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~ * ~
At first, it is a laughable notion to the newly crowned king and his queen.
Ancient rituals performed by the previous administration had no place in the new order of things, especially in the new reforms of the church’s doctrine. They had been stunned to discover the previous archbishop, Rhea herself, in all her formal and pristine sense of authority, untouchable and infallible, had actually engaged in such archaic acts once upon a time in her youth still posing as the saint known as Seiros.
Given the numerous amounts of censoring the Church of Seiros, and its many hands had implemented against such taboo practices made the concept all the more unbelievable. Yet, as the first days of summer approached, the cardinals who remained in the service of the new archbishop had delivered the doctrines, sacred and ancient texts kept hidden save for her eyes alone, personally.
Truthfully, it seemed, as Claude and his bride read the scrolls long into the night, both fascinated and unnerved at the same time, that Rhea was not the originator of the ritual herself. Rather, Sothis, the divine mother, had begun the tradition, revitalizing the land through her passion for its people and the deep connection she bore for both. When she had perished, disappearing from the mortal realm, Rhea had merely taken on her mother’s mantle and duty as the source of divine ichor that ran through Fódlan’s veins.
Thus, the land was fruitful and prospered. However, as the years wore on, so did Rhea’s influence and connection, which was nowhere near as strong as her mother’s had been. The people became divided into the three kingdoms, and so did the land. With each year, she could only offer so much of herself and the life force that nurtured the soil beneath their feet. Records showed the slow progression of decline, meticulous accounts by past and present priests who acted as researchers, beginning in the cold north, in the Holy Kingdom, where the soil bore so little comfort and food to the people.
Byleth recalled her countless conversations with the former students of the Blue Lion house who hailed from the cold, unyielding land during their academy days. Innocent days, where easy conversation flowed as naturally as an unimpeded stream as they recounted the harsh environment that molded so many of them into the steeled soldiers and warriors they would one day become.
Warm memories of Sylvain and Ingrid welcoming the hot, fresh foods produced by the very best chefs employed by the church surfaced within her mind’s eye. How they had praised the cook’s creativity and bemoaned the lack of abundance and flavor within their own beloved homeland. Darker thoughts, sad and like ash to her soul also recalled the image of a young, golden haired prince who could taste nothing sweet or savory upon his tongue, but who nonetheless smiled and persisted alongside his classmates. Happy, and content to simply bask in their own simple pleasures.
The young king of two nations had thought the issue of ancient, pagan rites all but tabled and discarded to another time in Fódlan past when his beloved caught him by surprise in re-addressing the issue one night, a soft summer breeze blowing gently across them as they lay in their shared bed. As if granting them their blessings, hopeful and calling.
Rhea had been limited in her strength, as the years dragged on, Byleth had argued softly. Waning as the new moon prepared itself perhaps for the mother goddesses return? Byleth and Sothis were one now, and they knew not the limit or extent of their power, but what a thing it would be, what a gift, if she could replenish the land itself? Still recovering from the strain of a five years-long war, and now rebuilding itself upon a new foundation.
There was no hubris in her wish, simply the desire to gift her former students, who had continued to stand by her side as fierce and loyal allies, despite all the hardships and death that surrounded them as their former kingdom fell, burning away along with their king, the rightful bounty they, and their suffering people, deserved. Their children, and their children’s descendants, would know the sweet taste of a blessed fruit, their livestock would flourish with new, lush grass. The kingdom, the whole of Fódlan, would be born anew.
She wouldn’t force him, of course. She would never ask him to participate in a church-related rite, even one that just barely aligned with the religion’s current status quo, unless he was comfortable, especially considering their past history with such rituals.
Her mother’s mergence with the priest Aelfric still haunted her dreams in the form of night terrors, waking her in the night along with so many other ghosts that plagued her rest, and the unholy summoning it had produced. Rhea’s Rite of Rebirth, though unsuccessful with its original intent, and the chaos that had been unleashed in it’s wake still left a bitter taste on their tongues.
He relents to her request, happily so, after some consideration of the grand-scale implications of such a far-reaching outcome. Truthfully, it does not take much convincing. He knows he is no match for her earnest eyes of starlight or his own natural curiosity regarding the rite itself or how it is to be conducted.
Ancient, primal ritual that required them to join together in the most pleasurable of ways? Sign him up!
The priests who’d taken the time to record all accounts of the ritual had deemed it was Rhea’s own failure to fully embrace her mother’s selfless love for the people and the land of their birth, that had failed in the land’s growth.
Too consumed with restoring what was not meant to be restored, she had closed herself, and her heart, off from the children of the land as they waged war and she tightened the shackles she had placed on her precious, uncompromising holy doctrine. The cardinals, not all but the few who honored the old ways, had approached his wife in earnest at the opportunity to perhaps, reconnect with the mother goddess once again and revive what had been lost under Rhea’s reign.
Either the ancient rite would restore the land to its once glorious state of bounty, he reasoned logically. Or it would amount to nothing more than a curious indulgence to a ceremony long since lost to time.
“Regardless, my love. It promises to be a pleasurable divergence.” He’d winked, kissing the back of her hand with all the adoration and love befitting his brightest star.
~ * ~
His breath is hot in the cool morning air, escaping like a harsh fog as he exhales slowly, taking careful aim as his prize stepped into his sights through the trees.
Once the order of consent had been given, the cardinals and their followers within the church had sprung into action preparing for the old rites. Scrolls, old and ripped, smelling of the musk of time were consulted for the proper place, time, herbs, accessories and whatever else that may have been required in order to bring forth the goddess’s blessing from his wife’s divine self while Claude and Byleth prepared themselves mentally, emotionally and physically for whatever was about to be thrown at them.
Between already countless meetings, for running two countries newly united was no simple task, he made sure to have any and all free time made available for them both so that they could enjoy each other’s company on a different, more spiritual level. He ran through the many forms of meditation he had learned as a child, their roles now reversed, with himself acting as the teacher as they learned to harmonize and sync their breathing. Basking in the moment of simply being there, in the rhythm of nature, and with one another.
The royal couple told none of their friends, save for the two who offered the most beneficial consultation. As much as they may have wished to, just in case all hell broke loose and they accidentally summoned some perverse demon from the underworld, with something this fragile it was best kept behind closed doors for now until the toil of their labor bore fruits. Once the initial embarrassment had passed (Claude would recall Lysithea’s pink cheeks and scandalized expression for years to come) the two mages went about in helping with whatever preparations they could to aid the ritual and ensure it was as accurate as possible.
Linhardt, tantalized and beyond curious rather than affronted, dove into the forbidden tomes like a madman once Byleth had granted him her full blessing and access to the most hidden and forbidden of the church’s libraries. Every little tidbit, every obscure or obscene legend he could find was unearthed and brought before the king and queen so that they may be made aware of all their options.
Claude’s mind still spins as he recalls the scholar’s excited lectures on the multiple cults and styles of worship that had sprung from this single ritual alone, festivals celebrating fertility to bring in the new harvest, as well as massive orgies to honor the goddess’s more sensual nature, connecting them all as one. He is not sure how she does it, but Byleth somehow manages to keep that infallible poker face of her’s in place throughout the entire ordeal. Though, he notes with some satisfaction the way the tips of her ears, her soft cheeks and the back of her neck burn pink as Linhardt goes through a catalog of positions deemed worthy of the rite.
Thankfully, he manages to push such distractions from his mind now as he focuses on the great stag that has entered his line of fire. The majestic beast is a rare prize, and a sign of good tidings to come as he had not traveled far from the holy site before happening upon his intended quarry. Perhaps it is a blessing from nature herself, he muses. A gift to help the goddess restore the old ways.
It is a sin in the eyes of his people, he knows, in both Leicester and Almyra, to slay such a magnificent creature. But the hart would be no mere trophy, but a tribute, an offering to a greater purpose that would benefit the land and all his woodland brethren who dwelt withing. Thus, Claude can be grateful that nature itself would reap the rewards from this obscure venture just as much as the people of Fódlan.
Another breath, and he looses the arrow. His mark is true, and the stag stands proudly, refusing to run and accepts his fate before falling to the spot that would be his final resting place within the woods, he has always called home.
Claude is quick to his side as he labors his final breaths. Steadying himself as he has practiced, he speaks the words, sacred and old on his tongue, that will absolve him of his sin. From the hide pouch strapped across his chest he produces the ceremonial dagger that will ease the beast into a swift descent into peaceful oblivion, his task complete, leaving behind a husk of flesh, meant to nourish the goddess and her king during their ritual.
“From the Earth you sprang, majestic and proud. Now unto the mother shall you return, to her comforting embrace. Your soul’s journey complete, my brother, but one last task I ask of your flesh…”
Sliding a gentle hand across the stag’s rough pelt, he speaks another prayer, silently in his mind and in his mother tongue, thanking the spirit for its great sacrifice this day. With a deep breath, and a sure hand he cuts the final thread of the creature’s tapestry within the living world, though it will continue on through the cycle of nature.
The Great Hunt is done, and the king of the land is ready to present his tithe to his goddess.
~ * ~
The sacred site that is chosen to perform the ritual is located not far from the monastery. It is an ideal location, much like Garreg Mach itself, in that it lies in the middle of all three kingdoms. So that all three formerly divided territories will reap the benefits of the ritual, should it succeed.
At this point, so much time and care had been given to the cause, even Lysithea was a buzz with the possibilities this rite presented, going back and forth with her emerald haired counterpart on the importance of the old magics and traditions, and what parts they could play in this new world they were trying to forge. Of course, many of the old arts, such as human sacrifice and the thievery of blood and life in exchange for such power would remain forbidden, but what of the softer, primal magics?
It almost amused Byleth, their carrying on, had she not been so nervous as she waited within the cave for her beloved’s return from The Great Hunt. For that was what the old shrine had been reduced to, once perhaps humble and radiant at the same time as it served its former mistress in all her glory and pleasure, it had become almost entirely overtaken by the earth itself, save for a small opening they had managed to widen to an acceptable degree.
The church’s priests and priestesses who had been carefully selected to help with the rite had spent much time preparing the ruins for the king and queen, as per Seteth and Lysithea’s directions. The chief advisor to the church worked from a deep, and personal knowledge while the younger mage added her own practical, yet romantic touches (Byleth highly suspected a confidential correspondence between the girl and another former student of the Golden Deer house, one with eyes and hair of spring roses who always had an opinion on such matters.)
Seteth’s sudden involvement, once word of their secret project had inevitably made its way to his keen ears, had been perhaps the greatest surprise. While Byleth and Claude had long since known of his and Flayn’s familial connection to Rhea and their long-lived race, they had never spoken of it aloud and he was content to leave the unsaid alone in order to maintain order and aid the new monarchs into the new age. He had been a long-standing ally of his former archbishop for centuries, but he had grown tired of her secrets, her obsession with their mother, and how it was affecting the people they were supposed to be shepherding.
It was no longer in accordance with what he knew was his matriarch’s greatest wish, which was to tend and cultivate the land she had left them to watch over. It had been ages since such primal magics had been performed, but if it would help heal the land then who was he to stand in the way? Let alone impede two of the most stubborn and driven souls he had ever known throughout the ages. Indeed, it is Seteth who reveals the location of the holy shrine his progenitor had loved so well, to Linhardt during his search for the best focus point of the ritual.
Claude would have been stunned speechless, especially when Seteth had confessed to her about engaging in the fertility rituals personally, alongside his late wife. Seteth, prim and proper, the head of all censorship of the church and all its dirty little secrets. The man who had patrolled the halls of the grand ball, spending the night pulling would-be couples apart and chastising them for their misbehavior before the goddess! The man who had done all he could to keep his only child hidden away and ignorant of the world, in a bid to keep her safe from all its dangers.
To think he had once danced carefree and drunk off life with his beloved around the fires that burned in celebration while the people laughed and frolicked, taking advantage of the night’s magic and fertility as Sothis engaged her own lovers within her sacred space. A soft yearning could almost be seen within those ancient eyes of his as he spoke of those days fondly, of a time less complicated and more innocent. Days he would only confess to in hushed, reverent whispers to her ears alone.
Sothis was Maiden, Mother and Crone all in one to her worshippers back then. While Byleth herself had only ever seen the Maiden, small and young, Sothis often walked the world as the Mother, tall and ripe with abundance, bringing new seasons and life with her as she made her way across the land. Then, at the first chill of autumn, would become the wizened Crone, comforting those at the end of their cycles.
These were things Byleth had never considered before. Limited in her general knowledge of the church and Sothis’s lore as it was, save what miracles Marianne, Ignatz or Mercedes would recite to her on occasion, but those tales were also Rhea’s doctrine. Edited over the centuries to conform to her ideal image of her mother. To learn there was a deeper mythology to Sothis’ legend made her mantle all the more substantial, weighing heavy in her chest.
Sothis, she called the goddess, but like always received no audible answer back since their merging all those years ago. Sothis, if you can hear me. Please, let this work. One last miracle to heal the land and the people from the pain of the last five years, and more.
As the priestesses prepared her for Claude’s return, oiling her skin and painting runes long since thought forgotten along her pale flesh, intertwining with innumerable scars earned from battle and war waged in the name of peace, a sudden gale of warm wind swept through the room.
The numerous candles arranged throughout the shrine flickered at its sudden force, but remained lit. Startled, the attendants momentarily paused in their duties to look around in alarm. The zephyr had carried the sweet aroma of the fresh roses, lilies and lavender strung throughout the chamber, creating a pleasant, yet intoxicating floral bouquet.
A soft, comforting smile graced Byleth’s lips as she inhaled the newly perfumed air.
It seemed Sothis was here beside her, after all. Offering her own blessings for the days and nights ahead.
Another attendant, young and new to the order, entered the chamber, bowing respectfully. “My Goddess, the king has come bearing tribute from the forest. A mighty hart of fine, and virile stock. He seeks admittance to your most holy chambers, is his offering acceptable?”
She sighs. She would prefer they not call her ‘goddess’ but its all part of the ritual, a mere performance. She idly wonders what Dorothea would think of all of this, the primal magic, the pageantry, and the forbidden nature of it all. She would probably soak it all in with her usual flair for the romantic, much like the theater she thrived in, like an all-consuming libation she would relish.
Preparing herself with another deep breath, her lungs filling with the sweetness of the hanging blossoms, steadying her nerves. She prayed once more for the strength and power to complete the great work they had set before them.
“The goddess accepts this sacred offering and permits the king entrance to our sacred space.”
~ * ~
The deer is taken from him as soon as he enters the small encampment surrounding the small shrine, with attendants quickly relieving the beast’s weight from his shoulders as they set about preparing it for their consumption later.
It is a small party, thankfully, that joins them in this final stretch of their endeavor. Two cardinals, their small band of attendants, a cook, and his assistant, Linhardt and Lysithea who speak in hushed, bickering words as they prepare some herbs and potions. Shamir is chosen to lead a small entourage of her most trusted men and women who surround the space, out of sight, protecting the newly crowned monarchs while hidden away within the trees of the never-ending forest.
Free of his burden, Claude allows himself to be prepared for his next task: the meeting and joining with the goddess in her chambers.
The final, and most important step.
He tries to keep his mind clear as the attendants, and Linhardt, apply their oils and ceremonial markings. Visual prayers, and conduits to allow the magic to flow more easily between them. Lysithea had passed him a vial of green liquid, before quickly retreating muttering under her breath. Had he more sense of mind, he would have teased her a bit, especially at the scarlet blush that she had tried to hide from him, but he didn’t. He could barely register Linhardt, who was standing right in front of him.
His old classmate was blathering on about something or other regarding the ritual, and Claude wished he could focus, any other time he would have been happy to engage the Crest scholar in some easy back-and-forth, sharing theories and observations, but his words felt like dull drumming to clogged ears.
It is only when he finally offers him a mask that he grins, mildly amused. It is, honestly not unlike a similar mask he would wear during the occasional masquerade held in the Alliance, continuing his promotion of his beloved Golden Deer long after he had graduated. If the kickstart of a five-year long war could even begin to be called a graduation. It was a hell of a send-off, whichever way you looked at it.
Unlike the gaudy mask of sequin and lace, this mask felt…hefty, carved from strong, blessed wood to fit his face perfectly, polished, with runic etchings similar to the ones painted on his own skin, twisting like vines all through its surface. A leather band, in place of silk, was knotted at its edges to keep it in place when he finally put it on.
“A stag, huh?” He quips, running calloused fingers over the winding antlers. “Isn’t this all a little on the nose, you think?”
Linhardt shrugs, matching his wry smile. “Maybe it’s all a sign, hmm?” He offers suggestively, as he paints the final runes into Claude’s neck. “The horned god, or king in this case, has a long mythology alongside the goddess according to the writings I’ve studied. Curious, isn’t it? That it would be a scion from the Leicester Alliance, the former house leader of the Golden Deer, who would win us a war and unite with the goddess-reborn to bring a new age to Fódlan? Now, performing the role of an ancient horned deity, joining with the goddess in order to restore the land. What would one call it, I wonder, other than the stuff of legends?”
Divine providence? Claude muses, as he ties the mask in place.
Claude knows he has never put much faith in gods. He never had before, knowing it took one’s own hands and ambitions to reach for his dreams, that is until a seemingly impossible woman who was touched by the divine came into his orbit, bursting through his beloved night sky like a shooting star bringing with her the winds of change.
His whole world had shifted then, everything he knew to be true turning upside down and taking him off guard in the best of ways.
A living goddess who would become his new dawn, his brightest star, his most trusted friend and ally. His partner, his wife, his queen.
My goddess…
Nodding to Linhardt, he downs the vial Lysithea had given him (he believes it is some sort of stamina-virility draught?) then moves to approach the entrance of the shrine. He is stopped by a cardinal, who sends an attendant to announce him and his claim. When she returns, relaying the goddess’s consent to enter, the cardinal nods and stands before Claude. His forehead, or the mask he wears, is anointed and a special prayer is said while the same attendant burns white sage, smudging the wafting smoke over his full figure with a large, black feather.
They move aside, bowing in reverence and he enters the goddess’s chamber at last.
~ * ~
The moment he enters the sacred bedchamber, which is both ethereal and tomb-like, he feels the harsh, electric prickle of magic against his skin. He shivers, taken aback by the sudden surge that caresses his flesh like living fire, harsh yet pleasurable.
Whatever this is, the old magic or the natural splendor of worshiping the goddess in her ancient, sacred domain, its working. Something is shifting, he can feel it in the air. As unskilled as he is in the way of the magical arts, even he can sense the current of energy bouncing around the room. Wild, hungry and seeking focus.
His gaze is instantly drawn to his wife, waiting and expectant upon her alter. She is a divine vision upon the furs that are carefully laid out for them on the risen earth, the focus point of the room. Like him she has been oiled and marked with the ancient runes, making her skin glow liquid moonlight against the golden flames of the candles strewn about the chamber.
The golden mantle of the goddess is set on her brow, otherwise she wears little else, much like himself in simple leather breeches, barefooted. Royal blue is draped haphazardly over ample flesh, flesh he has explored and navigated extensively since before they were officially wed. Stolen moments of pleasure and happiness in between battle, never knowing which day was their last, never knowing if it would all end by a lucky arrow or a blade that sang true to its mark, but by the gods they would relish their time while they had it.
In the here and now, married, safe and alone on this hollowed ground she is the image of the Mother, in all her sensual warmth, alluring and as their eyes meet she offers him a sly, beckoning smile that promises any and all manner of earthly delights for him and him alone.
Briefly, he thinks back to his conversation with Lin in regard to the potential orgies that had been held in this cave. Sothis, transformed to her full womanly splendor, draining her lovers as they were brought before her until their goddess was happily sated, at the cost of their own stamina. Their own pleasure pale in comparison to the great service they had performed for the goddess and the land.
He braces himself, striding forward as confidently as he could manage as he stepped further into the room. Bending a knee before the alter, he once again made a solemn prayer, hoping, praying he was enough for this task.
A pleasurable divergence, isn’t that what he’d called this venture when they’d first entertained the idea? It seemed a chasmic understatement now, as the sheer weight in the air sparked, alive and waiting. Vaguely he cannot help but wonder what his past self, eighteen and wanting, would think if he could see them now. Married, and about to perform an ancient fertility rite? Probably would have short-circuited by now, he chuckles mentally at the image.
He’d had a hard enough time sitting too close to her during study sessions back then, or the few times she had met him in her room, or in his to speak of important matters, schoolwork or the ever mounting questions presented by the church. Grappling lessons had nearly killed him, in more ways than one, as he felt her body, hard yet soft in that womanly way, press against his own, still growing and highly aware of every moment of brief contact.
Oh, oh but now he was allowed to indulge, without fear of consequence, was encouraged to do so and she welcomed each touch with a soft sigh that set his blood on fire the more it escalated in breathless abandon.
He swallowed, hard. “My goddess, I am here to fulfill the old accordance between mortal and divine, and thus restore life to the land. She suffers, having seen war and famine, and I would see her flush with your blessings. Unworthy as we are to receive them.”
Not too long ago memories of him practicing these lines within their private chambers in Garreg Mach, as ridiculous as they were had sent them both into a fit of laughter, reminding him of the promise they had beseeched the goddess for to come true all those years ago in the goddess tower during the night of the grand ball. That wish had come true once before, despite his over the top performance, perhaps this one would too?
It had been funny and whimsical back then, but now, the depth of this moment and its intimacy settled over him, his supplication genuine.
“We accept your tribute, and bid you join us to receive our blessings.” Byleth, for her part, manages to keep her own voice steady and austere as she answers back in the proper fashion.
It had all felt so silly before, when they had rehearsed, but now, here bathed in candlelight and surrounded by a mysterious sense of something that hangs in the air, intoxicating and potent.
As he rises, she is already reclining against the soft furs, bringing her arms to rest beside her head, allowing herself to drink in the image of her husband, golden and ready to serve, and she is suddenly aware of a creeping hunger that makes its way through her.
She can feel it, streaming through her veins like a slow fire, embers burning softly, begging to rise as Claude moves forward to join her on her pagan dais. He has only set a knee forward, moving to settle between her thighs, the most holy of places, when she raises a leg and stops him with a firm foot upon his bared chest.
His eyes search her’s, momentarily surprised, until he sees the spark of mischief within her otherworldly irises. Claude remains still, waiting to see her game. He is her servant here, in this hollowed space, as much a tribute upon her altar as the stag he felled in the early morning’s light. At her mercy, at her bidding.
She keeps his steady gaze, delighting in the way it flickers as she bites her lower lip. She moves, her foot finding a trail down his broad chest, over scars, old and new earned from a lifetime of war, both personal and national. His breathing begins to show the strain, rising and falling a little too fast, as her toes caress soft hair down his abdomen, his naval, until her big toe expertly hooks into the hem of his breeches. She pulls, once, but it is enough to get the message across.
He straightens, reaching for the ties of his trousers. No sooner has he begun to remove them, sliding the rough fabric down past his thighs, when she moves. Her feet once again lazily traveling along the trail she has made in her mind; he twitches with a heady groan as she slides along his cock. He can’t help himself, as he grabs at a milky thigh, a reflex, he is half hard and his blood is already calling for more.
Calloused hands knead the soft flesh, feeling the firm muscle underneath. Like iron covered in soft velvet, he muses hazily. Her hips respond to his touch, rolling forward as a pleased mewl escapes her. He could take her now, and she would not object. All things in time, he reminds himself. The ritual demands the union be drawn out, for the goddess to be satiated in all ways, to feed upon his virility, and draw out her power.
He runs his hand along the expanse of her thigh, over her knee, her defined calf, until he reaches her ankle. Byleth watches him with lidded eyes as he raises her leg once again, higher this time, to his lips as he offers her a lingering kiss of his devotion. She trembles in anticipation, “Khalid…my king, please.”
“Goddesses don’t beg, my love” He chides, humming as he moved. It is a tortuous bliss, as he trails hot fire up her leg with each slow kiss, pooling in her belly. “They demand worship and veneration.”
She laughs, reaching for his hair, but finds herself grasping at the faux antlers of his wooden mask. She pulls, not hard enough to rip the mask off, but with enough direction for him to follow her lead. Once he is settled between her thighs, she moves her hips once again in urgency. “Then show us your adoration, deer hart.”
“As my goddess wishes…”
It is nothing to move her silken draping’s, permitting him access to her quim, quivering and molten against his tongue. Gasping, her head falls back, her only tether her fast grip on his hair and wooden horns. It is sheer exaltation as he slides his tongue expertly against her, lavishing her clit mercilessly, knowing how to best draw out her pleasure and soon she feels the all too familiar coiling within her core, calling out to the primal magic that fills the room. She becomes desperate, demanding, as she rolls her hips against his face. He holds her in place, firm hands bruising as they attempt to restrain her before she throws him off completely. It is a living thing, fervent, and made more urgent as her back arches off the holy tabernacle, her vision whitening, she cries out.
Claude allows her a moment to catch her breath, spoiling her with slow, languid licks that make her shudder before kissing the inside of her thigh tenderly.
He crawls over her chest, greedily palming her bountiful bosom, his mouth tending to each mound leisurely before hovering above her breathless form. He takes her in. She is flushed a tempting pink across her exposed skin, dusting from her naval, between her full breasts and across her lovely face. Her eyes are bright, sparkling twilight and he shivers. There is desire there, craven, that is awakened, spurred on by his attentions. He can feel it, the enchanted heat that embraces them, pulling at the edges of his psyche and self-control.
He licks his lips, savoring the taste of her as she watches him. His own eyes reflect her own, darkening with the promise of a coming storm.
“The sweet nectar of the gods…” His voice is husky and wanton, and they laugh together. His joke is delightfully blasphemous, and she does not hesitate to grab him, pulling her horned lover down to meet her waiting lips.
Their embrace is feverish, and startling in its intensity as they pull at each other. She tastes herself on his tongue, and she moans at the tang of them together, mixed and mouthwatering. Byleth reaches between the heat of them, grasping Claude’s hardened length firmly within her hand, a broken sound escaping her husband’s lips. Stroking him slowly, she drags out each ragged breath that breaks free as he strains to move, grinding in rhythm to the dance she sets for them both. He is burning velvet in her hand, and she suddenly aches for him to fill her.
Their mouths struggle for dominance, zealous in their passion and ardor. Biting and licking away at the liquid salt that trickled down their brows, their arms and back. Candles flicker, and a swirling, warm gust flows through the sanctum as she feels her lover fast approaching his own crescendo, unable to handle the boiling fire that has captured him.
Cruel, she releases him. Before he can protest, she has flipped him over onto his back. Small as she may be Claude often forgets how strong his wife really is. He has seen her easily best both Raphael and Balthus during friendly sparring matches, the self-proclaimed best grapplers within the Alliance. He doesn’t struggle, he knows better.
She is quick to take her rightful place above her lover, embracing her sovereignty as she descends upon him, claiming her due. He groans, hands finding quick purchase at her strong thighs. A primal song rings through them, calling from somewhere deep in their bones as they began to move. It is an old dance, older than the two of them. They are helpless, caught in the throes of passion and the magic of it all.
Nails dragging down his chest, Byleth leaves bright, angry marks and smiles in satisfaction. He is her’s and hers alone to touch and see undone as he is now. Panting and grunting, as he thrusts upwards into her welcoming heat. His eyes are as dark and wild as her own, his hair a mess behind his mask and slick with sweat as he watches her breasts bounce and the room fills with the sweet, carnal tones of their lovemaking.
She laughs, suddenly, overcome, catching Claude’s attention. It is musical, full of delight and abandon. His eyes widen as he takes her in, she is positively glowing above him, unearthly so, her eyes shining far more brightly than he had ever seen before. His jaw clenches in concentration, forcing himself to hang on for dear life as Byleth rides him at her leisure. At first, she is slow, savoring the intimacy of their joining, but her movements are quickly becoming reckless, a gallop to her nearing climax. He can feel it, the energy building between them and threatening to spill over like a cup overfilled.
And where would it spill, this excess energy? Was this the divine ichor that was to replenish the land? He could feel it, the air around them, the magic that had been fueling them, now pulling, wanting every last drop of life force it could siphon from their union.
“By -!” He grits, breathing heavily. He is close, so close. She is tight, hot fire and the final vestiges of his control are slipping.
“Almost – not yet!” She gasps, ordering his stay, her cries echoing off the cave walls. Beneath her, his literal goddess, he can do nothing but accept his fate, answering her cries with his own, rambling in his native Almyran, prayers of devotion, love and praise. “Khal – Khalid!”
Her orgasm strikes like wildfire, blazing through them, and he shatters. For a moment he is only a vessel, a blissful conduit in service to the goddess and the magic pulls at them, feeding greedily at the overflow of primal life force. Byleth stills, letting her head hang back as she catches her breath, allowing the rite to take its course as it nurses from them. Shivering and shuddering, they reclaim their senses, and she rolls off of her beloved, gifting him a tender, lingering kiss against his bruised lips before curling at his side, sated.
For now, anyways.
It feels like hours, but in reality, who knew for sure. Time had ceased to matter to Claude as he lay, spent, his chest heaving, desperate to catch his breath as his heart continued to pound as a result of their rigorous lovemaking. He is a little ashamed, his wife looks anything but spent, as she lay beside him, stretching like a cat basking in the warmth of the sun. She looks the opposite, in fact, she looks revitalized and fresh.
He is vaguely aware of the attendants as they bring them food and drink, solemn and quiet as they present their humble fare then leave as quietly as they came. The aroma of thick and savory spices teases his senses, and his stomach betrays him as it growls in demand.
“How many nights are we expected to linger here again?” He asks, his voice hoarse.
His beloved star hums, pretending contemplation as she plays with hairs on his chest. “Three more nights and days, at least that’s what Linhardt discerned from the texts he read.”
He groans, already feeling the ache that is sure to come in the future between his legs. Curiously, he also feels the energies regrouping, gathering around them, waiting. It offers aid, bubbling through his limbs, restoring his vitality slowly, and his stomach growls once again, reminding him of its own needs.
Pleasurable divergence, eh?
~ * ~
Claude stares down at the letter in his hands and can’t help the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face.
It has been several moons since their little rite, and while some days he feels he still has not fully recovered (his very pride as a man had been tested in more ways than one in that damned cave) with the melting of the last snows it is becoming clear the ritual has indeed done something to the land. The cardinals and Linhardt are meticulous in their recordings, watchful eyes and ears keeping to the ground for any news for development.
Reports file in across Fódlan, but he knows the news his love is most interested in comes from the northern territories and she is not disappointed. At the first signs of spring the young lords, his allies and former classmates, all write of the miracle of fresh grass, of soft, earthy soil the likes of which the people have not seen in decades. The former Blue Lions, as well many other minor lords and retainers write excitedly about the promise of a coming harvest, the first bounty the land has provided in decades.
Claude relishes in the happy tears and grateful smiles as Byleth rejoices at the news, beyond thankful to have been able to give something back, something healing without violence or blood, marred by war and hate, to her ever faithful students.
When Seteth is told of the good news, the young king swears there is a knowing, content look that passes between him and Byleth, and even perhaps the smallest of smiles as he nods and congratulates them. The man looks lighter, somehow, as he tends to his duties. As if a great weight has been lifted from him, and he can breathe easier in the coming days.
Spring is in full bloom now, and news of the land’s restoration spreads across the nation, as the people, having suffered greatly these past five years, sing the royal couple’s praises. It is a sign, they call, a good omen clearly of a brighter, prosperous Fódlan under Claude and Byleth’s leadership and he couldn’t be happier for the positive feedback it is giving the new monarchs.
What’s more, their secret endeavor seems to have been fruitful in more ways than one.
Green eyes glance tenderly over at his beautiful wife, his guiding star and the goddess of his heart, as she basks in the Almyran sun. She soaks in the sunlight, a happy, peaceful smile gracing her lovely features as she rubs a soothing hand over the swell of her belly. Apparently, despite feeling as if she, and the land, had drained every ounce of his essence from him they had still managed their own little miracle. A gift for their hard work.
A gift shared by many, it seemed, as with the reports of flourishing agriculture they receive multiple letters from their friends and fellow Deer of joyous news, announcing their own soon-to-be new additions to their growing houses.
Hilda was the first to announce her newly discovered pregnancy after Byleth, then Marianne and Bernadetta. He waves the letter in his hand, catching his beloved’s attention.
“It seems we can add a certain Count Gloucester to our list of expectant fathers!” He announces, a sly grin creeping across his face. His eyes turn impish, “How shall we address our congratulations? Hmmm…”
“Claude…” Her warning is little more than a sigh as it caught on the soft spring breeze that caressed them both, a playful zephyr flittering about the room and teasing the mountain of paperwork on Claude’s desk.
“What? I feel a proper ‘Your welcome!’ would be most appropriate! Along, of course with a traditional gift basket befitting a noble of his standing, of course!”
Byleth laughs, and his heart swells at the sound of it. A pleasurable, happy indulgence the venture may have been but truly, Claude could not wait until the next time the entirety of the Golden Deer house gathered as he eyed the stack of growing pregnancy announcements.
He had bragging rights to claim, after all!