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Edelgard had always been insecure. Ever since the days of her childhood, she had felt inferior. She always thought this was ironic, in a way. She was the only sibling that survived – the only child of the Hresvelg line deemed worthy of life. Despite this, she always felt as if she was a failure. The years of damp, cold concrete pressed against her skin, the clanging of the shackles in the dark, and the constant feeling of dread followed her through her adolescence and into her adulthood. The cries of children and the blood of family felt as if they were on her hands, and the only way to bring peace was to avenge them.
It was an understandable feeling. Helpless as a child, insecure as a teen, and stubborn as an adult. She sometimes found herself biting her nails while alone, during the short moments of respite where she could take off her gloves and look at the callouses on her fingers. She would clench her fists, feeling the swelling and indents where her axe's handle had pressed itself into her flesh, combining with her. She had been forever scarred by war, and would never be able to close her eyes without seeing its horrors. Still, she found herself the most haunted by an altogether different situation.
The Hresvelg family had never been one for displays of emotion, and she just couldn't bring herself to feel comfortable confessing her sins to Hubert, of all people. Although she trusted him with her life, she simply couldn't bring herself to trust him with her heart. During these moments of candlelit introspection at inane hours of the night, she could only find herself thinking of one person: her professor, Byleth. They'd only shared a handful of months together, and yet she'd been completely drawn in. There was something about Byleth's eyes, her demeanour, her voice, the way her skin felt – and in this manner, Edelgard tormented herself, night after night.
It was a child's infatuation. Puppy love, if you will. She told herself this time and time again, tracing the callouses on her palms. Something inside her felt otherwise. The day that she saw her dear professor again, after five years of unresolved tension, of loss, and a lack of closure, was the day she realized neither of them could live while the other was still standing. It was a classic star-crossed lovers situation, and Edelgard entertained that thought with a wry smile. Dorothea would perform a beautiful opera about their plight, the audience would clap while the actors would bow, and the curtains would close. If only it were that simple.
Some nights, she found her hands bleeding. She'd picked at a callous, or bitten off a piece of skin on her finger, or dug her nails into her thighs until she drew blood. These nights were the worst ones. She chose red gloves to hide any possible stains, lest Hubert become worried, or even worse, see her at her weakest. It was only Byleth who could reduce her into this foolish girl, enamoured with a childish idea of love that would never come to fruition. She liked to think she could see it in Byleth's eyes, too, when she gazed deep enough into them. When she was younger, she never entertained the thought. Now, in her twenties and never having experienced romantic love beyond this admiration for her professor, she couldn't help but wonder how it could've been if things were different.
Insecure, she felt. Insecure that someone else was chosen over her. In all the years that she'd held Rhea captive, in those same dungeons under the castle where she had been tortured as a child, she could never bring herself to look at her. She felt as if Rhea had stolen away her one chance at happiness. The progenitor god Sothis and her malignant children had not only taken her childhood from her, but had continued to deprive her even into adulthood. Byleth fought under a flag bearing the Crest of Seiros, the symbol of Edelgard's childhood horrors, that had been genetically etched into her since birth. It was ironic, she thought, that those who march under a flag of her own Crest could find themselves to turn against her. Then again, as a bearer of the Crest of Seiros, she had taken Seiros to be held captive in a dungeon, so it was a moot point.
Edelgard had never been the first choice for anyone, perhaps barring Hubert. She was not the first child of the Hresvelg line – rather, she was the only one that happened to survive. She'd been shunned by her own step-brother, tortured by her uncle, and pitied by her father. Finally, at Garreg Mach Monastery, she let herself foolishly believe that her professor might raise her sword alongside her. Alas, she chastised herself, since this could never be true. No one would ever pick her for her. Even Hubert loved her only due to their circumstances as members of the Hresvelg and Vestra families. No crest, no spell, no skill, and no amount of hard work would ever bring her a hand in hers. This was why she stroked her own hands, late at night, in the spots where only an axe had touched. The night at Goddess Tower, over five years ago, was the closest she had ever felt to being loved. Seeing her beloved professor under the moonlight, Edelgard had dreamed of snatching her away to somewhere far, where they could be alone, away from all of the horrors she had to face. She let herself dream of a world after the oncoming war, where she could live happily and peacefully, alongside a person who admired her as Edelgard, not as the heir to the Adrestian throne. It was that hope that crushed her more than anything.
That's why, when she kneeled, weapon in hand, head lowered, pathetically admitting defeat, she begged to have her life ended by the one that she'd loved. Watching Byleth raise her Sword of the Creator in the air, Edelgard had wished that they could have walked the same path. If only she could have had happiness. If only she could have avenged those that she had lost. If only her sacrifices would not have been in vain. If only she hadn't felt the cold cut of metal on her skin in those last seconds. If only she hadn't chosen to look up into Byleth's eyes, staring at her while stained with tears, as the sword was brought down upon her. If only.