Archive of Our Own

Ashe loved his family. There was no other way around it, and no reason to overcomplicate it, either. Between starving on the streets and reading books in Castle Gaspard, Ashe much preferred the latter, and was so relieved the moment he realized he didn't have to steal to survive anymore. His siblings didn't need to look up at him with wide, hungry eyes, asking when the next meal would be, or sniffling quietly to themselves when they were too scared of the answer. Lonato and Christophe were adoptive family, in turn, but they were as warm and strong as blood, and for Ashe, that was enough.

The first time Ashe ever faced his family in combat was during the Garland Moon of Imperial Year 1180, wherein he accompanied Professor Byleth and the Black Eagles to Castle Gaspard, in order to quell a rebellion incited by Lord Lonato, himself.

Ashe's father raised his lance at the Central Church, and Ashe could do nothing to stop him. He was much like the fog around them, aimlessly wandering throughout the thick of it, transfixed and unclear. It hadn't yet dawned on him that he was part of the group sent to strike Lonato down, or that he himself had volunteered to go with them, in the first place. Catherine and the others said no fighting was necessary, and Ashe foolishly clung onto that hope, and even planned confronting Lonato by himself, in an effort to convince him to change his ways—

"It is your wretched zealotry that killed my son!" Lonato's voice, resonant and strong, boomed throughout the battlefield, interrupting his thoughts. Ashe snapped to attention, and staggered towards the right direction.

As if his ears were stuffed with cotton, the roar of battle became muffled, and became a far away sigh in the distance. There was an eternity between here and there, and even though Ashe had skill with a bow, he couldn't yet figure out how to shoot from so far away. The weapon was loose and limp in his hands, nearly useless as he stumbled along to join the others.

He finally managed to catch up, and found himself in a mob that surrounded Lonato's stronghold on all sides. He witnessed Catherine striking down the last soldier, and gazed upon a swarm of discarded armor and limp bodies paving the way before them like stone.

Ashe gingerly stepped over the corpses, still dazed. Sickness bloomed from his stomach, upward.

"Lonato, please...stop doing this…" His voice was brittle, weak, a breath away from collapsing on itself and devolving into sobs. "Why is this happening?"

"Ashe…" Everything about him softened just then, from his commanding voice to his weathered face, eyes lowered in deference to his adopted son. "Leave. I have already made up my mind about this, and the Central Church must pay for what they've done to us—to Christophe. I don't want you to get hurt." The others hadn't yet interfered with their conversation, but Ashe could see the professor readying their sword in the corner of his vision. "Leave now."

"I-I can't," he muttered. "Not now, not like this. They won't let this end, Lonato. We can't be the ones who give up."

"Very well. You've made your choice, and so have I." On his steed, Lonato appeared to be more than twice the height of Ashe, and his once-warm eyes turned cold as he set upon the image of his beloved son. "Stand aside, while I still feel compassion towards you as my son, rather than hatred as an enemy."

"Lonato—"

A blitz of lightning shot out from behind him, followed by a dove-white blur. Ashe recognized it to be Catherine, whose eyes were fierce as she held Lonato in her sights. The moment she moved, Professor Byleth also reached out, their steel sword glinting in the daylight.

Ashe felt frozen in place, and he vaguely heard Caspar shout at him from a distance. Probably to move, or escape the crossfire while he still could.

The words fell on deaf ears, as Ashe moved ahead with a start, bow drawn and eyes brimming with tears. "Stop!" he called out with uncertainty—not sure if he was telling Lonato to stop, or begging Catherine and the professor to hold back, instead. Perhaps both. "Please, stop it!"

Catherine was quick and struck Lonato's horse, causing him to get thrown off in the midst of the frenzy. It neighed and galloped, nearly trampling Byleth and their battalion as it barreled through the fields. Once the panic dissipated, the professor raised their sword to attack, hoping to catch him off guard. Lonato, however, wouldn't go down so easily.

He parried with Catherine, who came up from behind him, and caught Thunderbrand's leading edge with his own silver lance. He hissed as the power of the Relic caused him to stumble backward, yet he maintained balance, and even managed to shove Catherine back a few paces. In the time it took her to recover, he already changed his direction towards Byleth, lunging at them with a feral battle cry.

Ashe moved without thinking. He only meant to get the jump on Lonato, and tackle him to the ground before things got worse. He only wanted to upset his balance, and surprise Byleth enough that they stopped in their tracks, too, and everyone would stop fighting long enough for Ashe to attempt to save some of the only family he had left. He only wanted to help.

Instead, he tripped over something insignificant, and crashed to the ground in an awkward position. He heard a sickening squelch, and all at once, the din of battle ceased. Byleth and their battalion staggered, while Catherine gasped so loudly that Ashe wondered if she was breathing straight into his ears.

That left Lonato, and he looked completely horrified at what he'd done. He would've dropped his weapon in defeat, had he still held it in his hands.

Wait, his hands?

Ashe glanced down and saw the latter end of a lance sticking out from his abdomen.

He laughed. "Oh, this isn't what I meant."

"Ashe—"

Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1180, marked the first time in history in which Ashe Ubert had died.

It wasn't the last.

.

.

He awoke with a start, covered in sweat, chest so rattled it felt empty, but bruised as his heart wouldn't stop thrashing against his ribcage. Ashe scrambled to his feet, fell over his covers, and slammed face-first into the floor as a result. The impact was more surprising than painful, but it was real enough to remind him of a very important fact.

There were no lances in his stomach. In fact, there was nothing in his stomach, causing his hunger and discomfort levels to spike exponentially. Though, if he wasn't dead, and yet he was somehow still alive, what did that mean for everyone else?

Ashe rushed out of his dorm, sloppily dressed and completely out of breath.

He ran into Byleth, who had their hands full of parchment. The scrolls went flying as the two collided, and Ashe barely remembered to help them throughout all the madness.

Once the scrolls were rightfully in place, Ashe said, "I'm so sorry, Professor. I was just—"

"Bad dreams?" They offered with their usual placid tone, but somehow softer than Ashe remembered it being. "It is fine."

"Thanks, I'm not sure what's going on right now, and I—" Ashe's gaze drifted to some of the scrolls, which were dated in black ink on the backside. He gulped, and dared to ask, "Uh, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is today's date?"

Byleth stood still with a listless expression for what felt like hours. Finally, they moved, tucking the scrolls under their arms and staring at Ashe with an unreadable gaze. "Today is the eighth of Garland Moon. Why?"

Ah, the eighth. Ashe distinctly remembered that on this day, Byleth debriefed the Eagles (and the guest Lion) about the mission involving Lord Lonato. In his mind, the date had long since passed, but thinking back to it—and seeing Byleth's arms filled with scrolls—helped him remember that they did, indeed, bring scrolls with them to outline the map of Castle Gaspard and the surrounding forests.

Somehow, he'd gone back to before his untimely death, far enough that he had time to rectify his decision of ever going in the first place. He swallowed his fear, and shook his head once. "Oh, no real reason," he said.

.

.

Ashe decided not to ask the professor if he could join their class' mission that month. By some twist of fate, Byleth extended the mission assistance offer, anyway, to which Ashe had respectfully declined.

Lonato died three weeks later, and Ashe couldn't muster a single tear.

.

.

Several moons passed until Ashe could find normalcy again. He stung with guilt every day, knowing that his odd behavior was a detriment to his fellow Lions, but equally frustrated as he did nothing to remedy it. His dreams were filled with nightmarish visions reliving the past—Lonato, wide-eyed, Catherine gasping as if her lungs were pierced instead of Ashe's, the professor completely helpless as the guest student was skewered to death in front of them. And Ashe, who looked down and saw half of a whole weapon, keeling over for good.

The dreams didn't end when he woke up, either. They simply became shadows leaping at him from the dark, or phantom pains that resonated throughout his entire body. For the first time, he was thankful to be forgotten on the sidelines, as his irrelevance compared to the other knights and nobles of the house allowed him to brood undetected.

Then came Wyvern Moon, the most anticipated month of the year, as it was time for the legendary Battle of the Eagle and Lion. It was house against house, and Ashe spent the past several months practicing archery, almost to a compulsive extent. He liked long distance now more than ever, and preferred keeping far away from other people just as his class allowed him to do. Mostly, he was a solo fighter, though he often hung back with Mercedes and guarded her as she healed allies from a distance.

During the battle, the Blue Lions took up residence in the forests to the southwestern portion of the field, with Dimitri stationed in the ruins for extra protection. The Golden Deer were on the other side of the field across them, occupying the southeastern area as Claude kept a watchful eye on all angles of the battle, forces spread far and wide. That left the infamous Black Eagles, commanded by none other than Byleth Eisner, positioned at the northernmost side of the field across the bridge.

It was the most anticipated, most intense battle of the year. Although the class of 1185 was a rowdy bunch, their colorful comments and playful antics were forgotten in lieu of the evaluation battle.

Ashe wasn't particularly enthused. He wanted to stay as far back to the rear as possible, but during the preparations, Dimitri ordered him to take his place at the ballista, hoping to snipe at the Eagles early on.

The machinery was familiar in his hands, as he'd spent so much time studying the basics and mastering them, but his body staggered—the layers and layers that made Ashe Ubert unique were peeled back, one by one, until nothing was left but a tiny coil and a whimpering excuse of a boy wanting to be a knight.

The battle started, and Ashe open fired at the first thing he saw.

Bernadetta's screams were heard halfway across the field, and Ashe eased back on the assault, out of fear of actually hurting her. This wasn't like the mock battle at the beginning of the year, after all. People could get seriously hurt.

Eventually, Ingrid and Felix came to reinforce Ashe at the hillside, and he felt some relief in seeing them take on the close-ranged units. He seized this opportunity to snipe at unsuspecting fliers or mages.

What he hadn't expected was Caspar von Bergliez, with a battalion of warriors at his command, overwhelming Felix and Ingrid in the same ambush. While the two of them were occupied in fending off the soldiers, Caspar ran up the hill and confronted Ashe.

They stared at each other for a moment, weapons at the ready. "Gonna need you to step away from the ballista, Ashe." He spoke with a flourish, but had a fiery look in his eyes.

"Sorry, Caspar, but I can't do that. We're trying to win, too."

He smiled, toothy and bright. "Then let's give it everything we've got!" He had a silver ax strapped to his side, but Caspar preferred gauntlets: he let everyone know as much in the training grounds, where he constantly bragged about getting to "beat the ever-loving shit" out of everyone around him.

Ashe didn't believe him for a second, and fired two arrows in quick succession. Both of them soared over Caspar's head, and when he stepped forward to try and attack Ashe, he missed as the archer ducked under the ballista's heavy machinery—avoiding the blows but cringing at the clanging echoes of pounded metal, as a result.

He doubled back around the ballista and shot more arrows. One of them glanced off Caspar's armor, while the other nicked him in the shoulder.

"Damn it!" he shouted, stumbling from the hit. "I'll get you for that!"

Ashe said nothing as he attacked again. However, he miscalculated the angle of his movements, and tripped over his own two feet as the drawback set him off. Caspar took this stumble as a moment of decisive victory, and went in for the kill.

...The metaphorical kill, anyway. Ashe knew that if he stayed still or yielded, Caspar would ease up, or at least hit him in a way that didn't hurt too badly afterward. But the rage in his eyes was familiar, and suddenly Ashe wasn't in Gronder Field anymore—suddenly he was back in the foggy forest, standing in front of Lonato's stronghold and begging for him to come home. There were no ballistas, swords, gauntlets, or arrows, but a giant lance aimed to kill, poised for Byleth's stomach but passing through Ashe's, instead.

Without thinking, Ashe leapt to his left, hoping to dodge Caspar's fists.

But Caspar had been meaning to do a mean right hook, and his fist connected with Ashe's face before he could even stop himself. Ashe vaguely recalled the fleeting look of horror Caspar wore: those brilliantly blue eyes blown wide at the realization that he put too much strength into his blows.

If Ashe wasn't dead upon impact, he was surely dead the moment his head collided with the base of the ballista, slicing open on the metal edge sticking out of it.

.

.

Ashe woke up, and he stayed in bed for three days straight. When he finally emerged, he was greeted by a concerned Dimitri. Normally, he stumbled in front of the house leader, but this time he regarded him contemptuously before asking, "What day is it?"

"The fourteenth of the Wyvern Moon," Dimitri responded without a hitch. "Three days before your birthday. Ashe, is something wrong—"

He slammed the door in his face, and crawled back into bed.

Not this shit again.

.

.

Wyvern Moon meant it was time for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. The Black Eagles won, although victory would be easy for anyone if the opposing archer who was supposed to man the ballista defected, instead, and retreated at the first sight of danger.

Afterwards, Ashe made a point of avoiding his fellow house members, but a determined Caspar could not be convinced of the same. He was the one that faced Ashe first, but one look at him was all it took for Ashe to go running for low ground, avoiding the ballista and giving up the advantageous position altogether. Everyone considered it some strange tactic, but no doubt it affected the entire outcome of the match.

Caspar confronted Ashe about his actions, but he was met with the same stony glare that Ashe had been giving nearly everyone else before him. Eventually, their choice words fell back into the unstable rhythm of an argument, which ended with Caspar storming off, and Ashe turning his back on him without fail.

Days later, with the incident long since passed, Caspar decided to ask some of the Blue Lion students about Ashe's behavior. Most of them had no idea themselves, but Ingrid gave him the most meaningful answer thus far.

"He's been struggling ever since the Lonato incident."

"B-But that was months ago!"

"I know," she said. "People take the time to heal, each in their own ways. Maybe later today, when he's in the dining hall, you can talk to him. None of us have been successful in getting through to him yet."

"Fine," Caspar sighed, as if he wasn't the one worried about Ashe's health to begin with. "I'll see what I can do."

Dinnertime arrived and Caspar slipped into the seat across from Ashe, starting with something light and jovial to diffuse the tension.

But when Ashe got up from his seat with a glare, mint-green eyes hardened and burnt like fire-tempered glass, Caspar could only wonder what went wrong between them, all those days ago.

.

.

Of course Edelgard declared war on the Church. Of course the Black Eagles were to blame—they always were. Of course, of course, of course.

With no home left to call his own, Ashe took up arms against Imperial forces at the Battle of Garreg Mach.

The last thing he heard before being blown to pieces by black-clothed mages was Dimitri's screaming—crazed and broken beyond recognition.

.

.

Ashe woke up in his room. He immediately glanced at the calendar, a method which he implemented after his second death. The days were crossed out as they came, and even if he was sent backwards in time, the ink stayed on those moments destined to pass.

As he stared at it now, the calendar told him it was the twenty-first of the Lone Moon, mere days away from the Empire's march on Garreg Mach.

He pondered the idea of desertion, and if it still counted as such when he wasn't yet conscripted to an army. Or maybe if he became a turncoat, and surrendered himself to Edelgard's forces, avoiding conflict altogether but earning the scorn of his other friends and classmates.

In the end, he decided that it didn't matter either way, and once Edelgard's forces arrived at Garreg Mach, he secretly hoped that she would win.

.

.

Ashe made it through the second time around. The battle was weary, and not as one-sided as many people thought it would be. Still, the outcome was expected, and once they all surrendered to the Empire, Ashe hightailed it out of the monastery, and rode back to Castle Gaspard on a stolen horse, alone.

He saw Lonato's ghost in every ruin along the way, but when his younger siblings were there to greet him at the iron gates, he forgot about the visions, the deaths, and the sadness in full.

He only remembered their smiles.

.

.

Five years later, Ashe faced a combination of Blue Lions and Golden Deer, with most of his former classmates raised under a shared banner opposing the Empire. Part of him wished to do the same, because he knew true justice lied in dismantling the destruction Edelgard set upon their world, even if it was in pursuit of her own ideals. Though as a soldier under House Rowe—a noble line who took up Lonato's former lands during the struggles between the Kingdom and the Empire—Ashe had little say in who he could and could not support.

Ailell, the Valley of Torment, was not the stage he'd imagine this battle being waged on. Then again, nothing in the world could prepare him for this moment in time.

Ah, time. He hadn't died since the Battle of Garreg Mach, and part of him was afraid to face those consequences once more. Though, another part of him wondered if he were to die here, would his corpse burn to nothingness, thereby putting a stop to this seemingly endless cycle?

Ashe had to wonder as he fired arrows at the fliers overhead. He recognized the wyverns of both Claude and Cyril, alongside his old classmate Ingrid, who led a battalion of fellow fliers behind her. He knew it was cowardly to snipe at them from this great of a distance, but the sooner the fight was over, the better.

Eventually, even Sir Gwendal was defeated by the combined forces of Judith from House Daphnel, and Rodrigue from House Fraldarius. They made masterful work of Gwendal's soldiers, until Ashe stood alone in the face of his former friends.

Felix approached him first. Normally, Ashe expected a swift end from someone as battle-crazed and singular-minded as him, but he was pleasantly surprised as Felix had his blade drawn, but not yet swung. He narrowed his eyes at him, and spat out: "Don't tell me you still intend to fight in that state."

Ashe's side was clipped by an arrow, and he bore several cuts alongside his limbs when an assassin tried to (literally) disarm him. In spite of the severity of his wounds, Ashe smiled widely. "I don't have much of a choice, Felix. If it were up to me, I'd join you all in a heartbeat."

A flutter of wyvern wings, and Ashe stood before Claude von Riegan himself, with Failnaught strong and resolute in his hands. He was soon followed by Dimitri, who in turn was followed by Hilda—each of them wielding their own Relics. Soon enough, the others arrived: Dedue, Sylvain, Ignatz, Leonie, Lorenz, and every other Lion and Deer that stood out from the nameless crowd at the monastery. Time aged them well, and in a joint force against Edelgard, they clearly stood to gain from each other's presence.

"Ashe," Dimitri began, in a soft voice that sounded similarly to his days in the Academy, "It doesn't have to be this way. If you join us, we can still make a difference. We can defeat Edelgard."

"And if it makes you feel better, we need all the help we can get." Claude spoke lightly, but there was a steadiness to his cadence, as if he had given this pitch multiple times before. "We're all on the outs, so just consider that, if you would. We don't have to leave this valley as enemies."

"I can't," Ashe denied. "My siblings are still in House Rowe. They're waiting for me. And the Empire—"

"If you're worried, we can send some spies to sneak in. Now that House Rowe is essentially defeated, no one will go looking in that territory for supplies that aren't there. Your siblings—"

"Don't act like you know what's going on in House Rowe, or in any of the Kingdom, for that matter." The world ended and Ashe remembered every moment of it. Not a day went by where he felt at ease with the current situation, so even if joining his friends was the obvious solution, he couldn't just leave his family behind.

He couldn't abandon them like Lonato and Christophe did.

"I see you're as stubborn as ever," Felix hissed, sword still drawn. "Stand beside or step aside. We're wasting time here."

"Felix," Dimitri warned in a low voice. "Now is not the time for—"

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

Something integral within Ashe broke, snapped off like a link in a chain. He sensed the disrepair within himself, a damaged mindset that formed as he was killed time and time again. Although tragedy hadn't struck him for over five years, his waking hours were filled with dread, wondering when the next mistake would happen. And perhaps through some twisted, idle curiosity, Ashe wanted to know if his kills mattered, too. Lonato, Caspar, Hubert (Ashe discovered it was Hubert in charge of those mages on the day of the siege, how wonderful), who else would add themselves to the growing list of murderers, intentional or not?

He fired the arrow decisively before thinking. It was easy to get Claude or Dimitri, as their guards had been down, but as they quickly raised their Relics in retaliation, Ashe knew he made the right choice in avoiding their stately gazes.

Hilda fell to the ground, instead, a silver arrow embedded in her skull.

A scream—Marianne's, or so he thought—resonated throughout, and many of his former friends and adversaries stood still with shock, completely amazed that Ashe had actually managed to kill someone right in front of them.

Then Felix moved without hesitation, amber eyes alight with fury.

Ashe didn't have time to blink before everything went white.

.

.

The next time he went to Ailell, Ashe scouted the enemy forces just to see if Hilda was still there, unharmed as she had been before. And sure enough, she was fighting in the frontlines, slamming enemies into submission with her ax. Ashe took one good look at her and nodded to himself, as if affirming his suspicions all along.

Nothing he did up to the point of his death mattered, or so it seemed. Even something as irreversible as someone else's death managed to be rectified the moment he revived.

Suddenly, the war seemed so pointless in his mind, when all he had to do was kill enough fools before he reached his limits, during which he would be killed in retaliation and forced back to the start of the month prior. Of course, it was easier said than done, because at the end of the day Ashe had to admit that killing a former friend left him feeling hollow, like something important was missing inside of him.

Ashe got a second chance at the Valley of Torment, so he took advantage of it and deserted House Rowe's troops, doubling back to the territory where his siblings remained, as they were the last remnants of hope in his stupidly gray world.

He wasn't sure of what to do after that.

.

.

With the remaining territory of House Rowe displaced thanks to the joint efforts of Lions and Deer, Ashe had no choice but to send his siblings to an isolated location, somewhere so remote that not even the Empire could find it. Of course, it meant he wasn't allowed to see them, because his presence endangered their secrecy, as well as their lives.

Ashe wandered Imperial territory until he found himself at Gronder Field, wherein two (or three?) armies fought against each other, distinctly.

He had his fill of battles to last a lifetime, but war was the ocean to Ashe—turbulent, unending, always trying to pull him in.

So he let himself drown.

.

.

In the most unceremonious way, Ashe died on Gronder Field, alongside hundreds of other soldiers in a clash of ideals.

This time, it had been solely an accident, as Marianne meant to use Thoron on an armored knight, but she missed completely, and the lightning magic struck Ashe squarely in the chest. She quickly destroyed her intended target with the same spell, but ran as fast as she could past them and over to Ashe's side, scrambling to heal the damage she caused.

Ashe curled her unsteady hands into fists, and shook his head back and forth. He felt throttled, icy, and completely disoriented, but he still had the wherewithal to deny her, and reassure her teary-eyed expression that he was fine, all things considered. She asked him how he could even think that, and he simply replied with "I guess I can still be optimistic when it suits me." Besides, if he were to die, would it be so terrible to fall at the hands of someone he once held in such high regard?

He already knew the answer, and couldn't ask for much more.

So—as Ashe's eyes closed, his ears going dull at the world around him—he didn't.

.

.

Fate moved once again, in a way that Ashe could never anticipate. He was stuck in between Kingdom and Empire territory, barely managing to go unnoticed from the watchful gaze of the border soldiers. At least his siblings were safe, but even so, Ashe dreaded death, and grew weary at the thought of repeating his days over, and over, and over again.

He avoided Ailell and Gronder Field altogether, was then summoned by Lady Cornelia (who assumed control of House Rowe territory after the disastrous loss at Ailell), and forced to protect Enbarr as the final invasion of the resistance forces ensued.

The clash at Enbarr raged on. Ashe dragged his limp, injured body off the wayside, hiding from prying eyes in the narrow alley between a boutique and a bakery, both of which were already destroyed and looted for the goods inside. The shattered glass exacerbated his wounds, and Ashe laughed chastely as he attempted to pick the shards out of his skin, to no avail.

As he contemplated death, a shadow loomed over him, and his heart sank. "Make it quick," he muttered to the unknown presence. "I'm so tired of this."

"...Ashe?"

"Professor?" He blinked into the darkness, eyes adjusting poorly to the lack of light. Who knew it would be stormy on the day of the invasion? "What are you—Why are you here?"

"I'm to protect Enbarr," they simply said. "El said not to evacuate anyone, but I didn't listen."

Huh. There was a surprising amount of civilians evacuated, even though Ashe heard nothing of the sort beforehand. His fear melted into indifference as he shrugged. "Well, they're here, y'know. The Resistance? They'll get rid of us soon enough."

"And are you content with that outcome?"

"Not at all," he admitted. His voice was awfully dry, but he kept his emotions in check as he reflected on the past five years of his life. "But I don't have a choice."

"That's not true," they simply said. "You always have a choice."

"..."

"I wish we weren't all fighting in this way. First at Gronder Field, now this...there seems to be no end in sight."

"I agree. So that's why—"

"But if you give up before you try, you're only doing yourself a disservice."

"That's it? That's all you have to say? I'm bleeding out and you came to lecture me?"

"I came to warn you," Byleth insisted. "You were a student of mine, once upon a time. I'd hate to see you go down like this."

I wasn't, though. I was blue and you were black. We're nothing alike.

"Fine. If you're that concerned, then do something about this." He waved in the general direction of his abdomen, worried that he'd die if it didn't get treated soon. Although many of his deaths had been quick and thoughtless, it would be interesting to see a slow and painful death for once. "Otherwise I'd like to die with some semblance of dignity left, thank you very much."

"...Alright." Byleth raised their hands, and placed them alongside Ashe's wounds. A white light enveloped the damaged skin, and Ashe grunted as the glass shards fell out of his body, his wound closing up in the process. "There you go. I healed the worst of it for you."

For a moment, Ashe said nothing. He sat up against the alley wall, and closed his eyes to take in his surroundings. He could hear a despairing scream—Dorothea, maybe—in the distance, and he let the sound of it fill up his ears and occupy his mind. Imperial forces versus the Kingdom and Alliance. While the numbers were in their favor, Claude was smart, and Dimitri was relentless. The same could be said of Edelgard and Hubert, as well as Byleth themselves, but who could win in the end? The Black Eagle Strike Force had meant to raze the country and start anew, but what if the ground wouldn't burn?

What if nothing changed?

"What will you do if we lose?" He asked Byleth, voice barely above a murmur. "If Edelgard loses."

"She won't lose," Byleth said. "But if she does, I will continue to fight."

"Why?"

"Because I have chosen this path alongside her. I shall see it to the end, even if nothing but death awaits me."

He couldn't prevent himself from laughing if he tried. "You have no idea what death is like."

They raised a brow. "And you do?"

"Oh, yes, I do."

"And how do you know? You look quite alive to me."

"No, I can't tell you. You'd never believe me."

"And you'd be surprised."

And so, Ashe ended up telling Byleth everything. He didn't go into detail about who killed him and how, but just that he kept dying, and every time he died, he'd wake up at the start of the month prior. No one remembered anything and nothing he did had any lasting consequences. It started as a nightmare in their academy days, and escalated into a full-blown disaster in the war phase. He longed for permanence, but feared it, all the same.

"I'm afraid it won't ever end." Ashe gathered the strength to stand to his feet, surprised as Byleth followed their movements. "I'm afraid this will all be for nothing."

"I can't promise that I'll find a solution to fix this," Byleth began. "But if we win, there would be no more fighting. There would be no chance to revive again. Perhaps, if we achieve the world Edelgard wants, you too, could find peace."

He frowned. It wasn't quite the answer he wanted to hear, but it was a fair point. Death was easy in a time of war, that surely a time of peace would look vastly different. Maybe he'd be able to face his siblings again, and maybe he could let Lonato and Christophe stay dead and forgotten, as they should have been all along.

Maybe.

"Okay," he said. "Then let's head out there. We can't find peace if we don't win, right?"

Byleth smiled, and clapped a hand on Ashe's shoulder. "Right."

.

.

The Empire lost. It wasn't an easy, clear-cut loss, but Ashe knew something was wrong the moment he approached the castle, the air quiet and still. The professor had long since gone ahead of him, but he saw no sign of them as he entered the threshold. There were countless corpses, however—most of them nameless soldiers but some faces were too familiar. He tried not to look at Petra, Dorothea, or Hubert as he spotted them. And Caspar was—

"Caspar," Ashe whispered. The warrior was propped up against a pillar, bleeding profusely but still alive. He knelt down beside him and said, "Goddess, stay with me."

"Hey." He coughed a wet one, but forced himself to shut up long enough to muster a reply. His eyes were bleary and red, his gaze aimed at the ceiling. "G-Guess who?"

Ashe wasn't sure what he was guessing, but he played along, anyway. It was the least he could do—that, and secure a crudely-made tourniquet around the worst of Caspar's wounds. "I don't know. Hilda?"

"Man, you sure are good at guessing." Caspar laughed shortly before sighing. "Though she could've ended me for good. Dunno why I'm still alive."

"Maybe she took pity on you."

"Maybe."

"Or this could be the Goddess' way of sparing you."

"That could work, too."

Caspar had been the cause of one of Ashe's many deaths in the past. If he thought about Gronder Field long enough, Ashe swore he could taste metal in his mouth, and feel Caspar's iron knuckles collide with his skull. That vision still haunted him, to this day, but if there was ever a time to let things go, it would be now. "You might live, so don't give up. Where is everyone else?"

"The throne room," he said. "No one alive has come down yet. I don't—"

"Caspar!"

Ashe swiveled around and spotted Linhardt. Though standing strong and resolute, his clothes were a mess, and a noticeable streak of dried blood ran from his forehead down his nose. If his injuries were painful, however, he didn't show it as he ran to Caspar's side, seemingly energetic for once in his life. "Oh, you're such an idiot. Why did you…"

Ashe, trusting Linhardt to take care of Caspar in his stead, muttered a goodbye that went unnoticed as he left. He traveled up the stairs (carefully sidestepping even more corpses on each step), past the corridors, and into the fated throne room. Outside its doors were Ignatz and Raphael, alive but convalescing as the latter was breathing heavily, and the former was tending to wounds using a variety of potions. Both of them stared at Ashe, but he shook his head back and forth to allay their worries. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he explained. "Besides, I ran out of arrows about half an hour ago."

He tried not to think about Cyril's face as he used the last of his arrows to shoot down his wyvern. Ashe didn't check to see if he made it out of the battle alive, but he wouldn't be hopeful just in case he hadn't.

As he pondered this, Ignatz nodded and Raphael grunted, both of them seemingly thankful to avoid another needless conflict. A truce seemed to be made in those moments, and Ashe stepped past them into the throne room.

It was chaos.

Mountains of black dust (presumably from the bodies of defeated Beasts) layered the gilded floors, and bodies upon bodies were collapsed, or stacked over each other. He spotted Mercedes and Annette, searching through the corpses for any survivors, and gave them a solemn nod as he headed down the walkway to the right.

It was there he saw Ingrid and Sylvain, who were seated against a crumbled wall while their horses rested on the grass before them. They were so tired that they didn't move, but as Ashe approached them, they sprung to life. "Ashe?" Ingrid's voice was familiar, but worn-out. He couldn't imagine what she'd been through up until now. "What are you doing here?"

"Surrendering," he tried to joke, but his voice was too serious to give it the desired effect. "Are you guys okay? Where is His High—" Ashe caught himself, remembering news of the crowning in Fhirdiad— "Majesty? And Claude and the others?"

"His Majesty is up ahead," Sylvain explained. He had one eye closed as a thin stream of blood traveled down the left side of his face. His armor was mostly intact, but Ashe could tell the place where it must've broken underneath an ax's weight. "Everyone is scattered here and there. It wasn't easy, but—but we did it."

"You did it," Ashe merely repeated the words, not yet fully understanding them. "Right. I'll go up ahead, now."

"Be careful," Ingrid warned. "The others aren't—it's difficult."

Ashe remembered their school days, and all the times Ingrid tried to talk to him—talk him through his troubles—and how he denied her at every opportunity. At the time, he didn't feel remorse, but seeing her now with her hair bloodied and her hands trembling, he finally realized that an apology was long overdue, for all of the Blue Lions.

But, baby steps first. He nodded again, and turned his back on her as soon as he could. "Thanks," he called out over his shoulder. "I will."

.

.

Ashe knew what he expected to see: Edelgard, defeated, slumped over on the throne that she refused to give up no matter the situation. Dimitri and Claude and their retainers, Dedue and Hilda, collapsed on the ground, weary but victorious. Any additional fighters, probably folks like Leonie and Felix, would be close by, weapons drawn as they tried to fend off any stragglers. While he wasn't sure, he suspected that Marianne would be healing their injuries, and a calm quiet settled over where there was once chaos.

Instead, Ashe walked into this: Edelgard, alive but barely, hobbled over as she was being shielded by none other than Byleth. Dimitri and Claude had them cornered, with Dedue and Hilda at their sides, and Felix, Leonie, Lorenz, and Gilbert flanked them as backup. Marianne had her back pressed to the wall, cradling an unconscious Lysithea in her arms. She was closest to Ashe as he entered, and the first person to notice him. "Ashe?"

He walked over to her, and offered his last vulnerary with a frown. "What's going on?"

Marianne sighed deeply before taking his potion. She hadn't yet used it when she said, "It's Claude and Dimitri. They don't want to harm Edelgard or the professor, but they're also not giving in."

"So they're at a stalemate?"

"Yes."

If Ashe hadn't been fighting under the Imperial banner for the past five years, he would have scoffed at their display of stubbornness. But as he fought former Kingdom and Alliance troops alike, his understanding of them grew, and now he knew why they still refused to yield. The path to getting here was covered in blood and lined with corpses, and as such, neither the Emperor or her trusted teacher could simply give in. They would fight for what they believed in or die trying, and the alternate solution that Claude and Dimitri posed fit neither scenario.

They didn't want this to end.

Somehow, Ashe found himself gravitating towards the action. He ignored the stares and shouts in his direction, and was only a few paces behind Dimitri and Claude, who didn't seem to mind his presence. Maybe they could tell that he had given up, or maybe they saw his empty quiver hang limply from his back. Either way, they weren't bothered by him, and neither was Edelgard as she said: "I refuse. One of our paths ends here, and the other continues forward, for the future of all."

"El, please—"

"Do not call me that." Despite being on her last legs, her voice was completely acidic, and she stood upright behind the professor. "You have no right to call me that."

"Edelgard, Teach, please think about this." Claude intervened before any choice words could escape His Majesty, and remained utterly neutral in the face of his adversaries. "While it might be true that either side stands to benefit from you or us dying...that doesn't mean it has to be that way. We can usher in a new dawn together."

"Claude…" Byleth's voice was quiet, resigned—much like the way it was the first time they started working at the academy. Ashe froze up at the familiar chide forming in their tone. "You say that, but our paths are such that they cannot intertwine: there's nothing else to it."

"Just cut them down," Felix hissed. "The longer you spend contemplating, the longer the people out there are suffering. Or does that please you, knowing the world comes to a standstill at this very decision?"

"Felix, that's enough."

"Should we knock them out?" Leonie asked Hilda, who in turn asked Claude. "We can't let this go on. We need to start cleaning up here."

"Your Majesty, at your command, we are ready."

"Edelgard," Dimitri addressed with finality in his voice. "I didn't want it to come down to this—I never did. But if cutting you down is the only way we save Fódlan and achieve justice, then by the Goddess, I will do just that!" Areadbhar shone like a beacon of light as Dimitri raised it into the air, aiming its deadly edge past the professor's body, and right at the center of Edelgard's neck. "This is your last chance: back down now, or we kill you both."

For a moment, Ashe swore the Emperor looked apologetic. Her gaze was locked on the professor's, and an eternity of silent understanding passed between them. Her hands tightened around Aymr, and the Sword of the Creator pulsated in tandem.

Claude readied an arrow for his Failnaught, and fighting seemed inevitable. However, just as a battle would've broken out a second time in the throne room, everything seemed to go south as Byleth swept out from their place in front of Edelgard, and clashed the Creator Sword against Dimitri's Areadbhar—a collision of sparks and screeching metal erupting between them. The rest of the fighters assumed their positions, and braced themselves as Edelgard swung Aymr in her hands, and launched herself at them in a wide arc—a raging storm.

Ashe ducked alongside Leonie, and swiped a few arrows from her quiver for himself. It was cowardly to go against the Empire at this late in the game, but he figured that it was the only thing he could except die. He kept an eye on Marianne in the back, just long enough to see she had ushered the now-conscious Lysithea out of the throne room, evidently out of healing magic.

As in, they were on their own to settle the last of the madness.

Then there was Dimitri, who was singled out by Byleth. Edelgard screamed as she was subdued by Claude and Felix—not yet dead, but Ashe hadn't the luxury of looking to make sure. All he saw was Dimitri and Byleth, locked in a deadly stalemate as their Relics hummed and glowed, like organs breathing in the blood and battle.

One moment, a stalemate: the next, Byleth gaining the upper hand, usurping Dimitri's sheer strength with a purely technical maneuver. Dimitri stumbled as Byleth hesitated, and the sword extended with its segments separating—sections of spinal blade disconnecting and fraying, sharp edges meant to murder and maim.

First, contemplation: what should I do? What can I do? Although it wasn't his life being endangered, Ashe imagined Dimitri, and snapshots of his life as he knew him—bowing politely before Ashe at the academy's opening ceremony, laughing heartily with Ingrid and Mercedes in the dining hall, scolding Felix and Sylvain for their unbecoming behavior, asking Ashe if he was okay three days prior to his birthday. Dimitri with an eyepatch, scarred by war in more ways than one. Dimitri with Claude, the two of them putting their forces together to end a common threat. Dimitri, who reached out to Ashe at Ailell, promising him a union, a future. Dimitri, his once-house leader. and now his king, by all means except for one as he faced death head first.

Then, understanding: I can't let Dimitri die. He can't let Dimitri die. If Dimitri died, everything up to this point would have been for nothing. The work of the Kingdom and the Alliance would be fractured as the whole broke into a half, and Edelgard won in her own way, at the very end of it all.

She won.

She always did.

Finally, Ashe made his move. He was fast enough to be helpful, but not quick enough to escape the consequences that he himself feared, but that he needed to face, regardless. He was strong enough to push Dimitri out of the way, but not forceful enough to fend off the Creator Sword's reign, or resist the power Byleth put into the hilt of the sword, to begin with.

He heard the squelching in tandem with a loud crack. He wondered if it was his ribs, his spine, or something else. And wherein he expected loud fury, rage, and chaos, Ashe was met with silence, fear, and hesitance, instead. He couldn't see Edelgard, Claude, or the others as they clashed a little ways off from him, just as he couldn't tell where Marianne, Lysithea, Ingrid, Sylvain, Ignatz, Raphael, Caspar, Linhardt, Annette, or Mercedes were, either. All he saw was the professor's horrific expression, along with Dimitri's gaping mouth.

Ashe Ubert looked down, saw half of a bony sword sticking out from his stomach, and laughed.

Some things never changed.

.

.

"Ashe," a voice called out to him. "Stay with me. Respond if you can hear me."

"...Ugh."

"Oh! T-That's good," the voice murmured. "Ashe, please name as many Crests as you can."

"Dominic." Annette, with her fiery hair and optimistic attitude. "Fraldarius." Felix, and all the times he beat Ashe sorely out of the bow tournaments, despite being better at swords. "Flames." The professor—where was the professor?—and their anomaly that was their existence. "Blaiddyd." His house leader, a man he respected despite his betrayal towards him. "G-Galatea—"

Ashe opened his eyes. At some point in the midst of his naming, a volatile substance came in contact with his nose, and now he found it hard to breathe. He sat upright, and coughed for several minutes straight before being able to calm himself down.

He found himself meeting the gaze of Marianne von Edmund, with one Mercedes von Martritz behind her. "W-What's going on?" he asked them. "Where am I? Did—"

"The Empire is defeated," Mercedes hummed. Her hands—after they were finished wrapping up the bandage around Ashe's foot—were clasped in prayer. "There were plenty of casualties, but most of our old friends are alive."

"Claude and Dimitri are fine," Marianne added. She offered Ashe a glass of water, and as he drank in one go, she said, "You were gravely injured, but the professor used the last of their magic to heal you. Afterward, they disappeared, and Edelgard…"

"Is she dead?" Ashe frowned. He never spoke to the Emperor even once, but he couldn't deny her ability and strength.

"Unfortunately. S-She wouldn't give in, and so Dimitri...well…"

"And you're alive, too." Mercedes placed a gentle hand on his knee, and he almost flinched despite knowing her touch. She was always kind, compassionate, and considerate. He greatly missed her care. "We haven't seen you in so long! Annie was worried we'd run into you at Gronder Field, and our scouts said they heard you were under House Rowe, so we were ready to see you at Ailell...but we never met up with you, and I'm glad we're together now, even if you're not feeling your best."

"I was stabbed in the stomach! That's a little bit worse than 'not at my best,'" Ashe sneered. He rectified the bitterness of his tone upon seeing the two of them flinch, however. "I-I mean...I'm glad to see you guys, too. I'm sorry for everything, I—" would he still suffer from the repeat of many cycles? Would he have to hide away for this month to blow over, just so he doesn't accidentally die and reset the end of the war? Would he? "I'm sorry," he repeated himself. "I should've joined you, I always knew it was better to, but I was so scared. My siblings, and House Rowe, and Lonato, I just—"

Ashe couldn't remember the last time someone hugged him. He suspected it was when he separated from his siblings, and they clung to him for dear life. Perhaps it was further back in time than that, however: perhaps it was when Lonato was still alive, and he sent off his son to the monastery with a smile.

Nevertheless, he wasn't sure what to do when both Marianne and Mercedes embraced him, each of them reassuring his choices with silent affirmations. "I…" Ashe shut his eyes, and squeezed them back as hard as he could.

"Thank you."

.

.

Horsebow Moon of the Imperial Year 1185. The war between the Empire and the Kingdom-Alliance ended one month ago, and its soldiers were just starting to recover. Ashe reunited with his siblings, and they moved far away from Castle Gaspard, instead choosing to settle in Fhirdiad, the Kingdom's capital that was now decidedly Fódlan's capital. Dimitri was crowned king of all Fódlan, while Claude returned to Almyra in order to fulfill his own dreams. There was talk of peace and integration of the two nations in the works, and while it seemed shaky, if there was anyone that could unite peoples at odds, it would be Claude.

Ashe wasn't sure if he was still cursed to never die, but he wasn't in any hurry to test his theory. His days were spent idly: gardening, cooking, bartering, reading. He helped a famous restaurant in the capital get back on its feet, and became one of the star chefs before long. Each day was filled with delicious food, new people to meet, and a promising future that reassured him fighting wasn't forever.

It was once his dream to become a knight—to live out the chivalrous ideals that his brother, Christophe, upheld before his death, and those that Lonato believed in, as well. Once upon a time, Ashe would have jumped at the chance at fighting for glory, and dying in battle if it meant he got to make a difference.

Now, he found that sort of behavior abhorrent, with little guess as to why. Yet when he met with his former friends on occasion (Ingrid quite often, as she loved the restaurant's menu to death; Felix less often, but as the opera moved from Enbarr to Fhirdiad, he occasionally stopped by before the show started; Dimitri in secret, because the king of Fódlan hardly had time to be out and about the common folk; and everyone else at some point or another, as if they knew Ashe was there, and wanted to convey to him some blessed message, like they still cared, or something), he felt as if this was the path he was meant to lead all along—something unobstructed but helpful, someone others could rely on if they needed reliance.

When he met with Caspar and Linhardt (some of the only former Imperial classmates to survive the whole thing, for which Ashe was secretly grateful for) some time later, he realized he spent the past five years living in fear. He missed out on training sessions, shared meals, shopping trips, and more experiences than he can account for. He made rather snippy comments, pushed others away, and started conflicts where it wasn't necessary. While some moments were lost in the reversible loop of time, others were permanently etched into Ashe's brain—a monument to all the times he failed.

But when Caspar and Linhardt sat across from him, joking over jelly and fried foods, Ashe knew that somewhere along the way, he must have done something right.

.

.

"Marianne?" Ashe asked. He hadn't seen her since she healed him following the end of the war, several years ago. "What are you doing here?"

She set down her bag at one of the tables, and smiled at him warmly. "I've heard good things about your restaurant," she began. "I-If you don't mind, I thought it would be nice for the two of us to catch up…"

They both sat down at the table, and Marianne began to talk about her recent endeavors. Apparently, she renounced her title as a noble a few years ago, and dedicated her days to charity work, as well as healing the injured masses. Eventually, she decided that she needed a break from it all, so she ended up traveling. Her curiosity took her all over Fódlan, including areas in the old Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance territories. About a week ago, Hilda convinced her to come to Fhirdiad so they could see the opera, and on the way she heard gossip about the hottest restaurant in the capital that she just had to see for herself.

"You've been busy," he conceded happily. "I'm glad to hear it. Everyone's off doing their own thing since the war ended, but it's good that you're doing things that you enjoy. I guess it's safe to say that you've found your purpose, after all these years?"

He recalled the way she'd seem so lost during their academy days, and how he gave her insight even when she didn't ask for it. The war changed her as it changed everyone, and Ashe would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of the tranquil air she carried herself with—the bright smile that reached her eyes and turned every word of hers into a song.

His cheeks lit up as she placed her hands over his, and laughed. "I have," she agreed. "And it's all thanks to you."

Since then, Marianne visited Ashe's restaurant every weekend, claiming she hadn't yet gotten her fill of the opera. Months later, she put the excuse behind her, and admitted she stayed around this long because she genuinely enjoyed her time with Ashe. "These days, I'm working with an orphanage in the capital, and raising children who were displaced by the war," she explained. "In exchange for helping them, the orphanage staff is...is letting me stay there without having to pay. It's more than I can ask for."

"That's incredible!" Ashe grinned, because it really was. As an orphan himself, alongside his siblings, he remembered the days in his childhood where he grew up afraid—almost hateful towards the world. Getting adopted by Lonato helped somewhat, but that had its own set of problems for him to deal with. If he had someone like Marianne to watch over him back then, things could have been different.

Then again, he wouldn't have met her if that was true. He wouldn't be sitting with her across the table right now, chatting over freshly baked bread and pasta. And he wouldn't have had the honor of seeing her smile, or witnessing the way her eyes brightened and her entire face seemed to glow.

It was moments like these which he cherished the most. "Seriously, you're amazing. Reaching out to others and helping them like that, I—I really admire you, Marianne."

She smiled. "I also admire you, Ashe. Thank you for letting me come here, and bothering you when you're hard at work."

"If it's you, then it's never a bother."

The next several months went by in the same fashion, though they met outside of the restaurant on occasion, to places that only Sylvain would call "romantic." Although if the atmosphere grew heavy with affection and intimacy, neither Ashe nor Marianne were the types to deny it.

At last, on the twelfth day of the Ethereal Moon, in the Unification Year 5, Ashe Ubert got down on one knee, and offered a silver ring before Marianne von Edmund, asking for her hand in marriage.

She accepted.

.

.

The next time Ashe died was during Unification Year 71, aged 88 years old. His siblings were also elders at this time, and they were at his side in his final moments. Of course, his wife, Marianne Edmund-Ubert, and their adopted children Chris and Alto, were also in attendance. They were quiet as he laid in bed, but Ashe filled the void with his voice, and recalled childhood memories, as well as school day incidents. He talked about Marianne, and how beautiful she'd been when he first laid eyes on her. He remembered the Empire, the war, and how Edelgard stood as tall as a monument and even stronger, ultimately defeated by His Majesty and King Claude of Almyra—a vision of red, even in death.

He also spoke about the professor, which gained a strange look from his wife, in turn.

Ashe never talked about his strange curse, however. He reflected on those days, wondering why it was him to suffer a most strange and unusual fate and no one else in the world. What was once a tragedy became nothing more than a joke, as he learned to cope with the sights he saw. In fact, Ashe wagered that if he had been a little more creative, he could have stopped the war singlehandedly! Or at least, he could have acted as a nuisance to anyone who mattered, and gained information through his various attempts at living.

There were many, many times he wanted to tell Marianne of all people, but he decided against it as there was no way she'd ever believe him. And so he kept that fact to himself, even as he died.

"Thank you for everything," he said to no one in particular. "I love all of you." Marianne ushered the rest of the family out of the room, closing the door on the way out. When it was just her and Ashe, she took her place next to him in the large bed, curling up against his fragile body with hers.

"You're welcome," she managed to say. "As always, my knight in shining armor…"

He laughed, and it sounded as if he put every last ounce of his life towards making it genuine. "Knight? Please, I...I gave up on that dream long ago, Marianne. I am no knight."

"You do not serve royalty, or nobility, or patrol around a castle," she agreed. "But even still, you are my knight. You have protected me all these years."

"You are the one who healed me, years ago, when my life was on the line."

"And I would heal you time and time again, if doing so would change anything." She smiled too softly for it to be sad. "I shall miss you."

"We will meet again," he insisted. "And when we do, I have so much more to tell you...things I never...quite got to say…"

"Alright," she said, grasping his feeble hand. He found it funny that he didn't have the strength to grasp it back. "I'll hear everything, and don't you worry, Ashe. It's only a matter of time."

He felt light as a feather, freer than any bird in the sky. He remembered things he had long since forgotten, in startling clarity as if the days lived out before him. He saw the Officers Academy, and all his former classmates, smiling at him as he entered the dining hall. He saw Dimitri, Caspar, Claude, Mercedes, Edelgard, and Byleth—he saw Lady Rhea and Lord Lonato, Christophe and Catherine. He saw everything and nothing, all at once, and heard a tiny whisper in the back of his head. It's time to go.

Ashe said, "It's always been."

And then he was no more.