Chapter Text
Nine hours after officially becoming the 'Shield of Faerghus,' the first thing that the newly anointed Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius recalled hearing from his advisor, was that he needed to provide an heir. Immediately.
If someone had told him this five years prior, he would have likely punched them in the face. And he had. Sylvain’s nose was now stuck at a slightly odd angle for even suggesting something so ludicrous.
Now, though, five years wiser, he understood. As the last known bearer of the Crest of Fraldarius, as the last surviving member of the renowned House Fraldarius, providing an heir was yet another duty thrust into his hands.
Nine days later, he brought it up with his wife of three months, who just so happened to be the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros. Byleth hadn’t been surprised. Little ever caught her off guard — including the sword he had drawn upon the announcement of her arrival — and this had been no exception.
“What do you want?” She had asked the night of their reunion, her fingers lazily grazing over the scar-ridden planes of his chest. “Felix, a family isn’t something you start out of duty.”
Sometimes he forgot that Byleth, despite now holding what was arguably one of the highest stations in all of Fódlan, was raised a commoner. In the world of the nobility, families were almost always started out of duty. Children were products of political marriages, brought into the world with the sole purpose of bearing a crest and reaping its benefits to both govern and defend. The power — both physical and political — of crests was stamped into Faerghus’ history, something that the boar— er, Dimitri, was trying to remedy.
Being one of those “crest babies,” as Sylvain often referred to them as, Felix definitely saw the benefit of having a crest. It made him stronger.
...That was about it. But, unlike his friends, that was all that Felix had cared about anyway.
Perhaps it was because unlike his friends, Felix had never been so inclined to uphold the duties and responsibilities of a proper noble. Sylvain, while he despised the entire ordeal, had an inner sense of loyalty to his house. As the wielder of the Lance of Ruin, it was his duty to take up his father’s mantle and defend the northernmost borders of Faerghus.
Ingrid’s family had hung their entire future on her crest-bearing blood. She’d been promised to Glenn at a young age, and upon his untimely death, Count Galatea had searched far and wide for someone to marry his daughter off to in order to preserve the future of their crumbling house. She’d always been bound by her loyalty to cast away her own dreams to repay her family. It was her duty, she’d told him when they were kids and he’d asked why she wanted to marry Glenn.
“Duty is exactly the reason why people like us start families,” he’d responded stiffly to Byleth that night. “You’re a noble now, Byleth.”
What did it mean to be a noble? Duty. He hated the word, detested its meaning on a level on par with his dislike of the concepts of chivalry. Duty is binding, a fact he knows all too well. To dedicate your life to those you serve, no questions asked. Chivalry was a divider. It’s purpose was to make people well-mannered, but also to separate the nobles from the common people. Social divisions were blurred, those within the frames of knighthood, crest-bearers, and aristocracy used chivalry as a means to persuade themselves that they were superior. Lorenz and Ferdinand obsessed over it, and, like Glenn, had been sent to the grave for it. The entire concept made his skin crawl and his stomach twist. Maybe it was the fact that his brother and father had both bound themselves to it, costing them their lives.
Maybe.
Chivalrous and dutiful were two traits that Felix had never resolved himself to be. That had been on Glenn for so long, as the original heir. He was the epitome of a stalwart knight, seemingly brought to life from the pages of those silly tales of knighthood that Ingrid and Ashe obsessed over. Polite, chivalrous, and loyal, he was the ideal choice for an heir, his father couldn’t have been luckier.
But then the burnt out torch had been passed on to Felix after the fool had sacrificed himself for his liege. In light of the events that had transpired, Felix had placed considerable distance between himself and his father. He’d refused to be built up into a disposable unit to serve as Dimitri’s shield.
Then the old man had up and done the exact same thing as his eldest son, leaving Felix, who had never been groomed to govern their territory, with an unwanted title and unwelcome expectations to uphold.
He was learning, though. He may not want to govern, or be cut out for it, but that didn’t mean he could turn his back on the people that his family had sworn to protect. It wasn’t as if his father were here to influence him with his talk of “true knighthood” anymore, he had someone else to blaze a new trail with, one that was his own.
Byleth, to her credit, had known enough about the workings of the nobility to understand what he meant. “We aren’t like them,” Byleth had reminded him gently. “You love me and I love you. No one forced us together, no one is forcing us, forcing you to do anything. I’ll ask again — what do you want?”
What did he want? That was easy. He wanted to spend his days sparring with and loving his wife, drinking smooth wine with his friends, and rebuilding his territory. What more could a man want after five years of war? Byleth had smiled when he admitted as much, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and drifting off to sleep not long after when Felix began to rub slow circles on the smooth surface of her back.
He watches her as she sleeps, appreciating the curve of her nose, the pinkness of her cheeks, and brushing away the stray hairs that fall in her face. As much as he wants everything he had admitted to her, he wants more. He wants to help Dimitri and Sylvain loosen the hold that crests hold over Fódlan. He wants to let people know that there’s more you can do living and protecting your liege rather than dying for them. For the longest time, he wouldn’t know where to begin with any of that. But looking at Byleth now, that’s when it hits him.
An heir. That’s how he begins.
It’s sudden, like the shock of thunder from Dorothea that had nearly burnt him to a crisp during that first mock battle between the houses. He remembered watching Byleth and Dimitri teach swordsmanship to the orphans in the monastery — they’d hogged the training grounds that afternoon, Felix hadn’t been happy about it. Between his grumblings of annoyance and displeasure as he waited, he’d caught the way her mouth, back then seeming to be permanently pressed into a hard line, had curved the slightest bit upwards when a child had hugged her legs and said “thank you, mama!”
Felix’s heart, often described by Sylvain as colder than the winters of Faerghus, had warmed a little that day.
Not that he would ever admit it.
Another memory, this time he’s watching her from afar. She’d called him heavy footed in their last sparring session, saying he needed to work on his stealth if he wished to land a damaging blow on her. 17 year old him had been greatly offended, and wanted to show her just how stealthy he could be. So, naturally, he’d taken a page out of Claude’s book and observed her actions on their free day, following her around the monastery until he found the perfect moment to pounce and finally notch a win against her.
He’d found the perfect moment to do it too, when she had rounded past the market and around the side of the entrance hall. Her hands were occupied, using both hands to carry a large bucket full of small fish she had just spent the last half hour gutting, a rare moment where they weren’t resting on the hilt on her sword. He was about to draw his sword and rush her, when he saw where she was headed. She dropped the bucket beside a young girl, kneeling beside her and helping her feed a group of cats.
The very group of cats that Felix had secretly been bringing his dinner scraps to.
He settles himself behind a nearby wall, watching as a familiar cat, a familiar Fraldarius Wirehair, crawls into Byleth’s lap, settling in for a nap.
Traitor.
Byleth immediately strokes the cat’s sleek black fur, the feline purring with content. “What’s her name?” He heard Byleth ask the girl, who looked up from the three cats she was feeding.
“Felix said he named her Catana.”
Felix feels his cheeks burn and whips back around the wall. Another traitor.
“...Katana?” He heard her repeat slowly, the amusement evident in her usually monotone voice. “Felix named a cat after a sword?”
The girl shook her head. “No, like ‘Cat-ana,’ Felix said it was a pun.”
Byleth starts laughing, the sound ringing around the small side alley clear as a bell. The sound startled Felix, who realized that he’d never heard her laugh before. Catana, also startled, leaps out of her lap and starts walking alarmingly close to his hiding spot.
...And starts meowing. Loudly.
He should have let her starve.
He squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to move and draw Catana closer. When the screaming cat sounds subside, he pries one eye open to see the girl standing in front of him, holding Catana in her arms. “Felix!” She cried loudly, grabbing his hand and pulling him from hiding toward Byleth and the other cats.
When he’s forced to sit with their little group, he’s stolen a look at her. He’d never seen her look so amused, and he supposed it had been a funny sight. Felix Fraldarius, brough to his knees by a little girl and her army of cats.
Felix is brought back to the present when a weight presses down on his chest. He looks down to see Thoron, who just so happened to be one of Catana’s kittens, settling in for the night.
Byleth stirs in her sleep, murmuring his name. She’d be a good mother, Felix had realized as he recalled her soft interactions with the children and the cats of the monastery. He could learn to be a good father, but she was already there. Together, they could teach their child, and a new generation, what it means to truly live in service of yourself first, and your country after.
Careful of the cat snoozing on his chest, he leans down and presses a kiss to his wife's temple, and she immediately ceases her stirring. He'll talk to her about it in the morning.
~~~
Nine weeks later, the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, also known as the Duchess of Fraldarius, stands on the steps of Castle Fraldarius with her husband at her side, and together they announce that she is with child.