Chapter Text
The Wyvern Moon was upon the people, casting razor sharp winds down the mountains that howled like beasts when they came into contact with Garreg Mach, never to be tamed, even in the presence of Fódlan's most Holy.
If one were to gaze outside they would see the skyborn creatures roam the heavens in midflight, casting shadows upon those below. Ever since peace returned there was little for them to guard, and yet they did so all the same, priced possessions of a land with relations to the outside world. If one knew what to look for they could differentiate between them, pick out the Almyra bred ones from those native to Fódlan, make out the difference in wingspan and the lighter scales, and put them all into context with a personality fit for a King instead of an Archbishop.
When she looked at them she would search for white amongst the brown, equally unsure of whether she wanted to find what she was looking for – or not. So whenever the sky was kind enough not to tempt her she felt relieve upon being granted a moment of peace to gather her thoughts. Time ran fast in Fódlan, chased pegasi from dawn till dusk, and so she had half forgotten how to count it. It was more the faces of those she would instruct that reminded her of time's everlasting march rather than any calendar.
Her own body was exempt from it all, it felt like, as she still stared into youthful lines instead of crow feet whenever she passed by a puddle of rain, of which there were many at this time of year.
She stepped over one of them on her way throughout the monastery, her lips forming greetings to the knights, merchants, nobles and commoners alike. It was when she had crossed the bridge leading to the church, a place that had known destruction but shined like a newborn nowadays, that she was stopped in her tracks.
A face as timeless as hers gazed at her holy robes, shoulders stiff while a sigh escaped from his shaking head. His worrisome expression was stuck somewhere between fatherly and fearless.
“You ought to keep those garments proper at all times, you should know.” He raised a hand to his chin, contemplating his next words.
“The people know you as more than the Archbishop - know you as the Leader of all of Fódlan -, and I cannot keep you contained in these halls for forever.”
Another sigh. “So please, at least see to it that your robes are prim and proper at all times. And not soiled with rain or dirt and grime, Byleth.”
She gave a curt nod, then stared at the hem of her dress, white fabric offset by patches of grey and brown. Maybe she would never get used to wearing garments like this, as the memories of her mercenary days lingered in her even twenty years later.
“Of course, Seteth.” Her voice was kind, if monotone. “I will take more care next time.”
“Where were you, anyhow?” As she started to walk again he followed, careful to remain in step with her. “The anniversary is to be held in less than a week! We yet need to prepare your speech, and Flayn has been busy ordering decorations-”
She rolled her eyes almost unnoticeable. If it hadn't been for his knowledge of her persona over the course of many years, she could have fooled him. He simply huffed undignified upon noticing, though, so she kept on walking. “I was instructing the children in the village below. They deserve it as much as our students here.”
“That is all well and good, Byleth", Seteth tried, “yet your focus should be on the anniversary now. We are already waiting for the Almyrans – and you should be happy to know that the first merchants will set foot upon Garrag Mach later in the day – and much needs to be done before the King arrives.”
She wasn't a person for laughter, but this drew her to inhale sharply, almost as if she was trying to keep her composure. “Seteth you know Claude, he cares little about such things.”
Seteth cleared his throat, incredulous. “Why, traditions need to be upheld-”
“Of course. But that can wait until tomorrow, can it not?” The church was emptier than she had thought it would be, harbouring only a small group of people, and as she set foot in it her steps resounded through the hall. “I am tired today, and the evening is fast approaching.”
Blue skies swirled in the first drops of orange and red, casting a glimmer into the halls below through stained glass. For but a second she stared up at the beautiful architecture, before her walk towards the front of the church resumed. What little remained of visitors greeted her with nods, and she returned the favour. Off in the distance the choir was handing out sheets for the practice that was to be held in but a moment, and she matched her pace to Seteth's to lose less time.
“Ahh, the Archbishop arrived! It is a pleasure.” A woman, from the looks of it the organising talent of the bunch, put on a friendly smile. Her arms were yet full of slightly crumpled music sheets.
“Everything is ready for practice. We have used the last few days to compose a track list that combines Fódlan folklore songs with Almyran instruments. Of course, most of the songs will be well known by the people, to ensure that everyone gets to participate.”
“That sounds lovely", Byleth replied in a kind tone.
The organiser nodded, then snatched up a single paper that dared to flutter to the ground. “Ah, Seteth should know all the details. For now, we would like to hear your input regarding-"
“Lady Byleth.” The voice that resounded through the church was more a command than a question, yet the person behind it uttered it with the utmost respect. The click-clack of boots that followed was fast and hollow, and before long a dark skinned man with tousled locks and a youthful face stood before her.
“Cyril, what is the meaning of this?” Seteth gestured to the grime and sweat that clung to Cyril's clothes. Winced then, upon remembering the state the Archbishop was in was hardly any better.
Cyril simply ducked his head, but continued on with his report. “Noticed that some of the Almyrans have arrived early. Thought I'd let ya know, given the circumstances.”
Byleth’s expressions was stiff, when she answered. Most would have thought it a neutral face for the Archbishop, yet not everyone was fooled that easily, as evident by Seteth's scowl. “Who in particular?”
Her advisor seemed ready to rush out of the church. “If it is the King then he has awful timing. Flayn is yet waiting on the flowers imported from Fódlan's Throat – and I cannot have her meet this scoundrel and be smitten to commit schemes anymore!”
Cyril fidgeted nervously, reverting back to his old ways of the past. “Uhm...that is to say... I pointed him in your direction, since he seemed excited. Just, really happy.”
He sighed. “Then I remembered the choir practice, and rushed over.”
Cyril’s explanation did little to rid Byleth and Seteth of their worry, the latter of which was already frantically trying to explain to the choir members that the practice with the Archbishop had to be postponed until the coming day. Byleth, meanwhile, already motioned for Cyril to show her the way.
“I will welcome him. You instruct the choir for today.” With those words they left Seteth, and the church, behind.
She found out that she did not have to walk far at all the moment she laid eyes upon a white wyvern resting upon the large bridge outside, its red tassels blowing in the autumn wind. It raised its head and opened its maw in a greeting of the gruesome kind, mouth full of sharp teeth. The sound that pushed its way past its throat was a low rumble however, almost akin to a purr.
Byleth stepped close to it, near enough to be able to count scales, while Cyril seemed to study the beast intently. “Welcome, Barbarossa. You look great.”
She held out a hand in greeting. A sniff later the wyvern pushed its head against her open palm, tame as a young pup, though as feisty as a kitten. “I missed you too, old boy.”
Byleth looked around, then, struggling to find the owner of Barbarossa. Cyril simply shrugged his shoulders. “Didn't mention anything.”
The bridge was empty save for the draconic creature mimicking a pet. So they stood there, for a while, gazing at the sky with its freckles of orange and yellow. Her skin felt numb from the anxiety, the cold forgotten entirely, even when it nipped at her flesh like a long lost lover. She hadn't seen her’s, for a while. And now that he had arrived in everything but his presence she got cold feet.
Cyril rubbed his arms. “We might wait inside if you prefer, Lady Byleth.”
“It is fine”, came her curt reply. “Go and prepare a stable for Barbarossa, if you would be so kind. I handle everything else.”
“You got it!” He bowed lowly, an act that would seem disrespectful in the manner it was carried out if it weren’t for the conviction in his voice. Slowly, Cyril approached the Wyvern, taking hold of the reigns that were strapped around Barbarossa's head. For a man in his forties he still carried himself with the youthful aura of a child eager to please, and his age yet refused to show on his face. The authority with which he lead the wyvern away suggested him to be a capable man, though.
Byleth thanked him with a nod of her own, before walking alongside him until their paths diverged once they had hit the end of the bridge. A small wave and he and Barbarossa were gone, and she stood alone with but her thoughts for company.
Those revolved around golden robes and green eyes, and if she concentrated hard enough she could recall young smiles and braided hair. The memory was comfortable, and she found herself drifting back to the past quite often, where lions roared and eagles screeched among grazing deer.
No matter now, she would attempt to tell herself. That was over twenty-five years ago.
“...thinking about anything in particular, friend?”, came a voice to her right, startling her. A last remnant of the past stood there before her, carrying himself with the pride and freedom that the King of Lions and Eagle Emperor had died for.
Claude von Riegan was a man in his best years, with combed back locks that could never be truly tamed, even when he let his hand run through them. Painted with more grey than she had anticipated, as if the colour was starting to peel off of him. Flecks of age dotted his hair and beard, yet his eyes seemed timeless as ever.
What had once been a braid that had changed into a long strand of wild hair now seemed to try to be a mix of both, a long lock adorned with pretty golden pearls, the braid tight and thin. His beard, too, had grown with the years, creeping up to his chin but no further than that.
Claude possessed an easy smile that hid the hard lines on his face, and his crow feet were born from laughter instead of worry. He had aged just fine, and yet too early for her to feel comfortable with it.
“No", came her late reply, and she stood still before him. “...I met Barbarossa already. You could have let us know of your arrival, you are aware?”
“Of course!” His grin seemed honest, if it weren't for the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I must have forgotten all about it in my excitement for the anniversary.”
Claude muddled the truth with flowing words, and she lacked the energy to fight it. So instead she greeted him, properly, with an invitation for a handshake – before he could deem it appropriate to attempt to hug her. He held onto her hand eagerly, eyes roaming over the ring that adorned her finger in the place where one meant for engaged women would sit.
His voice was barely above a whisper when he let his thumb run over her skin. “You still wear it.”
It was a statement made with an airy voice that yet carried the weight of the world on its shoulders, and she failed to produce the monotony she tried to channel with her whispered reply. “As do you.”
“Naturally, as my promise still stands.” He let his gaze wander from left to right, as if to make sure no one was there to hear his next words, despite the eager looks of curious people. Then, when he was sure he had the attention of the folk around him, he cleared his throat and announced, with great vigour: “Lady Byleth, it is a pleasure to meet you again.”
He was grey hair and white smiles, and were she not used to his advances, she would turn red. So she turned instead, curt, no signs of courtship to be found on her features. The hand she had held hang forgotten, limp when it had been mid-squeeze, and Claude rubbed his temples to keep from wanting to rub circles over her skin.
She gave a light tug on the ring around her finger, before answering. “It is good to see you too, Claude. Pray tell me, why have you arrived early?”
“Nothing better than a quick pick me up before all the madness, if you catch my drift.” He was all teeth again, baring a smile holding schemes and sweetness.
As if to indulge in the warmth of a young flame, blazing afire each time she was close, he rushed over with quick strides, a game of carefully practiced movements that called back to the time he would come running to her after class. It was a light skip, enough to seem troublesome, but far removed from real trouble.
He knew it would irk her, no doubt, his grin an open force of nature then, and a smug "Teach, wait!" stuck to his lips that he yet dared to let out. The people, ever curious, took note before going about their way, or staring after them. Some lingered.
When he came to trot next to her it was a practiced pace, shoulders drifting close enough to touch, feet in step with one another. He hugged her form with his shadow, as it grew ever bigger in the cold evening sun. Yet touching he did not dare, and to keep himself grounded to lofty ambitions instead of inhibitions he rotated the ring that would forever bind them on his finger.
Theirs was a haunted walk, for those with eyes and those with ears crept shadow-esque between the cracks, eager to catch a whisper. Byleth forced a well practiced smile upon her lips, then, all show without tell. Keeping up appearances had always been easy, when the King of Almyra wasn't involved.
“I heard he received another marriage proposal, from Brigid”, one hushed.
“But hasn't he been engaged for years now?” Another murmured slowly.
A third one barked out loud. “I remember how he was as a student. The Archbishop, too. Theirs was a strong bond, I tell ya.”
A fourth one looked after them. “Did the Archbishop ever forge a relationship of her own?”
“Careful”, came the answer, “I'm pretty sure asking that is a sin.”
In-between steps, she paused to turn. Garrag Mach welcomed the orange tinged sky with an ounce of elegance, and the melancholy that wafted through the air smelled sugary. Resuming her walk she offered a brisk pace that had her come ever close to roses and resting places. Claude followed silently, and before long they stood in front of a well loved grave, for time had hugged it so long the letters began to fade.
Here, silence triumphed, and even those curious enough to attract Byleth's scorn would not dare risk bothering her in front of Jeralt's and her Mother's grave. She had seen too many such graves in her life.
“After the anniversary I will visit Faerghus. Embarr lays behind me, already.” She sighed softly. “This year was busy, I could not find the time before now.”
It remained left unsaid that she referred to the dead relationships that she clung to as much as the living one that held her freedom hostage. Claude stared solemnly at the ring on his finger, before his gaze travelled to the old stone in front of them.
“I understand.” It felt weightless, his answer. Like a feather that fell to the ground without making a sound, for his words failed to reach her. “I was...busy...as well.”
That he had sent her countless letters which could only vaguely be filed under ‘political interest' was a fact he did not bring up. Instead he simply let her indulge in whichever healing process she needed. He had not been one for many words of comfort, always striving for the future - higher, further than before. What he could grant her, however, was an ear to listen. Throughout the years it had become fine-tuned to her woes.
Woes that manifested through almost silent sighs and downcast expressions, rarely through tears. She laid a hand upon the gravestone, caring little for her dirtied clothes, and he knew better than to mention her state of dress to her when she had bandaged his wounds countless times in the past.
Byleth turned to look at him after, expression just a shade away from kind. “...would you care for a cup of-"
“Tea?” He laughed. “I brought some with me. Special Almyran brand, just for you.”
“How did you-"
A chuckle, then he let his stiff posture relax underneath her intense gaze. “We always drink one when I visit, friend.”
She ducked her head in shame. When had that been? She barely remembered how many grey hairs he had grown since then. His voice was honest, and she cared for little else aside from that. So she nodded, even going as far as to rid herself of her unreadable expression in exchange for the smallest hint of a smile.
Drinking tea had always been easier for her, and she missed the moments of indulgence that she saved for times such as this, special blends and special places just for him. It was the simple shared solitude that made her feel secure, the aromatic sensations of calming herbs. During tea time, they could be less than lovers and more than allies, and she would not trade it for the world.
“Let us drink it on the third floor, then. I would like to watch the stars, if that is alright with you.” The roof garden near the Archbishop quarters seemed like the perfect spot, away from prying eyes. Byleth glanced towards the gravestone for one last time, before handing Claude her undivided attention.
Claude grinned. “Lead the way, then.”
The way, as it turned out, was littered with questions by the common folk who just had to ask the King of Almyra about his journey to Garrag Mach, luring out stories said by a golden tongue that knew how to spin tales. Even during the evening hours his arrival had quickly made the rounds, and so it wasn't before the sky had changed from orange to blue that the two of them found safety in the comfort on the floor saved for the Archbishop quarters which only had a knight or two stationed on it for protection.
Byleth had explained to him where Barbarossa had been led to on their way up the stairs, right after they had handed over the tea to the dining hall staff, who seemed overly eager to make a fine blend even when it was way past their opening hours. Supposedly, this was just a benefit that came with wearing ornamental headpieces and playing peacemaker.
Now they sat between two manmade ponds on a rooftop overlooked by the stars themselves, with a kettle and teacups in front of them. Lighting some torches had been easy, and the light that they illuminated cast a warm glow onto skin.
Byleth felt half content, even with her less than desirable state of dress and Claude's tired gaze, because sitting there was simple when so many things dared to be complicated. Simplicity was a virtue few seemed to treasure, even more so in peaceful lands.
“How do you like the tea?” He took a sip from his own cup, a rich aroma of carefully prepared spices that invigorated the drinker. It was almyran from root to leaf, and reminded him of loud feasts instead of starry-skied evenings. Then again, he seemed ill fitted for such calm moments too, from an outsider's perspective.
Byleth hummed softly. “I never had this before, it tastes interesting.”
“The spices used are more aromatic than Fódlan ones, they seem useful to energise the mind and body.” He drank some more, before continuing. “Not the best choice before sleep, but an amazing one if you want to talk until the early morning.”
“There is a lot to catch up on, is there not?” Her hands were warm now, even when the rest of her fought against the chilling air. That was enough to root her to her spot.
“Plenty.” Claude reached for the pitcher filled with milk, and let the white liquid flow into his cup with curiosity. “First thing's first: How come you still can't handle a dress?”
At this, she let her mouth cross into a thin line. “It is too long, and too white, and not made for me.”
Upon hearing his chuckle she furiously raised her teacup to her lips, drinking to hide the happiness that dared to sneak onto her face. She was sure he noticed, anyhow, and steered the conversation to less embarrassing topics.
“How have you fared this year, Claude? I recall you mentioning in one of your letters that-”
“So you read them?” He let one arm hit the table and reached as far over as the space between them would allow, gaze intense. She winced at the sound the cutlery made. “I didn't dare hope anymore!”
His hand wrapped over hers, quicker than she could hope to react in order to tuck it close to her body. She feared he would destroy the atmosphere with idle chit-chat of missed romantic opportunities, but he simply squeezed once, let his hand linger and grinned. “Thank you, friend. I’ve been well. You would do well to return one of your own, however. Unless the Archbishop lacks time for such utter nonsense.”
Taken aback, she looked doe-like ahead, right into his vivid green eyes. It must have been pure coincidence that he was holding her ringed hand hostage. “I will...try.”
And just like that he drew back, all prim and proper, and continued to drink as though nothing had happened. His moves where practiced and flowed with ease, let him handle tea and cup like a true noble, when his expression was yet everything but. Claude hummed contentedly, in such a way a songbird would before daring to fly away, and she wasn't quite sure where he aimed to reach.
He motioned to the sky, then, and made a hand gesture as though he could catch a star. “I haven't had much opportunity to look at them. But they're almost as radiant as you, wouldn't you say?”
Her breath caught in her throat, along with honey-brown liquid, and it made her choke. A coughing fit later, when she had calmed down somewhat and made sure that the worry was erased from his features, was when she answered. “I would not call myself radiant, Claude.”
“Most think otherwise.” A grin, a wink, and her stomach felt aflutter. She stomped the feathers down, lest they take flight. “I happen to be one of them.”
Setting her teacup down, she still held onto it with all her might. It grounded her, as she gave her attention to the stars, unable to look Claude in the eyes. “Did you achieve those pipe dreams of yours, Claude?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wonder", she began, and rose from her seat. It cost little time to move from the shared table to the edges of the rooftop. She felt stone underneath her fingers, and let the cold bite through the warmth in her flesh.
Claude followed quickly, eager to linger closer at her side, and though a part of her felt guilt, she let him. Dared to let him close enough to feel his warmth in exchange, as though he could warm up all the dread inside of her. “Your pipe dreams, and mine, they were build on bloodshed no matter what.”
His chuckle, in reply, felt heavy - and old. “There's no need to blame yourself.”
“I do not...I believe.” When he grabbed her hand this time, she moved in tact with him, drawing her own skin ever closer to his, until their fingers were intertwined. “But I regret.”
“There's no need to regret this, though.” He raised their hands, brought them close to himself, planted a kiss on top of hers. “Look, I'm sorry that I'm not a picture perfect person.”
Claude searched for her gaze and held it with the intensity of a man holding on for dear life near a cliff. She could let him fall, always, and look away from the impact, if she so chose. “And that this – whatever this is – kinda, sorta happened in-between everything else.”
He drew nearer, then, near enough to drown out the stars with his presence. When he pressed against her in an embrace that was as warm as the breath tickling her ear, she almost forgot how he had let go of her hand to hold onto her hair instead. “But no matter the past, I am here, now.”
Claude let his forehead touch hers, searching for something in her gaze that she herself wasn't quite sure how to name. But he seemed to find it, somehow, and welcomed a smug smile onto his lips. “And if you want me, then I'll stay.”
The answer was so difficult, and yet she found herself breathing “Yes.” before her conscience had a chance to catch up. The effect this had was instant, and tasted like almyran spices and herbs. His body was warm, extinguished the cold as though it came second nature to him.
Claude moved with experience, mouth giving longwinded kisses while one hand held onto her hair as the other rubbed circles along her hip. He let it slide upward, then back down, left little room for argument while he explored and tested for reactions, alternating the way he held her just to angle himself differently and feel even more of her body on his own. Claude worked on her like he would a battlefield, deploying tactics that were hardly fair. Each weakness she possessed he would find eventually, would push and pull just right enough to steer the direction towards her bedchamber.
He already had her stepping back slowly, moved forward eagerly and let her set the pace only if she continued moving. “Not here, I – we still have some distance to cross.”
Each touch was playful, if starved, each kiss a bit too eager and too hard to seem loving instead of desperate. When he laid his lips to her neck it was without an ounce of patience, and he remained blissfully unaware of the storm that clouded her thoughts. It made her drift forward in his current, through stone cold hallways kept alive by the memories of countless lifetimes. He wasn't one to linger, not one to push her against an archway and stay there, when the distance to her quarters seemed yet so great. But he paused to breathe in her scent, to clutch at her just a bit stronger, to wonder for just a moment how long he could drag this out. Byleth stood with him then, senses just alive enough to make her fear the presence of others. She moved to pry herself away from him, to convince herself to end this now, when the option could still let her save face.
But his mouth on hers was firm, giving way to tactical movement with the aim to draw a moan. Claude kissed like a man strategizing for combat, each move and turn carefully planned. The protest died on her lips, faster than it had arrived. He tasted of everything that ambition had touched, and none of the blood that had been shed for those dreams. Yet the hands that were grasping locks of her light touched hair were calloused all the same, could be held responsible for horrors equally as much as her pleasure.
Byleth still had half the mind to stop him, and brought her own fingers to his neck, pressing in just hard enough to make his breath catch in his throat. The grip on her hair only worsened in response, mouth hard on hers, his body eager to creep closer, while she let arms try to fight for the distance that her false heart was not prepared for.
It took all her strength to pull her mouth from his.
“Stop, Claude.” Her voice was a hissed whisper. “Would you have us found by a knight?!”
He let the fingers of his ring-bearing hand slide to her cheek, ghosting over it. “You don't seem to mind, truly.”
“But I do.” Her huff was interrupted by an involuntary shiver, something that stirred her from her statue-esque form. So she stepped away from him, mouth pressed into a hard line. “I care more than you think.”
He let his lip protrude forward in a pout, head downcast, eyes ablaze with lust to betray the sheepish gaze he sent her. “No one has to find out.”
His body crept closer still, until he was right in front of her once more, and when he looked down it was with that same expression that could bring her knees down in shame. The voice he talked with was soft, offset only by his hard breathing. “I had the knights promise me to stay outside, so we could discuss political intrigue.”
Then he was on her once more, mouth near her ear, body stiff with need. “So please.”
The way he cradled her hand in his was careful when the rest of his movements was anything but, and she bit her lip to keep from denying him, her own body betraying what little resolve she had left. So she let him guide her the rest of the way, let him steal quick kisses wherever he could before they reached the Archbishop's quarters. Her quarters, so decidedly dead and unlike her whenever he wasn't there to fill it with life.
And he'd gasp and compliment the interior before complimenting her each time he set foot in it, and this time was no different.
“Lovely view", he teased in-between heavy breaths and deep kisses, “lovelier with you in it.”
Byleth let her eyes flutter closed, and felt him smile against her skin. His beard tickled, but then it always had, and his tousled locks still felt the same under her grip. It was easy to imagine him much younger and she did, was reminded of the times his stray strand of hair had dared to interrupt them.
He yet tasted like victory and far away lands, and when he pushed her against the edge of the bed she felt her stomach do somersaults like all those summers ago. The mattress hit her with distant memories, and her hand began to linger where her touch was most dangerous. When his breath got caught he sounded young, and the eagerness with which he drew closer seemed born years ago. She felt his weight when the rest of her seemed weightless, let her hands lead the conversation when her mouth was otherwise occupied, busy with talking some sense into his neck and collarbone.
Claude was everything in-between suave and shy, a carefully constructed dance of letting his wish for more be veiled in an aura of sheepishness, and so it was a mischievous look in his eyes that gave him away when he whispered to her, one she chose to ignore to indulge in ignorance.
“May I...?” He tugged on her robes, then, let his tongue click when it wasn't otherwise occupied to remind her of her state of dress.
She moaned a breathy yes, and he couldn't help himself from joking. “Not that I can ruin those garments more than they've been ruined already, heh.”
This earned him a playful smack against his shoulder, or at least an attempt of such, because he caught the hand and pressed a kiss upon it that seemed more charming than it had any right to be. “Help me with mine?”
She opened her eyes then, and looked into his and all the feelings they conveyed. The lopsided grin made her swoon just a bit, and she brought her hands to the hem of his pants, fidgeting a finger inside, then two. She tugged on them just a little, to judge the excitement that built on his features.
But Claude was a patient man when he needed to be. “You first.”
His hands brushed against her robes, fingertips all the more eager to disrobe her, starting from the ornamental headpiece that she wore and moving on to her dress after.
She thought of him as a one man army, disrobing people within the blink of an eye, and his wink had always given her pause when her pulse refused to listen. The one he sent her was a sickly sweet kind, as it lulled her into a false sense of security, only for him to move within the beat of a heart she did not possess.
And then she lay bare safe for her undergarments, the dress ripped clean off, the sound of tearing so vivid in her mind that she winced at the thought of Seteth's scorn were he to ever find out. “I'll have to burn that...”
“We'll tell him it caught on fire, and I rescued you like the hero I am.” Claude chuckled, even as his eyes were focused elsewhere, knowing fully well who she meant.
“But the entire dress burned?” She raised an eyebrow at him, even as she grabbed a hold of his own clothes once more. This time she started with his top, though, unbuckled clasps that held his armour pieces in place.
Claude helped her where he could, shrugged off his cloak the moment it was possible. “Naturally, we had to give it a proper funeral.”
She worked on his shirt next, took off the cravat before helping him out of his garment fully. Had he worn his gloves today she would have left them on for a while longer, but he did not, and she wondered whether it was to show off the ring or not. She could always see it, when he visited.
But he was eager and planted more kisses on her, moved from her cheek to her exposed shoulders, silencing the quick questions of her mind. Then he took her hands once more and steered them to his pants, and she pulled them downwards in-between more of his touches, until he shuddered and clung to her, and began to breathe harder the moment her touch lingered.
He helped her get them and his undergarments off completely, unable to fully part from her lips even when it made his movements awkward, and after he was on her again like he could never lay with her after that night.
It was when she stared at his entire naked self that the dread creeped back in, ever slowly. Because he looked less old than he should, and yet too old compared to herself. Welcoming him with open arms was a challenge, but she tried to put herself at ease by planting kisses all over him, knowing it would hardly silence the anxiety in her completely.
“I would have made you Queen of Almyra, eventually”, he whispered against her collarbone, sensing her discomfort. Part of her could have indulged in that fantasy, even then, but whenever she raised her eyes to wrinkled folds born from laughing she would count his crow feet like the years that passed.
They had grown deeper, recently. Had carved a river into his smiles and the wet noises that she could draw from his throat were well wrought waters now. While she could yet sink to the bottom of bliss in them, there was that stone cold weight in the pits of her stomach which screamed like a drowning dragon. She wondered, woefully, when their fire would finally be extinguished. Then lapped at his skin like flames, the wish to burn so very bright in her body.
Claude sighed, softly, like in his younger years. “I would have...”
Shuddered, then, stirred like a statue in her arms. Always eager to hold her closer and closer yet, as though they were indulging in but a pipe dream. There rested a hint of desperation on his shoulders, one that made his heart heavy, and a different one that drew his mouth near hers. If he wanted to control himself, he had to make this last. But desperation was a beast, bearing wounds so worrisome they made blood boil, so weary they made white hot hunger manifest.
He would indulge it like a feast, lingered on lips so plump and ripe they could function as a full course meal - and began to wonder when the time would come that someone else would capture them as theirs. A future without him that had others grace her lips with silent promises and loud presents.
He would not show such worries to her, however. Instead he laid down next to her, then pulled her on top of him, his movements careful even when his desire was anything but. When she sat on his legs he kissed her ring finger once more. “Take everything off but this, okay?”
When she hesitated for a moment, he pressed her hand next to his heart. “I’m not going to keel over dead, Byleth.”
She nodded, and sat upright to fully expose herself. First came the corset they had her wear, and he reached around her to untangle the mess of strings and bows. He let her take off the rest on her own, laid back in mock-carelessness with his arms behind his head.
“Pretty...”, was what he muttered when she was done, eyes roaming over her body, grin wide and toothy. “I do feel enlightened now, Archbishop.”
His mouth could run a mile a minute, and she appreciated it for drowning out the words her own brain spit at her. Claude still muttered sweet nothings that hardly made sense, just to ease her into moving. When she was ready she crept closer, let her hand wander as she rubbed circles with the other over his chest. He did the same, squeezed and pulled her closer, bit softly into skin just to hear her squeak.
It was a delightful tone, and the low rumbling in his throat that ought to be a hum made her smile just a bit. Handling him had become a practiced play over the years, and when she grabbed him it was with the expertise of someone who had more experience on the battlefield but tried hard to be soft.
The sounds that she could drag to the surface left her shuddering, made her wish for more of him, something louder, greater, just to stop whatever silence liked to take root in her head when he wasn't there.
“You...”, he breathed, “...should have some f-fun too.” The expression he gifted her was of the loving kind, muttered between a stifled moan, and he reached out for her between heavy breaths.
His touch was somewhere between despair and desperation it felt like, full of rubbing and tugging and everything that she liked to the point it made her squirm.
She could count the drops of sweat hugging his face, even through the rocking motion they had found themselves in, and followed one with her gaze as it travelled from his brows to his cheek, to the corner of his lips.
It was when she kissed him that he entered her, slowly enough for it to barely hurt, and she breathed in deeply to keep from making any more noise. It took her time to find a steady rhythm, as the both of them started out of sync, and it took a low chuckle or two from Claude for her to feel comfortable enough to take the lead.
When she did, and finally found that sweet spot, she could drift into moments of bliss again. Could close her eyes and think of all the best times, all the battle scars they had explored together, all the wounds that needed to heal but did with him at her side, both the physical and emotional ones.
And the pace now was slow, and loving, like they had all the time that the world dared to grant them. He sighed, more than once, paid her compliments that would be forgotten even though she never wanted them to be.
Some words rang clear though, even within all the hazy pleasure. “I love you.”
And she dared to mouth them against his skin in return, but never spoke them aloud.
She did not last much longer than that, urged him on to be quicker, steadied herself on his shoulders while his hands cupped her breasts and his eyes were shut in pleasurable concentration. He tried to let her linger near the edge, but felt too desperate to keep her there for long, and so she tried her best to keep a momentum even as her whole body took away her authority over herself.
When she begged it was for him to come, when all he wanted was to never leave. Release came sweet, but poisonous. Drew his body like a taut string only to let it snap without breaking. Yet he felt broken, somewhere between the eager schemes and easy smiles. Shattered, even, so he pulled her close as though she was all his missing pieces. That way, she could not see his expression. He held her there, to his chest, as the ecstasy faded away. Until she nestled near the spot where his heart was hidden, and began to listen to his heavy heartbeat.
Hers was a static kind, so he felt for her hand, grabbed it to cradle it for the pulse that it provided. It offered peace in-between heaving breaths, and his touch was forceful but fickle, desperate in its attempt not to let her go and equally as desperate to not force his will upon her.
Still, he felt his fingertips brush against a ring he knew all too well, and let the corners of his lips rise as he brought her hand to them.
"Wouldn't you know it. I am bedding a married woman", he murmured before giving the ring a quick peck.
"What a lucky fella I am, huh?" He squeezed her to him with his free arm. "Could you imagine the scandal?"
"But we never-", she countered, though as soon as she let her head rise he silenced her with but a finger.
It lingered on her lips, even as she gave him a look of protest. The chuckle that rose from his throat was youthful, a stark contrast to the flecks of grey that hid within his hair. "Shhh. Who'd wanna wage emotional warfare at a time like this?"
A huff from her, then he let her go, only to cup her cheek. His touch was tactical, for he had learned throughout his best years how to handle her. Perhaps it had all dulled down to simple guerrilla tactics of the loving kind, and he would wrap her around his little finger as repentance for all the years that fell with his ambitions.
Those, she would never get back. And though she had stood behind his dreams with the patience of a saint, for she had been one, there came the turning point when he had shifted his schemes like board pieces, and suddenly she had been a priority instead of an afterthought.
He had explained those plans of his to her, once. Of marriage, the kind to ultimately unite Fodlan and Almyra with the opposite of hatred. Spoke of grandiose moves to bring peace to her heart, when before it had all been about peace for the world's sake and, intrinsically, for the peace of his own mind.
But he belonged everywhere, in that new world of theirs. And never quite to her, she felt like, even when he would steal himself away from royal duties to gaze together with her at the endless depth of countless stars.
Sometimes, she wished they could shatter Gods.
Yet whenever she did a voice would yap in the back of her head "You fool! This is bigger than you!" and the thoughts would cease again.
Byleth let herself lay at his side for a moment longer, took in his scent and all the heartbreak, and whispered an apology against his chest. “I apologise, Claude. This was...wrong.”
She cursed it, that gift of the goddess which she had been granted. It took him away from her, each day a bit more than the last.
And she thanked it, for reversing time so quickly she never heard his response.