Chapter Text
Fhirdiad burned.
The dense smoke was assaulting his nostrils and penetrating his chest, leaving his lungs screaming for more air. It prickled his eyes, making him squint and blink furiously through the watery vision—for naught, as it only led to the already shitty visibility becoming even more horse shit.
The heat was unbearable. His clothes were stuck unpleasantly to his body, sweat making them damp with moisture. The grip on the Sword of the Creator was sluggish and uncertain—the hilt slippery in his trembling hands. He huffed in irritation and, in spite of it all, squeezed harder.
The smell was by far the worst. The burning houses were emitting a perfume-like scent when compared to the vile odour of the scorching corpses lying down the city streets. Pegasi, wyvern, horse, and human remains—all transformed into an unrecognisable, grotesque sack of flesh—were giving off a smell of sulphur and something a little bit more vague—the metallic, nauseously sweet aroma of blood and viscera. If he were less familiar with the horrors of war, less acquainted with the stench of death and rot, he would probably have thrown up. Bernadetta, for sure, was looking rather pale, though was it because of the smell or the fact that she had just sent an arrow straight through Annette's skull, he did not know.
He ran up the stone stairs, just barely keeping his footing on the made slippery with blood steps. He reached the top just in time to witness Edelgard splitting in half some poor Faerghus soldier with Aymr. She looked tired. Her pale long hair was unrecognisable under the blood and dirt that made them into the dark patchy strands, usually straight like a wooden plank back was now slouched with exhaustion. He caught her gaze—under the veil of fatigue, the fire of revolution shone brightly in her eyes. Good. That meant they still had a chance to somehow crawl their way out of this hell.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Linhardt bundled in the nook between the stairs and the wall, muttering healing spells over the bleeding wound on Caspar's abdomen. His expression was grave, hands trembling with the overuse of magic. It didn't look good.
Hubert and Ferdinand were nowhere in sight—both in charge of guarding the rear, hopefully still alive and kicking.
“My teacher,” Edelgard came to his side, her dirty armour clanking with each move. “Petra and Dorothea came bearing news. Ashe's archers have been successfully subdued.” He ignored the slight waver in her tone that came with the familiar name. “We are ready to finally strike the Immaculate One; the only thing we lack to do so is your command.”
Funny how the Empress of the great Adrestian Empire, instead of doing as she pleased, was docilely awaiting the order of some random mercenary—a man not older than herself. Funny, how she had not hesitated to raise her armies against the Church of Seiros, throwing the whole continent amidst the whirlpools of a bloody war in the process; had not hesitated to march her soldiers towards the armies of the people with whom she used to share meals and roof over her head, but now, when standing on the cusp of finally grasping her ambitions, she needed this one last push.
He took a few deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists. He met her eyes. He nodded. Edelgard held his gaze for the last few seconds, then turned on her heel and started to give out the orders.
The Immaculate One was truly enormous. The pair of bone-white wings were big enough to fully encapsulate a two-story house underneath them. Pointy, sharp horns and long, curved fangs could easily screw the giant wolves and demonic beasts alike, creating the world's most vile shashlik. Pale, muscular legs—each completely covered with impenetrable, sickly white scales were certainly strong and big enough to easily crush a horse.
But what made him shudder were the beast's yellowish eyes that looked at them with fury and deep, blood-boiling hatred. It was a look of someone (something) ready to throw it all away, to stop at nothing and sacrifice everything if it meant killing them all in the name of the Goddess. Just as she had sacrificed Sylvain and Dimitri and Dedue and Mercie and Ashe and Annette and Catherine-
He closed his eyes for just a second. A second in which he allowed himself to fully feel the grief and guilt that were slowly eating away at his consciousness ever since that cursed battle that took place on the drenched ground of the Tailtean Planes. The pain was unbearable—his chest impossibly tight, head heavy as though stuffed with cotton. His heart ached. He wished he could simply crumble under the weight of it all and disappear.
But because he could not allow it, not now of all times, and partly because at that very moment he simply hated himself, he opened his eyes. Took a deep breath and gave a signal.
And then all hell broke loose.
~*~
“Which one have you dreamed about this time?” Sothis's voice was exasperated but gentle. She sat sideways on her throne, hand tenderly combing through his hair—anchoring him to the present as he was slowly coming to his senses after yet another nightmare.
Byleth didn't immediately respond, simply rested his head at the throne's side, knowing very well that Sothis would wait for him for as long as it would take. After all, between the two of them, time was an inconsequential and entirely subjective concept. So Sothis simply continued to stroke his hair and he continued to breathe.
“The first one,” he whispered.
“The Tailtean Planes?” she whispered back. After all, there was no meaning in speaking loudly while both of them coexisted in the very same body. Byleth shook his head.
“No, the fire of the Fhirdiad.”
“Oh,” came the simple answer.
The silence that settled was neither tense nor soothing. It simply was, stretching from one head-pat to the next, from one breath to another. From the gentle hum of the Goddess to the shiver that ran through his body, and through the calm swirl of magic that filled the surrounding space to the brim.
“Byleth,” the Progenitor God started, as one would start talking to the scared animal or a child that was on the verge of tears. Slow and empathetic and painfully cautious.
“Don't,” he whispered weakly, for he felt as though one more word could very well make him finally crumble. Sothis did not stop in her gentle ministrations on his scalp, and he did not try to escape them. A status quo on the verge of collapse.
“Byleth,” her voice grew in insistence, still tender and mild but now with an echo of an unbending will behind it. “How many times has it been already? Ten? Twenty? More? How many years have you already spent in this limbo of an obsessive dream? How many more can you take?”
“I won't quit, Sothis.”
“Byleth, what you are trying to change is Fate itself. By now, you have seen countless times as the very same Fate claimed your father's life, regardless of all your attempts at meddling in its fabric. What you are trying to achieve doesn't exist—it's merely a mirage tricking you into stubbornly trying to reach it, but it's always a little bit further, further away. Just slightly out of your reach. And it will eternally remain that way.”
“You can't know that.”
“I'm a literal Goddess.”
“Goddess powerless enough to need one such as myself as her vessel.”
“You are trying to anger me,” she noticed. “But I shall not succumb to it.”
“A pity,” he thought, but otherwise remained stubbornly silent.
At that, Sothis stopped patting his hair, her frustration evident in the way she jumped off her throne, even if she claimed to be unbothered by his remark. She now started pacing across the boundless chamber, pink and white ribbons shimmering under the pale-blue lighting as she moved. Byleth stayed as he was, tired simply from watching her display of agitation.
“The third one,” she uttered and finally stopped her lone procession. “You should have stopped at the third one, and yet-”
“I tried. I tried and I couldn't, as you very well know.”
“I know, but I do not understand. Why did you reset the flow of time yet again, when you have already reached the happiest conclusion we have seen so far, entirely eludes me. The war was over, Fόdlan was finally at peace, and your pupils were all alive and well, and-”
“They were not!” He finally broke, voice powered up by the guilt and anguish that, by now, may as well have become his second skin. “They were not,” he echoed weakly, pulling his legs to his chest and encircling them with his arms in a sorry attempt at seeking solace.
Sothis stayed still for a moment, clearly taken aback by this unusual breach in his stoic character. She slowly took back her seat.
“You have to quit,” she whispered, not in accusation but with worry.
“I can't,” he said, equally silent.
Sothis sighed and continued to pat his hair.
~*~