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It had been easier to skip forward, leaping from time to time to see how the world changed, how Fodlan evolved from the land she left behind; changed forever by the actions of one woman and by the choices of another, to the world she stands in now. It had taken her time to get used to the whirr of activity and the hum of electricity and modernized buildings built in place of the old stone craft she knew it as.
Countless years in an instant. A drop in a bucket of water for someone without a limit to their life. Time measured simply as a passing of hours or days instead of years of life she let slip between her fingers. She had already gained and lost so much at such a young age she settled in to being a figure in the background, drifting from city to city and taking work where she could. Learning, adapting, blending.
Alone.
She's grown used to that loneliness, lets it sit with her as she travels, as she works, as she settles in to her home away from home at night. It dines with her even when she's with people she's come to call acquaintances.
Never friends.
-----
She hears about the museum in passing, from small conversations drifting between clusters of people she passes as she slips through to the next place. She visits it after she learns the layout of things, finding it when she thinks she's ready.
It's a reminder, she finds, walking the halls and the exhibits, seeing statues and paintings and historical documents. Hearing muted whispers and low words from staff members talking to visitors. She drifts through, seeing familiar faces, Dimitri, Claude, Rhea.
Seiros.
Edelgard. She knows who it is before she even reaches the middle of the room, white marble carved into the bust of a figure that makes her ache. She recognizes her by the collar, by the pattern of the cloak and the face forever frozen as something quietly pained and contemplative.
"Hello," she whispers as she approaches, tears burning in her eyes and breath shuddering. "It's been a while since I saw you, I lost track of how many years." She wishes she could see her alive and breathing again, see her smile and hear her voice. "I did it, I did what you asked of me." She cries, silent and shuddering, fingers tracing a cheek, thumb underneath lips. "I-"
"You seem particularly interested in that piece. It's a new addition."
Her hand slips away from the cold marble, head turning to hide the burn of tears that still track freely down her cheeks. She can't bring herself to speak, unable to trust her voice when each word is lodged painfully in her throat and sticking. So she swallows instead, around the knot, smile shaky.
She nods once, fingers clutching the coat she has draped over one forearm.
"Are you interested in Adrestian history? I'd love to answer any questions you may have."
I don't need a history lesson, Byleth thinks bitterly, not when she had lived it all. Yet she still urges the woman on, listening when she begins to speak, telling her a story close but not exact to the life she had walked through. Step by step, day by day, her eyes never leaving the carved marble of the Emperor she cursed herself for abandoning.
(She can't remember the sound of her voice, she realizes...but her words still ring.)
"If I must fall...let it be by your hand."
The weight of the sword still sits between her fingers, clenched hard enough they ache. The memory of the other woman's acceptance, of her final request, still fresh in the forefront of her mind.
"I wanted...to walk with you.."
She squeezes her eyes shut, drawn breath shaky and sawing in her her lungs. Coming to this place had been a mistake, the wound still too fresh despite how many years had passed before she had made the skip forward.
"--And The Emperor--" She's lost track of what the other woman has been talking about, attention bounding from the stone to her. Hand raised for silence she finally gets.
"Thank you," she says, pleased with how steady she manages to force herself to sound. "Though, may I offer a correction? Emperor Hresvelg's war was one to overthrow the church and the Crest system, because she despised seeing the people suffer and no one ever do anything about it."
It's second nature by now, talking all about the woman whose truth and legacy she swore to carry on no matter what. The staffer looks surprised a moment, blinking and considering her, nodding quietly.
"You know..." The woman says, thoughtful, slow. "You look an awful lot like the drawings. They weren't in the best shape, but recently there was a huge find at the old monastery."
And this isn't what she wants, this continued conversation. She knows the drawings, had seen them scattered across Edelgard's personal desk. Drawings of her, some tear-stained, others scribbled over or torn. All beautiful.
She still has the one she kept, folded neatly and stored between the pages of a notebook she rarely picks up anymore.
"Drawings?" But she plays dumb because she has to, peels the bandages back on still bleeding wounds with a smile and a passing attempt at faked interest.
"The Emperor spoke in her journals of a Professor, a woman she loved dearly who was unable to be swayed to see her side of things."
Except Byleth had, just too late. She had failed to see what laid underneath the layers of walls Edelgard built to protect herself. Failed to see the girl crying out for help until she was about to strike her down.
"Unfortunately a lot of those journals have been lost."
And that, she thinks, is unfortunate.
Byleth smiles, nods.
"My Teacher, you seem to be smiling a lot more recently."
"Have I?"
"It's not a bad thing! I'm glad."
"Thank you for your time," Byleth says, fingers tracing a marble chin, the divot of lips. "But I must be going." She slips away before the woman can ask more, bowing her head and retreating back the way she came. From one exhibit through another, out into the bustling streets.
It's raining, sky gray and roiling in companion to her mood.
No one notices her tears.
-----
She comes back, once, twice. And each time there's something new, a painting, a document, a journal. She's distracted at the sight of the painting, vibrant reds and golds, Aymr clutched in one hand, eyes forward and serious. She carries the ghost of her now, phantom images that sit with her while she eats or watch while she goes about her days.
On one trip, she decides to try and apply for a job.
A month later she has one.