Chapter Text
Winters in Fódlan are tough. The passage of time slows to a slog, like a dying man's breath: every second is more drawn out, more excruciating than the last, that death's deliverance would be a blessing.
Daytime is long. Every morning Byleth drags herself to the Archbishop chamber on the second floor of Garreg Mach Monastery when stars are still in the sky for yet another day of everlasting torment, of bishop appointment and budget planning and ceremony oversight and spiritual instruction and meetings after meetings after meetings. By the time she bodily hauls herself out of the building and into the bone-chilling wind, her mind murky from all the paperwork and stale air, the sun is already long gone, leaving behind only a pitch-black night. Yet the nights are even longer. Colder, rougher. Byleth spends most of the time lying awake in the dark, waiting for sleep or dawn to come.
Months of sleep deprivation have taken a toll on her. It takes her a good minute to discern the source of the buzzing in her ears—not from the blooming headache, but another person.
"...Byleth. Byleth?"
It's Seteth. The realization jolts her out of her stupor. Byleth blinks. And blinks again. With some effort, she tears her gaze away from the inkwell on the desk that she must have been staring at for quite some time—or was it just the void?
"Sorry. I must have zoned out," Byleth says, apologetic.
A soft click. Something was placed on her desk. Her nose picks up more clues a second later. Mint tea, freshly steeped, with its spicy, sobering aroma. Her favorite.
Byleth manages a smile. "Thank you, Seteth."
She carefully avoids eye contact with him to spare herself from his concerned look and, before Seteth could begin his litany of self-care, clears her throat and steers the conversation back to its course.
"Remind me why you are here again, please."
An audible sigh from Seteth. Oops. Wrong move for Byleth. He's old and wise enough to see straight through her acts. She should've known.
Seteth, however, lets it slide. "I am here for your final review and approval of the corrected donation records for this past calendar year, 1188–1189."
"Oh," Byleth's posture straightens. "I'm sorry. Regarding that—"
"It is not urgent," Seteth raises a hand. "You are leaving for Fhirdiad tomorrow, so it can wait until after you return."
Byleth relaxes, slightly, and fights against the twinge of guilt in her stomach—she promised Seteth to have it done yesterday. She shakes her head.
"Consider it done. It will be ready by the end of today."
Seteth considers her for a moment. "If you insist."
The tone of disapproval is evident. Byleth lowers her head, silently bracing herself for impact.
"However, you should consider using this time instead to prepare yourself for the journey back to Fhirdiad and the visit to Duscur. Do not spread yourself too thin."
Byleth looks up. Her eyes widened.
"Just some advice," Seteth says, his tone now softer, more gentle. He gives Byleth a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You should consider taking some time off. If I recall correctly, it's been a while since you last saw King Dimitri."
Dimitri.
It's been a while. Byleth's heart aches at the thought. A very long time.
It's been one hundred and fifty-seven days.
Four is an awkward number: it is insufficiently long, yet also inadequately short. Four years is how much time has passed since the Reunification War ended, since Dimitri asked for Byleth's hand. It almost feels like a distant past, yet Byleth remembers that night like it happened yesterday.
It was the night before their coronation. A bit chilly, even by Faerghus' standard. Dimitri held her hand, and together they trudged the long, steep marble steps and ascended to the top of the Goddess Tower. From there, where they were the closest ever to the stars, at what seemed to be the top of the world: a love confession, two rings, flushed cheeks, kisses, vows, tears, laughs, rosy visions for the future. It was a very emotional moment. Dimitri, in particular, looked happy—exuberant, radiant, a little lightheaded from the extent and intensity of the happiness he thought he would never experience before that day. By the time the fire in the pit was reduced to smaller flames, making weak, low crackling sounds, trembling like petals that succumbed to the weight of the wind, they had cooled down from the ecstasy, sobered by the cold. Their breathing evened out, but their hands were still joined together. Byleth was staring into the wisps of smoke and ash, savoring the aftertaste of Dimitri's lips, when Dimitri began slowly rubbing circles on her hand with his thumb. He tightened his grip, only to loosen it immediately. Like her hand is the most precious, fragile thing that has ever come into existence, like the little happiness he's ever known was at risk of crumbling into dust.
"My beloved. Ahead of us lies a difficult path to tread," Dimitri spoke quietly, with heaviness, "And I'm being selfish for asking you to stand by my side and walk this path with me. I...I do not want you to sacrifice anything, or do anything against your will." His expression was grave, eyebrows knitted together with worry and trepidation.
What Byleth knew back then was what he struggled to put into words—his anxiousness, his fear, his doubt. He's been alone in the darkness for far too long that he questioned whether he could witness the breaking of a new dawn and deserved the future he dreamed to see.
But she will not leave him alone. She will not let him despair. She will rule this land justly with him—she in Garreg Mach as the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, he in Fhirdiad as the King of Fódlan—to bring prosperity and happiness to their people. She will see his dream come to fruition. She will see him no longer tormented by his past, see him finally happy, satisfied, fulfilled. She will not flinch from anything that awaits ahead, no matter how hard it gets, no matter the price it takes.
So Byleth squeezed Dimitri's hand and gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster. "Of course. I will walk this path with you together. Your dreams are mine and your ambitions are mine. No matter what we will be facing next." Her voice was steady with conviction. "Mark my words."
A sudden gust of wind blew past them. The flickering flame snapped and dropped dead. An inexplicable chill went down Byleth's spine, and her entire body shivered. Looking back, it was evidently—palpably—a bad omen.
Enough of the memories. Byleth sucks in a breath. There are happier things she can think about.
She thinks about the northbound journey back to Fhirdiad. She can ride out alone at daybreak and gallop across the thawing plains of Charon and Blaiddyd. The air could be cold and crisp, the wind howling loud enough to drown out all worries and sorrows. A fleeting moment of freedom on the journey back home. Byleth used to love riding horses—she practically grew up riding them, in her father's lap first until she was old enough to have a pony and later a full-grown horse. The father and the daughter wandered around Fódlan searching for mercenary work, rootless, but not homeless. Home, to her, could be anything, anywhere. Home was wherever she was with him.
"There's one more thing I'd like to bring to your attention."
Byleth has to rein in her thoughts. "Yes?"
"There have been some reports of unrest in western Faerghus," Seteth says solemnly, "Specifically, Elidure, Duval, Mateus, Gideon."
Western Faerghus has always been a difficult thorn to Dimitri's reign—staggering post-war rebuild efforts, frequent clashes between war refugees from Adrestia and local citizens, and flimsy loyalty from the western lords. If Dimitri has been losing a considerable amount of sleep over it, he never told Byleth in detail and only said "all is well" in his letters. But she's worried that he has been.
Byleth sighs. "I saw the reports. They mentioned recent spikes in skirmishes in those regions. My impression was that they are nothing of great concern."
"Based on the information our intelligence network has gathered as of now, that is. We are still learning more about the situation. In the meantime, I would strongly advise you and King Dimitri to take the precautions needed. Allow me to make a suggestion—let the Knights of Seiros accompany you back to Fhirdiad."
"That won't be necessary. I can protect myself." Byleth purses her lips.
"I know what your heart desires," Seteth says, a lot more serious this time. "But we simply cannot afford the risk. The last thing we need right now is more political unrest and uncertainty."
Byleth stays silent.
Outside the window of her office, the sun is sinking in the far west. It bleeds a startling orange and red in a futile last attempt against its destined trajectory. In the evening, wolves in the mountain will leave their hideout in packs and start hunting. Faerghus is still covered in frozen layers of snow. Lone Moon is still far too early and far too cold for anything to grow. There's no one she could follow around anymore. Jeralt has been dead for almost a decade by now.
"I will," Byleth hears herself say. "Thank you, Seteth. I appreciate it."
Byleth spends the next few hours checking every entry in the donation records. She checks them again, and again for the third time. When she finally steps out of her office, it's dark outside again. Students and faculty members of the Officers Academy have already retreated to their rooms, save a few studious ones at the training ground or the library. Garreg Mach is quiet at night. A lone, hazy moon, a few scattered stars, the horizon weighing down and smothering everything with stillness, silence, and nothingness.
The lantern she holds glows weakly, too dim for the overwhelming darkness. But Byleth doesn't mind. She has walked this path too many times. She could be blind and will still find her way to the exact place she's heading toward, to the solitary plot of land behind the Knights' Hall, to the graveyard, to the humble headstone where her parents are buried six feet beneath.
"Sorry, dad. And mom," Byleth whispers, "I'm late."
The last bouquet of valerians—her parents' favorite—she left there has withered. Byleth takes some time to remove all the dead, half-frozen petals, twigs, and tree branches before putting down fresh ones. She runs a hand through the headstone, tracing every stroke of the etched names. A thin layer of snow that has frozen into ice covers the headstone, numbing her fingers and palms. She presses her lips gently onto the icy marble, once for each name, like asking for permission, before she allows herself to sink to the ground, back against the icy marble. Her body is trembling. Yet she holds her chin up high, stubbornly fighting back the tears, and looks up at the horizon.
A few more hours, before daylight returns. A few more hours, before she needs to somehow put herself back into those oversized shoes called the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros and the Queen of the entire continent of Fódlan, a life of perpetual paperwork and public scrutiny and everything she's not meant for. A few more hours, before she has to recollect herself so she doesn't lose it, bottle up her feelings so they don't spill. A few more hours, before she must hold her head high in the spotlight, toughen up, and stay strong. Strong enough to scorn the ghosts and shadows in her dreams, strong enough to be there for her people, for the kingdom, for the person she loves—for Dimitri, who's waiting for her to come back home. She needs to be there for him, she needs to be strong enough for him. She has to. She must be.
There's a storm of emotions brewing inside her. Pushing back against it would be a conscious, painstaking effort. But there's no one around. She could, probably, afford to allow herself a selfish moment of vulnerability. Let it rain, let it storm, before the sun rises. Byleth hugs her knees, resting her chin on them, and whispers into the wind.
"Hey, dad," she says, and her voice finally breaks. "Happy birthday."
What Byleth didn't know back then was how difficult it gets. Life as the Archbishop, caged within the premise of the monastery, has been a complete antithesis of everything she had known. Fighting and strategy are her forte, but not politics and paperwork. Seteth marked the draft of her very first budget planning proposal with red ink all over the place and had to coach her privately through her entire first year of tenure to educate her on the very basics. It's been a few years since, and she still feels inadequate.
It hurts more, however, that she barely gets to see Dimitri. They've spent most of their married life apart from each other. The few days they spend together are rarely for themselves either. There's always something more urgent, more important—council meetings, speeches, treaties, ceremonial duties—that takes precedence over everything else.
The last time Byleth went back to Fhirdiad, Dimitri had planned for them to go horse riding in the pine forests on the outskirts of the Blaiddyd territory. Both of them had looked forward to it, until, hours before their departure, news of fighting breaking out near the Sreng-Gautier borders threw everything in disarray.
Dimitri kept apologizing to her, in between summoning frantic-looking lords, generals, and advisors in and out of his study. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
It was not the first time it had happened. Far from it. Dimitri looked just as frustrated with it as with the current political situation that demanded his immediate attention. So Byleth simply swallowed her disappointment, shook her head, and reassured him repeatedly.
"It's not your fault. If there's anything I can help with, do let me know."
There's enough on Dimitri's plate. There's always too much on his plate at any given moment. Byleth doesn't have the right to give him more—it's the last thing she wants to do. It is for the better, Byleth thinks, to shove her own feelings and struggles aside: like how difficult it's been to simply get through each day, how frequently the dead from the war haunt her in her dreams, or how desperately she misses Dimitri when she dreams of him, on one of the few good nights, and wakes up to see the other side of her bed empty. She keeps them all close to herself. She resorts to other forms of solace: reading letters from Dimitri in the dim moonlight, tracing the dents in the paper with her fingers, lingering a little longer at the faded ink, small tears, and cross-out words, wondering if he's been sleeping well and if he still has troubles controlling his strength. Every day, she walks by the murals painted near the renovated entrance of the Garreg Mach Monastery, at the abstract, imposing figures of the Guardian of Order and the Savior King, glowing gloriously in the morning light. They looked nothing like Dimitri. Or herself.
Provided that everything goes well, they might get to spend some quality time together when they travel to Duscur. Perhaps they'd have more opportunity to talk, to go in-depth on Dimitri's general health and wellbeing. But Byleth is keeping her expectations low. After one hundred and fifty-seven days, all she wants now is to see Dimitri in the flesh. She will run straight into his arms when she sees him. Hold him tight. Feel the heat radiating from his skin that she's been yearning for so long. Caress his cheeks. Kiss him. Tell him how much she misses him, how much she loves him. The thought of hearing his voice and feeling his warmth is the only thing that makes the long carriage ride back to Fhirdiad somewhat bearable. The thought of going home.
The sun is already hanging low on the horizon when Byleth trudges up the long flight of stairs to the Royal Castle in high spirits—something she hasn't felt in a very long time. In a few hours, everything will go dark again. Another night. But this will be a different night.
There's a small group of knights coming in her direction. Byleth's heart nearly jumps to her throat at the sight. She can't help but feel the corners of her lips quirking upwards.
The knights approach her. She sees no hulking blonde man in a blue-and-black cape and silver crown.
Dimitri is not there.
For an infinitesimal moment, Byleth's smile visibly freezes. She forces herself to swallow her disappointment and recalibrates the smile into something more amiable.
"Where is King Dimitri?"
"I apologize, Your Grace," the leader of the group of knights, a young girl whose mannerism reminds Byleth of Ingrid, walks up to her and bows. "His Majesty is still at the council session, and it is running behind schedule."
She should've kept her expectations low.
"Thank you. It's alright, I can wait nearby." Byleth says, after recollecting herself. "Lead the way, please."
The castle servants offered her some tea and refreshment, to which she declined. She's tired from the trip, but the last stretch to the finish line is making her too anxious to stomach anything.
She accepts a chair and waits for him outside of the Council Chamber. It doesn't take long before she forgets her seat for good and begins pacing the halls. Time seems to stretch on forever. Byleth considers herself a master at patiently waiting for something to end—meetings, ceremonies, long nights, for instance—but every additional second she spends meandering aimlessly in the endless, noiseless, windowless hallways of the castle, merely a single wall away from her beloved, makes her more and more restless.
The sealed door to the chamber finally creaks open. Byleth stops dead in her tracks. Hordes of meeting attendants begin to shuffle out of the room. She recognizes some familiar faces, most of them her former students—Lorenz, Ferdinand, Marianne, Lysithea, and a few others—whom she should greet. Byleth doesn't bat an eye and cuts straight through the crowd. Her court etiquette teacher would be soundly dismayed, but her mind has no room for anyone else but one. Her beloved, who is standing on the other side of the room, meticulously organizing paperwork and books left on the table.
"Dimitri!"
Dimitri lifts his head. The book in his hand slips from his grip.
"Byleth—beloved—"
Byleth closes the last stretch of the distance between them. Throws her entire weight into his arms.
Dimitri lets out a small, surprised gasp, arms immediately wrapped around her body, cocooning her in warmth—so much warmth, enough to make her body melt. The moment almost feels too surreal. There's too much emotion flooding in all at once. Seiros, the dam is now so precariously close to breaking.
She manages to hold the waterworks back, however, and buries her face in his chest, hungrily and greedily breathing him in and feeling him.
Dimitri's hold becomes tighter. She hears him inhaling deeply.
"My dear beloved," he says, voice shaking. "Byleth—I've missed you. I miss you so much...so very much."
"I've missed you, too." is all that Byleth can get out before her own voice nearly breaks.
It would be nice if this moment could last longer—if it could last forever. She lingers in his embrace a little longer than usual, before she lifts her head to take a better look at him. His hair has grown. She tucks away a loose strand of blond hair behind his ears. Dimitri sheepishly grins. Byleth's heart swells at the sight. She can't let herself get too carried away with the joy, however, or it will blind her from seeing the warning signs. She reaches her hand further up to caress his cheeks.
"How have you been?" Byleth asks.
She looks Dimitri up and down, searching for any evidence, any sign that indicates any good-natured dishonesty. Dimitri wears his heart on his sleeves, but never the negative ones. Never the hurt, the pain, the anguish. He tends to keep them away from the light of day, to keep them sealed, caged. There are dark circles under his eyes. More deepened lines on his face. But, overall, he seems well.
Byleth lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Have you been taking good care of yourselves while I am away? Have you been eating well? How is your sleep?"
Dimitri's hand covers hers. "I've been well, my love." He closes his sole eye and holds her close again. His breath brushes against her forehead, heavy, a little strained.
Ok—scratch that. He is definitely not well. Byleth bites her lips.
Dimitri sounds stressed. She immediately starts to iterate through all the possibilities. Is it the council session? Is it the new economic policy she heard he will be enacting in Galatea? Or is it something else she somehow has missed?
"Dimitri. Be honest with me. Tell me what's been troubling you."
Dimitri's breathing evens out eventually. Byleth feels the vibration of his throat before the sound reaches her.
"I'm sorry," Dimitri says, apologetic. "It's been a very long day. But you don't need to worry about me." His smile is genuine. But his smile has always looked genuine.
"We've gone over this several times. Between you and me, there is no need for apologies," Byleth says. She looks up and stares straight into Dimitri's eye. "Really."
Dimitri shakes his head. "Really. I'm fine. You don't need to fret over me. It must have been a long day for you too, and I should be asking you the question instead." He considers Byleth for a moment, and his eyebrows raise slightly before they furrow. "How have you—"
That's when they hear a knock on the door. Dimitri and Byleth exchange a look. They let go of each other at the same time.
It's the voice of a young man outside of the door. Must be one of the royal guards. "Your Majesty. Duke Fraldarius and Margrave Gautier in the study, waiting for your presence."
"I will be there soon." Dimitri gives Byleth an apologetic smile, but Byleth already has her hands on him, fixing his cloak and shirt collar. Dimitri's face turns bright red.
"Byleth, it's alright. You don't need to trouble yourself—"
Byleth flattens the last wrinkle in Dimitri's shirt. "Should I excuse myself?"
There's still a long way to go to fully reunite the continent—years, decades of hard work. Plenty of people still have, at best, ambivalent feelings towards the Church, and it will take some time before they eventually soften. Byleth has learned this the hard way. She now delicately navigates around politics like walking on thin ice, keeping herself distanced from the governance of Fódlan to avoid setting off yet another round of discourse on secularization amongst ex-Adrestian and ex-Almyran nobles.
To her surprise, Dimitri says, "No. I think you have every right to be here for this one." His knuckles gently brush Byleth's cheeks, tracing the slope of her cheekbones.
"I see. It's about the Duscur trip then."
"Yes," a pause, "And some other news."
"You mean the unrest in western Faerghus."
Dimitri nods. "Sylvain has gathered more intellect on it. I don't know much about the severity of it yet."
The anxiousness inside Byleth is rapidly swelling. She's having a bad feeling about this. Dimitri gives her arm a reassuring squeeze.
"I would love for you to be there, merely because the situation may impact our travel plans and logistics. But only if you are not too worn out from your travels." Dimitri says, his eyebrows are knitted together again. "You look...troubled."
"We can talk later," Byleth says, ignoring his inquiry. "Don't keep Felix and Sylvain waiting. Let's go."
Duke Fraldarius and Margrave Gautier are childhood friends and polar opposites of one another. Their differences go well beyond their hair colors and other physical characteristics, but they complement each other well. When Byleth and Dimitri arrive in the study, they find Sylvain sitting in an armchair, pondering over what looks like loose sheets of reports in front of him on the desk. His fingers are absentmindedly tapping at the desk—a nervous habit, one of the few things he never managed to shake off. Felix is—uncharacteristically—not standing by Sylvain's side. Instead, Felix is at the other end of the room, and he looks intense. He looks intense on a normal day, but today he looks like he's been running on fumes. Looks like he's been pacing around this tiny room for an eternity.
Sylvain notices their presence and looks up from the reports. Byleth is about to tell him to skip the formalities when he greets, "Your Majesty, Your Grace." without rising from his seat.
Felix stops dead in his tracks. He shoots a sharp glance at Dimitri. Shoots another one at Byleth. He crosses his arms. "Where have you been." Sharp words with a slightly softened expression.
"I'm sorry, Felix," Dimitri says, cordial. He doesn't mind Felix's attitude. Never has been. And neither does Byleth. He helps himself and pulls two chairs out next to Sylvain, one for himself, the other one for Byleth. Byleth takes a seat.
This is usually when Sylvain says something silly ("Aww, Felix. Be nicer and cut them some slack, they haven't seen each other in ages.") to Felix to lighten the mood. But the joke doesn't come. Dimitri and Byleth exchange a quick look, neither of them able to pinpoint the cause.
Byleth anxiously shifts in her seat.
"What's going on with western Faerghus?"
"Huh. So you've heard. Props to Shamir and her intelligence network at Garreg Mach, I guess." Sylvain makes a small smile. It quickly disappears, along with the brief lightness in his tone. "We received some additional reports on the situation. Felix and I were looking at them earlier."
"Thank you," Dimitri reaches for the reports and begins flipping through them. "Is there anything particularly worthy of note?"
"Our previous suspicions have been confirmed. Unrest in Elidure, Duval, Mateus, Gideon. All the usual suspects. Civilians in the area have been reporting an increasing amount of skirmishes over the past month, twenty-seven percent higher than normal," Sylvain says, "Well, I wouldn't travel to Faerghus during Lone Moon for trade even if you pay me for it, yet there have been sightings of—excuse me—sorry—" A sudden coughing fit forces him to stop.
"Some 'merchant guilds' from Dagda. Or wherever the hell they claim to be from," Felix continues, his eyes now glued on Sylvain. Byleth doesn't even recall when or how Felix made his way to Sylvain from the other end of the room. "There's also a surge in sales for weapons, armors, and potions in the area."
"So they have access to resources. But not enough," Byleth comments. There are too many ongoing threads. She needs to pick the more important one to focus on.
"Sorry about that. Just a cold," Sylvain says, right before Dimitri could ask. "As to who they are, I'm willing to bet it's our old friends from Adrestia. A last-ditch effort to avenge their fallen empire." And their dead emperor, whose name no one in the room would voluntarily bring up. Byleth can't help but give Dimitri a worried look. She's somewhat relieved to see him frowning but otherwise undisturbed.
Felix drags out a chair for himself next to Sylvain, though he doesn't sit down. "And there's been an unusual amount of purchase of highly poisonous herbs. A lot of small-size weapons, too. Daggers, shortsword, light shields. Things that won't be much of use in a formal battle."
All the pieces are falling into place. A fact that Byleth is struggling to grasp, or unwilling to face.
"You mean—" Byleth blinks rapidly, her voice taking on an edge.
Felix delivers the final blow. His fists are clenched. "Right. An assassination plot. Targeted at the King. Cancel the trip, Dimitri."
Byleth's mind goes blank. She hears Dimitri exhale.
"How many are aware of this information so far?" Dimitri's voice, calm. His hand finds its way to Byleth's. She barely realizes how much time has elapsed, or how cold and clammy her hands have been.
"Besides everyone here? Not a single soul," Sylvain says.
"I see." Dimitri's still calm. His hand applies a bit more pressure onto Byleth's hand, a reassuring gesture. Byleth doesn't know what to make of it. "I appreciate the concerns—I understand they came from a good place, with good-natured intentions and concerns about my safety and wellbeing. This situation will cause some complications, however," he pauses. "We will continue as planned with the Duscur diplomatic trip."
"What the hell did you just say?" Felix snaps, incredulous. He looks like he's about to combust. Byleth sucks in a breath, dazed, speechless.
"I've made my decision. I am heading to Duscur," Dimitri clears his throat. "I understand your concerns, Felix. But you don't need to fret over me. Assassination plots are no news to me, and both myself and our knights are experienced in handling such situations. As you are well aware, the reconstruction effort in Duscur is coming to fruition, and this diplomatic trip is crucial to—"
"This is not the place for some grand speech, Dimitri. Which part of this do you not understand? There's a known assassination plot." Felix looks wild. "The trip to Duscur has been announced months ago. There are only a few routes you can travel to visit Duscur, all of which go through western Faerghus territories. You are practically telling the assassins to come for your head. Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Dimitri doesn't flinch from his wrath.
"Felix, I will be fine. Repairing our relations with Duscur is a cause I hold dear near to my heart. It is my honor, my duty, my responsibility. It's what I owe to the citizens of Duscur, what I owe to all who died that day and to the living, and I bear this burden gladly. Even if the worst should happen, I—"
The worst. The words strike like thunder exploding in Byleth's ears.
"Shut up. Don't you dare—"
"Felix." Sylvain grabs Felix's wrist.
Felix inhales sharply. "You. Are you not going to stop him? From this pure madness?"
For a second, Byleth thought the question was directed at Sylvain. But she meets Sylvain and Felix's gaze.
"I—" Byleth stumbles on her words. Her mouth is dry. She finds it difficult to breathe. It takes every single fiber of her being already just to tell herself calm down calm down calm down. To stop her mind from racing and thinking about the worst.
Dimitri is still holding her hand. His grip is strong, his eye full of resolve. Like when Byleth promised him four years ago. We will walk this path with you together. Your dreams are mine and your ambitions are mine. No matter what we will be facing next.
Of all the people, Byleth should know better. What Dimitri will choose. What he wants. What will let him make peace with his past, what will make him happy, satisfied, and fulfilled.
Dimitri is looking at her, expectant, hopeful. She inhales. Exhales. Inhales again.
"I—I have feelings about the decision," Byleth says finally, struggling to keep her voice level. "However, this is not my decision to make. Dimitri is the King. He is fully capable of making his own choice. And I, as his Queen, will support his choices."
Felix slams the intelligence report on the table. "I am not fucking sending Dimitri or our knights out when we know there's a—"
"Felix." Sylvain rises from his seat and loses his balance.
All three pairs of eyes in the room snap to him. Felix grips his arm to steady him before he manages to hold on to the edge of the table.
The room falls silent for a moment. Nothing but Sylvain's ragged pants for breath. The air is thick with palpable tension. Felix's been acting strange today—the most prickly he's ever been since he took over the Dukedom—and throwing shit at everyone and everything in his way. Byleth has been wondering about it. Something finally registers when she spots Sylvain's unusually pale face and thin frame.
Byleth and Dimitri exchange another look.
"Sylvain," Dimitri breaks the silence, concerned.
"I understand your wishes, Your Majesty, and I respect your choice," Sylvain says softly after he manages to catch his breath, ignoring Felix's dagger eyes. "I think we can make this work. So hear me out." He grabs a marker and places it down on a map of Fódlan spread out on the table.
"The route we planned originally goes through Blaiddyd, Ifan, Pryderi, and Gideon because the road and weather conditions in Pryderi are generally a bit less than ideal. But this also means that the assassins will have a harder time reaching us." Sylvain traces the routes on the map with a finger. "Well, we know now that everything southwest of Gideon and Gideon itself is trouble, so we will avoid going into Gideon altogether and go through Pryderi instead. This will add, I think—"
"Two extra days to the trip," Felix helps him finish. "And you need to traverse through mountains and forests instead of flat land, or you'd be an obvious, stupid target begging for death." The edge in his voice is still evident. Supporting Sylvain's weight with one arm, Felix rubs his face with his free hand, looking deflated. Exhausted.
"Right. And we would need to send an envoy to reach Dedue and Ashe in Duscur, and inform them that there will be a delay. We'd also need to map out new stops and rest points with this route. I will speak to Ingrid about it later. How does this sound, Your Majesty?"
Dimitri nods. "Solid."
"Let me or Ingrid accompany you," Felix says. The tide of the battle has already turned, but he's not the type to go down without a fight.
Sylvain—the option Felix has deliberately left out—says, "Both you and Ingrid are needed here in Fhirdiad. You know that, Felix. Ingrid needs to guard the Royal Castle and train new knights, and you need to be here with Duke Ifan to take care of everything else in the King's absence. Besides, don't forget—our queen will be there with him." He gives Byleth a meaningful look.
Felix's attention jolts back to Byleth. So does Dimitri's gaze. Byleth latches onto the opportunity.
"Yes. I'm also bringing the Knights of Seiros along," she says, determined, "I won't let Dimitri be harmed. Not under my watch."
She needs to say it to end the discussion and seal the deal. Perhaps she also needs to hear it too, so she can shove her fears aside and steel herself.
Dimitri says, "I don't have any objection. Thank you, Sylvain. And thank you...my beloved. Thank you for trusting me and standing by my side."
Byleth gives Dimitri a small smile when their eyes meet. The way Dimitri says it with so much affection, sincerity, and relief makes Byleth's heart ache. She can't bear the thought of letting him down or the thought of losing him. No. She won't let it happen. She's strong enough to protect him. She must be, she will be. Worse comes to worst, she will turn back the hands of time, over and over again, until Dimitri is safe.
"Anytime, Your Majesty, Your Grace," Sylvain says, looking just as relieved as Dimitri. He squeezes Felix's shoulder—the two of them seem to have their way of communicating with their body language, too. "As long as we take all the necessary precautions, it's going to be fine. I mean, with our professor, the Ashen Demon, and His Majesty himself, no one is going to be able to lay a finger on—ngh."
A pained expression flashes across Felix's face.
"Shut up. Just—stop talking, you idiot. Or your wounds will never fully heal."
Dimitri's eyes widened with surprise. Felix scowls at him before he gets the chance to inquire. Felix adjusts his posture so that Sylvain, who's looking paler than before, can more comfortably lean his weight into him. He's looking at Dimitri when he speaks, but his words are directed at Byleth. Pointed, poignant, a dagger plunged straight into her heart.
"Then I hope you won't regret this."
By the time their meeting ends, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, and night has once again consumed everything. It's long past time for proper dinner. Dimitri and Byleth opt for a modest meal of bread, butter, and onion gratin soup.
Normally, their first dinner after their reunion would be filled with laughter, and afterward, they will tirelessly into the wee hours until one of them eventually falls asleep in the other person's arms. But the ominous news today still looms over them. They talk sporadically about their worries for Sylvain and Felix, the places they'd like to visit in Duscur, and what they've been up to lately (Byleth keeps her part brief and skips all the details). The rest of the time is spent in companionable silence.
The bread has been reheated too many times, so dry and brittle now it feels like sand scraping her throat whenever Byleth swallows. Byleth can barely taste anything else. Too anxious, too restless to stomach anything. She puts her spoon down when the soup bowl is still more than half full.
She keeps chewing on Felix's words, even after she kisses Dimitri good night.
Then I hope you won't regret this.
Byleth does not fall asleep right away. Too many thoughts—Felix's words, in particular—emerge from the depth of her consciousness the second her attention drifts away from her breathing. One of the rough nights again. She begins taking deep breaths, every single one of them deliberate. One, two, three, four, five, inhale. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Repeat. Inhale, exhale.
This has been her go-to trick on particularly bad nights. She's known it forever and known it like how every fish knows how to swim and breathe with its gills without ever choking on water. But wait, she's not a fish, so who taught her—oh, right, Jeralt. Jeralt taught her anything she needed to know to survive. How to crawl, how to walk, how to hold a sword, how to aim for the heart. How to force yourself to close your eyes and sleep so at least your body and muscles are ready to haul yourself out of bed in the morning to survive and fight on tomorrow. And where is Jeralt? Right, where is he? Can't you see—he's right there. A body lying in the mud, the rain pitter-pattering on his ashen face. Dying. You cried. That was the first time you cried. You never told him how much you loved him because you thought you'd be with him forever. You with your unbeating heart, you with your divine power of the goddess. Can't even rewind time fast enough to save your own father from dying. Stop crying. It's all your fault. You are doomed. You are going to lose everyone you've ever loved and who has ever loved you. Right, like him—
Byleth jolts awake, her eyes snapping open. It's dark. Total darkness shrouds her. It feels damp. Everything feels damp. And sticky. The sheets beneath her, her garments, her hair. Thank goddess it doesn't feel like blood—doesn't smell like it.
There's a body next to her.
Byleth nearly suffocates from the overwhelming rush of irrational panic. But then she hears breathing from Dimitri, soundly asleep.
Byleth heaves a heavy, controlled sigh and relaxes, waiting for her pulse to even out. If she's hearing it right, Dimitri is even snoring a little bit.
Byleth smiles despite herself, relieved. She contemplates kissing him on his forehead or giving his hand a tiny squeeze, but Dimitri's a light sleeper. So she stays perfectly still and waits for the crack of dawn.
The sheets beside her begin to rustle.
Dimitri is waking up. Byleth immediately turns to her side, her back against him, so he won't be able to see her face.
"Byleth?" Dimitri's voice is low and soft, heavy with sleep that's quickly dissipating. Byleth hears him inching a little closer to her side of the bed.
"Sorry." She covers her eyes with one arm, keeping her voice carefully level.
Concern seeps into Dimitri's voice, the drowsiness now fully gone. "Are you alright?"
"It's nothing. The duvet is too warm."
There's a prolonged silence. Byleth bites her lips, realizing that it's a terrible lie.
"...I suppose it is warmer than usual," Dimitri says eventually. "Would you like me to change the sheets?"
"No, that's alright."
There's more rustling from behind her back. Dimitri drapes an arm over her body and runs his free hand gently through her hair. Byleth can't see his expressions, but she knows, from the carefully orchestrated rhythm of his motions, that he must be searching for words to say, trying to bring her some solace.
A twinge of guilt gnaws at Byleth.
"Sorry for waking you up," she says, still turned away from him. "I am fine." Even though she is not.
The arm around her tightens. Dimitri's large hand finds hers, a little hesitant at first, and gives her hand a firm squeeze. He kisses her hair.
"I see...I understand." Something in Dimitri's voice changes imperceptibly. "I've been wanting to talk to you about it for a while." A short pause. "Please let me know if I can be of any help. If there's something—anything—I can do for you, I will be here. I promised you, and I will stay true to my words." Another pause, longer. "If you will allow me."
Byleth feels a lump rising to her throat. She's been hungry for affection, famished for touches, craving for his presence, for the chance to be held tight and to cry into his chest. How she'd kill to do that right now. But she can't. She can't allow herself to do it. Dimitri needs rest—he's been working himself to the bone. The least he needs is to worry about her when she's the one who should've done better. Should've been strong. Should've been his anchor. And she also wouldn't know where to begin—when did she start to fail at being all the things she should've been?
"I'm okay," Byleth says finally, "You can sleep now, Dimitri."
At this point, she knows that it will inevitably be a long night for them both. She crosses her fingers and wishes him a sweet dream nonetheless.
Decorated with silk cushions from Almrya, the Queen's carriage is not extravagant but nothing short of comfortable for most people. Not for Byleth, though. After two decades of life on horses and on foot, Byleth has not gotten used to sitting inside a little wooden box and being protected by soldiers (instead of the other way around).
The air inside the carriage is getting humid. Byleth lifts the curtains of the carriage and looks out of the small window. They are now passing through Pryderi, the last territory to cross before arriving at Duscur. Northern Pryderi was previously a no-man's land ruptured and ravaged ever since the Tragedy of Duscur. During the five-year war, many citizens sought refuge here because of how poor and uncivilized the area was. Not even thieves or robbers bothered to visit there.
Now, the air smells fresh with new grass emerging from the soil next to still frozen chunks of snow from the winter. Sparrows hop on tree branches and burnt buildings in pairs, rapidly tilting their heads with curious, bead-like eyes, singing a jubilant spring song with their high-pitched, chirpy voices. Byleth can see small dark marks farther away in the farmland. Those are homes of farmers living here and building their new life. During the past three years of the rebuilding effort, civilizations and new lives have been rapidly blooming across Fódlan, the fruits of various redevelopment programs that Dimitri and his council of advisors have been putting into place.
The last time they visited here was when they were suppressing a rebellion in Pryderi during the Reunification War. The air was acrid and foul. Broken and malformed limbs detached from their previous bodies littered the plains, soaking the soil with blood. Dimitri was also different back then. His eyes were full of rage and sadness, looking at her as if she was no one but an obstacle in his way. The mere memory of it tears Byleth's heart to shreds. Would it be different if she had stayed by his side and fought alongside him when the Empire invaded Garreg Mach? Would it be different if she had accompanied him back to Fhirdiad, would that prevent the years of torment and pain he had suffered while she was deep in slumber at the bottom of some random cliff, unable to do anything? None of this would've happened had she not let her guard down, had she been stronger—
Suddenly the air is no longer fresh, and the air is foul, and Byleth begins to taste copper in her mouth.
Byleth coughs and pants for air. Wheezing in her lungs. Her palms are sweaty and cold. Her entire body trembling. She doesn't know how much time has passed when she finally manages to get her breathing back under control. The birds are singing again. The book that was lying flat on her knees—The History of the Church of Seiros—is now on the floor. Byleth picks it up with a shaky hand. Chapter 7, Page 187 is where she was at. She doesn't remember a thing. Can't bring herself to make sense of any word. None of it makes sense. None of this makes any sense.
Dimitri is riding his horse somewhere behind her carriage. Thank Sothis he is not here to see her like this.
Soon before they reach Castle Lydford, located in northeastern Pryderi, the small crew stops near a forest to recoup.
"We will need another hour before arriving at Castle Lydford, Your Grace." The leader of the Royal Knights accompanying Dimitri informs her.
Byleth forces a smile. "Tell His Majesty that I will be back in half an hour. Just taking a walk. He'd know." That's as many words as she can grit out before she flees.
Hopefully, Dimitri won't be suspicious. During their days at the Officers' Academy, whenever Byleth takes the Blue Lions out for a mission, she would often go on walks alone to scout the area for any danger. Sometimes she goes just to relax and collect herself. Dimitri knows her old habit. She doesn't know it'd come to her rescue today.
Byleth follows the sound of water and heads straight toward the creek. It's now early spring in Faerghus, and spring comes earlier for Duscur and nearby regions. The creek has recently thawed, and the water level is still low. She has about twenty minutes before she has to go back. The retinues and Dimitri can still see her in their field of vision, but some obstruction by the scattering redwood trees is better than nothing.
Byleth sits down near the creek bed, careful to not slip on the slippery moss. She gathers some water into her palms from the creek and splashes them on her face. The tensions in her shoulder and neck are slowly dissolving away. Her mind is still a bit cloudy, but it's much clearer now. She closes her eyes and breathes in a large gulp of cold air. A brief moment of peace.
That's when Byleth hears some strange sounds coming from very far away. Sharp, high-pitched, but too dense to be birds chirping. It sounds—it sounds like armor parts moving around and crashing into each other. It sounds like people—no less than twenty—are crossing blades.
She barely has the time to train these days, but her instincts have stayed sharp. They have never, ever failed her.
Byleth's eyes jolt open.
No. It's not just that. There's also smoke in the direction in the direction where Dimitri's crew heads. Sounds of fireworks. A red one shoots up, rupturing the horizon in two. The signal is unmistakable: UNDER ATTACK.
No. It's not just that. She hears more noises. Arrows parting from tightened bows, piercing through the air, coming—straight at her.
Byleth jumps up from where she'd been sitting. Her instincts kicked in at full force. She dosages all three arrows. Throws an Abraxas spell back to where those bastards came from. Unsheathes the Sword of the Creator.
White light explodes around the creek. The trees trembled and burned. Visceral screaming in the distance. A stray one dares to approach her up close. Byleth aims for the heart. Finishes her off.
Blood is rushing through her veins. Blood is dripping down from the tip of her sword. There is no time. Byleth runs. Runs out of the woods.
In the distance, she sees the giant flag of Faerghus royal knights: blue fabric with an embroidered gold lion. The flag is now crooked. Half-burnt. A tear right down the middle.
The lion is falling.
Dimitri.