she regained control of Fodlan from those vile traitors! 

Oh, Wilhelm must be turning in his grave from the shame of his traitorous descendent. Edelgard! She would tear that turncoat’s skin from her bones, burn them to ash and have the wind scatter them so she would wander forevermore! And that other one, the professor, who stole Mother from her! She was supposed to be the vessel for the goddess! Mother was supposed to return, and make everything okay, and say she was doing a good job and—

“The goddess ain’t with you, lady. All those awful things you do and tell others to do? That ain’t the will of the goddess, that’s all from you!”

Seiros turned around and screamed her fury so loud that it bounced off the walls into a mighty roar of thousands. The walls rattled, the bed frame shook, and the mirror fell off the wall and crashed to the ground where it shattered into countless pieces. 

“L-Lady Rhea!” Cyril, who must have been standing outside, rushed in and fell to his knees. Without getting up, he procured a dustpan from somewhere and began sweeping up the shards of glass. 

Ah yes, she still had Cyril. Good Cyril, sweet and subservient and loyal Cyril, who would never abandon her. He bore her crest, drank of her blood and partook of her stone; he was bound to her forever, a fitting reward for years of faithful service. “Rise, my Cyril. There is no need to lower yourself before me.” That mutinous whelp would be the one to clean this up. She would defeat Edelgard, have her learn her place, have her kneel upon those broken shards and beg for forgiveness she would never receive! And that torment would be nothing compared to what awaited her condemned soul in the pits of Ailell! 

Cyril made no effort to get up, so utterly devoted was he. Truly, the perfect human to stand by her side. He would never betray her, and she would bind him to her service so his hatchlings would remain eternally loyal after her. “Speak, Cyril. You are always welcome in my presence.”

“Thank you, Lady Rhea.” He paused, then a beat longer as he got to his feet. “Lashkar and I just finished taking stock of all the damage. It’s, uh, not good.”

Who was Lashkar? Ah, it didn’t matter. “Give your report, Cyril.”

He was quiet for a while, for some reason glancing over at the yellow-winged bat that followed him around. She was about to command Cyril to speak when he said, “Well, uh, first off, a lot of the walls above and tunnels below are damaged. There’s rubble everywhere, and a giant hole in the cathedral ceiling.” How dare she! She would pay for that! “Some of the damage looks new, but all of it means that we’re gonna have a real tough time defending the monastery against any new attacks.”

It didn’t matter—she had Mother on her side! She was right, right, right! “We have retaken our sacred ground. No matter how many enemies the wicked ones throw at us, we shall not lose it again!” She would teach them the costs of daring to turn their blades against the church! 

Cyril nodded. He had grown into a fine young man—what a shame he wasn’t Nabatean, but merely human. “I’ll never forgive them for hurting you!” Then he frowned. “But…we still gotta eat.”

What did that have to do with taking back Fodlan? She asked as much, and what Cyril said was…troubling. “There’s only a couple of weeks of food in the orders. I checked Abyss, but the larders there were ruined. They blew up, actually. Flour’s really dangerous when it’s a cloud in the air; it explodes real easy with even a tiny spark. I…I dunno if we have more than a couple weeks of food. More if we fish, but not much.”

An army couldn’t survive on an empty stomach, not even a holy one. “Go into the town. Have the survivors tithe their food and supplies. Put them to work repairing the ramparts. A proper tribute and deference may help absolve some of the sin staining their impious and unfaithful souls.” And she would not give them the opportunity to betray her and Mother again. Clearly, she was too lenient on humanity, too forgiving after their unforgivable crimes in Zanado! She had given those weak humans too much independence, and they had committed horrors with it and then had the impertinence to demand more, as if they—who would still be crawling in the dirt without Mother—were somehow equal to her and Mother’s glory! 

Seiros would not make that mistake again. 

“I…I gotcha, Lady Rhea. I’ll go get the soldiers,” Cyril said, bowing as he did so. 

Good boy. “Ah, Cyril, if only the rest of Fodlan were as faithful and goddess-fearing as you.” She bade him kneel again, so she could properly bestow her blessings and benediction upon him. His hair was so much thicker and curlier than that of the Fodlani, yet still surprisingly soft under her hand as she stroked it. The short fur of the bat on his shoulder was unexpectedly velvety as well.

Cyril froze, awed into stillness by the glory of her presence. Only when she dismissed him did he rush off, eager to fulfill his duty and commands. Once he left, she let his dire words wash over her. 

She would never yield! She would destroy those traitors and crush the rebels in her talons, and since humans only learned through fear, she would show it to them! 

…But they would need more food, and more troops. Especially since so many of those wretches in Abyss managed to escape! Only about a tenth of them were found and properly punished for their crimes before the rest managed to escape, and most of those were too young or old to participate in combat and potential vengeance-fueled strikes. She had been far too merciful in allowing those heathens sanctuary under her watchful eyes and wings! Those dangerous thoughts and ideas that outsiders brought with them had no place in Fodlan, and from now on and forever more they would, every last one of them, be put to the sword and torch as they deserved, as she should have from the beginning! 

Seiros’s eyes fell to the gauntlets that she had pried off that unworthy brawler’s corpse. Vajra-Mushti, made from her cousin Chevalier’s mutilated remains…except that, as far as she knew, Chevalier was still alive. Missing a limb, yes, but still alive. A large fragment of his Stone was embedded in each gauntlet, but the core of it—who he was—still glowed in his chest. Vajra-Mushti was centuries old; by now his stone would have fully regenerated. 

Hers had already mostly recovered, from the chip of her stone she bestowed upon Cyril.

How much more wonderful would someone as good and loyal as Cyril be if he were Nabatean?

And with her blessing, he could be. 

And she could bless dozens more the same way, and make them more powerful than their pathetic human forms. 

Certainly enough to defend Garreg Mach, and get Mother back. 

And then they would never betray her again. 

---

In the end, it was almost laughably easy. 

Dimitri had gone quiet after his surrender, retreated to some unseen inner place. The longest that he stepped off that island in his head was to officially declare his abdication. Felix had needed to step in to arbitrate on his behalf—as a Fraldarius, he was technically the next-highest ranking member of the Faerghus court left alive—and it was impossible to miss the sudden chill in the air when he was asked to do so. Frost all but emanated off of his shoulders as he sat down, as far away from Dimitri as the table would allow him. He refused to even look at Dimitri, going so far as to pass any documents to Edelgard for her to pass to Dimitri instead of handing them to him directly. She would have called it horribly immature, if not for the pain and hatred in his eyes. Part of her wanted to ask the details of just what happened down there, but what she had found in the rubble, Sylvain’s missing leg, the hatred and hurt among all involved told enough of the story. 

Adrestia would immediately take over the rest of Faerghus and begin distributing aid, dismantling the church and nobility, and building infrastructure, much as she had done for the parts that had already wisely surrendered. The remaining former lions were taken into custody and split up. Dimitri was immediately arrested, bound and chained like the rabid hound he was and placed under heavy guard; he’d be escorted back to the Enbarr dungeons later. They could decide what to do with him at their leisure, when she had time to consider all possible implications and consequences (ignore it, ignore the flickers of memory clawing out from where they had been locked away,  ignore Avarine’s silence, her talons punching through her pauldron in a way they hadn’t in years, deal with it later, El). 

Mercedes remained their prisoner of war but was immediately put to work helping Linhardt (much to his immense relief) as a medic in exchange for freedom of movement. Edelgard had a sneaking suspicion…she’d have to recall Jeritza from his “hunting expedition” on the edges of Arundel’s lands. Dedue had been released into Ashe’s custody and supervision; much to her surprise he seemed more interested in this than being with Dimitri. His daemon hadn’t said much, just a quiet thanks and then went back to her own thoughts. Felix had been sent back to his territory under heavy guard as a puppet ruler. He was clearly done with Dimitri and the kingdom in a way that went beyond visceral, and they all knew that this was a temporary arrangement. Edelgard needed to seal any power vacuums now, before the Agarthans could install any of their cronies in those gaps. They’d install someone proper to rule over former Fraldarius once this situation had calmed down, and at least Felix knew his own lands. 

Sylvain, much to her surprise, had all but begged to stay wherever the freed Duscurians were. When pressed, he’d babbled something about doing the right thing for once in his miserable life, until his daemon swatted at him with sheathed claws and said that there was a girl, not his daughter, his niece, that he needed to watch out for. It took Edelgard a moment, but when she pieced it together she wanted to vomit. The old empire prized crests above all else—desire, skill, competence, life—and Faerghus was somehow even worse. Dorothea had been cast out into the streets to die for the crime of being born crestless, and her mother had been similarly discarded as if she was little more than a child’s broken toy. Ingrid, as Dorothea had tearfully explained, had been raised as little more than chattel—a bargaining chip, a vessel to pass on her Crest, and nothing more. And she had been a noble. What they would do to a child belonging to a people already hated and hunted, born from violence, born with a crest? ...Well, you had to be willfully blind not to realize what her fate would be. 

“And we’ll never let anything like that happen again! Not in our Fodlan!” Avarine had cried out, both in hope and a desperate need to beat back the memories swelling from that locked-away pit deep within her. 

As for Duscur, Edelgard had no interest in it. It was their land, it wasn’t as if Faerghus had any historical claims to it or originated from there. They had taken over, massacred the inhabitants on false pretenses (as if any pretense was worth a massacre!), then marched in, claimed the conveniently-emptied land as their own and worked the survivors to death in the mines. The Church could have stopped it at any time, of course, but they only cared about what happened to them. Edelgard didn’t know too much about the situation, since she was twelve and busy being tortured at the time, but Hubert speculated that the entire so-called “Punishment” of Duscur was little more than a facade for Faerghus to steal their resources for itself. 

In either case, her final acts as emperor over Duscur would be to return the nation to its owners, arrest Kleiman and his cronies, and publicly try them for their atrocities. Syene had been astonished when Edelgard so readily agreed to those terms and then offered a few more of their own; they had probably been expecting a fight and even more dismissal and disrespect. 

“El.”

The voice wasn’t that of a man, twisted in rage. It wasn’t that of her family, or the one spark of warmth in the snow, winched from the pit of blocked-off memories. It was Byleth, her Byleth, no imposter knew the name El, and the voice cut through her and made Avarine bate off her shoulder, catch her talons in the leather, and fall upside-down screeching and flapping and then dangling against her chest anyway. 

“Byleth,” Edelgard forced herself to say with a calmness that she needed to feel once more. She scooped up Avarine in her hand and placed her back on her shoulder, pried her talons loose one by one, and only then said, “I didn’t hear your approach.”

Byleth tilted her head. “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” 

Belial stepped forward, and lowered their head so that Avarine could use their horns as a perch. Her daemon flew down and nuzzled her head against the soft fur of their ears. Edelgard could feel her heart slow and her pulse settle. “You’re closing yourself off because something’s on your mind again,” Byleth said. She paused. ‘Fuck you, El.’”

Ah. Yes. That. Those three words that had been banging down the steel doors of her mind since Dimitri had snarled them. 

“I thought you said Avarine was the only one left alive to call you El.”

“I…” She needed to sit down, needed to score talon marks into Belial’s horns, help them take back what Rhea had felt entitled to steal. 

Hubert pulled up a plush chair for her to sit in; once she did so he immediately knelt so she wouldn’t have to look up at him. As if he wasn’t a third of a meter taller than her and left her doing that on a daily basis anyway. Silly man. 

“Your Majesty,” and oh great, Thanily was kneeling too, “Was Dimitri that boy in Faerghus you mentioned?”

“He…must have been.” That required even more explanation. “You know that I…don’t remember much from before the experiments. And most of what I do remember are random snippets and fleeting impressions. It’s as if my mind locked it all away.” Sense memories, mostly. Avarine playing with her siblings’ daemons. Tea parties. A flash of laughter and racing down a long carpeted hallway. The knowledge that she had once been safe and loved, and somehow now was again. 

Edelgard instinctively braced herself, but Byleth nodded. “I don’t remember much of the Bad Days, and I don’t think I ever will. If I try really hard maybe I can remember something about a fight, or a fishing pole, or Domaghar, but…that’s about it. I know my,” she waved her hand, “is nothing like yours, and you don’t like to compare circumstances, but…”

Avarine bent her head down towards Belial’s head and kissed away her fears. Byleth would listen, and never judge, and love her anyway. That was more than enough. 

Edelgard let out a deep, shuddering breath she hadn’t quite realized she had been holding and continued, “Just before the experiments I was taken to Faerghus and spent some time there.” Thanily drew a little bit closer to Hubert and tucked her tail between her legs; this had been one of the most harrowing times of Hubert’s life. Best not to dwell on the bad that she could remember, for his sake. “I made a friend there…a boy. I remember he was kind, and fun to play with, though further details are lost to me. When I was taken back to Enbarr, he gave me a dagger.” A promise to cut her own path, no matter what—a promise she had kept. Hubert’s eyes flew open in recognition at her mention of the dagger, though he said nothing. “That must have been Dimitri.”

“You mentioned that boy once or twice, and I was always grateful to him for keeping you company when I could not,” murmured Hubert. “If he truly was Dimitri, then how the hell did he become a bloodthirsty manic obsessed with murdering you?!”

“I’m not sure. But I have some guesses.” Edelgard rubbed her temples, as if doing so might jar some more of her memories loose. Byleth had stepped closer, her hand on her shoulder, someone to lean on. “If I remember correctly, I was the first one in his life who really pushed back, or criticized him, or told him no. Faerghus loves its violence, and I think Dorothea was right. Dimitri must have built up a fantasy of me in his head when I left, and when that fantasy failed to match up with reality his response was that of bloody vengeance.” The boy—the Dimitri—of her time in Faerghus would not have responded that way, but he must have died too, much as the El who could have been perished alongside her siblings in the dungeons beneath the palace.

“But—but he kept accusing you of assassinating his parents in Duscur as he attacked you!” Hubert spluttered. He ran his hand through his hair as if doing so would make the calculation make sense. “Not associated with the true culprits as the Flame Emperor, but actually personally responsible! You were twelve! Can’t he count?”

“That I can’t tell you,” Edelgard said with a shrug. She wished she had a better answer. 

Thanily scoffed. “Ah, so he’s a moron.” Hubert snorted into his glove at that; she and Avarine let out simultaneous barks of laughter. 

Byleth now knelt beside her, her calloused and strong hands overlapping Edelgard’s equally strong but utterly ruined ones. “Are you okay? Because you don’t owe him anything. Especially when he’s not that person anymore.”

Though it pained her immensely, Edelgard curled her fingers so she could more properly intertwine her hands with Byleth’s. “Thank you, my Byleth. I…I’m okay. It doesn’t change anything, who he is. My goals are the same as they were yesterday: A land freed from the oppressive yokes of crests and the church and a vicious, self-aggrandizing nobility. That’s not going to change just because Dimitri was the boy from my childhood, gave me a dagger, and constructed this vision of an Edelgard that doesn’t exist!” She looked up from her lap to see Avarine hunched over Byleth, panting slightly, and took a deep breath. “It does hurt, to see the boy who was once gentle and kind broken by this twisted world and turned into little more than a rampaging beast. To see the Dimitri who once cried over frozen songbirds and cared about me appallingly obsessed with my head, my neck, and separating the two.” She dared not take that line of thought further—every woman knew and Dorothea had told her enough about the...other fantasies of such pathetically yet dangerously obsessed men. 

“Oh, El,” Byleth breathed, and she alone had earned the right to let that precious nickname fall from her lips. Hubert coughed, and took his leave, trotting out smartly with a swish of his cape and Thanily’s tail. Once the door clicked shut, Byleth climbed into Edelgard’s lap to more properly kiss her.

It was—the weight of Byleth on her lap, the softness of her lips, the warm breath on the shell of her ear. Every touch made her momentarily freeze, but then the uncertainness melted away just as quickly under the caress of Byleth and a thousand kisses. A thousand, two, who was counting? Somehow, somehow Edelgard was lucky enough to be here, with Byleth in her lap, winding an arm around her neck to lace in her hair just as Avarine preened Belial’s luxurious fur and the wolf dameon relaxed slightly at just how good those thousand kisses felt. 

For just a moment the world outside was immaterial, the pain in her hands and joints even more easily ignored when powering through them meant she could hold Byleth closer. They touched their heads together, Byleth closed her eyes, and when Edelgard said, “You mean so much to me,” she smiled against Edelgard’s lips, and even with everything she felt a measure of peace. 

They kissed some more at that, and as Byleth clenched her fist in Edelgard’s hair, Edelgard dared to slip her hand up Byleth’s front to rest on her absolutely perfect breasts. It was music more sublime than the finest operas, the duet of whimpers from her and Belial in time with the kneading of her fingers. Something ached deep within her, wishing to be closer, crying out for more— 

—Hubert slammed open the door. Edelgard yanked her hand back as if it was burned, her face so red that it might as well have been. Byleth whimpered and chased after her touch, only stopping when Belial alerted her to Hubert’s presence, but still utterly unconcerned—or perhaps unaware—in a way only the Ashen Demon was capable of being. 

Damn it all, why did Hubert always have to ruin the moment! How about she interrupt him and Ferdinand, see how he liked it then?! She opened her mouth to rebuke her incredibly annoying friend, but at the look on his face the admonishment died in her throat.

Hubert and Thanily stepped to opposite sides of the doorway, Ladislava and Constance walked in, and everything fell apart.

---

Byleth didn’t understand geopolitics. She didn’t even know what or where Ailell was until El told her. She didn’t fully grasp all the long term implications of the attack on Enbarr, or Garreg Mach, and she knew it. So why was she a part of this conversation?

“Because your skills on the battlefield are unmatched,” said Hubert. 

“I trust you, and value your input on what to do next,” said El, almost simultaneously. 

Well. She knew battles. Within the same week, Rhea had launched a surprise attack on Garreg Mach, seizing control of the monastery and massacring the inhabitants of Abyss. Randolph and Balthus had both died defending the Abyssinians; El swore that both of them would be remembered forever for their heroism, even though it would never bring them back. Meanwhile, the Agarthans (it had to be them, it simply couldn’t be anyone else) had launched what were nothing less than javelins of solid light that had detonated over Enbarr and leveled part of the city.  

Every time Byleth tried to imagine it, she was completely unable to do so. It probably wasn’t just her normal lack of imagination, given just how disturbed El and Hubert were to hear the news. They were still stunned, even as they got down to business. 

 “So this was their gambit,” El said as they all stared at an impossibly detailed map of Fodlan that Hubert had found in Cornelia’s study. “They were holding these...pillars of light in reserve, as one final attempt to keep me dancing on their strings.”

“The question is why attack Enbarr instead of Arianrhod, or Garreg Mach, or any location in Fodlan?” Hubert mused. He was speaking in low hisses again; Sothis liked to call him a snake when he did that. It was oddly comforting, hearing his threatening his or Thanily’s predatory glare when they were directed at someone else. “Was their aim to cut you off from your seat of power?” 

“It’s quite possible,” said El, and Byleth made herself pay attention and learn from her student. If she was going to be by El’s side after the war, then she needed to know these things as well. “After all, if Arundel—or whomever the man wearing my uncle’s face truly is—wished to use this as a show of power to intimidate me into silence, all he needed to do was detonate these pillars on a forest or an empty field before my eyes.”

“Not that it would have stopped us,” Avarine added from her perch. “And now? For all those in Enbarr who perished thanks to his senseless destruction, I will defeat him and the Agarthans!” 

Nothing would stop El. She was utterly unbreakable, and Arundel had to know that by now. “Can they do this again soon? Because I can’t think of any defense against exploding light falling from the sky, not unless we can actually stop them from being...launched?” Divine Pulse would save her Eagles from being caught in the explosion, but Byleth couldn’t think of any way to actually interrupt the javelins themselves—especially if they were launched far away from the battlefield.  

“Probably not,” said Thanily, because Hubert was hunched over the table, scribbling out calculation upon incomprehensible calculation. “Otherwise they would have done this long ago. If their aim were annihilation by airstrike alone, instead of the opening salvo of outright hostilities Arianrhod would be a smoking ruin—and likely many other cities in the Empire as well. Or they would have bombarded Garreg Mach. I suspect that he cannot launch another attack of this magnitude for quite some time.”  

“And in his arrogance and hastiness, Arundel has signed his own death warrant.” Hubert slapped his hand on the table, swept the parchment into his hand, and with a spin of his foot and dramatic swirl of his cloak, spun over to map. “Assuming the javelins of light originated from their home base, Hanneman’s report included the final data I needed to locate it. Behold, Your Majesty and Professor Byleth...the location of our enemies.”  

With a dramatic flourish and a sharp-toothed grin, Hubert circled a small section of mountains in Goneril Territory, in Fodlan’s Throat.

“Parts of the mountain range are still completely unmapped,” Thanily added as Hubert bowed. “There are few better hideouts in all of Fodlan.” 

El nodded. “With Claude pacified, the Black Eagle Strike Force could easily march through his territories without incident and launch a sneak attack on the base. We could cut off Arundel from his supply lines and leave him isolated to pick off at our leisure.” Her expression twisted, and the grin on Hubert’s face faded as well. “Or at least we would, if Rhea hadn’t attacked Garreg Mach!”

“This is why we had to ally with those monsters,” Avarine pointed out. “Now we have enemies on two fronts at once. Imagine if the Kingdom and Alliance were still in the equation; there’s no way we’d be able to win.” 

“Three, actually,” Belial corrected. “Rhea is back in Garreg Mach. Arundel and his troops are in Enbarr, but his base is all the way in Fodlan’s Throat. We can’t split up the Strike Force into three, send them on opposite sides of the continent, and win.” Especially since Byleth and Belial—and the Divine Pulse they shared—could only be split in two.   

“Thanks, Belial.” Avarine flicked a feather at them. 

Byleth studied the map again, and called forth everything she knew, everything she learned, everything she taught her students. Everything about feints, ambushes, sieges. She had it. Or at least, she thought she did. By the time they arrived, it would be too long from now to Divine Pulse and make a different decision.  “We should attack Garreg Mach first.”

Hubert blinked. “Professor, are you sure? The Agarthans may not be able to launch such a...spectacular...attack again for some time, but I don’t know exactly how long ‘some time’ is. Not to mention that Arundel currently holds the capital!”

“But Garreg Mach is closer, and we’d have to pass it anyway,” Belial explained, staring at the map and the figures drawn on it. “Also, according to Constance’s report, their victory was a Pyrrhic one. The walls are damaged, there’s very little food. We copied or rescued pretty much every book from the Shadow Library, and with the palace safe so are they. At least two of her most trusted lieutenants are dead, and one of them bore a Relic.”

“And good riddance,” El spat. “Catherine and Gilbert threw their lives away on lies and an inhuman beast who cared nothing for them in return. I would pity them, if not for the atrocities they committed and ruined lives they left in their wake. As it is, they were nothing more than a waste of life.” 

Hubert hummed in consideration. “So strike Garreg Mach and put an end to the church of lies and false prophets while the Immaculate One is still reeling from her so-called victory. That does make sense.”

“We’d have to be quick about it though,” El pointed out. “We need to prepare tonight, march until dawn, and do a forced march all the way to Garreg Mach.” Morale wouldn’t be a problem, especially once everyone learned what happened. “The longer we leave Arundel in Enbarr and that base untouched, the greater the risk of them being able to launch another attack.”

Hubert looked back at the map, at that area of Fodlan’s throat circled over and over again in red ink. “I’ve been in occasional contact with Claude. It’s a shame that he wasn’t able to bring the Roundtable to heel soon enough to find those who slithered in the shadows of his very own backyard.”

They paused. 

The pause dragged on.

Long enough that it became a thoughtful silence. 

“Professor Byleth.” Hubert turned towards her; Thanily was smirking. “If I may make a suggestion? I think it may be time to subject Claude to one of his favorite gambits: bluff.”

---

Objectively speaking, Enbarr had survived worse! Why, when Ferdinand’s father was but a young child, an unusually powerful hurricane had struck Enbarr and the surrounding lands. The wind and the rain, the implacable storm surge and even the occasional tornado had utterly flattened most of Enbarr, not just the central district! Yet even then, the oldest and greatest city in all of Fodlan had survived and rebuilt, stronger and greater than ever before. Just as it had after every hurricane, every epidemic, every fire set off by a careless spark that consumed entire neighborhoods of thatch and tinder into a single great inferno. 

This instance was no different! Whether the damage was the result of natural disaster or horrific accident or an attack by hidden enemies wielding incomprehensibly powerful weapons made no difference to Enbarr’s recovery, and the Empire’s eventual victory! 

That was what Ferdinand told himself as he walked the long hallway back to his and Bernadetta’s shared room. Every time his steps faltered, Embrienne would tell him another story of how Enbarr survived or of the indefatigable spirit of Adrestia, and Ferdinand would sweep back his hair and keep moving forward. 

The door was closed, which was no great surprise. Mere moments after Edelgard had given the dire reports and Byleth announced their forced march to Garreg Mach at first light, Bernadetta had dashed out of the war room at top speed. Ferdinand was not at all surprised to find her taking refuge in the relative safety of their room after hearing such awful news. He was concerned but not particularly surprised to find her curled up in the bed, Malecki a quivering spiked ball on the floor. He was, however, somewhat surprised to see Bernadetta entirely focused on knitting what appeared to be a sweater for the world’s longest and most hunchbacked snake. 

“Bernadetta?”

She did not acknowledge his presence. 

“Bernadetta?”

She did not look at her work, or make any pattern beyond the same stitch, over and over again in a circle. 

Ferdinand glanced up; Embrienne buzzed a reluctant agreement. He truly hated intruding on one of the loves of his life so, but when Bernadetta was lost in her own head like this, she sometimes needed to be gently pushed back into awareness. 

He knelt before Bernadetta, situating himself on the opposite side of where Malecki curled up. With a deep breath, Ferdinand willed himself to settle, dampen down the eagerness and passion that always blazed within him, and enter that pool of stillness and calm from which he could soothe skittish foals, hawks, and Bernies. Embrienne floated down to the curled-up ball of spikes and said, “Malecki!”

The meter-long tube of knitted wool hurled from Bernadetta’s hands wrapped around his head several times until the needles clacked to rest against his ear. Malecki landed quill-first onto the ball of yarn. 

Fabric blocked Ferdinand’s view, but he could easily hear her apologies get faster and higher in pitch and in time with her mounting panic; that simply would not do! He held out his hands, palms up, and said, “In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.”

He repeated this breathing exercise once, twice more. On the third time he felt Bernadetta’s hands, small and strong in his, and heard her voice match his in tempo and purpose. “In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.”

He felt Bernadetta’s voice and stance relax with every loop of the calming exercise they had practiced together. On the eighth or ninth iteration, the panic broke, Malecki pulled himself off the ball of yarn, and Bernadetta fell sobbing into his arms. 

Though all Ferdinand wanted to do was much the same, to cry out at the injustices of the world and hurl a spear into the darkness, for now Bernadetta needed comfort and support to show her grief and pain without judgment or shame far more than he desired to lash out. 

“And this is why I was so adamant against breaking our tenuous ‘alliance’ a few months ago,” Hubert said along with their passphrases as his way of greeting. He strode through the doorway and the stoop in his stance was immediately obvious. Even his expected jabs had none of the usual venom of glee at being proven right over Ferdinand. Truth be told, he sounded exhausted. 

Bernadetta shuffled over on the chaise lounge so Hubert could flop down, slam his head back against the wall, and let out a hearty string of profanities. Once he had finished venting, they both took their time giving him a proper greeting by way of many kisses and embraces. Alas, a war was still happening, they had just been the victim of two terrible surprise assaults, and so they soon needed to return to business. 

“Once we destroy the church, we’ll have to crush those worms squirming beneath us immediately, before they have a chance to fire their javelins of light again,” Hubert said after they reiterated their plan.

“You keep calling them javelins of light, or pillars of light…that’s what happened in Ailell, right?” Malecki asked from between Thanily’s paws on the floor below. 

“The Church always said that was a divine punishment, the goddess smiting the wicked,” Bernadetta elaborated. “My father used to threaten me with it all the time when I was young, if I was too loud or ran around the house and bumped into furniture…” She trailed off into her painful memories. Ferdinand stroked her hair and Thanily nuzzled Malecki’s head until she returned to the present; once again he wished that the pillars of light had landed on Varley Manor instead and ended her wretch of a sire. 

“That was yet another of their countless lies, made in their attempt to conceal the truth and maintain power and control. Even I did not know what those who slither in the dark were capable of, and now that concealment will only hurt us all.” Ferdinand was not quite sure if Hubert was attempting to comfort them by admitting his own ignorance, but either way it was not helping. Hubert was not built for comfort and sympathy, but for the purpose and figuring out how to move forward after the time for mourning had passed. 

Logically, Ferdinand knew that he should feel enraged at the enormity of this lie. The goddess smiting Ailell for its crimes was a central component of the Church’s teachings; proof of the Goddess’s existence and her intervention, written in the eternally burning and ruined earth. Except it was yet another lie. Ferdinand should have been enraged, but instead he just felt horribly numb. The church had told so many lies, committed so many atrocities, what was another one on top of it all?

“Ferdinand? Is everything okay?” Bernadetta asked from his lap. Hubert had pulled back a little bit, to give him space to speak his mind without being interrupted. Not that he was worried about Hubert’s barbs anymore, but it showed just how much Hubert actually cared, despite his ghoulish persona. 

“I…” He broke off, Embrienne bobbing up and down on the tip of Thanily’s nose. For a moment he was no longer Ferdinand von Aegir or Ferdinand of Adrestia, but Ferdie—a chubby child with chocolate smeared across his face, so cheerful and simple and naive. “I truly believed. The Church, the Goddess, all of it. I truly believed. I worshiped Sothis, paid my respects to the church. I fasted and thought of those who had nothing in my pangs of hunger. I feasted and celebrated the blessings of the goddess. I strove to be a good follower of the goddess, to live in accordance with the Church of Seiros as any noble—any Fodlani—should. And it was all a lie!” His last sentence tore out of him in a desperate wail.  

Bernadetta said nothing, just let him babble his mind, drain the agony of betrayal and attempt to coordinate his thoughts. They had already spoken at length about how she had suffered the abuses of her father, the way they were couched in excuses and justifications of faith, and how his dear insightful brilliant Bernadetta became aware, on some level, of the deep hypocrisy of the Church of Seiros long before he ever did.

“When I was a child,” Hubert added, Thanily rising to her feet to support him through his confession, “I feared such trivial things as divine punishment and grudges held by the dead.” He gave a rueful chuckle at the vivid imagination of his younger self. “These days, I fear zealots and grudges held by the living instead.”

Bernadetta gave him an owlish blink from the confines of his jacket. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“Other than heights,” Malecki teased, and where Thanily would have playfully swatted Embrienne out of the air for such a statement, the fox daemon simply chuckled and nuzzled noses with him. 

“I wish that were true,” Hubert lamented. Ferdinand smiled, but did not whisper praises for his bravery in finally opening up. As wonderful as his second lover admitting his humanity—wonderful flaws and all—was, to call it out would make him withdraw in embarrassment once more, as if he and not Bernadetta were the hedgehog. So instead, Ferdinand provided silent encouragement for Hubert to approach on his own. Silly man. “Unfortunately, I am…uncomfortable…about many things. Heights. The possibility of our failure and the land remaining in the clutches of selfish, vicious beings who care nothing for anything beyond themselves. Any harm befalling Lady Edelgard.” He paused. “Any harm befalling either of you.”

Bernadetta reached up from her seat in his lap to shower him with dozens of kisses. That—Ferdinand would have to revisit that idea later, when he was not quite so betrayed and enraged. 

Such anger was why he reluctantly turned the subject back towards the evils they had just learned. “Zealots such as the ones who stormed Garreg Mach, slaughtered the citizens of the associated town, and attempted to murder everyone in Abyss.”

“Yuri told me what happened. How could anyone do something like that?!” Bernadetta wailed. 

How could anybody indeed? A trove of knowledge banned by the church because it might make people ask too many questions instead of obeying the edicts passed down by—by Seiros the vengeful Immaculate One and not the Goddess—an entire town of people cast into the darkness because they displeased the church in some way. Barely tolerated for years and told to be grateful for such a small existence, only to be condemned and slaughtered on direct orders of Seiros herself! How could anybody call that right, or just, or good?

“They believed,” Ferdinand said, miserably, his fingers skimming the backs of both his lovers' knuckles as they piled together on the chaise lounge. Could he have ever done something as wicked as Gilbert and Catherine had, if he were in their shoes? After all, one of the commandments explicitly allowed murder of it was in her name (whose name? The name of the goddess, or the name of The Immaculate One who resembled the demonic beasts like what Miklan became?) “They believed the church was real, the edicts were real, the divine punishments were real, and so they condemned innocents, committed murder in the name of a lie!”

“You know,” Malecki pointed out, popping up from the circus of orange fur where Thanily had curled around herself to guard them both, “I had to learn most of the scripture growing up. And now that I think about it, it’s…it’s all about punishment.”

Well now, she had their undivided attention. Bernadetta fidgeted as Ferdinand wracked his memory. She said, before he finished, “It’s all divine retribution this and punishing sinners that. She made up the goddess destroying Ailell for being bad, and turned it into another lesson about punishment. The church talks about punishment and retribution and fearing the goddess, over and over and over again.” She broke off and fidgeted with a loose thread on her embroidery. “Other than that one edict about the goddess protecting what she decides is good and beautiful, there’s…there’s nothing about mercy, or kindness; or, or forgiveness. Or love.”

“Seiros was terrified of us mere humans challenging her power and superiority,” Hubert mused. “We saw this during our time in the academy. Sent to slaughter bandits for the crime of taking refuge in a desolate canyon, seeing those of the western church executed before a proper investigation or even interrogation. Commanded to slaughter civilians for the explicit purpose of making us too afraid to step out of line.” His grim features twisted into a truly horrifying snarl, yet in his lap Bernadetta did not tremble. “Seiros and the church rule through fear. She taught us to fear the false goddess and her so-called authority rather than respect or love them.”

Now Bernadetta trembled. “…That sounds a lot like what my father did to everyone he ruled over…what he did to me. I never loved him. I only feared him.” 

Ferdinand held Bernadetta, and as he held her, he thought. She was correct—there was almost nothing in all the scriptures about forgiveness or mercy. And yet there was parable upon parable about justice, and trembling in fear, and meting out divine punishment upon the wicked. Was this truly the Fodlan they had grown up in?! A Fodlan where they had been carefully taught to cower out of obedience and slaughter all who resisted, and not follow out of love?!

…Of course it was. The realization made him sag, pulled him downwards as if his heart were suddenly filled with lead. Were all faiths like this, or just the ones that were in reality a sham? 

Petra did not appear to be shackled by fear, from what little he knew of her faith. From what Ferdinand understood, when Petra was born the priests dedicated her to the Flame Spirit, the seed from which all fires were born. This spirit was her guardian, her protector. Petra had told him a couple of stories about how the flame spirit gave the gift of fire to the first men who sailed the endless oceans, brought it down from the stars above so that even on the cloudiest nights men would always have something to guide them. That did not seem like the actions of a faith based on fear, or of a vengeful god. 

Petra also worshiped the spirits of her deceased ancestors; Ferdinand had seen her burning incense and praying to them before battles, then offering thanks after victory. Truth be told, he was always slightly uncomfortable with the concept of ancestor worship, and was ashamed of himself for feeling such discomfort. This was his personal failing and bias to overcome, and he would not burden Petra with having to justify and defend her beliefs just to satisfy him! 

Were there any accurate books in Fodlan? Perhaps he could take a trip to Brigid and ask a priest directly. Though it was patently false, his first impression of ancestor worship was that it sounded similar to necromancy, that most forbidden of the dark arts. It was anathema to any follower of the Church of Seiros. The deceased should not be dragged back to this mortal plane, but should be allowed to rest in peace, allowed to eternally bask in the presence and glory of the goddess. 

Except…A horrified nausea rose up from Embrienne; when it reached Ferdinand he crumpled and let out a wounded moan that filled the room.

“Ferdie!”

“Are you sick? Have you been poisoned?!” He felt the thick glaze of Hubert’s magic settle over him, looking for any poisons or toxins seeping through his system. There would be none, of course, except for the poison that was all of Fodlani society, poison which they had all happily, blindly imbibed for over a millenia. 

“Where did they go?” he moaned. After a moment and belated realization that what he had said made absolutely no sense without context, he backed up several steps and explained, “The dead are supposed to eternally rest with the goddess, correct? Except that, somehow, an aspect of the goddess is fused with Byleth.” Ferdinand had no idea how that was theologically possible, and suspected that any scripture or official theological explanations would be the exact opposite of helpful here. 

“Oh no…” Bernadetta whispered; she must have gotten it. 

“Precisely.” A hand clenched on his thigh; Ferdinand did not know whose it was. “Clearly, our professor is not accompanied by all those in Fodlan who have died. So where did they go?”

“I had a younger brother,” Embrienne said, buzzing in the air. Slowly at first, then faster and faster as the enormity of the lies swallowed them whole. “His name was Kurt, and though he had a major crest to my minor, our parents didn’t care. He was a little more than a year younger than me, and we loved playing in the fields of our estate in Aegir territory together.” Ferdinand took a shuddering breath as the memories came rushing back, all that he had come to terms with torn open again. “Childhood diabetes runs in the Aegir family alongside the crest of Cichol; it strikes about once a generation when you include the branch lines. When Kurt was about three and a half years old he began complaining of constant hunger and thirst that only worsened no matter how much he ate or drank. Over the course of just a few months he wasted away. My younger brother fell into a coma and died just weeks before his fourth birthday.” The buzzing increased, until that single bee carried with her all the force of an enraged hive. “The priests came to us in our grief, and we took comfort in the fact that Kurt was with the goddess! I took comfort in that! But if it was a lie, if Seiros made it up, then where did my little brother go?! ”

Bernadetta and Hubert said nothing as they held him, for there was nothing they or anybody could say. Petra seemed at peace with calling upon the spirits of her parents; the people of Almyra and Duscur certainly had their own concepts of the afterlife as well. The difference, as far as Ferdinand was aware, was that the faiths of other nations were not constructed by someone aware of its falsehoods, were not constructed by one person as a method of control.  “We trusted her!” he roared. “We put our lives, our immortal souls, in the hands of the Church of Seiros—”

“Ahahaha, of course she named it all after herself, this was never about Sothis, it was always all about her, wasn’t it?!” Embrienne broke in— 

“And Seiros treated it all like pieces in a fucking game!” Ferdinand slammed his fist on the stone table before them. With a flash of his crest, it cracked in half. 

Rage burned in him, a boiling fury which was certainly far too much for a single human body to contain, yet somehow it did. Rage which Ferdinand had only felt once or twice before in his life, which left him shaking and sweating, his heart pounding in his chest and his muscles thrumming under his skin. He felt the rage flow over him like lava, then, as Hubert and Bernadetta held him and shared his pain, counted the breathing exercises he taught her, cool into granite and solid purpose. The same purpose he had before, perhaps, but now tempered and all the stronger.

He looked Embrienne in the eye, his dear Embrienne, who somehow managed to contain so much emotion, so much life, into so small a form. “We march tomorrow,” he said through gritted teeth. “I swear, Hubert, Bernadetta, I will be by your side until the very end. Together with Edelgard, Byleth, and all our friends, we’ll make a world where nobody entrusts their souls to egomaniacs or murders on the command of charlatans ever again.” 

---

Another day, another waste of time spent trying to herd bloviating nobles who had grown too fat and complacent for life. 

Claude had finally swallowed his pride and called for Lorenz. Perhaps he would be able to convince his father to see reason. He’d have to work with Lorenz at some point and as annoying as he was, the man was terrifyingly pragmatic. Not to mention Lorenz actually had a brain in his head when he bothered to pull it out of his ass! 

…He’d let Lorenz sit in the antechamber for a bit, maybe actually let Vincatel try the floor cushions he imported. Perhaps without external opinion deriding them as foreign and therefore bad he’d actually admit they were a lot comfier for oversized daemons than the floor. Just long enough to check his messages and remind Lorenz who the grand duke was before they figured out a plan to unseat his father from the roundtable a bit sooner than his planned retirement. There were only three messages, so this shouldn’t take too long at least. 

The first one was a report of sudden troop movement out of Arianrhod, heading southeast. That was…unnerving. Why would Edelgard suddenly start a forced march south towards Garreg Mach and the Alliance? He didn’t like this, and he’d need to figure it out as soon as possible. Claude set the first message aside with a growing sense of unease, and picked up the second one. This one was from Hubes, and a lot thicker. Perhaps he had actually given fair warning and explanation for their sudden troop movements. 

Then why did he hesitate to open it?

Ah well. The longer he put it off, the longer it would take to figure out a counterattack. With a deep breath and a check for poisons, Claude opened up the letter and read the contents. 

And read them again.

Then a third time, with his hands suddenly clammy with sweat and Simurg also reading over his shoulder to make sure this wasn’t some sort of sick joke or a vivid nightmare.

Then he tore open the third letter of collected rumors and information and confirmed that yes, Enbarr had been attacked by nothing less than pillars of light that fell from the fucking sky, which also meant that the lone spy he’d managed to plant in Enbarr was probably dead, and pretty much everything Hubert had said and threatened in his letter was true. Time was up, the strike on the capital came from Alliance territory, and Claude von Riegan was now an oathbreaker, congratu-fucking-lations! 

See, this was part of why he liked to have a reputation as a shifty guy. If he didn’t make any oaths, he couldn’t break them. But he did, and he had, and now he was forsworn.  

Forsworn! There was literally nothing worse for an Almyran to be! Even the gods had to keep their sworn oaths, even to mortals! His only recourse would be to surrender, possibly offer up his own life, and pray that would be enough to—

“Claude! Calm down!” Which was a funny thing for Simurg to say because she was terrified, coiled up like a spring with her fangs bared, tail rattling so hard he feared she might fall off her perch. “This isn’t Almyra!”

“You’re right! They only destroy nations and wipe out entire populations here!” And they called Almyra a nation of barbarians! 

“You really think the princess will do to us what Faerghus did to Duscur?”

…No. No, she wouldn’t.” Claude lowered his hands and let Simurg finish her thoughts. 

“Claude, look again at the letter.” He did. Simurg slithered down his arm and pointed out the key phrase. “If the eagles were just going to march over and finish us, then why would Hubert point out the exact coordinates of where the attack came from?”

Oh. Oh, of course! Yes, this letter was a naked threat, but when Claude translated it from political and Hubert-ese, it basically said, ‘This is where the Agarthans are, right in your backyard. Either clean up the mess you made now or we’ll do it for you, and you’re not going to like the latter option.’

Simurg slithered back up his arm and leaned over his shoulder. “What if they’re not actually heading to the Alliance?" The first letter had mentioned some disturbing developments from around Garreg Mach, though in a, ‘Not enough information to accurately speculate or separate rumor from fact, will continue to monitor’ sort of way. 

Absolutely not! That was not a bluff he wanted to call! Fuck, he’d wasted weeks on useless, arrogant men who were only interested in lining their own pockets and treated this war, treated everything, like…like it was some sort of grand game! 

Then again, aren’t you guilty of that as well, O Demon of the Tabletop?

Hatred and disgust twisted in Claude, and more than a little of it was directed inward. He crumpled Hubert’s letter in one hand, snatched up Simurg, in the other, and stormed out of his office. Lorenz sat outside with a cup of tea, and yes, Vincatel was resting on the patterned cushions. His annoying rival who was probably the only one here to understand the gravity of the situation opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again at the look on Claude’s face.

“Claude? Whatever was in that letter?”

“Come with me, right now,” he snarled, and wished his younger self could hear what he was about to say. “You’re about to see what happens when we treat war and lives like they’re a fucking game!”

Notes:

Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying! If you've noticed, there's now a chapter count: I think Who We Are is going to be 48 chapters; we're in the endgame, everyone! Wow, it's been an incredible ride, and I can't thank you enough for sharing it with me.

One thing that 3 Houses does well, which I think a lot of people don't notice because it's relatively absent in the modern age, is just how much people believed in the past. Like, in medieval Europe the Church was literally THE fundamental bedrock of general society. It's hard to overstate just how much people generally believed in the Church. Just as, in Fodlan, even the people who aren't gung-ho about faith still genuinely believe. Take a good look at some of Ferdie's and Leonie's supports. They genuinely believe.

...Except it's all a lie. Seiros made it all up. And, what's worse, she made it all up and created a religion based on punishment and retribution. Go look at the text. Compare how many times she talks about punishing sinners, damning people to hell, and teaching teenagers a lesson in obedience vs things like forgiveness, mercy, and love. It's called the Church of Seiros, not the Church of Sothis. Seiros made up a cult based on fear and punishment and obedience to her, and people believed it. On top of everything, EVERYTHING else, she played games with lives.

TL;DR: Rhea is horrible, church is evil in countless ways, and Edelgard was right.

RE: Kurt von Aegir. I've already established the headcanon that crests are associated with increased risk (though not a guarantee, thankfully!) of auto-immune diseases (Linhardt's hypothyroidism, Edelgard's rheumatoid arthritis, Lysithea's immune-mediated thrombocytopenia). Type 1 AKA juvenile diabetes is an auto-immune disease. Before the discovery and manufacture of insulin, it was invariably fatal. The Aegir family cemetery is filled with dozens of tiny graves stretching back over the centuries.

Thank you all for reading; I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think if you want, and I'll see you all soon!

Chapter 42: A New Dream

Summary:

Claude tries to dig himself out of the hole he fell into. Dimitri's asked a question he's never considered. Edelgard accepts that she is truly loved. The march on Garreg Mach begins.

Notes:

Caspar and Peakane von Bergliez (1 Blue Sea Moon, 1163 - 18 Garland Moon, 1239, Clownfish) was the Minister of Military Affairs in the Adrestian Empire from 1190 to 1215. He was appointed minister shortly after the Fodlan War of Liberation, and served in that war as a member of the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force. During his tenure, Caspar von Bergliez devoted much of his energy and ministry resources towards protecting and assisting the veterans of that war in various fields, and as such is considered Adrestia’s father of veterans’ affairs…
—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Caspar von Bergliez. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.
===
Linhardt and Runilite von Hevring (7 Red Wolf Moon, 1163 - 29 Garland Moon, 1242, Red Panda) was an Adrestian Crest Scholar, mixed mage, mathematician, medic, and professor who is widely recognized as one of the greatest Crest Scholars and mathematicians of all time. His book, Observations and Mathematical Principles of the Golden Dust Emitted by Daemons, conclusively proved that Dust (also known as Hevring Particles) is both attracted to and produced by sentient beings, and established the field of Dust Studies. Linhardt von Hevring also made seminal contributions to…
—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Linhardt von Hevring. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

Despite being several centimeters taller than him, Lorenz stumbled and needed to jog to keep him with his rapid stride. “Claude, what is going on?” 

“You’ll see,” he growled. Under his clothes Simurg slithered agitated loops up and down his body wherever his clothes were loose enough to go. She curled around his neck and reared back with bared fangs, ready to strike, just as he slammed open the door. 

All the other members of the Roundtable were waiting for him, much as they tried to pretend otherwise. Count Gloucester tried to pretend that he hadn’t jumped in his seat either. Claude curled his lip in disgust: in that moment he hated them as much as he hated himself for letting things escalate to this point. And for what, so he could feel smug about getting to swoop down on a wyvern and save the day? He’d wasted time dithering, and now…well. Here they were, with everyone else at the roundtable glaring at him, and if Claude didn’t start talking now he’d lose the upper hand that he had gained just by making everyone here sit and wait for him.

Before anybody else could really speak, Claude cleared his throat and started reading from Hubert’s letter. “On 8 Lone Moon, 1184, a date that will forever live in infamy, the Empire of Adrestia was suddenly and deliberately attacked by the Leicester Alliance. The Adrestian Empire was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Leicester, was still in conversation with its government and its Grand Duke…”

Just a few days ago Claude would have paid countless fortunes to see the nobles’ faces blanch, see their eyes widen in growing horror and their daemons make themselves small, but now it just made him feel nauseous as well. 

The letter ended with, essentially, a demand for unconditional surrender or annihilation by the Empire, and when Claude set it down and Simurg confirmed the contents the entire roundtable erupted into chaos. 

“Preposterous! Utterly vile lies!” Count Gloucester slammed his fist on the table; underneath his komodo dragon daemon hissed and bared her fangs in an obvious threat. “We have made no such attack against the Adrestian Empire! This was obviously the work of traitors or saboteurs!” 

“That may be true, but the attack still came from within Alliance borders,” replied Margrave Edmund. His daemon, some type of black and white flightless waterbird apparently called a penguin, looked Gloucester’s overcompensating overgrown lizard daemon right in the fangs and did not blink. “Therefore, not only is it reasonable for the Empire to suspect our responsibility, but it is also our responsibility to find these terrorists and defeat them.”

“You don’t think they’ll actually annihilate the Alliance, will they?” Ordelia’s voice was so tremulous that Claude barely heard him. He didn’t even know what daemons Lysithea’s parents had—from what she told him they were barely recognizable shadows of themselves since she and her siblings were taken by the Agarthans and only a stitched-together Lysithea was returned. 

Count Gloucester snorted in derision. “Pfft. Adrestia isn’t Faerghus. They aren’t complete barbarians.” 

That made Ordelia look up. “But there was still a massive attack from within our borders upon their capital! They’d be completely justified in marching on us, and that’s not a bluff I want to call!”

“Don’t forget,” Goneril added, a finger up, his daemon flitting back and forth from shoulder to shoulder, “Nearly all our troops are stationed at the Throat. Yes, it’s quiet now, but if the empire attacks then we’ll be crushed between both sides. There’s no way the Almyrans won’t strike in that moment of weakness.”

Oddly enough, Lorenz was quiet. Actually, his eyes were closed; he seemed to be in a trance. Vincatel craned out her neck to read the treaty on the table—he must have been in four-eye with her. Claude’s suspicions were confirmed when Lorenz snapped open his eyes and shot him a silent look. Had he also noticed what Hubert was secretly saying in the letter?

“Father!” Lorenz snapped just as Count Gloucester was about to say something inane and self-justifying once more. 

“Lorenz!” he snapped back. “You do realize how rude and improper it is to speak out of turn, do you not?”

Lorenz must have noticed—he didn’t back down. “Just as you must realize how dangerous and self-aggrandizing you are acting right now. This has escalated far beyond who will be the Grand Duke of the Alliance. If we do not tread carefully we will lose not only the Alliance and self-determination that we fought so hard to attain, but also—quite literally—our heads as well! Or do you think the Emperor who declared war on the very Church itself will tolerate your obstinance and excuses?”

That…was honestly it. Sure, there were negotiations and arguments for several more hours, but it was mostly just political theater. The fear of the Empire, of what would happen, the dawning knowledge that a new Fodlan was coming whether they liked it or not and they could either guide it along and still have some measure of influence or be dragged behind change kicking and screaming and lose everything in the process…They gave in. The Roundtable agreed to everything in the treaty. 

The time of the old nobles was dead and gone. But as for Lorenz, Hilda, Lysithea, Marianne? Claude’s classmates, his friends were actually smart and capable. With this treaty in hand, they’d actually be able to save the Alliance from itself. 

But first, Claude needed to take care of the threat that had been lurking in the shadows for…all of Fodlan’s history, apparently. 

He wasn’t going to get out of this easily, not anymore. 

And he’d have to do it without Lysithea, or Leonie, or Marianne. 

Great.

“Claude?” For all that Lorenz stood with military posture Vincatel stamped her hooves as if she was going to either flee or charge. 

He sighed. He hated this, hated what he was going to have to do now to actually fix this mess. He hated going into as dangerous and risky a situation as this with so little knowledge or preparation. This was going to be a terrifying and uncertain fight, but it was the only way to avoid being labeled an oathbreaker and salvage something from the mess. Dammit, he wished he hadn’t buried Failnaught. “I’m summoning Judith and the herd. Get your strongest weapons. We’re going on a little hiking trip to the mountains.”

---

It was Byleth who insisted they stop and rest, and that may have been what rankled Edelgard the most. 

By definition, a forced march pushed everyone on it to the limit of their endurance; only the urgency of their mission and the strength of their morale kept them moving so fast and so far for so long. They arrived in Dominic territory by the third day, and would have marched straight through if Byleth hadn’t insisted that they stop in the main town and rest. 

Edelgard knew it was because of her, even if everyone pretended otherwise. Her joints creaked and crackled, and towards each evening she could feel her bones scrape against each other. She set the pain aside, powered through it as she always did. Her body was already an unreliable and traitorous thing; she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it slow them down!  

But quietly, the way she always did, Byleth saw her pain. Noticed the way she rose slowly and carefully from her seat, her hands braced against something. Noticed the way Avarine flinched and stuttered mid flight when one of her joints seized up. Noticed the way her fingers clenched and her hands trembled when she held a cup of tea. Her teacher instructed them to stop and rest with the explanation that they all needed to be well-rested for the battle to come, but Edelgard knew that excuse was nothing more. They had to stop their march early because her body was falling to pieces.  

“Linhardt’s breakthrough couldn’t have come soon enough,” Avarine groaned as Edelgard rubbed the newest cream he’d concocted into her inflamed joints. Hubert and Byleth would do it for her if she asked—they’d do it even if she didn’t—but she’d shot them down before Hubert even opened his mouth. The crest degeneration had already taken so much from her; she needed to be able to do something as simple as medicate herself…well, herself. While she still could. 

It seemed to be working, at least. This newest formula smelled absolutely awful, foul enough to make even Ava gag, but just minutes after she rubbed it in the shooting pain in her knuckles faded to the more familiar eternal ache. Half an hour later and—though it was accompanied by several crackles and pops, agony which made her hiss and Ava clack her beak—she was able to fully straighten out her fingers for the first time in days. 

At a glance, except for the rough raised scars where shackles had once rubbed her wrists to bleeding, Edelgard’s hands looked…normal. Only when feeling them would one notice the warmth in her joints, the way they swelled. Edelgard sighed and poured some lavender oil on her hands to cover up the smell. As long as she could fight, it didn’t matter. She would never give up! Even if her arms and legs completely failed her she would find a way to move forward and free their world from the grasp of the church. She would deal with whatever came afterwards when it arrived, and now she wouldn’t have to do it alone. 

“You’d think we’d get used to it by now, having so many people by our side who care about us,” Ava said as she landed on Edelgard’s shoulder. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then nuzzled her feathered head against her face. 

Edelgard reached up and smoothed down some of her daemon’s flyaway feathers; Avarine nibbled at her hand in turn. “Then again, companionship is a truly precious thing, one that so many people seem to take for granted. I don’t ever wish to become complacent, or unappreciative of such a gift.” 

For years, Edelgard had accepted her fate—that by attacking the corrupt nobles and worse church, by striking first and tearing down the structures that kept Fodlan shackled, she would be written off as nothing more than a tyrant, one of the great villains of history. The church was masterful at propaganda, after all, and the nobles would never release even an iota of their power and control without force. She and Hubert had talked about it and had come to the same conclusion: if they died fighting, if they died for the sake of a better world, if their deaths could somehow light a spark, then they would not be in vain. What was her life compared to all those whose lives were dictated—or ended—based on whether they had money or a glorified birthmark? 

Her time at Garreg Mach had been the sweetest torture. While she was busy playing at school, she had begun to remember what it was like to be El and Ava again. To have friends. To fritter away hours on nothing of true consequence. To be a person again. While at the same time, she was working to consolidate and secure her reign, raise an army, and declare war. 

Hubert had warned her against getting attached—not that it would have stopped her, and not that it kept him from forging unintended bonds as well. Even if she were the type to hear the cries of the suffering and walk on by—which, the very thought was anathema, so against the core of who she was as to be physically repulsive—her “dearest uncle” wouldn’t have let her. He’d had her dismantled and reassembled into the perfect weapon after all, and was not about to let it go to rust. 

“What a surprise, when that weapon turned around and cut him just as easily,” Avarine chuckled, settling into place on her shoulder. 

So no, Hubert needn't have worried. All that fleeting moment of warmth and light that Edelgard found herself grasping for did was make the knowledge of sinking back into the darkness all the more painful.

But then it didn’t happen. 

Lysithea figured it out, and they vowed to fight for their lives and make a world where nobody suffered like they did together. Dorothea and Petra outright joined her. And Byleth…

Rhea had tried to groom Byleth herself, had torn apart and destroyed the person she was supposed to be in order to forge her into her own mindless tool. Just as the nobility and Agarthans had done to her. 

And somehow—whether it was because Rhea pushed too hard and fast, or because Byleth loved her students more than she feared Rhea—her teacher also defied the fate that others tried to force upon her, and chose Edelgard instead. Not only that, but every one of her fellow classmates, her friends, all stood by her. Even through those long three years, they never wavered in the fight for a better future.

Friendship, companionship, these were rare and precious things which she would never take for granted! One more look in the mirror to adjust her hair, and Edelgard stepped outside to her friends, her companions. They would face whatever came next together.

What she stepped into was a commotion. 

“What in the world is happening?” The rest of the Strike Force was loosely gathered in the same square. Hubert and Caspar were on either side of a woman she vaguely recognized as Ophelia, a member of the Vestra Sorcery Corps, though it took her a few minutes to recognize her. That was because she was slumped over, her arms draped over their shoulders and dangling loosely over their chests. Beside them Thanily carried her daemon, a limp sugar glider too exhausted to move, in her mouth. Blood slowly dripped from her nose, a telltale sign of magical overexertion. 

If Hubert was supporting the injured woman and not blasting her into ash that meant she truly was Ophelia. Edelgard instantly drew herself up and stepped forward. “Ophelia, give us your report.”

It took her a moment of heavy panting, during which time more blood dripped down her face, but eventually she managed to gasp out, “It’s…it’s Enbarr. The city’s broken out into…open revolt.” 

What?! “What happened?” she pressed the mage. On her shoulder Avarine let out a screech. Gasps and shouts rose from her friends; Thanily nearly dropped her daemon. 

“It’s because of…you, Your…Majesty,” Ophelia continued, a few words at a time. “Your reforms, Arundel’s marched in and repealed them, but he wasn’t expecting…” She laughed, which turned into a wheezing choke partway through. With trembling hands she pressed a report against Hubert’s midsection, then fell silent, and went terribly limp. For a moment Edelgard feared that Ophelia had killed herself from the strain of warping, but…no. She was just unconscious.

“Linhardt, I’ll help you treat her,” Hubert said before Linhardt could pretend to turn down the job or Runilite could complain too much. As they tended to Ophelia and her daemon, she read the letter in increasing disbelief. Apparently Arundel had marched in and began abusing the people of Enbarr, growing fat off their labor, and generally being a tyrant. 

Except, this time, the people of Enbarr had risen up and fought back. 

Enbarr was currently engulfed in a city-wide riot, and in the streets people were chanting her name. They were fighting valiantly, but apparently without assistance Arundel’s troops might be able to overwhelm them with sheer brutality alone.

Hubert looked up from where he assisted Linhardt with his ministrations. “Byleth, Your Majesty, should we continue with our march on Garreg Mach?”

Should they? Edelgard needed a moment to wrap her head around it all. Enbarr was rising in revolt, because of her? Nonsense, absolute nonsense— 

Dorothea stepped forward. She looked around, Calphour bobbing up and down on her head, swallowed her fear and said, “Edie, did you listen to what she said? Ophelia just warped herself into unconsciousness to tell you that an entire city has revolted in your name! You inspire people! Finish the job; I’m going back to Enbarr to help.”

In just seconds, Petra was beside her. “If you are going to be fighting for Enbarr, then I will fight alongside you as well.”

“Are you certain?” They’d all agreed that Dorothea’s fighting days were done, and now she was going to throw herself into a revolt back home. Could she handle it?

Somehow Dorothea must have known the question lingering on her lips, because she squared her shoulders, Calphour puffed up his feathers, and she said, “Edie, Enbarr’s my home too. Like hell I’m gonna let some slithering creep destroy it, and like hell I’m going to stand by while everyone finally tells him where he can stick it! I’m going to help!”

“And I will be there too,” Petra added. Calphour flew off Dorothea’s head to nestle in the thick feathers lining Ardior’s back. “I will be Dorothea’s support, and we will both be fighting under your banner. It will be…a great help, to your morale, to have the Emperor’s closest allies helping.”

That was another problem. “My teacher, should we still attack the monastery?” They were already down Lysithea, Ashe, and Dorothea—losing Petra and her troops would be a serious blow. Would they have the power to attack?

Byleth seemed to be considering the same question; she walked away from the group and shared a low conversation with Belial for several minutes. Then they returned, Byleth shaking her head. “I think we need to continue. Rhea and the knights are reeling right now. If we wait for them to regroup, we may not have another chance.”

Very well. “Dorothea, Petra. As your Emperor, your commander, and your friend, I order you to travel with General Ladislava to Enbarr, assist the revolt, and free our city from Arundel’s grip. And I order you to return to us alive and whole.”

---

“Caspar?”

Ah, crap. Peakane flattened herself on the bottom of her tank, wishing she could change color and vanish. He really, really didn’t want to have this conversation. Why did he keep winding up having this conversation? 

“Caspar, can we talk?”

Fuck, there wasn’t any getting out of this, was there? “Hey, Annette.”

She looked good, all things considered. Way less angry than she should have been. Annette twisted some hair around her finger; on her shoulder Serrin wrung her paws together. “I heard about your uncle, Randolph. I, I’m really sorry.”

What?! “Why do people keep apologizing to me about this?!” Caspar threw his hands up in the air, paced before Annette in tight circles as if that would solve anything. “Your dad was down there fighting him, which means my uncle killed your dad!” Okay, Balthus fought him too and none of them made it out which meant it was a fifty-fifty shot, but still! “Why are you apologizing to me?! My uncle killed your dad! You spent years looking for him! I should be apologizing to you!” Why was she okay with this? He could understand, now, how Petra was able to let the pain go and move forward, and wow she was amazing for being able to do that, but he and Annette hadn’t been friends and comrades-in-arms for years! How could she just apologize to him like that?!

Aw man, now Annette was really pissed. She had to be, her face was all red and Serrin’s tail was all bristly and the squirrel daemon was chattering her teeth. Good, he deserved it! “Yeah Caspar, you’re right, I did spend years looking for my father! I joined the Officer’s Academy to find him! I killed people for him, because that’s what happens when you join the Officer’s Academy, and I told myself that I could do it, that I was a great fighter, and it was all okay! And you know what happened when I did eventually find him? He pretended I wasn’t his daughter, and that I didn’t even exist!” 

Annette kept shouting; on her shoulder Serrin lashed her tail and screamed a nonstop alarm call so loud it made his ears hurt. “Mom needed her husband. I needed my dad! Caspar, I remember my dad always chiding me whenever I messed something up, and then he left, and for years I thought that if I worked hard enough, if I could just be good enough, he’d come back and we could be a family again!”

“Annette…”

“But no!” Now she was the one pacing the room and waving her arms; somehow Serrin managed to cling to her sleeve and not get flung off across the room. “Nothing I did was ever gonna be good enough for him, because he didn’t want to be my dad he wanted to just punish himself or something, and I was so, so stupid to ever think otherwise!” It was honestly kinda impressive, almost hypnotic, the way Serrin was able to use her claws to hang on and her tail as a counterbalance while being tossed around. At least, it would have been if not for what Annette was actually saying. “He could have come home any time! When Dimitri went crazy, or we all thought he was dead, or we learned just what Rhea did to Professor Byleth, or everything went to shit, or, or any of it! He could have come home, and he didn’t!

“And you know what was apparently good enough, what he decided he’d rather do instead?!” Annette jabbed a finger in Caspar’s face, Serrin swung back and forth from her arm again, and for a moment Caspar worried that her daemon would lose her grip, fly off her arm too fast for him to dodge and smack him in the face or something. “He decided to stay with the Archbishop—who, oh yeah, has actually been lying to us about everything this entire time—and then go kill a bunch of random people who got shoved in the basement! THAT’S what he’d rather do than be my dad!”

With a scream, Annette whirled around and slammed her fists against a table. Serrin hopped off her arm onto something that wasn’t flailing about. Caspar lowered Peakane’s backpack from in front of his face to find Annette sobbing into the wood. He threw that pack over his shoulders, reflexively scooped her up in his arms so she could have somebody to lean on. He held her as she cried out years of repressed grief and pain, for all the people down there (dammit, Balthus had also died, he’d wanted so badly to have a rematch with him and now that would never happen), until she asked into his armor, “Why would he do something like that? Why was fighting and killing people more important than being my dad?!”

 “I…” Truth be told, he didn’t have an answer for that. Look, Caspar was a born fighter! He loved fighting, every kind of fighting there was! But being a dad? He’d never had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter. Never really thought about kids. Now that Annette put that thought in his mind…Out of nowhere, smashing into his brain like one of Dorothea’s lightning spells, came the mental image of a tiny Caspar who he could teach to fight, and play with, and, and, how could Annette’s father think what he did was more important?! “I don’t know. But it was wrong.”

Annette pulled herself away from Caspar. She sat down and let Serrin jump into her lap again. “My father died killing people. Your uncle died stopping him. That’s…what was the point of…” She sighed, the sort of sigh where Caspar was worried she might start crying again. “I’m not a fighter, I don’t want to kill people, as much as I tried to make myself one and said it was okay. If I stayed, and fought with my father, I probably would have died, and I probably would have done something like beg him to help, and he probably still wouldn’t have noticed! So there! That’s why I’m sorry about your uncle, and that’s why you don’t need to apologize to me or feel bad or anything!”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Was there even anything he was supposed to say to that? Or maybe this was the sort of thing where he just needed to be quiet and listen and let Annette get it all out. That’s what he ended up doing, until Annette wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and murmured, “I should have been there.”

Peakane swam up to the top of her pack. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I should have been down there! Maybe if I’d helped Mercie, Sylvain wouldn’t have gotten so badly injured, or Ingrid would still be alive—”

“No, Annette, you shouldn’t have been down there,” Caspar interrupted. He pulled her off her a bit so she could look him in the face all proper, and Peakane swam as far forward as she could to also stare her down. “I was just up top and heard about what happened in the dungeons after, and it was a complete mess. Just, the biggest shitshow I’d ever heard of in my life. The ceiling fucking collapsed! There’s nothing you, or me, or anybody could have done about that, so please don’t tear yourself apart thinking about the what ifs.”

Annette nodded into his chest. “Okay.”

Of course he knew that wouldn’t be enough, he needed to do something to cheer her up…come on…ah! Yes! “Annette, I’ve got something for you. Well, actually it’s not mine, but—“ he fished around in his pocket and pulled out a rumpled scroll, “Lysithea wanted to give this to you! Something about a magic proof?”

Annette’s eyes lit up; she grabbed the scroll, unrolled it, and immediately started reading. “We were sharing magical theorems before the war started…Huh. I can read this, but it’s really messy, way messier than usual. Did Zilbariel write this?”

“Where is she?” Serrin asked from her shoulder. 

“She’s back in Arianrhod. She got hurt, really bad. I told you it was a complete mess. But, but, she’s recovering, she’s getting better every day!” Caspar blurted out frantically before Annette could freak out again. “In fact, she told me to get this to you when she learned we were stopping by!” Actually it was more like Zilbariel chucked the scroll at his head. He still had a bit of a bruise. 

“You know what you should do?” Peakane said. Annette looked up from the magic essay on the scroll. “When this is all over, you should go up to Arianrhod and share your response with Lysithea yourself!”

Annette nodded, and good, she was smiling again. “Yeah, I think I will. And I’ll have a counter to her proposal that’ll knock her socks off.”

---

“Annie was right,” Cygnis sighed. 

The words she said three long years ago had been tinged in cruelty, tailored in only the way that best friends who knew each other’s greatest weaknesses were capable of crafting, but that made them no less true. Mercedes had stretched herself too thin, she had thrown everything into fixing the pain of those around her while ignoring her own. 

She had nearly died down there. Ingrid had died down there (the Strike Force had retrieved her body and brought her home; according to her wishes she’d be cremated, her ashes scattered over the cliff where she learned to fly), and Sylvain had been permanently maimed. Dimitri had very nearly killed himself on Delcabia’s tusks when his rage and pain finally turned inwards, and then even when he had broken down and finally asked for help, the very sight of Edelgard had sent him right back into that rabid frenzy. Now he was in the cells of the most secure and intact manor while everyone figured out what to do with him. 

Mercedes was tired. It wasn’t the normal magical fatigue from her healing or training over and over again, nor was it the exhaustion of exercise or too little sleep. It was a bone-deep, soul-deep fatigue that left her emotionally drained, left Cygnis quiet and numb. 

Annie was right, at least with this. She didn’t understand just how fundamental caring for people was for Mercedes, how she could never walk by somebody in need and not try to help. But…but she couldn’t keep banging her head against the wall either and just hope that it would crumble from that alone some day. 

With a deep breath, and Cygnis pressed against her, Mercedes walked down the stairs to the dungeons below. She’d keep an outstretched hand to Dimitri, but she wouldn’t chase after him if he ran off in a suicidal frenzy again. She couldn’t. 

The sound of her footsteps echoed off the stone as Mercedes made her way to the last cell. The dungeon was cool, a little damp in the way all cellars and dungeons in Faerghus were (the northern empire now, Mercedes reminded herself, Faerghus was no more), but were drier than most and as well-lit as they could be. Yet Dimitri still found a way to wreath himself in shadow.

He sat in the cell, slumped against the wall instead of lying on the bed or sitting in the chair provided for him, stripped of his weapons and his hands chained behind his back. Delcabia sat next to him, even more ragged and exhausted, safely secured away in a daemon cage. 

Objectively they needed to separate the two with a barrier, and Mercedes knew that. She and Dedue had literally pulled Dimitri off of his daemon’s tusks! And the Imperial Army and Black Eagle Strike Force had done everything they could to make it more comfortable: using the largest cage they could retrieve from the ruins of the larger dungeons beneath the fortress, filling it with comfortable and warm bedding, and so forth. But it was still a cage, as necessary as it had been they’d still put Delcabia in a cage. It made Mercedes nauseous to look at; part of her wanted to run and curl herself around Cygnis at the very sight of that horrid gray thing. 

It took some time for Dimitri to notice her presence and lift his head. “Mercedes,” he croaked. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Mercedes said. She pulled up a nearby stool; the guards on duty watched them warily but made no move to kick her out for now. 

“…Don’t bother wasting your time on me,” Dimitri said. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall with a soft thud. “I’m nothing more than a blood-crazed beast. I have no right to stand beside you.”

…Okay, this was better than running headlong into the deathtrap under Arianrhod and all but daring them to stop him by force, but, “Dimitri, you—”

“—I’m just a killer. A disgusting monster.” He snapped his head up, his eye wide and boring into hers. As he spoke, faster and faster, Delcabia got up and began to pace in time with his speech. “I’ve killed so many people, all to bring quiet to the ghosts. I was the only one who survived, so I had to carry out their vengeance. My hands are dripping with dozens, hundred. They’re red with the blood of Ingrid and Sylvain. I’ll never be able to wash them clean. I have no other purpose, no right to be around someone like—”

“Will you please stop!” Cygnis barked.

Dimitri stopped talking. His mouth snapped shut. And Delcabia froze mid-canter. Cygnis stared at his haunted daemon, his hackles raised and his teeth bared in a snarl. He stared Delcabia down until the boar daemon settled back on her haunches. She still snorted and lashed her tail, but…better. 

“Please, I can’t hear any more of this self-deprecation!” Mercedes said, a little surprised by her own forcefulness. “You’re not a monster, and you don’t owe your existence to people who are already gone. Living in the present, here and now, is the best that we can do. We owe it to those who can’t come back to live on, as fully as they can. Not to wander around, lost.”

“Remember what Ingrid said?” Cygnis continued, and Mercedes tried not to wince at the punched-out noise that came from the back of Dimitri’s throat. “Do you truly think she’d want you to throw away your life after she sacrificed hers? Do you think she’d want you to remain trapped? What good would your death do?”

“I…Ingrid, she’d…” He started shaking. 

She wasn’t done. “Dimitri, people love you, and we want to help you. But if we keep reaching out a hand and it keeps getting slapped away, eventually we’ll stop trying.” Felix had reached his limit. Ashe, too, would probably never speak to him again. Even she could feel the exhaustion of too many failed attempts creeping up on her. “I’ll keep being there for you, Dimitri, I’ll always have a hand reached out for when you’re ready to grasp it, but I’m not going to kill myself chasing after you anymore.” Literally, as it turned out.

Dimitri settled back down against the wall. When he looked up at her, all that frenzied rage had burned out of him, leaving behind…a lost boy. “So what do I do now? I’m not king. I’m nothing. What do I do?” he asked, pleading for her advice.

Well. She needed to try. “What do you want to do, Dimitri. Not what other people or ghosts have told you. What do you want to do?”

“I…” He broke off and stared at the ground again, fell utterly silent. “I don’t know,” said Delcabia. She too stared at the dungeon floor. “Ever since that day I only existed for those obligations. Now I have nothing.” 

Cygnis shook his head. “You don’t have nothing,” he shot back. “You have your life. You don’t have the shackles of a crown which—did you even want that? Or was it also an obligation?”

Dimitri’s silence was as good as any answer. What was it with Faerghus and literally killing yourself for the sake of a duty nobody wanted? The soul of the nation was sick. Perhaps it was its time.

“You have your life,” Mercedes continued. “In a way, you’re free. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, if you want to heal, you need to be able to answer: what do you want to do?”

---

Wealth was warmth in Faerghus, and Dominic Manor had no shortage of either. Out in the countryside some farmers built their homes to use the rising body heat of their livestock—Ferdinand had proudly demonstrated this principle with their warhorses last winter while extolling the ingenuity of Aegir farmers—but unless their daemons had settled into something big and warm those packed into the cities and towns had no such option, and Adrestian winters were so much milder than these bitter northern ones. How many people had frozen to death in their homes over the centuries, desperately huddling together for that last bit of warmth, all because they couldn’t afford enough fuel? Enough to make Edelgard shiver despite Byleth’s careful stoking of the fireplace, despite the furnace of Belial cuddling around Avarine. 

As soon as they defeated the church and the Agarthans she’d have to set up a fuel dole to keep every person in former Faerghus warm throughout next winter. They’d need to do it quickly too, so everything would be ready by next year’s frost. 

“That’s quite a lot of wood,” Avarine pointed out. Silently, so as not to break the hypnotic calm of the crackling fire. She poked her head out from the blanket of Belial’s fur. “Can we get enough for everyone in a year? What about the years after that? Trees don’t grow overnight after all.”

True—if they wanted this better Fodlan to endure, she would need to think towards the future here and now and always, like nearly everyone else in Fodlan reliably failed to do. Perhaps there was a way to quickly build homes and structures that efficiently trapped heat, much like those farmhomes that also served as barns? Could they use similar concepts to also circulate air and keep buildings cool? What advances in other lands had passed Fodlan by because the church found them dangerous? Edelgard was no architect, but she would have to find a capable one as soon as they returned. 

“What are you thinking about, El?” Her Byleth’s face nearly glowed in the dancing firelight. She was the warmth and light that shone on Edelgard’s heart, so beautiful that every glance gripped her heart and squeezed so tight as to almost hurt. 

“I’m considering how best to reliably and sustainably keep people warm during the winter.” She paused. “And how beautiful you look right now.”

Belial licked Avarine against the grain of her feathers all the way up her back; Edelgard yelped and fell into her beloved’s arms. 

“Sounds like we have a lot to do after the war,” Byleth said in her understated way. “And we’ll do it together.”

There really wasn’t any way to respond to that other than to kiss her some more. Alas, given her luck, Hubert would probably come by soon and end their moment of respite. 

“Hubert won’t bother us,” Byleth said, as if she could read her mind.

“What—how do you know that?”

A flash of pain spiked through her head, then vanished just as quickly as it arrived. “He won’t,” she repeated, with such certainty that Edelgard didn’t even question it. “Nobody will bother or interrupt us all night.” 

Anything she was planning in response instantly vanished. Byleth couldn’t possibly be saying…what Edelgard thought she was saying. Her throat suddenly bone dry, Edelgard managed to give a rough swallow and a rougher nod. “That…yes. I'd like to. Very much.” 

Could Byleth feel the sudden change in mood? Did she also share that giddy, nervous anticipation that simultaneously curled and unspooled low in Edelgard with the knowledge that this wasn’t going to stop with deep kissing and awkward fumbling? In either case, that was where it started, with Edelgard pulling Byleth into her arms, with soft kisses that grew deeper and hungrier with each passing moment, with soft whimpers as they nipped at each other’s necks, drank each other down.

Then Byleth paused, her hand halfway up Edelgard’s blouse. For the first time in years, possibly, she looked…lost. Something she usually only looked when asked to be creative off the battlefield, or lie, or do any of the things that Rhea took from her when she implanted that stone. A horrible thought struck Edelgard. “My…My Byleth, you do know how to, you know…?”

She pulled back a bit, though her hand was still there, so warm against her skin. She blinked, and asked, “How to what?”

Edelgard was not doing this. Edelgard was not doing this. Avarine tucked her head in under her wings and tried very, very hard to vanish, and Edelgard wished she could do the same. Instead she felt her face erupt into flame as she stammered and muttered and eventually managed to ask, “You know…have sex?” Her sentence ended in an entirely unimperial squeak. 

For a few moments Byleth’s only response was to blink. No. She was not doing this. Edelgard was about to just call the whole thing off and simply cuddle for the rest of the night when Byleth finally said, “Oh! Yes, yes I do. The first time I had a Good Day after my cycles started my dad set me aside and gave me that talk. It was very long. He used carrots, and a folded slice of bread. I think halfway through he got too embarrassed to finish and asked the woman who explained my cycles to me to help him out.”  

“...” Edelgard seriously didn’t know whether to break down cackling or die from secondhand embarrassment. How was Byleth so blase about this? How was Belial so blase about this?! Avarine had escaped Belial, crawled under the bed, and wanted nothing more than to vanish. Of course that had happened, Jeralt had been—and suddenly Edelgard could see the scenario clear as day. They were probably by a riverbank, or maybe an empty glade, but either way Jeralt would have been forced to stammer his way through some very censored experiences and observations and strip them down into something a young teenager—who at the time was more a living husk than an actual person—could understand. He had probably spent several agonizing hours flailing around with that carrot and folded slice of bread, and when he asked for questions, a young Byleth who would have been silently staring at him the entire time likely just asked if he was going to eat that. 

That mental image was enough; Edelgard found herself doubled over Byleth—whose hand was still up her blouse, by the way—wheezing in laughter and gasping for air. Under the bed Ava shrieked her mirth and beat her wings against the frame and the floor. Byleth didn’t laugh, but she felt the hint of a smile against her face and her other hand on her back, and that was much the same from her. When Edelgard had stopped laughing long enough to pull back and gaze at her dear partner, Byleth actually blushed slightly and said, “They talked a lot about feelings, and feeling certain ways towards certain people. I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Until now, I think. When I’m like this, with you.”

And oh, that was somehow simultaneously the most beautiful and sexiest, the most Byleth thing Edelgard had ever heard in her life. She needed to kiss her, to hold her, to be closer like she needed air. Nothing else in the world mattered, nothing but her. How could she have gotten so lucky in her life, after everything, to be here with Byleth? To have Byleth here with her?

It was too much. Edelgard couldn’t even say anything, just lost herself in the sensation of kissing Byleth, of Byleth chasing those hungry kisses with her own. On the floor, Belial scooped Avarine out from under the bed, licked and nuzzled her until she went limp from how good it all was. In Byleth’s arms, Edelgard went pliant, delirious from the warmth and desire that dragged her down. She wanted to kiss Byleth, kiss her face, that hint of a smile that was a cheek splitting beam for anyone else, kiss her—

Byleth popped open the lower two buttons on her blouse and exposed Edelgard’s skin to the air. 

Her warm hands became icicles on her bare flesh. Edelgard went still under Byleth’s touch. Part of her braced herself, waiting for the burning bite of the surgical knife. 

It never came. Byleth pulled back, then a few moments later Belial followed. “El, are you okay?” 

Edelgard closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She wasn’t in the dungeons. Nobody was holding her and her brothers and sisters down. Nobody was grabbing Avarine, nobody was cutting her open. She was safe here. She was safe, and somehow she was loved again. 

“I, I’m okay,” said Edelgard, and she actually mostly was. There was still that fear, high and tense like a string wound too tight, but…she knew the root of it, which meant she could dig it out. “I just…they experimented on me for a very long time. I have a lot of scars.”

I have a lot of scars. What an insultingly simplistic way to put it! Yet how could she possibly express the sheer level of violation, the extent of the violence done unto her body? How could anyone who hadn’t experienced it themselves understand the way she was hurled back into those cells every time she disrobed, looked in the mirror, or bathed? I have a lot of scars. That was barely even the start of it. 

How could even her Byleth understand? She’d gone quiet, pulled back slightly. All she asked was a quiet, “El, do you want to stop?”

She could stop. Byleth wouldn’t—this wasn’t—she could stop it, this time. 

She didn’t want to stop.

“Would it help, if I showed you my scars?” Before Edelgard could say another word, and without a hint of hesitation or shame, Byleth pulled off her shirt, then her bra, and tossed both to the ground. 

Edelgard felt her brain stutter to a halt. Objectively, yes, Byleth had several scars—the smashed mess of her knee, assorted stabs and burns and more scattered across her body, but her attention kept getting drawn back to Byleth’s beautiful, perfect—

There were not enough adjectives in the world. This feeling must have been what other people called a spiritual experience. Edelgard opened her mouth, but the only sound she found herself capable of making was, “Guh.”

A single restrained huff—Belial’s single snort of laughter—rose from the floor; and Byleth’s smile grew just a bit wider. The apprehensive anticipation still coiled deep in her, but the chill melted away like the last frost before true spring. 

“Byleth, could you move back a little?” When she did, Edelgard moved off the bed and to the center of the room. Another glance around—the light was low, the doors and windows were closed. It was just them. 

She wanted this. Wanted it so badly that it actually hurt. Desired it with a burning ferocity that threatened to swallow her whole. But…she needed to bare her scars herself, this first time. Maybe someday, she’d feel comfortable enough to let someone else expose her. But for now, she needed to be the one in complete control. 

One by one, with trembling hands, Edelgard undid the buttons on her blouse. When her fingers slipped and failed Avarine flew over and finished the job for her. Her smallclothes followed, and made a puddle of fabric around her ankles on the floor. Naked as the day she was born, Edelgard closed her eyes and stepped forward. 

“Well…This is me.”

Silence. Was Byleth overcome with revulsion? Had she fled in disgust? Irrational thoughts, she knew, but they crept into her mind like poison regardless. 

Another agonizing heartbeat passed in silence, and Edelgard forced herself to open her eyes. Byleth was still there, beaming. On the rug before the fireplace, Belial curled around Avarine and shielded her from the world. 

“You’re beautiful,” said Byleth. 

No. She was hideous. Her strength was hideous. She’d been carved open and dismantled piece by piece, reconstructed into a living weapon, and her scars were a reminder of that. They were rough and raised, discolored where they weren’t waxy and white. They were horribly numb, they pulled when she moved, sometimes they cracked and bled. They’d split her open, made a second seam that ran right down the front of her body from sternum to pelvis. Those lines followed the course of her blood, spreading out like a spiderweb from her heart and winding their way across her body and down her limbs. They’d ruined her, left her body a ruin that many days was less a vessel and more a cage. 

How could Byleth look at this and call her beautiful?

“You don’t believe me,” said Byleth. “Then allow me to demonstrate.”

With that sentence hanging in the air Byleth took a step forward. Then another, then a third, until she was close enough for Edelgard to count every eyelash. 

Then she dipped down, just a bit, and kissed Edelgard between her breasts. Right on the ugliest and thickest part of that massive scar, right over the apex of her heartbeat. 

The only sensations Edelgard could ever feel through those scars were pressure and pain, but as Byleth ran her fingers down where her lips just touched it felt like so much more. “You’re still here,” she said. “You never stopped fighting, and you’re doing it not for yourself, but for the sake of everyone else. That’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” 

And as Byleth knelt before her as if in prayer, as she kissed her all the way down the raised line that ran along her body as she kept going, as the two women spent the rest of the night showing just how much they meant to each other, Edelgard could begin to believe it. 

 

Notes:

Some time during the night Hubert opens the door, stares Belial in the face, gives a red-faced nod of approval, and gently closes the door (and yes, expect a...side one-shot...at some point).

So yeah, we're splitting up the Strike Force, just as Claude and his remaining deer are heading to Shambala. And Claude is definitely sweating bullets now; he's on the backfoot because he played games for too long. How's he going to fix things?

Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying! Let me know what you think if you want to, I really hope you liked this, and I'll see you all next year!

Chapter 43: A Couplet of Birds

Summary:

Dorothea, Petra, and their allies help retake the capitol.

Notes:

Dorothea I and Calphour Macneary (29 Horsebow Moon, 1160 - 12 Horsebow Moon, 1250, Goldcrest) was a renowned opera singer, composer, and the queen consort of Brigid from 1189 to 1250. She composed nearly a dozen operas in her lifetime, both in the Adrestian style and the revitalized Brigidian style, and is considered among the greatest composers in both styles. During her reign, Dorothea Macneary focused on the promotion and revitalization of Brigidian culture, and oversaw the creation of numerous government assistance programs for the most vulnerable in Brigidian society…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Dorothea Macneary. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

The war scuffed at Dorothea’s heart, yet she had fought on anyway, right up to the point where she literally could not fight anymore. Petra knew better than anyone else just how the fighting pained her, had soothed her to sleep and held her through her pain for three years. For three years, Petra would hold Dorothea in her arms and Ardior would cradle Calphour in his wings, and she would ask Dorothea if she wished to leave the front and help the war without fighting, without further staining her hands with blood. And for three years, Dorothea would say no. 

“I won’t leave you,” she had said one night into the shoulder that Petra had reserved for her to cry into. Her brown hair fell around them both like a curtain, a shimmering and impossibly soft shield from the harsh outside world. “I’m not going to leave you in danger just because I’m weak, because I can’t hack it. Not ever.”

“Didn’t I say all this time that this is what those awful nobles and church deserved?” Calphour had said another night, nestled so deep in Ardior’s down that only his tiny beak was visible. “I told Edie, back in school, I’d happily round all those awful people up and drive them into the sea.” He gave a bitter laugh that vibrated against Ardior’s keel. “What right do I have to be upset? I’m not stupid, nobody ever gives up power like that without force. This was always going to end in a war, so why should I be upset when this is what I wanted all along?”

Petra wanted to hold Dorothea close and kiss her self-hatred away. Wanted to tell her that her gentle heart was no weakness, that one could both despair in the destruction of the wildfire and be grateful for the new growth that followed. Wanted to say that she was the most beautiful person in the world, that her mere presence filled her heart and lifted Ardior into flight. She did tell Dorothea these things each and every night, more so after each battle. But it was one thing for Dorothea to murmur that she knew and another thing for her to truly believe, deep in her heart and after a lifetime of pain and rejection, that she was worthy of love even after it all.

It was no matter. Petra loved Dorothea, and she would remind her beloved of that every evening and every morning of every day for the rest of their lives, if Dorothea would have her that long.

Right now though, the wind whipped in their faces and tangled their hair together into a single streaming banner. Dorothea made a small whimpering loose and buried her face into Petra’s shoulder. Then she took a shuddering breath that made her skin tingle and forced herself to look anyway. 

Even though Petra had lived in the empire for years, she never spent much time exploring Enbarr. Most of her years as a hostage were spent on Duke Gerth’s estate, and when they did travel to Enbarr she was usually under guard and consigned to either the noble district, Duke Gerth’s manor, or the palace. She didn’t really know Enbarr, didn’t have a before to compare it to like Dorothea did. What she saw now shocked her words away. 

From what Petra understood, the streets of Enbarr were largely laid out along a grid pattern that followed the canals, but it was impossible to spot any hint of that pattern from above even on this bright clear day. Rubble erased any hint of pavement, and what were once buildings were now blasted out piles of wood and stone. Dorothea made a small choked noise into Petra’s shoulder, and she felt her heart break. 

“Wait,” Ardior called out, loud enough to carry over the wind. He flew beside their wyvern, Calphour hitching a ride on his back. “Petra, look again.”

They did another loop through the sky, a little bit slower this time, and now Petra saw. The rubble had been cleared in many places, but…it was cleared in a very specific way. The piles of shattered buildings had been assembled into what appeared to be chokepoints and barricades, forming concentric rings that seemed to center around and shield the…the opera house?

Calphour poked his head out from Ardior’s feathers; Petra felt Dorothea stiffen and pull back slightly in realization. “They’re using the opera house as their base?!” 

But which they was Dorothea referring to?

Ahead of them, Ladislava pulled her wyvern into a steep dive. Petra followed her, and just as they spiraled downwards a blade of compressed air—a Cutting Gale—tore through the space where they flew just moments before. The winds spun Ardior and Calphour away from them. Petra cried out as the pain of their bond pulled taut, heard Dorothea do the same. She choked for a moment, unable to breathe from it, until the daemons righted themselves and flew closer again. And yet that attack brought relief along with the pain, if only slightly. The Agarthans, their enemy in the shadows, they didn’t use the elemental magic of Linhardt’s wind or Dorothea’s lightning, but rather the shattering dark magic that both Hubert and Lysithea had stolen and made their own. Which meant that this assailant— 

“Hold your fire!” Ladislava flew further to the ground, and as Petra followed the one who attacked them came into view. An androgynous mage a bit older than them with curly teal hair and a crow-like daemon lowered their hands. Their daemon flew off their shoulder and cawed to the interior of the opera house, and moments later Hanneman and Manuela both came running out to greet them. 

“Manuela!” Dorothea’s voice cracked in sheer relief at the sight of her old mentor and guardian. She didn’t even wait for Petra to land before flinging herself to the ground and into Manuela’s embrace where she collapsed into sobs. 

“You’re alive, you’re okay,” Calphour cried out, “I know what Ladislava said but I needed to see it for myself, you actually made it out of that attack okay.”

Manuela just laughed and pulled Dorothea tighter, into a close enough embrace that her lemur daemon needed to hop out of the way. “Come on Dorothea, you’ve known me for years. Would a bunch of self-involved jackasses have been able to touch me?” 

“Of course not, but—“ she sniffled, “You know how it is.”

Petra left her girlfriend and Manuela to reconnect as she landed and ushered her wyvern to a safer location. As she did so, the young mage approached. “Sorry about that,” they said, and now Petra could see the clasp on their vibrantly pastel cloak identifying them as an Imperial mage, and the odd gauntlet and bracer combination firmly attached to their left forearm and hand. “We’re all a bit on edge right now. I’m Aaron and Zamana.” 

Hanneman filled them in. The people of Enbarr had risen up in revolt in response to Arundel quite literally marching in and trying to crush them beneath his heel once more. Corrupt nobles were many, as had always been the case in Fodlan…but Edelgard and Dorothea and her and all their friends had shown that the old  way did not have to be the only way of Fodlan. The uprising caught Arundel by surprise, and what he probably expected to be an easy subjugation had quickly become a siege. His troops were more powerful, but the people of Enbarr were far more numerous and fueled by rage. He couldn’t afford to retreat, so victory was going to come down to which side got reinforcements first—and here they were. 

And yet the cheers from the crowd at their entrance still stunned them. Petra instinctively grasped Dorothea’s hand; she was trembling down to her fingertips. 

“I don’t deserve this,” Dorothea whispered, over and over until Petra squeezed her hand and kissed her neck. The touch calmed her, at least slightly, enough that when the cheers quieted a bit and Manuela asked Dorothea to come with her, she agreed. As Manuela took her off to one corner of the room, Hanneman called Petra over to another. When she followed he pressed something in her hands. 

“It’s a prototype of a crest of Indech mimic,” Hanneman explained as she looked it over. The mimic appeared to be a pair of gauntlets, so thin as to be almost gloves, made of lacquered wood and some type of thin enchanted metal. There was an emblem on each gauntlet; when Petra looked closer she recognized it as the crest of Indech, which would flash in the air just before Bernadetta struck out with speed too swift for any eye to follow. 

Petra remembered what happened to Miklan nearly four years ago and practically threw the gauntlets back at Hanneman. How long had she held those things? She didn’t feel like a monster, Ardior was still beside her hissing at the device—

“Petra, it’s okay!” Hanneman hastily explained. His spider daemon scuttled out from his robes to inspect for any damage. “I made these specifically so that non-crested individuals can harness the power of crests.”

“This one mimics Gloucester,” Aaron explained with a wiggle of their fingers. “I don’t have a crest and I used it for over two hours straight during the attack without any side effects.” 

“If you are having certainty,” said Petra, although she felt none beyond her trust in Hanneman’s good intent, and put it on. 

…Huh. Petra wasn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to feel like, but she wouldn’t have guessed ‘nothing.’ Perhaps it was broken? 

“Either way, we’ll find out soon enough,” mused Ardior. 

There was another shout, a great cry of joy, and much to Petra’s surprise Dorothea had taken the stage. She was trembling, she was terrified, she was hurting and felt undeserving, and she was doing it anyway. 

Dorothea was absolutely radiant. In the light of the broken windows, in Petra’s heart and to anybody who cares to truly look at her beloved, she was beautiful beyond words. Her brilliance, her kindness, her devoted heart, all of it. Dorothea made Petra’s day all the brighter just for being the first person she saw every morning and the last person she saw every night, and it was all worth it to have met her. 

“If Dorothea will have me,” Petra promised herself then and there in her native tongue, “then as soon as this war is over I will bring her back to Brigid with me, and I will be her wife.” 

---

She didn’t deserve this. 

The cheers of the crowd, the friends she made, the trust and friendship of the emperor, the love of Petra, she deserved absolutely none of it. 

“Of course you do,” said Manuela in the same tone as when she prepared her for the shows, all those years ago. “You’re beautiful, you’re brilliant, you’re kind, you worked so hard for all this—gosh, Dorothea, I can’t think of anybody who deserves this more than you!”

“I only got off the streets because you happened to find me! I only got into the academy because I fucking whored myself out to an absolutely vile man for a recommendation!” It had been the absolute worst and most degrading experience in her entire life, she still got hurtled back to that night sometimes if Petra touched her wrong—especially during sex (and yet Petra never yelled at her, never judged, never even gave pity or treated her like broken glass, she didn’t deserve someone like Petra)—and she’d do it all over again if it meant a way out. What did that make her?!

“Oh Dorothea,” Manuela whispered, and Puccini cupped Calphour in his hands and stroked his feathers like when they were young. Like during those blessed few years when Manuela tried to protect her as much as she could for as long as she could. “You did what you had to, in order to survive and prevail.”

“And look what it did to me.” Dorothea found herself wiping her eyes on Manuela’s clothes as if she truly was a child again. “I’m just a filthy—why do they love me? If they found out—“

“The people who would give a shit aren’t worth a shit,” Manuela cut her off, her stern teacher voice instinctually stopping Dorothea’s spiral of self-hatred cold. “Dorothea, you haven’t been here, you haven’t seen. To everyone here? You’re the commoner general. You’ve fought alongside nobles and showed them that we’re just the same as them. You’re the one who made it out.”

Calphour poked his head out from between Puccini’s fingers. “Made it out, and then what? I’ve spent the past three years fighting.”

“You want to know why?”

“Of course I know why!” Dorothea pulled back a bit at her daemon’s words to glare at Manuela, who just smiled and didn’t let go of her embrace.

Puccini just held Calphour in his hands and swept them out over the crowd. Dorothea recognized some of them, vaguely. People on the streets, whom you ignored because there was always a good chance you’d find them starved in the gutter a few days later. A family who saw every public Mittelfrank performance, without fail, and always found their way to the front. The shopkeeper who sold Dorothea her favorite hat. “But you haven’t seen it for yourself,” he whispered. 

Enbarr was…Enbarr was a war zone. The opera house was intact, but crammed with armed citizens. Growing up, Dorothea could keenly remember the…resignation, really, that seemed to smother most of the city. She remembered years fighting other kids over scraps in the garbage, hoping they wouldn’t make her sick, guessing wrong enough times that to this day the very thought of eating fish turned her stomach. She remembered waking up after vomiting until she passed out, finding that the other kid she shared rotting crab with had shat himself to death overnight. She remembered, desperate for water, stumbling to a fountain, only to be kicked out of the way by a noble for daring to exist in his presence. Despite the fury and hatred that flared in her, the desire to pull him down to her level, have Calphour tower over his daemon, have him…she didn’t even know what, just acknowledge that she was a person just like him, despite all that, all she could do was scramble out of the way, Calphour pulling her towards water when she was too weak to walk anymore. 

Dorothea looked out over the crowd, and saw none of that now. There was anger, yes, but it was different now. It wasn’t the sullen helpless anger that calcified over the years into bitter poison because there was nowhere else for it to go. There was something fiery and passionate to it now. There was defiance. There was hope. 

And Dorothea realized, in a flash and all at once,

“I know how this goes.”

There should have been something horribly false about it all as Calphour flew back to Dorothea’s outstretched hand and she took the stage. How many times had she played this role, singing an aria to rally the troops before the courageous final act? And every time, after the curtain fell, the dead artfully splayed across the stage (never any blood, never any stench, always perfectly choreographed so they would fall in ways that wouldn’t hurt) would also get up and take their bows. 

Was she seriously doing this? Was she seriously going to stand up there and sing to the troops like when she played Emperor Agnes in the dramatization of the War for Adrestian Succession? As if this was just another opera? 

Singing would be a mockery, so she didn’t sing at all. When Dorothea took the stage and looked out over the crowd, the hope and defiance out there rekindled in Edie’s flame, that somehow she was a bearer of now…

She’d whored herself out to get into Garreg Mach, because that was the only real option a pretty commoner had to get ahead. Yuri had endured worse, he’d shared one night over shitty booze, at the hands of nobles who’d felt entitled to the Mystical Songstress and seen him as a cheap substitute for her. When he told her, Icarus hunched and shuddering over the table for all that Yuri tried to act flippant, Dorothea wanted to scream, wanted to vomit, wanted to throw herself to the floor and kneel before him and beg for his forgiveness, even though logically she knew they would have found some excuse anyway, because all nearly everyone in power did after generations of being told they were blessed by the goddess just for existing rich and powerful and crested was to do anything. They did what they wanted, they took what they wanted, and they didn’t give a shit about the lives they destroyed in the process. 

Even when the lives they destroyed were their own. 

Bern, Ingrid, even fucking Sylvain, who could they have been, had they been free? 

And as Dorothea looked over the crowd, armed and defiant for the first time in her memory, she knew what to say. 

She told her story. Not every detail, but the parts that they all knew and shared. The way they were all used and abused and told to accept it—embrace it—as the goddess’s will. She spoke about how they had been raised and trained to accept this, but not anymore! They’d been taught their whole lives that anger, discontent, any desire for a better tomorrow was bad. Was unholy. And why? Because that was how the commoners stayed weak. That was how they silenced any voice that could otherwise cry out in suffering. 

But they knew the tricks now. They were given that voice, and an ear to scream it to. Their old methods of control wouldn’t work anymore. 

And as Dorothea spoke, the anger doused by grief flickered to life once more. The flames stoked and grew, and grew until nothing had any hope of dousing them. 

Not even the body that crashed through the ceiling and slammed into the floor. 

The man was very dead, Dorothea dimly noted above the shrieks of the crowd. His daemon was gone, his neck stuck out at an impossible angle, and two of Petra’s arrows sprouted from his back. Calphour looked over to where her lover was just moments before, but Petra had vanished. 

They’d sent someone to assassinate her, specifically. They tried to silence her, because, because—

“So…is throwing teenagers into live combat an official part of church doctrine?”

“I pray the students learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens.”

—And the rage boiled over. 

Dorothea slowly straightened, piece by piece,and swiveled towards the crowd. “You know what the most important lesson I learned at the academy was?” There was a horrible rictus of a grin on her face, she knew, she could feel it pulling at her cheeks, she wished she could see it for herself. “Just how scared those fuckers are of us.” 

“They start us young, you know,” she continued. “We all grew up learning how the nobles were blessed by the goddess, and how we all need to obey the goddess and the church and their teachings. You know what one of my class’s first missions was? To slaughter commoners rebelling against the church. It wasn’t until later that I learned the real purpose was to cow us into obedience. 

“Because that’s the only weapon they have!” She slammed her fist against the brass railing of the carpeted staircase that guided the richest patrons up to the box seats. “The people ruling Fodlan this whole time taught us this was the only way of the world, this is how it’s meant to be, don’t even think about a better Fodlan or else, because they’re fucking terrified of us rising up and fighting back! You think Arundel was expecting this? Of course not! He has no clue what to do other than stomp about and be a brute and rule through fear, and that won’t work anymore!”

All the wretched men who cheered on her performance as the self-proclaimed ‘jealous woman’ Floria, who accosted her after the show begging for one of ‘Floria’s kisses,’ how would they react to just a taste of her true rage? To the reality of her pain and grief? Hah! Likely they’d cower in fear, then cover it up by saying that she was selfish, unladylike, base and hideous.

As Dorothea ground her teeth, Calphour launched off her shoulder and flashed his wings in a proud display for the first time since that terrible day in Arianrhod. Fine! Then let her be selfish! Let her be angry! Let her be all the things they said were ugly and unbecoming for a woman to be! 

She clenched her fist and raised it to the sky. “Those bastards have stepped on our throats and taught us to love it for long enough! All Edie did was show us exactly what we’re capable of! It’s time we taught them too!”

---

Ardior had noticed the assassin first. He moved like somebody unused to the interplay between light and shadow, how to make himself blend in with what the world around him provided. Even the least aware prey would easily notice him back home. 

Dorothea, of course, was not prey. She was the ocean, the storm. Beauty and danger, blessing and destruction. The foundation of her life that could be understood but never mastered, and all those who tried to claim absolute dominion over the sea or storm were doomed to fail. How dare they even try!

Petra pulled herself away from the beauty of Dorothea’s words and fury, and chased after the assassin who would dare silence her. Even here, in this smoking damaged city, she moved with a swiftness and silence that no arrogant man from underground would ever hope to match. She scrambled up a nearby half-collapsed wall, launched herself into the air, went into four-eye, and with Ardior’s guidance shot an arrow into the assassin's back. 

A sudden pressure on her wrists as the braces tightened and pulsed. Between one blink and the next Petra’s arm pulled itself back with a second arrow already nocked. She gasped and the arrow sprouted from the assassin’s back before he had a chance to stagger from the first. She blinked again, recognising the arrow as her own. 

Petra fell out of four-eye in shock, fell to the rooftop and only barely managed to catch herself from sliding off and slamming into the cobblestones below. She heard screams, and Dorothea’s shouts—thank the Spirits, her love, her light was unharmed—and only then let her attention slide to the bracers Hanneman had given her. Was that the crest of Indech just now, or at least its mimic, guiding her to fire a second arrow in the blink of an eye? Ardior hissed at the innocent-looking things, but didn’t dare touch them. 

She felt fine. There wasn’t any pain or discomfort in the braces, just a slight warmth. She didn’t feel the soul-sickness of distance from Ardior, the horrible blunt edge in her heart that she had heard described in the most frightening of the stories. Her daemon was still here, next to her. 

It…Hanneman’s device worked. She was fine. 

The shouting grew louder. The doors burst open. And the crowd spilled out of the damaged opera house like floodwaters held back for too long. 

No, that wasn’t right. Floodwater had no direction; it was a neverending wave of sheer destruction. There was an order here, a guidance to the movement that Petra could just make out from above. With Dorothea’s return, she was…

“She’s leading everyone to the palace!” Ardior shouted in their native tongue. Hanneman had explained that they’d avoided any direct assaults up until now because of the risk involved; they’d only have one chance for an outright attack like that. “We need to cover them!” 

A part of Petra hoped that the artificial crest would give her an extra burst of speed, but whether it was deliberate or simply not within its parameters (she’d have to ask Bernadetta, when they returned), but it remained still and silent as she lept off the low roof, rolled out of the fall, sprinted over to where she had tied up her wyvern, and took flight. 

Up above, she could easily make out the flow of rioters, streaming around the barricades they made, split into three. Petra couldn’t make out who led each group, but even without sight she knew that Dorothea had to be leading the charge, the center group all but sprinting toward the palace. 

Petra lowered her head, Ardior tucked his wings, and they sped towards the front. The wind roared in her ears, too loud to hear anything but a formless shouting from below, and Petra flew even faster to catch up. She managed to do so, just as a cloud of impossibly thick fog descended over the streets almost as far as she could see. 

A battle on the Magred Way, years ago, instantly came to mind. There a magical fog had obscured their path and made ambushes terrifyingly easy. They’d had to kill the mage conjuring it for the path to clear. She fumbled for a torch— 

—Another Cutting Gale, but with a little less power and a little more finesse than the ones that Linhardt reluctantly used in battle, sliced through the fog. Petra watched as the heavy mist split in two and temporarily exposed the streets before descending onto them again. Ardior glanced down and saw Aaron there on a rooftop, readying another blast of wind magic. 

Petra dove down to where the mage stood, low enough that her wyvern’s talons skimmed the stone tiles with a horrible shriek. She grabbed them by their cloak and in one movement swung them onto her wyvern behind her. “We must be clearing a path!” she shouted before they could protest too much. 

Petra’s field of vision shrank to the domain of the torch, just a couple meters of light bouncing off formless shapes in the fog, thicker than even the morning mist that rolled along the base of the cliffs at home. Her heart hammered in her chest but she urged her wyvern on. She was grateful for the relief of Aaron’s wind spells, flashes of clarity in the swirling mist, but they revealed no mage.

Petra tightened her grip on the reins. She needed to slow down; they were so low to the ground, and it was so hard to see, she could easily slam right into a building without realizing. They had to be getting closer though—the fog was getting thicker, the radius of light shrinking. Aaron needed to cast wind magic faster and faster, and she could hear them starting to pant from exertion. She couldn’t even see Ardior anymore; the mist completely swallowed up his white body. Even though Petra always felt him beside her, she couldn’t help but shudder. 

“There!” Ardior cried out, his voice almost ghostly without a visible body to attach it to. But Petra knew where he was calling to, and looked down, and saw what he did. 

There! On a raised platform surrounded by pillars, probably used for performances in better days, stood a mage. No, not just any mage, Petra recognized with another brief lifting of the fog, but Myson, guarded by two heavily armored fortress knights. 

“That mage is the one who is making the fog! We must be defeating him!” Petra said.

A high-pitched whistle and the prickle of dark magic were the only warnings. Petra banked sharply to the right, twisting into a barrel roll to avoid a volley of arrows and dark magic from below. Two of them punched right through her wyvern’s wing. She gritted her teeth as he shrieked, the sound echoing through her ears and ringing through her skull, fighting against his thrashing before they could be flung from his back.

With a voice she forced into soothness Petra guided her faithful mount to the ground, and blunted the force of their crash. He groaned in pain as he skidded to a stop, but his breathing was steady and Petra didn’t see any bleeding or serious injuries with what little visibility she had. She scrambled down easily, but Aaron fell to the ground and only barely managed to break their fall. Was anyone coming in their moment of vulnerability? No, the fog must be disorienting them too, keeping them in a defensive stance, she had a little time. 

“I’m okay!” shouted their jackdaw daemon as Aaron staggered to their feet to aid her. 

“You are not a fighter, and I will not be having you further risk your life!” Ardior shouted back as Petra tipped a vulnary into her wyvern’s mouth and grabbed her weapons. “Get Ladislava and Hanneman!” The jackdaw daemon opened their beak to protest, but at her glare he closed it. Aaron snapped a quick salute, then ran off into the mist and vanished. She could hear movement through the fog—armored boots scuffing against stone, a low chanting voice. Petra took a deep breath, gripped her kampilan, and charged.

The armored knights were powerful, and tough, but they were so slow. It was no effort at all for Petra to slide under the wide swinging arc of a silvered axe, twist around as she sprung to her feet, and slam the heavy chopping edge of her kampilan into the back of his neck. The fortress knight staggered back, wounded but not killed. Ardior threw himself at his toucan daemon, and the two birds screeched and pecked and tore at one another as Petra put faith in herself and followed the sound of Myson’s chanting. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear him maintain the spell, and she let that sound guide her and her blade into his side. 

Myson gasped, and his skunk daemon let out a horrible shriek, and Petra felt the bracers pulse again. But instead of another swing of her blade, Ardior struck out. She felt, through their connection, Ardior beat his wings once, twice more against the toucan daemon, heard her neck snap, then heard the clatter of metal against stone as her human fell down dead. 

“Damn surface beasts!” Myson snarled, as if he weren’t as human as her. Petra readied herself as best she could for a magical attack, but instead his skunk daemon launches herself at Ardior. Sharp teeth and powerful claws dug into his belly, snapped his leg and left it dangling and useless. 

Pain exploded through Petra, as sharp and overwhelming as if it was her leg which had been snapped in two. She and Ardior screamed as one, she buckled even though her leg was technically whole, and Myson used that opening to sneer and cast what Petra recognized as Swarm right in her face. 

Darkness descended, along with the swarm of endless bugs. Ardior beat his wings against her skin to try to drive them off before rising away from Myson’s daemon. The arcane swarm consumed her, filled her vision, streamed into the eyes and ears and nose and month. They bit and bit and bit and all she could do was thrash and flail and claw at her face, blotting her vision to nothing, and stinging, the constant needle-pricks all over her, she could feel nothing else—

The spell stretched seconds into hours, but the clanking of armour and hiss of drawn steel cut through the fog and pain. No!

The Swarm spell was fading, and with all her strength Petra rolled out of the way just as the other fortress knight’s axe flashed into vision and came down. She heard it chop through something before slamming against the stone dais, but there was no pain. What did it cut? It didn’t matter. The spell faded, left Petra’s face aching and blistered and probably covered in tiny red welts, but she was still almost as strong as that man in the armor and so much faster. Quick as a viper, she pulled out a dagger and drove it into the slightly exposed ankle of the knight. She yanked it to the side, felt his tendon pop, and when the fortress knight cried out and fell crippled to the ground Petra pulled herself up his armor, forced his head back, and buried another dagger in his throat. 

“You’re a fast one,” Myson growled, his daemon taking a step back behind him. He raised his hand to cast another spell, the dark magic warping the air around his fingers. Around them, the fog swirled. “You’ve made a big mistake, foreign beast—!”

With an odd lightness on the back of her neck, Petra flung herself at Myson’s face, tackled him head-on, and slammed him into the ground. The spell fizzled, and all words vanished into primal snarls as they struggled on the ground. They rolled back and forth on the dais, clawing at each other, slipping in blood, bumping against the corpse of the man she stabbed. It was nothing, nothing like the grappling exercises Byleth had them all practice, nothing like the spars she and Caspar had. This was two people trying to kill each other with their bare hands. Petra sunk her teeth into Myson’s wrist, bit down until the skin split and hot blood filled her mouth. Myson clawed at her face and tried to jam his fingers into her eyes. His nails raked at the welts from his swarm spell; her blood ran down her face and mixed with his until they were impossible to tell apart. 

But though Myson was bigger than her, Petra was faster and stronger. She jammed her knee into his crotch, and when he reflexively gasped she headbutted him right in the face. She heard his nose crackle, his breaths turn slightly foamy from the blood that ran down his throat. In that moment of space, Petra grabbed the dagger buried in the throat of the fortress knight they had rolled up against and sliced open Myson’s. She held him down in his death throes, and only when he went limp and his daemon crumbled to golden dust did she let herself crumple and all the pain and injuries wash over her. 

The adrenaline vanished with the fog, replaced by sheer exhaustion. Ardior spiraled to the ground and draped his wings over her; his mangled leg echoed throbbing agony in hers though it was whole. She was covered in blood, unable to tell how much of it was hers versus those she killed. Even more blood pooled around them and trickled down the dais like some parody of a sacrificial altar. Her hair was quickly drying in sticky chunks that clung to the back of her neck, but something was wrong—

“Petra,” Ardior croaked and tilted his head. She followed her daemon’s gaze to a blood-soaked spill of wine-purple hair, nearly half a meter long, carefully cultivated braids still in place despite being chopped in half. 

Her shoulders were cold, and nothing brushed against her upper arms or cushioned her back against the stone. 

Dorothea’s shoes appeared at the edge of her vision, running closer. Petra closed her eyes. She could deal with it later. For now, Dorothea was safe, and the way to the palace was clear. 

---

What was happening in there? The dense magical fog covered everything, but Dorothea could hear shouts, the clank and clatter of armor, screams. She heard Ardior cry out, a distant scream of pain that she had never before heard from his beak. 

“ARDIOR!” Calphour cried out, flying into the fog until the connection with Dorothea physically jerked him back, and it was all she could do to not charge in blindly or drop a meteor guided by sound alone. She had to trust Petra, had to believe that she could handle anything that came her way—

The fog lifted—no, vanished in an instant as suddenly as it had appeared. Right before Dorothea’s eyes lay the large pedestal on which she would perform for the public during the Saint Cethleann Day festivals, one of the few times in the year where the opera was open to all. 

Except now, four bodies lay on the dais, and blood flowed down its sides like water. 

“PETRA!” Dorothea took off running, desperate, her foot slipped and she stumbled but caught herself and kept going. Faster and faster, her lungs burned, the moment she was in range she cast the strongest Physic she could muster, prayed to whatever force might care enough to listen that the spell would reach a living being, begged that Petra was alright—

A figure slowly staggered to her feet, a large bird next to her spread his wings. Covered in blood, her hair hacked short and plastered to her neck, Petra stood. The sight of her, wounded but alive, was the most beautiful sight Dorothea had ever beheld. A choked sob bubbled from Dorothea’s throat as she flung herself at Petra, embraced her warmth, her life. 

“Dorothea,” Petra gasped as they peppered each other with hasty kisses, “We will be having more time for kisses after the fighting.”

“Right, right.” She pulled herself away from Petra, though it was the hardest thing imaginable, and took off towards the palace. 

Not until much later would Dorothea realize that she had led the charge, that she had taken on the role she had played onstage without even realizing it. She would downplay it later on, say that she was nothing more than the face of centuries of built-up resentment and rage, but she still led the charge. 

There was a triumphal arch just before the gates of the palace, through which all victory marches in Adrestia’s history would pass. Great victories over the years were etched into its stones. Arundel stood there now, flanked by more cavalry. 

She and Hanneman were ready. They locked eyes, and cast Meteor as one. Above them, the clear sky opened up, and out of nowhere flaming rocks slammed into the archway, crushing the soldiers under centuries of history.

Not Arundel, of course. They weren’t that lucky. Only a light shower of rubble and a few scratches marred his countenance as he stepped forward for battle. “You upstart beasts truly think yourselves equal to the likes of us?”

“Why are you all like this?!” Dorothea screamed in frustration and a flare of the magic the nobles said she was never meant for. “Why are you all so fucking insistent on saying that you’re oh so different from the rest of us? That you’re better than the rest of us?!”

Arundel’s eyes flashed. What did he really look like, under the man whose face he wore? “Are you seriously trying to compare me to the likes of you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! The proof is right there on your shoulder!” Calphour shouted, pointing a wing at the fluffy tamarin perched there. “I’ve seen false daemons before, and even if you’re disguised you’re as real as me!”

Arundel didn’t really have an answer to that, which of course meant that his answer was, predictably, to get violent. Men.  

Dark magic, forced into the form of a grinning laughing skull, shot her way. Hah! As if she didn’t know magic! As if she hadn’t spent literal years sparring with Hubert and Lysithea and the dark magic of their own! The reinforced Levin sword crackled with her lightning as she swung it down and cut the spell in half. It dissipated around her, flecks of dark magic making her arm tingle uncomfortably. She forced that tingling into a Thoron of her own, directed at him through the point of her sword. He grunted; his daemon flew off his shoulder from the impact and started screeching. 

They circled each other, slinging spell after spell. She dodged his macabre death, he shrugged off her furious thunder and lightning from sheer resistance. Calphour tucked himself into her hair, a tiny ball of warmth to ground her. There were no more words, no banter, just grunts and shouts and the crackle of magic. 

Something had to give. 

“You’re nothing more than a base animal!” Arundel shouted, as if yelling it would make it true, and blasted another Death spell at her. Again that chattering skull rushed towards her, but as Dorothea rose her sword to deflect the spell the raw force of it overpowered her. It rushed up her arm, exploded under her skin. It stole the breath from her lungs so only Calphour could scream. Her sword started to slip from her fingers.

No! It wasn’t going to end like this! With the last of her strength Dorothea grasped the current of magic, gathered her own in return. She forced the arcane energy back down her arm, against the flow of her blood, and back out the levin sword. Her magic oozed slightly at the edges like thick mud, slightly gray with a stench of rot instead of her own familiar ozone. But it was still her magic, she could still use it—she channelled it through the sword with a soundless cry of defiance and flung it back where it came. Arundel’s eyes went wide in the brief second before his own spell struck him in the face.

He staggered under the blow and with a shout of pain fell to his knees. Dorothea gripped her sword (her arm from the elbow down was still simultaneously burning and numb, thousands of tiny needles stabling at it from the inside out) and stepped forward. 

“Agartha will rise,” he growled, dropping the facade. He clutched his daemon to his chest, and in a flash of shadow, he vanished.

“No! Get back here!” She sprinted up the stairs to the palace, but it was too late. He was gone. 

They fought through the streets of Enbarr for hours, searched through every alley, every room, every level of the palace. They found his lackeys, killed other agarthans. But Arundel himself had vanished from Enbarr.

“He might be regrouping and coming back with reinforcements,” Ladislava announced. “We’ll need to train everyone and prepare the city so we won’t be caught unaware again.” Nobody mentioned the possibility of Arundel returning to his base to launch more javelins of light—there wasn’t anything they could actually do if that were the case, and Hubert had said such an attack would take a while to perform again, so why dwell on it? 

The whole time, though the pain in Dorothea’s arm faded, the tingling remained. She’d caught glimpses of her arm, but her mind slid past and Calphour refused to look for the sake of her sanity. But now, she took a deep breath, steeled herself, and looked.

…

Every time she cast an immense amount of lightning magic all at once, it left scars on her arms. They were bright red, almost lacy, and branched out dozens of times like frost on a window or the roots of a tree. Petra always said they were beautiful, and Dorothea would have agreed if they weren’t on her skin. The markings always faded after some time, but by now she’d burned them into her arm so many times that some imprint remained, permanently. The marks had returned after her mage duel with Arundel, arcing all the way up to the crease in her elbow, but now they were burned in place—no longer bright red, but black. They looked like Hubert’s hands, marred and blotchy like spilled ink from dark magic recoil, but in the pattern of her own thunder, and Dorothea knew instantly that these brands would never fade. 

She would not cry. She would not cry. So much death today as they liberated Enbarr, she was not going to cry over her ruined arm. She was not that selfish, not that shallow. 

But…she was beautiful. She had been beautiful, that was her only weapon, her only saving grace, the only thing that had given her worth for so long. Yes, yes, it was bullshit, she was more than her beauty, but it hadn’t been for so long. And now…now…

Before she even noticed, Petra had swept her up and kissed away her tears. “We did it,” she whispered. “Arundel may be returning, but we can be…can drive him out once more.” 

Dorothea tried to open her mouth, but no words would come—just a shaky breath. Calphour kept flitting his gaze down to her ruined arm, until Ardior looked up and noticed it too. Petra’s eyes went wide, and for a moment a spark of the old fear and insecurity shot through Dorothea. She wouldn’t, would she…

Petra’s whole body went soft. “You have been touched by the storm spirit,” she murmured in awe, and then she brought Dorothea’s magic-stained fingers to her lips and kissed them like they were holy.  

That…no. Something in Dorothea broke at the simple matter-of-factness of Petra’s words, as if her declaration of beautiful and holy was a simple truth of the world. How in the world could Petra see this, her, as something, anything other than ugly or ruined? Everything she did to keep herself beautiful, for all those years she was told that was the only thing keeping her off the streets again, and Petra just, she just—

Petra smiled, and though she was wounded, though her face was covered in welts from a dark magic spell, though her braids had been hacked off and dried blood plastered the remaining choppy hair to her skin, she was still the most beautiful woman Dorothea had ever seen.

…Was this how Petra saw her?  

“Dorothea,” Petra said as if she hadn’t just quietly destroyed her entire self-loathing view of the world and rebuilt it with adoration all in one breath, “I am needing you, if you will be having me.”

“I…what?” What was Petra saying? She, she couldn’t possibly be…

“I am needing your insight, your wisdom, your kindness,” Petra said. Ardior stretched out his neck, and at that silent invitation Calphour flew down. “I am needing you. Every day you are making my heart full. You are filling my mornings with joy by being my first sight upon waking, and filling my evenings with peace by falling asleep in your arms. I love you, Dorothea, and if you will have me, I am wanting…want to make you my queen, my wife.”

All her life, Dorothea had resigned herself to a loveless marriage, to surrendering herself to a nightmare of a man in exchange for not starving to death on the streets. But here, now…

How could this be real and not a drama? How lucky was she? Dorothea laughed, and cried, and laughed some more, and the joy fizzed through her like champagne as she kissed Petra’s face and smiled against her mouth and their daemons danced in flight together. “Yes, Petra! Yes, I will marry you!” 

There was so much left to do. There was still a war to win, still a city to rebuild. Still two nations to make right, millions of people to actually lead instead of exploiting. But they would do it together, and she would never be alone again. 

Notes:

Thank you, QuoteMyFoot, for helping with the action scenes.

One thing I noticed is that the CF route, in particular, is a validation of anger. How often do you see female characters as viscerally angry as Dorothea and Edelgard are in media, and how often is that anger not portrayed as something Wrong and Bad?

Anger is so often viewed as the domain of men, and when we’re angry we’re called emotional, told that it’s not womanly. We’re invalidated.

Let us be angry.

God, I love this game so much.

Oh, and the stuff with Yuri? That’s canon. Fodlan is beyond saving, and needs to be burnt to the ground.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I can’t believe we’re so close to the end. Let me know what you think if you want, and see you all soon?

Chapter 44: Those Who Wither In The Dark

Summary:

Claude and his friends storm Shambala, pay a heavy price, and learn about Fodlan's other city without light.

Notes:

Petra I and Ardior Macneary (7 Horsebow Moon, 1164 - 29 Horsebow Moon, 1260, Snow Goose) was the Queen of Brigid from 1189 until 1260. After spending most of her childhood as an Adrestian hostage, she fought alongside Emperor Edelgard II in the Fodlani War of Liberation, then returned to Brigid to take the throne. During her reign Brigid rapidly modernized and reformed, and over the course of her lifetime transformed from a collection of often feuding islands into a united, modern regional power. Her many reforms included, but are not limited to, universal basic education, universal basic health care…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Petra Macneary. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

Were they even in Goneril territory anymore? Ugh, all these mountains looked exactly the same. All endless peaks, lined with trees at the base and covered with ice and snow up top, littered with boulders and crevasses and tiny gaps that they all had to wedge single file to get through, which took forever given their battalions, who had to stop a little while back anyway. Yeesh, she could wander around here completely lost forever, and wind up in Almyra if she didn’t fall to her death at the bottom of a ravine first. How Balthus or anyone from Kupala managed to find their way around these freezing cold peaks and endless gorges were beyond Hilda. They’d had to land halfway up the location; Claude was too worried about getting shot down. 

It wasn’t even like there was a trail! Crags everywhere, rocks everywhere, weeds and saplings and low scrubby bushes everywhere, ugh, her clothes were utterly ruined, and Hilda was pretty sure that she’d rubbed up against poison ivy at some point given how her calves were starting to itch. See, this was why she hated traveling in the wilderness! Give her a comfy bed and a warm fireplace and some jewelry to make any day of the week over this. 

“We’re doing this for Marianne,” Halmstadt quite literally whispered into her ear, as if she needed the reminder. It did help though, made the itching and the cold a bit easier to ignore. Claude has told them the gist, that the people who actually attacked Enbarr and tried to make the Alliance the fall guys had also kidnapped Marianne for a political stunt! And, like, done a ton of other awful stuff too, but honestly Hilda hadn’t really caught most of the other details, not that Claude gave a ton of them. Either way it didn’t matter. She was gonna make them pay for what they did to Marianne, and by the way Lorenz and Ignatz and Raphael had immediately hopped on board, they were more than happy to join in too. 

It was so empty, their little herd of deer, without Marianne, without Lysithea or Leonie. For one thing, it was a complete sausage party without the three of them. For another thing, Hilda just—she missed them. She missed Marianne’s gentle nature and the way they could talk about anything for hours now that Marianne felt safe and comfortable and was just in a better state. She missed Leonie and her frankness like a hot knife, her drive, the way talking to her made her feel like it was worth doing something. She missed Lysithea, the sheer amount of energy and life in her. Just, Hilda missed her classmates and friends.

Oh, and there was also the fact that they were about to go attack a base of evil mole men or something in the mountains without Marianne’s healing, Leonie’s pure grit, or Lysithea’s ability to make things explode just by waving her hands. That was a really big problem. 

“Ugh, why didn’t we go ask Edelgard for them back?” Hilda muttered even though she knew every single reason that wouldn’t work. They didn’t even have time to go to Abyss to grab Baltie! Damn, he’d love to be on a mission like this…

Her thoughts trailed off into the quiet, her sentence swallowed up by the trees with only whispered formless echoes bouncing back. “Hey, uh, Halmstadt?” She’d expected him to say something by now, but he’d been oddly silent. Still too; he’d landed on her shoulder and now he was barely moving, wings beating slowly back and forth in time with his thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”

Her daemon didn’t respond, just slowly beat his wings some more. Nobody else around them seemed to notice. Claude was in front, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his padded clothes undulating slightly from Simurg’s rapid slithering if anyone looked closely enough to see. Raphael’s normal cheer was gone; Oakley’s tail fluttered back and forth as she sniffed the air for anything amiss. Ignatz was off in his own world, scanning the horizon alongside Mistella. Judith and her hyena daemon Shihook both looked like they were itching to tear someone’s throat out. They were all silent, with no sounds other than their footsteps and the cries of circling birds. She shook her head, quick and sharp, and he tumbled off her shoulder. “Halmstadt!” she hissed, and ignored the sudden glares from everyone around her as she stepped on the thin silent tension.

Halmstadt quickly righted himself, his enormous butterfly wings brushing against her cheek. “Sorry, it’s just—doesn’t the whole ‘mole men in the mountains’ thing sound kinda familiar?”

That made Hilda pause mid-step, force her to stumble and keep up as she wracked her brain. Had she heard anything about a secret group of men in the mountains? Any stories, any rumors, anything like that? 

…Now that she really tried to think about it, there was something weirdly familiar about it all. Baltie had mentioned…something…about ghosts in the mountains, places that were haunted, where nobody dared tread. She’d always dismissed his stories as, well, that, and she’d never really paid attention to any of the stories or reports from the Goneril soldiers that had actually traveled outside the Locket. What did it matter? She wasn’t ever gonna be the leader of her house anyway, so it didn’t, like, matter if she paid attention or not.

Heh. She was paying for that now. 

They plodded on for quite some time, long enough for the sun to pass overhead and start its long journey back down over the horizon. Hilda’s legs burned, she was hungry, and just this one time she didn’t dare complain. Every time she wanted to she saw just how tense Claude was. Heck, she could practically hear his jaw grinding in the silence. 

“Keep doing that and your teeth will totally break off,” she whispered to Claude in an attempt to break the tension. No response.

“The boy’s really stepped in it now,” Shihook whispered to Halmstadt. 

Well, false-whispered anyway, it was definitely loud enough for Claude to hear, because this actually did make Simurg poke her head from his thick padded clothes and hiss, “You didn’t have to come, you know?”

“Eh,” Judith shrugged. “Someone needed to be the adult here and keep you safe.”

“Thanks, Judith,” Claude not-muttered as well.

The silence fell once more, and smothered them for several hours until it was torn apart by a low growl. Everyone was ready for battle in seconds; Freikugel glowed and pulsed in Hilda’s hands before she even realized she had drawn it. Raphael had his best gauntlets, Lorenz dual-wielded a brave lance and Thyrsus, and Claude…nocked one of Zoltan’s surviving bows (he told her he’d lost Failnaught. When she called him out on that obvious lie his face went all dark and he promised her that he’d tell the truth when this was all over. Hilda was going to hold him to that). Hilda’s muscles tensed, she ached for a fight and to take this building stress out of something—

“Does anyone else see that?” Ignatz asked. By his knees, Mistella was still growling and snarling, her hackles raised. Iggy stared off in the distance, at a ledge that looked pretty much like any other. Maybe it jutted out a bit more, but there were a bunch of trees…look, mountains were mountains.

“What are you talking about, Iggy?” she asked him. 

“Look, beyond those trees.” He pointed a finger at that thick copse of conifers, and Hilda seriously had no idea what he was talking about. “I noticed a glint of metal. And there’s something very off about the shading.”

Hilda looked again, and, “Nope. I seriously have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

“But if you’ve noticed something, then I trust you,” Claude said, and wow Hilda wanted to give him a hug for being brave enough to do that. “Come on everyone, look sharp.” 

Of course, even though that ledge was right fucking there, actually getting to it was a bitch and a half entirely! As soon as they rounded the bend they realized it wasn’t actually a ledge but an entire fucking low plateau, covered by trees, and scrubby little bushes whose names Hilda never bothered to learn. But…

But Ignatz was right. Now that they were up there, there was a…a building, under the trees. It was painted green, but the paint was chipped and peeling in places. Underneath was metal—glinting in places, rusting in others—mixed with a weird type of mortar that Hilda had never seen before. And the cliff face that led further up the mountain? The really, really broad and deep one? There was an enormous tunnel dug into it. Moss and vines clung to the walls,  but Hilda could still see the scrape marks on the walls even from this distance. And on the edge of the tunnel was what looked like a weird rectangular metal box, with a shiny glass circle on the end of it that reminded Hilda a little bit of Ignatz’s glasses. It dangled from the ceiling of the tunnel by what looked like thick rope, and swung slightly in the breeze. Was it meant to watch people? She’d heard of scrying glasses in fables, but never any held in metal boxes, or able to operate on their own without a mage’s control. 

They piled into the trees, and hoped that the evergreens would shield them, they waited for an attack…but none came. Ignatz looked up and licked his lips. “The sun’s gonna set in a couple hours,” he whispered. “If we’re going to explore, we need to do it now.” 

“So which should we check first?” Lorenz whispered, “The metal building, or the tunnels?”

“The building,” Claude said. “If we get ambushed in those tunnels, it’ll turn into an instant killbox. I want more space to maneuver, especially if anything is inside that building.” He stood up with a practiced hand motion. “Everyone, follow me. Don’t split up.” 

The building was—Hilda could tell that it had been there a long time. Like, a really long time. Rust crept along the metal with only a couple shiny spots that Ignatz was a fucking eagle to have caught glinting in the light. Bits of the masonry had The mortar was crumbling in places, moss and vines boring off chunks which scattered the ground. As they approached Hilda saw what might have been the foundation of another building, but it was long gone. Just some mossy rocks and mortar and bits of rusted metal, arranged in what was once a square. 

There weren’t any windows on this building either. No, wait, there were these thin horizontal slots close to the ceiling, all around. That made them stop and think. When they weren’t all felled by massed archer fire, they cautiously approached. As they rounded the other side, Hilda could see that the roof was falling in in places, and the door was broken off one of its hinges, the wood rotted and caving in slightly on top, swollen and fat and completely stuck in place on the bottom. A sapling grew from one of the buckling gutters. 

“I got this.” Raphael nudged her aside, flexed his arms, pried his silver gauntlets into a thin crack in the wood, and in mere moments tore what was left of the door off the rest of the way and reduced it to splinters. 

Inside was…one of the oddest things Hilda had ever seen. It looked like there were multiple low metal benches in the middle of the room, all of them in some stage of rust around the corners and hinges. There was a poster, a map? She could sorta make out Fodlan’s Fangs? Either way it was waterlogged, mildewed, and nearly illegible. There were several…cubbies? Along the walls? They looked kinda like the cubbies in the sauna, but they were also made of rusting metal. They were full, or at least a couple were, and unlike everything else here the stuff in the cubbies seemed fairly new. Okay fine they were covered in dust so clearly they hadn’t been touched in a while but they weren’t, you know, rotting. So this place was used, but clearly not often, and clearly not maintained…

“Don’t touch that!” Simurg hissed, but she was too late to stop Ignatz from pulling out some of the bundled fabric. It unfurled to the ground with a puff of dust that made Ignatz cough and Mistella sneeze. 

The little spaniel daemon sniffed the dark drab fabric, then hopped back, snarling. “Hilda,” Ignatz asked, “Have you ever seen fabric like this before?”

Her curiosity piqued, Hilda carefully approached and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. She shook her head—she hadn’t ever seen or felt a fabric like this before. It was similar to the house loungewear, but the stitching was much narrower, the clothing simultaneously warmer and more breathable. What the heck was this fabric? All she needed was to make it in a brighter fabric, maybe add some embroidery or gemstone beads, and she could make a fortune off it!

Soft wings smacked her cheek. “Focus, Hilda,” He guided her gaze to another door. This one was in much better shape. It wasn’t rotting, in any case. The inside of the room was in much better condition, with peeling paint and a bit of rust, but it wasn’t falling apart. 

Inside this room…it was entirely steel, from the floor to the strange device pressed flush against the wall. That device was, it looked like a long low desk, with several panels made of dark glass, and a couple rows of multicolored buttons and switches and even a lever or two. One of the buttons was much bigger and redder than the others. 

“Don’t touch it,” Lorenz snapped at Claude, who had snuck up to inspect the device. Vincatel was outside; she was too big to cram in here with everyone else. 

Claude drew his hand back. Nobody else dared poke the device.

“This is incredible,” Ignatz murmured. “Clearly, these black glass panels are meant to show something, but how? With magic? And what are all these buttons for?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait to find out what they’re hiding down there,” Claude said, rubbing his hands together, a little bit of his joy at digging up secrets like buried treasure bubbling up and leaking out. Then he seemed to remember why they were there and that old Claude joy vanished again. 

Raphael looked like he wanted to body his way to the front, but Oakley was also too big to comfortably cram into the room, so he settled for craning over their shoulders at the back. “You think they have a manual or something down there?”

“If they do, I don’t know if we’ll be able to read it,” Ignatz replied, pointing at some of the labels. Huh. Now that Hilda looked closer, there was lettering on there, but it was in an entirely unfamiliar script. She couldn’t even read the words carved into the raised metal, much less understand them. 

What the hell were they walking into, if their enemies underground were leaving technology like this literally lying around to slowly rust, if this was what they considered expendable? 

Just what kind of death trap were they walking into here?

Had Claude come to the same awful realization? He’d been standing in front of the device for a while, hunched over with Simurg dangling all limp around his neck and his handprints smudging the dark glass. “You don’t have to be here on my account,” he choked out in a rough voice. “You should go, while you can.”

Oh no, they weren’t going down this stupid road. Hilda slapped her hand on Claude’s shoulder—the one opposite where Simurg coiled herself—and spun him around to face her. “Not gonna happen. No way am I gonna abandon my old buddy Claude. I’m with you to the end, just like the mock battle, remember? We aren’t leaving you alone.”

Claude roared in her face. “THIS ISN'T A GAME!” Flecks of spittle landed on her cheeks, and Claude spun back away. He bent over, his chest heaving. Simurg slid off his shoulder and started squirming and flailing all over the ground, her rattle hissing in a way that shot right down Hilda’s spine. Claude clapped his hand over his face, tilted his head back, and laughed. It was bitter, and hateful, and was something that she’d heard coming out of Sylvain’s mouth loads of times, but never Claude’s. It was so wrong, hearing that tone from him. “And after all this, I was still arrogant enough to waltz right in and think I could…” 

Simurg reared back up, her fangs bared as if ready to bite down and inject venom. “We have to get out of here. Going any further without backup is walking into a death trap. I’m not gonna let you—”

A flash of purple light reflected under the door, and the sudden voice of an unknown female daemon, cut off whatever Simurg was about to say. 

“—Thales, we don’t have another option! We need to get Styx and warp back to Enbarr now , before those worms have a chance to—”

The door flung open, and Hilda found herself staring in the face of some old fart and his tiny black and white tamarin daemon. They both looked like death warmed over—horribly pale and wrinkly, washed out from hair to fingertips, oh and covered in blood and stinking of magical burns. 

The old fart—Thales, apparently—stared back at them. Dark magic curled up his hands. 

Hilda only remembered bits and pieces of the absolute chaos that happened next.

---

Somehow they all managed to escape the shack before Thales blew it up. 

Claude coughed on the dust and rubble thrown up by the blast as Thales blasted himself free of the smoking, sparking ruin of the shack. Had he destroyed the shack on purpose? All that knowledge, all that technology…Claude bit back a cry of loss and fired a shot at Thales which scraped his shoulder and bounced off scrap metal. 

Screams and shouts and metal on metal, then flesh, caught Claude's attention. Behind him, dozens of soldiers kept pouring out of that tunnel like it was the opening to a djinn’s lamp. They blinked and squinted at the sunlight as they emerged. 

If it weren’t for his friends, he’d be dead by now. If it weren’t for the terrain, they’d be dead by now. But there was a rockslide that cut off part of the path between the shack and the tunnel that housed the secret base. Hilda planted herself there and made her stand. Freikugel flashed in the air as she cut down anyone who tried to pass. For all their aggression they were hesitant, uncertain of where to move—how long had it been since they last saw the sun?

“Claude!”

Simurg’s cry jolted him back to the present, back to the spike of dark magic headed right for him! He threw himself to the ground, felt the sharp pebbles dig into his face, the chill of dark magic rush overhead. An attack that powerful would leave Thales open, give Claude a moment to stand and get some distance and nock another arrow.

What was wrong with him?! He was fighting one of the strongest dark mages in all of Fodlan, and he was letting his mind wander! Focus, dammit!

“It’s Failnaught,” Simurg realized. “We’ve— Claude, behind you!— we’ve gotten too dependent on that bow!”

Fuck, like always his daemon was right. There was something about Failnaught, whenever Claude wielded Chulainn’s remains he felt hyperaware of everything around him, able to easily anticipate and dodge every attack. 

But Failnaught was gone, its heart and bones disassembled and laid to rest on the shore of Lake Teutates. Zoltan’s bow was a marvel, but it was just a bow. He’d have to dodge this on his own. 

“We’ve got to do more than dodge to win!” Simurg shouted in Claude’s mind as he rolled away from another blast of dark magic, whipped around and fired an arrow right into the meat of Thales’s hand. His tamarin daemon screamed, but he made no sound other than a pained grunt. They’d gone beyond words; this was a fight to the death. 

A fight that, if Thales were at full strength, he would have won. 

But whatever happened in Enbarr had left him badly wounded, left his attacks slow and easy to telegraph and dodge. Maybe Claude could actually win this one, but fuck, he hated maybes so, so much. Especially when they ended in his death if things went wrong! Or the deaths of his friends!

His arms burned, he could feel his fingers bleeding through the hand guards, but he kept firing. Some of the arrows lodged into Thales’s clothes, others missed entirely, but some of them, more and more of them, hit home. But he couldn’t get a lethal shot, not when he was trying to dodge Thales’s equally lethal attacks! 

“I need a little help!” Claude gasped out, but one look at the chokepoint and he could see no help was coming. Hilda held the line, even from this distance Claude could see the feral grin on her face, the pulsing red glow of Freikugel as she tore through literal waves of enemies. Could the Nabatean mutilated into that axe sense that it was being wielded against its murderers? Could it feel satisfaction at the chance for vengeance? Either way, Hilda had planted her feet and would not move. 

Ignatz had hidden himself in the trees up above. He’d used the chaos of the exploding shack to scramble up one of the conifers. As Claude watched, a masked dark mage far in the back crumpled bonelessly to the ground, an arrow sprouting from his eye. 

Raphael shouted and flung himself into the crowd, a whirlwind of muscle and steel. Oakley tailed him on the rocks above, shouting out weak points, then shouting in pain as he got pulled right into the crowd.

“Raphael!” Ignatz followed up his scream with an arrow, then, his position exposed, scrambled down from the tree and to a nearby rock just before a dark mage incinerated it. That dark mage’s next spell was lost in screams and the force of Lorenz’s magic as. Thyrsus glowed red in his hand as he summoned flame and Agnea’s fury alike from Vincatel’s back.

That opening was all Judith needed. Her daemon snarled, all ferocity and vigor, but Judith danced into the fray. Her rapier glinted in the sun as she fought her way to Raphael, stabbed the men grappling her, and pulled him back out. 

“I got him!” she shouted, tossing Raphael to Lorenz before spinning around and going right back into the fighting. In the brief moment before Lorenz went to heal him Claude could see that one of Raphael’s arms was shattered, hanging limp and useless at his side. 

And through it all, Hilda held the line.

Claude just needed to trust in his friends to stand strong, just as they had faith in him to take on Thales.

He wasn’t going to let them down!

Another blast of dark magic tore through the space where Claude was just seconds before, made the tree behind him explode in a shower of splinters and embers that singed his back. He rolled, lept out of that roll, spun around, and fired two more arrows in rapid succession. He heard one of them scrape against the stone, and then Thales’s first scream of pain as the other one landed in something soft and meaty, and Claude knew that he’d hit something vital.

“You’re out of time, you crusty old bastard!” Claude shouted, backing up and readying another shot. 

Thales whipped around, his eyes boring into Claude’s, blood pouring down his clothes, and actually snarled, “I have time enough to drag you all down with me!” 

His daemon jumped off his shoulder, dashed into the rubble of the shack, far behind the range of any normal human and daemon, what the hell did Thales do to himself to keep fighting and not even flinch?! 

And then a grating, tinny, almost…mechanical voice warbled from the rubble.   

“Self-destruct sequence initiated. Foundational collapse will begin in fifteen minutes.”

Well. That didn’t sound good.

A horrified cry rose from somewhere in the mob of Agarthans. “Thales, what have you done?!”

“Those beasts will burn with us!” 

And Thales raised a hand towards Hilda. 

She didn’t notice; none of them did. He was the only one paying attention to Thales, because they trusted him to do so. 

He couldn’t afford to miss. Not now, not with all the trees in the way. Claude rushed towards Thales, fired an arrow at his hand, didn’t even bother to see if it hit before tackling the man. Grabbed his bony wrist and forced his hand towards the sky. 

The spell detonated, right in their faces. 

Claude’s world exploded into agony, and he screamed until everything went black. 

---

Consciousness returned in pieces, with each piece instantly regretting it. 

Everything hurt, and each hurt was different. The back of Claude’s head throbbed and he felt something sticky plastering his hair and scalp. His ribs ached, his back ached, his ankle was twisted and throbbing, and his face was on fire. He could vaguely sense Simurg, curled up and trembling. 

“Guys?” Claude moaned, then whimpered in pain as he felt the skin of his face crack and bleed the moment he opened his mouth. 

“You’re awake!” That was Ignatz, his voice so much deeper and more confident than back in school. “Hold still, I, let me see if—come on,” and there was a warm flash of light. When it faded, it took the worst of the pain with it, though he didn’t risk opening his mouth or touching his still-burning face. 

“Thank you,” Simurg murmured. Claude heard Ignatz scramble back, the scrape of boots on stone, and dared to crack open his eyes. 

It hurt, he felt his eyelids crack, (what happened?) but Claude could still see. They were still on that ledge jutting out from the rest of the mountain, though it took him a moment to recognize it. The shack was reduced to rubble, dozens of trees blown to splinters and charred stumps. Arrows littered the ground, as did bodies. They’d sat him up against a rock, and he only needed to crane his head a little bit to see Thales lying dead in the dirt, the top of his head nothing more than a wet smear. 

His classmates, his friends, where were they? Ignatz was there, he felt his healing magic, but what about everyone else? Claude tried to pull himself up, but the moment he braced his hand on the ground to stand fire lanced all the way up to his shoulder and his elbow buckled under his weight. 

“Careful!” That was Lorenz, and Claude never thought he’d be so relieved to hear that obnoxious narcissist’s voice in his entire life. “Neither Ignatz nor I have Marianne’s healing acumen, and you just took a high-level dark magic spell to the face.”

One by one, his friends appeared. There was Hilda, supporting herself on a battered Freikugel, covered in blood that was not all her own. There was Ignatz, his hands and fingers shredded from how much he fired his bow. Raphael stood beside him, his right arm wrapped in a sling, Oakley whimpering slightly each time he twitched his fingers. Lorenz swayed slightly, his face pale, blood trickling down from his nose. Vincatel didn’t even try to stand; just how much magic had he cast? And Judith…

“Where’s Judith?”

Their silence was the answer. 

Judith—she was the first one to vouch for him, the first one in his corner, his advocate from the very beginning. She’d taught him all the nuances of Alliance politics that his grandfather had missed, helped him practice his accent until his Fodlani came out clean as snow. If not for Judith, the Roundtable would have rejected his claim to the Riegan name, and he’d have been tossed into Abyss to rot. 

Judith had backed him, fought for him, all these years, answered his call for help when she had no reason to, and he took it for granted. And now she was dead, and it was all because of him. 

“And yet,” Simurg murmured, because she couldn’t ever shut up, couldn’t ever stop thinking, not even now when all Claude wanted to do was scream, “If we only lost Judith, that’s, I’d call that lucky.”

Lucky. 

Against men who stole the faces of other men. 

Still bleeding, his face still on fire, Claude pressed himself against the rock and drew his shortsword. “What’s the song we sang before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion? The one that made Dimi and the princess want to murder us?”

Raphael and Ignatz, if that was really them, stared at each other. He wasn’t the only one left, was he? He couldn’t be! Claude clapped his left hand over his trembling right wrist, tried to force it as steady and still as he wished he felt. His scream split his face; Simurg’s rattle split the air. “Answer me!” 

Lorenz let out a resigned sigh, then one by one his friends broke into song. 

“Oh, one fine day a lion loped through the plain,

Only two things could be found in his brain—”

He let out a long sigh and relaxed against the rock. “That’s good, save the rest for later.” The Golden Deer house anthem was nearly ten minutes of drunken improvisation about a lion fucking an eagle that he and Hilda had made up the night before the mock battle. Claude had never been so relieved to hear it in his life. 

Though in retrospect he really should have made it all about an eagle fucking a lion, the way things had gone since. 

“I…Thank you,” Claude admitted, reflexively reaching up to run his hand down his face.

And stopped.

Claude was very familiar with the shape and feel of his face. When he was younger, he anointed his cheeks and chin with every imaginable elixir and oil that promised to make his beard thick and luxurious. It grew in eventually, in the fullness of time, and every day he trimmed and oiled it to keep it glossy and soft. Claude knew exactly what every part of his face felt like. 

And now his face felt rough, coarse, almost leathery. It burned at his touch, and when he pulled his hands away bits of blackened scabs and watery blood clung to his palm and fingertips. 

“Simurg,” he croaked, and when she looked upon his face he could feel her sudden overwhelming rush of despair, deep enough to echo back and 

“I, I’m sorry,” Ignatz stuttered. “I’m not as good a healer as Marianne, and, and there was a lot of damage. I did what I could…”

Ignatz definitely would have tried his best. His best probably kept Claude from dying. And anything was better than dead. Those were the thoughts Claude forced himself to remember as he steeled himself, went into four-eye, and looked at himself through Simurg’s eyes. 

Almyra had a custom where the kings of the nation needed to be physically perfect. In practice it just led to brothers and sisters mutilating each other in a mad scramble for the throne. Acid was a popular method. Years ago, one of Claude’s own half-brothers had tried to blind him with a vial of vitriol. He’d learned about it beforehand and, well, the exact nature of his response…didn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say that Simurg had settled in the aftermath, became the venom everyone already said he was, and nobody in Almyra ever underestimated him again.

And it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference in the end. 

Dark magic disfigured even its best wielders in the end, and Claude had taken a high level casting right to the face. Brown skin was now withered and black, scabbed and cracked and peeling like sun-baked mud. In between the cracks were dozens of deep pockmarks, making him look as if he’d barely survived a count of smallpox. His beard still grew out from the scars, but somehow that made it look worse. His face, his dashing face, was utterly ruined. 

It was beyond ruined. He’d never be king, not with this amount of damage. 

His dream was over. 

Claude closed his eyes, leaned back against the rock, and laughed until he cried. 

---

But of course, the death of his dream didn't stop the rest of the world from continuing on. It was cruel and uncaring like that.

“What do you mean, they surrendered?!” Simurg coiled up around his neck, ready to strike out at anybody or anything who got too close. The Agarthans’ entire agenda was that they thought themselves superior to the people on the surface, even though they were just as human. Extremely pale skinned, with whited out eyes and frighteningly complex technology, but human all the same. Not that they would ever acknowledge it. Had Thales even called them anything other than beasts or animals, before he blew his head off with his own spell? 

“He was going to destroy Shambala,” said the one man willing to talk. All they knew was that his name was Styx, his daemon was a nightingale, and he still seemed somewhat dazed, in a state of shock. “There’s still about a hundred of us down there. He would have killed everyone, just because we..we lost.” He stuttered on the last word, seemingly unable to process it, losing to mere animals.

Oakley gave the daemon on Styx’s shoulder a long look, then an excited bark. “You’re a nightingale too, just like my little sister!” 

The Agarthan drew back as if stung, his eyes wide, his face twisting somewhere between stunned disbelief and livid disbelief. Claude would have laughed, if it didn’t hurt so much. “How dare you compare me to one of you surface beasts!” that tiny brown bird shrieked, puffed up and furious and definitely overcompensating with bravado. 

Bravado that Styx didn’t even try to mirror. He actually plucked his daemon off his shoulder, cupped her squawking, protesting form in his hands, looked at her with new eyes. “You’re a nightingale?”

Thank the gods for Raphael, somehow always able to find a degree of commonality, a shared humanity. He was so insistently empathetic as to almost border on aggressive at times, which was exactly what they needed here and now. 

Claude licked his lips, felt the ruined pebbly skin crack and bleed from the motion. About a hundred people down there, and even if they were mostly non-combatants—

“Lorenz.”

“Yes?” How did Lorenz, a man so incredibly vain that he still plucked his eyebrows and wore a freshly-picked rose on his armor each and every morning, manage to look him in the eye, his ruined face, and not once flinch?  

He could meet Lorenz’s stare back. He deserved that. “How quickly can you get the battalions at the base of the mountain up here?” 

Lorenz looked up at the lightening blue of the pre-dawn sky, turned his head to hold a quiet conversation with Vincatel. “A few hours, I think, now that we know the way up.” At Claude’s approval, he saddled up on Vincatel and made his way back down the side of the mountain. 

They spent that time recovering, securing the few surviving Agarthans who surrendered, interrogating Styx, and doubting every word that came out of his mouth. Even if the Agarthans were horrible actors in their misplaced arrogance, it could so easily be one giant death trap. And even if it wasn’t, the things he described offhand, as if second nature…

“What the heck is a computer?” Hilda asked, mouthing the strange syllables another time under her breath. Styx snorted in derision, rolled his eyes, and refused to elaborate any further. 

“Well, if he won’t tell us, we’ll have to figure it out ourselves,” Simurg replied, because fuck it hurt too much to speak. “We might just break it with our grubby hands though.” Maybe he’d do that anyway, take something from them just as they took so much from him. 

A soft hand, small yet astonishingly muscular, fell on his shoulder and squeezed, just once. Claude looked right up at Hilda—how did she always know? She didn’t even say anything, just smiled that damn smile of hers, and it was enough to make Claude’s breath catch in his throat. He was not going to cry, especially not in front of someone like Styx. 

All that he took them for granted, for literal years, and now that he was useless and broken they were still here for him. 

Simurg coiled around his other arm, so that Claude had pressure and presence on both sides. It didn’t really help, this wasn’t some stupid child’s tale where you could just hold hands and everything would magically be okay, but…

Okay, it did help, a little, that somehow he wouldn’t be entirely abandoned and alone. 

When Claude finally stood, he tied a cloth to cover the lower half of his face so nobody could see, the pain of it all made his legs tremble like a newborn fawn, and he needed to lean on Hilda for support as they made their way down that enormous tunnel. Past that swinging box with a lens on it, past rows and rows of lights that flickered and buzzed and made his head hurt to look at, all the way to a sliding door of solid steel. It stood there, like a headstone, half open with a steadily growing puddle on the floor slowly leaking out. It looked like water, but he didn’t dare touch it to find out. Claude rested his hand on the steel door, then yanked it back when it felt as cold as the grave. 

This was it. Time to see if they’d walked into yet another trap that might actually kill them this time. He took a deep breath. “Ready, guys?” Simurg hissed.

“I’m sticking right by you, Claudster.” Halmstadt lighted on his daemon’s broad head.

“We’re a team. Or a herd, I guess,” Ignatz added.

Simurg laughed. “Yeah, we are.” And with that, they ducked under that enormous steel door, and stepped inside.

---

Shambala was like nothing else Claude had ever seen. It was like something out of a fever dream, or one of the more out there fantasy tales from home. The walls were made of metal and completely unknown materials, covered in lines of light and signs posted in unknown languages. More machinery was pressed up against the walls, which were covered in levers and switches that served probably important but completely unknown purposes. He couldn’t see anything organic—no wood, no stone, nothing. The whole place was a technological marvel, selfishly hoarded and twisted to create nightmares. 

Styx strode through the place like it was nothing, the marvels utterly mundane. If he was trying to intimidate them…it was kind of working. 

They were jumpy, tense, just waiting for somebody to leap out of the corridors and attack. Styx was at the front, Freikugel to his back. Was it just him or was that Relic glowing brighter than before? Either way, when Styx spoke rapidly to another Agarthan woman who ducked out of the shadows, she tapped it on his shoulder. “Oh no you don’t. No funny business with secret codes; you’re all speaking in Fodlani right now. I know you know it.”

The woman rolled her eyes and said in heavily accented but understandable Fodlani, “The air filtration systems are all destroyed. All but one of the generators are damaged beyond repair. We don’t have the spare parts to fix them all before Shambala accumulates lethal levels of carbon dioxide. I’d say we have three days, maybe four, before we all suffocate.” Her daemon, some sort of porcupine, hunched over with his quills straight out. 

Styx blanched, which Claude didn’t even think was physically possible, then swallowed and turned to them. “I…We surrender. Just get us out of here. There’s nothing left in Shambala but death.” 

“You’re lying,” Simurg hissed. “This is some sort of trap, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it is,” Ignatz murmured. “Claude, look harder.”

He did, followed where Ignatz pointed. And then by gods, he saw.

Under the shine, the chrome, the technological gap beyond his comprehension, Shambala was falling apart. The metal walls were tarnished, their corners and junctions red and flaking with rust. Up above, almost a quarter of the lights were out and a quarter more flickered and buzzed. Down by their feet, water seeped in and made cold puddles on the floor. In contrast, the weaponry was clean, well kept. Even from this distance, even with how unfamiliar the arms were, Claude knew good upkeep when he saw it. Only the weaponry was still in good condition.

Everywhere he looked, beyond the tools of war, Shambala was falling apart. Door hinges that were nothing more than masses of rust. Entire wings of the massive complex were outright abandoned and left to rot. They completely abandoned infrastructure and maintenance and making sure the lights stayed on for a singleminded obsession with power and vengeance. From what Claude gathered, every few years they surrendered a few more rooms to the floodwater.

Shambala was built for war, and nothing else. Anything that wasn’t meant to kill was left to rust and rot. How could a society sustain itself on hatred and vengeance and war alone?

He and Hilda approached the lower levels, and stopped. Because halfway down the staircase, there was nothing but cold, black water. 

“It can’t,” Simurg said. The place had rotted for years; this was just the final blow. “Look at what happened to the Kingdom. And isn’t that what happened to the Church too?”

“Fuck,” Claude whispered. The Kingdom, that went without saying. All that vengeance, all that devotion for blood and ghosts, it got condensed and crystallized down to Dimitri in its purest form, and last that Claude heard of the prince he was nothing more than a rampaging beast. But the Church was the same, just nicer about it. The old Agarthans hundreds of years ago had murdered Rhea’s kin, and retaliation she had placed all of Fodlan in a stranglehold, executed anybody who dared defy her and gripped the entire continent in fear and lies. And as for the Agarthans themselves…

What was worse were the looks on their faces, as Claude and his friends walked by. He’d recognize those expressions anywhere, that awful mixture of hatred, disdain, and not-so-hidden fear.

She’d locked the survivors of her vengeance down here, left them to gnaw on their own hate until the sun died and all things ended. 

What did she think was going to come of that?

“Claude,” Hilda whispered, shivering, “The way these people look at us…it’s just like how the Almyrans looked at me down in Abyss.”

Abyss. 

The other city without light.

The people down here were just that. People. Human, as human as him. They weren’t the same humans that had murdered Sothis and all of Rhea’s kin; even the survivors of her vengance would have died centuries ago. These people were the grandchildren of the grandchildren of the grandchildren of those original exiles, cursed to a life in a crumbling underground base for a sin they never committed, never seeing the light, not even knowing that their daemon was a nightingale. They were raised on bitterness and hatred and vengeance, taught to loathe, taught that the surface was their enemy and those who locked them away from the grass and the sun and the wind and the light deserved nothing more than painful death and generations of festering revenge. 

He remembered a boy down in Abyss, his skin wan and pale, who shied away at the sight of him and said something about all people from the surface being scary and awful and that he should stay away from them.

What was the difference between Shambala and Abyss, except for technology and time? 

Hah, and in both cases Rhea had made these monsters herself. 

And why the fuck was he feeling so much for a society of people who literally saw him and other surface humans as animals? Yes, Rhea had locked them down here generations ago, but over those generations they had turned themselves into a broken, bitter, hateful dying people that spent all their time on planning vengeance and not on long term survival.

Because…Because in a way, Claude looked at them and saw himself.

Not the murder part, and deifnitely not the part that did whatever they had done to Edelgard and Lysithea that left the two of them broken and scarred and dying by inches. But the part about being blamed, eternally, for something beyond their control. About being told that they were poison so long that they eventually made and drank it themselves. 

Or at least, what he could have been. He was already so paranoid and mistrusting. What could he have become, without his friends to help him?

Heh. Claude laughed, bitter and rueful, and the motion made his cracked skin painfully stretch and bleed once more. He already knew. He would have been just as bitter and hateful as the people down here. Probably would have flown back to Almyra with his tail between his legs, Claude his way to power by backstabbing everyone in his wake and using people as nothing more than pawns in a twisted game. Would have told his children about the viciousness and barbarism of Fodlan, and taught them to hate just as strongly. 

He’d had a chance, a hand reaching down to pull him out of this pit. The people off Abyss had Yuri and the wolves, and hopefully now Edelgard. But the people here in Shambala? They’d had nothing. Nothing but themselves to fester and rot on, for centuries.

Of course they had become…this. It didn’t make it right, not at all, not what they did to Lysithea and Edelgard and so many others, but it hadn’t come out of nowhere either. And could every single one have been responsible? Were the children, born in pain and raised in hate, were they responsible?

“Hubes and Edelgard can’t fix this,” Simurg murmured. “They’re too close.” Hubes had seen firsthand the full extent of their evil; Edelgard had endured it. They had the same amount of loathing and fear towards the Agarthans as they had for them. Hubes probably hated them more; the princess just wanted to move forward. Point was, they’d been hurt too badly, they couldn’t think logically about this. So had Lysithea. It was probably a good thing Lysithea wasn’t here with them; she’d probably have started blasting and killed everyone here. Which, okay that was definitely one way to end this cycle of hatred, but…

“No.”

“Claude?” Dammit, he’d said that part out loud hadn’t he. 

“Hilda, look at this. Look at this!” He waved his hand frantically, as if the gesture could encompass, well, everything. “Have you ever seen anything like this in your life?”

“Of course I haven’t! This is insane!” She wasn’t even looking at him, just gaping in equal parts awe and horror. “How long have they been down here for?”

“Long enough.” He shook his head. “I just, how many people could they have helped, if they’d actually done anything other than sit down here and plan for vengeance for fucking centuries while this whole place rotted around them?” Claude laughed again; his lips cracked and a bit of blood ran down his chin. “But no! The church, Shambala, gods, all of Fodlan is made of broken people who never grew beyond angry hurt kids, and are just taking out that pain on everyone around them!” Meanwhile in their paranoid isolation they committed slow suicide. Just like the rest of Fodlan.

He looked to his friends. And I would have been one of them too, drowned in my own loathing, if not for you. 

He didn’t cause this; this was far bigger than him. But he needed to at least try to fix this. And it wasn’t as if he could get anywhere in Almyra now. 

“Alright,” Claude sighed. “Let’s get everyone out of this death trap.”

Notes:

It had to be Claude, who found Shambala. Claude, who found Abyss first, whose whole thing is about breaking down walls. It had to be Claude.

Rhea and the Agarthans are the horseshoe theory in action. The Agarthans actively deny the humanity of others. Rhea never even bothered. Both wind up in the same place in the end.

The Agarthans are horrible, horrible people. But not everyone there is a fighter, there are noncombatants who keep the lights on, whose only crime was to be born into an evil regime. And none of them, none of them had a chance. Not after centuries down in the dark, generation upon generation born in pain and raised in hate. How culpable are they? How justified are those brutalized by their evils here and now for vengeance? None of these are easy answers. They're even harder for the people of Fodlan, who don't have the training or vocabulary for this sort of thing.

And to really stir the pot: On the flip side, how responsible is Flayn for the evils of the church? She clearly benefits from it, but she was also too young to do much about it...

Also, yeah, Claude is...his face is heavily scarred. That "physically perfect" thing was a historical criteria as well.

I'm sorry, Judith.

Thank you all for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Also, with the end of the fic coming up, I purchased a ton of commissions, and you'll be seeing them shortly!

Chapter 45: Monsters, And Men

Summary:

A quiet moment among loved ones before the final battle. Plans for the future. Rhea reveals her final secrets. Edelgard makes a painful choice.

Notes:

Bernadetta and Malecki von Aegir (12 Ethereal Moon, 1162 - 10 Garland Moon, 1243, Hedgehog) was an accomplished botanist, illustrator, and the wife of Ferdinand von Aegir. She served in the Fodlan War of Liberation as a member of the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force, where she was renowned for her sniping ability. After the war, Bernadetta von Aegir began formally collecting, identifying, and illustrating plant species. She identified and categorized over two dozen new plant species during her lifetime, and her collection would eventually become the world-famous Varley Botanical Gardens…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Bernadetta von Aegir. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649. 

Byleth didn’t want to get out of bed.

It was still strange and new to her, this concept of wanting things, and not wanting things. New enough that without Sothis’s initial guidance it would have taken her much longer to recognize what the feeling of wanting, of desire in all its forms, was. 

Byleth didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted to stay nestled under the covers next to El. She wanted to lay her head on El’s chest and feel it rise and fall in sleep. She wanted to press her cheek and lips against that large scar between her breasts, down each ridge of metal resting beneath from where they sawed her breastbone open and wired it back together, and under it all the steady beating of her rebellious heart. Byleth hadn’t understood the importance of heartbeats before, why so many people talked about them in a sense beyond the literal. She still didn’t; even now most metaphors were beyond her.. But there was something comforting about hearing and feeling El’s very heart beat. 

Comfort. That was another feeling Byleth had learned in her time with her fellow eagles. 

They were in an outpost just a couple days away from Garreg Mach. It was originally a place for the Knights and students to rest when going on missions, but it had been abandoned since the attack three years ago. Thankfully the roof was sturdy and the mountains were cold, so there wasn’t too much mold or dust. They’d slept in worse places, and it was easy enough to throw the rotting straw mattresses out the window and place their bedrolls over the frames instead. With everyone packed in, it was warm enough. 

Hubert had opened the door to their room about a half-mark ago to find himself staring Belial right in the face. He’d muttered an apology, bowed in unison with Thanily, and gently closed the door. Somehow El had slept through Hubert’s intrusion; when Belial padded back to the bed and curled around Ava’s perch she didn’t stir at all. 

It wouldn’t last. The sun was already starting to rise, and Byleth had been unable to fall back asleep. Soon the light would get in their eyes and El would also stir, and then they’d have one final march on Garreg Mach. 

For now, though, she wanted to hold El a little closer.

True morning came soon enough, bright and chilly and blue. Above her head El yawned and shifted and closed her mouth around their tangled hair. 

“Morning, El,” Byleth murmured as she spat out their hair. El murmured something incomprehensible and Ava flew down from her perch to nibble and preen Belial’s fur. 

El hung onto Byleth, her arms wrapped around her neck, her face buried in her shoulder. “Don’t want to get up,” she mumbled into the crook of Byleth’s neck. 

“But we must,” Ava sighed under Belial’s grooming. “I imagine Hubert has been here already to bid us to start the day.”

“He was. I told him to go away.”

El looked at their clothes scattered on the floor, turned bright pink, and pulled the covers over her head. 

Suddenly struck with a sense of whimsy (a word she never even knew before, much less experienced for herself), Byleth followed El under the covers and kissed her on the nose. She squawked, then laughed; Byleth could hear Ava shout and flap her wings, then Belial huff as they pinned her to the ground and groomed her some more. 

“I never thought…” El sighed and burrowed herself closer against Byleth. 

Byleth ran her fingers through El’s hair, combing out all the tangles and knots that had formed overnight. “Thought what?” 

She felt El stiffen a bit, then sigh and pull back so she could gaze into her eyes. “Three years ago, when your power…awakened, I suppose, though it’s probably more accurate to say that you were transformed, I was afraid you would join with Rhea.”

What? “El, why would you ever think that?” From the very beginning El had tried to reach out to her. Not just her, but everyone. El gave them a choice to follow her, even after the Holy Tomb. Meanwhile, Rhea told her to guide her students, then told her to slaughter civilians to make them fear her wrath, then ordered her to kill Edelgard, and then tried to kill her and her students when she refused. The only way Rhea knew how to react to rebellion, to being defied, was with incredible violence. And then she blamed those striking back for making her so violent in the first place. 

The covers had slipped down, exposing the two women to the rest of the room. Ava flew over to El’s side and pressed her white head against her hand in a gesture of comfort. Belial stayed where they were, because it didn’t make much of a difference to them. Rhea had severed the connection between her and Belial before she even drew her first breath, then grafted Sothis’s daemon into that gap. She’d grown up like that; an empty shell except for the Good Days, and even then unable to even laugh or cry. She never knew that connection people spoke of, never understood the emotions, or vigor, or anything that other people had. Just a great emptiness that even now was only partially filled. Rhea drowned her in affection and praise, petted Belial like they were an ordinary animal, and then when she wasn’t the obedient vessel of Sothis, threw her away. 

It was El, not Rhea, who saw Byleth as an actual human being. It was El, not Rhea, who believed that the life of Byleth and Belial Eisner mattered. 

Byleth had no idea how to say all that to El, wasn’t even sure how to fully express it herself. What she said instead was, “First you were my student. I promised I’d look after you. And then you…you looked after me.” 

“I know. And I know that you would have joined me. But back in the sealed forest, when Belial changed—” El broke off with a sniffle and a hitch of her breath; Avarine pressed a bit closer, “—I wasn’t sure how much of you was in there anymore.” 

“El…” Byleth couldn’t think of what to say or do other than to pull her close. She remembered staring at her reflection for hours after the Holy Tomb, looking for any trace of her or Belial that hasn’t been touched by Rhea’s influence, or Sothis’s fusion. It terrified her, though she hadn’t realized it at the time, how much Rhea saw her as nothing more than…than a piece of meat. Or a tool to bring back Sothis, which she had never wanted either. Byleth was so glad, that even after everything she was still herself. 

“It wouldn’t have stopped you, even if I…wasn’t me anymore.” That was what Byleth liked most about El. She was singleminded, utterly implacable, absolutely unbreakable. She’d never met a noble, a person, as concerned with the greater picture, nor anyone as driven and resolute and determined as El. 

“No, it wouldn’t have.” El sat up straight, her eyes fixed and frozen again. Beside her, Ava flew up to her perch and adopted that hard stance that always preceded a speech. “Knowing Rhea’s history and the further crimes of the Agarthans don’t make a difference in my resolve or what must be done. They don’t absolve her of the evils she’s committed, whether directly or through inaction and abdication of responsibility. She doesn’t get blanket permission to oppress humanity now for the events of a thousand years ago!

“My goal is to free our world from the tyrannical control of Rhea and those around her who use the church’s power to control Fodlan. To bring an end to this corrupt institution which calls people blessed and holy because their ancestors ingested blood centuries ago. An institution which knowingly perpetuated the lie of a dead goddess and played games with peoples’ lives, their destinies, their very souls! An institution which sentences all it desires to death for the crime of opposing it, and to have it treated as no more disquieting than the change of seasons. Nay, it boasts about the righteousness of such butchery, even as parents clutch their slaughtered children and weep! An institution which—” El lowered her clenched fist. “Why are you smiling? What's so funny?”

Was she smiling? Huh. “It’s, El, only you would give a speech minutes after waking, completely naked, with your hair still undone.”

For some reason, Byleth found it incredibly amusing to watch El blush pink and splutter. “You’d speak to the Emperor of Adrestia in such a—yeeep!” Belial licked a long stripe up Ava’s back, ruffling her feathers and cutting off El’s retort. 

“Yes,” said Byleth, following up with another kiss. That stopped the conversation, for a little while. 

Eventually, though, Edelgard pulled back. She played her hands in the blankets and said, “I swore to free the people from Rhea by rising up against her and striking her down, whether or not it made an enemy of you…or whatever malign force decided to take over your body. And yet…you came to my aid and chose to walk with me on the path against Rhea. I chose to trust in you, to rely on you and your strength.” She sighed. “And now, here we are.”

El’s eyes were closed, but Byleth could see light glimmering off wetness at their corners. Her shoulders were also shaking. “Are you okay?” 

“It’s nothing,” said Ava. “The Edelgard who shed tears died long ago.”

“But El, you’re crying…” Three years ago, outside a ruined building, Byleth had cried for the first time. She’d sobbed in grief as her dad died in her arms. El didn’t seem sad, so why was she crying? Could people cry in happiness too? 

Unsure what to do, Byleth held El until her shaking stopped and the tears dried up. Until she wiped her face clean and said after a deep breath, “My Byleth, whatever happens next, I…I love you. You are the one person in this world who can share the heavy burden I must carry. Someone without equal who I can always speak my mind to…” With a graceful flourish, she rose from the bed and in one motion pulled on her smallclothes and shift. “It's time. Let's go, my Byleth.”

---

The first long green daffodil leaves had started to push their way out of the snow, and bright yellow buds would soon follow. If Ferdinand strained his ears, he could hear the first few notes of birdsong, the sweetness of—meadowlarks? Nightingales? Marianne would know, once she completely returned to her senses and recovered from her most horrendous ordeal—singing in the air as they heralded the onset of spring. 

It was most presumptuous, especially with their greatest battle so imminent, but perhaps they would be fortunate enough to end this war in time to see the daffodils bloom. Even Ferdinand could afford himself a moment's respite before the true work of rebuilding and restoring Adrestia could begin. 

Ferdinand could hear Bernadetta’s approach before she rode into view. Her warhorse was of the same breed as Leonie’s, lighter and swifter than his sturdy destrier. A seasoned Paladin such as himself could hear the difference in hoofbeats easily enough. Bernadetta’s violet hair streamed behind her as she trotted alongside him, and like every time before the sheer beauty of his beloved momentarily stole away all breath and words. “Everything ok, Ferdie?” she asked. “You seem lost in thought.”

“How could I not be lost for words, when in the presence of someone as beautiful as you?” Ferdinand responded, just to see Bernadetta go pink, hear Malecki wiggle in his pouch and let out an embarrassed squeak. He leaned out of his saddle to properly kiss Bernadetta and nuzzle her nose just to feel her smile against his mouth. “But in truth,” he said, I have been thinking about all the work we have to do once the war ends.” 

“Like the education projects?” Bernadetta asked.

“Precisely!” He guided his horse to take a step back, so as not to shout in his beloved’s face when he inevitably became loud from excitement. “I told you about the blueprints for moveable type that were banned by the church and cast out into Abyss, and how this could easily lead to an explosion of literacy throughout the Empire, did I not?” At her nod he continued, slowing slightly once he heard Hubert’s approach to join into the conversation. “We will have to build many centers for education, to formalize the teaching of basic literacy, mathematics, and the like, so as to spread knowledge to as many people in the Empire as possible.” And with this explosion in knowledge, the Alliance would have to spread education to the commoners if they would have any hope of keeping up. 

“Seeing the vast increase in opportunities for their children, learning the secrets of literacy—previously held only by the elite and privileged few—would do wonders to help the general populace further realize the righteousness of Lady Edelgard’s cause,” Hubert added. He’d tucked Thanily into his cloak; her orange face popped out so Embrienne could float over and give her a proper greeting and welcoming bump against her nose.

Bernadetta let out a giggle. “Heheh, you know, Hu, back when we first met at school I would have thought you’d say something like—” she lowered her voice into a poor impression of his, “—The masses only know fear. Show it to them.” 

Ferdinand found himself laughing, for he would have thought much the same back when he was younger and so much more foolish and naive. Hubert allowed himself a chuckle and a grim smile before having it fall away. “Many would think that. After all, I am Her Majesty’s grim shadow, her loyal left hand and knife in the darkness. But I am not the leader of our new age, merely the one clearing a path for people like her…and you,” he added with a show of reluctance.

“It would be so easy, so simple to accuse me of such tactics,” Thanily added. “So easy to judge our fearsome appearance and mannerisms and say that I am nothing more than a brute who rules through terror alone. Meanwhile, it was the Archbishop and her church who ruled through terror and fear, who were able to so easily hide their iron fist and cruel talons in soft velvet and honeyed words.” Meanwhile, out of terror at being overthrown, they ruled through terror themselves. Hubert would assassinate a corrupt noble, or intimidate him into compliance, but it was Rhea who sent them—still children at the time!—to slaughter a poorly armed civilian militia, all to teach them to obey her or suffer the consequences. At their core, Edelgard and Hubert largely believed in the potential of humanity. Rhea was the one who believed that the masses only understood fear, and ruled as such over Fodlan for over a thousand years. 

“We’ve got a lot to teach everyone about not judging on appearances, don’t we?” Malecki mused. Bernadetta had taken him out of his pouch and cupped him in her hands to more easily be seen and heard. “I mean, if I didn’t get past that, I never would have realized how much Hubert means to me, well, us,” he quickly amended, stretching out a bit so Embrienne could muzzle him properly as well. “But then, if we’re going to teach everyone how to read and write, we also need to teach everyone how to think about what they’re seeing and hearing and reading. Otherwise, it’s really easy to say someone is good because they dress up nice and say things in a nice way. I mean, if Rhea was in her big scary monster form all the time, or if she looked as frightening as you like to say you are Hu, I think everyone would have realized what she was actually saying and doing a lot sooner.” Malecki flexed some muscle under his quills that made them bob up and down. “Which I guess is why the Church talks so much about how the goddess loves and protects beautiful things, and how only beautiful things are good. We’re going to have to change everything about how stories are told in the Empire, aren’t we?”

“I prefer to think of it as restoring that which was deliberately censored and distorted, and telling the truth,” Embrienne gently added with an affectionate bump against Malecki’s nose. 

They rode in silence for a time, let the sights of a long winter melting into spring and the warmth of each others’ company be a balm for their weary spirits. A breeze ruffled their hair, and for a lovely moment Ferdinand could see the glimmering emerald of both of Hubert’s eyes, could hear the melodious jingle of Bernadetta’s earrings. Embrienne let the breeze tumble her along into the safety of Ferdinand’s outstretched palm. He let his mind wander, until Hubert’s sibilant voice broke the silence again. 

“Do you remember our…debates…about how to best help the Duscurian survivors within our available resources?” Ferdinand nodded; he was still quite embarrassed at how he comported himself, but that shame was his and his alone to bear. Hubert did not seem to notice and so continued, “Ashe told me some rather disturbing stories. Apparently, in Faerghus, Duscurians are known to kidnap and devour babies.”

“They what?!” Bernadetta nearly fell off her horse; Ferdinand rushed to her side but she was able to right herself before he needed to intervene at all. “They seriously—what? How could anybody believe something like that?!” 

Ferdinand was not sure himself. The mere thought was so patently ludicrous as to be funny, were that level of dehumanization and demonization not so dangerous. Then again, there were commoners who believed that nobles possessed horns and tails! 

“Though I supposed that is a more profound and concerning statement about how nobles have separated themselves from the rest of society, with predictable results,” Embrienne mused as she flew slow circles around his head. 

“Such ridiculous rumors lead to another problem,” Ferdinand mused, speaking the thoughts as they formed in his head. “Clearly, the people of Faerghus spread such rumors because if the Duscurians are less than human, it then becomes morally acceptable to slaughter them.”

“Not that Faerghus has much of an issue with death worship and mass murder,” Thanily muttered.

That may be true, but it was beside the point. “What I am trying to say, without snide commentary—” Thanily rolled her eyes, but Hubert’s gaze was fond, “—Is that I have learned that many people do not like admitting that they are part of a group responsible for evil beyond words. Faerghus, if left to its own devices, would happily justify the slaughter of a nation for the sake of meaningless vengeance. Barring that, they would downplay the extent of their crimes, or sweep it under the metaphorical rug. But Faerghus is no longer left to its own devices.”

“It’s part of the Empire again,” Bernadetta finished his thought.    

Ferdinand nodded. “That is correct. Like it or not, this is going to be our problem now, and we must address it both properly and quickly.” 

Hubert laughed and spread his hands. “Well, future Prime Minister Ferdinand von Aegir? I look forward to seeing your work in action.” 

---

They rose before dawn, ate and packed and began their final march just as the sky began to lighten from deep black to a rich blue. The cold bit at Edelgard’s failing joints but she didn’t say a word, didn’t make a single grimace or noise. Not here, not when they were so close to the end. The anticipation simmered beneath the surface, passed among each member of the strike force and amplified itself with each step. As they climbed the slopes to Garreg Mach, one by one each member of the Strike Force and their army fell silent. Apprehension, almost palpable, wound tighter and tighter as the sun rose into the sky. Something had to give. 

The tension snapped when Avarine spotted the mass grave. 

It wasn’t even a grave, no, Rhea and the church wouldn’t grant their foes even the dignity of that. What Avarine saw, what she told Edelgard after that initial horrified cry that echoed across their connection, was one of the many ravines around Garreg Mach, piled to the brim with corpses. Avarine was a gyrfalcon, and so she could see every little detail. She could see the rotting bits of Adrestian uniforms on some, the peasant clothing on others. She could see that others were of varying ages and ethnicities, some horrifyingly small She could see the way the corpses were bloated and decayed, making it impossible to further identify them. And she saw the way those corpses of her troops and innocents whose only crime was to anger the church, left exposed to the elements, were scattered and torn by scavengers who saw nothing but a sudden bounty of meat at the end of winter. 

“Your Majesty, what did Lady Avarine see?” Hubert began to ask, but then stopped when the wind shifted and they all caught the sickly sweet stench of rotting meat and dried blood. 

Those who survived the onslaught of the Knights of Seiros—those who lived today thanks to the sacrifice of Randolph and his men—had already told Edelgard what they had done to the monastery, Abyss, and the town outside. And in turn she had told everyone. So it was with horror and disgust, but no great shock, that they saw the bodies for themselves. 

“Dammit!“ Caspar cried out as he nearly tripped over the half-devoured remains of an Imperial soldier, one of Randolph’s. A group of vultures had been squabbling over what was left of them; with a shrieking stoop and a howl of rage Avarine and Belial charged the scavengers and made them scatter. “Randolph, his troops, the townies and everyone down in Abyss we were supposed to protect…the Knights just threw them in this ravine to rot?!”

“Of course they did, Blue,” Hapi muttered, her voice tight, her hands clenched against Malka Foss hard enough to draw blood. “Are you really that surprised?”

Next to her, Constance fell to her knees in the cold mud. The sunlight above cast her face in shadow and turned Rubine’s feathers a drab brown. “Balthus called me his friend, but I am utterly unworthy to have even known his name,” she muttered. “I could not even grant him the dignity of a proper grave.”

“Snap out of it, Shady Lady,” Yuri growled, though Icarus flew around and around his head, looking like they were about to explode in rage. “Balthus would’ve wanted us to finish the job.”

Behind them, a twig snapped in half. The entire strike force whipped around just in time to see two of Rhea’s grunts dragging a body to the mass grave. The moment the two soldiers saw them, they dropped the body and turned to flee. 

“Don’t let them get away!” Edelgard shouted, though it wasn’t necessary. Within seconds Linhardt had knocked both men to the ground with an enormous blast of wind, Bernadetta pinned one there with an arrow right through the meat of his hand, and with a howl of rage and pain Caspar hurled himself at the other. 

“I’ll have your head!” Caspar screamed. He shoved the man back to the ground and slammed his fists into the soldier again and again until his skull caved in. He kept punching, over and over, until Linhardt laid a hand on his shoulder and her brash friend knelt over the corpse, shaking. 

Yuri stalked over to the other man and grabbed him by his low ponytail. He shrieked as Yuri pulled him up and tore his hand away from Bernadetta’s arrow, which was left pinned in the earth. The motion knocked loose the capsule containing his fish daemon; it rolled a short distance away. “Did you help murder the people in this ravine?” Yuri snarled. 

The man spat in his face. “They were heathens, apostates, sinners! They deserved what they got!”

“Even the kids?”

He paused, his brow furrowed. “What are you—”

Yuri cut his throat. 

“Piece of shit,” he muttered once the man stopped twitching, tossing his body aside as if it were. Icarus flicked spattered blood off their wings as Yuri knelt before the body they were carrying. He sighed. “I don’t recognize this poor wretch. What did he do to piss them off?”

“Exist,” said Hapi. She was almost certainly correct. By this point Rhea and her sycophants had dropped any facade of Fodlan’s benevolent masters for the truth of the cruel and controlling beasts they were. 

“Our victory now is more important than ever," Avarine whispered across their connection. Edelgard shuddered to think what would happen to Fodlan were they to fail now, after striking such a heavy blow against the church and validating all of Rhea's paranoid fears and pathological need for absolute control. Likely the causal cruelty on display here would be but a taste of the utter tyranny to come in this bleak hypothetical, in which the horrors that Fodlan already endured would seem as gentle and benign as the kiss of a butterfly’s wing. 

While Edelgard stood lost in her thoughts in the mud, Linhardt, a bundle of herbs pressed to his face to blunt the stench, inspected the body of the older woman the two knights were dragging to the grave. When he stood, his face was somehow even paler. “I don’t see any wounds on her, she’s awfully thin…I think she was worked to death.”

“Your Majesty.” Throughout Hubert’s measured analysis, Thanily couldn’t stop staring at the mass grave. “We don’t have the time to identify and properly bury everyone here.”

“I know,” Edelgard replied, though it still stung. The woman’s body was awfully thin; though not as thin as somebody who had simply starved to death. They’d dragged her from somewhere closer to the monastery; the footprints and drag marks gouged into the mud. “But we have time to find where she was being held.” 

“I know this is paltry compared to your loss, and I know this will not bring your friends, families, and all those killed back from the dead. But I promise you, what happened here will not be forgotten,” Ferdinand swore as they followed the tracks. It must have rained last night; though the skies above were clear the mud was still fresh and splashed up their calves. "I will ensure that both the evils done here and the immense bravery of those who tried to stop it will be immortalized for as long as humanity exists in Fodlan!” 

Edelgard would ensure it too. Though they had now yet formally announced it, for their sacrifice that allowed most of Abyss to escape, Edelgard had already signed the orders posthumously awarding Balthus and Randolph the Order of the Twin Eagle, Adrestia’s highest honor. The other soldiers who died in the assault would be similarly honored. And as for the citizens slaughtered here for the crime of existing in opposition to the Church, for not bowing before Rhea…Avarine couldn’t scream, not when they needed to be quiet, but she mantled over Edelgard and glared out as if Rhea were standing before them. She would ensure that nobody covered this up just as Rhea covered up every other purge in her reign, that nobody forgot what happened here. 

And she would make sure nobody forgot how Rhea literally enslaved her subjects.

There was no other word to describe what they saw when they found the quarry. 

Avarine could recognize some of the people—the blacksmith, the trader from whom Byleth had bought her the armored bear stuffy and bergamot tea, presumably the others were also inhabitants of the town of Garreg Mach—chopping away and piling up blocks of stone for several knights of Seiros to cart off. At least a dozen more were stationed in a loose circle around the perimeter of the quarry, overseeing their labor. 

They were no match for Bernadetta’s arrows, or the rage of Constance’s lightning once she was safely in the shadows. Even without the rage and desire for justice driving them, the Strike Force couldn’t allow anyone to escape and sound the alarm, or possibly attack them from the rear once the true assault on the monastery took place. One of the actual literal slave drivers had a pheasant daemon; Avarine dove from the sky and broke his neck before he or his human even noticed. That knight didn’t even have a chance to turn around before she crumpled and tumbled into the quarry. 

They didn’t wait; the moment the soldiers were dead they scrambled down the slope of loose stones. Linhardt nearly fell and tore his face open on an outcrop of sharp rocks, but Caspar and Leonie managed to grab and pull him back just in time. The moment they reached the bottom, the villagers surrounded them. 

“It's the Emperor!”

“I told you she’d come back!”

“Why did you leave in the first place?!”

They swarmed around her, hungry and desperate, and the press of bodies brought back memories of dark dungeons and cold chains around her wrists until Hubert stepped in and gave her space. 

The rest of the story came out soon enough. Apparently Rhea had massacred the people from the town of Garreg Mach for the unforgivable sin of accepting her occupation of the monastery and working with her instead of charging against her in one suicidal blaze. Then, in what she claimed was atonement but was a transparently obvious effort to quickly repair the damage done on Garreg Mach, she’d put the survivors to work cutting and delivering stone. She worked them from dawn to dusk, right up to—often past—the limits of their endurance, all to rebuild the monastery against the inevitable invasion. 

“And probably to punish sinners too, for the crime of defying her and taking part in our new world,” Avarine added.

Really, she shouldn’t have been surprised, when the almost two hundred villagers stood up and asked to march with her. 

“You wish to what?” Hubert asked, his visible eye wide.

“You were right, Your Majesty,” said their representative, a middle-aged woman with a scar running down her gaunt face and an iguana daemon by her ankles. “Rhea really is a cruel beast. What she did to my brothers…” She shook her head. “We’re not going to just roll over and take it, not anymore!”

Edelgard’s first impulsive thought was to tell them no, that rushing into battle in their condition with no training, no real weapons, was suicide. Why would they throw their lives away when— 

“The commoners who allied themselves with Lord Lonato believed they were fighting for a just cause. It would be disrespectful to consider them simply victims when they died for what they believed in. still, we have no choice but to eliminate those who cling to unreasonable ideas of justice. Even if our enemies are the gods themselves…we must never lose sight of our goal.”

Byleth’s expression was disturbingly blank; Edelgard could see why she was called the Ashen Daemon. Blood still dripped from her blade, it soaked the earth below as Belial said, “I agree.”

That…was not what Edelgard had expected at all, and she suddenly remembered the unusual agitation after Byleth had received news of the mission, the way she had immediately gone to check on Ashe. Spurred on by some foolish impulse, Edelgard found herself saying, “I’m surprised to hear you say that. Really, I’m just like Lonato. I, too, will be the sort of ruler who’s willing to risk the lives of my citizens in service of a higher cause. It’s not possible to change the world without sacrifice. Dying for the greater good is not a death in vain.”

Shame like hot lead burned through Edelgard. Who was she, to even for a moment consider denying these people their own agency?! 

“Of course you can,” Avarine said from her shoulder. “As long as you’re aware of the consequences.”

The woman clenched her fists. “If I go down swinging against that sanctimonious bloodthirsty bitch, then at least I go down swinging!” The roar behind her was as much an approval as any Edelgard could have expected. 

Hubert smiled. “Then welcome, however temporarily, to the Imperial Army. What’s your name?”

“Cassandra and Nimoran,” Cassandra said. 

Well then. “Welcome, Cassandra. Though there is one more thing.” She stepped to the top of the outcopping of stone next to them, took a deep breath, and let her voice carry just as Dorothea had told her. “Listen, everyone! The time is now! We head straight for Garreg Mach and strike down Rhea, that vile creature who dares call herself the Immacualte One! This is the end of our long war, after which Fodlan—Adrestia and Leceister alike—will finally be free! So do not rush to your deaths. Survive. Prevail. Do that and we’ll witness the birth of a new world. I want to see it with all of you at my sides. Understood?” 

Hubert and Thanily bowed as one. “Of course. I will not fall and leave you without your protector. That you may live to see your dream to fruition…for that, I shall survive and prevail!”

Beside him, Ferdinand beamed with fierce joy and Embrienne swirled around Thanily. “A future not shackled by crests of the limitations of nobility, but seeks to raise up everybody…I will help lead us all safely to victory, and guide you on the path of our future! My principles and duty to what is right demand no less!”

“The future…it’s so frightening, and so free,” Bernadetta swallowed and squared her shoulders as Malecki closed his paw around her thumb. “I won’t die! Not now, not after everything! I’ll do my best, for everyone!” 

“We’ve been cutting our own path this whole way. There’s no stopping until we reach the end!” Caspar roared. His voice echoed around the quarry, a dozen war cries in unison. In his clear backpack, Peakane flashed her fins in a challenge.

A challenge which Kamen met as Leonie added, “There’s no stopping what Edelgard’s done! Rhea can’t get back control of this anymore, no matter what!”

“Either way, let’s end this quickly,” Linhardt said. Beside him, Runilite was awake and alert, her eyes keen and fur glossy. “I’d rather not have any of you die so close to the end.”

And there was Byleth, her hand on her shoulder, her face soft yet fierce. Byleth and Belial somehow, ever and always, by her side. “Let’s win this, together!”

Pride and joy, fierce as fire, blazed through Edelgard as she looked over her troops, her friends. They were hers, and she would protect them. They’d come this far, and now they’d win together. Edelgard gripped Aymr and thrust it towards the sky. Avarine shot upwards, her wings outstretched and glinting in the light. “Imperial army! Black Eagle Strike Force! Move out!” 

---

“You made Lady Rhea hurt! I’ll never forgive you!”

When had Cyril become part of the vanguard? She vaguely remembered him, a young teenage boy, slavishly devoted to Rhea, completely enthralled by her and trapped in her web of lies. She pitied him then, that he was so desperate as to swallow her sweet poison. Now he was a young man, pulled in so deep there was no hope of escape, and the pity had hardened to mostly regret that he would almost certainly refuse to surrender.

Within minutes of them emerging from the tunnels Cyril and his battalion had swarmed them, his bat daemon screeching the alarm as Cyril dove down to cut Edelgard open on his brave axe. She raised her shield just in time for that sharp and heavy edge to gouge deep into the metal and wood, grunted at the sudden force then with a yell pushed back and sent Cyril flying back. He’d gotten strong in the past three years; where the Cyril of her school days would have been knocked clean off his wyvern he was able to correct himself, pull up out of range of her counterattack, draw his bow, and fire an arrow at Caspar. 

As he did, there was a flash of light, and the Crest of Seiros illuminated Cyril’s form, and the arrow he shot. It punched through Caspar’s armor and buried itself in the meat of his upper arm. He fell forward with a scream, the only thing that could distract Linhardt from the sight of Cyril with a Major Crest of Seiros. 

Except they all knew how he got it, now. 

“What the hell, Cyril?!” Edelgard couldn’t help but shout above Caspar’s pained gasps which faded as Linhardt healed him. 

“Lady Rhea blessed me!” he shouted back, drawing another arrow. “She said I was special, and important, and worthy of her!”

“HE WILL NOT BETRAY ME! BUT YOU! MUTINOUS WHELP! TRAITOROUS THIEF! I CONDEMN YOU!”

That was the only warning before the tunnel behind them exploded, sealing off the exit and crushing anyone still trapped inside. Edelgard looked up, and up, and saw Rhea herself, finally in her true form.

And Flames, she was hideous, nothing like the beautiful images in stained glass. White scales were not immaculate but looked more like a waxy death’s mask stretched tight over muscle and bone. Her horns were twisted and chipped, her eyes sunken in and milky white, her talons gnarled and yellowed. She had no cheeks, just an enormous gaping mouth with spikes and irregularly placed sharp teeth. One side had strings of flesh attaching the top and bottom jaws, while the other was carved open in five vicious parallel slashes that gouged scars deep enough to expose the inside of her mouth. Her throat glowed, every vein illuminated. Thick saliva dripped down from her jaws. 

Indech was fearsome and imposing, yes, but he was also regal and dignified. The Immaculate One just looked like she was rotting.

Rhea—Seiros, the Immaculate One, whatever that beast who dared call herself a Saint was named—flew up to the ruined cathedral and roared. “TRAITOROUS HUMANS! YOU BETRAYED ME, AND YOU BETRAYED MY MOTHER! THERE WILL BE NO SALVATION FOR THE LIKES OF YOU! THE IMMACULATE ROAR SAVES ONLY THE RIGHTEOUS! NOW DIE!!!”

Her roar echoed through the ruined walls of Garreg Mach. It rang through their ears and sent showers of rubble and even damaged pillars crumbling down. And as she roared, one by one, the screams of her followers joined her. 

Cyril was the closest, the first that Edelgard noticed. He dropped his axe, immediately fell into a curled ball clutching his head. “What-what’s happening?!” he cried out, his bat daemon twisting and writhing on the ground as if set aflame. “Lady Rhea, help me!” 

The scene looked horribly familiar, and Edelgard realized why just moments before it became clear to everyone. 

White light, twisting and squirming like vines, shot out of Cyril’s body. They erupted from his back and spread down the veins and lines of his human form, They pulsed as they covered him and dug into every orifice, and as his daemon frantically tried to escape they shot out, snagged her mid-air, pulled her back into the writhing mass that once was Cyril and swallowed her whole. For one awful moment his screams stopped, as did everyone else’s—for everywhere Edelgard looked there were similar daemon-devouring cocoons of human agony. And then they started up again, bestial and feral.

Almost four years ago Edelgard and her classmates had watched Miklan be consumed by the Relic—the remnants of the Nabatean who was mutilated into the Lance of Ruin—and turned into the Black Beast. What stood before her, before everyone, throughout the monastery, was a White Beast. 

“What the actual FUCK?!” Leonie screamed from the other side of the courtyard, loud enough that Edelgard could still faintly hear her.  

“This—did Rhea just turn everyone into demonic beasts?!” Linhardt was closer to her, but just as audible. Edelgard then heard Hubert’s voice, but too softly to make out words. He was probably demanding an explanation. 

“I’m not sure, this is only speculation,” Linhardt shouted, his voice growing slightly hoarse with his continued shouting. The beasts around them were still shuddering with what was probably confusion and agony, but Edelgard knew from experience that they only had moments before that wore off and they’d attack once more, with the added savagery of their monstrous forms. “But it’s clear that the Immaculate One turned them into demonic beasts that resemble her. If she’s Seiros and they all have her Crest, then perhaps she was able to directly force that change?”

“But I have that Crest!” Avarine cried out. And yet Edelgard was still herself. Could her second crest, that wretched Crest of Flames, be protecting her right now?

Runilite flattened her ears. “Then maybe it’s something else…I need to study this more, when we’re not actively under attack. Perhaps Seteth or Indech would have more information.”

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert panted as he ran up to her. “One of the men who was transformed into these White Beasts was a secret cardinal.” Through the knowledge passed down from emperor to emperor she’d been vaguely aware of the existence of that hidden class, that additional layer of the cult of Seiros, and Hubert had managed to confirm the identity of a few of them. “I presume many of the others forcibly transformed were also in that cult.” 

“So that’s it.” It all became so suddenly, horribly clear. For years—centuries perhaps—Rhea had recruited her most loyal followers to her, binding them forever in her service and thrall. And this entire time, while she actively suppressed the truth that the relics ate daemons and turned humans into monsters, she’d planned to do the exact same thing to those who trusted her most! “Look how Rhea rewards those whom she holds in highest esteem!” Edelgard cried out, hoping that her voice would carry as well as Leonie’s. “These were her most loyal compatriots, and she just turned them all into monsters for the sake of power! She cares nothing for humanity, and dares rule over us all the same!”

“You heard her,” said Hubert as the White Beasts settled into place and trained their eyes on…everyone. “Let’s put these poor wretches out of their misery and end this tyrant’s reign!”

She didn’t need to elaborate. Leonie in particular went utterly ballistic. Edelgard raced up the stairs to the second floor dormitories, hopped from balcony to balcony, and pulled herself up the portion of roof overlooking her old room, and even as her boots scraped against the tiles and the agonized roars of the white beasts echoed off the walls, she still heard Kamen screaming in rage and in time with what she assumed were Leonie’s attacks. 

“THIS is what you call righteous?!” the little robin daemon screamed, loud enough for all of Garreg Mach to hear. “I grew up learning that demonic beasts were nothing but damned monsters to kill on sight! Marianne nearly KILLED HERSELF during the school year because she was convinced she’d turn into one of them! And this whole fucking time you went and tricked and turned your most loyal followers into an army of them? DID YOU EVER CARE ABOUT ANY OF IT?!”

Edelgard hoped Rhea could hear Kamen’s accusations. Not that she’d ever care. 

A sudden pain shot through Edelgard’s head; she stumbled, caught herself, and was seized by a sudden urge to turn around. She did so, just in time to see the white beast Leonie was fighting whip around and smash its tail into her chest, just in time to see Leonie go flying. Stuck on the roof, all Edelgard could do was watch as she bounced off the fishing pier and landed in the pond. Watch as Linhardt dove in after her while Caspar desperately tried to hold off the beast. 

Another bolt of pain through her skull, another instinctive direction to her gaze. There, close to the knight’s quarters, visible as Edelgard ran north along the rooftops, the violet flash of Hubert’s dark magic. The covered stone walkway had crumbled; they were sealed in with at least two of the beasts. She couldn’t see Bernadetta or Ferdinand, could only hope they were okay. 

The pain wrapped around her head like a vise. It squeezed tighter and tighter as she scrambled down the sharp ramp of rubble between the sauna and training grounds. Up above Avarine could see the smoky onyx of Constance’s pegasus wreathed in crackling lightning, then burning fire, then glimmering ice, as she lobbed spell after spell after spell at even more white beasts down below. 

And across the great stone bridge leading to the cathedral, near the top of those ostentatious stairs, Belial clamped down on the tail of yet another white beast as a panting Byleth withdrew the Sword of the Creator from the wretch’s skull. Edelgard ran towards the sight of her love, sprinted as fast as her armor would let her. She’d join up with Byleth, they’d charge the Goddess Tower, and then—

A flash of light the only warning, Avarine pulled up and Edelgard tumbled back just as Rhea flew past and launched a stream of infernal flame right at the bridge. It scorched her face like sunburn, seared her eyes even though lids squeezed shut, and when Edelgard and Avarine opened them again there was nothing but rising smoke and a gaping pit where the bridge once was. Rhea flew back to the Goddess Tower in a swift confident curve. She landed on the roof, her talons scraping the tiles and sending a shower of them down the mountainside, and let out a roar. 

“No! No no no no no!” Edelgard’s heart stopped, bile clawed its way up her throat. She couldn’t lose Byleth, not now, not again!

“Wait!” Avarine shouted. She pulled Edelgard into four-eye, just in time to see Byleth look up at the Goddess tower. Her sword glowed, Belial snarled, and with a sweep of her cloak and not another word they vanished inside. 

The aftermath of the last fight—Avarine knocked out of the air, Byleth and Belial cast into the river rapids, Edelgard restrained by Hubert, helpless to do anything other than watch—played themselves in Edelgard’s mind over and over as she stared at the crumbling remnants of the bridge, and the impossibly large gap that opened up to a rocky ravine dozens of meters below. She needed to get to Byleth; she couldn’t let her love fight the Immaculate One alone! Unless—

Avarine flew right up to her face. “No.”

When the Agarthans chained her to the surgical table and sawed open her chest, when they forced the Crest of Flames into her still-beating heart, they left something else behind. Something that would reveal just what sort of hideous weapon she had been forged into, in a way that none could possibly deny. The components rested and warred within her, had been for years. All the transformation would require was an immense amount of energy, and the will to see it through.

“No,” moaned Avarine. She dove at Edelgard again and again, but couldn’t bring herself to hurt her, not truly. “El, no, you can’t!”

All the transformation would require was the sacrifice of one Edelgard and Avarine von Hresvelg. 

Behind them, the screams of battle rose and fell and clashed with Avarine’s begging. “Please! El! There has to be another way! We can go to the flying stables, there’s got to be a pegasus or wyvern left, we can meet Rhea in the air—”

“We don’t have the time,” Edelgard said. Byleth would be halfway through the cathedral by now; in mere moments she’d be facing Rhea in direct combat, and then—

Avarine’s swoops and pleas became even more desperate. “You can’t! El, you’re not a monster, you’re still a person! Don’t throw all that away after Byleth and all our friends taught us that again! Don't take yourself from me! I don't want to leave you!”

“But don’t you see, Avarine?” She reached out and stroked those glossy white feathers. “We need to do it for them.”

Avarine leaned back. “Please, El. I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t either,” and she let her voice crack then, but no more. Her resolve had to be iron, even now, especially now. Edelgard took a deep breath. “But what’s our life, compared to that of everyone else’s? Compared to a better world?”

Ava cried out as if mortally wounded, and spiraled to the ground. Edelgard scooped her up and held her to her chest, as close as possible for as long as possible, and stepped forward. 

She could not look back. She could not look up. If she did, her resolve would break.

Thank you, everyone, Edelgard thought as she took another step forward and set her crests alight. For everything. For all you have taught me, all you have shown me. For all you have shown the world. For all you are, and all you can be. Please…don’t mourn me. Don’t look back. Finish the promise.

It was the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life. 

It was nothing she hadn’t endured before. 

All she had to do was just

Let

Go. 

Notes:

aaaaaa

AAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

 

 

...See you next time?

I hope you all enjoyed!

Chapter 46: Legacy

Summary:

It's the final battle.

Notes:

Ferdinand and Embrienne von Aegir (30 Great Tree Moon, 1162 - 22 Garland Moon, 1240, Honeybee) was the Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire from 1184-1215. He was known for his membership in the inaugural Black Eagle Strike Force, social reform policies, education reform, and helping Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg negotiate the re-establishment of the nation of Duscur. Prime Minister von Aegir oversaw the opening of over two dozen universities and established the first system of universal basic education in the Adrestian Empire. During his tenure, Adrestia’s literacy rates rose from an estimated pre-war 20% to 92% according to the last census before his retirement in 1215… 

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Ferdinand von Aegir. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649. 

The Husk knew pain. 

It did not understand why it was in pain, or how to describe it, or what pain even was beyond bad. It had no reason, no will, nothing beyond pure animal instinct and a wordless urge to attack. 

The Husk looked around. It was in a large open space with multiple buildings. Some of the buildings were on fire. Others were broken into rubble.  There were shouts. Grating metal. Claws tearing through flesh. There were humans fighting enormous white creatures, whose cries of pain shook the ground. The humans had animals with them. 

For some reason, looking at the animals made the Husk hurt. It was not quite a physical pain. It was an empty and strange pain, a different type of bad. If the Husk could make comparisons, it would say that this empty pain at the sight of the animals that were not animals was the worst pain of all. 

It would not go away. 

There was another roar overhead. The Husk looked up, and saw another enormous white monster with wings atop a tower. A human woman entered the nearby ruined building with a sword in her hand. A green wolf with horns was not far behind her. 

There was something the Husk did know. The Husk knew who was friend, and who was foe. 

And the Husk knew that the human needed help. 

The Husk flexed its claws and rose to attack. 

---

Warped and twisted as these wretches might be, they still died like any mortal being. 

Ferdinand’s shout matched the roar of the white beast as he drove his spear between the monster’s ribs. It shrieked and thrashed, enormous gnarled feet gouging grass, a lashing tail smashing columns outside the breezeway to the knights’ halls. Hubert barely needed to aim at such a large target. The moment Ferdinand got out of the way, he launched a bolt of crackling dark magic. The white beast screamed as it seeped into its flesh, then suddenly went silent and collapsed. It twitched once, went still, and in a flash of brilliant white changed back into the man it once was. He looked all the world like any other dead man. 

Ferdinand stood before the corpse, his lance trembling, his voice tight. Embrienne’s buzzing dwarfed every other sound. “I had wondered,” he snarled through gritted teeth, “just why Rhea insisted we keep silent about the true nature of Miklan’s transformation.” Another white beast roared agony as it tore through church soldier and imperial battalion alike. Thick saliva dripped down misshapen jaws as they split open, the back of its throat glowed like some hellish furnace—

Two glints of light flashed in the corner of Hubert’s eye, the only warning he had before two of Bernadetta’s arrows shot past him and slammed into the back of the white beast’s throat. The glow of charging flame sputtered and stuttered, then backfired down its throat in a muffled explosion that must have torn something internal. It slammed to the ground, the back of its throat torn open, then reverted to the body of a woman who had pledged her life to a lying tyrant and received only destruction in kind in exchange. Another beast roared, charged, trampled over the woman’s corpse, then screeched and fell to the ground as Bernadetta’s followup attack put its eyes out. Its momentum kept it going, gouging a deep trench in the mud, until it skidded to a stop right before Ferdinand. He ran up the white beast’s skull, shouted, “Is this what you call holy?!” to a goddess who, even if she was listening, would not care, and ended its suffering with a mighty blow of his silvered shield that split scales and cracked bone. 

The twisted beast died with barely a whimper. Hubert did not dare lower his hand, kept the dark magic in his hand charged and ready to cast though it turned his fingers numb. Thanily stepped forward, sniffed the corpse and curled her lip. “I doubt these kneeling sycophants ever expected the goddess’s blessing to consume them like this.”

Hubert smiled thinly despite it all; the irony of situations like these couldn’t help but give him a grim satisfaction, a sense of schadenfreude. “Defenders of tyranny are always so surprised when the oppression they perpetuate devours them too in the end.” 

“Indeed,” Ferdinand said as he yanked the shield free. Somehow it was still clean without a single dent; a function of Indech’s craftsmanship, perhaps? “A shame that they only realize the extent and inevitable self-destruction of their myopia after destroying countless innocents.”  

“How many more of these, these things did Rhea make?!” Bernadetta cried out from the rooftop above. “Is this what those crest stones down in the Holy Tomb were for?!”

“I don’t know,” was all Hubert found himself able to say at the moment, for he truly had no idea. Even Linhardt had seemed stumped, unable to give more than hypothesis and speculation at that horrible moment of transformation. “We can figure out the details once we put these creatures out of their misery.”

An explosion and a streak from above—they could fly now?! Simmering magic flared up, he and his daemon turned around—

Hubert and Thanily looked up, and saw his world end. 

A streak of black soared up to the Goddess Tower, up to where the Immaculate one perched on its roof like the monster she was. Even from this distance Hubert could see the humanoid shape. The way its dark carapace hung down over its legs like armored skirts. The fingers stretched out into long spears. The blackened toothed…petals… that shielded its head. 

The absence of a white gyrfalcon soaring alongside what was left of her human into battle.

They had talked about it, many a time, and every time Hubert wanted to beg her to cease even raising the possibility. The power of two crests warring within Her Majesty could be fully unleashed. Lady Edelgard could, if she wished, take what she called hideous power and use it to transform herself into a being strong enough to directly challenge even Rhea herself.

And all it would take was the sacrifice of everything that made her human. The price to pay for such power was no less than the existence of Avarine herself.

Hubert stared at what was once Her Majesty, watched her fly towards the Immaculate One, and willed himself to wake from this nightmare. 

“No. No!” Thanily’s hoarse scream of despair tore its way from her throat before she could stop herself; she fled back to Hubert’s side and pressed herself against her legs. Selfishly, shamefully, he needed to hold Thanily, needed to know that she, at least, was still there.  If only they were not fighting! The fighting should have stopped, all Fodlan should have dropped everything to cry out in loss. The miracle of Byleth’s continued sentience after enduring intercision was a singular event fueled by no less than quasi-divine providence. It was not to be repeated. All that remained of Her Majesty was her husk, a soulless shell whose only existence was for combat. 

Lady Edelgard was gone. 

“—Bert! Hubert!” Strong hands gripped his shoulders, a loud voice and insistent shakes pulled him back to the moment. Ferdinand was there, shaking his shoulders, his amber eyes wide, his voice thick with concern. Over his shoulder Hubert could see Bernadetta with an arrow nocked and drawn and ready to loose at anything that made it past their battalions, though in her pouch Malecki kept looking back at him. Embrienne had dove into Thanily’s fur, crawling all over her in an attempt at comfort. Ferdinand shook his shoulders again. “What happened to Her Majesty?”

Was it that obvious? Had he truly become so easy to read, or was it simply the horror of the situation or that those who somehow loved him also knew him? Hubert opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a punched-out whine. How could he possibly find the words to properly express the horror, the wrongness in the world? His utter failure as a retainer, a guardian, a…a friend? The loss that tore open his ribcage and exposed his still-beating heart to a cold and uncaring world?! All Fodlan should stop and mourn, for Lady Edelgard was…was dead. 

But he could not say this, could not shatter their morale so close to the end, in the middle of what had to be their final great battle. He could not say it out loud and tear his shattered heart out of his chest. 

So instead, with Thanily’s broken whine a backdrop, Hubert croaked to Ferdiand and Bernadetta, “Nothing that will negatively affect our current battle.” He took several shuddering breaths and forced the charged Miasma spell back into its swirling dormancy before it backfired and took his hand with it. “I swear to you, I will tell you everything once we are victorious.”

From the grip on his shoulder to the ferocity in his eyes, Ferdinand went soft. He nodded, then leaned up and placed a quick kiss on his lips, warm and soft. “I trust you,” he murmured.

“I love you,” added Bernadetta from a couple meters away, and Hubert did not trust his voice so all he did was nod. He loved them too, more than Thanily had ever hoped, as much as he had ever feared. Right now, that love was the only thing holding the shattered pieces of his heart together, keeping him and his daemon from burning alive in a wildfire of grief and pain. Right now, they had to fight on.

In Lady Edelgard’s memory.

---

The monster, the horrific parody of the Immaculate One that Cyril had become slammed its tail into Leonie’s chest. Linhardt heard her ribs crack, a sharp snap horribly audible even above the punched-out noise of breath forced from her lungs, watched helplessly as she sailed through the air and landed in the fishing pond. The water seeped into her clothes, her armor weighed her down. 

Above her Kamen screamed in pain and dove as if he had any hope of catching her. When Leonie hit the water she must have been knocked out, because Kamen suddenly went limp and fell from the sky. 

“LEONIE!” As Caspar screamed her name, Runilite lept into the air and caught the robin daemon in her jaws before she could hit the cobblestones. Still shouting her name, Caspar dashed towards her but pulled up when the white beast landed between him and the pond and screeched. 

If Linhardt concentrated, he could almost hear Cyril’s distorted voice. He edged backwards towards the pond and Runilite, and as he did so grit his teeth and cast Excalibur. Blades of wind shot from his outstretched hand, sheared off some of the twisted mass of skin and scale and even part of a wing. Linhardt heard the scuffling and shouts of Caspar climbing up the neck of the twisted monster so he could start punching, but he did not look. His gaze was fixed on the limp form of Leonie, slowly sinking into the pond as the water soaked her clothes and weighed her down. The force of impact and shock of cold must have knocked her out. She was alive; Kamen was still limp in Runilite’s jaws, but for how much longer? 

“Oh, please don’t tell me we have to go in there,” Linhardt moaned. It was barely the Great Tree Moon; the water would be freezing! Torture at best, fatal at worst. 

Before his eyes, Leonie slipped beneath the waters, a trail of bubbles and a scrap of waterlogged fabric marking where she was. Kamen shuddered in Runilite’s mouth; if he stood here they only had moments to live. 

Great. Just great. This was going to be horrible. With a loud resigned sigh and a single motion, Linhardt cast aside his jacket and research journal, took a deep breath, and plunged off the pier. 

The icy water punched his entire body, drove knives into his head. It was all Linhardt could do to hold his breath against the initial shock, all Runilite right behind him could do to not let go of Kamen—or worse, bite down. Before him Leonie slowly drifted down to the bottom of the pond, her clothes billowing around her like some sort of phantom, a thin stream of bubbles escaping her nose and mouth. Even as Linhardt watched, the stream grew thinner. 

Swimming, everything, was a conscious effort; a burning numbness crept up his limbs and froze his mind with every passing second. He only had moments. Linhardt forced his way through the pain and swam down. Push arms, kick legs. Push arms, kick legs. Reach out, grab for a billowing ponytail, close hand around water. Kick legs again. Close hand around wrist. Pull back, tug Leonie close. Yes!

Darkness closing in, cold stealing away consciousness. Thrust out the other hand. Shout Cutting Gale into the depths with the last breath in his lungs. Get forced back, shot up, spiraling head over heels over head over tail, breach the surface. Air! He pulled Leonie up, still unconscious, still breathing, still alive, and swam to shore. He dropped Leonie, Kamen fell from Runilite’s mouth. Cast Heal, hear her breathing even out. Good. Time to rest. 

“YEEAAAAHHHH!!!”

Linhart’s eyes flew open. He was going to kill Caspar, if he could ever stop shivering. His body curled around itself; he shivered so much it physically hurt. With a trembling hand he set the adjacent pier on fire, then pulled himself and Leonie closer to the flames. That was a little better, enough for him to focus on Caspar’s shouting.

He stood atop a defeated white beast, a foot planted on its head, his arms raised as he roared in triumph. Blood trickled down his face and his armor looked scorched and blasted, but if Caspar was able to shout like that then he was fine. “Who’s the best? I’m the best! Caspar von Bergliez, Fodlan’s number one—yaaaahhh!!!” 

The warped facsimile of the Immaculate One died, and as it did it turned back into Cyril’s corpse. For the briefest moment Caspar hung suspended in mid-air until he fell flailing and shouting and crashed to the ground.

“Oh, right,” Peakane muttered from her backpack, because Caspar was too busy groaning and nursing his wounds. “That…that was Cyril…”

Cyril—only Cyril—lay motionless on the ground

“Dammit,” Leonie groaned. She was awake, though still sprawled on the ground, half-propped up on one elbow with her other hand clutching Kamen close to her heart. “Cyril absolutely adored Rhea. He worshiped her! And…and Rhea turned him into that thing. She just…she just used him, and threw him away…”

Just as she had planned to do to Byleth, only to fly into a berserk rage when their old professor denied her.

“Why did she feel entitled to do this?” Kamen asked inside Leonie’s closed fist, over and over again, over the crackling of the burning pier, over the shouts of battle not far away that they were too exhausted to enter again. “How could she treat us like this?”

Linhardt didn’t really have an answer. 

“Um.” That was Caspar, wincing as he got up. Linhardt took a moment to focus and sent a Physic his way, watched the wounds heal and his face brighten up. “Thanks, Lin. But, um, this is gonna sound like a crazy thought, but what if she was always like this?” He twisted his hands. “Peakane, you—you’re better at explaining this, you had the thought, can you say it?”

His daemon bobbed up and down in her tank in agreement. Caspar left her on the floor to speak as he went and arranged Cyril’s broken body into something more respectful. “Okay, so you know how Nemesis is the King of Liberation? How the Church taught us that he freed the people of Fodlan from evil gods, but then became corrupted and evil himself and Seiros had to kill him?” They all nodded; it was one of the core teachings of the church. Every child in Fodlan—except, somehow, their professor—learned that story before they could even walk. 

And it was all a lie. 

The truth was that Nemesis was little more than a murderer who slaughtered Sothis in her sleep, then slew the other Nabateans. Seiros killed him in vengeance, then took control of Fodlan once more. Linhardt forced aside grappling with the enormity of the lie, that the relics were made of mutilated remains, the Goddess was not watching above but dead, tried to ignore that feeling of being horribly, impossibly metaphysically adrift and—-his eyes flew wide open. He could see where Caspar was going with this. 

 “I mean,” Peakane broke off and flattened herself against the base of her backpack, looking for a place to hide. Caspar kept glancing up at the sky as he put Cyril’s body somewhere better, worrying his lip in that way he always did when he was waiting for a thunderstorm to hit. Or perhaps, in this case, being smote by divine lightning for what he was about to say in Garreg Mach (Linhardt was too exhausted to say anything but let them try. Rhea had attempted to shatter their wills over and over again, every time with the same methods of threats and overwhelming force, and it had reached the point of being old. There was nothing more she could do to terrify them into blind obedience, not anymore). “If it were me, and I took over afterwards, no way would I make the guy who killed my family anything other than the baddest of the bad guys. No way would I call him something awesome like King of Liberation or say he was ever a hero! Unless—”

“—Unless so many people saw him as a hero that she couldn’t possibly bury it all,” Runilite finished. “Only twist the story.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Caspar had pulled Cyril under a bench. If not for the broken neck, he’d look as if he was sleeping. His friend then ran back and scooped up Peakane’s backpack in his arms. “What if, well, what if Rhea was always like this? If the Nabateans ruled before Nemesis showed up, what if they were always like this? And just like right now people hated them so much that when he did start killing, all the humans thought he really was a hero?”

“The King of Liberation,” Leonie murmured. She rolled her body a little closer to the burning pier, turned her face towards the sky. “You think people are gonna see us that way, years from now?”

“Possibly,” Linhardt answered, though the very thought was dizzying. “But this is all speculation; it’s not like we have any way to know for certain.” Alas, the church had done an extremely thorough job at erasing all records from the past. Distorted parables, old wives’ tales, and scraps of censored documents squirreled away in Abyss: that was all, the only knowledge of the time before the Church of Seiros left in Fodlan. Now that Linhardt knew the extent of the loss, all that knowledge gone forever because of selfish terrified people, he wanted to weep. 

“That doesn’t change all the horrible things the Agarthans did too!” Kamen protested; Leonie was still too weak to really talk. “Look what they did to Arianrhod, and all the people down in the dungeons! Look what they did to Her Majesty, and Lysithea, and Marianne. Heck, they blew up half of Enbarr! The Agarthans are fucking awful monsters who have to go too!”

“As it turns out, every single overarching faction in Fodlan is, as you put it, ‘fucking awful monsters’.” Linhardt muttered into the cobblestones. It was far too much effort to stand up, and much more comfortable on the ground as it was warmed by the fire and sunlight. There was a dark streak above, heading towards the Goddess Tower, but he was too exhausted to really pay attention to it. “Everybody is awful and sucks. That’s why we’re doing this, I suppose. To do better.”

---

Hapi could hear them screaming. 

They’d zoomed in on Elfie right away, the remnants of their pack, in the hope they could figure out what was happening, or talk him down, or—or something. Anything. Honestly, Hapi had never expected to see Elfie again after he’d been removed from his position as warden of Abyss; she thought he was dead, or worse. 

But here he was, alive and whole and looking like absolute shit. Heck, his hornbill daemon had flat out plucked the feathers off her entire front, and even Rubine only ever did that once or twice in all the time Hapi knew him.

“Where the heck were you, Elfie?!” Hapi cried out. “We needed you! You could have stopped them!” Malka Foss crouched, lashed his scaled tail and flexed his claws, unsure of whether to strike out or curl up. 

“I—” Elfie and his daemon frantically looked back and forth among the three of them, their gazes always, always coming back to that empty space where Baltie and Dru should have been. “I swear to the goddess, I didn’t know. If I did, I would have stopped it, or gotten you out, or—”

And damn it all, she believed him. Yeah, Hapi’d heard why Elfie had gotten kicked out of being Abyss warden, how supposedly he was just using them too, but…but that had to have been another lie of the Church. She knew firsthand how everyone was just looking for an excuse to wipe them all out for years before they went ahead and actually did it, how the Church loved using people and throwing them away, and figured that it was just another thing they made up after the fact to cover their tracks. That the real reason they got rid of Elfie was because he went and actually gave a shit whether everyone in Abyss lived or died. Damn it all, she wanted to believe him. 

“So what are you doing now then, Aelfric?” Yuri-bird said, flipping his dagger up and down in his head in time with Mockingjay flying low dangerous circles around Elfie’s head. “You know it’s wrong, you already got punished for it, so why are you still here at the Archbishop’s heels?”

“I—” And then there was a flash of light, and just like every other presumably secret cardinal here, white vines or something shot out of his chest and swallowed up him and his daemon and turned him into that…thing, that looked like if the Immaculate One was one of the demonic beasts that they chucked her into Abyss for accidentally summoning. 

And even though Elfie was gone, transformed into that thing, Hapi could still hear him screaming.

“Damn it all,” Yuri-bird spat, his voice thick, backing up against the wall of the classroom. “You can’t hear me now. Not like this, not anymore. You damned fool!”

“Could this truly be a punishment from the Goddess?” Coco murmured up above, and fuck even if it wrecked her mobility they really needed to get her inside or into the shade. “But what crime could Aelfric have committed to warrant so terrible a fate, and what does that bode for wretches such as us?”

“I think you got it all backwards and inside out, Shady Lady,” Mockingjay shot back. “Right now, focus on putting him down! Hapi, you got a read on this thing?”

“I—” Right. Elfie was gone, only the monster left. And Linny had been teaching her a bit of control. “He’s hurting. So much. Can’t you hear it?”

Yuri-bird shook his head. “No. Just a whole bunch of roaring.”

How could they not hear? Even his steps were pure agony, the kind that made Foss want to curl into a ball and hide and definitely not fight at all. But…stars above, Elfie didn’t deserve this. Nobody did. They needed to end his suffering. 

Because otherwise he’d end them. The monster unfurled twisted wings and took to the air to meet Coco, and thank fuck she still had a survival instinct because it was fast. It flew after Coco, trading her dexterity for its size and bulk and started trying to bite at her. 

“Rubine!” Mockingjay shouted as teeth snapped down on the peacock daemon’s tailfeathers and pulled a few away, and thank goodness they were in the sun because Rubine’s peahen shape had much shorter tail feathers, so he was able to escape. He still screeched in pain, Coco still needed to twist and grab her daemon, then pull into a dive and get some distance before twisting back and filling the air with a sudden blast of freezing ice and snow. It audibly froze its wings, turning the beats slow and disjointed, an easy mark for Yuri-bird to punch a couple holes in them with arrows. Hapi scrambled up a tree, trying to get a bit closer so she could hit it with something more accurate than Death. Last thing she needed was to smack Coco with a spell like that by mistake. 

“Can you shoot a Bolting?” she shouted up to the sky. A cloud passed over the sun, swallowed up their shadows and blunted the brightness of the early spring daylight. Good, that would perk Coco up a bit. 

“I can’t get the distance!” she shouted. The bare branches shook and bent as Coco drove her pegasus towards her, then snapped the other way as she pulled up and the white beast tore past. Branches whipped her face and left thin scratches, Foss dug his claws into the bark, the white belly cast a shadow over the whole tree. Close enough. Hapi wrapped her left arm around the branches, threw out her right, and launched a screeching, buzzing Swarm right at the monster’s underbelly. The arcane insects dug into warped scales; she could see them writhe underneath the surface. In the sky, the monster that was once Elfie kicked and thrashed and screeched, then whipped its head and focused burning eyes at her, spotting her through the branches.

Uh-oh. 

“Scatter!” She and Foss lept from the tree and ran in opposite directions—they could get crazy far apart after what Cornelia did to them; didn’t mean they liked it—him into the abandoned Blue Lions classroom, her out in the open slinging Miasma after Miasma into the air. She heard them land with a splash and sizzle and roars that sounded way too much like human screams, but didn’t dare stop running to look up for more than a moment. “Coco! Yuri-bird! Bring him down!”

“Hapi! Look out!”

She glanced up just in time to see the white beast rear back and open its mouth. The back of its throat glowed, then it swung its head forward and launched a beam of blinding fire from its mouth. It carved a line of flame into the grass and dirt in front of her, bright enough to sear through closed eyes. Hapi pulled up short, then ran in the opposite direction, muttering under her pants, “That’s it, focus on me because I’m a suicidal manic, I’m the one you want.”

There was a flash of light behind her, the sudden sharp crack of Coco’s Bolting, a screech of pain. Hapi pulled herself up onto a nearby wall just in time to see the white beast, its wings smoking and charred, crash to the ground and slide to a stop right where she just was. It lay there, its chest rising and falling in a deep, irregular way. Hapi gingerly climbed down and approached. 

The blow was fatal, but not immediately. Even now, it was too weak to do anything but rumble short, agonized moans. Foss had already edged his way over, placed his paw on the beast’s face as he vainly searched for any trace of the Elfie who taught her to heal the people she accidentally hurt whenever she lost control. She ran a hand down the twisted vines of flesh and scale, let out as close to a sigh as she’d ever be able to make. “It’s okay, Elfie. I’ve got you. We’re here. Your pack is here.” 

The pained moans fell to low whines, and eventually died away entirely. Only then did the warped form of the white beast shudder and revert to Elfie’s body. Foss scrambled back and climbed onto her back with his claws dug into her dress, his face buried into the crook of her neck. Hapi knelt there, breathing in short sharp bursts as her mind buzzed and went black with rage. 

“Hapi…” A hand on her upper arm—two hands, one on each side. Coco’s hand, soft with painted nails and smelling of magic. Yuri-bird’s hand, with scarred palms and lines on the wrists she didn’t really want to think about. Foss slid off her back so Ruby could cover him with his tailfeathers, so Mockingjay could run their beak along his face. 

“They chucked me into Abyss so I wouldn’t hurt people on the surface,” Hapi found herself saying. It didn’t really feel like her—her mouth was saying the words, but she herself was somewhere far away, floating above herself in volcanic rage. “The church said I was dangerous, and meanwhile the archwitchop herself turned her own followers into rampaging monsters?!”

“I, Hapi, I don’t know what to say…” 

“That’s because there’s nothing to say, Coco,” Hapi snapped back. “The church is full of power hungry hypocritical liars who don’t have any compassion for anyone other than themselves. And here’s where that ended for them.” She curled her fists into the half frozen earth. “What goes around comes around, and I’m done having people tell me I need to have compassion for those who won’t spare us any.”

---

Belial’s howl of a challenge echoed through the cathedral. It bounced off the walls, rang in the empty pews, and rose to the hole in the ceiling. Byleth knew her friends would describe it in more poetic terms, maybe with something about ghosts, but for her it was just loud and attention-grabbing. 

The Sword of the Creator made a horrible scraping noise as she dragged it along the ground. That, too, echoed through the empty cathedral. Would that be loud enough? Just to make sure, Byleth sucked in a deep breath, then loosed her voice in a bellowing shout. 

“RHEA!”

The bridge to the cathedral was smashed, Byleth was cut off from the rest of her students. And ever since her defiance in the Holy Tomb, Rhea wanted her and El dead at all costs. Shout loud enough, draw enough attention, and Rhea would focus on her, attack her to the exclusion of everyone else. She’d burned through all her Divine Pulses keeping her friends alive against the white beasts. Whatever happened next couldn’t be undone, so Byleth had to get it right the first time. 

And if the Immaculate One attacked inside the cathedral, surrendered her aerial supremacy as the enclosed space all but forced her to the ground…

“RHEA!”

The daylight filtering in through the hole in the ceiling suddenly dimmed, shadows from the bright sun vanishing at once. Byleth and Belial circled around the hill of rubble from opposite sides, Belial staring at the door, Byleth eying the sky. The sun reappeared, bright light glimmering off her hair and Belial’s fur. A passing shadow, perhaps? She signaled Belial with a flick of her fingers; her daemon stalked towards the entrance of the cathedral while she edged towards the alcove housing the Saints’ Statues. 

A low rushing sound barely filtered in through the thick stone walls, and that was all the warning Byleth got before it exploded inwards. 

“TRAITOR! THIEF!” Rhea’s claws gouged deep furrows into the stone floor; she bit on the wall and tore chunks away, widening the gap so she could wedge in her shoulders and forelimbs. “GIVE HER BACK! GIVE BACK MY MOTHER!”

“I told you, I’m not Sothis! She’s GONE!” With that Byleth whipped out the long barbs of her sword; they sliced open the other side of Rhea’s face. The grotesque winged beast roared in agony and reflexively pulled back, smacking her horns against the already-ruined wall and cracking it further. 

“But you’re not listening to me, are you,” Byleth said in a low voice, barely audible above the hiss of forged bone retracting back into the shape of a sword. “I don’t think you’ve listened to anyone other than yourself for a very long time.”

Rhea glared at her, panting in rage. Green blood dripped down one side of her face; on the other side the corner of her mouth was slit all the way to the back of her head; Byleth could see gnarled scar tissue, yellowed teeth and a serpentine tongue poking through the gaps. Her eyes were milky white, like something dead for days. Then flames started licking the back of her throat and it all began to glow.

“RAAAAAGGGHHH!!!” Rhea spewed blinding fire into the room; Byleth somersaulted and dashed towards the main room to the sound of the Saints’ Statues exploding behind her, the roar of flame and the crack of stone. 

“Look out!” Belial shouted. 

Just as Byleth turned around, Rhea burst through the cloud of smoke, her eyes burning through the grayish dust. She practically galloped, far faster than Byleth anticipated, and paid no mind to her repeated strikes, not the gouges in her hide or the way the Sword of the Creator bit and sliced into her again and again. Rhea snarled, crouched to pounce—

—A streak of black fire, then a second, slammed into the back of Rhea’s head. She roared, then twisted her body and snarled 

A demonic beast hovered outside the ruined wall. 

It was a black shadow against the blue sky, vaguely humanoid but at the same time not. It had long-stretched out limbs with spindly sharp fingers, a skirt-like carapace hanging down to what would be feet. Feather-like shoulder pats framed multiple dully glowing red orbs that reminded Byleth a little bit of Crest Stones, and a black beaklike three-part helmet of sorts draping down and curving around her head. Something about the beast made Byleth feel horribly uneasy, send a curdling emotion that she would only later identify as dread pulsing through her body, and it was only when the creature silently sailed inside that it became so horribly clear as to why.

The white hair, curled into buns, framed by a golden crown of horns. Those beautiful lavender eyes, now sunken in and turned to dying embers. Her armored skirt, now turned into something like a bug’s carapace. 

Byleth couldn’t see Avarine anywhere. 

This—this was—

Byleth looked at her, and felt her still and quiet heart tear open, just as it did with her father’s murder three years ago.

“El,” Belial moaned, the same way they did when they chased after Domaghar’s dust three years ago, begging her to come back and be her father’s daemon again, “What have you done?!” 

Without a word (there would not be any words from El, never again, Byleth had seen what happened to Miklan, El was gone), the husk of El flew inside, shot another orb of dark energy at Rhea, and blasted off the top of one of her horns. She shrieked, and green blood dribbled out of the hollow opening. 

“SO,” she snarled, and smoke curled out the sides of her ruined mouth, “YOU FINALLY SHOW JUST HOW WICKED YOU ARE. THE GODDESS HAS CURSED YOU, EDELGARD, AND YOU CAN NO LONGER HIDE YOUR SIN! I WILL TEAR BOTH OF YOU APART! YOU WILL BEG FOR DEATH BEFORE I ALLOW YOU TO DIE! YOU WILL WANDER THE DESERT FOR ETERNITY AS THE FLESH FALLS FROM YOUR BONES! RAAAAAGGGHHH!!!”

The husk of El threw herself before the blinding flames, twisted and shielded Byleth in her elongated arms as Rhea’s breath blasted her armored back. Byleth could hear the plates of hide warp and buckle and even crack, yet the Husk didn’t even flinch. Byleth looked up and there was no change in her expression, no sign of pain or determination or…or anything at all.

And yet, when Miklan had transformed into the Black Beast, he had devoured his allies, indiscriminately attacked his bandits and her students alike. El…protected her.

And when Rhea launched herself into the air, flew through the hole in the ceiling to the open sky above, the Husk grabbed her in her claws and soared after her. 

Her grip was strong but not suffocating, flexible enough for Byleth to adjust and move her arms and strike out with the Sword of the Creator. As they flew up after Rhea, Byleth saw a flash of green against white scales. As they got closer that flash of green clarified into Belial. They’d rammed their horns all the way to the base into the soft joint where wing met body, used teeth and claws to try and tear that apart. 

Even during the Worst Days, Byleth could still follow commands. “Edelgard!” she shouted, because using El to describe what was left of her hurt far too much, “Get to her other side! We need to ground her!” 

Far too silently, Edelgard flew up and over Rhea’s enormous form, and when the other wing came up she and Byleth struck out as one. Wingskin tore and peeled back under Edelgard’s claws and her blade, long strips of membrane flapping in the wind. Rhea screamed, apparently beyond any words, twisted around and spewed even more brilliant flame at them. They couldn’t dodge, and so once again Edelgard turned and absorbed the brunt of the blast. Byleth could smell Edelgard’s charred hide and scales, see where pieces of her carapace burnt and cracked off. She couldn’t take another blow, and behind them Rhea’s mouth opened and glowed once more as she sucked in air for another blast—

Edelgard jammed her left hand in Rhea’s open mouth all the way up to the elbow, and fired a blast of dark energy down her throat. Rhea’s eyes went wide, there was a deep thump as her breath weapon prematurely detonated, a muffled tearing sound, and then the base of her jaw and the back of her throat exploded. 

A hot mist of smoke and ash and a spray of green blood seared them both, and though her skin prickled and burned Byleth lept out of Edelgard’s remaining hand towards the ruin of Rhea’s throat. She sliced through flesh and scale, tore all the way down her neck, sliced down and down and down until the Sword of the Creator caught on the top of her ribcage and Byleth jerked to a stop. 

For just a moment the three of them hung suspended in midair. Then Rhea shuddered and went limp. Her ruined wings billowed up and around them as, together, they fell out of the sky. 

There was just enough time for Byleth to think not again, before she, Belial, Edelgard, and the body of the Immaculate One crashed through the floor of the cathedral to the chamber below. 

Notes:

6500 words of pure fight scenes. I hope you all enjoy this!

I've been hinting at what going Hegemon would do to El for...a very long time, honestly. But before you start screaming and grabbing the pitchforks, please remember that there's still two chapters to go!

Holy shit there's only two chapters to go.

By the way, what Caspar said? This is from the interview with the 3H developers:

...And then, Seiros raised an army and forcefully suppressed Nemesis and the Ten Elites by beating them, and then afterwards, as the victor, Seiros changed history, which led to the current history of the Seiros Church. In other words, “history is at the end of the day the victor’s privilege and nothing else”, is what we fit in. As a result, during the first part of this title, there is a great amount of people speaking lies about history, which results in the books in the library not being able to be believed at all.

Question: Why did Seiros (Rhea) leave the Ten Elites and Nemesis as heroes in history?

Kusakihara: From the human perspective/side, Nemesis and the Ten Elites were heroes. As a result, ruling above humans, she would be unable to completely fabricate points that would deny every aspect of their history, eh. As a result, she left them as heroes while changing other parts in order to suit her own needs.

 

Which raises the question: just how bad was the Nabatean reign in the time between Sothis sleeping and her death for humanity to see Nemesis and the Ten Elites as heroes?

Given just what Rhea and the Church are like under the propaganda and smiles and violence hidden under a facade of things being quiet and shiny clean, I think we have an idea.

Anyway, I'll see you all soon for the penultimate chapter? I've also got some amazing stuff in the wings for everyone!

Chapter 47: The Emperor, and the Goddess

Summary:

In a place of endless calm waters, Sothis speaks for the final time.

Notes:

Hubert and Thanily von Vestra (17 Great Tree Moon, 1160 - 21 Blue Sea Moon, 1229, Red Fox) was the personal retainer and Imperial Spymaster to Emperor Edelgard II and von Hresvelg. Her compatriot, confidant, and close friend since childhood, Hubert von Vestra founded the Adrestian Ministry of Intelligence and played a vital role in the postwar Imperial reconstruction. Even in his lifetime, Hubert von Vestra’s loyalty was proverbial…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Hubert von Vestra. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

When the Immaculate One fell, she took the remaining white beasts with her.

As the echoes of a mighty crash rang out from the ruined cathedral like a distant thunderclap, those that were left gasped, shuddered, and died along with their master. There were still other soldiers, but Hubert didn’t pay them any attention. He incinerated one charging axeman without breaking his stride as he ran towards the broken bridge, Thanily racing as far ahead as their bond would allow. Everybody else had likely been distracted by the enormous form of the Immaculate One, her grotesque white form, the flashes of light as her breath sliced through the air, but not Hubert. Never Hubert. His attention was only ever for Her Majesty. 

No matter what she had become.

Even transformed, she was so small against Rhea’s monstrous form, but Hubert could track her easily. Her dark form circled and swarmed and struck the Immaculate One like an enraged hornet, and though Hubert could not see from his distance he knew Byleth and Belial were with her as well. 

And then there was a flash of light, then a muffled explosion as Rhea’s throat tore open and her head was nearly blasted clean off. They remained suspended in the air for a heartbeat, locked together in a deadly embrace, then fell as one through the shattered ceiling into the ruined cathedral below. 

“Is it over?” Hapi asked, but instead of answering Hubert ran past her, his boots clicking on the cobblestones as he raced along the bridge—

—and skidded to a stop, flailing his arms so he wouldn’t crash into Thanily and knock her over the edge. His daemon backpedaled away from the edge, her tail between her legs. As she did so a few pebbles bounced off the edge of the shattered bridge and fell into the abyss below. Hubert dared crane his neck out to take a glance below, then immediately jerked back with a very undignified whimper that he sincerely hoped nobody else heard. 

The shattered bridge plunged hundreds of meters or more into the canyon below, a dizzying drop that even the briefest glances of left Hubert’s head spinning with vertigo. He needed to get as far away from the edge as possible; a single misstep would send him plunging into the abyss below, leave his body smashed and broken against the rocks below. Even that brief glance threatened to pull him in, drag him down—

“Her Majesty is still on the other side,” Thanily whispered through gritted teeth. 

Her Majesty. She had sacrificed everything, everything for their sakes, and here he was, still stymied by heights? Shame burned through Hubert, wretched humiliation at his own weakness. 

He had failed. 

Ever since that horrible day down in the dungeons when he at last found Lady Edelgard and what was left of her siblings, when he took his knife and gave her brothers and sisters what help he could, when Thanily settled and he knew his purpose, Hubert had made a vow to protect Her Majesty with his dying breath. When she had been returned to him, a stitched-together girl with bleached hair and linear scars covering her body and Avarine passing righteous judgement upon the world, he had protected her with everything he had. When they entered the academy together he was her shadow. He would have absorbed even the fury of the church itself, if it had come to that. 

And now, at the very end, Hubert had failed. 

His voice was so small, so easily swallowed up by the towering cliffs and evergreen trees, but he shouted in desperation to the sky above and the smashed cathedral ahead and the canyon below regardless.  

“Lady Edelgard!”

Nothing but silence, and the occasional plink of falling stone.

“Lady Edelgard!”  

---

Sothis was alone. 

Terror seized the fragment of the goddess as she beheld the blackness. She couldn’t be back here! Her long sleep wasn’t scary but rather a drifting quiet, and death was even more so. There was nothing to fear from unaware quiet and a chance to rest.

But this…

Zaharas had utterly terrified her. During her brief time in the endless darkness before, she had—She and Belial would have wandered that darkness until the daemon passed away, and then she would have been left utterly alone, drifting, in that black space between worlds. Forever. 

How could she have wound up back here?! Sothis closed her eyes and thought. Ever since she had willingly fused with Belial, and then forcibly with Byleth, her individual awareness had been…limited. Limited to impressions, urges of feeling mostly, rather than the true linear thought of a sentient being. But if she closed her eyes and truly concentrated…

Oh.

Dying didn’t give Sothis fear, not like the prospect of being alone in the darkness again. But when Sothis opened her eyes once more she found herself not in eternal darkness with neither floor nor sky but an endless expanse of shallow water. Tepid, with a temperature so close to her body that it failed to register (if it even had a temperature at all, this liminal space between worlds, between life and death), the water lapped at her ankles but neither pulled at her toes nor sucked at the ground beneath her feet, such as it was. Above the sky was…it was. That was all Sothis could say. 

And, in the distance, Sothis heard a familiar screaming.

It was not Byleth’s screaming, nor Belial’s. This screaming was one that Sothis had not heard for millenia, but remembered just as clearly today as it was the first time she heard it.

No parent ever forgot what their screaming child sounded like, after all. 

Sothis ran—how long or how far, the anchor of the Goddess could not say. But eventually, she came upon a small child, with long green hair down to her ankles that trailed in the endless shallows and pointed ears that stuck out from under that hair. Her face was screwed up and red in a tantrum; water splashed as she stomped and shrieked.

“No! NO! Damn that traitorous emperor Edelgard! Damn that vile stillborn thief! How could they?! I was so close! I hate you! I hate you!”

She screamed and wailed, balled her fists and stomped her feet, and only when Seiros saw Sothis did she stop and run over to her. She threw her arms around her mother, buried her face against her, and sobbed, “Mommy! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you! They ruined everything, and I couldn’t stop them! They wouldn’t listen, no matter what! I’m sorry!”

This was her child, Seiros, all artifice finally stripped away in this place between worlds that bared all truths, finally shown to be the child she was. The child she had always been. Her child, whom she loved.

But there were so, so many other children who had fruitlessly called out for her succor, who had been told to beseech a goddess that could barely listen and could not help at all. And they had been told to pray in vain by the child embracing her right now.

Here, in the endless water, there was judgment. All else was gone, and nothing else mattered. So Sothis stroked her youngest daughter’s hair, and asked, “What are you sorry for, my child?”

Seiros sniffled, and wiped her nose, and Sothis knew she did not understand. “I—that Nemesis! He murdered you! And I couldn’t fix it! I couldn’t bring you back and make it better…”

Oh, Seiros… “What made you think I would want that?” 

Her daughter blinked, stunned to utter confusion. “But, but, but mother! He murdered you! He overthrew us! I needed to make it right! I needed to bring you back…” She broke off into another mumble in her dress. “I don’t understand…”

She didn’t understand, and perhaps she never would. “Seiros, my child, what happened to me was horrible. But I died. I was gone. What made you think I would wish to be brought back?”

“I—no!” She pulled back, screwed up her face and stomped her feet again. “Because I needed you! These damned, traitorous, ungrateful humans, they’re completely helpless! All they know how to do is squabble and fight and not listen to what they’re told to do! I needed you to come back and make it better! And those ungrateful humans needed you to put them in their place too!”

“Put them in their place…” Sothis trailed off in horror as the final piece of the puzzle slid into terrible place. “Seiros, what have you done?”

“My best! What you should have done all along!” Seiros was shouting now, though any echoes were swallowed up by the waves. “You were too nice, mother! We ruled over Fodlan waiting for you to wake up, and what did they do instead of being grateful that we were taking care of them?! That Nemesis broke into your chambers and murdered you in your sleep, on your throne! He mutilated you, turned your bones, your very stone into a tool of death! His followers slaughtered us! They should be thankful I didn’t wipe Fodlan clean of human filth! I was merciful! And they are still ungrateful!

It was her own murder that Seiros spoke of, but Sothis still felt distant from it all. Her story had ended, and Seiros mucked around with her Stone just as Nemesis did. Creating homunculi! Implanting her stone into a human child, severing her from her daemon in the process! And then…“Merciful,” Sothis said bitterly. “I wonder if the orphaned children who starved in the gutters of Enbarr, the women forced to bear noble children until their bodies gave out, the crestless sons thrown away, none of whom were at any point involved, ever considered it a mercy.”

Seiros pulled back, confused. This probably wasn’t going the way she had expected it to. “Mother, aren’t you listening? The humans are violent, and petty, and need—”

“—They needed guidance, not the iron talon,” Sothis interrupted. She could feel her patience growing thin, even though time held little meaning here. “It was our duty to nurture humanity, not control them, trap them in ignorance.”

Seiros balled her fists. “It was the only way to maintain peace!”

“Peace? Peace?! Seiros, I spent nearly a quarter of a century seeing Fodlan through Byleth’s eyes, and what I beheld was a land of horrors! In the time since I slept, Fodlan has become a land where the powerful feast upon the powerless, and you have condoned it! This is a land where those with crests are seen as blessed by me—which is a lie, by the way—and therefore inherently more worthy of respect and life! A land where children can be cast out and left to starve because they did not bear our marks, and their mothers left to die with them! A land where those who remain are beaten and twisted to continue this same cycle of abuse! A land fearful—nay, hateful—of the outside world, and of all things that might shake the facade of your little fiefdom!”

Seiros shook, but it was in fear of her wrath, and not because she realized what she had done—what she had allowed to be done in their names. “I—mother, the humans are vicious, and petty, and cruel! Yes, it was sad; but I’d bring you back, and then everything would be okay—”

“No!” Sothis roared, and for just a moment she drew herself up and was fully the Goddess again, great and glorious and terrible to behold. “You don’t get to lord over humanity and then abdicate responsibility when things go a way that you don’t like! If you took it upon yourself to lead Fodlan, then you had a duty to actually do your job! But instead you turned a blind eye to any suffering and evil that did not affect you! You banished people to a sunless crypt and called it a kindness!”

“I—I—” Seiros’s eyes flitted back and forth; she looked like she was about to cry, or start stomping her feet again. “Mother, the outsiders don’t know or respect you! And technology is what made the first rebellion happen, so I had to ban the humans from learning too much! And, it was the humans who took what I said about crests and—”

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO YOURSELF?!” Sothis roared once more. “You were the Archbishop; with a single decree you could have condemned the nobles and their corruption! You could have explicitly said those without crests matter as much as those who bear them! Instead you had children slaughter those who rose up, in order to teach them fear! You severed a baby! You—”

And Sothis broke off, because Seiros—still in the form of the little girl Sothis knew and not the Archbishop she presented to the world—stepped back with tears in her eyes, her shoulders shaking in what Sothis knew were about to be uncontrollable tears. 

“…You’re stuck,” Sothis said as she realized. “You’ve been frozen in time. You’re still the same angry, hurt little girl who found me all those years ago. And you’ve been all alone ever since…” Seiros was bawling now, gulping, hiccuping sobs that turned her face red and made her nose run, and what could Sothis do but pull her youngest daughter into her arms? “I’m so sorry, that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”  

Serios sobbed in her arms, and Sothis let herself weep as well for all that had happened, all that had been lost. All that Seiros had become and let be done in her grief and loss and resulting myopia. “Seiros, I’m still very disappointed in you. I want you to stay here and think about what you did.”

She blinked. “But—but mom—”

“ Now, Seiros.” Sothis softened, and hugged her daughter again. “There’s one last thing I have to do. I promise, I won’t leave you alone again.”

Her daughter sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Promise?”

“I promise.” And with that Sothis set her daughter down in the waters and walked over to the other two figures in the distance. As she did, she swallowed down the fear that rose within her. 

Even after everything, Sothis didn’t really want to go. How many people truly did?

But it was already over; had been long ago. This was just a space between, and for the past quarter century she had only existed as a parasite off of another life. She knew what she had to do. 

Sothis had once been the Beginning.

It was time for her to end.

---

Avarine woke in shallow waters, and she was utterly alone. 

She screamed, and flailed, wings splashing in water that held no temperature, nothing but the memory and shape of what water should be. Where was she? Where was anyone? Where was El?! Panic and terror and loss loss loss filled her, burned her through from beak to talon until there was nothing more of the daemon she was. Avarine tried desperately to think through the panic, the pain, the sheer loss. They had fought, a great confrontation against the Immaculate One, and with no other options left El had…El had…

“EL!” Avarine screamed, but she’d severed herself to gain that final power to win, and now she wasn’t here, she’d never be here again! Even down in the dungeons, even when they strapped El down to the steel tables and held Ava herself in their arms and she could do nothing but watch her other half get cut open and scream, she could still feel El’s presence! Even when they were flung into the cells afterwards and Ava was flung into the metal daemon-cage, they were still next to each other, El could still poke a finger through the bars so they could touch. But now, here in this…wherever they were…her El was gone, and she was alone! 

Avarine spread out her wings, sank into the waters, and let out a long and broken cry. 

“Avarine!”

She paused, briefly surging with wild—not truly hope but an echo of it, all feelings, all emotions other than pain and loss were horribly blunted shadows of themselves, and with every passing moment she could feel what remained slipping away—at the sound of the voice, but it wasn’t El, not her El, but, “Belial!”

Belial was here too! The wolf daemon—and in this moment Avarine realized that the horns, the talons, the green fur were gone, in this space they were merely, wonderfully a wolf again—ran over and practically bowled her over. They nuzzled her, gave blessed contact, and cried out, “What were you doing? What were you thinking?” 

What had she been thinking? It was so hard, remembering, knowing what her intent was when away from her other half. But Belial was here, her Belial, and she wasn’t El, could never be El, but at least it was something, some form of contact and warmth and presence. “It hurts so much,” Avarine moaned. “How can you possibly withstand it?”

Belial paused and let out a long huff of a sigh. “Rhea severed me from Byleth at birth. Sothis helped, but…This is all I’ve ever known.”

Rhea. And with that, it came back. Not all of it, but enough for Avarine to remember the fight, Byleth and Belial in the cathedral, memories that weren’t quite hers of cracking stone and the ground rushing up… “We died, didn’t we?” But that wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew that daemons dissolved upon death, yet here they were, in this strange place of endless calm waters.

“Sort of? It’s all rather complicated, especially for a human mindset,” said a third, younger voice. 

When Avarine turned around, she saw a girl who could have easily been Flayn’s younger sister. Short, with pointed ears sticking out from long forest-green hair. Ribbons, red and white, were woven into those tresses, and atop it all she wore an odd crown. Her clothes…were regalia, there was no other word, and were disturbingly familiar in a way that Avarine couldn’t quite place. And then there was the sheer presence…

“Sothis!” Belial pounced onto the girl and actually did knock her over; Avarine opened her beak to stop them but stopped when she saw their wagging tail, heard their shout of delight. 

“Haha, it’s good to see you too, Belial,” the girl said as she reached up to pet Byleth’s daemon. But instead of crying out in horror and pain, Belial leaned forward so the girl could better scratch them behind the ears, then, whining, leaned forward to lick her face. “Ah, that tickles!” she laughed, scratching Belial under the chin, and not once since meeting Byleth had Avarine ever seen her love act like this towards Belial. 

The girl whispered something into Belial’s ear, and they paused for a moment before turning back to her. “Oh, right, I should actually introduce you two. Avarine, this is Sothis. Sothis, this is Avarine.”

Avarine was vaguely aware that at some point during all this her beak had fallen open, was still hanging open in disbelief, and forcibly shut it with a click. “Sothis? As in, the Goddess Sothis herself?” Was she actually speaking to the Goddess of Fodlan right now? But along with literally everything else, the girl before her was, well, a girl! 

“It’s about time I got the chance to properly introduce myself to the Emperor herself,” the girl—Sothis?!— said, with a shallow curtsey. “And yes, I am the Goddess herself. Or, well, an aspect or a fragment of her. The best way to describe it is that I’m, well, her daemon, I guess.”

“Okay,” said Avarine, uncertain. She was vaguely aware that Sothis was simplifying things, but she just didn’t have the capacity to demand further explanation right now. In truth, she didn’t know what to say at all. Ever since her faith died with her family down in the dungeons, ever since she begged to the goddess and received only the cold burn of the surgical knife and colder silence in exchange, Edelgard and Avarine had wondered just what they would say to the goddess if they met her, if she even ever existed. How they would accuse her, charge her for all the crimes she had committed against Fodlan, how they would exact some measure of justice against all the innocents who died in her name, while invoking her name for some sort of mercy. They had spent countless nights thinking about it, when nightmares woke them and screams tore their throat and they could do nothing but pace and stare at the endless sky. But now, all words failed Avarine, and she could do nothing more than stare.

“I’m sorry,” said Sothis.

What?

They had imagined dozens of responses to this conversation together, everything from blustering defense to guilty silence to outright attack to everything in between. But never, not once, did Edelgard or Avarine expect Sothis to apologize. 

“I never intended for any of this to happen,” said Sothis. “I was…not here, not for any of it. I died, and because of that…Seiros is my daughter, and she could never grow up beyond the furious, grieving little girl of that day. She committed, either deliberately or through inaction, countless atrocities in my name, and for that I am so sorry.”

Edelgard looked at Sothis, truly looked at her. She was small, yes, but even without her green hair or pointed ears she had a presence of sheer power, if not divinity itself. And here she was, apologizing to her of all people.

“But…I just slew your daughter,” Avarine said. 

“Oh, I’m not happy about that,” Sothis said, “But things in Fodlan were utterly broken and falling apart at the seams. Both sides of time are open to me. The crests were running out, and while Seiros kept Fodlan in her iron clutch and stagnated knowledge and curiosity to keep this land safe and obedient, the outside world became more and more technologically advanced. How long would it be before a famine or plague devastated all of Fodlan, or the crests ran dry and took the nobility with it, or the outside world finally managed to surpass the might of the Relics and decided to invade? No, my daughter would no longer have listened to reason. I hate to say it, but it was necessary.” 

“And now we’ve stopped that,” said Belial. “We can finally start again.”

Sothis nodded. “Precisely. Not many people, especially those from a place of power, look at a broken system, empathize with the people suffering in silence, and decide to change things, no matter the cost. Despite everything, I’m so proud of you, little Emperor.”

How? How could the goddess be proud? The goddess had forsaken them! …Except, maybe she hadn’t. “Even though, in pursuit of that necessary change, I plunged Fodlan into a war? That I gave the order?”

“Ah, little Emperor, you do have the seed of a tyrant within you,” Sothis said, and Avarine closed her eyes. There it was, the condemnation of the goddess. She had been expecting it, and it was true—it was an endless struggle, fighting against her worst impulses, keeping her need for control from going too far—but it hurt nonetheless. 

“But a seed is merely that—a seed. You have spent your life holding it in check, making sure it does not sprout and grow. You haven’t gotten stuck in your pain, but you’ve always been moving forward. You knew what was right and wrong, and unlike so many people you chose to do something about it.That’s not an easy thing to do, what is right.” Sothis smiled, and Avarine didn’t know how to respond. She suspected that, even if El was here and she was whole, she wouldn’t know how. 

Belial whined and nosed their way into Sothis’s arms, and Avarine fought down a pang of bitter jealousy at the sight. “Look at you!” Sothis said, smiling into their fur. “I told you to be your own person, that you were not my vessel but simply Byleth and Belial. You took my guidance to heart. I’m glad to have had the chance to see the world through your eyes for the past twenty four years…but it was a life of a parasite, and it caused you incalculable harm. I never intended it, but I’ll never stop being sorry for it. The least I can do now is repair the damage.”

Belial pulled back. “Sothis? Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

“Because it is.” Avarine froze in disbelief. She had to have misheard—the goddess giving up her power? Departing? Before her, Belial gave a cry of disbelief and despair into Sothis’s arms. “Belial, I died over a thousand years ago. I only exist now because Seiros placed me in Byleth’s body, and severed your connection as a result. Living in a stolen body—how could Seiros think I would ever be okay with that?” She shook her head. “And so it’s been for all of Fodlan, all this time. I wish I could see the new world you’ll build, but my time is over. It has been for too long a time, and it’s been kept alive because my daughter was stuck, and couldn’t see beyond her own grief…” She fell silent, and as Belial nestled in Sothis’s arms Avarine got the sense that this part of the conversation was meant for the two of them.  

And then she looked up. “You don’t have to go back, you know. This is a sort of space between life and death. If you wish, you can move on with me.”

Move on? That wasn’t something Avarine had ever considered. If she did, the pain of being away from her El, the long agony of her body falling apart even before that, it would finally end…“And where would El go?” she asked, cautiously. 

Sothis paused. “Somewhere quiet. A place to rest.”

Quiet. Calm. Rest. That didn’t sound so bad, after a lifetime of pain and having to step into a role she never wanted to play. Belial broke away from Sothis’s embrace and padded over to her; they lifted her up with their muzzle and looked into her eyes. “Where you go, I go.”

Well then. That wasn’t a difficult decision at all. “Thank you, Sothis. But there’s still so much work to do. I made a vow to change this world and break the systems of violence shackling it, and I will keep it until my dying breath.” Well, her second dying breath now, she supposed. 

Beside her, Belial huffed a soft agreement. “And I’ll walk with her, every step of the way.” 

Sothis laughed. “Somehow, I knew you’d say that.” She gave Belial one final embrace, then pulled away. “Go now, and do right by your world.”

Off in the distance, Seiros had been listening. As Sothis approached, she tugged the hem of her regalia and looked up at her. If anything, Seiros looked even smaller than before. “Mommy? I…I did something really bad, didn’t I?”

Left unspoken was the second question, Is there any way I can make it right? Sothis’s only response was to embrace her daughter. Sometimes things had gone so far, so many evils were done, that things couldn’t be undone, or ever made right again. They were dead; she should have been left to rest a long time ago. 

The harm that Seiros had done could never be undone; the only path forward was to repair and rebuild and forge a new world. But to condemn Seiros further would be nothing more than cruelty to a broken child at this point…and Seiros was still her daughter.

Sothis stepped back, and held out her hand. After a moment, Seiros took it. 

Avarine watched them walk away. 

---

Byleth woke up in a pile of rubble. Light filtered down from above, and though the air was cold, the sunlight was warm on her face. Everything hurt; there was a sharp pain in her chest that spoke of a broken rib, and beneath it a strange insistent thumping under that broken bone. It made her head rush, everything feel fuzzy and sharp at the same time.

“Byleth!” Paws scraped through rubble, desperately digging away until her limbs were freed and a furry gray muzzle poked through the broken stone. With her arms able to move, Byleth pushed a rock off her chest, took a deep painful breath, and sat up. 

Belial flung themselves into her arms, bowling her over with a painful thud. Relief washed through her veins as they licked her face, she clutched their fur, and felt the thudding in her chest slow. Byleth pulled herself up so she could hug her daemon and bury herself in their thick gray fur. 

Wait. 

Byleth pulled back and got a good look at Belial. No horns, no scales, not a trace of green in their coat. Just a wolf, a simple wolf daemon. She looked down at her own hair…and it was blue once more. 

“Byleth, after we fell, I saw Sothis again, and she…” She felt something open up between her and her daemon, felt a wave of memory and sensation and feeling wash over her from their direction, across their…Their…

Their connection. 

Byleth gasped, and felt her heart race. That thumping in her chest was her heart! And she had heard Belial across their connection for the first time, because now she had a connection. 

“It was Sothis,” Belial said as they realized as one, they were one, “Sothis gave her Dust to restore us,” and in doing so, they and Byleth were not two mutilated stumps but one complete person!

It was so much, wave after wave of emotion and feeling, and under it all the racing of her heartbeat in her chest. It was all so much, and all at once for the first time! Sothis…her sacrifice, her final message, her guidance, all of it, plunged a knife of grief into Byleth, left an open and gaping wound in her chest. But she was not alone, not anymore, because Belial was there. Belial, her Belial, her daemon, and for the first time in her life Byleth understood just what that meant, just what the bond between human and daemon was. Grief for Sothis, residual fear of the battle, love for Belial, love for…

El. 

“EL!” She was there too, she had turned herself into that demonic husk of herself, then their daemons had reunited in that place of calm waters, and now…

Byleth lept to her feet—the pain in her chest was nothing compared to the racing of her heart, the sudden rush of panic, fury at her decision to sacrifice herself, and through it all overwhelming love love love. “EDELGARD! EL!” Where was she? Where was she?!

There, an enormous white form, a shattered body, a crumpled wing, the Immaculate One! What was left of her head tilted back at an impossible angle, her throat blasted open, unzipped all the way down to the notch at its base, green blood flowed out and dried in a sticky puddle around her corpse. Which meant that, nearby,

“I can smell her!” Belial shouted, and charged straight for a small landslide of stone. They dug aside a hunk of stone, and as they did so a lock of white hair spilled out. 

Byleth gasped, and felt her heart race all the way in her ears. Terror unlike anything she had ever felt before rushed through her at the thought of what lay under the rubble, horrible images of El injured, broken, dead, played out over and over behind her eyes as she dug her lover free. Was this how El felt, was this what she imagined whenever Byleth put herself in danger, every single time? How did she stand it? How did anyone stand it? Byleth’s fingers burned, they started to bleed in places as she pulled and Belial dug at the rubble, but it was all worth it to see Edelgard tumble free. Byleth grabbed Edelgard before she could fall to the ground, and pulled her close. She was quiet, unconscious, curled around herself, but while her armor was dinged and dented her body within seemed intact, And there, sheltered in her armor and the curl of her body, a flash of white feather. 

“Ava!”

“El!” 

“...My Byleth?” El’s eyes opened and Avarine’s head popped up in unison, and it was the most wonderful sight in the world. “Are you okay? Is it over?”

Bleth could do nothing more than nod into the crook of El’s neck, did not trust her ability to make any more words. Belial managed to say, “It is. Sothis, she…”

“I know,” said Avarine, and at El’s sharp gasp Byleth moved back, to give her and Avarine some space. To see them united and whole again as well. But when she did, and Edelgard raised her left arm to smooth down Ava’s flyaway feathers, they all saw the way it simply…ended, just below her left elbow. The armor had cracked off—no, it had all been blasted away, in that final attack rammed down Rhea’s throat, armor and lower arm and all—and the stump was shiny pink and healed clean.

“El…” Her love didn’t say anything, just stared at the empty space where her arm had been, her eyes wide and her face utterly blank. Until Belial padded over, and licked the stump with a little whine. 

The feeling was utterly electric. Byleth froze with a start, every muscle quivering as Belial nuzzled against her El and licked her face. “It’s okay,” she breathed, or maybe it was Belial, and then El sheltered Byleth’s daemon in her left arm and ran her right hand down their back. 

Byleth would never forget the sheer feeling of violation as Rhea had casually pet Belial on her balcony three years ago, the awful sickening feeling every time Rhea’s hand came down. But now it was El, her El, holding her dear Belial under her hand, and as awful as Rhea’s touch had been, that was how good and right El’s touch was here and now. 

There was warmth, the feeling of feathers under her fingers, the sound of El breathing her daemon’s name, and then Avarine rose to meet her own touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

She and El stared at each other, their daemons, their very restored souls, in each others’ hands, and flung themselves into each others’ arms. “I love you,” Byleth said, and laughed into El’s mouth as they kissed again and again. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” They held each other, kissing, laughing, holding each other so close that it was impossible to tell whose hand was on who’s daemon at first glance. That was how they were found, and it was good, and it was right. 

 

Notes:

This chapter title, of course, is a shoutout to Captain Flash’s absolutely incredible fic The Emperor And The Goddess, an absolutely phenomenal Edeleth-focused character study that also provides a wonderful point by point breakdown of the evils of Fodlan, and how wonderful every character is…look, just read it if you haven’t. It’s absolutely incredible.

Way back in Zaharas, Sothis said she could possibly restore Byleth and Belial by sacrificing herself and using her own Dust, and you see that play out here. They’re one, and all that feeing at once is quite a lot for Byleth to handle!

There’s a very early concept art of Edelgard missing her left arm below the elbow, and that’s also played out here.

I hope I wrote Sothis’s judgment of Rhea well!

And yes! Edelgard and Byleth touch each others’ daemons, and it is an absolutely transcendent and GOOD experience, after all their trials, and all their pain!

Thank you all for reading and enjoying! There’s only one chapter left, which is absolutely crazy to think about. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s an epilogue of sorts, and I hope to see you all there!

Chapter 48: The Color of Sunrise

Summary:

The students of the fateful Garreg Mach Class of 1180 return to celebrate the Millenium Festival, and raise a glass to a brighter world.

Notes:

Empress-consort Byleth I and Belial von Hresvelg-Eisner (c. 1159 - 11 Wyvern Moon, 1232, gray wolf) was the wife of Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, leader of the inaugural Black Eagles Strike Force, renowned professor of military science, and the only human in recorded history confirmed to have completely recovered from intercision. In the year 1180, after a life of relative obscurity as a mercenary…

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Byleth von Hresvelg-Eisner. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649.

“Alright, everyone just hold that pose a little longer!” 

Hilda rolled her eyes, but she still kept “Come on, Ignatz, we’ve been standing here for twenty minutes! It’s cold outside! Can’t we have this painting in the old classroom? Raphael got his hands on spiced brandy!”

Mistella whimpered and drew back a little, but when she hit Ignatz’s heels she started and drew herself up. Ignatz himself stood his ground, looked Hilda in the eye, and said, “I want to make this a series of portraits, and for that I need you all against the same background as five years ago to mark the passage of time. I already have Claude, Raphael, Lysithea, and myself sketched out, so if you could all hold still just a little while longer we’ll finish and then get a drink?”

Good for Iggy! He needed to keep standing up for himself to survive in the Commoner’s Roundtable! Leonie never thought she’d enjoy politics as much as she was right now, but damn, there was something so immensely satisfying about all those snooty nobles having to listen to you! One time she’d heard Count Gloucester’s enormous Komodo dragon daemon groan, “Not again!” at the sight of Kamen flying in ahead of her, and the rush of that kept Leonie going all week. 

As entertaining and satisfying as it was to stick it to those selfish self-righteous nobles—and oh man was it both, especially once Her Majesty had given a copy of her Manifesto to everyone on the Strike Force and Leonie read it for herself—what the Alliance really needed to change and grow and survive was for that older generation of nobles to retire, which they were already starting to do. Out with the old, in with the new and all that. Though really it was more just…it was easier to do political dealings with someone when you spent a year in class with them, fought beside them, and more importantly kept on hand a copy of the poetry they’d forgotten to take out of their clothes during laundry day and knew what nonsense they said in their sleep.

“Much as I am loath to emulate Hilda’s slothfulness,” Lorenz groaned above Hilda’s distant protests, “Must we discuss the details of education reform right now?”

“Yes!” Leonie shot back, Kamen circling Vincatel, divebombing and pecking the deer daemon’s golden antler helmet every few wingbeats. “Remember how hard it was for me and the other commoner students just getting in the door, and then being here was a whole other level of stress? Making the new education reforms official with Garreg Mach in the background will be an important symbol, and you and Ignatz taught me all about how important symbols are in politics!” Hah! Take that!

“Garreg Mach is no longer neutral territory, but part of Adrestia,” Lorenz reminded her. At least he didn’t wag his finger in that infuriatingly condescending way his father did. Flames, she couldn’t wait for that blowhard to retire. Just a few more months. And then they’d arrest him, and there would finally be justice. “The symbolism won’t be as powerful as a similar presentation on Alliance lands.”

“Well, what about the competition?” Leonie countered. “We could use the new class to show just how far Adrestia’s come, turn it into a let’s-do-one-better sort of thing!” 

Behind his easel, Ignatz made a worried thoughtful sound. “Actually, Leonie, I think Lorenz has a point. And also, the Millenium Festival is already a symbol of solidarity, peace, and a new beginning between the Empire and the Alliance. Having it also be symbolism for education reform would just muddy the messaging for both.”

“Sorry!” Mistella winced at his feet. She should be, the traitor! 

“Um, if I may?” Penumbrior piped up, completely opposite of where Marianne stood. Leonie took a bit of quiet satisfaction that when Ignatz jumped and Lorenz failed to hide his flinch, she and Kamen didn’t budge. Professor Byleth and Emperor Edelgard spent so much time separated from their daemons during her time in the Strike Force—okay, the former way more than the latter but still—that Leonie was nearly used to it by now. 

“Hey, Hilda doesn’t seem freaked out at all either,” Kamen silently pointed out. Now that he did, Leonie could see that she was standing right by Marianne, with a big ‘try me’ smile on her face. Huh. Good for them. 

Ever since…whatever the heck Cornelia did to Marianne in Arianrhod to make her half a demonic beast, she and Penumbrior were able to separate too. They were able to do this even after Linhardt had fixed her. The two of them took advantage of this during important Roundtable debates, splitting off and speaking in tandem from opposite sides of the room. It freaked most people out, nobles and commoners, and made them feel like they were surrounded. Marianne did this now, saying, “We need a symbol of growth and change, but Lorenz and Ignatz are right about the timing. What if we save it for the opening of the Ordelia academy next month?”

Oh yeah! Lysithea had decided to open an academy for magic in her home territory! Well, not just magic, there were all sorts of other classes too. She and Hilda were already working on jewelry that could store protective spells, and Ignatz had mentioned something about teaching art history classes and how art can shape and reflect public opinion? Or something? The details went over her head but the academy was going to be open to everyone, not just commoners!

“We should teach there, once we’re done with the roundtable,” Kamen had said when they first heard of it. “We can teach people just like Captain Jeralt taught us! It was a wonderful idea. 

Hilda clapped her hands. “Great! Now that that’s settled can we go get Claude and, like, just relax and party? I think we’ve earned it!”

There was something comforting in their agreement. Things had changed. A lot had changed, most of it for the better. But they were all still here, and they’d build that better world together. 

---

Okay, making the rest of them stop their debating and actually relax and enjoy the feast was only part of the reason Claude had slipped out. The other reason was to find Edelgard. 

“Hypocrite,” Simurg had hissed, as if she was any less of one. Claude flicked her nose, pulled his cloak a bit tighter against the cold, and kept looking.  

Edelgard was where he expected her to be, overlooking the partially-rebuilt bridge to the cathedral, leaning over the stone railing with a glass of wine in hand and Avarine perched on the railing beside her other arm even though he knew she could soar all the way to the top of the Goddess Tower and beyond. What a waste; if it were him and Simurg they’d take advantage of such a scouting gift from the gods at every available opportunity. Well, time to teach her the importance of scouting. “Ah, Edelgard!” he shouted with a broad wave. “Enjoying the view? Surprised you’re out and about without Teach and Hubes!” 

She didn’t even turn around, but Claude could feel Edelgard roll her eyes. “Ah, Claude von Riegan, ever the gadfly. My wife, if you may recall, is her own woman. As for Hubert, you will only find him if he wishes to be found.”

“Yeah, yeah, it was only the biggest wedding in all of Fodlan! And you only invited me as an honored guest! The insult! The gall!”

Edelgard simply folded her arms. Damn, how did she manage that presence which made her seem so much taller than her tiny stature? That was something he’d never been able to accomplish. “Would you like me to throw you off this cliff and see if your wyvern would catch you in time? Are you here to make me regret ever engaging in diplomacy, or do you actually have something to say?”

One of these days he would provoke Edelgard into losing her cool and giving an actually entertaining response. Today was not that day. And he actually did come over for a purpose beyond aggravating Edelgard and courting his own decapitation. Claude made his way to the stone barrier at the edge of the overlook and leaned against it so Simurg could slither down his arm to the cool slate. “Did you get a chance to explore that Agarthan base, town, whatever, by the Airmid Delta?”

It was certainly something to see Edelgard, already somewhat distant from the rest of the world, subtly yet visibly fold in on herself. “Even with the translated coordinates and multiple battalions, it took us three days to find that ruin choked beneath the swamp. And when we finally opened that steel door,” she broke off with a slight shudder; Avarine hopped closer and hid herself in the crook of Edelgard’s arm. “There was no point in exploring further, not that we even could. When we forced open the vault, all that poured out was a soup of rotting corpse fragments and black water.”

Behind his mask, Claude sucked in a breath between his teeth, and his answering wince was only partially due to the pain of pulled scars. Simurg slithered back to his arm with flashes of horrific mental images that they knew Avarine and Edelgard shared as well. Had they drowned down there, or suffocated? Did water creep in slowly, or rush in with all the force of a monsoon? Did they die down there in the dark, as cold water crept up and up until there was nowhere else to go?

Shambala wasn’t the only Agarthan base, town, honestly it was both with them, in Fodlan. It was just the only one left. They’d found the coordinates to nearly thirty of them, all blacked out on Shambala’s great map of Fodlan, and so far managed to explore nearly half of them. In nearly every single case, their great metal vaults had become their tombs. Cave-ins, plagues, fires, equipment failures leading to mass drowning or suffocation, the list of deaths was as long and varied as the names of the Agarthan towns themselves. He and Edelgard occasionally shared notes of their findings. Only in three cases did the empty vaults show signs of peaceful dispersal, and in only one of those cases, in what had been northern Faerghus, was there evidence that the Agarthans had been absorbed by the local populace centuries ago. All that was left was an area whose people had blank eyes, an affinity for glamour spells and dark magic, and stories about a demigod of sorts named Arval. 

“They’re broken,” Claude said as Simurg forced herself to remain still and calm. “They’re twisted and arrogant and utterly broken. They were fed poison for centuries until they became poison themselves.” Just like he had once believed about himself, what he had thought and been told confirmed when Simurg had settled as a venomous snake. “And yet they’re still so arrogant, probably also in the self-defense of defeat.” There were only a few thousand Agarthans left, and everything around them was so awful and messy to deal with when he was the Grand Duke trying to fix everything at once that in his worse moments Claude found himself almost thankful that there weren’t more. He was so incredibly ashamed of himself, when those thoughts cropped up, for even having them crop up.  

“I don’t envy your position,” said Edelgard, though really she should be getting some twisted amusement out of it. He would. “Although my sympathy for the Agarthan refugees is rather limited, considering all the atrocities they have committed.”

“All ten thousand of them?” Claude pointed out as Simurg made her way back over to Avarine. The gyrfalcon daemon stared her down but let her advance. Claude held up a hand in response to their joint silence. “No, I know. They have as much a right to live freely and in peace as everyone else in Fodlan.” And they would, he would make sure of that. “There’s a messy question about collective guilt here that literally none of us are equipped to answer.” 

“We were never even taught to try,” Edelgard mused as Simurg wound her way up Avarine’s body. Yet they both still seemed relatively relaxed and calm. “The goddess always demanded immediate, absolute, and violent judgement. That’s what Fodlan was taught for a thousand years.”

Claude scrubbed his hand down his face, or more accurately down the golden mask that covered his ruin of a face. “Heh. I get the feeling that no matter what we do here, future generations will accuse us of being brutal and barbaric.” 

For some reason, Edelgard found that incredibly amusing. “Then let us simply do our best and state our case, and hope that future generations have progressed enough that they can condemn us for our failures.”

By this point Simurg had wound her way entirely up Avarine’s body, her fangs hidden but within striking distance of Avarine’s neck. At the same time, Avarine’s talons rested on Simurg’s long form. They stood their in a pose of mutually assured destruction, where one bite, one squeeze, could end them both. 

Edelgard, without a word, reached out her hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, Claude took it.  

---

“I mean, look, Ashe,” Raphael grabbed a meat skewer off the tray of a passing waiter and crammed the whole thing into his mouth with a single swallow, “Do you still wanna run Arianrhod, even after everything’s calmed down?” 

He felt incredibly guilty for saying so, but, “Honestly, I don’t.” It wasn’t like he was doing a bad job! Sure he was no visionary, but things were doing okay. Nobody starved, nobody froze, and there was always something new getting built. In fact, there was going to be a school opening up just outside his old home in a few weeks. Kids like him would grow up knowing how to read and write. They’d never find themselves homeless on the streets, dependent on the mercy of someone like Lonato to save them. There were going to be grammar books, mass produced by printing presses so every person would get a copy! Ashe couldn’t wait to see this new world, to help bring this new world into existence. He was so, so proud to be a part of it. 

And yet…pride wasn’t quite the same thing as happiness, or contentment. Ashe was happiest when he curled up with Dedue on a winter night, Fuergios nestled on Levia’s horns as they shared brandy flavored with Duscurian spices. He was most content in the kitchen, personally preparing a lavish yet cozy meal for guests over the protestations of his staff. Ashe still had no idea how Ferdinand seemed to thrive on the debate floor and in the weeds of bureaucracy. He genuinely enjoyed it!

“Then again, I’m sure Ferdinand would feel the same way in the kitchen,” Fuergios thought with a laugh from atop Levia’s horns. 

“So why not find a successor and resign?” Raphael asked. “I’m sure Emperor Edelgard will help you and Dedue find a successor. Then you can open that restaurant you’ve talked about, and I’ll be your biggest customer!”

Dedue chuckled, and Levia lowered her head to rub Oakley’s. “When it happens, I’ll make sure to save you a seat.”

When it happens. Not if, when. They’d talked about it, on those long nights where Ashe’s head spun from the stresses and decisions of ruling and rebuilding. They’d curl up in bed together, watch the fire burn low, and talk about their restaurant. They built it up bigger and bigger with every iteration—large arched doorways for Levia to move about freely, long communal tables where people from all walks of life could eat together, a kitchen that grew bigger and grander with each telling. For months now Ashe had seen it as a sort of respite, a haven for his mind. To know that Dedue had spoken of their dream to another…it wasn’t just a dream to him. It might—it would—actually happen. 

Love, bright and steady, shone through Ashe, and Fuergios cooed and nestled against Levia, safe and sound. 

That was why it took a moment for his daemon to spot Dimitri. 

Ashe felt it instantly—the cold, the fear, the sudden panic washing over him like a waterfall. The memory of Dimitri’s fingers crushing his throat, the burning desperation for air. The feeling of his hand slapping Fuergios out of the air. 

A small half-strangled squeak forced itself from Ashe’s throat, and Dedue was instantly there. Without a word he positioned himself between the two of them, so all Ashe saw was his love’s broad, sturdy back, and not…not…

“Dimitri!” Raphael shouted, his smile bright and just a little too broad. Oakley wagged her tail, swift and low, and barked. 

“Ah, Raphael,” and Flames, even Dimitri’s voice made Ashe flinch and cringe behind Dedue. He really was a coward, if he couldn't even do this, couldn’t face him here. “I’m glad to see you here, alive and well after everything.”

“Same here!” he said, still bright and cheery enough for all of them, because he had to be. “Say, Dimitri, you never showed me just how you do it with all your muscles. Come on, let’s go to the training grounds; better late than never!” 

The moment Dimitri stammered out an agreement, Raphael took him by the hand and pulled him away from Ashe and Dedue. Oakley followed, and when Fuergios dared to sneak a look she saw that Raphael’s daemon carefully angled herself close to Dimitri’s, between her and Fuergios. Still, it wasn’t until the encoes of their footsteps faded away that Ashe sighed and allowed himself to relax. 

“…I’m a coward,” Ashe said into Dedue’s chest as his love pulled him close. “It’s been almost two years, and I still can’t even bear to look at him. I used to think the world of Dimitri, but now if I even hear his voice I can’t help but think about what he did to me, and I freeze.”

“Dimitri betrayed your trust, and hurt you very badly,” Dedue replied, his voice a soothing rumble. “You are under no obligation to forgive him, or be around him and expose yourself to repeated pain.”

“I know, but,” Fuergios fumbled for the words, because Ashe was too warm and comfortable in Dedue’s embrace to respond, “You and Dimitri are so close. I don’t want me, and everything that happened with me and Dimitri, to affect your relationship with him.”

Dedue pulled Ashe closer. He smelled nice, like warm spices and cedar wood and the leather and metal of his armor. He smelled like Dedue, warm and strong and safe. And as Dedue held him, Levia said, “Dimitri gave me my life back, yes, and I will always be grateful for it. But though Dimitri is important to me, I chose to spend my life with you.” 

---

Dimitri was in the middle of training when he saw her. 

One sight of red armor, white hair, he crushed his training lance into splintered wood. Ghostly hands wormed their way up Delcabia legs; Dimitri heard the whisper of Glenn in his ear—

Delcabia snorted, stamped her feet, and both the hands and voice retreated to a whisper and sunset. He stammered excuses to Raphael, beat hasty retreat from the training grounds before whispers returned. 

Shuddering breath. Cold winter breeze, rustling hare branches and kicking up dead leaves. Sounds and lightheaded of celebration faded to a murmur. 

But still louder than lies of the ghosts. 

“We saw her, and didn’t lose it. Heard the ghosts, and pushed them back,” said Delcabia, eventually. “Saw it was getting bad, and left before it got worse. That’s a victory.”

“Yeah,” Dimitri said. He got himself out of a bad situation. Didn’t need anyone else to do it, didn’t hurt anyone in the process. That was a victory. 

It was just…that he was reduced to this. That something as small as successfully escaping a bad situation, quelling the ghosts, was victory. 

At least it was quiet. Dry cold, the air crisp and clean. Dimitri closed his eyes and breathed. 

“Thought I might find you here.”

The step-clink was new but the voice was familiar. Sylvain walked down the path and sat on the log beside him. His daemon scratched away some snow and curled up on the dirt beneath, her tail twitching. Dimitri opened his life to say something, then closed it again. Every time he thought of words he kept looking at Sylvain’s false leg instead. Wood base and metal springs and how was he so casual about it all?

“You looked a bit overwhelmed,” Sylvain continued when Dimitri didn’t. “I figured you needed some air.”

“…I haven’t seen you in a while,” Dimitri said. Not since that day. He’d probably never see Felix again, and Ingrid was—Sylvain was the only one left from before the…before. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel seeing Sylvain again. 

Sylvain shrugged. “I’ve been busy. There’s centuries of damage with Sreng to undo. Ravna’s growing up fast, and I’ve been doing my best to make sure she grows up proud of being Duscurian…” He broke off. Dimitri tried not to be jealous or angry at his place in the empire just happy for his accomplishments. 

Zepida lifted her head. “I heard you’ve been busy too?”

Dimitri swallowed but he felt himself suddenly nauseous sweat pricked on his neck. What had Sylvain heard?

“I have,” he said, carefully. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Mercedes.” She treated him with far more kindness and patience than someone like him ever deserved. 

“And I hear you’ve been helping build new schools and fields down south,” Sylvain said then winced. 

“Helping build. I was exiled,” Delcabia growled above the rising whispers of the ghosts. They’d exiled him to southern Adrestia in the end. He couldn’t see but he knew Hubert was watching, and always would be. 

No royalty, no leadership, no kingdom, no vengeance—

“Shut up!” Delcabia snorted. The ghosts paused confused. In that moment Dimitri took a breath remembered what Mercedes said her quiet advice. 

A quiet life. He was alive and not in a cell. The people in the village didn’t know him or his bloody past or what he did. Not the prince of Faerghus not a raging boar. Just Dimitri and Delcabia. 

“I am helping build,” he said over Sylvain’s stammering apologies. “I’m helping build schools, and homes, and plow the fields. It’s…nice, actually.” There was something soothing about the labor, something comforting and real. His strength used to haul lumber and sow crops instead of crushing skulls. An immediacy, something physical that existed here and now none of the vague possibilities with political threads stretching out too far for him to track. But the school was here now because of him. 

He was…he was almost happy. Calm, at least. Content. How could he feel those things after everything? He didn’t deserve to feel those things after everything. 

Did he say that part out loud? Sylvain went silent stared off into the forest. Then he said, “You know, it took me months to learn to walk again, after I lost my leg.” Zepida padded forward and licked the prosthetic and guilt stabbed through Dimitri again. But Sylvain was smiling. “Me! I couldn’t even walk at all for weeks!”

He shrugged. “But what was I supposed to do? Lie in bed like an invalid and mourn and piss all over myself and waste away for the rest of my life? The only way I could go was forward. It sucked, so much, that the littlest improvements were huge victories, especially when I dwelled on it. But each step forward was some independence back, one step closer to riding horses again.” Sylvian laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I was worried that I’d slip on the ice walking over here and fall on my ass.”

And yet he walked here confident without even a cane. “But you didn’t.”

“But I didn’t.”

And yet the guilt still crawled through Dimitri. It bubbled up at every clink of the false leg against stone refused to stay silent. He needed to say something especially because Sylvain was the only one left that he could say something to. Mercedes would brook no apologies. Felix and Ashe had not talked to him since and likely never would again. And Ingrid…Dimitri had tried time and again but he could not apologize to ghosts. Delcabia moved towards Zepida and lowered her head snorted and snuffled her snout against Sylvain’s daemon. Dimitri coughed and tried to find the words once more. “I’m sorry, Sylvain. About everything. I know I can’t ever make it right, or bring back what was lost. And we don’t have to be friends. But I…I did this to you. And I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

Sylvain smiled sharp and brittle like broken glass. Zepida raised hackles curled up behind Sylvain’s feet. For a moment stretching out no sound but wind through bare branches. “We made the choice to follow you down there. It was a stupid-ass decision, but it was still ours. Don’t take that agency away from us.” He placed a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard, because as prince you were taught otherwise basically your entire life, but you’ve got to understand something. It’s not always about you.”

With those final words ringing in Dimitri’s head Sylvain stood and walked away. He didn’t watch Sylvain go, just looked down and watched his feet trace squiggles in the snow. It wasn’t until long after Sylvain’s footsteps faded away that Delcabia said, “You could have attacked her , back there.” 

He could have. Could have mindlessly charged her like he did back in Arianrhod, could have attacked and proved himself a beast even after all this time. “But I didn’t.”

“But you didn’t.”

It truly was a beautiful day. The air was cold but the sun was warm on his face. There was a breeze but only a small one not enough to cut through his layers. It was a dry cold. The kind of bright winter day that would see Ingrid up in the air all day, flying her pegasus for the sheer joy of it. On days like this Glenn would train with the four of them until the sun went down and then his father would dine with him share stories of the glory of Faerghus until he fell asleep. 

Dimitri thought of his friends and family, and for the first time he could remember said out loud, “You know…I miss them.”

---

Sylvain waited until he was well out of earshot, all the way to the clearing where flight class would practice, before throwing back his head and letting out a properly dramatic groan. “Flames, that was the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had in my life!”

“What about the one that ended with you leaping out the second story window without even bothering to scoop me up?” Zepida pointed out, because she was still a jerk like that. 

“Alright, fine, that was the most awkward conversation I’ve had in a decade!” Sylvain amended with a roll of his eyes. A few years ago he’d have kicked his daemon for benign an asshole like that, she’d have accompanied her words with insults and scratches, but now…he didn’t feel the need to do that anymore. 

Truth be told, Sylvain hadn’t really been sure what he was expecting when he went over to Dimitri. Was it some sort of absolution? Had he gone there wanting to yell at and accuse him? Upturn years of bitterness and pain onto Dimitri’s head? He’d thought about that, for an ugly bitter moment. Then Dimitri started making apologies that were still all about him, and, well, what was the point? In that moment Sylvain had reached in and found that all the anger and hatred and loathing and…everything, really, had drained away. What was he going to do, tear open old scars just to get a moment’s satisfaction of rubbing Dimitri’s face in the blood? 

“We would have, before,” Zepida mused. There was no venom in it, not anymore. 

The truth was…whatever he had gone to Dimitri for, he wasn’t going to get it. It wouldn’t bring back his leg, or Ingrid, or undo all the damage. It wouldn’t do anything about the way the entire damn system in Faerghus had them all trapped in their thrall, so much so that they chose to follow Dimitri into that death trap and called it duty. 

But…all that had burned away now, and what was the point sifting through ashes?

“Ugh, talk about tortured muddled metaphors,” his daemon teased. Truly teased, not the vicious barbs meant to hurt like before. 

The core of it was…there wasn’t really any need, chasing the past. Sylvain had once been loyal to Dimitri, his liege, his friend. Then Sylvain was terrified of him and his rages. Now Dimitri was just somebody he used to know. 

Sylvain walked back to Garreg Mach, deep in thought about a calcified past now shattered and a future both frightening and free. And because he was so lost in thought, he failed to see the wyvern swoop down and grab him by the leg. 

His screams tore through the air and sent Edelgard and Felix running towards him. Felix already had his bow nocked and drawn, seconds away from loosing an arrow right into the wyvern when the entire situation revealed itself. 

Sylvain’s screams and Zepida’s yowls instantly morphed into howls of laughter, becoming all the louder as Felix’s face turned purple. “Hah! Gotcha!”

If Felix’s face turned any darker he’d be a grape. Flames, that was hilarious. “You bullheaded, idiotic—do you have any idea how much you scared us?!”

Up above Mouse the wyvern let out a shriek around Sylvain’s fake leg, then at Ravna’s instruction spat it out. Sylvain, sitting on the ground with his trousers dangling over the stump, reached up and snatched his leg out of the air before it hit him in the face. Still laughing, he strapped his leg back on and sprung to his feet with barely a stumble. “I’ve got to get a mirror. You should see the look on your face! 

Fe was still yelling at him and how stupid and reckless he was and what did he think he was doing scaring them like that but he wasn’t really pissed, just irked. If he was, then Bismalt wouldn’t be swimming up against his capsule close to Zepida right now. 

Edelgard seemed much less amused, her head buried in her hand while Avarine glared at him like a disappointed parent. Up above, Ravna circled and watched, probably with a big silly grin on her face. “I sincerely hope you’re not planning on such puerile pranks during our conference in two months.”

“And I sincerely hope you’re not planning on going to Faerghus with that arm,” Sylvain shot back, pointing at the metal contraption replacing her lower left arm. 

Edelgard lifted her arm with a frown, twisted it back and forth so the metal glinted in sunlight. It truly was a wonderful piece of construction, sturdy and yet lightweight. There were slight patterns of feathers up and down the metal, and when the light caught Sylvain could make out the emblem of the Empire. False tendons ran from the backs of the fingers all the way up to the shoulder; if Edelgard moved her shoulder or upper arm just right the fingers could flex and grip larger objects, even a shield. “Is something the matter with it?” she asked. 

“If you’re headed up north? Yes.” Sylvain reached out and rapped his knuckles against the metal, then yanked his hand back so Her Majesty couldn’t grab it and break his fingers. “This won’t hold up to the cold. It could rub on your elbow and cause chafing sores, nasty infections. Heck, the metal could even crack!”

“The skin on my elbow has been getting raw and cracked since arriving here,” Edelgard mused. On her shoulder Avarine cocked her head back and forth as if she could see through the layers. “Thank you for warning me.”

Hah! That felt good, and not in the selfish mean way that it once would have. Maybe that was why Sylvain added, “Here, I’ll give you the name of the blacksmith who did my leg. She’ll be able to get you something in time for your trip up north.” 

“Why in the world did you ever think that would be funny?!” Felix snarled as Edelgard wisely made her exit. He unbuckled Bismalt’s capsule and tossed it to the ground for Zepida to bat around. “I thought you were hurt! That your other leg was damaged, or worse!”

Sylvain held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry! I thought it would be a fun bonding prank of sorts with Ravna. We do shit like this all the time. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He actually meant that, but Felix would know. He always did. 

“Hmph. Well, your niece is certainly becoming a formidable foe,” Fe admitted through folded arms. “I’m looking forward to sparring with her one day.”

Hah! Yeah, he was good, it was good. “I’m sure you will! I mean, you took the job, right Fe?”

Felix said nothing, just gave a half-smile and huffed again, which was as good as a yes from him. 

Finally! “Good for you, Fe!” Sylvain shouted with a hearty slap on his back. Zepida crouched then pounced onto Bismalt’s capsule. It bobbled out of her paws, but she twisted, grabbed it again, then rolled over with it tucked against her belly so she could kick at the enchanted glass with her hind paws. “Seriously, I’m glad for you. You deserve to be happy in your life.” 

“And you’ll be okay?”

Guess he couldn’t blame Felix for being skeptical after all this time. “I will this time. I promise.”

Once Felix had also left Ravna circled once more and descended. Her face was pinched in nervousness as she slid off Mouse’s back (the wyvern’s name was a pun. Sylvain had learned, learning Duscurian alongside Ashe, that the Fodlani word for “mouse” sounded a lot like the Duscurian word for “bravery”. When he mentioned that to Ravna, she immediately named the wyvern she was raising Mouse); Rhenner slipped out of her sleeve and turned into a bear within seconds of hitting the ground. “Am I in trouble?”

“What? No! That prank was hilarious, and I promise you if anybody gets in trouble it’ll be me. Come here, you need a hug?” Sylvain knelt and his niece ran into his open arms. She was getting so big! In just a few years he wouldn’t be able to pick her up at all. 

“All the more reason to make this count now,” Zepida purred against Rhenner’s shaggy side. Behind them, Mouse curled up on a warm stone and went to sleep. Goddess, Flames, whatever was actually up there, Sylvain was so lucky to have found his niece, to have gotten the chance to be part of her life. They were still figuring it out, him and what little Duscurian family Ravna had left, how to simultaneously raise her a Duscurian woman and Sylvain’s niece. What mattered most to Sylvian was that Ravna grew up happy, and proud, and safe. He would do anything to make sure that happened. 

Sometimes Sylvain would look back at the man he used to be and wonder just who the hell that person was (a fucking tool. A complete asshole. Nasty and bitter and broken. Things Zepida had stopped saying because neither half of them wanted Ravna to hear). He had felt that man, a little bit, talking to Dimitri. He felt that man less with Ravna in his arms. 

Speaking of, his niece made a soft distressed noise in his arms. Sylvain set her down and asked, “What’s eating you, Rav?”

“It’s me,” said Rhenner, shuffling back and forth. Oh no. No no no, not Ravna, not her. Sylvain fought back the urge to hold her tight. She needed to learn, now, that it was okay to talk to people, not to bottle it all up inside. “It’s ‘cause I’m so big,” he mumbled into his huge bear paws. 

Okay that was a lot better than Sylvain was initially worried about, but, “What’s so wrong about being huge?” Zepida asked from the ground. “And besides, you’re not even ten. You’re years away from settling; why are you worried about it now?”

“Because Ravna always wants to be a bear! I love flying on Mouse, but whenever I land Ravna’s a bear again!” His niece wiped her nose on his scarf. “What if he does settle as a bear? How will I be able to fly again?”

In that moment Sylvain was sixteen again, sitting on a hillside next to a girl now in mourning twice over, a girl who saw the shiny green scales of her newly-settled alligator daemon and saw nothing but a life grounded and chained. Except, this time, Sylvain knew what to say. 

“If Ravna’s a bear, then you know what you’ll do? You’ll pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and figure out a way. That’s what Ingrid did. Remember Ingrid?”

Ravna paused for a moment, her brow furrowed, then her face lit up in understanding. “Oh! She was the one who broke us out of the dungeons, right? And then she stayed behind so nobody could chase after us. Her daemon was a…an alligator!”

“Right. Albarrog was an alligator, a huge one as big as Ingrid, and she was still a pegasus knight! You wouldn’t find a faster flier in the skies. Heh, sometimes we’d race each other along the hills back home, and no matter how hard I pushed my horse she’d always beat me.” Sylvain smiled at the memory, and found that the stab of pain at the thought of Ingrid had eased into something more wistful, something that could actually be held. Something that could be shared. 

Dorothea had told him later about what they’d found. How Ingrid, badly wounded and pinned in place, had taken down over a half dozen Agarthans before falling herself. How the threat of her mere presence had slowed them down enough to ensure the escape of everyone who had fled from the ruined basement. How hundreds of people were likely alive today because of her. 

One of those people Ingrid had helped grinned up at him, her daemon suddenly bright and alert. “Really?”

“Really.” Sylvain gave her a wink, a genuine one. “Ravna could settle as a polar bear as big as Levia, and you’ll still find a way to fly.” He tousled her hair. “Come on. Rav, let’s get something to eat before Her Majesty gives her big speech. I’ll tell you all about her over lunch.”

Zepida was quiet as they followed, calm and…and okay. It wasn’t worth it, there was no point in beating himself up, or saying that he didn’t deserve this happiness. All it was, was time for him to be a better man. 

---

Back in Fhirdiad’s magic academy, Annette’s favorite professor was Professor Petrowitz. She was a tiny old lady with impossibly frizzy hair that stuck out even when it was tied back, her daemon was a mongoose, she always wore hand-knit lace shawls, and she carried around a cane that Annette was convinced she didn’t actually need but liked wielding to embellish gestures and whack unsuspecting students with. She wouldn’t say it out loud, because it would probably seriously hurt her friend’s feelings, but Lysithea kinda reminded Annette of Professor Petrowitz. 

The cane she leaned on was this super-cool looking staff made of metal, with geometric lines of blue lightning racing through it. Annette could see those lines of blue light shimmer, but it was a soothing steady glow, not the eerie pulse of a relic. Linhardt said that it was a lot like the staff that Solon used, so Claude must have found another one underground for her. 

When Annette heard about Lysithea’s injury, she cried about it, was more upset about it, than when she learned of her father’s death. She knew Lysithea was sick, anybody who ever cast a healing spell on Lysithea could instantly tell she was terribly sick, but it was one thing to know that and another thing entirely to hear phrases like, “Brain bleed,” and, “Coma,” and, “May never walk or speak again.” Seeing her friend stand here with only a cane, hearing her lecture about spell field geometry with only a slight lisp and slur of her speech, made Annette weak-kneed with relief. 

As for her father…she didn’t think about him much these days. She and Serrin had talked it out after she lost her temper for a moment with Caspar, Annette pacing out her thoughts on her bedroom rug as Serrin scampered all over the furniture. The gist of it was that even when Lysithea proved her wrong in a debate on magical theory, Annette never felt like she was useless, or what she’d done was a waste of time, or that she was a waste of time. 

Her father hadn’t been able to manage even that when he was around. So he wasn’t worth the time to think about any longer. 

Linhardt and Caspar’s reports of her recovery gladdened Annette’s heart, but it was actually seeing her friend, who she’d stay up with all night in the library studying together, sharing Mercedes’s sweets and chatting until night faded to a soft pre-dawn gray and their daemons all but passed out in a pile together, standing before her in one beat-up piece that made Annette start sobbing again, this time in relief. She stumbled slightly, her right side visibly weak to somebody trained in healing like Annette even without the cane, but Zilbariel’s ermine fur was sleek and white and practically glimmered in the winter sunlight. It wasn’t snowing, wasn’t that awful midwinter damp, and they were all bundled up, so they hadn’t even bothered to go inside before jumping right back into their conversations on— 

Whap!

Quick as a snake, without her even noticing, Lysithea had swapped her cane to her left hand, then whacked Annette upside the head with it. 

“Ow!” Annette yelped, rubbing the rapidly-growing lump on her head. Serrin raced up her shoulder, chittering indignation at Zilbariel, who had draped herself around Lysithea’s neck to respond in kind. Lysithea just grinned in wicked delight at this new tool in her arsenal because she was also as evil as Felix! “What was that for?” 

“Were you paying attention at all?” Lysithea smacked her cane in her palm before resting on it again. Evil! Her friend was evil! 

“Of course I was!” Annette lied. “I was just—”

“Then what was I s-saying?” Lysithea smirked. 

“I—Linhardt, make her stop! Come on, help me out here!” 

Linhardt was right there, watching everything. He’d brought a pillow to lean against the tree with! He was using his daemon as a footrest! And he was also completely evil, because he just waved his hand and yawned, “I fail to see the problem here. After all, physical therapy is still important even beyond the six-month rapid recovery window for traumatic brain injuries. Lysithea is simply engaging in important physical exercise.”

“I’ll sh-show you physical exercise!” Lysithea shot a spark of miasma at Linhardt’s feet. It kicked up a small shower of dirt; Runilite sprung to her feet and scrambled up Linhardt’s chest and shoulders to perch on his head. 

Linhardt looked up at his hissing daemon, then sighed. Was he surrendering or just doing his weird dry humor again? “I suppose that means you are well enough to consistently travel. Meet me in Enbarr in three months for your checkup.”

“Enbarr?” Zilbariel hopped off her shoulders to become a badger and pad towards Runilite. “I thought you were taking the position here.”

“I thought about it.” Linhardt mumbled. He was already nodding off; unless they caught his attention he’d be out in minutes. “But there’s so many more resources in Enbarr. Not to mention Edelgard offered me a position too good to pass up.”

“All the research I want, with no wasting time teaching students or justifying results,” Runilite added, sliding off his head in dreamy delight. 

Professor Hanneman had retired and moved back to Enbarr as well, which meant, “I’m actually taking over the position!” Annette said. She’d actually be researching and teaching magic at Garreg Mach! “So you better get ready Lysithea, because you’ll have to work super-duper-extra hard to catch up to me!”

“Hah!” Her friend's grin was just a little bit feral. “You’ll need that. My work will make everyone rec…recon... re-con-sssi-der everything anyone evvvver thought about magic!” Lysithea leaned back on another tree, exhausted. 

Well, there wasn’t any point in sticking around and poking her friend’s pride, and there certainly wasn't any point in putting this off any longer. Lysithea already knew, and must have sensed her hesitation, because Zilbariel crept forward to Serrin and said, “Trust me, the worst thing is to have regrets, or keep running away.”

“I can hear you,” Runilite groaned from atop Linhardt’s chest. Even now Annette had no idea if she had gained the ability to stay awake while her human was asleep, or if Linhardt was just really, really good at faking. 

“Then maybe you should take those lessons to heart,” Zilbariel shot back. 

It wasn’t directed at her, but Annette tried to regardless. There wasn’t any point in running and hiding. Even if Mercedes only agreed to meet to say that that never wanted to talk to her again to her face, which Annette couldn’t blame her for after the things she said, at least now she’d know. 

Mercedes’s room, her room, they were dusty from disuse, but not as much as Annette would have expected. All the cosmetics and books and knickknacks she couldn’t fit into her bag when she returned home five years ago, they were all still here. 

“They took care of it,” Serrin murmured, running a paw down her old notebooks and abandoned training axe in reverence. “They really did care about it.”

And when Annette steeled herself, and walked into Mercedes’s room, when she saw Mercedes already there with a smile on her face and Cygnis wagging his tail and a table setting set out for her, when she saw and smelled the soft aroma of rose-petal tea (one of her favorite, but not Mercedes’s, Mercedes preferred teas like southern fruit, and crescent moon) and the sweet scent of her absolutely perfect ginger cookies, all laid out and ready for her, something inside Annette broke.  

“I’m so sorry!” Annette sobbed into Mercedes’s arms, and how was she not pushed away? “I, I said something horrible and cruel, and I said it to hurt you because I was hurting but I still said it and, I’m so sorry!” 

How could Mercedes hug her, or act like everything was okay? No, stop it Annette, don’t whine or be self-pitying but listen. Listen when she frowned and said, “Annie, what you said was extremely hurtful, and I don’t think I will ever forget it. But…you weren’t wrong.” 

“I have been too codependent,” Cygnus said. “And I’ve been working on standing up for myself.”

“You just told Annette about how you were hurt,” said Serrin. Before, she’d have said this atop Cygnis’s head, but now she rested next to some books. 

Their chat over tea was…it was stilted, and awkward, and nothing like before. But it was happening. One day, if they kept working at it, they’d be able to fully restore their friendship. It was worth the trouble. 

---

“I know,” said Fleche, sniffling. Her daemon was something small and fluffy and out of sight. “But I just…I want my brother back.”

Caspar understood. The statue of Randolph and Nycterune that Edelgard was speaking before wasn’t his uncle. The statue of Balthus and Drusionary beside him wasn’t the fourth Wolf, the empty space next to Yuri and Constance and Hapi as their eyes shone with pain and pride. They were just metal. He couldn’t wrestle with them, couldn’t get way too drunk at the Wilted Rose with his uncle and friend and need them to drag him back before Linhardt heard him singing off key and tease him about it for weeks. 

But…but, okay this sounded really corny and stupid which is why he’d only say it to Peakane, but, well, Caspar couldn’t help but look at the statues of Randolph and Balthus and think about they were built so kids could climb up and swing from their arms. 

“There’s an entire town of people alive because of Uncle Randolph,” was what Caspar said instead. 

“I know,” Fleche said. “I was there.”

Agh, right. Peakane fought the urge to sink to the bottom of her backpack in embarrassment. But that made what he was saying even more important! This was the clearest kind of injustice possible! “So then how do you think Randolph would feel if he hadn’t helped, and he ran and saved himself and left everyone else down there to get killed?” Caspar knew how he’d have felt, if he’d done something like that. It wasn’t a very nice feeling at all. 

Flèche winced; Caspar heard Asavel whimper from within her coat. “Yeah, okay, I get it. It’s just, I hate it, that I can’t separate it, that their lives and my brother’s death and my pain are all part of the same thing.”

“I know what you mean.” But if it were him, Caspar would rather it be him dead and nearly everyone in Abyss alive rather than the other way around. Balthus and Uncle Randolph had felt the same way. 

Truth be told, Caspar was still completely lost when it came to discussing emotionally complicated things like this, and he probably always would be. They were just way too messy, and he couldn’t just punch or ram his way out of them. It was hard enough to figure out his own feelings with his and Petra’s fathers, and that was just him and five years! He really had no point shoving himself into other peoples’ feelings when he could barely figure out his own! 

So instead Caspar listened to Edelgard’s speech as she dedicated their statues and the new Garreg Mach University and memorial. How Garreg Mach would remain an institute of learning, but no longer an armed branch of the church. How Abyss would be turned into a memorial, all the crimes and evils of the church laid out for all to see, so nobody would ever forget, or be allowed or told to forget. The ruined cathedral would also become a memorial detailing the abuses of the Church of Seiros over the years. The Nabateans would be acknowledged, the evils of the Agarthans also exposed. Every truth, every lie, every injustice over the years would be laid bare for all to see, so humanity could learn. 

That’s what's this was all about, wasn’t it? Fighting injustice? How could you possibly do that unless you knew what was right and just for yourself, instead of being told? Caspar had learned that firsthand, the hard way. 

Up on the stage, Edelgard spoke and Avarine spread her wings. “For too long the people of Fodlan have been stifled by inhuman tyrants who singlehandedly decided what was best for humanity. We were deliberately kept weak and ignorant, stunted into an eternal, enforced childhood. We were told that humans are weak, pathetic, incapable of change—but how can we ever change, if we are never allowed to learn and grow? It is time to grow up. It is time for the enforced childhood of Fodlan to end.”

---

How had it been over a year since she last saw Dorothea and Petra? How did Dorothea always look so amazing, no matter what?! Even back in the war, Dorothea looked absolutely incredible, like she put more and more effort into making sure her hair was perfect and her clothes were clean and her skin was clear with every ragged feather that Calphour plucked off from stress. But now, agh, Brigid had been so good to Dorothea. All of Calphour’s feathers had grown back, and they were so shiny they were practically glossy in the winter sunlight. Dorothea had changed out her earrings to sort of match Petra’s, had put her hair up into braids just like Petra did hers, and her hands—Bernie knew about how she’d scarred up her hand really badly from magical recoil back in Enbarr, but now her other hand and lower arm were covered in smoky-looking tattoos kind of like Petra’s. Petra had said they were markings dedicated to Brigid’s Storm Spirit, just as she had tattoos dedicating her to the Flame Spirit. Had Dorothea put her braids up herself, or had Petra done it for her? Petra’s hair had only just grown back long enough for her to do her own braids again. Whichever it was, Dorothea looked absolutely incredible. 

Bernie wasn’t jealous! She was more just, in awe.

“But look at you, Bern!” Dorothea said, sweeping her up in an embrace while Calphour flew over and greeted Embrienne and Thanily. “You look incredible! And oh, I love what you did with your hair. Oh don’t get me wrong, the way you tied up your bangs was absolutely adorable, but the way you’ve straightened it out is so you.”

Before, Bernie would have thought this was a backhanded insult of some kind, but Dorothea wasn’t like that. And she didn’t need to get stuck in that kind of anxiety spiral, not anymore. She knew how to pull herself out of it now. “I, I have you to thank, Dorothea. You showed me how to straighten my hair, and use all sorts of products. It’s, it’s actually really nice.”

“Our Bernadetta has truly come into her own, has she not?” Ferdinand said by her side, bursting with pride and love, Embrienne bobbing up and down around them all. “And it would be remiss not to complement you as well, Dorothea. It seems that Petra and Brigid have been good to you.” 

“The sun and warmth and peace of Brigid have been healing to our Dorothea, yes,” said Petra. “But Dorothea has been doing much of the hard work herself.”

“Oh, hush.” She gave Petra a playful smack on the arm, just like Thanily would knock Embrienne to the ground with her tail sometimes. “If not for your patience and love, I don’t know where I would be today.”

Okay, maybe this was all getting a bit much. “Guys, let’s just say that we’ve all been really good to each other, and that we’re in a good place!” Bernie interrupted, and only got a little bit scared about interrupting them for! 

“Yes,” said Ferdinand with a pump of his fist. “We have all changed and grown, and taken the time to heal from the scars of war. Together, we shall guide both Adrestia and Brigid towards a brighter future!” 

Petra and her daemon laughed together. “You have been carefully reading my speeches and proposals, Ferdinand.” Bernie felt a bit bad for thinking it, but Ardior looked completely at home here. Though he was a snow goose, after all. Brigid was so warm, so much warmer than even Enbarr in winter. Of course a snow goose would like the winter and, well, snow. 

“But of course I have!” Ferdinand blinked and drew himself up. “After all, did I not accompany Bernadetta to Brigid? Even if Bernadetta and Caspar were the Empire’s leading forces behind the treaty, it was my duty to pay as much attention as possible to all the proceedings!”

If anything, Petra laughed harder, and now Dorothea joined in. “Relax, Ferdinand. I am only making a joke.” 

“Ah, yes, of course.” Malecki nipped at Embrienne before Ferdinand could feel too sheepish or embarrassed. “I apologize for not realizing your jest sooner.” 

“Really Ferdie, there’s a lot you need to apologize for, but not this,” Dorothea said and they were off. Keeping up with four other people at once was a lot, so Bernie just closed her eyes and listened. It was, it was really nice, having everyone fall back into friendship like old times. That the distance and time didn’t change anything. That they really were all still friends, and that they always would be.  

Ardior was a white shape up in the sky; he, too, still felt the need to patrol even after over a year of peace. He must have felt safe because he tucked in his wings and descended as Petra slid over to her and asked, “Do you think you will be coming back to Brigid soon? There are many more unique plants that I believe you will enjoy learning of.”

That sounded absolutely amazing, and so tempting, but, “Do you think you would be able to bring those plants with you next time, Petra? I don’t think I’ll be able to travel long distances or do a lot of heavy exploring for a while.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

In lieu of a response, Bernadetta slipped a hand down to her belly. It was only for a moment, but that was long enough. 

“EEEEEEEE!!!” Dorothea’s squeal and Calphour’s shriek of delight were so loud that they actually turned heads, which, agh no no no! 

“Aaaaaahhh! Everyone’s looking! Dorothea, stop!” Bernadetta wailed, flailing at her friend because everybody was staring! They kept staring until Hubert threatened to blast them without a single word, then loomed over her like a super-protective vulture. 

Thank goodness, Dorothea pulled back and ushered them all to a slightly quieter place “Sorry, sorry, I’m just, ooh, I’m so excited for you, Bern!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper while both Embrienne and Thanily gently coaxed Malecki out of his trembling ball of spikes. “So, is it Ferdie’s, or Hubie’s? Have you thought of a name yet, or is it still too early?”

“H-hey! I only found out last month!” She thought this kind of thing would be completely overwhelming, but for some reason, talking about her future child with Dorothea made her feel bubbly and excited, not overwhelmed and quivering with terror. Maybe it was because Dorothea and Petra weren’t judgemental but rather genuinely…happy, for her sake. They made her feel like even outside Hubert and Ferdinand she had lots of support, all over the world. That’s why Malecki could relax and she could say, “It’s Ferdie’s, at least our first one is. But all three of us are going to be parents, together. And it’s, I don’t want our child to be an only child.”

As she spoke, Petra moved over to Dorothea and embraced her from behind, slipped her arms over her shoulders like Ferdie did to her. “Dorothea and I are planning on adopting a child in the coming months. I hope that they are able to become friends, just as we are.”

She’d never had friends growing up. She’d never been allowed, especially after Yuri. But now Bernie had dozens of friends. She had family, a real family, one she’d built herself and nothing like that awful monster who’d spawned her and dared call himself her father . She had so many people who cared about her, truly cared, and a home full of all the warmth and love she’d never had growing up. Bernie vowed that her child, all her children, would grow up knowing only that same safety and love.

Some time during it all Calphour landed on Thanily’s head, where Hubert’s daemon was just watching it all, and said, “It’s surreal, isn’t it. Coming out the other side of this, I mean.”

“There’s still so much work to do. Decades of indoctrination to undo, nobles that still must be brought to heel, millions of people to educate…”

“Oh hush, that’s not what I meant and you know it.” He pecked her head until she shook it and tossed Calphour off. He just fluttered in midair and continued, “It’s just that after all the fighting, the death, everything, it’s hard to believe that I’m here with Petra. That I’m happy. Sometimes I still don’t feel like I deserve it.”

“I know what you mean,” said Thanily as Hubert smiled, and she did. Hubert had made them promise never to let it leave their home, so Bernie wouldn’t ever say it out loud outside, but he was still adjusting to the idea of actually surviving the war. He’d never expected to live, to experience peacetime, to build a new life that wasn’t entirely focused on Edelgard. Yet here he was—here they were. 

Malecki sighed and nestled between Thanily’s paws as Bernie fell back into Ferdinand’s embrace. It was hard sometimes, even now, to trust the happiness. But Hubert and Ferdinand trusted her, and each other, and she trusted them. 

---

The first time Byleth heard one of El’s speeches after Sothis restored her and Belial, her heart beat so fast she worried she was having a heart attack. It was quite embarrassing when Manuela explained what was actually happening, though at least it meant that when her heart beat even faster when they started kissing later that night she wasn’t taken off guard. It was still quite a lot to get used to. 

Honestly, everything about being fully human took a lot to get used to. Even leaving aside having a heartbeat, she felt so much! She laughed at the sight of their kitten trying to get out of the bathtub after falling in, she cried while telling what stories she remembered about her father. She and Belial were utterly inseparable, making up for twenty-three years of lost time. Every day it felt like there was a new detail of Belial’s wolf form for her to discover, whether it was the differences in their guard hair and undercoat, or the way they huffed in laughter. The feel of their wet nose, the shade of yellow in their eyes. Byleth finally understood, just why Avarine hated being so far from El. She and Belial could still separate long distances in a way few others could, but the thought of being out of sight of her daemon was a terrible one. She wanted them close, wanted to make up as much of that lost time as possible.

And the love! The love for her students, the love for El, all of it there before but now so overwhelming she wondered how a body could possibly hold it all. More than once Byleth had fallen into El’s arms, laughing and laughing in delight because where else could all the love go? Sometimes Byleth was overwhelmed by feeling so much vibrant emotion at once after a lifetime of living muffled, through the equivalent of thick leather gloves. During those times she would retreat to a more solitary activity, ground herself in fishing or sword drills, focus on the beating of her heart and the sound of Belial’s voice across their link until she was calm and collected once more. El would always join her at some point; she was terrible at fishing but that didn’t matter. What mattered were these precious moments spent between the two of them, the details which nobody else would ever know. 

“Once we restore peace and order to Fódlan,” El had sworn one night as they watched the stars together over warm peach cobbler, their daemons racing each other in the breeze, “I will then find a suitable successor and hand over the reins of the Empire. When all that is done, it will be just the two of us. No imperial responsibilities, no nobles. Just us.”

They’d stayed up until dawn, Avarine and Belial in each other’s arms like that transcendent intimacy was the most natural thing in the world. The color of sunrise was glorious, beautiful. 

As was El. Her wife was radiant, the setting sun glowing off her armor and Avarine’s feathers. Linhardt’s treatments were working; her steps were sure and steady, her hands smooth and comfortable. They shared a kiss, and Byleth made room for her El to sit on the pier, and then she pressed a fishing rod into her hands just to feel El’s warm touch. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.” There was no need for further words, not with how their daemons nestled into each other. 

Wherever this path led, they would walk it together. A true peace and a life of quiet still seemed a lifetime away, but bit by bit they were making it happen. They’d have to return to work soon enough, but for this moment there was Byleth and Belial, El and Avarine, the sun setting over the fishing pound. Tomorrow would dawn glorious and beautiful, and they would greet it and build that better world together. 

---

Emperor Edelgard II and Avarine von Hresvelg (22 Garland Moon, 1162 - 25 Horsebow Moon, 1224, gyrfalcon), also known as Edelgard the Great, was the nineteenth emperor of the Adrestian Empire from 15 Guardian Moon, 1180, until her abdication in 1205. Under her reign, the Adrestian Empire declared war on and broke ties with the Church of Seiros, reconquered the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, eliminated the nobility, abolished feudalism, massively improved standards of living, and was modernized, gaining the capability to become a world power…

…Known for her intelligence, capability, and uncompromising moral character, while criticized for that same uncompromising nature and a willingness to use brutal tactics, Edelgard von Hresvelg is generally considered to be one of the greatest emperors in the history of the Adrestian Empire.

—Opening blurb from the QuikGrid article on Edelgard von Hresvelg. Retrieved 30 Garland Moon, 1649. 

Notes:

And with that, after two years and eight months, the main story of Who We Are is a wrap. When I posted that first chapter, I never expected it to blow up like this, in any sense. I certainly never expected to still be utterly head over heels in love with 3 Houses and especially the Black Eagles after all this time. With that, I’d like to say a few words.

Thank you so much to everyone on the discord servers with me. I especially want to extend a thank you to Captain Flash, Volossya, Mousegard, QuoteMyFoot, and Spectre, for all your reviews, comments, critiques, and suggestions. This story wouldn’t be what it is without you. And thank you, Poetry, for your daemon AU, without which this story wouldn’t exist.

An enormous thank you to Ari, Sethkiell, Einzbern, LovelyInBlack, and Krysta for your commissioned artwork of all the characters and their daemons! You can find them on Twitter now, and once the last of them is done I’ll add a bonus chapter with all the artwork! Actually, Einzbern’s cover is on the first chapter right now if you want to take a look.

An enormous thank you to Nintendo, and all the cast, voice actors, everyone involved in the creation of Fire Emblem: Three Houses. This game, this story, its characters and themes, all of it. There’s something rare and special here, something that has brought incredible comfort and meaning to so many people, and that I’ll continue to do so for a very long time. Thank you for creating and being a part of this game, and bringing the cast within to life. I’m so glad to be in a world where Three Houses exists.

And finally, I want to extend an enormous thank you, to everyone who has read this story, left a left a kudos, commented and enjoyed. Your words and support have been the fuel that’s kept me going. Thank you all, so much.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this all the way to the end, but this isn’t the end of my writing! I’m gonna take a break for a few weeks, but then I have quite a bit more to write, here and in other fandoms! I hope you enjoy it all.

Chapter 49: Afterward

Summary:

One lovely summer morning, Edelgard has a long day of work ahead of her trying to set up an education system from scratch. Byleth has a new sparring partner.

Edelgard woke to warmth and light. The early morning sun filtered through the windows and dappled the sheets and bit of blanket that she and her wife had not managed to kick off the bed in the pleasant warmth of Enbarr’s midsummer nights, where the cool of darkness cut the humidity. It must have stormed in their sleep, because the air was crisp and dry, a hint of sea salt drifting in on the breeze. It was the kind of morning where Edelgard wanted to stay in all day, cuddling up with her book on her lap and their daemons beside them while she and her wife fed each other fresh fruit.  But alas, work called. One day they would retire and sleep in as long as they desired; but there was still so much rot to excise from Fodlan. With a garbled mumble Edelgard rolled over and opened her eyes.

Byleth’s face, framed by sunlight and her mussed-up hair was as beautiful as the first time she woke to see it, and the kiss her wife gave as she opened her eyes was as sweet as any strawberry. “Morning, El,” she murmured, reaching up to brush the hair from her face as Avarine flew down from her perch to run her beak through Belial’s fur. “Are you going to join me on the sparring grounds today? I’m going to be evaluating the newest commander.” 

That was tempting, putting on her combat arm, breaking out Labraunda and her shield, and getting some real sparring in for the first time this week. Something in her body ached to get up and move. But alas…

“I’ll do some drills with you later tonight,” Edelgard promised her wife with another nuzzle of their noses. “But I have a feeling I’m going to be stuck in this meeting all day.” The preliminary reports had been…troubling; she and Ferdinand and their committees were probably going to spend weeks, even months, working out the best solution.

Belial licked a stripe up Avarine’s back in retaliation; the two of them yelped as one as her feathers stuck up against their grain. They then hopped into bed and smugly nestled in the warm divot in the mattress where Edelgard slept. Byleth curled up around her daemon and rested her chin on their shoulder, never once taking her eyes off Edelgard. “Well, when you can’t take it any longer, I’ll see you on the sparring grounds?”

---

The reports were worse than they had feared. Not an outright disaster, but…

“What fools we were, to not consider the differences between city and countryside!” Ferdinand lamented as Embrienne buzzed mournfully over the reports.

After the initial success of the Enbarr Education Initiative, with literacy rates nearly tripling in as many years, and similar results in Aegir territory, they rapidly built schools all throughout the empire, out to the hinterlands. Soon, every man, woman, and child in all of Adrestia would know how to read and write, how to perform basic mathematics, the structure of their government, how to analyze text and speech, how to recognize propaganda. How to think for themselves. Everybody in Adrestia would learn, and in that way grow. 

It was working. But the progress outside the main cities of the empire was far more modest than they had anticipated. There were gains, yes, but at this rate it would take over a decade for the countryside to match the results in Enbarr. 

“The main problem is food,” said Yuri, Icarus bobbing their tailfeathers in time with jabs on the paper as he spoke. He’d tracked them down shortly after the program expanded, and when he’d presented his insights Ferdinand had hired him to the Sub-Ministry of Education on the spot. “In the summertime people are too busy tending to crops and livestock to go to school, and that includes the kids.”

“Unfortunately, though crop yields are markedly increasing, so too is the general population of the Empire,” Ferdinand added, his gaze fixed on the paper before him and those damning calculations. “I do not believe we can afford the risk to agricultural productivity at this time.” 

They couldn’t. Thanks to her friends’ efforts and the new health and food programs, every year people were living longer, more babies lived to see their first nameday. On the other hand, that meant more mouths to feed. The parts of Grondor Field long since trampled to uselessness by the yearly Church-sponsored mock battle were slowly recovering, the supposedly-barren Galatea lands had turned out to be quite good for ranching, and some of the technologies found banished to Abyss already showed promising results.

“Yet the one thing we cannot replace is the need for manual labor,” said Avarine. She’d flown off her left shoulder to land by her right side, where Edelgard could stroke her daemon’s feathers. “I hate to say it, but Ferdinand is right. We need to suspend lessons for a few weeks in the summertime so that people can tend to crops and not get left behind when they return to their studies.” 

“Which would mean increasing school hours during the wintertime,” Edelgard followed, already considering how they would rearrange the subject matter. “Well, it’s not as if there’s a great shortage of time in winter.”

“There may not be a shortage of time in winter, but there are certainly shortages of light, warmth, and transportation,” Ferdinand reminded the room as Embrienne counted off on his fingers. “How are we supposed to teach people in cold and darkness, never mind getting them to schoolhouses amidst snowdrifts and ice? True, these environmental hazards are less of a concern in southern Adrestia, but the roads in the north of Fodlan are utterly impassable in winter.” There was also the other, unstated fact: The lack of education in former Faerghus was so extensive that the general populace was already substantially behind the rest of the Empire. How could they catch up when even winter fought against them? 

Yuri sat up, Icarus flaring their blue crest before settling down into a facade of calm. Yet Edelgard could still hear the enthusiasm behind his voice as he said, “I think Leonie may have that problem solved for us.”

Leonie had been their biggest champion for education in the Alliance, with an unexpected passion that rivaled (perhaps literally, given Leonie) even Ferdinand’s. The passion was personal. Leonie had told Edelgard, one long winter night where the war was on hold due to snow and there was nothing to do but share stories, how everyone in her village was illiterate. How Jeralt had taught her to read, but didn’t have time to teach her to write. How she’d learned the basics on her own but still needed Manuela to give her remedial lessons, just as Manuela had taught Dorothea all those years ago. How even to this day Leonie needed to trace the letters with her fingers and mutter the words under her breath as she read. 

How, even to this day, the shame and humiliation burned through her even though she logically knew it had no reason to. 

“That’s why I’ve decided!” Leonie had announced to the entire hall as she slammed down her drink onto the table with one hand and propped up a teetering Kamen with the other, “I’m still gonna be the number one mercenary in Fodlan, but before I do that I’m gonna teach everyone in Leicester how to read and write.” She’d swayed back and forth out of time with her daemon, to the point where Edelgard wasn’t sure whether she was slamming her hand on the table for emphasis or to keep herself upright, but every word had brimmed with conviction. “And then I’ll write down everything Captain Jeralt taught me, and everything I learned off of that, and then everyone is gonna know what an incre—irrec—awesome merc he was! And nobody’s ever gonna forget him!”

“Or me!” Kamen slurred. Leonie tried to smack him but missed. 

Yuri was right, Edelgard realized as he explained. Leonie had solved their problems—at least, the ones involving lack of wintertime lighting and heat. Most of the surviving Shambalans were in Leicester, and they brought with them knowledge of how to construct and maintain artificial lighting without the use of magic. These indoor lights now decorated much of Dierdru, and even on a clouded night the Aquatic Capitol glimmered and sparkled as if it reflected the stars. 

Enbarr had many more mages—and by association, magelights—than Deirdru, so when rebuilding Enbarr they’d focused on street planning and running water. Every new building in Enbarr had at least one sink and toilet, and the newly appointed sub-Minister of Transportation—who was a commoner—was working on a system of government-sponsored large horse-drawn vehicles that anyone could ride in for a fee. Perhaps they could expand this to the more rural areas of the Empire once they worked out the kinks, though they’d need to improve the roads in general first. 

Therein lay the solution to their dilemma. Edelgard stood, and Avarine  alighted to her shoulder in a proclamation of intent. “We will no longer depend solely on magelights but shall obtain our own sources of artificial lighting.” A trade of printing presses or plumbers should more than suffice. “Simultaneously, we prioritize improving and maintaining road infrastructure in the hinterlands. I want to do this once and do it right.” Even without education better roads would mean easier travel and more reliable delivery of goods and services. Why had it not been done already?!

“We already know,” said Avarine. “It was all so the church could maintain power and control. As long as it didn’t get too bad, it didn’t matter. And that way of the situation ever became truly untenable, they could swoop in and play the hero.” It was exactly what they did by concealing agricultural techniques, or acting like the canals of Enbarr were a miracle from the goddess. That way if there ever were a terrible famine, the church could “bestow” such blessings and thereby act like divine saviors for helping to solve a problem they created.

"The church teased us all with the promise of salvation from pain they themselves inflicted, and did so in the name of their own profit!" Avarine’s talons clenched and scored marks into the wood of her false arm. There was so much damage to repair. Radical new freedoms were exactly what the people of Adrestia—of all Fodlan—needed after a thousand years of forced isolationism and stasis, and Edelgard and her government would make it happen. 

---

By mid-afternoon, Edelgard needed to be outside. She needed to feel the sun on her face; Avarine needed to feel the wind in her feathers and take to the air. 

For now her daemon perched on her right shoulder, a counterbalance to the weight of her combat prosthetic. It was remarkable just how quickly they had adapted to the loss of her left forearm. Perhaps her smith could make an arm with false tendons that Avarine could manipulate with her beak and talons for improved dexterity…At this moment she could hold a shield for sparring, and that was enough. 

“We’ve gone soft,” Avarine mused, and she was right. Even after the experiments, the two of them had frequently spent far longer cooped up inside without succumbing to the urge for the outdoors, the only price the inevitable nightmares. 

“But that’s because we don’t have to be hard and harsh to ourself anymore.” Those days were gone, and she would never have to endure them again. 

Avarine chirped and nibbled her ear. 

The sounds of clashing swords echoed down the breezeway long before Edelgard turned the corner. When she did, she was greeted by the sight of her wife sparring with their newest captain. Aggressively violet hair covered their eye much as Hubert insisted on covering his, their armor was still clearly the piecemeal cobbled together protection of a wandering mercenary—she’d have to commission an official imperial set soon—and a brightly feathered turkey daemon weaved and darted around their legs, striking out with their long neck and beak just as Ardior did when he could not take to the air. 

They were fast, faster than her wife, though her Byleth was stronger, with a seemingly self-taught fighting style based around two swords. As Edelgard watched the mercenary captain caught Byleth’s training sword between their own blunted blades, and peered between them with a grin and a huff of victorious amusement. 

Undaunted, her wife held those two blades fast, then punched them in the stomach. The mercenary captain doubled over with a grunt, and in that moment Belial darted forward and grabbed their daemon, flinging him aside. The grunt became a yelp of pain and the distance forced them to their knees. 

Byleth, unaffected by the distance (despite the restoration of her connection with her daemon they were still unaffected by distance. Some scars endured), reached out and helped them to their feet. The captain took it and stumbled to their feet. “I’d say that was a dirty tactic, but from one merc to another that would be an insult. It was a damn good one.” 

“You’d have done the same thing, if you and your daemon could,” Byleth said.

They laughed. “Oh yeah, I totally would. You don’t let a trick like that go.”

“El!” Belial caught notice of her first, running over and immediately dipping into a play bow, their face relaxed in a lupine smile. Avarine flew off her shoulder and circled around their head before returning to her shoulder. “We were just sparring with our newest captain. Don’t worry, Hubert gave them the clear.” 

Right on cue, the captain and their turkey daemon approached and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.” Some days she enjoyed the title, but on others she couldn’t wait to abdicate and never have to hear anyone call her that again. She smiled and let them continue. “I’m Shez, and this is Hephaistos. It’s good to meet you.”  

Notes:

Surprise bonus chapter! I've spent the past couple months playing Three Hopes nonstop when I wasn't at weddings or buying an apartment, and it was incredible. Well, Scarlet Blaze and Golden Wildfire were. Azure Gleam is an unspeakably offensive trash fire that is an insult to both games, the characters, the fans, everyone. I've got so many thoughts and feelings on Hopes, especially Scarlet Blaze; expect more writing soon, though I have to get started on the Fandom Trumps Hate entry first; there's only four months left to do it!

I had to include something with Shez once I realized their daemon is a turkey, and I hope you got a smile out of this. Also, Monica's daemon is an albatross, and Count Leopold von Bergleiz's is a white rhino.

There will be one more chapter of fanart and commisions that I'll post tomorrow. I hope you've all enjoyed and I can't wait to be back on here writing soon!

Chapter 50: Bonus chapter: Artwork

Summary:

As I was wrapping up the story I decided to commission artwork of all the characters. Here it is to share! I hope you all enjoy and thank you so, so much, everyone who drew these characters for me and brought them to life! They’re beautiful, and their artists are amazing. Check them out!

 

The Black Eagles and their daemons, by Sethkiel

 

The Blue Lions and their daemons, by Lovelyillustration

 

The Golden Deer and their daemons, by Sethkiel

 

The Ashen Wolves and their daemons, by Lovelyillustration

 

The Church of Seiros faction and their daemons, by Krysta

Syene and Aswan by Ali

 

Ravna and Rhenner by Ali


Aaron and Zamana by Ali

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Beasts Within