Echoes From Earlier Moons

Byleth dreaded the moment she would have to tell Claude of her plan. She had long since resigned herself to her role as ‘bait’ for these strange enemies. Ever since the ambush in Miach Forest almost a month ago, it had felt like she had a target on her back, one that they couldn’t help trying to strike a bullseye on.

Now they were finally able to feint them and end this conflict. The battle at Gwalchmai Ravine had finally broken the enemy line and forced a retreat. Thanks to Ashe and Cyril’s scouting and Claude’s summations, they had a solid lead as to where the pale mages were hiding: within cave systems and valleys between Bergliez and Hrym. 

Byleth had studied the terrain and hypothesised the plan to lure them out. Now, she needed Claude to devise a way to make her troop movements plausible to the enemy. One of the reasons she had asked him to come to her that night was to discuss a strategy.  That , and to have him exactly where she liked him best. Nothing compared to that feeling of him inside her, muttering profanities and degenerate-nothings into her ear that would never cross his lips otherwise. 

She sighed contentedly.

Byleth had never been good with emotions, constantly failing to express or identify them correctly. She  thought  she understood. After all, she knew she loved Jeralt because he was her father. She also came to love her students, the other kids at the Academy, Seteth, Flayn and Rhea, all because they were all kind to her. Because she felt a duty of care towards them and wished to see them all safe, happy and free from sadness. Love, as Byleth understood it, made sense…

Until Claude made it incomprehensible all over again. Had it instead struck her in one bolt of realisation all at once, Byleth might have recognised it sooner. But no. Falling in love had crept up on her, ensnaring her bit by bit until she was all but swallowed. 

Then, it was too late.

He  could fire her up with wild passion one moment, then fill her with a blissful sense of peace and calm the next.  His  touch could scorch her body with desire or soothe her distress with a warm embrace. That physical and emotional tug, that constant curl that yearned for him… He brought her fulfilment, unlike anything she had ever experienced, like returning to a place where she truly belonged. If she could wrap herself inside that feeling, inside him and he inside her, she would never separate. Never emerge.

If only you could stay like this,   she thought in her Sothis voice.  If only you didn’t have to hide away. 

Even after a maddening lovemaking session, she never felt tired of him. 

Lying against his chest, listening to his heart hammering, Byleth felt so… relaxed. They were so vulnerable, in bed together like this: naked and compromised, drained and helpless. But she was too happy to care. Her arteries pumped with ineffable joy. 

She felt safe.

It allowed her to speak without fear.

“I want your opinion now on the person I’ve selected to lead the battalion we’ll use to draw out the mages.”

Claude tilted his head, smiling foxily. 

“Already planned the whole battle, have you? It seems  my  tactical mind isn’t needed here. I’m just a glorified bed-warmer to you now!”

His teasing was so tantalising that Byleth couldn’t help but find it cute.

“You’re a very ‘hot’ bed-warmer,” she chirped, tapping his nose.

“Hm, touché!”

She stroked his jawline, enjoying the prickle of his beard against her fingertips. “Please hear me out.”

Claude pursed his lips. Somehow, though, Byleth resisted the urge to kiss them.

“Very well,” he said.

Though he was still smiling, Byleth felt him quake beneath her. She thought she might lose her courage, but she pressed on:

“This person is the best choice not just for their strategic skills in the field but from a practical point-of-view,” she explained. It felt odd talking herself up like this. “The enemy won’t be able to resist attacking when they see them.”

Of that, I’m sure.  These Dark Mages had a vendetta against her. Against Sothis.  And I am Sothis ,  as far as they’re probably concerned.

“This person sounds too good to be true,” Claude muttered, rubbing circles into the points of her hip bone, a motion that made her coo. “I fear I know where you’re going with this, By.”

Byleth swallowed the lump in her throat.

” Me.  I will lure the Dark Mages out.”

Her voice was emphatic!

…Still, she sugar-coated her bitter suggestion with a long, deep kiss. And Claude accepted it with open lips, humming indulgently. Nuzzling his nose with her own, Byleth wondered if she would avoid an argument altogether. That she could win his approval with the power of her mouth alone–

Claude stiffened his jaw, blockading her tender caresses.

Byleth sighed. 

Of course, that would be too easy.

She pulled back, looking down at him. His expression was… peculiar. Claude liked to hide behind a smile, his lips forever locked into that serene simper that never reached his eyes. But he avoided her gaze, focusing on his hands as they continued tracing circles into her haunches. As if he could draw a whole other reality where he wouldn’t have to contemplate this strategy.

“Um, Claude–?”

“You,” he said curtly.

Byleth bit her lip. “Who else?”

“Hm.”

With that, the veneer cracked. 

Claud threw his head back against the pillows and let out a frustrated growl, louder than he would have dared moments ago amidst their sinful dance.

She covered his mouth to hush him, hissing, “Shh, someone might walk in!” 

“Eyr-fugs!”  he mumbled into her palm before giving her a painless nibble. She removed her hand. “Earplugs, remember? And your moron guard–!”

“You shouldn’t call him a ‘moron’.”

“Fine. Your  marginally competent  guard won’t wake up for another thirty minutes–“

“You said twenty.”

“Ha!” Claude sat up with a start, almost causing Byleth to fall onto her back. But his firm grip on her hips kept her in place. “Well remembered. Guess that means we have less time to settle this inevitable quarrel we’re about to have. Wouldn’t you say, my sweet star?” 

She took a shaky breath.  I really didn’t want an argument…

“So, tell me. Was this the point of this little challenge you set me?” Claude’s arch tone and Byleth off guard. “Did you hope to ride me into submission, then hit me with this ‘idea’ you knew I’d hate, hoping I’d be too tired to appropriately counter?”

“No. W-Well, not entirely, anyway…”

Claude snorted. “So, which part am I getting wrong?”

His tone wasn’t accusatory, simply inquisitive.

“Well, I…” Byleth had intended an appropriate period between ‘ride-into-submission’ and ‘hit-with-idea’. “I had expected to have clothes on, for one.”

Claude rolled his eyes. Sitting up, he leaned in, his breath and low, husky voice ticklish against her ear. “Trust me, your nakedness is the only highlight, By.”

She whimpered, that familiar knot at her core pulling tighter. 

Her cheek touched his temple. “You’re upset with me.”

“Upset. Cross. Troubled. Exasperated. Befuddled, really. Begrudgingly impressed, even.” He sniggered. “And a little turned on, actually.” 

Byleth tapped his shoulder angrily. “Be serious!” 

“I am.” Sure enough, she felt him twitch inside her. He wouldn’t be getting hard again any time soon, but wiggling in his lap made him shiver. He moaned quietly. “Buttering me up with intimacy. How deliciously  devious  of you, my stars-above!” 

Byleth shook her head. “Please don’t put it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because you make it sound like I was manipulating you.”

He leaned back on his hands. “I’m only joking, By.”

Byleth lay her hand against his cheat. His heart. “Don’t joke. Not about that.”

She was not blind to what she was. Archbishop for the Church and queen-consort to Dimitri, both. The people thought her akin to Pan, the legendary advisor to King Loog the First. But she was an adulteress, wilful and willing; wife to one king, mistress to another. She was no Pan; she was Fionnour, Loog’s queen. A manipulator, or so people would say if they knew. But even if nothing else about her situation with Claude was ‘right’, how she felt about him did feel right. Her love steadied her, as did her faith in him. So, she couldn’t bear the thought that he might lose trust in her…

Byleth closed her eyes. “I’m sorry to have sprung this on you. Earlier was…  so good . I felt so at peace… it made it easier to just come out and say it.”

“I feel so used!” he declared dramatically.

“Please don’t!”

Claude rubbed his face, looking so frustrated it made Byleth feel even worse. If that were possible. “Will you  calm down , By? I’m  still  joking. Jesting! I’m avoiding conflict by being a wiseacre.”

“Please  don’t!  “

“Ugh! Alright,  alright . Serious-time. Off you get. Let me up. I need to think.”

Without a word, their bodies parted. When Claude’s member finally slipped out of her, the mixed flow of seed and arousal dampened her thighs, making her shiver.

He bounced to his feet. He began to pace, tripping little by little over their discarded garbs, all pitfalls in his path. The air around them was cold, but he glistened with the sweat and heat of their activities. 

Byleth sat cross-legged upon the bed and watched him guiltily.

You shouldn’t have dumped it on him like this , she scolded herself.  He’s barely managed to get his eyes to face forward again, and now he’s all worked up in the worst way possible. 

She scanned the ground for where he had thrown her nightie. 

Actually , she reconsidered.  Perhaps my dressing gown would be more appropriate. 

The thought of redressing quickly left her mind as Claude’s feet pounded the ground, walking back and forth, eyes staring not in front of him but inward.

 If only I had a penny for those thoughts. 

“I knew you’d react this way…” she muttered.

“Ha!”

She pulled the dampened, crumpled bedclothes around her. “You’re a clever man. You must have guessed this would be my strategy.”

“Oh, I guessed, alright.”

He swooped down, picking up her nightdress. Under them, he found his trousers and, with another grumble, he threw them both onto the bed beside her.

“You’re right. I’ve been anticipating something like this all day. And I hate it.” He sounded as if to speak each word was a strain, and she hated that. “I knew you were going to suggest this and I really, really don’t want to do it this way.”

Her whole body ached with regret. 

“I know,” she acknowledged, shifting closer to him. “I know, I know…”

It was rare for him to show the world anything but his resting-smile, as rehearsed and fake as it was. He seldom showed anyone this side of him, the more fragile and uncertain him, the one that didn’t have all the answers. That didn’t have a way out of a predicament.

Byleth wanted to hug him, play with his hair, stroke his skin and kiss him sweetly all over. Not to try and eke out yet another go-around on her mattress but to comfort him. Make him feel as better as she could.

“You know as well as I do this is the best way to end this.”

Claude buried head in his hand. “Can it really be called ‘good judgment’ to put Fódlan’s Archbishop-Queen in mortal peril?”

“If we move carefully we’ll be able to mitigate any ‘mortal peril’.”

“Will your Church-followers think any mitigation is enough?”

“They’ll do as I say. As  we  say.”

Standing up straight, Claude frowned.

“And your husband, ‘Teach’? What would he say if he knew you planned such a reckless scheme, let alone if I endorse it?”

Byleth bleated out an uncharacteristic, “ Ha!”  and tilted her head incredulously. 

Dimitri. She knew why he had invoked Dimitri; to evoke a bigger picture, to make her stop and wonder what king and court would think if it was known the queen-consort was permitted by her generals and allies to put herself in harm’s way. Of course, he would dislike it! Not only because it would be putting her at peril, but the plot would rely on deception and trickery. He always said Claude took too many risks for his liking.

While Byleth had no qualms in throwing herself into a one-on-one battle without much consideration – ‘a boulder’ Sothis had once called her – Dimitri was something else. 

He was a full-frontal war machine in battle, a man who disliked cunning plans and valued facing the enemy head-on above all else – and he hit like a hammer. His personal ‘King of Lions’ forces, built around this very idea, was made up of heavily armoured mounted units that were deadly in a charge and steel-shielded infantrymen that served as a concrete defensive block. Together with the right and left flanks made up of pegasus knights for aerial assaults, light cavalry for side-sweeps, and swordfighters for melee attacks, the Faerghusian army’s strategy was simple: pick the field clean and leave nothing behind. 

They didn’t call her husband ‘The Tempest’ without reason. 

To Byleth, the battlefield was not as it appeared before her eyes but a three-dimensional map she could look down upon like a soaring wyvern from above. While her husband was seldom ‘The Boar’ any longer, his wild charges were always a worry. 

Claude called it, ‘Head-Walling.’

“Ram head-first into a stonewall enough times eventually you’ll crack it.”

Byleth had called him harsh when he said it.

“ There is value in straightforwardness, Claude.”

“There’s value in underhandedness, too,” had been his glib response. Byleth remembered how hard he had her pressed against the cold stone wall, nuzzling the sensitive skin of her neck with his teeth. “It might not be as honourable as knights charging valiantly towards enemy lines, but I learned a long time ago that shooting straight makes you predictable. Dimitri is an arrow. I’m an archer.”

The memory gave Byleth goosebumps.

Tugging the covers tighter around her nakedness, she sighed. “Look at us. Are you really going to bring up Dimitri now?”

He sniffed back a sardonic snicker, shaking his head in resignation. “Fine, point taken. Probably not the right time. We can’t ignore the question, though. If anything happens to you—”

“We can’t let our feelings get in the way of strategy!” she cut him off.

Claude grumbled mirthlessly, leaving his point unfinished.

Don’t snap at him , Byleth chided herself.  It’s not going to help anything.

She cautiously rested her hands upon his sides, hoping an intimate gesture would take the edge off her words but half-expecting him to pull away.

He shivered.

“Sorry. Are my hands cold?”

She slowly drew back.

“No. I’m just… a little sensitive still.”

His hands found hers, halting their retreat.

“I should have waited until you’d ‘come down’ before bringing this up,” she sighed again, stroking her thumbs along his warm skin.

“It wouldn’t have made much difference, my stars-above,” Claude lamented, thumb reaching to capture her chin. “I wasn’t going to enjoy hearing it regardless of how and when you told me. Naked or fully-clothed.”

The corners of her lips peaked.

“…I need my ‘Master Tactician’.”

“Ugh, I hate how that name caught on. Even my Almyran generals toss that title in my face.”

“Blame Judith. I think it fits you well.”

She leaned forward to place soft kisses upon his torso. A satisfying hiss passed through his teeth as she engaged her hot tongue to lick between each full press of her lips.

“Still trying to butter me up,” he joked, the tiniest grin on his lips, “…with these little ‘intimacies’ of yours?”

“I’m trying to comfort you,” she replied, placing another kiss upon his moist skin. Then, resting her chin against his abdomen as she gazed upwards, she added, “To make you feel better.”

Now, he puffed out a ‘Ha!’ 

Twirling around, he fell back onto the bed beside her, hands gripping his face. 

“I want you to think about the plan, not me,” she pleaded.

“Rather counterproductive, my stars-above,” he muffled through his hands. “I think about you all the time.”

She stroked his messy dark hair, still tussled from earlier.

“Try not to.”

“You may as well ask me to stop breathing. I don’t control it. You just sorta… pop in there. Like a reflex.”

Without much thought, she leaned down to kiss him right on the nose.

“I know you’re worried, but I have thought this through,” she affirmed. “Extensively.”

“Hmph.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested the idea at all if I hadn’t.”

Her fingers dabbled across his moist brow, brushing his locks back into some sort of order. At least, ‘order’ by the standards of his hair. 

Claude tentatively peeked up at her. There was something almost adorable about the look in his eyes. 

“We could still come up with another plan.”

“If you find one, then I’ll happily consider it,” she managed to chuckle, pecking a kiss on his forehead. “You won’t find one, however.”

“Is that another challenge?”

She sighed, kissing his cheeks, then his lips, speaking between each. “I’d sooner you’d make this plan work instead of fighting me on it.”

He raised his hand to cover her mouth.

“If you didn’t want a debate, you shouldn’t have proposed such a controversial notion, my stars-above.”

Byleth puffed out a moan, brushing her fringe out of her eyes.

Clambering back to his feet again, Claude offered her his hands. 

“Tell me your reasoning,” he suggested. “I might still hate it, but I’d prefer if I understood why you chose this path.”

With a nod, Byleth allowed herself to be pulled up into a sitting position and onto her own feet. Even now, her knees still felt as fragile as a newborn foal’s. 

The bed covers fell away, leaving her utterly bare, the chill of the air bumping her skin immediately. 

He slipped the head of her shift over her head, barely covering or warming her.

Not that I wore this for its practicality.

Once she was confident she could stand unaided, Byleth crouched down to pick up the rest of Claude’s discarded garbs while he pulled on his trousers.

Then, as if reading her earlier thoughts, he grabbed her dressing-gown from a nearby chair.

“Edelgard has been dead for years now,” Byleth began, locating his undershirt. “So, why do her elite mages continue to fight – and who or what are they fighting for? And why now? What’s their motivation?”

Claude helped her on with the dressing-gown. Byleth felt much less exposed – the dark grey material was thick and significantly warmer than her pale silk negligee. 

Silently, he watched as she shrugged it on and tied it.

“Do you want me to answer those questions, or are they just for emphasis?”

She handed him the shirt.

“Tell me what you think.”

Claude nodded, immediately pulling it on. 

“Well, it was Count Bergliez they incited to rebel and invade the Leicester side of the Airmid,” he started.

Jakob von Bergliez, Caspar’s older brother, was the current Count having succeeded his father following his death during the Siege of Enbarr. While he had lost the hereditary government position with the fall of the Adrestian Empire and its incorporation into the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, Dimitri declared that he – and all Imperial nobility – would be permitted to hold their lands and maintain their ancestral titles. It had been a more prudent decision than stripping him of everything and expecting his underlinings to accept a new ruler. There was no denying House Bergliez’s military clout. They had provided Edelgard with the vast majority of her forces, and they had lost many members of their family in the war – many, Byleth shuddered to admit, at her very hands. Moreover, a man could not be blamed for his father following his lawful queen into war, especially after he surrendered to Dimitri once the capital was taken.

So, Dimitri had decided to afford the new Count the benefit of the doubt, and for a year, the gamble paid off.

Until three months ago. 

Word had reached her at Garreg Mach: Count von Bergliez had forcibly taken the Gwydion Bridge and captured the town of the same name that lay beside it on the Leicester side. The Baron of Gwydion was killed during the attack while his family were unaccounted for. By some stroke of luck, some merchants were able to escape the settlement before the gates were sealed, allowing the word to reach Viscount Stroud, then subsequently his liege, Lorenz, the Count of Gloucester — who promptly sent word to Byleth. Eventually, the official proclamation from Count Bergliez arrived, stating that he had taken the city to ‘press his ancient claims’ on the land there and was being aided by ‘Her Majesty’s Elite Historians and Sorcerers’.

“Those claims were ‘ancient’ for sure,” Claude declared. “Gwydion’s been part of the Gloucester fiefdom almost as long as the Empire existed. If Jakob does have a claim, it only stems from the fact that House Bergliez started as an offshoot of House Gloucester.”

Byleth finished tying his sash for him, once a befuddling task, now like second nature.

Dimitri had been apoplectic with rage at the news. Edelgard’s mages – the ones who had served Lord Arundel, who had been in allegiance with Cornelia when she terrorised Fhirdiad, with Solon when they attacked Remire Village, and those responsible for the Tragedy of Duscar. For Count Bergliez to press a weak claim on Gloucester territory was disrespectful but sheltering and engaging with those savages drained the king of any mercy he might have had for them.

It had been for that reason, among others, that Byleth had beseeched the Privy Council to allow her in her capacity as queen to take a portion of the Faerghusian levies to bolster her own standing army, the Knights of the Reformed Church, to deal with the matter. Alone.

“Seems like it was all an excuse to start a fight,” he concluded. “ Their  excuse. Not Jakob’s. If it had been about him then…”

“Exactly my thought,” said Byleth, sadly.

Jakob von Bergliez had disappeared in Miach Forest. Several days later, as they reached the edge of the woods and Lake Anwen, they found the lakeshore littered with dead and dying Bergliez soldiers. The Count had been among the latter, killed by a wound invested with gangrene. Then the mages had attacked again, right there by the crashing Afanc Falls. Count Bergliez would be survived by his infant son – but this war would go on without him.

“If this were about rebelling against the Kingdom,” Claude went on, “then one would have thought these mages would have propped Bergliez up as a pretender against Dimitri. Him, or someone from the old Hvesvelg family…” 

“Dimitri put a tight lead on the few remaining members of Edelgard’s family,” Byleth clarified. 

“Oh, I know! A few crest-less cousins without two pennies to rub together and  one surviving brother, insane and under constant care of a doctor.” Claude winced at that before adding, “I suppose there’s Lucretia von Arundel, too. But she’s a cousin on the wrong side. Any power she might have enjoyed died with her father.”

Byleth twiddled the wrap of her robe, thinking. “Nonetheless she’s also kept on a tight lead.”

Lucretia had been in Enbarr throughout the war. Once the city fell and Edelgard was killed, she had surrendered herself to the mercy of the king. Unlike with other nobility who had fought for the Empire, no member of House Arundel could be fully pardoned, even one who was a small child when the Tragedy of Duscar took place. Now living in Fhirdiad, the late Volkard von Arundel’s only child was little more than a prisoner at the king’s leisure. 

Byleth had noticed her floating in the background at court. It was hard not to feel a little sorry for her – despite her black-hair, her face was so much like Edelgard’s had been that one could have mistaken her for the ghost of the ‘Bloody Emperor’.

“Perhaps it was Count Bergliez’s military clout that appealed to them?” Claude proposed next, stroking the hairs on his chin. “Then again, if a pure rebellion was their goal you’d think they’d have made a sincere push towards Fhirdiad by now.”

“Yet they haven’t.”

“True. These guys don’t seem to have an extreme desire to take the fight to Dimitri.”

It had been one of the many concerns Byleth raised to justify leaving him in the capital. Killing Dimitri should have been their top priority. It certainly had been Edelgard’s when she was alive, as she understood doing so would demoralise the Kingdom and allow her to enforce control. She had been just as desperate to kill Claude too. 

If the mages truly needed Count Bergliez’s army for their goals, then one would think they would have advanced north and ensured he stayed alive. Instead, they had remained south of Garreg Mach, and the Count was dead.

Byleth hummed.

“Yet, they are still fighting us over something.” She paused. “Or someone. For reasons unrelated to Dimitri… or even Edelgard.”

“It seems you’ve reached your point,” Claude groused.

Lowering his head, his hands found her hips while hers his shoulders.

“I worked it out a while ago,” she confessed. “They know about Sothis.”

How she came to dwell within Byleth was another insane tale that could make weaker minds spin. The crest stone that had once donned the Sword of the Creator, a weapon forged from Sothis’s remains – a fact that still irked Byleth – had also served as the heart of another, her mother, Sitri. 

Byleth had never been altogether clear how that crest-stone came to serve as Sitri’s heart. Once all of this was over, Byleth mentally decided she would take a trip to the Red Canyon. If nothing else, Rhea might be able to offer some insight into who these strange enemies were.

“Sothis,” Claude repeated, her name sounding susurrate on his lips. “If it has something to do with Sothis, and    this is all a means of targetting you.”

Byleth reached up to stroke his cheek.

“They know about her connection to me.”

His unease was palpable, tone weighty with tension. “And you want to put yourself out in the open to lure these maniacs out?”

She simpered.

“Kiss me.”

Gone was the discomfort and back was the pout. “Avoiding an answer by fluttering your eyes again?”

“When have I ever ‘fluttered’ my eyes at you?”

That won a smile from him.

She pressed her lips against his, as sweetly as she could muster.

Please , she thought weakly.  I don’t want to squabble with you over this!  “You should come to terms with what we must do. It’s only once you do that…” more kisses, more resolve dissolving, “…that you can put your wonderful mind to the task at hand.”

Claude huffed but returned her kisses in kind.

“I hate this,” he whined, gently wrapping his arms around her. “Not just the plan but —  this!  You kiss me, and I can’t say no. It’s my Kyphon’s heel.  Agh,  By!”

He smothered her into his chest. 

“The thought of something happening to you is driving me crazy. If something does happen, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

Byleth said nothing.

Her mind’s eye conjured up another vivid memory. Of one such time where the worst had happened. A forgotten timeline she had undone with her power. It had been one of the few times where she used her divine pulse to excess. Just as the old moon had died and the new one had begun: the ambush in Miach Forest, when she had watched Claude die right before her eyes.

She had watched many of her loved ones die before turning back time to try again, almost too quick to process the pain of loss.

This time was no exception.

That battle had been like a living nightmare. Keeping her friends, allies and soldiers alive had been a juggling act. Too much had gone wrong in one go. She couldn’t tell where the mages fire attacks were coming from. Slicing down any and all who approached her, she could feel her body growing weaker and weaker.

She had spotted Claude, crouched within the overgrowth, dismounted and alone yet artfully picking off his enemies with Failnaught. It had been her gift to him upon his return to Fódlan. An additional ‘thank you’ for his aid. He seemed invincible while wielding that bow, pulsing with power. Each ordinary arrow it touched was imbued with its power, glowing red-hot in synchrony with his crest.

He noticed her.

“Get down!”  he had bellowed, giving away his position as he took aim.

His arrow shot over her head, taking out an enemy about to impale her.

That was when it happened.

Byleth couldn’t remember exactly what the weapon had been, only the sight of blood as whatever it was – sword, lance, arrow, magic – entered Claude from behind, exiting from his chest. 

Terror had coursed through her veins. 

She had remained in that time long enough to see him fall, lifeless. Gone. Dead instantly. Not like her father, who had lived to say goodbye. It had torn through her lover’s heart and felled him instantly.

His life snuffed out like a candle.

The hurt, horror, sorrow, anger, helplessness, numbness — it all washed over her in one go. She was almost too shocked to reverse time. Too frightened that it would be in vain. 

Just like with Father. 

She had reached back desperately for the point just before she first noticed him, ran faster than the first time – and made sure to strike the one who sought to kill her first before Claude would need to.

“Behind you!”

Recognising her voice, Claude spun around on his knees without question. In one shot he struck down the assailant who had killed him moments before. 

Byleth had breathed in relief. 

A queer sense of satisfaction passed over her as she watched the hooded figure crumple to the ground, an arrow shot right through his eyesocket.

I would do it again , she told herself, pulse hammering in her neck.  I would do it a thousand times over!

Reunited, and breathing, they had escaped together further into the forest.

Once the battle was over, the tides had been turned, and the enemy retreated, Byleth had little inhibition left within her. She was running purely on an emotional high. Without much presence of mind, she grabbed Claude’s hand and pulled him deeper into the grove. 

Upon finding a copse with a sturdy tree, she had begged him to make love to her there and then.

It had to have been one of the riskiest things that she had ever done on a battlefield, and to her surprise, he obliged without protest or preparation. She had gasped at how hard he already was and shrieked with unsuppressed joy when he thrust into her with the vigour she desired. 

Nothing feels as fantastic as him.

He was so strong, so powerful, and alive. 

She wasn’t coy about voicing her approval of his work with cries of pleasure and words of encouragement. She wondered if he sensed how close he had been to death, that lingering finality that had almost ensnared him. How lucky he was to be alive. How fortunate he was to be the human lover of the progenitor god with the power to rewind time. 

If he had any inkling, he never voiced it.

The strains of battle finally melted away as he brought her to climax.

What a sight we must have been! What a miracle that no one caught us!

Claude often joked since how uncharacteristically precarious it was of her to beg such a boon of him right after a battle, in the middle of a forest, but all Byleth remembered was how thankful she was that he was still alive.

“I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.”

Those words were as valid now as they were then.

Swallowing the trauma of that day, Byleth buried her face into Claude’s shoulder. “I know more than you’ll ever realise.”

His hands found her hair, twirling the matted locks about his fingers.

She smiled and inhaled his scent happily, a soft mixture of earth and pine; chamomile and lavender; sweat and sex. Somehow, they seemed all the more delightful to her. Soothing and secure, even a little delicious. As though she could drink him. Were it not for their circumstances; she might have fallen asleep right there in his arms.

It was the fragrance of life.

She breathed it all in happily.

“That’s why I need your help. Once the battle begins, I can manoeuvre the troops wherever they need to be,” she mumbled into his clothed chest. “You just need to find a way to get the battle started.”

“Finding a ‘way’  might  drive me insane.”

She smiled despite it all.

“We can’t have that. Your beautiful mind must be preserved.”

Byleth ran her fingers across his jawline, tracing his beard. They moved down to his neck to his shoulder, and then his arm until she finally reached his hand.

“Come,” she bade him.

Claude followed dutifully.

She led him back into the front room where her table stood. Upon it lay a smaller version of the map that was permanently on-show in the war tent as well as tinier, less detailed tokens to represent their forces.

Letting Claude go, she looked up to him for the first time in proper lighting.

He looks exhausted.

“Have a lie-down,” she suggested, pointing to a nearby couch.

“I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“Arguing is very tiring. Hence why I try to avoid it.”

Byleth started to set up the markers.

“Just a short one,” she pushed, pointing again. “It’ll take me a while to get everything in place.”

“Your guardsman will wake–“

“I’ll deal with him,” she cut him off, gesturing a third time to the couch. “Sit down at the very least.”

He obeyed her that time. Byleth watched from the corner of her sight as Claude slumped down with a loud thud. There, he sat back, stretching his arms and legs, and cracking his neck to get comfortable as he watched her through lidded eyes.

Byleth continued to peek at her notes in between moving the pieces, one at a time. 

She was sure they were nearing the end of this conflict. These mages were powerful, but they were running out of places to hide. They could even end it with this very next battle – and the thought filled her with gratification and sadness.

The night was quiet. 

Byleth could only hear faint, distant sounds – of torches flickering, grass whipping, leaves rustling, and all in the throes of the biting wind. She pitied her poor old Gatekeeper and the royal Almyran guard whose duty it was to stand vigil over their masters while they slept.

Stopping for a moment, she considered brewing some tea for them all.

The thought of her tea collection conjured the scents they wafted. The idea of sweet or overly fruity favours made her feel uncommonly queasy. Usually, her pallet craved Sweet-Apple, Bergamot or her favourite Honeyed-Fruit blends, especially at night. Now, just considering opening their caddies gave her a headache. 

Earthy flavours might be better anyway , she decided, swallowing her discomfort.

She turned to Claude, meaning to ask him if he would like some — only to see he was dozing.

Byleth smiled, plan successful. She knew if she allowed for a quiet moment, he would catch some much-needed winks. Much like her, he wasn’t a deep sleeper but a connoisseur of siestas and power naps.

Hm, perhaps lavender or chamomile would do the trick , deciding on teas again. Remembering Claude’s soothing scent, Byleth tiptoed over to see which kinds she had in stock.

As she stoked the fire and moved a pot atop it to boil, she [added towards the entrance to her quarters. Shifting the heavy material aside, she saw the two guards Claude brought with him from behind. One a large, brawny Almyran; the other an equally tall and muscular Leicestrian. Neither noticed her when she cleared her throat to get their attention nor when she called to them.

Earplugs.

She softly prodded them both, resulting in a very startled cry and spin as they turned to face her.

Confused, the latter guard removed one of the earplugs.

“Is all well, Your Grace?”

“Yes, thank you. How is my guard?”

Her eyes fell upon where the poor man had been carefully placed on a hay bed.

“Still out,” he replied with a half-smile. “Our King certainly proved his point, I hope, Your Grace?”

“He certainly did,” she replied knowingly.

The Almyran-born guard removed one of his earplugs and looked to his companion, speaking words in High Almyran too quick for her to even attempt to follow. She only knew a handful of phrases she had picked up during her time in Almyra. That visit was the most exposure she had to the foreign tongue outside of the vehement proclamations Claude would mindlessly speak in the throes of passion, a rustling and throbbing tongue.

The Fódlean guard nodded to his companion.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he bowed politely. “Nawid here’s a bit too shy to speak the common tongue in your presence. He wanted to know if all is well?”

Byleth turned to the uncertain man and nodded, stumbling out the best broken High Almyran she could muster. “Sahwa’kayah …  Entirely well,” she clarified, just in case her choice of words had been utterly wrong for what she was trying to say.

Nawid seemed somewhat humbled by her (poor) attempt to speak his language. With a light blush on his cheeks, he grunted out, “Glad I.  Na, gahlat’ an…  um, mean I that: I am pleased.”

She smiled. Nawid didn’t need to apologise — she wouldn’t judge him for making mistakes if he returned the favour in kind. 

If anything, it brought back fond memories of Petra. 

I must speak with Ashe,   she remembered guiltily.  Hopefully, Sir Nera will have had that ‘chat’ with him by now.

“Would you like some tea?” Byleth finally asked, looking between the pair. “It might warm you up a bit.”

The pair looked at one another, uncertainly.

“Only if our king does not object, Your Grace,” the Fódlean one answered for them both.

“What was your name?”

“Wallace, Your Grace.”

“Wallace, Nawid – are you both fine with chamomile?”

Byleth was on tenterhooks. 

She did not doubt that Claude could make her plan work; it was whether he wanted to that concerned her. His hostility towards the idea of her leading the feint from the front was hardly going to melt away after one argument.

Byleth had the utmost faith in his ability to come up with a ploy to compliment the manoeuvre. After all, Claude’s triumph at the Battle of the Manuchar Folk was her inspiration. She had been in Almya for diplomacy’s sake when Mustafar, the last of Claude’s half-brothers, launched his final bid for power. Tales of the Wars of Succession had filtered over the Throat and into Fódlanat the time. However, at the time neither Byleth nor Dimitri had been aware that the ‘ xsahzahde’ that had reappeared to put down the uprisings led by wayward sons, nephews and cousins of the ‘xsah’  was none other than Claude.

Mustafar was the last to be defeated. After killing all but two of his siblings and attempting to overthrow his father, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the surprise return of his youngest brother. Though the custom punishment for an insubordinate prince was strangulation, Khalid had shown leniency by exiling him to the far east.

But even then he knew Mustafar would be back.

“For as long as he lives, he’ll keep coming back because he can’t resist the urge to finish me. So, I’ll use that against him. If I don’t more people will die.”

Claude had resolved to end the cycle of violence and succeeded as far as one could in Almyra.

Now, Byleth was working on the same principle. 

This enemy hated  her.  Byleth. Sothis. The Goddess. To them, it was all the same. Solon said she terrified him. Cornelia’s face had twisted in disgust at the sight of her. Thales – the one who had Edelgard and Kronya’s ears – had been the one to throw her into Oghma Canyon, leaving her half-dead for five years. Each one of them despised her for what she was – the reincarnation of Sothis. 

Furthermore, it was clear they weren’t parroting Edlegard’s personal hatred for the Church. Though they had seemed to support her goal to build a new hegemony, these Dark Mages had been quick to abandon her once it became clear Dimitri would win the war. 

This struggle was more than a border dispute. The current war  should  have ended with the death of Jakob von Bergliez, the (supposed) instigator of the southern rebellion and invader of Gloucester territory. Without their new figurehead, Edelgard’s former ‘Elite Historians and Sorcerers’ should have surrendered unto the mercy of the archbishop. 

Instead, they had abandoned Jakob’s gangrenous corpse and kept on fighting, instigating a surprise attack that almost – no, did  –  get Claude killed. Byleth had managed to save him with her Divine Pulse, but the memory of that turmoil still lingered.

I’ll put an end to them.

After brewing some tea, Byleth began setting the stage for her vision. Lump in her throat, she avoided his gaze as she laid out the scenario. It was strange to be caught beneath his watchful eyes as if  he  had once been the teacher and she the student. 

As she placed the last token upon the map, Claude snorted to himself. “It’s like we’re preparing for a game of   chatrang  .”

Almyran Chess… 

“If only it were just a game,” said Byleth.

Claude sat opposite her, spinning his cup slowly in its saucer.

“What’ve we got here then?”

It was a map of the Gwalchmei Ravine, a deep, rocky defile that lay between the Bergliez territory in the west and the old Hrym domain in the east.

Byleth took a cautious sip from her teacup before beginning her lecture.

“Do you recognise the area?”

“Of course,” Claude responded. “This is the same map we looked at the other night.”

Their victory at Gwalchmai’s Mouth: it was hard to believe that a single sun had arched across the sky since then. It would be best to strike while the iron was hot, especially since they had their’ working hypothesis’ of where the enemy was.

“Based on Cyril and Ashe’s reports and your estimations about them using the caves, this is their approximate location.” 

Her index finger rested on a cluster of such caves that lay between their current position near Lake Awen and the nearest settlement, Ernest Village.

“It’s where we lost them after the last fight so I can’t think of anywhere else they might be,” Claude reasoned. “Aliprand made no mention of them turning up at Ernest, did he?”

She shook her head.

Gwalchmai Ravine was tight, barely big enough for two-by-two to walk through at its narrowest. Painfully claustrophobic, the cliff face was a sheer 500-foot drop into the crushing fissure. At its widest point, it was too crag-like to climb, and the alcoves seemed similar to hare warrens, ranging from wide-cave openings to perilous-foot-sized holes.

On reflection, there really was only one place they could be lurking.

“If they couldn’t turn back, go forth or ahead up, that only leaves side-ways,” he concluded.

“I think the best place to entrap them is here.”

Byleth’s thumb tapped the aforementioned narrowest part. It had caught her eye at first because it lacked any cavities for these mole-like foes to retreat to, and held her gaze when it dawned on her how its narrowness could put them in a vulnerable position.

“The further we draw them into the ravine, the harder it will be for them to use their magic,” she explained.

“It’ll be hard for anyone to do anything,” Claude grumbled.

“Yet if we can crush them between our forces in the–” 

She was distracted by him taking a mouthful of tea and burning his tongue in the process.

“That wasn’t very clever of you,” Byleth scolded.

“And I wish this was wine instead of tea. This would all sound much better if I was drunk.”

She scowled.

“Our armies can’t stay here forever. You know that.”

“True.”

“If we turn back and try to go over the ravine, we’ll lose track of them or risk them ambushing   us,  like in Miach Forest.”

“Agreed.”

“The only way forward is to go… forward.”

“Doubtless.”

Byleth’s mouth opened and closed. He  agreed  with her, then. 

“We want to hit these guys at the gorge,” remarked Claude. “You’ll still need a trick to get them there, though, right? To trap them between our main forces and the Blade Breakers stationed at Ernest Village.”

Exactly. ” Any thoughts?”

Suddenly, Claude reached forward and grabbed a token carved in the shape of the Immaculate One; the one Byleth used to symbolise her battalion. Clearing his throat, he had glumly set the token down opposite the one supposed to represent the opposition.

“First thing that springs to mind is that no matter   how  we get them into that position, you will also be trapped in that gorge.”

She didn’t argue with him.

“We will be two-by-two, it’s true,” she conceded. “But so will they.”

There would be nowhere for the foe to escape. If Byleth pulled this off, their opponents would be trapped between infantry in the west and her father’s mercenary company to the east. If she could hold her position long enough for help to arrive, their foes would have nowhere to run.

“They’ll be reluctant to use magic in such a confined space and what little they use I’ll hold at bay until relief comes,” Byleth continued, taking her token from his hands. “With my Goddess shield.”

Claude leaned on his hands, brooding.

“I think I might hate this idea  more  than I did before.” 

“You don’t think I can hold them?”

“Ugh, don’t try the whole ‘don’t  you believe in me?’  thing!” he rebuked, caricaturing her tone. “You know that’s not the point.”

“Aren’t high-risk strategies your speciality?”

“It’s different when I’m gambling with  my  life, By. If it goes wrong, I don’t have to live with the consequences.”

Knowing what had happened that day in Miach Forest, Byleth was less than amused by her paramour’s blasé words. 

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she scolded.

He seemed to realise he had touched a nerve.

“Calm down. I have no intention of dying.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed. 

“Neither do I.”

Reaching for her teacup, she gazed at him over the rim. 

Claude’s thoughts could be a dangerous place to tread; a never-quieting pot of unruly schemes simmering away atop the fires of his brain. Byleth never ceased to be impressed by how he made puzzling out his enemy’s likely movements look like a game. From elaborate disguises to carefully placed toxic barrels or fire traps, nothing was off-limits. In truth, she loved how  dastardly  Claude could sometimes be. He brought out the daredevil lurking inside her, inspiring her to enact plans that otherwise would have remained outlandish musings rather than genuine tactics for a battle. Her crest-stone always seemed to ‘hum’ more intensely when Claude invited her to tread through those wild valleys of his mind. 

A part of her felt guilty for enjoying it.

She remembered the night after the Battle of Derdriu, the one before Claude left for the east.

“I could never have done what you did today,”  Dimitri concluded, placing his goblet down having barely taken a sip all evening.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,”  Claude agreed, swirling his cup of spiced-red wine as he considered his response. “As I said before, we’re cut from different cloths. I admire your straightforwardness; it’s part of your charm. But it makes you dangerously predictable, Your Kingliness.”

Dimitri had irked at that. “Predictable, you say?”

“Uh-huh. You could stand to be a tad more underhanded in your upcoming battles. Lord knows Edelgard won’t play fair if the chips are down.”

“Edelgard certainly hasn’t played fair in our previous battles,”  Dimitri acknowledged. “But I must rise above her deceit, not lower myself to it.”

“You don’t have to be deceitful, just… experimental. Don’t just think outside the box, think beyond its boundaries.”

“Ha! Fine words, Claude. Almost philosophic. Nevertheless, I fear your methods are not for me. I cannot deny they have served you well, though, I query what can be credited to your intelligence and what to dumb luck.”

Claude threw his head back and laughed.

“You think it’s all luck, huh? Well, sometimes you have to make your own luck, Dimitri. Seizing an advantage over the enemy is key for any strategist; identifying an opportunity before it happens takes a mastermind.” 

Dimitri cocked an eyebrow. “Modesty, thy name is Claude, eh?”

“I know what I want to achieve,”  Claude defended.  “A clear purpose that I cling to. It’s what’s always pushed me forward. So, I try to harness that to find the most effective path to achieve those goals.”  His eyes had settled on Byleth. “Do you see what I’m talking about, Teach?”

Oh, how his impish smile and green orbs filled with mischief unnerved her! Yet there was something else hidden behind them at that moment. A sadness. She nodded. “There is merit in unpredictability.” 

Claude took a ‘victory sip’ of wine. 

“I’ll take that as tacit agreement,”  he nodded, turning back to Dimitri. His voice became softer, more tender. “You’ll be fine as long as you have Teach. She’ll lead you to victory, kicking and screaming if she has to.”

Byleth had blushed.

“Ha! What a lark you are, Claude!”  Dimitri had chuckled.

“A lark, am I?”  Claude smirked sights squarely on Dimitri as he raised his cup for the mock toast. “May my larking carry me forth beyond Fódlan’s borders.”

Dimitri beamed, raising his goblet though taking no drink.“Good luck, Claude.”

Byleth’s glass felt heavy in her hands, her gaze had fallen to the abyss of her wine. Red as blood, red as the scorching I feel inside. Even then, Claude evoked strong emotions within her. They lurched like a beast trying to break out. She hated him for leaving them now rather than staying to fight with them, but couldn’t bear confronting him alone. She didn’t know why, but the thought of being alone with him after all this time filled her with dread. Made every part of her body feel tighter, the rush in her arteries and knotting tension in her stomach. It was fight or flight, the most base instinct of a mercenary. Something about Claude felt… blissfully dangerous. She knew it was wisest to run, yet she wanted to fight. But ‘fighting’ would mean asking him to stay a little longer, a request she knew would be ignored. So, she wouldn’t even waste her breath and risk disappointment. Instead, she stayed silent.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

What if I had?  Byleth had wondered since. Unfortunately, she didn’t fully understand ‘passion’ until she finally gave into it. What if I sought him out that night? If I had realised those feelings were desire…?

Claude picked up an enemy token and twiddled it between his fingers.

“So, have you come to terms with what we must do?” Byleth asked at last.

“I am willing to entertain it–“

“How generous of you!”

“Provided I can conceive a suitable plot to go with it,” Claude added cautiously. “Just let me sit here and think it over… ” A pause. “Drink your tea and have a lie-down.”

“Huh?”

“Unless you fancy gawking at me while I work,” he asked archly.

That made her smile. “Well, you’re a pretty sight.”

“Ha, thank you – though I’d probably feel like I was back at school again. Y’know, having my work assessed.”

Byleth relented. “Let me know if you need help.”

“That’s very ‘Teachy’ of you,” he snorted.

Rolling her eyes, she turned back towards the sofa. Her eyes fell upon the small tincture that Claude had bought her sitting on the bedside table.

No point in waiting.

Though she appreciated Claude’s time and efforts in procuring her a contraceptive, it was little more than a bitter-tasting reminder that her goddesshood came at a price she could never have anticipated. 

From their wedding night, Dimitri had been frank about the fact that they had a duty to produce an heir.

“Though there is no rush,”  he had assured her quickly.  “Not if you aren’t ready.”

Byleth didn’t actively  seek  to have a child, but she did nothing to prevent it, either. She could tell that Dimitri was anxious to start a family – and a part of her had (perhaps foolishly) hoped that such a blessing would go a long way to helping him heal, to move away from the ghosts of his past and begin to look forward.

Therefore, she had decided to allow nature to take its course. 

Byleth and Dimitri had made a Royal Progress through Fódlan shortly after their wedding. The novelty of seeing the King and Archbishop make a ‘Joyous Entry’ together, fliting from town-to-city with religious pomp and Faerghusian pageantry drew more massive crowds than any Emperor, King or Sovereign Duke had ever savoured during the centuries of division.

It had been busy work. Byleth had liked meeting the ordinary people but had not enjoyed the event overall. 

Who’d have thought I would miss battle?   

Months of travelling and tirelessly greeting the gentry of the land had not been her cup of sweet apple tea.

The days had been mentally exhausting, and the nights were not particularly restful either.

We had a duty, after all. 

Night after night, Dimitri got to work. As he did, he poured adorations into her ear: of how glorious she looked, how  perfect , how  divine,  of how much he idolised her. It should have been lovely to hear, but even then she felt so absent. 

A few more months went by, and no pregnancy. 

They returned to Fhirdiad and the relentless trying continued. Still nothing. Trying, trying, trying to the point of nausea, and not so much as a false alarm. Nothing.

In the end, she had asked Rhea plainly.

“I can’t bear children, can I?”

Her predecessor failed to give her a straight answer.

“Only time will tell whether you will bring forth the neo-Nabatea,”  she had told Byleth, cupping her cheeks with cold hands.  “The circumstances of your own birth were quite… unique.”

“I know.”

She had Sothis’s heart, which has also been her mother’s, Sitri’s, heart.

“I cannot promise that you will ever conceive, though that does not sadden me,”  Rhea confessed guiltily.  “Childbirth is dangerous. Losing Sitri was almost more than I could bear. The thought of losing you too–!”

She had all most crumpled to the floor in grief. Yet even after Rhea’s stark reminder of her mother’s ultimate sacrifice, Byleth still hoped for a miracle to bless her. Not for Dimitri’s sake; she wanted it for herself.

I wonder what a child of mine and Claude’s would look like?

Byleth downed Claude’s potion in one, quick gulp, removing the already slim chance she had of finding out the answer to that question.

Settling down on the sofa, Byleth watched Claude. Her eyes felt suddenly heavy though she tried to stay awake. Each time she opened her eyes, she saw the same image: Claude hunched over the map, rubbing his eyes as though to do so would redraw the lines on the paper, and tapping his temple as if he could knock a better idea out of it if he tried hard enough. Her last image of him hunched over her little table, brow creased in thought when her eyes closed for the last time that night.

Byleth wasn’t a heavy sleeper, so dreams often lingered on the tip of her brain when she woke. Most were inoffensive. Some were horrific. Nightmares as vivid as the waking world. Her crested heart showed her the sickening events of the past. 

“It’s just night-terrors, kid,”  her father would assure her when she was a child struggling to make sense of them.

The visions could be jarring, confusing, or downright terrifying.

It was in those revelations she saw another world never witnessed by her own eyes; time out of mind, ancient beyond memory.

It started peacefully. Thousands of humans and hundreds of human-like beings with the same green hair and eyes of Seteth, Flayn, Rhea, and herself would be living peacefully in a city made of marble, grander than anything standing in Fódlan today.

Then  they  would come. 

Thirteen enemies wielding Holy Relics. They hacked their weapons into the flesh of the people, slaughtering them as though they were beasts rather than people.

Then came the yellow-eyed bare-chested berserker, their leader,   Nemesis,  he murdered dozens without mercy with a single swing of the Sword of the Creator. 

Pure butchery.

A few of the Nabateans transformed into beasts before they were slaughtered. It was different from the corruption of Miklan Gautier’s body, where the Lance of Ruin turned him into a black monster. These people transformed at will. The hearts at their centres would glow green, green as their blood and then … they were dragons. Each different, horrifying and beautiful. Winged- and grounded-wyverns, birds, griffons and wyrms. Powers of Earth, Water, Wind and Flame. Auras of Light and Dark, the Moon and the Stars. They fought with everything they had, for their very lives, trying to shield those who had maintained a humanoid form. 

They always lost. 

Piece by piece the King of Liberation and his Elites picked away at their scales, leaving nothing behind but corpses defiled and ruined, left to be picked apart by carrion birds. 

That was when Dark Mages emerged from the shadows. Unnaturally pale and proud, they spat upon the flesh and peeled away the bones of the people; plunged their hands into the concave of their chests to rip out their orbed hearts. They broke apart the flesh of those beasts, ripped out their bones, wrenched the orbs from their heads and—

She almost awoke in horror, but the dream shifted. Echoes from another lifetime gave way to current entanglements. Horrors Byleth had witnessed with her own eyes.

In place of the Nabateans, now she saw the dead from her own lifetime. All the people she failed to save with her gift: her father murdered; Ferdinand bleeding to death from Areadbhar’s sting; the stench of burnt flesh when Benedetta, Petra and Raphael perished on Gronder Field; and so many more lives were lost or unaccounted for.

Then, she remembered the times she had ‘reanimated’ her friends, restored them to life from countless forgotten timelines. 

Ashe scorched alive by an Imperial Mage; Felix slashed by an axe from above; Annette crouching in a field as the light faded from her eyes; Ingrid and her pegasus shot out of the sky; Mercedes all but beheaded by a killing edge. Then there was Dedue. Were it not for her power; poor Dedue would be little more than a pin-cushion of arrows from the many times he had been willing to give his life for Dimitri.

Dimitri. He should have died more than any of them. Even in his best state of mind, he was not cautious with his own life and wellbeing, never mind when he was obsessed with defeating his foe. Byleth had outright  exhausted  her power and herself to keep Dimitri alive on Gronder Field – leaving nothing left to save Rodrigue. Another martyr for the pyre, just like that pitiful girl he had died to stop.

Flashes of them all rushed through her head until Byleth was back in that cancelled reality, in Miach Forest, the Afanc Falls crashing in the distance, the scent of flesh smoking and blood growing stale filled her nostrils. 

She saw Claude’s heart pierced all over again. 

Everything seemed to slow down, as though the lance that pierced Claude’s heart had ripped Byleth’s own from the cavity of her chest. She relived the agony all over again; how she wanted to crumple into a ball, screech, weep and rend the world, time and space apart to undo it. 

That was when she noticed the glowing redpoint of the weapon that had slain him. 

It was different from her memories.

Her blood ran cold.

As her lover fell, instead of an enemy who lurked in the umbra, she saw her husband. Dimitri smirked dementedly, staring maniacally at Areadbhar dripping crimson–

Byleth awoke with a gag. 

Her eyes were dark with haze and the left side of her head pounding, but she was back in the present. 

“It’s just night-terrors, kid.”

Recalling her father’s reassurance, did nothing to settle her stomach.

Her chest hummed frantically as she realised she was going to throw-up. 

With the sickness rising in her throat and vision blurry, Byleth stumbled over to where the basin stood. Cradling the edge and crouched painfully over the bowl, she waited for the inevitable. The first bout hit her: bile and the mass amounts of tea she had consumed before bed.

Then she couldn’t stop. 

Whimpering between retches, it felt like it would never end.

A hand gently brushed the hair from her face, holding it back. She jerked at the subtle touch, unable to turn towards its origin–

“Are you okay there?”

The timbre of Claude’s voice calmed her.

Though Byleth had known it had all been a nightmare, relief still coursed through her. It’s  just night-terrors, kid,   she reminded herself. 

Still, she wanted to throw her arms around him, to tell him what she saw but–

I’ve never told him what happened. 

Besides, she couldn’t move from her position. Her body was caught in a rapture that she couldn’t cease no matter how she tried. It was undignified enough to be caught hurling into a bedpan, let alone to be such a muddle to need someone to hold her hair back for her. 

And Claude of all people!

“Don’t hold back on my account,” he spoke softly, sensing her trying to fight her body’s urges. “Better out than in.”

She just nodded weakly, not wanting to speak.

They just stayed like that for a while, until at last Byleth’s stomach settled.

A few deep breaths and she raised her head.

“Thank you.”

Claude helped her to sit on the edge of her bed.

“I’ll get you some water.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Byleth croaked.

“Yeah?”

“Am I… decent?”

A snort of laugher escaped him.

“You’re decent. No tongues will wag for another day.”

His words were so ironical, she gulped. He knew as well as Byleth did staying in her tent all night was going to raise a few eyebrows even though he spent most of it crouched over a map in full view of the guards. 

Hopefully, no one would guess that they had sex before that.

Remembering it made Byleth feel dizzy. To keep her grounded, she listened as Claude’s steps retreated. Then, she focused on the gentle flap of the pavilion’s walls and the sloshes of liquid being ladled into the cup.

Claude returned with the water and a companion on his tail.

“Lady Byleth!” the hapless Gatekeeper squeaked. “Claude–m, His Royal Highness reported you’re unwell! Should I get a healer? A doctor? Lorenz knows some white magic, doesn’t he? Lysithea? Gosh, I wish Mercedes or Flayn were here–!”

“I’m fine, Gatward,” Byleth cut in, eying the cup in Claude’s hand wantonly. 

The Gatekeeper glanced at Claude cautiously. 

“You haven’t got her to drink anything moody, too, have you?”

Claude chortled, saying nothing. Finally, he handed the cup of water to Byleth. 

“I had a bad dream,” she explained. “A nightmare.”

“Oof, that’s rough. Are you sure that’s all?”

“I am. Are   you  all right?”

“Your Grace?”

“After His Highness’s… trick?”

The Gatekeeper’s cheeks pinkened beneath his helm.

“Uh, um, yes.” 

Byleth understood his embarrassment. He was the lookout-on-duty for his archbishop yet had been easily drugged and bypassed by Claude. On reflection, it was baffling how easy he had managed to gain access to her tent! Though his ‘security-check’ had been an excuse to justify visiting her personal quarters late at night, it did highlight a genuine gap in her defences. 

One I won’t get away with exploiting next time.  Byleth knew it would take a more extraordinary feat to arrange another tryst there again any time soon.  We’ll be back to the woods, the lakeside, and the command tent…

“No hard feelings, I hope?” Claude asked Gatward.

The Gatekeeper’s lips pursed.

“Well actually, I–“

“Go and get your breakfast, Gatward,” Byleth cut in. “Your relief will be here soon.”

He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“Um, do I deserve relief? And breakfast? I   did  fall asleep at my post after all.”

Byleth nodded, “I trust you learned a lesson last night.”

“Yeah, don’t drink from Claude’s waterskin!” he answered immediately.

Claude simpered.

“Agh! I mean   His Royal Highness . Goddess, why do I keep forgetting?!”

“No sweat,” the Almyran king shrugged. “I have more titles than I can remember anyway. His Excellency. His Royal Highness.  Shah . King.  Xsahxsahran . Even I don’t know which one is supposed to be used when.”

“That aside,” Byleth cut in again, “You can think about it over breakfast, Gatward.”

He humbly lowered his head.

“You’re very kind, Prof–Your Grace.”

They watched him silently as he turned to leave, closing the entrance behind him. 

Kneeling before Byleth, Claude asked his earlier question again, “Are you okay?”

Byleth nodded, even though she wasn’t.

“By, are you lying?”

“No.”

“By.”

“I feel gross.”

“Uh-huh?”

“And mortified you saw me throw-up.”

“Hey, if you’re sick, you’re sick.”

“Rather destroys the ‘feminine mystique’, though.”

“If you say so,” he sighed in resignation. “Frankly, I’m too worried about you to care.”

Brushing Byleth’s fringe back into place, he felt her forehead. 

“Hm, you don’t have a fever,” he continued, hands moving to dab her cheeks. “D’you feel any pain? Do you see spots?”

“Spots? Pain…?” she considered, rubbing the side of her head. It had been a little sore before but seemed fine now. “I don’t think so.”

Claude’s fingers traced down her temple, tucking more hair behind her ear.

“So, you really did have another bad dream?”

Byleth nodded slowly. 

She knew what his next question would be before he said it:

“What was it about?”

He had witnessed her awakening from one or two nightmares in the past. They had stumbled upon each other many times during restless nights: around the grounds of Garreg Mach, the gardens of  Ansah’hakulah  in Almya, or the fire of this camp, they had bumped into each other many times and complained of their restlessness. 

“It was… many things.”

Byleth didn’t want to go into the details. To do so would force her to remember that awful sight of him stabbed, bleeding and then dead. Of how Dimitri’s image had infiltrated those already sickening memories, warping and twisting them like a bad joke…

“Of battles,” she muttered reluctantly. “Of people dying. The things that I ‘ve–that I’ve seen. That others haven’t had to see.”

He continued to stroke her hair. 

“It was just a dream, By.”

“That’s what Dad used to say.”

“A wise guy, that Jeralt.”

Byleth took another sip of water.

“Here, you should lie down,” Claude said and helped her get to her feet and shuffle towards her bed. “You might feel better if you sleep on your actual bed rather than a couch.”

As she rested her head upon the pillows.

“What time is it?” Byleth asked.

“Nearly six,” Claude replied in a raspy whisper. He lingered hesitantly before adding, “I’d better be going.”

I wish you didn’t have to. 

Byleth still felt mild sickness, but his soft caresses had a calming effect. Claude’s presence was a comfort; the hideous visions of his death counterpointed against his warm touch as it tried to soothe her. For the most part, at least.

She stared up at the canopy. 

“Did you come up with the idea that’ll make my idea work?”

He released a reluctant sigh.

“I think so.”

She wanted to say how impressed she was. Even an ‘I think so’ was extraordinary, given Claude’s resistance to the idea five hours ago. But then he placed his hand on her forehead, drawing her attention up.

Claude tilted his head sweetly. “You look awful.”

Byleth glowered.

“Thanks.”

“Aw, only teasing,” and he tapped her nose mischievously. “You can’t complain because we agreed. Shah’maht .  “

“Checkmate,    indeed,” she conceded.

He kissed her crown, and she remembered what she had wanted to say. 

“I’m surprised that you’ve turned my idea around so quickly.”

“Oh, what faith you have in me!” Claude quipped with a faux offence, but his smile was endearingly sweet. Sitting on the bed beside her, he added, “I like to be near you. You have a… contrarian effect on me. You excite me one minute and calm me the next.”

“I know what you mean,” Byleth confessed, finding his hand. “I wish we could be together more often. Like now…” Coyly, she glanced away. “And last night.”

He chuckled, but his voice cracked with a hidden sadness. 

“So do I.”

There were times when Byleth was tempted to use her gifts bequeathed to her by the Goddess for utterly selfish reasons: to remain in certain moments longer — or repeat them over and over. She had never done it but the guilt from even considering it stung her. The misuse of power would probably infuriate Sothis. She could hear her child-like, grouchy grandmother’s voice admonishing her now: 

‘Think of the damage you would do to  our  health! And for what, making out with your boyfriend?!”

Claude leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” she croaked. Her arms encircled Claude’s shoulders to hold him there. “What about the plan?”

“Later,” Claude told her. “Try and get some more sleep,  eshtahre’uyla-mi .”

He attempted to pull back, but she held on.

“Will  you  sleep?”

He snorted, “I’ll try.”

Byleth would have kissed him but for the sickness still lingering on her lips. 

So, she released him and spoke one of the few Almyran phrases she felt confident saying, having heard him say it to her many times. 

“Zusta’dara, deldahr-mi.” 

Claude gave her forehead one last kiss before exiting her quarters.

He was gone.

Taking a deep breath, Byleth rolled over to bury her face in her pillow. His scent still lingered from there: that warm, pure and robust savour of a man mixed with those that she exclusively associated with Claude. Earthy and herbaceous, it tempered the sickly feeling that lingered in her body and mind.

Eyes closed, she tried to let it wash over her and lull her into sleep.

Yet that awful dream still troubled her.

The image of Dimitri smirking as he felled Claude had clearly been her brain warping a memory, but why she saw it troubled her. 

Maybe my guilt is finally catching up with me,   she considered.  Perhaps my brain is punishing me for my faithlessness.

Byleth cared for Dimitri. She wanted to protect him, to see him safe and at peace, freed from the ghosts that had tormented him.

Her promise to Rodrigue still resounded with her.

“Professor… I entrust the young prince, and the future of Faerghus, to you.”

Even then, a part of her had bulked at the Duke of Fraldraius’s request.

“This is unexpected…”

He had apologised for his dramatic comments but extracted the vow from her. She felt a duty of care to Dimitri. Whether it was pity, love or fear of what he might do next, she gave her word and assured Rodrigue that she would not let him down.

“You’re a brave one, aren’t you? One worthy of leading the Church of Seiros, I daresay. I’ll not ask you to take back Fhirdiad. All I ask is that you continue to rein in Dimitri’s manic desire for revenge.”

That was a more straightforward promise to make.

Byleth lived in fear of the darker days when his mood wouldn’t lift. Once he finally began to make peace with the past, it had felt a weight was slowly lifting from her shoulders. Seeing him smile felt like a grand triumph. Like she had achieved something impossible. She thought that was love — to be needed by someone, to brighten up their day whether it is through a bunch of flowers or a well-crafted piece of advice, and to be wanted.

The initial grain of doubt had been there since their first night together. It had been… fine. Uncomfortable. Clumsy. Painful. Listening to Dimitri’s sincere confessions of how long he needed her, admired her, and adored her had been endearing enough to distract her from how awkward she felt. It was hard to express what was wrong, especially since emotions had always been hard for her to decipher. Something greater than any erogenous zone. A connection. A feeling of completeness. She sensed what she was looking for could be reached, especially through this inherently intimate act. But it was a goal that seemed beyond her, a mark that Dimitri wasn’t hitting and never would.

A target that Claude struck like a bell.

I’m a terrible person, was her last thought before she fell asleep again.

When she next opened her eyes to a brighter light surrounding her. Thankfully her mind was not plagued by another nightmare, though she didn’t feel rested either. Instead, memories of lying half-awake had dominated the hours that had passed as she lay there, cradling that pillow in her arms. 

Disappointingly, it smelled less like Claude now.

Byleth opted to clear out the bowl. Hauling herself to her feet and sliding her boots on, she discreetly covered the offending container with a towel and pattered outside. 

The relief guards – a soldier and a nun – followed four steps behind her as she made her way to the black and greywater points.

Pots and pans were being cleaned nearby as she claimed a bucket filled with fresh water before emptying the pan.

Eyeing her sceptically, Pansy, a blonde and overly sensible nun of Byleth’s age, spoke up.

“Shouldn’t I take care of this for you, Your Grace?”

The nuns often ‘took care’ of this sort of business whether Byleth wanted them to or not. It was something she still hadn’t got used to since becoming archbishop after a lifetime of taking care of her own affairs.

Byleth just gave her a smile and carried on.

Once the unpleasant business was done, Hal the guard grabbed the dirty water to dispose of it for her – without asking – while Pansy took the now-clean bowl from her Lady.

“I’ll help you dress for the morning,” she declared. “Then wash your nightdress and bedclothes.”

“There’s no need.”

“You have the next battle to focus on,” the dutiful woman insisted. “Allow me to serve you, such the honour that it is.”

Byleth suppressed a smirk – the idea of it being ‘an honour’ to do her laundry and clear out her bedpan was bizarre.

“Leave my bedclothes,” she ordered. Byleth didn’t want them touched until she had… checked them.

“If you insist, Your Grace.”

As they made their way back and the camp started to awaken, Byleth noticed someone lingering outside her tent.

Ashe stood by the entrance, looking like a lost child. 

He’s come to see me about Sir Nera, Byleth imagined. 

When he finally spotted her approaching, he looked quite distressed.

“What’s wrong?!” she gasped, instantly concerned.

“Lady Byleth!” he squeaked. “Forgive me. Is now a bad time?” 

Now was as good a time as any to talk. 

“No, of course not,” she assured him, sweeping past him to go inside. “Come in. I presume you’re here to talk about Nera?”

Perhaps Byleth could even sound him out for hers and Claude’s decision for him to be among the party to liaise with the Blade Breakers at Ernest Village.

Ashe did not follow.

“Ashe?”

The young archer’s gaze fell to the ground, cheeks reddening. 

“Um, you’re still in your… night-attire.”

Byleth hadn’t even thought about it.

“Oh,” was all she said.

In her defence, she had her heavy dressing-gown on to cover the less modest nightie beneath.

The nun snorted, seeming to find Ashe’s bashfulness amusing. While most of her church-followers would have agreed with his sentiment on principle, the nuns who attended her – like Pansy – had conceded that her day-wear weren’t precisely ‘conservative’.

“Very well. I’ll get changed,” Byleth decided and turned to her attendant. “Pansy, could you make Ashe some tea while I dress?”

Pansy curtsied gracefully.

“At once, Your Grace.”

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