Chapter Text
Here’s how the bedtime story goes:
Once upon a time, there was a man - a strong man, a brave man - who gathered ten close companions to save the country, waging a war to end all wars.
History doesn’t articulate why the country needed to be saved in the first place (and from what), but indeed it was saved - at a cost. They lost their king in the process, whose sanity had been struck by madness. The ten warriors rose behind a new leader, Saint Seiros, who put the king to rest and saw the kingdom achieve the peace he’d dreamed of. So came to be the Ten Elites, whose descendents still watch over the land to keep the peace that was promised, following the guidance that the Saint Seiros set in religious doctrine.
And that’s where the bedtime story ends, because the rest of the story isn’t nearly as conducive to sweet dreams.
To be fair, the story also hits a bit of a pause at that point. If there is an almighty creator penning the fates of mortals, they clearly hit a writer’s block.
It takes about a thousand years for the story to continue and for the country to break out into rampant warfare again. Like nightmare brought to life, the mad king Nemesis returns from the dead to reclaim his land, his body a rotting corpse that understands only death. And with him comes his ever loyal companions, equally hideous, rising from the depths of the ground below to turn the world to darkness.
There is no mistaking the power of their crests, which exactly matches the well-documented descriptions of those of the Ten Elites. Their descendents rise against them, but the power of their ancestors’ blood has diluted over the course of a millenia and their crests - if present at all - have manifested in their minor forms.
The archbishop serving the Church of Seiros has been missing for a while at this point, but her stand-in uncovers long lost notes suggesting that the Ten Elites were never allied with Saint Seiros in the first place. That the Ten Elites had gone mad alongside Nemesis, or something , and Seiros and the Four Saints were the one to strike them all down.
Half the people don’t believe it. It’s too timely a discovery, they say. It’s a political move in which the Church is now attempting to distance themselves from the disaster that’s unfolding. The other half clings to the Church’s story, because what else could explain these heroes of legend now turning their swords against their descendents and the people?
But there is one thing everyone could agree on:
It’s a bad time to be a noble.
He believes in something in between: that there is some truth to the Church’s claims, but it’s only been revealed recently because it is to their advantage. Maybe when the Church was founded, they clung to the coattails of warriors that had been popularized by legend and song to assert their influence. And now that the warriors are proven corrupt, they are undoing their previous propaganda. But who could really say? A thousand years is plenty of time to forget facts and instead draft fiction.
He’s not even sure if he believes that the ten undead commanders are truly the original Elites, or if they’re just grotesque imitations. Not because he’s a proven descendent of the Riegan bloodline thanks to his crest, mind you. He’s not like Lorenz of House Gloucester, who rejects the theory because it implies that his ancestor might have been a force of evil, and his entire identity revolves around his noble status and how it is strictly good. No, Khalid - pardon, Claude is suspicious of the claims because - resurrection? Really? If the enemy really had the power to raise the dead, then fighting a war where strong men die is the worst possible strategy.
He has half a mind to leave the country himself. If he were younger, he would have. The art of running away is a skill he perfected at a young age. The common folk would prefer it, too. Since the rise of the Undead Elites, as they are now being called, commoners have wanted nothing to do with the existing ruling class. Get rid of the whole lot, they protest.
The thing is, they need him, even if they don’t want him. While he doesn’t care the way Lorenz cares about maintaining his status, he knows that you can’t just get rid of a system without having something to replace it. Otherwise, it’d just be - chaos .
And he’d be damned if he lets that new system be the Church of Seiros, so he stays where he’s not wanted, fighting a war that he doesn’t understand and drafting proposals for a government where he won’t be able to rule.
He meets her when he’s forming his battalions, preparing for the latest incision into enemy lines. Not that he notices her at first. She’s just another face in a herd of mercenaries-turned-soldiers as he gives a rundown of the overall plan - a plan upon which he’s pinned minimal expectations. All the cleverest mercenaries have long since abandoned Fodlan for safer pastures, even though Fodlan’s need for swords are great. He can’t afford to be picky with the leftovers; and besides, he needs them only to stall the enemy long enough for him to spring an attack elsewhere -
“No,” she says - and he stops mid-sentence.
He stares. “Pardon?” he says lightly, even though he’s reeling from the fact that some hired hand just interrupted him, as if she knows better than someone who has years of battle and tactical training fit for a literal prince of a warring kingdom.
She’s utterly unphased, calm and collected and cool, and her demeanor is all harsh lines and sharp angles that contrast with her ragged blue hair and soft features. She speaks delicately and yet confidently in a way that - to Claude’s great frustration - makes him want to listen to her, despite her impudence. “These formations indicate slow progression,” she says. “We need to move quickly if we hope to win.”
Her observation startles him - because yes, these formations were not built with victory in mind. But there isn’t a way for them to win the site, not with existing circumstances - so he had adjusted his strategy to minimize loss while still posing a threat.
Mercenaries - at least, the ones still left in Fodlan - don’t usually see through his plans. Scratch that, mercenaries these days never see through his plans.
He pretends not to understand her. Knowing that victory is out of reach usually promotes a less than invigorating morale for troops heading into battle. “If moving quickly towards your own death is your mission, then count me out, princess,” Claude says, throwing her his classic smile that’s disarmed plenty of women and men in the past. “Me? I prefer to get there slowly .”
It usually works - a bit of sarcasm to offend their ego and a charming grin to sedate it - generally leaving them confused, and therefore, more pliable.
It doesn’t work this time.
In fact, she hardly seems to notice it at all. “The enemy has technology far more powerful than our weapons - but they’re also far less mobile. Maintaining this formation means a contest of strength that we would lose,” she says plainly, entirely too unapologetic. “Instead, we need to focus on our mobility. We need to swarm and overwhelm.”
Claude frowns, glancing at the others in her group that seem far less surprised than he - as if this is the norm for this woman. Judging from her appearance, she can’t be much older than him, and yet she speaks like a veteran. Just who is she?
“Despite all the words you’ve said, I don’t think you used any of them to introduce yourself,” he says, pivoting. “What’s your name?”
“Byleth Eisner,” she states.
Eisner. He’s never heard of that surname before.
“The Ashen Demon,” supplies someone in the back, as if they’ve read his mind.
“The daughter of the Blade Breaker,” contributes another.
Byleth whips around and levels a glare that silences the entire battalion. It seems practiced, like this exact scenario has played out many times before.
Claude thinks that he’s maybe encountered those names at least, but he’s not as familiar with the remaining mercenary bands as other nobles might be. After all, he took over as head of his house in wartime - and with the current state of things, he hasn’t bothered to expend the energy to acquaint himself with their ranks. He doesn’t see the point, not when he hasn’t been afforded the luxury of being too choosy with his troops. There are other more important things to focus on - like the ongoing class war .
But prestige is definitely Lorenz’s thing, and Lorenz is the one who hired this crew for him - so maybe there is something more to this band of fighters. And to Byleth’s credit, her point is - unfortunately - entirely valid. He’ll have to spend another sleepless night this evening rearranging everything .
He’s exhausted just thinking about it.
“Byleth Eisner, the Ashen Demon, daughter of the Blade Breaker,” he says, addressing her by all her provided titles for no other reason than the impression that she might be annoyed by them. It’s hard to tell if it works when she shows little reaction. What would it take to phase this woman, he wonders? But instead he asks, “What’s someone like you serving as a sellsword instead of a tactician?”
“This is my crew,” she says - as if it’s an answer. As if being a mercenary is the only way to keep her team intact.
If nothing else, he finds her curious . He’s normally able to identify the edges of a personality - their vices, their weaknesses, their obsessions - with minimal prodding, but he can’t get a read on this Byleth character. If anything, he’s probably the one giving away all the tells, considering how he’s the one feeling floundered and frustrated, and he hasn’t been able to get her to emote at all .
“Walk with me,” he commands. If he’s resolved to stay up the whole night coming up with new strategies anyways, might as well hear what else she has to say on the subject.
And see if he can’t provoke her into expressing something. After all, everyone has an edge.
And Claude’s always been good at pushing people off it.
Every noble family has a different approach to the war.
Some noble families aren’t directly tied to the Ten Elites. House Aegir, which was defamed in Edelgard’s disastrous attempt at reform, is angling to be the image of a noble house of pure roots. House Ordelia has disappeared, either dead or in hiding - hopefully the latter.
Within the Alliance, House Daphnel has stepped down. Despite Judith’s prestige, her house had been losing influence anyway and so she renounced her political power, committing instead to fight the war as an ordinary military commander. House Goneril has since followed suit, but they retained command over Fodlan’s Throat because the common folk aren’t quite thick enough to entrust the Almyran border to anyone but Holst. House Gloucester is still desperately trying to retain their lands and - to Lorenz’s credit - serve their people, even while the people don’t want them to serve.
Not that Claude’s faring any better. He’s trying to keep all of the Alliance up and running, which - thanks to Judith and Holst stepping down - has gotten even harder . You can’t fight a war and revolutionize the political system at the same time - at least, you can’t if you want a government that’s not overpowered and designed for something besides wartime.
Lorenz tries to help him run the Alliance, though he has his hands full with his own territories. Hilda tries to help him come up with political ideas that might appease the people, but she skipped too many of her studies in the peaceful times of the past to be of much help. Still, he likes both of them better now than he did five years ago when they’d attended Garreg Mach’s military academy together under Professor Manuela’s tutelage, but - he hates to say this - they aren’t enough .
It’s disgusting that the Alliance isn’t even the worst off. The Blaiddyd line is finished, except for the purported original undead Blaiddyd that is still roaming Fodlan on his dark horse. House Gautier has followed House Goneril’s example except with Sreng to the north instead of Almyra to the east. And the remains of the Empire are scrambling after Edelgard’s ill advised attempt at collaborating with the enemy that had launched all of Fodlan into war in the first place.
Sometimes he wonders if this country is worth all his premature grey hairs - if there’s anyone sane in this country worth saving.
But then he thinks - if Fodlan loses this war, well. Almyra is right next door, and he refuses to have these Undead Elites as his new neighbor.
He realizes that Lady Luck might sometimes take pity on him with a blessing in disguise when he sees Byleth fight in battle.
It makes more sense now. She’s not meant to be holed up in a war room playing advisor to some noble ear. Seeing her in action is like seeing the manifestation of breath - the way she ebbs and flows, dodging and striking. He almost gets hurt himself at one point when he’s distracted watching her sword dance.
When they win the battle that Claude had previously decided was unwinnable, he says, panting and out of breath, “Where have you been these past five years?” Someone like her - he could’ve used someone of her ability during the war.
He wonders why she’s still in Fodlan when so many others have left. Not that he’s complaining, mind.
Her shoulders slump with exhaustion, and Claude realizes that this might be the first time he’s seen any sort of expression on her. “Fighting,” she says, running a rag on her blade to wipe off the blood. “Wherever my contracts took me.”
He’ll have to amend his oversight of not taking notice of renowned mercenary bands, Claude thinks. “How do I extend your contract with me into forever?” he says, and it comes out only a little flirtatious.
“I believe my contract is with Lorenz Gloucester,” she shoots back, sheathing her sword.
He’s never seen her as anything but stoic and aloof that he might be imagining the slight tilt of a teasing smile at the edge of her lips. It’s subtle and - yeah, he’s probably just imagining it. Hallucinations from post-battle adrenaline, maybe.
“I don’t often say this, but - you were right about the approach,” Claude admits. He’s usually the one with the strategies, and it throws him off to meet someone after all this time who might be better . He’s proud of his schemey ways, thank you very much, and it’s an insult to his ego that this woman exists . In fact, she’s managed to ignite a fierce competitiveness in him that he thought he’d manage to squash down years ago.
He wants to prove to her just how capable he is - how more than capable he is. That despite the fact her tactics are the reason for their most recent success, he can be just as good, and she should be impressed with him too, damn it.
But he’s also long since realized that he can’t manage this revolution on his own, so after a beat, he swallows his injury and says, “You should be leading armies, and your crew - they work well with you. They could be commanders of their own in your army.”
Because he recognizes the potential in her and she could be so much more than just a mercenary if only given the right opportunity.
Something flickers over her face. “I’ve been asked to pledge my services to other houses before,” she says. “I fight for my own cause.”
“Does your cause involve beating back the Undead Elites?” Claude returns, waving her concerns away. “I’m not asking you to pledge your services to me. The name Riegan is more of a curse with each passing day than it is a blessing anyways, and the entire nobility system is too brittle for you to throw your lot in with. Fight for your own reasons. All I’m asking - if I provide supplies and troops - will you lead them? Will you put your efforts into defeating Nemesis?”
Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but it looks like her blue eyes briefly flash to green. And then her jaw is set, and she nods.
“I keep my crew,” she states.
“General, I couldn’t pry them away from you even if I tried,” he says with a wink.
The days are getting shorter. Luckily, there always seems to be something on fire to illuminate the skies.
A field burns; the next day, a church burns. Then it’s a pile of corpses - a flaring beacon of death. Sometimes, it’s caused by the servants of the Undead Elite, leaving flames in their wake; sometimes, it’s caused by angry civilians displaced from their homes, lashing out with their torches.
When he’s tired, it gets hard for him to separate the two when the reports of their actions look so much alike. Who needs stars, he thinks wryly, when humans can make their own light?
One night, he wakes up when the waxing gibbous moon hangs high overhead because a large rock is thrown through his bedroom window, spraying shards of glass across the floor. Even though his bedroom is in a tower several floors up.
In the morning, he has all of his things moved to a more central room whose windows never get to see much sunlight.
“You recruited the Ashen Demon?” Ferdinand von Aegir is shocked. “Pray tell, you must share what you did to persuade her. I could not for the life of me convince her to join House Aegir’s efforts, no matter how many tea times I invited her to. And I know House Fraldarius similarly failed in their efforts.”
How like Ferdinand, Claude thinks, to believe that a few cups of tea should sway allegiance. “I didn’t ask her to fight for me,” Claude says dismissively. “I asked her to fight instead of me, really.” And it’s sort of true. He lets her keep the autonomy she wants, and her contributions have afforded him more time to chart out a new system of government. “Good call on hiring her band, Lorenz.”
Lorenz preens. “Of course I did - it is only right that we acquire the best for strategically critical battles.”
“Far be it from me to disagree,” Claude says, because the way to get along best with Lorenz, he’s since learned, is to afford him compliments whenever compliments might conceivably be due. Rather than boost his ego, compliments make Lorenz more agreeable whenever he is corrected - as if he trusts Claude’s judgments more if Claude verbally recognizes Lorenz’s supreme greatness . “But back on topic. Lorenz tells me that you’ve put some thought into a new societal construct, Ferdinand.”
He’s… apprehensive, to say the least, about this meeting. He doubts he’ll pull anything of use from the two students in their year at the Officer’s Academy that were the most in love with their own nobility. They’re too attached to the system that gave them a cushy upbringing to think outside of the box -
“I don’t know how much you are aware of the reasons that prompted the Empire to break out into war, but Edelgard’s visions were to build a world based on meritocracy rather than lineage before, she, well,” Ferdinand says, trailing off uncomfortably. Before she turned into a demonic beast and needed to be put down. “It forced me to consider the topic of political reform years before Nemesis rose and the commoners demanded our removal.”
All right. Claude stands corrected. He’s reasonably impressed.
“Historically, nobles have been afforded a life of privilege and comfort so that they may invest their energies into education and self-growth - so that they can be the informed leader representing the commoner’s best interests,” Ferdinand states. “At least, that is the aim of nobility as far as I see it.”
“Of course,” Lorenz chimes, pleased. “While a noble must service one’s house, they must also service the greater good.”
“That is… not entirely what I meant,” Ferdinand says, frowning. “The latter respect I agree is true, but in Edelgard’s world of merit, there is no house to serve.”
Silence hangs. Lorenz stiffens, his thoughts painfully spelled out in his posture: and what becomes of the noble houses then? The commoners do not want them any longer. A fortnight ago, they raided House Charon and a serving maid was killed in the crossfire. And the elites have shown that they do not care for their legacies either, when the undead wyvern lord bearing the Major Crest of Dominic cut down the mortal Baron Dominic in battle.
“There must be an institution,” Ferdinand says with finality, “in which the governors of the future are educated, like the nobility have been in the past.”
The problem: the commoners are revolting because they are afraid . They do not know what they want, and so Claude cannot give it to them. All they know is that they do not want this .
Even if the commoners did know what they want, Claude’s not convinced that it would be what they need . The two concepts so often masquerade as each other that they appear quite indistinguishable despite being distinct.
Though the meeting was enlightening, the only product of his meeting with Ferdinand and Lorenz are pages and pages of wasted notes. They circled around the same topics for hours, putting rules into play just to strip them back out. How would Ferdinand’s institution be funded, if not from the pockets of noblemen? And how could they convince the nobility to fund such an institution where their own descendents would be denied entry?
The whole ordeal makes his mind spin to the point that he finds himself in front of a training dummy, axe in hand, hacking and slashing until his physical exhaustion numbs his mind as well.
He’s wrapping up his training when a lance comes flying in from the corner of his vision, and he barely manages to scramble away in time.
“Leonie!” he yells, once his eyes focus on his orange-haired would-be attacker. “Yeesh, watch where you’re swinging that thing! You could hurt a guy!”
And hello to you too, he thinks. He hasn’t seen her face-to-face in a few months, as war had taken them to opposite sides of Alliance territory - and this is how she greets him?
“That’s the point ,” she says crossly, and Claude’s trying to think if there’s anything he’s done to piss her off. Leonie’s not usually the target of his teases - not that he’s had the time to make his own fun recently - but he never knows. He has the uncanny ability to upset and provoke people - sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally. “I heard from Ignatz, who heard from Marianne, who heard from Hilda, who heard from Lorenz - that you recruited the Ashen Demon ?”
First Ferdinand, now this? “You know of her, too?” Claude says, genuinely surprised.
“She’s only the daughter of Captain Jeralt !” Leonie almost screeches, apparently feeling too emphatic about the matter to remain still as her lance comes crashing down on the training dummy that had been the victim of Claude’s axe practice as well.
Now, Captain Jeralt he’s heard of - and how could he not, when Leonie brandished the man’s name in every other conversation back in their Garreg Mach days? Claude reaches into the back of his mind, but he can’t remember if Byleth was ever introduced as a relative of Leonie’s esteemed mentor. “I thought she was the daughter of the Blade Breaker,” Claude says.
“That’s - ” Leonie is too affronted for words for a moment, and she throws her lance at a target on the other end of the room. It hits near the bullseye. “ Ugh! The Blade Breaker is Captain Jeralt! How could you not know that?”
Claude holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry,” he says to appease her, though he’s not really all that sorry at all. Instead, he’s mostly amused - now that Leonie is directing her anger at targets other than him.
His merriment is short-lived, however, as Leonie picks up Claude’s axe and holds it over him threateningly. “Watch it,” Claude says. “Do you even know how to use an axe?” As far as he knows, Leonie is still a bow and lance kind of woman - and that she’s lording over him with a weapon she’s untrained in makes her even more terrifying in the moment.
“You will introduce me to her,” Leonie promises.
“All right, you’ve made your point,” Claude says, and Leonie drops the axe to the side. “You know you could’ve just asked nicely, too.”
The look that Leonie sends him says that no , she couldn’t have asked nicely.
“Doesn’t even know who the Blade Breaker is,” he catches her mumbling under her breath as she walks away, pulling her lance out from the target. She pauses before leaving the training grounds, turning around to face Claude. “I’m staying in Derdriu as your honored guest until you bring her around for me to meet.”
Claude privately thinks that that is the best way to make sure Leonie never leaves, no matter what she thinks might happen once she finally meets the descendent of her esteemed role model. (Has Leonie learned nothing from current events that legacy could be a curse? Not that Claude has yet noticed anything too alarming about Byleth, besides her uncanny ability to cut through bodies on the battlefield and her utter inability to emote - okay, well, perhaps that in itself is alarming.) At any rate, he resolves to schedule their introduction at some place decidedly not Derdriu.
“Why don’t you lend your skills to us for the next battle and meet Byleth there?” Claude offers.
Leonie freezes, and Claude thinks he might have outdone himself this time.
“Fight? Alongside the Ashen Demon?” she says disbelieving for a moment, before nodding once and turning right back around, rolling her shoulders out. Her jaw is set with determination. “I’ll have to train more, in that case.” She shines a bright smile at Claude, and it’s too gleaming for his liking. “Come on, Claude! Let’s spar!”
This is not the result he’s hoping for - at least, not when he’s already done his training and what he really needs right now is a bath and a nap. “Ahhh, look at the time - I’m late for a war meeting - ”
“Not a chance,” she says brightly, tossing him a training bow. “We’re going to be fighting alongside the only child of Captain Jeralt . Now, on your feet.”
Claude knows better than to mention that he’s already seen her fight; that he’s already fought alongside her in a battle, and that’s when he recruited her; that he once even dueled her in a training session, and that he got his ass kicked. So he begrudgingly picks up the bow.
It’s the fastest way to get this over with, he supposes.
Of course, news of Fodlan’s Undead Elites is a poorly kept secret.
According to Sylvain, recent Sreng invasions - like the recent Almyran ones - feel almost half-hearted, as if they worry that proving themselves too much a threat might draw the attention - and, consequently, the ire - of Fodlan’s latest monsters onto them.
Khalid , his mother writes,
I have informed our informants that the rumors they’ve procured on the happenings in Fodlan are merely that - rumors. For surely, if circumstances have become so dire, I would have heard tale firsthand from my son.
I worry, Khalid. For you. I know the man I raised is strong, but even strength has limitations.
You should know - the wild game is exceptionally bountiful this year, in time for the annual hunts. I regret that I should be so uncontested, for you are not here to challenge my score; and that there is no one here who enjoys my pickled rabbit skewers quite like you.
The homesickness that the letter awakens in him is almost debilitating, winding him like he’s stuck halfway in a Warp spell gone wrong.
Time suspends itself while his ambitions slowly regain control over his emotions of need and want . He’s promised himself that he won’t give up on Fodlan, not until he’s tried every last scheme that he can possibly construct. He will be resolute, even in the face of exhaustion.
He will not be a coward .
But his mother’s voice - even in writing - actualizes the distance he’s put between himself and home. The distance of six years plus a mountain range suddenly feels insurmountably steep, even if home had been an unkind place when he’d left it. After all, it is still home, and he is isolated, barred by a combination of his own hefty ambitions and a wall of wrong mountain faces.
It’s… lonely .
When had this happened? he wonders. It hadn’t always been this way. In the academy, he’d found a second home in the Golden Deer classroom, but that feels like a daydream that’s drifted further away than even Almyra. He’s kept up with individual members of his graduating class (albeit sparingly - most recent run-in with Leonie notwithstanding), but while traces of camaraderie linger, the sense of community is gone.
Forget when . How had that happened?
More importantly, how could he have let that happen?
The nobility’s fall from favor did not force a reckoning upon everyone, however. Marianne, for one, is relieved to shed her noble bloodline, and she’s been so far content serving as a medic on the frontlines of battle, if only to see to it that all the warhorses and pegasi are treated properly. Happier , even, than she’d been before, when she’d been burdened by the responsibilities of being a margrave’s adopted daughter.
But as far as Claude knows, she’s just about the only exception.
“So Leonie told me that you told Ignatz who told Leonie that we’ve recruited the Ashen Demon to our forces,” Claude says casually. “Never took you as a gossip, especially when the juice in question has me as a victim.”
Marianne blushes. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I didn’t think of it as gossip.”
Claude sighs. It’s impossible to tease Marianne, because there’s something about her sweet yet lonely disposition that tugs at every maternal instinct Claude didn’t realize he even had . And he can’t even feel properly annoyed about it, because it’s Marianne .
“It’s, uh, not your fault,” Claude says a little awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. He should’ve known better than to try to make fun like that. It really has been too long since he’d sought her out, he realizes. “But that’s not the point. I was wondering, what do you know about her?”
“About Leonie?” Marianne frowns, confused. “She’s very strong - ”
“ - and very willing to stab me with a lance, apparently,” Claude says, shaking his head. “But I wasn’t talking about Leonie. I was talking about the Ashen Demon.”
“Oh.” Marianne’s gaze finds the ground again, maybe out of embarrassment. “I don’t really know anything.”
He’s expected as much. “Well,” Claude treads cautiously, “would you like to meet her? I’d value your opinion.”
In particular, he wants to see how Byleth responds to someone like Marianne. While Byleth comes off more as a machine than person in most ways, her insistence on keeping her mercenary band - despite receiving numerous offers of hoity-toity positions among noble houses - indicates a deep loyalty that Claude finds curious. He wants to press into it. Like pressing on a bruise, just to see how much it hurts.
How far does Byleth’s loyalty extend? What sort of person earns her protection?’’
Byleth is someone who didn’t let her community crumble , Claude thinks. She’s kept her crew together all these years, refusing to join any noble houses that might risk her relationship with them - and he’s seen firsthand how that translates on the battlefield.
He feels incredibly slow-witted to have not come to the realization of the importance of teamwork sooner. This war must truly be wearing on him.
“My opinion?” Marianne echoes, and she looks more afraid than surprised. “I don’t think that’s worth much.”
“ I think it is,” Claude says crisply, leaving no room for argument. “So I’ll see you at Derdriu in a week.”
“A… a week,” Marianne repeats faintly, and Claude can tell that she’s unconvinced.
“A week,” Claude confirms more firmly. “Besides, my wyvern misses you. Aldebaran’s been throwing the worst tantrums lately - and what were those treats you used to sneak him? I haven’t been able to find anything like them anywhere.”
Marianne’s flush is brilliant, and Claude thinks maybe he shouldn’t have outed the fact that he was always aware whenever she’d spoil his wyvern behind his back. Oops. “I… they were of my own recipe. It’s very simple, I can’t make anything too complicated.” She hesitates, feet shuffling on the ground, before she looks back up with a nod, a hesitant half-smile on her lips. “Okay. I’ll see you in a week.”
Claude beams back at her. “I look forward to it,” he says earnestly. “I think Aldebaran will look forward to it even more.”
As he leaves, he pauses; then adds as if it’s an afterthought: “And bring Ignatz with you, so I can yell at him for putting me on blast with Leonie, will you? Thanks, Marianne.”
And if Ignatz is there, then Raphael will be there, presumably.
Now he just needs to find Lysithea.
As a side effect of the public’s disillusionment with aristocratic governance, petitions have turned into protests.
Claude exclusively travels by wyvern now, ever since Count Hevring’s carriage was overturned and his body hacked to pieces by blunt axes meant for chopping wood. Not that Claude thinks he’d fall to the same fate, if caught in a similar situation. He knows his way around a blade too well to be overwhelmed by untrained farmers-turned-highwaymen. But the less blood on his hands, the better. He can’t really blame desperate peasants from wanting to take action, even if he disagrees with their methods.
Even if their methods are incredibly counterproductive to his own goals.
The crowds outside are unusually loud today. He has to figure out what to do with the Riegan estate, and soon. On one hand, he can’t really justify living in these extravagant halls while the city outside is crumbling. On the other hand, the city outside wants to see him flayed alive, and the castle is easier to defend than any other residence in Derdriu that he might fuck off to.
“Any new chants?” Claude asks casually as he slides into his seat at the meeting table, propping his feet up. From what he can hear, it’s still the standard rotating demands of Down with nobility! and Turn yourselves in!
Nader frowns. “You know, you don’t have to deal with this.” Nader is only here because he is a better person than Claude could ever be, willing to respond to a made-up name and govern a people that aren’t his for no other reason than to be supportive .
But Claude is here because he’s not willing to give up on his dreams just yet, so he pivots and says, “Any news from Almyra?”
“Bah, well, you know those folks out east,” Nader says, as if he’s not one of them for the sake of whoever might be listening in. “They’re chalking all of this up as a civil war - and as disastrous as it’s going, this is the most Almyra’s ever respected Fódlan. Suppose they think that anarchy is a step up from being a nation of cowards.”
In other words, Almyra has no intention of assisting, despite Claude’s plea - and despite Claude’s second appeal sent directly to his mother. “We mentioned undead, legendary warriors from the past. You’re telling me no one in Almyra wants to prove themselves against that? ” It had been a frail hope, but Claude had thought that maybe if Fódlan and Almyra could find a common enemy in the Undead Elites, then they might also find commonality in each other.
Like he said. A frail hope for his ambitions, but a hope nonetheless.
“To tell you the truth,” Nader says, leaning in, “I think all their talk of Fódlani cowardice is just to cover up the fact that they’re scared.”
Claude can’t be too surprised. These are the Undead Elites, after all. Considering how Almyra has a habit of sending loved ones off into life-or-death battles, of course the idea of the dead coming back to slaughter the living would be terrifying. No matter how many feasts have been thrown to commemorate them.
He is, however, deeply disappointed.
“We’ll push on them harder,” Claude decides. If Fódlan falls, then the Undead Elites will be Almyra’s problem. Surely his father would see that , especially with Claude’s mother at his ear. Most likely, they’re waiting to see how Fódlan fares before committing any assistance - but Claude’s not sure how long they can wait, given how they’re barely treading the current tide of war. “Even if they’re willing to aid in just one battle.” It could be the deciding factor for a turning point.
Nader says nothing, but his frown is set deep.
“We’ll also need to send our criers out on runs soon,” Claude continues. “Commoners see this establishment as proof of noble extravagance, while their farms are being ripped apart. We’ll have to change their minds about it, if we don’t want a repeat of what happened to House Charon.” He drums his fingers on the wood of the table before decisively slamming a palm down. “Liquidate whatever furnishing we can, and use the funds towards a public stipend. We’ll have the criers publicize this and note that we’re repurposing this stronghold as a military facility.”
Claude pauses, thinking of what it would mean for the commoners if he turns Derdriu into a military capital. “Let’s also offer relocation to other parts of the Alliance,” he adds.
“This will be expensive,” Nader points out, “using gold that could be going towards sharper blades and training regimes.”
The crowd outside sounds like it’s only gotten louder. Claude’s able to pick out something that sounds like houses built on rotten… truths?
“We have to make some concessions,” Claude says, “while reminding the people that a revolution right now won’t help them defeat the Undead Elites.” He needs to earn the trust that the Church has lost, before the Church wins it all back.
Claude sighs, feeling older than his twenty-four years. “What else would you have me do?”
“What am I, Claude? What good am I?”
It’s late in the evening, and Lorenz has delved too deep into his wine goblet over dinner. It doesn’t happen often - they can’t afford to waste evenings drunk instead of strategizing - but yesterday, the west wing of the Gloucester estate burned down, reducing at least half the books in his family’s library to ashes; and this morning, the Undead Gloucester Elite had led an army into Gloucester territory, and -
Well. Claude perfectly understands why Lorenz chose tonight to retreat behind a wine bottle.
“Not what are you,” Claude corrects, taking Lorenz by the shoulder. “ Who are you.”
“What I am, who I am - what difference does it make,” Lorenz says, his syllables long and heavy, his vowels rolling into each other. “I’m a Gloucester . I’m… I’m…”
He trails off, his eyes unfocused for a long moment - and in the silence, Claude finally manages to pick apart the full rhyme that the commoners are chanting outside:
Houses built on rotten roots,
We don’t want them, we don’t want you.
One thing he does manage to do is to pull off a five-year reunion for the Golden Deer class, and he can admit that he’s a little proud of it.
Front and center is Leonie, who arrived far too early to be considered polite by any stretch of the word; and beside her are Lorenz and Lysithea, the latter of whom Lorenz had managed to track down and wheedle into attendance. Hilda, of course, has found a seat in the far back, which means that Marianne has a seat in the far back. Ignatz and Raphael meanwhile are somewhere in the middle - with what seems like an entire buffet table sprawling before them. An entire buffet table that must have been brought in, because Claude had not ordered catering for this meeting.
They’re not an impressive looking group, Claude knows, and he wonders what Byleth’s thinking as she looks over this ragtag company. If she’ll see what he sees when he looks at his old classmates: potential; honesty; loyalty .
Because after all of these years - after all that time apart, after all the war and pain - they all still came together, here . And there’s something about that which warms him more satisfyingly than cheap nostalgia ever could.
There’s still something here , he thinks. We still have something that ties us . And that inspires in him more faith and hope than he’d let himself experience in quite a while.
“I told you I’d provide more troops,” Claude says. “Well, here are some of the best that Leicester has to offer. Thought I’d let everyone get to know each other, see what you think.”
“Well, I’ll decide what I think after a fair fight,” Leonie says, bursting out of her seat. And of course she has her lance with her. “Care for a duel, Ashen Demon?”
Lorenz pinches the bridge of his nose. “ Please , Leonie,” he entreaties. “Allow the woman to introduce herself first.”
Byleth, however, merely holds up a hand - and impressively, the single motion manages to quell all further commotion. Fascinating . Claude usually manages to silence people only by confusing them into quiet, but Byleth hasn’t spoken a single word and she commands enough respect among this admittedly rowdy group to bring them to stillness.
“A duel is a very mercenary approach to judgment,” she allows, and Leonie positively preens - “with the caveat that good commanders must be more than just good mercenaries.” The implied: duels, as an approach to determining character, are insufficient. Leonie picks up on this, and a red flush creeps over her cheeks, looking very much like a reprimanded student. “That said.” She draws her sword and inclines her head, inviting Leonie to make a move.
Everyone else, with instincts refined by the fire of war, immediately scrambles out of the way. Lorenz mutters the entire time about proper etiquette of introductions, but no one pays him any heed. Certainly not Claude, who - for the first time - has the privilege of watching Byleth fight without the distraction of having to be in a fight himself.
And - she is beautiful. In fighting style, Claude means. He’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone so light-footed and swift, weaving through air as if space is immaterial. Her form is the envy of all fighting instructors - whenever she lands a pose, he finds nothing to critique, and her transitions are tight and dynamic and angled in such a way that makes her hard to hit -
It seems too soon that Leonie’s weapon is flung across the room with Byleth’s sword at her neck. They’re both breathing heavily, hair dampened with sweat - but Claude has no idea how much time has passed while he was entranced by her technique. What would it be like, he wonders briefly, to learn from her.
He’s never desired to be a mercenary before, but for the first time, he flirts with the idea - if just to have more opportunities to fight alongside her.
(How much stronger would they be as a collective, if they had her to teach them? If Byleth were to choose to adopt his old classmates into her company, and if his old classmates were to choose her right back?)
Leonie’s eyes are wide before she schools her face into stubbornness. Byleth, however, has a hint of a frown at the edges of her lips - so slight that Claude is only able to perceive it because of how much time he’s spent studying the different flavors of smiles.
“You fight like my father,” Byleth says, and her voice has a softer tone than anything he’s ever heard from her.
This manages to loosen Leonie’s expression. “Captain Jeralt?” All weariness transforms into new energy. “He was my mentor! How is he - ”
She falls silent when Byleth’s face pinches closed. If Claude thought Byleth’s facial expressions were indifferent before, then now they are steel. “He died. I couldn’t save him.”
“He…” Leonie falls backwards onto the floor, staring blankly ahead of her.
“There is a race of blank-skinned mages responsible for the Undead Elites,” she says, and Claude startles. More enemies to contend with? “They’re also responsible for his death.”
So. This is her motive. This is why she’s never joined any houses - because she doesn’t fight for status or for wealth. She fights for her personal reasons, among which is retribution .
It makes her more relatable, in a way. Even though Claude doesn’t fight for revenge, he can respect her for fighting for her own ambitions.
“They - ” Leonie struggles with an onslaught of emotions, flashes of each vying for expression: grief; fury; determination. She’s always been the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, making her impossibly easy to read. Leonie jumps to her feet, hands balled into fists. “I will fight alongside you. For Captain Jeralt.”
Byleth’s pupils unfocus for only a moment before they settle back onto Leonie. “You honor his memory,” she says finally. “Thank you for offering your aid.”
For a moment, it seems like Byleth and Leonie might further their bond, with the way Leonie’s lower lip twitches and wobbles even as she tries to maintain a resolute facade, and the way Byleth’s posture, stiff with memory, exhales ever so slightly. It’s not given any room to breathe, however, as Lysithea - to Claude’s surprise - breaks it.
The white-haired mage stands abruptly, face contorted with a look of suppressed fury. “Those mages have sown enough sorrow,” she declares. Her fingertips twitch and a deep violet energy begins to swirl around them - but then she clenches her hands into fists, and the magic is dispersed. Her eyes flicker closed, and she inhales deeply, regaining control of herself. “Now that my parents are safe, I am done with hiding. I will help you.”
Claude’s eyebrows knit together. Did she just - ?
This whole day, anticipation has been burning low in Claude’s stomach, continuously fed with tinder full of what if questions. But suddenly, it’s flared into a thrill that rips through his chest, because did Lysithea just volunteer to fight? Lysithea, the one who’d been near impossible to reach. The one who so completely disappeared along with her house almost as soon as war broke out that Claude had doubted whether she was still alive.
He’d expected Leonie to quickly volunteer to join Byleth’s ranks. But now Lysithea’s followed suit with absolutely minimal provocation, and that means -
That means maybe this will actually happen. Maybe he’ll actually manage to reunite the Golden Deer class into a balanced team of well-trained fighters and healers. A skilled and fully qualified battalion, rather than some loose collection of no-named mercenaries of mediocre skill, as he’d grown accustomed to dealing with - excepting, of course, Byleth’s band of fighters who together reminded him what a difference true teamwork can make.
And with it - maybe they could rekindle what they’d had in the academy days, before the war. Maybe they could even grow that into something better -
“Wow, is this the part where everyone volunteers to fight?” Hilda looks around, wide-eyed. “Well, count me out . Like Lorenz said, we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet. All we saw was just one duel.”
Damn . Of course she’d interject with something like this. He should’ve prepped Hilda beforehand to try coaching her to be less Hilda-like, for just this one meeting. (Could Byleth possibly coach the laziness out of Hilda, in a way that neither Manuela nor Claude - nor Holst, for that matter - had ever managed? Now, wouldn’t that be something to see.).
“And this is Hilda, our resident delicate flower,” Claude says, gesturing to her with a roll of his eyes. “There. Now you’re introduced.”
“That doesn’t count ,” Hilda complains. “And don’t you know it’s rude to call someone out like that?”
“What do you think, Marianne?” Ignatz cuts in - rather expertly, Claude thinks, because if there’s one person who can cut Hilda off mid-complaint, it’s Marianne.
“I…” Marianne’s pale blue eyes dart across the room, flickering briefly up to meet Byleth’s gaze before falling back down to the ground. “I’m tired of war.”
It’s a heavy silence that follows. They’re all tired of war. They’ve been run ragged across Fodlan, and now Claude is asking them to give so much more than what they have left. For a moment, that thrill of hope knots back into anxiety, because what if this is too little, too late? What if -
Then Byleth’s head tilts - almost like she’s listening to something that the rest of them can’t hear - and her face of steel softens into something more malleable. A look of… understanding?
She can emote , Claude marvels.
“Then help us end it,” Byleth says gently, extending a hand.
So, this is how someone like Byleth responds to someone like Marianne.
This is who he’s needed. Who they’ve needed.
When Marianne nods, Claude is momentarily overwhelmed by relief, and all of his what if questions fall silent. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted this until right now.
Community , he thinks. Commitment. To each other, and to Fodlan.
That’s what he’s been missing, and it was time to reclaim it back.