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As if it were the match to a short fuse, Rodrigue's death set off a chain reaction, a series of explosions in such quick succession that Byleth didn't have time to react to any of them.
A child drags a sword out from between the Shield of Faerghus' ribs, wild-eyed and unhinged, shrieking with crazed giggles while she turns her blade towards Dimitri.
My brother, my brother, she shouts, I'll destroy the monster who killed my brother!
Flaxen hair, heather blue eyes -- the realization clicks, settling heavy in Byleth's stomach. For once, these anguished screams for revenge are not intended for Dimitri.
The Bergliez general died by Byleth’s hand, quick and precise, a small mercy in the face of their feral king's torturous intent.
The child lunges for the hulking figure in blue, blue eyes just as crazed and unsalvageable as their king's had been at the start of this battle.
In contrast, Dimitri's blue eyes hold no rage or bloodlust. They are as dark and heavy as his fur-lined cloak.
In that moment, it occurs to her that Dimitri does not intend to move. He has resigned himself to die here.
Bang - !
The life drains from heather blue eyes before the child hits the ground. Perhaps it had left long before she met her end here, a premature death on a wretched battlefield.
Byleth removes her sword from a child's body.
Gilbert approaches the king and his broken shield, the king and his bloody sword. Gilbert fusses over the bleak sight of Dimitri and Rodrigue and Byleth.
Dedue is close behind, armor clanking as he hauls himself across the plains of Gronder Field. When he takes his place by Dimitri's side, Gilbert moves on to Rodrigue's body, where it's crumpled on the grass nearby.
If he was already dead or took his final breaths in the next few moments, Byleth would never know. Her attention is snagged by the clatter of armor and bright blue hair.
Caspar is on his knees by a dead child's side, whispering Fleche, Fleche, over and over while he scrubs blood splatters from cherub cheeks and closes heather blue eyes with shaking hands.
Bang - !
The clatter of Dimitri's lance as he uses it to push himself to his feet startles everyone in the near vicinity.
The boar king slips away like so much sand between her fingers. Byleth can do nothing but let Dedue chase after him, ever vigilant, because Sylvain and Lorenz pull their steeds to a thundering halt just as Gilbert covers Rodrigue's face with a cloak dyed Fraldarius blue.
Bang - !
The sound of Felix's feet hitting the ground as he vaults off of Sylvain's horse echoes in Byleth's ears.
The way he stalks over to the corpse in blue is stiff, full of righteous rage -- as if he'd always expected this day would come, but is outraged that it came today.
When he confirms with his own eyes that his father is dead, Byleth expects a scream, a howling cry of anguish, of loss, of rage -- but it never comes.
His knees don't buckle, his eyes don't cloud with tears, his hands don't shake where they're curled into fists by his sides.
Gilbert points, probably explaining the events as they occurred, and eyes of crimson listlessly follow the path the wizened hand carves.
Gazing out, beyond her, she assumes Felix watches Dimitri do… whatever it is that Dimitri is doing, right now. The tone of Gilbert's voice changes, softens, drops, and all eyes turn to Byleth, to Caspar, to the bloodied sword in her hand, to the corpse of a child on the ground.
Bang - !
Byleth sheathes her sword. Turns on her heel. Leads their battered army back to Garreg Mach. Unwavering. Unmoved.
They reach the monastery with the passing of another day, clattering onto the stone paved ground just as the sun begins to set.
Monks, Knights, and former students alike set up camp and fall into bed, exhausted by the non-stop journey.
But Byleth does not rest.
The sun has disappeared entirely beyond the horizon by the time she steps foot into the stables.
Bang - !
The horses shy away from the violent crash of the stall door being flung open, and skitter even farther away from the blue-clad beast of a man that attempts to wrangle them out of their stalls.
Dimitri intends to ride out tonight, to strike at those who seem at fault for all that is wrong with Fodland.
He has proven to her now that he has no regard for his own life, and, by default, no regard for anyone else's.
She cannot let him leave.
She will not let him leave.
Dimitri must realize such, because the barely contained irritation in his one visible blue eye morphs into feral rage when she won't let him pass.
What with the climbing crescendo of his voice, she fully expects another explosion, another assault on her senses, but, all at once, he deflates.
She swears she sees a spark of humanity light within him, flickering in the ocean deep pool of his one eye.
When she reaches out to him, she wonders if this will be like every other time she has attempted to reel him back in. If this will end in sharp, snarling teeth and warning growls, her offer either smacked aside or totally ignored.
When she reaches out to him, he takes her hand.
"Have your hands always been this warm?"
Bang - !
The volume of the latch closing on a horse's stall nearly rivals the sound of the cathedral doors creaking open as Byleth follows a hesitantly human prince (king?) to his usual post by the rubble at the altar.
Edelgard hates this place, and, likewise -- though he'd never admit it -- this place makes Claude uneasy.
Byleth doesn't blame them.
Remembering the eyes of Rhea -- of Seiros -- boring into her sends a chill down her spine too.
On the contrary, here in an atmosphere that is holy at best and oppressive at worst, Dimitri relaxes.
Despite the fact that he has not truly returned to them yet, Byleth can tell that the prince is beginning to resurface from the deep well of hatred, malice, and revenge that had once drowned him so thoroughly.
He clutches her hand to his heart all the while, resting her palm against pitch-black armor until the cold metal is warmed by her skin.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Dimitri.” Byleth whispers. It’s the first time she’s had a moment to be human since the sun set on Rodrigue’s hastily dug grave. “You worried us so.”
He sinks to his knees, drapes strong arms around her waist, holds her like she might break, buries his face in her hip.
He shakes his head and apologizes.
He says a lot of things-- many of which Byleth agrees with, many of which she doesn't -- but she's been through so much today, that --
today and yesterday and the day before and five years ago and
-- that when he says, "I can't imagine what path I would've walked, had you not been by my side," she feels something fracture deep within her.
He doesn't know. He can't comprehend the gravity of that statement, has no way of understanding of the endless possibilities, endless universes, endless lives and deaths that Byleth is privy to with every passing moment.
He doesn't know that there's a Byleth mourning his and Rodrigue's deaths at Gronder Field. He can't comprehend a Byleth on an opposing side that never got the chance to truly befriend him, a Byleth unaffected by his passing. He has no way of understanding a path where his death is violent and meaningless, or a path where he died in the Tragedy of Duscur, or a path where his friends twist themselves into even more grotesque monsters than he to protect him.
All of today's events crackle and explode around her, whirling, spinning, writing and rewriting themselves, spinning tales of endless loss and perfect victory until Byleth is truly and totally overwhelmed by it all.
If she had spared Fleche, if she had never recruited Caspar, if she had let Dimitri die, if she had died in Rodrigue's place,
Bang - !
One shuddering breath, one shaky gasp,
Dimitri thinks she's cold and begins to shed his cloak for her. By the time he removes it from his shoulders, she is crying in horrendous, breathy sobs.
They are hiccups, whispers, ghosts of the real thing, much like Dimitri's ever half-present form.
For only a moment she curls in on herself, a lone pillar beneath the weight of divine knowledge, unearthly power, hands drawing up to her chest.
So many futures, so many pasts, too many choices to weigh.
Follow Edelgard and hear Seteth's voice break as Flayn dies by Imperial hands? Save Sylvain and burn in the betrayal of crimson eyes while she readies her sword in Felix's direction? Lead Dimitri into battle and strike Claude out of the air?
Bodies a broken thump on the ground,
The purple tinge, the frayed edges of time,
Seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Bang - !
Her weapons rattle in their sheathes as she pitches forwards, hands flat against Dimitri's chest while she heaves for air.
Gentle hands of a leader, bloodstained hands of a beast, tremble and hover over her shoulders.
Sothis, Sothis,
What she wouldn't give to be taunted by that childish voice once more, comforted by the ageless wisdom of the progenitor god, reaffirmed, reassured, by a deity that understands (understood) her better than any mortal to walk this earth.
For the first time in a long time, Byleth grieves.
She wishes to scream, to let her anguish, her fear, her uncertainty, echo in the broken remains of the cathedral, bounce off of all the shattered pieces of the altar and her heart.
Dimitri grips her shoulders, pulls her close. He whispers to her, making promises he can't keep, promises he isn't whole enough to carry out.
Byleth only cries.
Her body mocks her with gentle shudders and quiet gasps -- despite the discarded lock on her emotions since fusing with Sothis, she still feels detached, distant from expressing the sheer immensity she experiences.
She is quiet.
So quiet, in fact, that she hears the disjointed clack of boots approaching -- two pairs -- before Dimitri does.
Byleth shudders, heaves a broken sob against Dimitri's chest, curls her fingers into fur and fabric, gripping tight like a lifeline. Heart racing, inhales sharper than the dagger around her waist, exhales poised to cut through the heavy air like an arrow -- she’s out of control.
Yes, she’s always wished to feel, but not like this, not so much.
Footsteps draw ever closer, the doors to the cathedral sway in the wake of displaced air.
Bang - !
Dimitri surges to his feet, lance at the ready. She readies her weapon, knees shaky as she pushes herself to stand, but Dimitri shakes his head, murmurs a promise, a plea, let me keep you safe, let me atone for my sins.
Stance wide, muscles tense, the king of Faerghus doesn’t sway when Byleth leans against him. She sinks back down to her knees, rests her forehead against his calf while her arms curl around her middle. There’s an attempt to pull herself together, to force the pieces back into place, but to no avail.
The Crest of Flames, the power of the goddess, Sothis, mother, the progenitor goddess,
Byleth’s heart doesn’t pound, but her veins seem filled to the brim with fire and flame.
“Who goes there?” Dimitri bellows into the empty cathedral. The footsteps patter closer.
“Ah, come off it, Your Highness, it’s just us.” Ever jovial, Sylvain’s voice resembles the bright notes of a major chord, oddly dissonant amongst the unsettling refrain of war. “Felix won’t admit it, but he wanted to--”
Honey gold optimism -- or at least it’s facade -- shatters under the weight of a wheezing breath from their professor’s half-hidden form. She doesn’t have the strength to lift her head any farther, to open her eyes any wider, and her tears blur the scene ahead of her.
Nonetheless, a splash of carmine, of signature Gautier ginger, and a puddle of turquoise, of melancholic Fraldarius blue, explode within her field of vision.
Sylvain is lazy, but his legs are unseemingly long, perfect for sprinting -- and what Felix lacks in height, he makes up for with speed.
Bang - !
Steel meets steel in a cacophony of noise. Loathe to leave her side, Dimitri shuffles in a careful circle, parrying Felix’s every strike.
Taking advantage of Dimitri’s distraction, Sylvain kneels by her side, ducking to bring his head level with hers and murmur soft and sweet -- are you alright? are you hurt? what doth bring tears to my fair lady’s eyes?
Between hysterical gasps for air, Byleth manages a chuckle, tear laden eyes crinkling at the corners. Though perhaps now is not the time for it, his humor has always been a balm to the sting of seriousness that bites in the air these days.
Bolstered by her reaction, Sylvain gathers Byleth up in his arms, pulls her to lean against his chest, and assures her it’s okay to lean on him in times of need. She tries to mimic the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, tries to will her heart to beat in time to the rhythmic pulse beneath her ear -- but no no avail.
At this point, Felix is growling, snapping, snarling -- unhinged, more of a feral beast than Dimitri, at this point.
Of the tattered remains of the Blue Lions, Felix is not the spirit Byleth ever expected to break.
Perhaps Dimitri is equally as caught off guard, for when Felix gathers himself enough to form words -- haven’t you done enough? haven’t you taken enough from me? -- Dimitri drops his lance.
Bang - !
For a moment, Byleth is certain she will lose another student, another life, another heartbeat, but the sword in Felix’s hands clatters to the ground.
Bang - !
The shorter man bares his teeth in a snarl and lunges, twists his hands in monochrome furs and sandwiches the Boar King between the last of the Fraldarius line and stone cold cathedral tile.
Bang - !
“What did you do to her?! What did you do?!”
Felix all but screams, his voice filling up the empty space of the vaulted ceilings just like Byleth wishes hers would. The swordsman shakes Dimitri by the lapels of his cloak, but the only response he receives is that lone sapphire-blue eye stretching wide in shock, frozen in place.
“Felix,”
For most of them, Sylvain is a balm to the depression of war, a light in the darkness.
Byleth has always suspected that Sylvain is more of a tether to Felix, an anchor to humanity in inhuman times like these.
So when the simple call of Felix’s name is enough to unravel his fists from black and white fur, is enough to let out the tension in taut shoulders, enough to allow blonde locks to scatter across the tile -- when a simple call of his name is enough to summon the swordsman back to Sylvain’s side, Byleth thinks maybe she’s been right all along.
Eyes of fire and brimstone, crimson sun, bloodstained bronze,
Felix has always been full of emotion.
Now his red eyes are empty, his shoulders slumped, his energy drained. He leans forwards enough to bury his face between Byleth and Sylvain’s biceps, steadies himself with a hand splayed out between her shoulder blades.
“Did he hurt you, professor?” Felix grumbles into her skin. “I’ll kill him if he did. I’ll put that beast down, once and for all.”
Byleth does her best to assure him she’s unharmed.
Dimitri lies still on the ground, unmoving.
“Then what the fuck is going on?” The swordsman demands, sitting up straighter. He tries to make the brush of his thumb against her cheek harsh and angry, but the way he swipes tears away from her eyes is too gentle to be convincingly upset.
Byleth searches the ocean of her soul for answers, but she comes up dry.
(she cannot search too hard, dive too deep, when she still fears the immensity of the depths that lie within her)
“I don’t know,” she whispers once, then repeats, louder, when Felix taps his ear with a scarred finger.
She watches helpless concern and morbid curiosity swim in fire and brimstone eyes.
“What is wrong with me?”
Byleth demands an answer, from Felix, from Sylvain, from Dimitri, from Sothis, from anyone who will listen, from anyone who will answer the call.
“What is wrong with me?!”
Outside it still rains. The windows flash, briefly illuminating tear tracks on pale cheeks. Thunder shakes the clerestories and triforiums.
Her voice tears through the atmosphere of the cathedral, rending open the skies.
Bang - !
“Professor,” Sylvain’s voice rumbles against her palms, into her bones. “You’re having a panic attack.”
Huh.
She’s walked Annette through these, soothed Bernadetta through these, talked Caspar down from these. Somehow, her working definition of a panic attack is much louder, more frantic, more violent.
“When you tuck all those bad feelings and experiences away somewhere where they can’t hurt you anymore, well, professor…” Sylvain scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Those feelings don’t go away. They never reset to zero. You just learn to tolerate a higher and higher threshold of pain, stacking the pile higher and higher until you’re so precariously perched on the edge that literally any inconvenience could shove you over.”
Amidst the swirling mass of incoherent feelings, Byleth makes a mental note to check on Sylvain more often.
“You should share your wisdom more often, Sylvain,” Dimitri notes, hands folded over atop his chest while he gazes up into the vaulted ceiling. “I certainly needed to hear that. Now, and so many years ago.”
Felix scoffs. “As if you would’ve listened.”
Dimitri doesn’t argue, just lies there and takes it.
“So, professor,” the swordsman continues as if he had not just struck Dimitri down for the second time that evening. “What plagues you so?”
He’s going for nonchalant, but there’s an undeniable lilt of curiosity to the cadence of his voice.
“Do spill, professor,” Sylvain agrees, running calloused fingers through mint green hair. “Are they church secrets? Top secret gossip?”
“Sylvain,” Dimitri sounds much like the prince charming they’d lost five years prior. “Do not make light of our professor’s troubles.”
Bang - !
Thunder strikes again, filling the cathedral with crackling vengeance.
The deepest purple tinges at the corners of her vision.
When she chokes on her next breath, the smooth of Felix’s palm down her back helps soothe the barb stuck in her throat.
“It’s…” Byleth trails off, swiping recklessly at the tears still gathering in the corners of her eyes. “I was merely spooked by a side effect of my Crest.”
They’re no longer children, no longer her students -- they don’t need her to protect them anymore.
But she doesn’t tell them about Sothis. She doesn’t tell them about the divine pulse that flows through her veins when she turns back the hands of time. She doesn’t tell them about the vacancy in her chest, about the pounding in her throat, but not against her ribs.
Sensing the lingering disbelief in the air, she continues. “It seems silly, but… it must have been just enough to push me over the edge.”
“Understood, professor.” Felix’s murmur vibrates against her shoulder while he nuzzles against her like a cat.
It’s an affectionate gesture that’s very unlike Felix, but considering he’s lost his father and brawled with a childhood friend all in the past couple days, Byleth figures she’ll let it slide.
With a knowing grin, Sylvain ruffles the swordsman’s hair, equally as affectionate, until the strands tickling his friend’s nose coax him into a sneeze.
Felix makes sure to wipe his face on Sylvain’s sleeve.
Her sobs have long dissipated. Now she’s concentrating on evening out the occasional, uncontrollable gasp, focused on matching the rise and fall of Sylvain’s chest where she lies comfortably against it, soothed by the weight of Felix’s hand as it idly drags up and down her spine, comforted by Dimitri’s presence nearby.
“No matter what, we’ll protect you.” Sylvain mumbles into her hair.
“We won’t lose you, professor. Not again. I swear it.” Felix agrees, barely audible above the rain where he’s curled into Sylvain and Byleth’s sides. He sits between them and Dimitri like a wall, barricading their king from joining them.
“We swear it on the goddess, professor,” Dimitri’s voice is steady, strong -- unlike the wavering fury that’s held him captive for the past couple months.
Felix nods, quick and sharp against her arm. Sylvain swears too, drawing a cross with his finger into the back of Felix’s hand.
It’s a little ironic that he crosses over Felix’s pulse point, over where Felix’s hand lies on Byleth’s back, directly over her unbeating heart. Over where Byleth lies against Sylvain’s chest, listening to his heart beat slow and steady against his ribs, against hers.
Byleth doesn’t have the heart to tell them how ironic swearing to Sothis to protect her is.