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Who would stop them, once Edelgard declared war? Who would pull them apart? Manuela? Hanneman? Rhea wouldn’t. Even Seteth wouldn’t dare touch what he knew didn’t belong to him.
What they had was special. Sacred. It couldn’t be infringed upon, no matter how taboo it was. Surely nobody would deny them a night—two nights, three, until they all blurred together, until Dimitri woke in her quarters every morning, or she in his. Surely nobody would take away the crown prince’s closest tether to sanity.
Still, though. It was different.
Everything carried a different weight now, even though they went everywhere together since the beginning: the training grounds, the dining hall, the library. They even bent their necks low in conversation in the war room, where they were not allowed; Rhea made an exception for her shining Fell Star.
They looked at books and maps and enthralled themselves in strings connected on corkboards only they could see. They plotted. They planned. Felix’s nickname flowered and blossomed. The Boar Prince was alive and well.
Byleth kept her head above water. She prayed to Sothis sleeping dormant on Her throne in Byleth’s third eye, begged Her to keep him safe if She could. I can’t do it alone, she thought to her friend. But Sothis didn’t answer—She never answered anymore—so Byleth told Dimitri she loved him, often, and hoped he would not forget it.
To some of her students, she was “Professor:” Annette, Ashe, Ingrid, Sylvain, Felix, Flayn. She offered up her name easily enough, but they wouldn’t take it. To others, she was “Byleth:” Mercedes, Dedue, Dimitri. Mercedes, because she was always the first to know—twenty-two already, an elder sibling’s twinkle in her eyes. Dedue, steadfast and respectful, every word from his mouth a truth. Dimitri, until death, or until Sothis woke up and took Byleth’s body for good. Always and forever.
Once he had her there was no letting go. He pressed fervent kisses to her neck and her hand flew over her mouth, holding back her shrieks as he had her boneless against the mattress. She swallowed his moans, covering his mouth with hers, and of course he didn’t stop her.
“For Dedue’s sake,” she explained in the morning; the whole monastery probably knew what they got up to, but Dimitri’s retainer deserved better than to hear it. And Dimitri himself walked with never a self-satisfied smile, no, but he clutched Byleth’s hand even when people were looking, a wordless bid for stability.
And then she disappeared.
Her last thoughts, falling down into the ravine, were of him: her lover, her responsibility too. A beam of light split the sky. Rhea’s scales flashed silver; the spire of her wings shadowed the throngs of soldiers she razed with her claws. She scattered them like anthills, and the whole scene shrunk as Byleth fell.
She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to see herself as she died. She couldn’t have known she would fall asleep, Sothis’s power all but hers, and not awaken for another five years. In her own mind, she was already as good as dead.
But what became of the young prince during Byleth’s slumber? A search, first, but with no dragon in Rhea to claw her out from the abyss there was nothing to do. To everyone at the monastery, Byleth must’ve disappeared, or the river must've mercifully swept her away before they could see her mangled body.
Back to normal then, or near enough to it—Byleth’s class, who had already begun to slump under the crushing exhaustion of war, now suffered the loss of their teacher and friend; they hardly needed teaching. They also lost their other leader, in a sense, as Dimitri no longer interacted with anyone except sometimes Dedue.
Edelgard’s class scattered, most of them joining her in the war. About half of Claude’s class covertly disappeared in the coming months, including Claude himself. The others were summoned home or left of their own accord. They couldn’t be faulted. Most of Rhea’s secrets were out in the open, and Byleth, the only one most of the students could trust completely, was gone.
Ingrid said it first, at dinner one day. She asked to keep Dimitri company and was even willing to tolerate Dedue’s stony presence to make sure her friend was okay. Dimitri, in a rare exhibition of self-care, allowed her to do so. And then she had to ruin it.
“Dimitri,” Ingrid began uncertainly. She picked at a stray thread on her sleeve, looking away.
Dimitri paused, fork hovering in midair, and then warily lowered it. It clinked on his plate as he set it down. “Yes…?”
“About the professor…” she trailed off before she even truly began, already sensing that this was a bad idea. The girl winced under the tension that seemed to be crackling on both sides of the table.
Instantly his brow furrowed and his expression turned dark. “What,” he ground out, “Are you talking about.” He pronounced each syllable through the snarl twisting on his face. Dedue gave him a pointed look, which Ingrid attempted to ignore. However, Dimitri settled down a bit and went back to looking at his plate.
Ingrid, sensing her chance, pressed forward. “She’s dead,” she said, not ungently.
“Listen,” she continued, deciding to just get on with it before he had the chance to cut her off. “She’s dead. There’s no way anyone could have survived that fall. Not even our professor. I know how strong she is, but-”
“Byleth’s not dead,” Dimitri interrupted. He said it icily, tone clipped; it was not an invitation for further debate, and the prince’s expression dared her to try it, just try it.
Ingrid opened her mouth, the beginning of a retort on her tongue, but closed it just as quickly. Instead she shook her head at him, pity written all over her face. She finished her meal without arguing, but all three of them stayed silent.
“Your Highness,” Dedue began after she left.
“Dimitri,” the other man mumbled, and Dedue held back a faint smile.
“Dimitri,” he corrected himself, then wondered what to say to his liege. He remembered Byleth after her father was killed, how she looked after she came back to the monastery: desolate and closed off, the twin expression to the one Dimitri now bore. Dedue had seen his friend like this before, after Duscur, but hoped he would never have to again. “There are no words.”
It was the same thing he told Byleth after Jeralt’s death. He hoped it conveyed the meaning to His Highness as well.
Dimitri’s expression finally softened; an acceptance of loss, but not a refusal of hope. That is what Dedue had given him. He would take it.
“No, there aren’t,” the prince agreed, and they said no more of it.
And then, five years.
The Empire captured Dimitri.
Dedue came to rescue him, finding him insane, half-blind, and in despair. He delivered his liege from the clutches of Edelgard’s army, but at a grueling cost; he faced them alone, to buy time as the prince ran away. There was nothing Dimitri could’ve done except run while he still could, but of course, he blamed himself for leaving Dedue to die.
To be saved by the hands of his loyal friend, only to lose him immediately thereafter, was the final straw for Dimitri. The king-to-be had mutated into a half-dead thing, a monstrous creature fueled by revenge, hate, and an army of ghosts who wanted Edelgard’s head on a pike.
And so, the husk that used to be Dimitri crawled back to Garreg Mach.
The first thing he did, upon arrival, was clear out a rabble of thieves that had taken up residence in the nobles’ quarters. He had the misfortune of stepping into his old room as he chased them down. After cutting down the one who had so foolishly decided to run into the room and corner himself, he paused to look around. It looked about as terrible as he’d expected it to look after being turned into a thieves’ den.
He trashed it further, looking for things of Byleth’s that she may have accidentally left behind before she died. Miraculously, some of his belongings were still lying around, but whatever was left was either smashed to bits or ripped beyond repair. Regardless, nothing of hers remained. He slammed the door hard enough to crack the hinge as he left.
He slaughtered bandits, rats, and wandered the grounds. The Goddess Tower drew his eye; it belonged to Byleth in his memory. His father had raised him to be faithful; he’d believed in Sothis, even watched Her take form in his beloved, only for her to die despite the fact that she wielded the powers of the Goddess and the Sword of the Creator. What purpose did his faith serve now, with Byleth dead? Sothis had died along with her. There was no Goddess anymore, only the last vestiges of Her church—the ones who hadn’t been hunted down and massacred by Edelgard, that is.
He collapsed against the wall of the tower and remained there.
If he closed his eyes he could see it. The night of the ball, exhaustion, stealing her away to the top of the tower to talk. Just talk. It had been so easy then. So, so easy. Just to brush her hand—
His head lolled against the unforgiving stone, fatigue washing over him, and then he slept.
And at the bottom of the gorge, coughing up mud: the Fell Star, Byleth Eisner, breathed again.
She heard the voice but couldn’t see who it belonged to, even if she knew in her soul who it was. “Byleth, wake up. Wake up, my vessel. You can’t sleep forever.”
It was Sothis. Her dear friend.
“I haven’t heard Your voice in so long,” Byleth murmured through the haze of the dream. “Stay a while…. please? I miss You.”
“I can’t,” the Goddess replied gently. “You must wake up. It’s time.”
Sothis’s presence winked out of existence.
Upon waking, there was no pain.
There should’ve been. I sustained a nasty fall just now, didn’t I?
And then she registered the water pouring into her lungs.
She kicked up once, panicked and ferocious, but there was no need. Her head breached the surface as easily as anything, and she crawled up onto the riverbank, hoisting herself up on first one elbow, then two. She dragged herself through the mud and retched.
After emptying herself of the contents of the river, she wiped her mouth and flopped back down, exhausted. The sky smashed a jagged crack in the rocky walls, an open wound surrounded on all sides. The stars barely began to fade as morning peeked through.
She had no idea how long or how far the river had carried her, but the roar of the fighting had stopped, at least. She rested for only a moment before beginning to walk upstream. After walking for not long at all, she reached the village outside Garreg Mach. She hadn’t gone far, then. The monastery walls looked pretty rough, though; Edelgard’s soldiers probably did a number on them during the battle. I wonder if Rhea’s still here, and if everyone knows she can turn into a dragon now.
A man saw her stumbling, offered to help her get where she needed to go, and made an offhand comment about the Millennium Festival. Her blood chilled.
That’s… supposed to be in five years. “Oh, is that today?” she asked casually, trying to keep her voice light.
“It is,” the man said, and he was probably going to say more until Byleth found the strength in her unsteady legs to break into a run, ignoring his shouts behind her. “There’s bandits, lady!” was the last echo of his voice before it faded out.
The reunion. The reunion. Come on, Dima. Come on, everyone.
Garreg Mach was in shambles.
Overgrown . That was the word for it. Ivy climbed every building and weeds poked through the flagstones. Doors were ripped off hinges, windows broken, students' rooms trashed. It stank. There were fish in the pond, at least, swimming merrily through the muck without a care in the world.
Byleth couldn’t resist going into her room— I was in here last night, but I’ve been gone five years —and winced at the carnage she found. Some unruly bandit had snapped off one of the legs of her desk, giving her the impression that the entire piece of furniture was limping on three legs. The desk drawers were scattered around the room haphazardly as if someone dumped them all out and rifled through them before tossing them in a random direction. Her bedframe, half-charred, lay in a pile of ashes. The mattress was nowhere to be seen and presumably had been burned by whoever broke her desk.
She left her room, squinting at first light. The sky steadily brightened, promising a day like any other, but she hadn’t seen a single one of her students yet. Maybe they aren’t coming. No, it’s probably just too early. Sothis, are they even alive? Was I gone for too long, unable to save them?
The Goddess Tower came into view as she rounded the corner, and memories of her and Dimitri during the night of the ball flooded her mind. She couldn’t resist a smile despite her worry. That had been one of the greatest nights of her life. Even though I was scared, I was so relieved afterwards to know that he felt the same. That gave me the courage to continue following my heart.
Her smile melted into a frown as she approached the entrance of the Goddess Tower. Something was wrong; the rancid smell from before nearly overpowered her now. She covered her nose with her arm, but upon reaching the doorway of the tower, she realized where the stink was coming from.
Bodies. The staircase was riddled with them, all dressed raggedly and most of them armed. Bandits, then. She stepped over them, climbing the spiral, trying to breathe through the stench.
And as she crossed the threshold between the doorway and the top of the tower, the first rays of golden sunlight exploded through the open window and illuminated the person slumped against the wall.
Byleth, at long last, had come too late. Dimitri was a barely-there man.
She stopped breathing for a second.
He was still beautiful—he would always be beautiful to her—but he’d fallen far from grace. She took stock of his appearance: blood that was not his own stained the black armor enclosing his body. A matted and worn bicolor fur cloak gathered up under his legs. He had an eyepatch, even; it covered his right eye, although it was hard to see through the blond mess of hair obscuring it. What happened to him when I was gone? And why is he here, alone, looking like he’s ready to die?
He spoke dully and hoarsely, like he hadn’t used his voice in ages. “So, now you’ve come to haunt me as well. Out of all my ghosts, yours was the one I least wished to see.”
Byleth flinched. He thinks I’m a ghost. Of course he does. How do I even begin to explain?
She dropped to her knees in front of him, trembling, taking in his features again and comparing him to the fresh image of him yesterday morning. Just yesterday. He’d been in a good mood. They’d had tea together. He had brushed one growing lock of hair out of his face and given her a dazzling smile.
This Dimitri—still her Dimitri—had stepped fresh out of a five-year-long nightmare. She felt dizzy trying to comprehend how much time had actually passed.
He regarded her warily, perfect blond eyebrow raised like he expected her to show him some magic trick. The flippant look couldn’t disguise the dark circles. She expected him to look skittish, seeing a ghost, or even just surprised, but instead he looked burned out. Tired. Like he’d given up.
“Dima, I’m here,” she choked out. “I’m here.” Her fingers twitched, wanting to touch him but uncertain of how he’d react.
“No, you’re not,” he sighed, turning away to face the blinding sunlight coming directly through the window. “Leave me, Byleth.” He closed his eyes like he meant to go back to sleep. Like he just expected her to disappear the next time he opened them.
“Dimitri,” she said sternly, adopting the teacher voice, but he barely reacted aside from a flutter of his white-gold eyelashes, eyelid twitching.
She went for his hand next, and the reaction she got upon grabbing it was instantaneous. He snapped to attention, eyes flying open, slack-jawed and startled out of his skin. His body jumped like a live wire.
She expected him to jerk away immediately, but he curled his armor-clad fingers around her hand like he fully expected it to evaporate.
He reached out with his other gauntlet-covered hand and slowly, tentatively reached around to her shoulder. She shuffled a little bit closer on her knees so he could reach her better, but he hesitated, like he couldn’t quite trust his senses to grasp what was happening.
His fingers trailed down her mud-crusted arm until they reached the spot where their hands were clasped; he took hers in both of his, turning her palm upwards and inspecting the bare skin as if to ensure its substantiality.
He spoke, deep from his throat and unspeakably slowly. “How are you here?”
Byleth swallowed. “I fell,” she said, matching his tone. “During the battle, into the gorge.” She shook her head. “I thought I was dead. I don’t remember the landing. When I was asleep, I dreamed of Sothis. She was the one who saved me, and She was the one who told me to wake up. It’s been five years, and yet, it feels like it’s been only one night.”
Dimitri sat with that for a moment, then sighed and let go of her hand. She placed them on his knees, wishing to touch skin but not confident enough to hug him. “I am tired, beloved. Why did you stay at my side, before? I didn’t deserve you. And why did you try to stop me from getting my revenge?” he demanded.
“I stayed at your side because I love you. You know that. And as for the other question...do you remember when Jeralt died?”
He frowned. “Of course.”
“Do you remember what you said to me afterwards?”
“...That your enemies are my enemies,” he said slowly.
She nodded. “And then we found out who Kronya really was. Together. And we went together to avenge my father. So you see,” she finished, “It’s not the same. Of course I’ll help you kill Edelgard. But I didn’t want you to have to do it alone. I still don’t.”
“But it’s not your responsibility. I’m the one who sees the ghosts. How could you understand? It’s my burden to bear.”
She moved in all the way and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sucked in a sharp breath.
“I’m going to tell you as many times as I need to,” she murmured. “I love you. I’m sorry I left you behind. You let me help you before. Let me do it again.”
He tentatively reached under her tattered cloak and brushed the small of her back with his hand. Byleth expected him to stay silent, but he did not.
“I need time,” he murmured back, with equal softness. And he matched her breath for breath there.