Chapter Text
Fhirdiad, Great Tree Moon, Year 1186
It was over. Finally, it was over.
And this time, Byleth wasn't turning to dust.
She sat on a rock with a view of the city, turning her hands over and over in front of her, watching. They should have been showing signs of the fading by now, but there they were. Perfectly normal, flesh and blood hands.
Was it because she had lived on every side of the war? Or was it something to do with the way her hair and eyes were now back to their original colour? She wasn't sure.
All she knew was that she was tired. So very tired. She had lived through too many years of way, too many deaths. And this was not the world that she would have picked as the one she would finally stay in. She was on the wrong side of the war that she had fought so many times.
The thought was a spike of agony in Byleth's heart. Homesickness squeezed her chest, making it difficult for her to breath. She can't go back. That time had been undone, and Byleth had lost her power. Her hair and eyes were proof enough of that.
Footsteps neared. Byleth glanced up long enough to identify Sylvain before her gaze dropped back to her hands. The man paused in front of her for a moment, then sat on the rock next to her, his shoulders pressed against hers.
They stayed sitting in silence for a time. Whatever Sylvain was there for, he was willing to be patient about it. He simply sat with her and watched the bustle of the city.
As they sat there, a familiar pair walked up to the city gates. Even from a distance, Byleth could recognise Felix's gait, Dorothea's cascading hair. They stayed very close to one another as they walked in step. Too close to be casual.
"It's strange," Byleth eventually said. "How many different ways people can find happiness."
Sylvain chuckled. She felt it vibrate through her arm. "Felix and Dorothea? It's not that strange. It's been coming for a while now. Don't tell me you never noticed."
She shook her head. "Not that. I'm not that blind. It's just…" She remembered lifetimes passed. Seeing Felix watch Annette sing in the library, eyes intent as he drank in every moment. Then another lifetime, where he shadowed Bernadetta's every step. Now, it was Dorothea's turn.
"There's so many people that everyone could love, if they had the opportunity." It wasn't just Felix whose heart could be won in different ways. Over the course of her many lives, Byleth had seen so many different couples form. Relationships that weren't any better or worse, just fulfilling in different ways.
"Of course," Sylvain said, nudging her. "Why stick to just one pretty girl?" His tone was light, but Byleth could see right through him.
She glanced at him. "Not you. You're… steady."
He gave her a disbelieving look, his eyebrows practically shooting up into his hair. "That is not a word anyone has used to describe me in a romantic sense," he told her. "Are you well? You didn't hit your head in the last fight, did you?"
Byleth didn't shy away as he reached for her hairline, intent on searching her for hidden wounds. She narrowed her eyes at him. "For how long have you loved Ingrid?"
His hand froze an inch from her face. It hung there for a few moments before he pulled it back. Sylvain's mouth worked, no sound coming out. Just as he looked about to speak, Byleth gave him the same look that she had given him when she had spoken to him about his manners as a student.
Sylvain watched her for a bit, eyes wide. Then he turned away, dropping his gaze. "You always saw right through me," he said with a laugh too bitter to be fake. "I thought I'd hidden it well."
Byleth's mouth twitched. "I've known you too long." Longer than he knew. Then the almost-smile dropped from her face. "How do you…" Byleth stumbled over her words.
He looked at her, his expression still hinting at his bitterness. "How do I what?"
"How do you manage? Losing her?"
Sylvain stayed quiet for a while, turning to the city. Eventually, he turned back to her. "I think I should be asking you the same question."
Byleth blanched. "What do you mean?"
He gestured at her. "You carry your loss well. I don't think most people have realised. But now that I'm feeling that same pain… it's obvious, my friend."
My friend. The words echoed in her mind in a different voice. She scrunched her eyes shut. "It doesn't matter. He's long gone."
"Longer than you've been at the monastery for," Sylvain mused out loud, still watching her. "But Sir Jeralt didn't know, did he? And he spent every day with you. How could he not?"
It was her turn to laugh, low and mirthless. "My father didn't know everything to do with my life." In all those lives, she had never told him about what she had been through. And every time, he died not knowing who or what she truly was.
"There's more," Sylvain continued. His eyes bored into her. "The way you look at us… it's like you're not seeing us. Actually, no, scratch that. It's like you're seeing more than us."
"What do you mean?" Every instinct pressed at Byleth to clam up, to walk away. Not to let anyone in. Not to let herself be vulnerable, to have her weaknesses discovered.
But this was Sylvain. He had followed her in every lifetime, even as older loyalties tried to pull him back. He was steady, in more ways that one.
"You've always known what was happening around you. More than you let on. And you knew us, right from the beginning."
She could see his mind whirring behind his eyes. Most people mistook Sylvain for nothing more or less than how he acted. Those people were fools. Sylvain had always been far smarter than he looked.
Byleth could see the pieces click together in Sylvain's mind, could see the moment that realisation dawned on him. "How many times have you fought this war?"
And there it was. Her biggest secret, hanging out in the open. Byleth swallowed. She wouldn't lie. Not now. "Four," she managed.
She heard Sylvain's sharp intake of air. Byleth averted her eyes, no longer interested in seeing the information sink in. What would he do with it? Would he tell Edelgard?
"And how many more times will you fight it?" he asked instead.
She locked her hands together in her lap. "I won't. I—I can't. It's over."
Silence. Then his voice, far softer. "If it's over, then why aren't you happy about it?"
There was Sylvain, seeing right to the heart of things as usual.
"I—I didn't choose this," she said. Her hands were so tightly clenched that her knuckles were white. "This isn't—I can't—" How could she possibly find the words to explain?
"This isn't where you would have chosen to end," he interpreted. He rested a hand over hers, squeezing. "You never really wanted to fight at Edelgard's side, did you?"
Her hair flew everywhere at how hard she shook her head. "Fódlan burned," she said. "It's not worth it. Was never worth it."
Sylvain shuffled closer, looping his spare arm around her waist and tugging her to her chest. "Yet I followed you anyway," he said into her hair, resting his chin on the top of her head. "More fool me."
She hiccoughed a laugh. "You're no fool, Sylvain." His heart beat steadily under her cheek. Though they were closer than Byleth ever normally allowed, closer than proprietary dictated, there was nothing romantic about it. Not when both of them still desperately loved someone else.
"What will you do now?" he eventually asked.
Byleth closed her eyes. "There's still the fight against Those Who Slither In The Dark. This war might be over, but that one is barely beginning."
His hand started to card through her hair. "Do you really want to fight in yet another war?"
No, she didn't. But did she have a choice?
"What would you do? If you could do anything. Go anywhere. Where would you go?"
"I…" she hesitated to say it. To say it out loud was to acknowledge that it could not happen. "I want to go home. But I can't."
Byleth knew that he knew that she wasn't talking about a place, but a time. "Why not?"
She moved her head, forcing his attention to her hair. "Even if I knew how, I've lost my power. Home is… out of reach."
His arms tightened around her. "You don't know that until you try."
Byleth didn't understand. She pulled herself out of his embrace, got to her feet and stood in front of him. "What do you mean? It's impossible. Besides," she said with a broken smile, "Edelgard still needs me."
It didn't matter that hatred for her had settled deep into Byleth's heart. She couldn't just ignore someone who needed her, no matter how much she felt about them. And Edelgard needed her then, more than ever.
Sylvain looked up at her. There was a determination in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You haven't tried," he repeated. "Professor—Byleth—you deserve the chance to follow your own path. To hell with Edelgard. What about you?"
She looked at him blankly. What about her? Her own desires were so far down her list of priorities that they barely rated a mention. She had spent life after life running around after everyone else, and she didn't know how not to do that.
"I'll help. If you want to try and get back." Sylvain wasn't wearing his normal laid-back expression. No, his face was lit up with the same resolution that Byleth had only ever seen aimed at Dimitri, at the end of that particular life.
There were very few people that Sylvain would count as close. But for those people, he would move the world. She had seen it time and time again.
She simply never expected herself to be counted among them. Not like that.
And his determination was contagious. Seeing it flaring so brightly in Sylvain's eyes—it sparked an ember in her own. What if she could? For once, Byleth had all the time in the world. She wasn't actively fading away any more.
"I want to." Her voice was small, barely there. It was almost lost in Sylvain's clothes as she moved forward to hug him again. Her fingers clenched into fists, gripping handfuls of his tunic. Saying it out loud… this time, it made it seem like it really could happen.
The ember grew into a flame, one that threatened to consume her. To hell with Edelgard, and Those Who Slither In The Dark. Even if there was nothing left for her to go back to—she had to try. If Sylvain believed that she could, then she would rend the world to find a way.
Not all of Byleth had come from Sothis, from Rhea. There was the part of her that was purely Jeralt, the man strong enough to bear the burden of multiple lifetimes without ever breaking. A man who had been dealt tragedy and heartbreak, and had risen above it to raise the defective child that resulted from it into a warrior who could stand tall.
Sylvain hummed his satisfaction at her response. "That's the Professor I know." He let her go when she squirmed out of his hold, locking his arms behind his head in his usual pose.
Byleth stood in front of him, looking at him. The fire burned through her blood, centred in her non-beating heart. Her lips slowly curled upwards. It wasn't a pleasant look.
She held out her hand to raise him to his feet. "Come on. We have work to do."
Garreg Mach, Ethereal Moon, Year 1192
Memories tugged at Claude as he weaved his way through the grounds of Garreg Mach. He had spent the best years of his life there, both as a student and as the Leader of the Alliance. Even though they were also marked by horror and tragedy, they were where he had first learned to trust in other people.
It was crowded outside, even with the bitter cold of the winter wind. The usual priests and nuns hurried around in their duties, escorting churchgoers. Students in the uniforms of the Officer's Academy darted between them, running to their lessons or chores. Many of them stopped and stared when they caught sight of him.
Claude smiled at seeing the different coloured uniforms. One of the changes that Seteth had introduced was to stop delimiting the students by their country of origin. After all, everywhere was Fódlan now. Students from all areas were shuffled into all the Houses, where they would spend the year with people they may never have met before.
It was just one of the ways in which they were breaking down the barriers. What Claude really wanted to see in the future was students not just from Fódlan, but from other countries too. Alymra, Sreng, Brigid, Dagda… to see them walk side by side in the same uniforms would show him that his dream was coming true.
But Claude wasn't there to get caught up in nostalgia. He quickened his pace, taking care to greet those he passed without stopping. Before long, his feet had carried him across the bridge and into the cathedral.
He could see Seteth standing in front of the altar, a point of stillness as everyone moved around him. He still wore the same garments as when Claude had lived at the monastery, despite his loftier position. Claude's smile slipped away as he drew closer, noting the tension in the other man's shoulders.
This was going to be more serious than he was expecting.
Claude stopped beside Seteth, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. He darted a glance at the man, seeing the lines of weariness around his eyes. This was more than the stressful workload of the Archbishop. Something was troubling him.
"You wanted to see me?" Claude said at last, not sure whether Seteth had noticed his presence. "Or did you just want some company for the road?" The Festival was only a few days away, after all. It was the one time of year that Seteth normally allowed himself to take a break from his work.
The man shook himself out of his reverie, turning to face Claude. The harsh set of his face made him seem older than usual. Out of force of habit, Claude wracked his brain for anything he might have done to cause it.
"I did," Seteth said. "There's…" his voice trailed off. "Your majesty. I'm not sure how to explain."
"You can start by dropping the majesty," Claude said pointedly. "You know my name. You've used it too often lecturing me over the years. Unless," Claude paused. "Is this supposed to be an official visit? You never said what it was about."
Seteth shook his head. "No, this is not something that concerns the King. At least, I don't think it does yet. This is personal."
That wasn't reassuring in the least. What was personal for Seteth that troubled him so badly that he needed to reach out to Claude? The two of them had forged a friendship over the years, but Claude would not have put himself as the first person Seteth would confide in, far from it.
The Archbishop breathed in deeply, relaxing his hands from behind his back. "Maybe it would be better if you follow me. I'll try and explain on the way."
Claude raised an eyebrow but obediently fell instead step at Seteth's side. Instead of going back to the main grounds, Seteth began walking towards the entrance to the Holy Tomb.
It was Claude's turn to tense. Nothing good ever happened in the Holy Tomb. It was the scene of the failed Revelation; of the first reveal of Edelgard's identity as the Flame Emperor.
"What's this about?" Claude asked, deliberately pitching his voice not to carry.
Seteth didn't look at him as he spoke. "For the past two weeks, there's been… Well. I have no better way to say it, but strange… energies coming from the Holy Tomb."
Claude hissed. "The Argathans?"
"No. At least, I think not." They reached the elevator. The conversation paused while Seteth started it up. The mechanism groaned and rattled as it descended deep underneath the Cathedral.
"It's why I asked you to come here," Seteth continued. "Not as the King. But of all people not of my kin, you know the most about us."
"I'm surprised you didn't get Flayn to come instead," Calude commented.
Seteth's mouth tightened. "No. She has her own life, now. I don't want her caught up in this if I can help it."
At first, Claude was inclined to chalk this up to Seteth's paranoia. It had been years since there had been any signs of the Argathans, and there was no one left of Seteth's people. Maybe the man was feeling his age, and the loss of Rhea. Maybe he was simply on edge because he missed Flayn.
Then Claude began to feel it too as they went deeper. There was something in the atmosphere. A cold that burned. It both sent shivers down his spine, and seared at his skin.
"I see." Claude's hand twitched. He loosened his sword in its sheath, regretting that he had left Failnaught back in the room he was staying in. He hadn't expected danger here, not now.
He felt exposed without his bow. It wasn't a good feeling.
The elevator reached the bottom with a thud that echoed through the chamber. Claude looked askance at the green lighting, squinting into the deep shadows. As far as he could tell, they were alone there.
"Maybe we should have brought backup," Claude murmured in Seteth's ear as the two men began to walk towards the centre of the room. What he would give to have his Deer at his back right now.
Seteth shook his head. "I do not think it would help. We are quite alone down here."
"You came down yourself?" Claude realised that he'd done a bad job of covering up the disapproval when Seteth shot him a stern look. He mollified his tone for his next words. "Neither you nor I are considered expendable these days, my friend. A bit more caution would be prudent."
"Strange words, coming from you of all people," Seteth shot back. Claude gave a rueful smile. They both knew that Claude had spent too many years taking risks and sticking his nose where it didn't belong to be chiding anyone for not being cautious enough now.
But the smile was quick to fade in the oppressing atmosphere of the Holy Tomb. Levity died as they stood in the centre of the room, turning around, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing. As far as Claude could tell, the place was undisturbed since the last time they had been there, over a decade previously.
"Let's split up and check on everything," Claude suggested. "I'll take the right side. You take the left. Meet back here in an hour?" That was more than enough time to do a very thorough sweep. While the Holy Tomb was massive, it was mainly empty.
Seteth agreed, and the two men parted to search their respective areas. Claude kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked the Tomb, checking to make sure that Seteth was still there. He was half expecting to turn around and find himself utterly alone.
Memories tugged at him—memories of her. Of Byleth. This place was forever associated with her in his mind. He could almost hear her yelling commands at them as they tried to save the Crest Stones.
He brushed his hand over one of the tombs as he passed it, wondering if the Crest Stones were inside once more. If he were Seteth, he would have taken them all far away, where the Argathans could never find them. But the man was more attached to this place than Claude could begin to imagine. He doubted the man would have done so.
Seteth would have locked this place up tight, and made sure no one could come back to steal them. Then he would have buried the knowledge of its existence as deeply as he could manage, until all memory of it was lost to time.
Claude shifted uncomfortably. He resisted the urge to shiver from the cold. There was a prickling in between his shoulder-blades, and a rising sense of anticipation. Every nerve was on edge. It felt like something was about to happen—or was already happening.
But the hour passed without incident, and Claude found nothing. He sent Seteth a questioning glance as they met up in the centre again, only to have the man shake his head. No luck there either.
So why did the feeling keep getting stronger?
They stood there in silence for a while, not quite game to leave. Claude found it difficult to meet Seteth's eyes. His gaze kept turning to the stairs—and the throne.
She had looked so uncomfortable, sitting there. Knowing that nothing was going to happen, but both hoping for it and dreading it. Claude's throat worked as he stared at it. It was so long ago. He was just a boy on the brink of adulthood.
The war had fixed that quickly enough.
Finally, Seteth huffed, breaking the silence. "I apologise for wasting your time. I was expecting… I don't know what I was expecting."
"But you still feel it too."
"Yes." Seteth looked weary. The green light made his skin seem sallow. "But whatever is causing it, we will not be finding answers today."
Claude sighed, finding himself in agreement. His curiosity burned to understand, but he had responsibilities he couldn't abandon. He couldn't stay there, waiting for whatever might come.
That was the price of his dreams. It was one he was willing to pay, if it meant seeing the world become a happier place.
The two men began to walk back in the direction of the elevator. Only a few steps later, Claude froze.
There was a tinge of gold in the corner of his eye.
He whirled around. Gold dust was travelling on an invisible breeze, flowing towards the throne. Though it had been years since he'd seen anything like it, Claude immediately recognised it as the same as that day he had lost her.
Claude took a step towards the base of the stairs. The dust flowed up, swirling. It gave off a golden glow that bathed the throne in light. Soon, it was a writhing vortex above the throne.
The light intensified, growing painful. Claude threw his arms in front of his eyes. He strained to see past it, but found himself closing them instead as the light grew blinding. There was a ringing in his ears, and the smell of ozone burned his nostrils.
There was magic here. No, not just magic—this was divine in nature.
The ringing grew louder. There was a pressure, pressing down against him. Claude hunched his back, digging into the ground with his heels to brace himself. He would not back down, no matter what was happening. That was his duty.
Then all at once, it all faded. The pressure disappeared, and the light faded away. The burning cold from before was gone.
Everything was still.
Claude opened his eyes.
There was a figure sitting on the throne. She was dressed in tattered swordmaster's armour, battered from too much battle and a little singed.
As Claude watched her, the mint green colour leached from her hair, until it was dark blue. The dust settled around her, no longer possessing the mystical quality of earlier.
She opened her eyes. They glowed green, but like her hair, that too faded. Soon, they were as blue as they day they first met.
She didn't see them at first. She shuddered, limbs twitching. Then she began to stand.
Claude moved before he was aware of it. He took the stairs two at a time, made it up just in time to catch her as she staggered. He gripped her upper arms, steadying her, holding her upright until her legs straightened.
He had half expected his hands to go straight through her again. Instead, she was warm and solid in his grip.
She looked at him. Her eyes started unfocused, but gradually sharpened as she grew aware of her surroundings—of Claude.
Self-consciousness gripped him. He knew he looked older than when he lost her. He looked akin to Seteth's eternal age now. After all, he was nearly thirty, with a decade of the responsibility of leadership under his belt. It wore on him.
On the other hand, she didn't look like she had aged a day since—since the Goddess Tower. Physically, she looked no older than ever. But her eyes… Claude swallowed. Those were the eyes of someone who had been pushed past the point of breaking.
She blinked, gaze intent on his face. Her eyes were wide, her expression as unfathomable as ever. Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.
"…Claude?" she whispered. He could almost taste her disbelief.
"Byleth," he gasped. His voice cracked on her name. He shuddered from the effort it took to hold himself together as his emotions swelled like the ocean, threatening to drown him.
What a fool he was, to have ever believed he could love someone else like that. It seemed that time had dulled only the memory, not the emotion. She was the only one who could break through every last one of his walls with nothing else but the sound of his name.
"You… you faded," he whispered, drinking her in with his eyes. Watching the way her chest rose and fell with her breathing, her pulse racing at her throat. He couldn't get enough of the sight of her.
At his words, she inhaled sharply. Byleth reached up, trailing her fingers across his cheek. He trembled and leaned into the touch. A bright smile bloomed on her face.
"Claude." This time, it sounded like a prayer answered. Then she threw herself into his arms.
He clutched her to him. She was warm in his embrace. He buried his face in her hair, as she pressed hers against the crook of his neck. Behind him, he could hear Seteth's footsteps fading away as he gave them some privacy.
Tears streamed down his face, soaking her hair. He laughed, hiccuping as it turned into a sob. He hadn't cried since the last time he had seen her. He hadn't realised he was still capable of tears.
Her arms twined around him, pressing them as close together as they could manage. She kept repeating his name, each time causing his heart to expand in his chest.
"Byleth," he whispered, smiling so widely that his jaw hurt, even as he tasted the salt of his unending tears.
"Welcome home."
Derdriu, Ethereal Moon, Year 1192
Hilda tapped her foot. She crossed her arms, glaring at the empty doorway.
"He's late."
"He's busy," Lysithea countered as she walked past Hilda with a plate of cake. "Running two countries is a lot of work."
Hilda eyed the cake as Lysithea continued past. It was far too early for cake—they had the rest of the feast to get through, after all. But she knew better than to get between the young mage and her cake. Hilda didn't have a death wish, after all.
Ignatz slipped an arm around her. "He'll be here," he told her, pulling her close. "We just need to be patient."
Hilda sighed, leaning her head against Ignatz's shoulder. "I'm worried about him."
She didn't need to tell Ignatz about how rundown Claude looked lately. Or the way his eyes would grow distant at random moments, his thoughts twisting far beyond their reach. Or the way that food looked like it was becoming more and more of a chore for Claude, instead of a pleasure.
He already knew. They all did. And they were helpless to do anything about it. When it came to deflecting attention, Claude was a master, and he was willing to pull out all stops to get them to stop worrying about him.
"This will be good for him," Ignatz told the top of her head. "Maybe we should do this more often than just once a year."
There was a light knock on the door. Hilda perked up, craning her neck to see past the others at the new arrival. Her eyes widened when she saw Seteth's green hair instead of Claude's dark brown.
The Archbishop never came on time to the reunions, and never stayed long. Hilda suspected that he still blamed himself for what happened to the Professor. But he at least made an appearance every year before swooping back to the monastery.
Then her eyes narrowed at him. Seteth seemed… softer, was the only word she could use. Not soft in the way he got when working on his fables, but more like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Had he finally forgiven himself? It was about time.
Hilda pressed her cheek against Ignatz's shoulder then pushed off him, making her way over to Seteth. Her mind spun as she approached him, trying to decide what way was most likely to get the information she desired.
The man didn't even flinch as she drew nearer. Instead, he greeted her with a smile.
"Hilda," he said, surprising her again. Not Lady Goneril like he often insisted on. Goddess, the man was so stuffy. "They'll be along in a moment."
They? Hilda turned and did a quick scan of the room. Everyone was there—even Sylvain and Ingrid had made the trip, coming all the way from their home in far north Faerghus. Everyone except Claude.
That could only mean—
"Is he bringing someone?" she burst out.
Seteth's smile turned softer still. "You will see." He glanced over his shoulder and stepped inside the room, leaving the doorway clear.
Barely a moment later, Claude strode into the room, tugging someone along with him.
Hilda looked at him first, an old habit she had no intention of breaking. He looked good, she noticed. Claude held himself straighter, no longer like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. There was a light in his eyes that she hadn't seen in years, and his smile—it was real, and blinding.
Clearly, love had been good for him. Hilda didn't recognise the dark-haired woman whose hand he had yet to release. She wondered how he had managed to court her underneath all their noses, keeping her secret all this time, only to bring her to the reunion for her first meeting. It was a bit much for the poor woman, making her deal with all of them in one go.
Then the woman lifted her head, and Hilda's drink slipped out of her hand to crash onto the floor. Water splashed all over the floorboards, and the goblet rolled out of sight.
It had been a decade since she saw eyes that colour, but Hilda had never forgotten them.
"Hilda?" Sylvain noticed the commotion first. "What's going—Professor?!"
Sylvain's voice rang clear across the room, commanding everyone's attention. There was a moment of stillness as everyone took in the woman standing before them. Then they all swarmed her at once.
It was a few minutes before Hilda was able to extract herself from the impromptu group hug. Her cheeks hurt from how wide she smiled, and she breathed deeply after being squished too hard to gasp for air.
Claude had not let go of the Professor's—of Byleth's hand the whole time. Hilda was impressed by his tenacity in the face of the sheer enthusiasm of the Golden Deer. Her eyes followed his hand to Byleth's fingers, seeing a familiar ring shining.
Ignatz extracted himself from the huddle, coming over to Hilda and wrapping his arm around her waist, splaying his hand across her still-flat stomach. Hilda entwined her fingers with his, unable to stop beaming.
For the first time since the war, the Golden Deer were whole again. And to Hilda, the future had never looked brighter.