Chapter Text
Enbarr, Palace Training Grounds, 13th of the Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1186
When Edelgard pushes open the heavy wooden doors of the training grounds and hears the Prime Minister’s agitated shouts echoing in the rafters, she knows she’s come to the right place.
Walking down the hall that bridges the area with the main building of Enbarr’s sprawling Imperial Palace, she gazes up at the high stone ceilings, reacquainting herself. It’s been a long time since she’s visited the place, but it’s almost exactly as she remembers it: she spies the large, circular arena where combatants spar, train, and do calisthenics; the alcove with its racks of wooden replicas and dull-bladed practice weapons; the twin set of double-doors opposite the ones she entered, leading out to the stables; the line of targets and training dummies, all pushed against the wall of the arena; and the row of benches in a rectangular cutout at the center of the hallway, where students, squires, and spectators can observe. Standing in front of one of the benches is the man she’s looking for—the spindly, black-haired Minister of the Imperial Household. His eyes, a vibrant and serpentine yellow-green, are locked on the arena, and there’s something eerily like a smile on his gaunt face.
Rounding the wall that’s been blocking her view, she follows his line of sight and spots the red-haired, lion-maned Prime Minister in padded training armor, wielding a wooden lance. Though she’d rather not admit it to him, Edelgard knows that Ferdinand is deadly with such a weapon; even so, he’s having a difficult time keeping up with his opponent, who darts around him so quickly as to resemble less a person and more a blue-and-gray blur.
Of course Byleth is here. Edelgard should have known better.
With a start, she realizes her hand has moved to the ring on the slim silver chain around her neck, her gloved thumb tracing the outlines of each embedded purple stone. Letting her arm fall back to her side, she thinks for a moment about turning around and leaving, but Hubert has noticed her and turns to give a bow. No matter how many times she tells him not to when they’re secluded from the public eye, he insists on doing so, and she doesn’t feel up to having this argument again today. She just raises a hand in recognition as he greets her with a polite and formal, “Your Majesty.”
“Hubert,” she nods as she comes to stand by his side. “I was told I might find you here. How fares our Prime Minister?”
“As well as you’d expect,” he replies in his gravelly voice, and Edelgard detects more than a trace of satisfaction in his tone. His eyes flash and the corner of his mouth twitches upward as there’s another hefty thwack of wood on fabric, corresponding with a yelp from Ferdinand. “He’s giving a rather commendable effort, though I did advise it would likely prove insufficient.”
“I’m sure that was very effective in deterring him.”
“As effective as you’d expect,” he smirks, flicking his eyes to her.
“How long has this been going on?”
Hubert hums, almost wincing in sympathy as Ferdinand brays a triumphant laugh only to hiss in pain a moment later. “I believe this is the third round, or perhaps the fourth. I pray you forgive me; each bout has gone more or less like this one, and I have not kept careful track.”
Edelgard laughs. “You’re forgiven.”
“Did you have need of me, my Lady?” he asks, but Edelgard waves dismissively.
“It’s of little import. I wished for your advice on the invitation list for the Fhirdiad event, but we can discuss it later. I thought to have a break, and I’m actually far more interested in the matter at hand, anyway.”
Hubert hums again, shooting her a sidelong glance. “I loathe to ask your forgiveness more than once, Your Majesty, but I confess I feel the same. It’s rather an uncommon opportunity to see the Prime Minister suffer such humiliation; I hope you do not begrudge me for wishing to make the most of it.”
“Not at all,” Edelgard says, her eyes following the action. Ferdinand is easy to track, between the shock of bright-red hair furling out from beneath his padded helmet and his tabard of Adrestian crimson and black. Byleth, meanwhile, is hard enough to keep up with when Edelgard can actually bear to look at her. Things have been... better lately. Still complicated, but better. They talk now—sometimes about things other than work. They had tea together the other week, alone, and they even had an actual conversation. Edelgard’s anxiety didn’t progress beyond nausea. It’s something. It’s good. It’s progress.
But it’s only improving because they’ve been keeping to boundaries. Edelgard shouldn’t be here; she knows better.
It’s too late now, though. While Ferdinand is picking himself back up off the floor for the umpteenth time, the blur that is Byleth steadies, and her eyes meet Edelgard’s from across the training grounds.
It’s a struggle not to get lost in those blue eyes, so Edelgard pointedly gives the rest of her a once-over. She’s in an outfit she hasn’t worn in a while—the low-cut shirt, shorts, armor, and patterned tights she used to wear as a mercenary and back in their academy days. Glancing at the weapons alcove, Edelgard spies her familiar gray cloak with its long sleeves, draped over a rack where her sword belt and scabbard are stowed. Her hair is pulled back in a messy attempt at a bun that, after all her darting about, is coming loose from its moorings. Edelgard is pleased to note that she must have recently gotten a trim; those blue bangs of hers were starting to get very long, almost falling over her eyes like a sheepdog, but they look tidy now, even if they’re somewhat damp with sweat and sticking to her forehead in places. Her face is pink from exertion, her prominent bust rising and falling with each breath, and there’s a conspicuous lack of dust on any part of her except her boots—Ferdinand, by contrast, is looking less red and more tan by the minute.
She looks good. Great, even. She always looks so good. Even during those months when they barely spoke or saw each other, when Byleth would pass through the halls of the palace like a ghost on the rare occasions she was home, Edelgard still thought she looked beautiful. Now, day by day, she’s a little less haggard, a little more present, and until their eyes met, Edelgard thought she even looked happy. Her satisfied smile has faded a bit now, though; she nods at Edelgard, who nods back, her mouth suddenly dry.
She doesn’t seem bothered for long, however, as she resumes battering Ferdinand with her wooden practice sword as soon as the man is back on his feet.
“Enough, Professor!” Ferdinand pants, raising a hand and tossing his lance aside as he drops to a knee. “I yield. I yield.” He pulls off his helmet, collapsing backward to lie flat in the dust of the dirt and stone floor, his chest heaving.
Byleth chuckles, slinging her practice sword over her shoulder and wiping the sweat from her brow. “Well fought, Ferdinand,” she says. “I’m impressed.”
“A laudable attempt, Prime Minister,” Hubert calls, ever the gregarious diplomat.
Ferdinand doesn’t acknowledge him, still lying spread-eagled on the ground as he works to catch his breath. “You are formidable as ever, Professor. I shall—whew! I shall surely ache tomorrow. Oh! I thought I had you at last—how did you evade my reach?”
Byleth taps his left foot with her own. “Your stance gave you away. I could tell from the angle of your leg that you were going to cross left before you did it. You did well to position your shoulders and head as you did for the feint, though. You nearly got me.”
Nodding and gritting his teeth in recognition, Ferdinand unleashes a heavy exhalation, his chest deflating dramatically with the force of it. “Well, here’s hoping there will not come a day when I shall face a worse consequence for my poor stance.”
“It wasn’t poor at all,” Byleth assures him. “I mean it—you did very well.”
She extends a hand to him and he takes it, clambering to his feet. The sight of him makes Hubert suck his teeth and Edelgard wrinkle her nose: his face is almost as red as his frizzy, disheveled mane of hair, and he’s drenched in sweat, gingerly rubbing his left arm and stretching one shoulder after the other.
“Oh!” he grunts, wincing, flexing, and continuing to stretch in a most displeasing display. “Ah! I do think that hit will bruise. I shall need to fetch a compress once we adjourn. Or perhaps several compresses.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Ferdinand,” Edelgard chides, primarily to draw her own attention away from his awful self-inventory. “Did you manage to land any hits on my commander at all?”
“Two,” says Byleth as Ferdinand says, “Three,” then looks at Byleth in alarm.
“Two?”
“Very close miss in the second bout,” Byleth says. She taps her practice sword against her left shoulder, then brings her arm up against the tip of it to emulate Ferdinand’s lance. “It almost hit my shoulder, but it caught on the end of my sword. I just barely escaped it.”
The location of the near-miss makes Edelgard frown, though she’s distracted by Ferdinand’s dejected sigh as he rubs his temples and mops his brow with the back of his hand. “I disgrace myself. Two! Well, preferable to none, I suppose. And good exercise, either way. Thank you, Professor, it was most exciting. It’s been far too long since I’ve held a lance.”
Byleth tucks her sword under her arm as he extends his hand to shake, accepting with that kind, reassuring smile Edelgard remembers well from those early days at Garreg Mach. “If all goes as we hope, you’ll have little reason to again. Outside of sparring with me, of course.”
Ferdinand laughs, making a fruitless attempt at knocking some of the dust and dirt off his tunic. “I’m not certain, Professor. I’ve had enough of a beating to last me some time, I should think; I ought to give it up while I still have some dignity remaining.”
“And here I thought you hadn’t any left to begin with,” Edelgard remarks, earning her an amused sniff from Hubert. She tries not to put much stock in the smile she also won from Byleth, but it makes her breath catch all the same.
The Prime Minister stares up at the ceiling in mock indignation, sighing woefully. “Oh, Edelgard, be kind. Take pity. Have I not suffered enough for one day?”
Edelgard hums, considering. “No.”
He snorts, flashing her that amiable grin and jerking his thumb in Byleth’s direction. “That’s all large talk, Your Majesty. Perhaps you should have a go, then? See how well you hold up against our dear Professor? I wager it’s been about as long since you’ve held an axe as it’s been since I’ve taken up a lance, and I’ve graciously worn her down for you. It ought to be easy for the Emperor of Adrestia.”
“I should think not,” Hubert scoffs. “Her Majesty needn’t prove herself better than the likes of you, Duke Aegir; her superiority is inherent.”
That makes Ferdinand deflate, and for a moment, Edelgard thinks Hubert almost looks apologetic—an expression she finds very bizarre on his face. But the Prime Minister brightens quickly, his sunny personality casting away any dark clouds that might mar his day, and he barks a laugh.
“I don’t mean for her to prove herself better than me, Hubert. I merely wish to see how well she’d fare by comparison. And it would be a waste for our Professor to go back to battering dummies when there is more than one viable opponent right here.”
“I’m fine with dummies,” Byleth says, shrugging.
Something about her indifference irks Edelgard, and as it is, she’s left her too good of an opening for banter. Though it’s almost painful to do it, she holds back—they’re not quite at a point where Edelgard can be confident that those sorts of comments will be well-received. She’s trying to be respectful. Trying to adhere to those boundaries.
Trying and failing, it seems, as she’s already crossed one, and now her ire and arrogance are starting to get the better of her.
“It might be fun,” she muses, and she hears Hubert sputter.
“You—Your Majesty, you can’t be serious.”
“And why not?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “Am I so fragile, Hubert?”
He glowers at her. “I pray you do not bid me answer that.”
His non-answer only serves to irritate her further. The fact of the matter is, Edelgard is sick. Edelgard is dying. But she still has far more good days than bad ones, and today, she’s been mostly pain-free. While she doesn’t want to put undue stress on her damaged lungs or risk further injury to her weak left arm, there’s a growing part of her that wonders if this might be one of her last chances to be as she was only a few short months ago, when she was in her prime: a warrior; someone with strength, coordination, and stamina; someone in tune with her body, who can hold her own and prove herself and be more than a temporarily ambulant corpse.
She ignores Hubert. She turns to Byleth.
“What say you, commander? A duel?”
“Huh?” Byleth blurts. The interjection makes her sound foolish in a way Edelgard knows she isn’t; she wishes the woman didn’t make lunkishness look so comely.
“What say you?” she repeats, already meandering toward the weapons alcove, blocking Hubert’s protests from her ears. “Will you duel me? Or has destroying our Prime Minister slaked your thirst for blood?”
“I’d like to point out that I’m still in one piece,” Ferdinand pipes, pouting.
Byleth laughs, rubbing the back of her neck as she considers Edelgard’s question. “Um. I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Thank you, commander, I concur,” Hubert seethes, but Edelgard turns her head to look at the three of them.
“I ask again: why not?” She glares at them—with Ferdinand an equal recipient of her devastating stare, if only by collateral damage—and wonders if they will say what’s remained unsaid. All three are silent. It only proves her right.
Byleth is the first of the cowards to break. She scratches her head, kicking up dust with her boot, her gaze averted. “I’m not sure it would be a fair match.”
“It seems even enough,” Edelgard dissents, trailing a gloved finger along the rack of wooden training axes. She picks up a few of them, testing their heft, checking their balance, and taking a couple of practice swings. Finding one she’s satisfied with, she spins it in her hand, a little smirk crossing her lips at the familiar sensation. “You, in excellent condition, but with no Crest, and no doubt weary from your bouts with the Prime Minister; me, with two Crests, and significantly out of practice, to say the least. I should think it fair.”
“... Debatable,” Byleth responds, her brow lowered. But a similar smirk is growing on her face, and her blue eyes are radiant. “I’ll accept it—if you swear you’ll tap out the moment you start feeling bad. I won’t be blamed for accidentally killing the Emperor.”
Edelgard huffs a laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”
She turns to look at Byleth, prepared to parry whatever banter she might throw her way, but Byleth is silent. Her smirk is gone; instead, there’s a blankness to her face that strikes Edelgard as alarmingly familiar. The sight of it makes a shiver run down her spine. The commander stands with her sword’s point lowered to the dust- and straw-covered ground, her back straight, and her chin angled down, her large eyes cold and intense.
“Swear,” she says.
Edelgard blinks. She swallows. She nods.
“I swear,” she responds, forcing her tone to be steady. “Should I take ill in any way, I will signal to end the bout.”
“Your Majesty, I really must protest,” Hubert says aggressively, his voice registering in her ears again. She feels a bit bad for having tuned him out, but the man can be so overbearing. “Your arm—”
“Is my own, not yours. I know well enough how to mind it.”
“The commander’s arm—”
“Is in fine condition,” Byleth says. “The healers and physicians approved me for full duty well over a month ago.” As she rotates her left shoulder, Edelgard can’t help but look at it. The nasty scar along her arm is looking better, and she seems to have her full range of motion back, but just to see it twists Edelgard’s stomach. She didn’t give her the wound, but she might as well have.
“You haven’t any armor,” Hubert protests, and Edelgard gestures to her dress.
“I fought much of the war in this outfit.”
“Against my advice,” her vassal snarls. “I think I need not point out that the situation has changed since the war’s end.”
Edelgard shoots him a hard look; she ignores Ferdinand’s goggling; her gaze roves to Byleth and lingers for a moment before shifting back to Hubert.
“The commander of my armies will ensure my care,” she says, injecting her tone with a distinct air of finality. “I trust in her skill enough as to believe she will not injure me. And if I should happen to come to harm, I know that she will heal me.”
She looks to Byleth again, who gives her a solemn nod.
Hubert falls silent. She can see his agitation vibrating in every fiber of his body, but he holds his tongue. Ferdinand, wisely also silent, continues to glance back and forth between Hubert and Edelgard. Unable to break the Emperor, Hubert turns to Byleth for assistance, but she’s of no use to him. Her eyes are fixed on Edelgard’s face.
“... You do not need my permission,” he says finally, spitting out the words as he looks back to Edelgard. “Proceed as you wish.”
Some of the tension in the room slowly eases. Like a turtle emerging from its shell, Ferdinand’s smile begins to show itself again.
“I shall move my things?” the Prime Minister says—a statement in the form of a question—and slips past Hubert to retrieve his abandoned helmet and practice lance from the floor of the arena.
Hubert stands stock still, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The ice in his glare would freeze Edelgard solid, if she did him the courtesy of looking at him; he has to settle for turning it on Ferdinand, whom he corrals as the hapless Prime Minister attempts to slink by with his arms full of gear.
“You have made a grievous error in judgment,” she hears him hiss at Ferdinand as they retreat back toward the benches.
“I did not consider—”
“You never consider.”
Byleth holds her sword loosely as she kicks her feet into the dirt again, stretching her legs, apparently just as content to ignore the two ministers as Edelgard is. She lifts her eyes to meet the Emperor’s and her mouth twitches back into a slight curve.
“So. A duel? Won’t settle for a regular old sparring match?”
“I will not,” Edelgard replies, hefting her wooden training axe onto her shoulder. “You would not take me seriously as an opponent otherwise, and I insist you do. Thus, a duel.”
“A duel,” Byleth repeats, nodding her understanding. “To what? First blood?” she asks, joking, and her eyebrow raises when Edelgard shakes her head.
“No. To mercy.” She’s smiling, too, playing up the joke, but she’s deadly serious. If she’s going to do this, she’s committed. She wants a real fight. She wants to see this through.
Byleth looks at her; from behind the commander, she can see Hubert and Ferdinand have stopped their bickering for long enough to trade similar looks. But then Byleth shrugs, adjusting her grip on her wooden practice sword and flipping it between her fingers.
“All right,” she nods. “As you say. To mercy.”
“Your Majesty,” Hubert interjects, “are you—”
“Peace, Hubert,” Edelgard says, raising her left hand and shooting him a hard glance. “As I said, the commander will not bring me harm. And, should all go my way, she won’t have the opportunity.”
Hubert bares his teeth. “It’s not the commander’s actions that concern me.”
“Oh, let them play, Hubert,” Ferdinand says with a dismissive wave; having recovered from death-by-glare remarkably fast, he’s returned to his important duty of being good-naturedly oblivious and condescending. He pats the dark-haired minister on the back and Hubert recoils. “Besides, it has been much too long since I have had the opportunity to witness Lady Edelgard in combat, and if I am ever to best our Emperor myself, I must take every chance I can to study her tactics.”
“You’re still on about that?” Edelgard says, bewildered; she finds the answer in the gleam of Ferdinand’s copper-hued eyes, and before he finishes opening his mouth, she shakes her head with a weary huff. “Never mind. I don’t care to know. Don’t distract me with such talk—I have to defeat my commander now.”
Byleth chuckles, and thankfully, that smirk has returned to her face. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Ferdinand claps, grinning—he’s having far too much fun, Edelgard thinks, though his sunny exuberance is brought into stark and humorous contrast by the sullen, brooding figure hovering just over his shoulder. “Brilliant! I’ll judge. Professor! Your Majesty! To the center, please.”
With a slight bow, Byleth turns to Edelgard, gesturing politely with her hand. “After you.”
Edelgard doesn’t respond. Slipping the ring on its silver chain down the collar of her dress, she turns on her heel and proceeds to the center of the arena, telling herself she’s not blushing over and over again until she believes it.
Their footsteps kick up dust on the dirt and stone floor; motes of it glimmer in the sunlight cascading through the high, slender windows. It’s hard to look at her like this, but as much as Edelgard tries not to, she can’t avoid it—she has to stand close to her, has to see how the light plays off the waves of her blue hair and makes her eyes shine, has to see her own reflection taunting her in the smooth, well-polished panes of her dark armor. She hates the dissonance, hates that she might mar Byleth’s beauty with her own image.
But she can’t go down that line of thinking now. She has a duel to win.
They tuck their weapons under their arms and reach out to shake hands. It’s been a while since they touched like this. Edelgard remembers the last time like it was mere moments ago, and how could she forget? It was the day her world began to turn again—when she remembered how to hope.
With a start, she realizes her hand has lingered far too long and goes to retract it, but it’s Byleth who’s still holding on.
“You’ll tap out if you need to?” she asks, her voice low to avoid Hubert and Ferdinand’s hearing.
Edelgard stares.
“You swore,” she reminds her, stern, unyielding.
“Yes,” Edelgard says, finally managing to free her tongue. “I swore. And I will.”
Byleth nods. She lets go.
“Let’s say, ten paces?” Ferdinand proposes, and they signal their agreement. Hubert grumbles something, but Edelgard makes no attempt to decipher it, turning around and counting out the steps before facing Byleth again. She’s going to have to figure out how to look at her if she wants to have any chance of winning this.
They bow as they raise their weapons in a salute, first to each other, then to Ferdinand as the judge. Byleth gives an additional nod to Hubert; when he only glares daggers at her, she blows a kiss, making him scowl harder as Edelgard and Ferdinand laugh.
“Right then,” the prime minister calls once he’s stopped chuckling. “To mercy. But do use your best judgment; we can’t exactly afford to have either of you out of commission. On your guard.”
They stand across from each other, eyes locked, limbs loose and weapons ready.
“Begin.”
It begins.
For a time, they don’t move. Appraising. Sizing each other up. Getting a feel for the conditions, the ambient sound of the training grounds. Steeling themselves. Letting the weight of the unfamiliar practice weapons settle into their palms.
Byleth scuffs a foot through the dust, drawing a half-circle, flexing through a few different stances. Edelgard watches, giving the axe a few more test swings, limbering up by stretching her legs and arms.
Then they shift into motion.
They circle. Seeking. Testing—both their opponent’s readiness and their own. It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, but their bodies remember. Their feet know where to move; their eyes know where to look, what to search for.
Byleth takes the initiative. A low swipe, followed by a high jab. Edelgard responds precisely. It’s much too easy, nearly to the point of being insulting, but the pleased twitch of Byleth’s mouth makes her heart flutter.
Edelgard takes her turn. A quick diagonal chop, transitioning into a clean horizontal slice. Byleth blocks, effortless. She’s perfect. She’s still so perfect.
They orbit each other, keeping their distance. But the pace increases, and they step up the difficulty. Edelgard’s offense hits hard; she defends by deflecting Byleth’s strikes with the blade and the haft. Byleth’s attacks are lighter, but they’re fast and frequent, her nimble feet darting out of the way of Edelgard’s swings.
There’s a music to it—a rhythm that sings in every fiber of Edelgard’s muscles, in every beat of her heart.
Feint. Sidestep. Counter. Lunge.
Question. Answer. Call. Response.
It makes sense. It feels right.
She’s missed this.
Edelgard is a good dancer. Great, even, if she does say so herself. Way back when, at the ball at Garreg Mach, Byleth hadn’t danced; she’d mostly just stood and watched, or been pulled into conversations with her students, or preoccupied herself with investigating the food. Until they arrived in Enbarr together at the war’s end, Edelgard hadn’t known that when music was playing, Byleth could barely keep from tripping over her own two feet. It had been equally funny and endearing to see someone so lithe and aloof rendered into a clumsy, fumbling mess of nerves, stepping on Edelgard’s toes and struggling to stay on beat.
She’d endeavored to teach her, spending some of the precious little alone time they had guiding her through the basics: the holds, the steps, the frames; the court traditionals, the processionals, the couples’ dances. Unsurprisingly, Byleth had been a fast learner, her grace and athleticism in combat translating well once she had an understanding of the movements and a feel for the rhythm. Edelgard would lead, and then Byleth would take over, so elegantly swapping roles, so in sync with each other.
Waltzing in her chambers, Byleth’s hand on the small of her back, her face so close she must have been able to feel Edelgard’s breath on her cheek as she counted, “one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three...”
Practicing the volta, going for the lift, an unmistakable terror in Byleth’s eyes that transformed into relief as Edelgard caught her, lingering a little longer than she should have in the turn just to keep holding her, not quite ready to let her go.
Slow dancing on the terrace on a hot summer night, just the two of them, body against body, heat against heat, as though there was no one and nothing else in the world.
They haven’t danced together in a long while, though. If they never dance again, Edelgard knows it would be her fault.
But this feels like a dance—one they’ve done before, one they’ve done a thousand times. The steps, the circling, the posture, the openings... It’s improvised choreography, a fluid structure. They’ve fought and trained alongside each other for so long now. They know each other’s moves, know the risks the other will take and the blind spots they will and won’t check and the ways they like to punish each other.
If they never dance again, Edelgard will have made the most of this one.
The tempo increases.
Though neither of them are at the peak of their ability anymore, they’re both incredibly skilled fighters and well-matched as opponents. Where Byleth has speed and finesse, Edelgard has power and reach. She twirls her axe in a figure-eight, pushing Byleth back; the commander waits, then strikes like a viper, and the Emperor is forced to retreat a pace to avoid taking a hit to the shoulder. Byleth moves to take up the lost ground, keeping Edelgard at bay with quick thrusts toward her feet until they break away from each other to catch their breath.
Give and take; give and take. The dust on the dirt and stone floor tells the tale—though several minutes of concentrated fighting have passed, they’re almost exactly back in the positions where they started.
But while neither of them are making headway, Edelgard knows it’s been too easy so far. Byleth keeps taking the same stance—her knees bent, feet shoulder-width apart, torso turned to the side, her sword held in two hands with the pommel close to her hip and the blade angled up.
It’s a solid guard, and it’s absolutely textbook. This is the guard she takes when she’s teaching, when she’s training another, when she’s entertaining a challenge.
When she’s not really trying.
The realization makes Edelgard’s blood boil and the fire rage in her chest—not just at the insult, not just because she’s holding back, but because Byleth is angry. Edelgard knows she’s angry. In the days since she gained her heart, she’s gotten so much better at reining in her temper, but Edelgard knows all her tells. She can see it in the clench of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the way her chin is angled down ever so slightly, regarding everything from below her solemn brow.
Byleth is angry. And she should be. But she so rarely lets herself be, and she isn’t now, either. Right here, in this moment, she has the perfect opportunity. She could be taking some of that anger out on Edelgard, on the one who’s at fault. She could be holding her accountable. She could be punishing her for the wrongs she’s committed.
But she isn’t. She’s holding back. And that makes Edelgard angry.
Edelgard’s body may be failing, and she may be in pathetic condition after so many sedentary months. But she’s not weak, and she’s not dead yet. She can still fight, can still take a hit, can still get what she deserves.
If Byleth won’t punish her willingly, Edelgard will force her hand.
She turns up the heat, letting the fire fuel her, striking hard and fast while remaining in just enough control to keep from inviting unnecessary risks. Byleth keeps up, a slight crease at her brow, responding with increasing vigor to each of the blows she rains down. Edelgard jabs with the axe’s hooks, bats away Byleth’s blade with the butt of it, slashes and hacks and hammers, forcing the commander to engage, lulling her in with patterns of rapid, reckless motion.
Her moment comes. She swings high, her hand sliding down the haft to grant her extra reach; as expected, Byleth blocks with a high guard, controlled and precise. It would have deflected the edge and jarred Edelgard’s forearm with the blow if she hadn’t anticipated it, loosening her hold at the moment of impact while aiming a sweeping low kick at Byleth’s leg. Byleth moves just in time, that crease appearing at her brow again, and between the attack and the distraction, Edelgard finds an opening. Catching the heel of the axe on Byleth’s blade, she slides her hand back up the haft, twisting the axe and pushing in so the pommel slams into Byleth’s jaw.
The commander stumbles backward, but recovers well, keeping her guard up as she disengages, retreating a few steps before pausing to inspect the damage. Her lip is already starting to swell; she shifts her jaw from side to side, and Edelgard sees her pink tongue dart across the inside of her mouth as she runs it along her teeth.
“Well done,” she says, apparently finding no notable issues. “A fair hit.”
“Ready to give up?” Edelgard taunts, hoping her face isn’t as red as it feels, hoping no one else was able to see the bolt of lightning that struck her body with those words.
If Byleth notices anything, she gives no such impression—she just laughs. “Not a chance.”
She touches her swollen lip. When she draws her hand away, there’s a red sheen on the pad of her thumb.
First blood.
But it’s not over: this fight is, per Edelgard’s decision, to mercy. When Byleth glances up again, her eyes meet Edelgard’s, and a cold chill reverberates through the Emperor’s bones as she sees the change come over her.
There she is.
They adopt their positions once more, but even the manner in which Byleth takes up her sword is different this time. The stiffness in her posture falls away, the formality of the teacher falling with it. She adjusts her guard, her stance open and straight-backed, her feet closer together, her knees only slightly bent, sword held almost loosely and angled toward the floor, ready and waiting.
It looks inviting. It looks easy. It looks relaxed and casual, like she’s just holding her weapon with no intent to swing it.
It’s a trap. And Edelgard knows better than to take the bait.
They circle again—or Edelgard does, anyway. Byleth doesn’t move, tracking Edelgard with her eyes and ears, her stance unchanging. As she passes her flank and begins to move behind her, still positioned five or six steps apart, Edelgard wonders when she’ll be goaded into motion. Her heart is hammering in her chest as she paces around the commander; though she’s now at her back, Byleth has yet to even turn her head.
She wants to see it. She wants it so badly.
She strikes.
A vibration rings through her arm at the collision of wood-on-wood. The arc of her axe swing hasn’t even reached its apex, but Byleth has already blocked it with her sword. She moved so fast, Edelgard didn’t see when she turned.
They’re frozen, the hook of her axe caught on the blade of Byleth’s sword once again. Their eyes meet, purple into blue, sweat breaking out on both of their brows as they work to free their trapped weapons, and just as the tension is reaching a breaking point, the corner of the commander’s mouth curls upward.
Their weapons sing free with a dull bleat; they each take a pace back, finding their guards, eyes locked once again.
The Emperor grins. Now the real fight can start.
And it does.
If it was a dance before, this is something else. Their battle thus far has been relatively quiet, but now the rafters of the training grounds echo with the buzzes and scrapes of their wooden weapons connecting, their grunts of exertion and cathartic cries of effort, the scuffles and thumps of their footwork as they chase each other around the ring. It’s frantic and dirty, loud and desperate, two halves of a whole attracting and repelling and colliding and separating with clash after clash after clash of wood and muscle and bone.
Goddess, how she’s missed this. For so long, she’s been shut away, lost in paperwork and meetings, moving from chair to throne to chair until her brain ceases to be useful and forces her to collapse into bed. But now, here in the training grounds, parrying and riposting and slashing and dodging and studying Byleth’s every move, she can’t help feeling almost giddy. Sweat is pouring down Edelgard’s back, and her muscles are screaming from being worked so hard after months of disuse, but she feels good for once—feels strong instead of sick, feels grateful for her body instead of resentful and overly conscious of its failings. Her pulse is humming and her heart is pounding and the adrenaline is pumping and she’s smiling, she’s smiling so wide and feeling so alive.
She needed this. She needed what this is giving her, needed this feeling, needed this connection to something both in and outside of herself. She hadn’t known she’d needed this, but it’s everything.
It’s being in motion. It’s being with her. It’s being in sync, being in step, knowing and being known, calling with full confidence that there will be a response.
It’s being here, now, in the moment, in her body, remembering that she’s strong, remembering she’s a fighter, remembering what it is to act and react and move and trust herself without hesitation.
It’s being more than someone who is lonely and dying, more than someone who has everything and yet wants, and wants, and wants.
It’s not punishment. It’s acknowledgement. It’s proof that Byleth still sees her—still sees her skill, still sees her power, still sees her as more than a withered and broken thing already past its prime.
She almost manages to forget it all: her illness, her weakness, her limitations, all those things that make her already difficult days so much harder to bear. Then she goes for a swing, but mistimes it—knows she’s mistimed it even as she does it—and the lapse gives Byleth a perfect shot at her left arm. It’s such a small window, one that may have escaped most fighters’ notice, but Byleth wouldn’t miss it. Edelgard grits her teeth, furious with herself for being so out of practice, and braces for the impact.
But it doesn’t come. She sees Byleth’s sword move, sees it poised to strike, to punish her for her mistake, but it hesitates. She’s never known Byleth to hesitate in battle, but she does, and she spares her arm.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Edelgard recovers her stance and closes her guard, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions.
She doesn’t have long to think about it, though, as Byleth’s hesitation proves only momentary. She rallies, unleashing an onslaught of rapid strikes, forcing the Emperor to keep up. The volley is physically and mentally taxing—Edelgard’s eyes struggle to track the commander’s blade, her arms, her feet, her head, the angle of her shoulders, the arc of her spine, anything that might help her determine where and how to throw up her guard, managing just in the nick of time. And it doesn’t stop, either: she’s pushing her back, hammering at her, moving her around the ring, relentless and unforgiving, brutal and violent and utterly in control.
It’s a challenge to keep focused when all Edelgard can think is how much she loves this. Not for the first time, nor for the thousandth, she’s so, so thankful to have had Byleth on her side throughout the war.
As if the barrage is not enough, there’s something else Edelgard hasn’t given sufficient consideration: Byleth knows the training grounds. This may be the palace where Edelgard grew up, and this may be the very arena where she first cut her teeth in the art of war, but Byleth has lived in this room for months. Each and every spare second she’s had, whenever she’s not in a meeting or out on a mission in the far reaches of the country, she’s been here, honing her edges, memorizing every dip and rise of the dusty dirt and stone floors. At any point when Edelgard thinks Byleth might finally tire, the commander buys herself a reprieve by sending Edelgard stumbling in a divot, or slipping on straw and dust, or pushing her into a corner where she’ll have to beat her way out to avoid being trapped. It’s a somewhat dirty way of winning, sure, but it’s fair, and it’s working.
The bombardment is having its intended effect—Edelgard’s becoming exhausted. But she summons the energy for one more salvo, tapping into the full power of her twin Crests. She can feel the strength humming in her muscles, her blood pulsing hot in her veins as the fire within her roars to an inferno. Her axe meets Byleth’s sword; they press against each other, the wood creaking and threatening to break, neither one of them willing to give in. Edelgard pushes, and pushes, and pushes, Byleth doing the same, and she’s so close—so close that she can see the little flecks of color in her irises, so close that she can track the beads of sweat rolling trails through the dust and dirt on her flushed skin.
They push and push, edge to edge, their weapons somehow still holding. And ever so slowly, a millimeter at a time, it’s Byleth who bends.
But just as Edelgard is beginning to see her victory, Byleth does something truly dirty: she smiles.
It shouldn’t have gotten to Edelgard. She’s had the luxury of seeing Byleth’s smile before. It’s just that it’s been so long, and she’s missed it so much, and this one seems so real. There’s a light in her eyes—a light Edelgard had snuffed out months ago, and ever since, she’s just seemed to be going through the motions.
And besides, even if she saw Byleth smile every hour of every day for the rest of both their lives, it still wouldn’t be enough.
When Edelgard finds herself flat on her back on the dusty stone floor of the training grounds, breathless from the impact, she’s not surprised. She’s overjoyed.
That hit and that fall should have been the end of the fight, but neither of them have called mercy, and rather conveniently, the look on her face confuses Byleth long enough for Edelgard to hook her axe around her calf and pull.
The commander tumbles down on top of her; automatically, without thinking, Edelgard extends her arm so Byleth’s bad left knee won’t take the brunt of the fall. The courtesy costs her dearly—Byleth’s leg lands on her arm, trapping it in place. Unable to properly swing her axe, there’s nothing left to do but struggle. Again, Edelgard knows it should be over, knows there’s not a point in struggling other than for the sake of being stubborn. But she is nothing if not stubborn, and she’s not quite ready to be done, not quite ready to lose this opportunity to touch her, for their rapport to go back to being stiff and formal and so very distant.
So she struggles for the struggle’s sake.
With her good arm trapped, her weak one makes an effort to delay the inevitable. She still has decent range of motion with it—for now, anyway—but with sensation so limited, she has to be careful to ensure she doesn’t injure herself unknowingly. She fumbles to try and make any connections with her axe, either by landing a blow on Byleth or passing the weapon to her weak arm, grunting with the effort; with the superior position, it’s no trouble for Byleth to tear the axe from her grip and toss it out of reach, maneuvering to keep the Emperor’s flailing limbs from scratching and clawing at her in a desperate final attempt at contact.
When Byleth grabs her left arm and pushes it down, she can’t tell whether she actually feels the touch of her hand, or if she’s just imagining it, remembering it from a time long past.
All her energy depleted, all her fighting spirit exhausted, Edelgard stares up at Byleth and knows that it’s now truly over. Her axe cast aside, Byleth’s knee pinning her good arm, her calf draped over her bad one to hold it in place without putting pressure on it—the sheer consideration leaves Edelgard breathless, but not as breathless as the feeling of Byleth’s wooden practice sword against her throat. She’s straddling her and pinning her down and looming over her and oh, Goddess, she’s so close, she’s so, so close. If she just leaned a little more, or if Edelgard could sit up some, those perfect pink lips could connect with hers and she could swallow all those hot, ragged breaths that are being wasted on her skin, dissipating into empty air instead of becoming hers, hers, hers.
Then Byleth grins, and huffs a quiet laugh, and between the sight and the sound and everything she’s done, Edelgard’s hips buck all on their own.
Mercy.
“Great duel,” Byleth says, as if she didn’t notice, as if there was any chance that Edelgard had been subtle, as if the motion hadn’t brought them both a moment of blissful friction when her chest pressed up into Byleth’s center. “You fought well.”
“Very impressive,” Edelgard concedes, fixated on the dark, dark pupils of those big blue eyes, “to have won in combat against a dying woman.”
It was the wrong thing to say; she’d hoped for it to come off teasingly, flirtatiously, as just more banter. She’s had enough time to come to terms with her situation that she’s able to find some humor in it.
But Byleth hasn’t. And Edelgard knows better.
The grin falls away in an instant. The traces of light that had found their way back to Byleth’s eyes are extinguished again. Her face is overtaken by an expression that is hard and neutral. Then it wavers. There’s a twitch in her brow, her jaw clenching, and her lips part as though she’s about to speak.
But she says nothing, simply rolling backward to rise to her feet, then bending to extend a hand to Edelgard.
Edelgard stares up at it, her mouth falling open, her brain working at top speed to process her next action and coming up blank. As she takes the hand, she focuses on every little sensation—the heat of her palm, the length and width of her fingers, how those fingers press into Edelgard’s flesh with her grip, how the muscles of that strong arm flex and bulge beneath her skin as she so easily lifts Edelgard upright.
Beneath her dress, the slender metal ring feels like a leaden weight on Edelgard’s breast, its silver chain suddenly hot against her skin. She wishes she wasn’t wearing her gloves.
Once she’s standing again, the hand lets go; Edelgard can still feel the ghost of it on her palm. With a shuddered sigh, she dusts herself off, averting her gaze as she pats dirt and straw from her clothes. It’s beyond hope, though—she’ll need to bathe and change in order to be remotely presentable. By the time she completes her cursory self-inspection and looks up, Byleth has already stowed her practice sword back on the weapon rack and taken up her live blade again, sliding it into her scabbard and buckling on her sword belt. From where she stands by the rack, she turns her head to look at Edelgard.
“Thanks for the duel,” she says. Then she gives her a curt nod, shrugs on her gray cloak, and heads for the exit.
“You, too,” Edelgard says, much too late, as if it follows, as if it’s enough. She’s gone only a second or so after Edelgard gets the words out.
“Rather an abrupt departure,” Hubert remarks, and his voice startles Edelgard so badly that she jumps. She’s been so absorbed in the fight, she’s completely forgotten he and Ferdinand are there.
“Did something happen?” asks Ferdinand, looking crestfallen. “I missed the end. I didn’t see the finish.”
“Apologies, Your Majesty; I fear I distracted the Prime Minister with a discussion on the merits of axes versus lances and swords.”
“Quite shameful of you as judge, Ferdinand,” Edelgard sniffs, taking some guilty comfort in Ferdinand’s sheepish countenance and finding herself all too thankful for Hubert’s... discretion. She’s been very rude—she’ll need to make it up to him. “Well, it’s no matter. I lost. I was fairly bested.”
Ferdinand’s face softens, and she worries her disappointment is more obvious than she thinks it is. “From what I saw of it, it was a remarkable duel. You certainly fared far, far better than I.”
“Thank you, my friend,” she says with an attempt at a more believable smile. But it’s not the defeat that’s left such a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she’s not certain she looks convincingly relieved. She moves to replace the training axe in its spot within the weapons alcove; her task concluded, she turns to Hubert and Ferdinand again, who stop looking at each other and glance back to her far too quickly for her liking.
Her vassal clears his throat with a polite cough. “Did you still wish to discuss the invitations for Fhirdiad, Your Majesty?”
“Tomorrow, Hubert,” Edelgard says with a low sigh, heading toward the heavy double doors at the exit. “I shall need time to rest, to ensure I haven’t strained myself, and like our dear Prime Minister, I am desperately in need of a bath. If anyone might come to call for me, I would appreciate if you ask that they come by in the morning instead.”
Hubert bows. “I shall, my Lady.”
“Until tomorrow, Ferdinand,” she calls over her shoulder, “and thank you, Hubert.” She avoids looking at him as she leaves; she can picture the exact look on his face, and simply imagining it is enough to exhaust her further. As she stumbles out of the training grounds and back into the palace, she can just make out Hubert and Ferdinand’s voices behind her.
“It pains me to say it—”
“Oh, halt that rot, Hubert, it does not. You love to say, ‘I told you so.’”