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Lysithea joins the Black Eagles first.
To be fair, she appears to have a particular bond with Edelgard. They’re both studious girls with strange white hair who probably take themselves a bit too seriously, though Claude suspects there’s something more that makes them get along so well. Of course it’s a little disappointing to lose one of his Deer to another class, but at the end of the day, he was never really here to make friends. Allies, sure, but not friends.
Besides, it’s not like they can’t still talk to each other outside of class, and it’s not like she left as a slight to him personally. In fact, she seems to fit in with the Eagles, so if she finds a sense of belonging with them, then he’s glad.
(A little jealous, too, perhaps, but mostly glad.)
Leonie is the next one to go. That makes sense, too—Byleth is Jeralt’s child, after all, and the best way for her to learn more of her childhood hero’s fighting style, since he’s not a professor himself and is often away on missions. Claude practically expects her to transfer.
What he doesn’t expect is for everyone else to follow suit.
Over the course of what will likely go down as one of the most chaotic school years in the history of the Officers Academy, the Golden Deer’s numbers drop steadily, as students transfer one by one into the Black Eagles. Their classroom feels less and less lively with each classmate that leaves their ranks.
“It’s nothing personal, I swear,” Ignatz says when he breaks the news to Claude. “You’re a great house leader, and Manuela is a fine teacher. I just think Byleth’s lectures are more compelling, and I feel like I could learn more from them.”
Claude can’t fault him for that. If he were able to, he’d probably transfer to Byleth’s class, too. Manuela is a good professor and a good person, but she’s a bit of an open book, and he can easily find records of her life in the library. He can’t say the same about Byleth, who is quiet and analytical, unemotional and enigmatic, who wields Nemesis’s fabled sword without its Crest Stone, who bears a Crest not seen in thousands of years. What he wouldn’t give to learn from them, to learn about them. What he wouldn’t give to have their power on his side.
Raphael says something similar. “I’ve gotta keep getting stronger to protect my little sis, you know,” he says, “and I feel like Byleth can really help me reach that potential.” Marianne downplays her skills and importance, insisting that it’s no huge loss to the Golden Deer if she transfers, that she simply feels more comfortable around Byleth than the other professors.
Lorenz is the last one to leave, shortly after Jeralt’s death, and to Claude’s surprise, that’s the one that hurts the most.
Sure, he’s snobbish and a bit arrogant, and his suspicion of Claude is irksome, like a fly constantly buzzing next to his ear that he hasn’t managed to swat—but beneath all that, he’s genuine, dutiful, and determined to be the best he can be (in his mind, at least) for his country. To leave the house dedicated to the Alliance he’s so proud of feels almost like a betrayal. He won’t be able to spy on Claude as much, either, if they’re not in the same class. Is this an indication that Lorenz finally trusts him, at least enough to realize that he knows a lot about Fódlan and that he isn’t plotting anything that would endanger the Alliance? Or has he simply given up on finding anything damning?
Claude tries to push it from his mind. After all, Lorenz joining the Black Eagle class doesn’t mean he’s actually abandoning the Alliance—or him.
Still, there’s a small part of him that feels like he is being abandoned, pathetically enough. He knows it wasn’t personal—hell, they told him it wasn’t personal—but he wonders sometimes what they thought of him as their house leader, if they felt he was too secretive, too suspicious, too different. It’s one thing for someone to dislike him for who he is as a person. It’s quite another to be hated by someone who barely knows him, who only knows what they’ve heard about him. He even wonders, once or twice, if any of them realized or suspected that he’s Almyran.
The reality is probably that Byleth had much more of an influence on them than he did, that for most of them it was simply a matter of preferring one professor over another. He’s heard that even a few students from the Blue Lions have transferred to the Eagles.
And yet, every once in a while, Claude wonders if he was just too much of an outcast for them.
It’s an idiotic, insignificant, illogical little thought, but it buries itself into his brain, to come out and taunt him when it’s late at night and he can’t sleep because he’s too busy remembering everyone who spit on him and tossed him aside. In these rare moments of weakness, he feels like a little kid again, internalizing the word outsider until it becomes him. Why does he keep hoping for the best in people when so much of his life has been filled with the worst? When did he even start to care about his classmates? He told himself from the very beginning that he didn’t come to Garreg Mach to make friends. So why does he long for them?
Sure, a lot of his worry is practical, too. If he’s going to change the world, he needs allies; he needs people who trust him and believe in him, and right now, he’s not sure how many of those there are. But that doesn’t change the fact that he has always been hated for being different, for things about himself that he can’t control, and as much as he wants to pretend it doesn’t affect him, sometimes the memories rear their ugly heads and cloud his view of reality.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. School classes don’t necessarily determine allegiance to a particular country or person. It’s just a way of sorting students. It’s just about education. It doesn’t mean he’s been abandoned. He still has time to forge alliances before graduation, and he can find many more potential allies outside of the Officers Academy. He’s always been good at adapting anyway.
Hilda assures him that she doesn’t plan on leaving. “I bet they’d make me do a lot more work in that class,” she says, “and Edelgard is just too serious for me. I’m glad you’re my house leader.”
Claude gets on well with Hilda, but her words are only mildly reassuring. He might like her personally, but she’s still a Goneril; her family is directly responsible for countless Almyran deaths. If she knew about his heritage, would she still feel this way? Has he made a good enough impression on her that it wouldn’t matter? Or would she turn her back on him? It’s the ultimate form of irony: the one person who swears she won’t abandon him hails from a family who kills people like him.
Claude spends those last few months doing what he’s always done: keeping his head down, gathering information, closing his heart as much as he can, preparing, always preparing. But he couldn’t have prepared for everything, least of all for what would actually happen.
When the war starts, he wishes he’d fought harder to keep his Deer by his side.
—
Five years.
Five years of planning, of negotiating, of dealing blows to the Empire through battles fought fairly or tactics drenched in grime—of fighting for a country he cannot truly call home—all of it culminates right here, right now, in a way that could not possibly be more fitting.
We may not always win, but we never lose.
It’s a phrase Claude has held close to his chest since he was a child, ever since he felt that first punch to the face from a peer who thought him lesser. They’re not winning—Byleth’s return all but confirmed that—but they haven’t lost yet. Or so he tells himself.
He has a plan—he always has a plan—and even from across the city, he swears he can feel the chill that runs down Edelgard’s spine when the ships pull up with Nader and the rest of his Almyran wyvern riders, to be the salvation not only of Derdriu, but of the whole Alliance. The irony isn’t lost on him, and he appreciates it.
At the naval port, Claude watches from atop his wyvern as most of Edelgard’s army storms the city, pushing through his blockade with swinging axes and bloodied fists, while another portion heads for the ships. It’s for the best, he knows, to stay where he is and let the battle come to him—he’s their last line of defense, and he can’t risk getting himself killed by diving recklessly into combat. Still, part of him feels like he’s making people fight for him, even though he knows he’s not making anyone do anything. Everyone here chose to support him. Besides, they know to retreat if things get hairy. He told them not to give their lives for him. He has enough blood on his hands.
While he doesn’t swoop down into Derdriu with the other wyvern riders, Claude doesn’t stand idle, either. High in the sky, he watches the battle unfold below him, a mess of clashing swords and falling bodies, and even takes down a few enemies that are close enough for him to hit without having to abandon his post. Meanwhile, a few smaller brigades separate from the main Imperial force and head for the gates that connect the city to the port—a smart move. Hopefully the soldiers stationed at each one will be strong enough to repel them.
As the army advances, Claude thinks he recognizes people he knew at the Officers Academy. He spots Petra, quick and sharp as the crack of a whip, and Caspar, who has bulked up considerably since Claude last saw him. He sees Hubert, of course, never far from Edelgard’s side, dark magic rising from his fingers like a developing storm cloud. But if there’s one person who’s impossible to miss, it’s Byleth, who looks for all the world like this is just another Tuesday. All that power, power supposedly granted by the Seiros religion’s goddess, and they’re using it to take down the Church.
Claude can respect that. After all, he’s always been fond of irony.
The Black Eagles aren’t the only ones he recognizes, however. He barely has to look to identify the powerful white-haired mage as Lysithea or the shy healer on horseback as Marianne, fighting beside Byleth in support of the Empire. He had assumed as much when they left with Edelgard all those years ago, but it’s one thing to know in his mind that something is true; it’s quite another to confirm it with his own eyes. His former classmates, his Golden Deer, are fighting against the Alliance—fighting against him. But there’s no time to lament, not now. Claude shifts his attention back to the gates and the bridge that lead to the naval port. They’re getting closer now, and he needs to be on his guard.
He’s so focused on defending it that he almost doesn’t see Hilda fall.
Axe in hand, a famed Almyran general fighting by her side, Hilda’s surprisingly strong body collapses to the ground from a blade dug deep into her back. Even from his vantage point in the sky, Claude thinks he can see Freikugel slide out of her grasp.
“Hilda!” he shouts, flying down closer to the ground. He feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t have to see her body up close to know that she’s dead.
No, no, no.
He grits his teeth, his grip tightening on his wyvern’s reins. “Why didn’t you retreat?” he asks mournfully, more to himself than to Hilda—it’s not like she can hear him. “I counted on you retreating.” I didn’t expect you to die for me.
For a moment, Edelgard pauses, her gaze almost forlorn as she registers Hilda’s demise. A few of the others have a similar reaction: Marianne bows her head in sorrow, and Ignatz lowers his bow. Even Byleth seems stunned, as though they hadn’t truly believed Hilda would actually die, let alone that she would die defending someone else. Claude certainly hadn’t. If there was one person he’d been sure would listen to his order to retreat, it was Hilda—notoriously selfish Hilda, who claimed never to want to do anything for anyone else, but kept her promise and stayed by Claude’s side for five long, hard years. Hilda, who swore up and down that while she’d never abandon Claude, she didn’t see the point in dying for him—yet that’s exactly what she did.
Finally, he’s lost all his Deer.
As quickly as they stopped, those who took a moment to mourn slowly return to the bloodshed, and their contributions to it. Claude allows himself one last glance at Hilda’s lifeless body before he does the same.
Nader and the Almyran wyvern riders put up a fierce fight, and Claude helps out from his position the best he can, Failnaught glowing with power in his hands, but it’s not enough. With Edelgard and Byleth’s combined power, not to mention the rest of the army, it’s not long before both the city and the ships are overwhelmed and the gates are seized. Claude never thought he’d see the day that Nader can no longer call himself the Undefeated, but soon enough, a slew of arrows, dark magic, and Heroes’ Relics renders the seemingly invincible general bloody and beaten.
Nader, at least, obeys his order to withdraw, and Claude takes it in stride, assuring him that they’ll meet again one day. Maybe if he says it out loud, it’ll make him believe it.
And then the Empire is charging the port, enemies spilling from both sides. Claude and the last remaining Alliance soldiers take aim and fire, aim and fire, one by one by one—more than just their lives depend on it. With the Imperial army right at his doorstep, so to speak, Claude is finally forced to confront the people who left his side so long ago.
Ignatz is too far away to hear, but Claude thinks he can see him mouth an “I’m sorry” before he launches an arrow into the sky. Claude ducks just in time; he can feel the arrow graze his shoulder. Raphael and Leonie very noticeably focus their attention on the other soldiers and away from their former house leader, while Marianne stays near the back of the horde, healing from afar and refusing to look Claude in the eye.
“Well, well,” Lorenz says from atop a black horse as he closes the distance between them. “I daresay it’s only fitting for it to come to this, my dear old rival.” He shoots Claude a determined half-smile.
Despite everything, Claude chuckles. “I suppose so, Lorenz. Gotta say, I never expected you of all people to side with the Empire.”
Lorenz’s expression hardens, just slightly. “It is what my father would have done. More than that, it was the smart decision. I would have expected a man as clever as you to understand that.” He raises a hand, and magic swirls around his fingertips, waiting to be unleashed.
Claude quirks his lip up and raises his bow. “It doesn’t matter if you think I’m clever or not. No matter what happens here, the people of the Alliance will be spared from further bloodshed. And that’s the most important part—wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Lorenz can reply, Claude releases an arrow that buries itself just beneath the surface of Lorenz’s armor. Only a split second later, Lorenz responds with a blast of magic of his own. Claude steers his wyvern, but he isn’t fast enough to escape most of the blow, and a stinging pain blooms in his side and chest. He releases another few arrows in his opponent’s direction, and he swears he can almost see a sense of respect in the way Lorenz grits his teeth.
Lysithea forces herself to look Claude in the eye when she casts Dark Spikes, a spell Claude knows she was trying to perfect even back in her Academy days. He sees it coming, but he doesn’t escape all of it, and he can feel the shard of dark magic piercing his torso, as deep and potent as any blade. His wyvern screeches in pain and falters in its flight. Reluctantly, he allows it to land.
Now on the ground, Claude finds himself face-to-face with Edelgard, her axe glowing with power. It looks like a Heroes’ Relic, though, curiously, Claude doesn’t remember a weapon resembling this one in any texts he’s read about the Relics—the closest comparison would be Freikugel, Hilda’s weapon. Claude briefly wonders if Edelgard picked it up and started using it, but this weapon has a hole in the middle that Freikugel doesn’t have. Besides, it wouldn’t be glowing if it were Freikugel, because it wouldn’t be compatible with Edelgard’s Crest.
“We haven’t seen each other since Garreg Mach,” Claude says with an almost cordial nod. “You’ve grown lovelier than ever, Edelgard.”
“You’re not so unfortunate yourself,” Edelgard replies—she always was smooth in her responses. “And as usual, you’re here at a most inopportune moment.”
Claude almost smiles at that. “Well, I’m sure we have much more to talk about…” He raises an eyebrow. “But how about we settle things first?”
“No objections here,” Edelgard says, tightening her grip on her axe. Byleth stands behind her, watching, waiting. “Prepare yourself, Claude.”
Edelgard lunges, swinging her axe; Claude pulls on his wyvern’s reins, and it rears back, dodging the blow. Claude shoots an arrow, but Edelgard blocks it and takes another step forward. When she swings again, Claude jumps off of his wyvern and rolls onto the ground. He feels naked without the relative safety of his mount, but he’ll be more dexterous like this. Or perhaps this is his way of admitting that he’s losing.
Edelgard takes advantage of the split second he’s on the ground to strike again, this time catching his upper arm. Claude hisses as she slices it open and stands up, another arrow ready. He aims for her neck and fires; she moves, and it lands in the fabric just below her collarbone. She grimaces but swings her axe again. Claude tries to jump backward, but the pain in his torso catches him off guard, and his body spasms in pain without his permission. The axe rips a gash into his chest.
Claude gasps, but still he tries to fire one more arrow. Byleth jumps in front of it, and Edelgard uses that moment to strike one last time.
Claude kneels on the ground as he feels the tip of the axe bite into his forehead. “Enough!” he gasps. He can feel the blood dripping like syrup into his eyes. “You’ve bested me. If I die here, the Alliance becomes part of the Empire.”
Edelgard steps back, her axe still at the ready. “Do you yield, then? You’ve never known when to give up.”
“Well, I can’t just surrender so easily,” Claude says. Deep down, he knew this would probably fail, which is why he prepared for every possibility—but that doesn’t mean he has to die. Perhaps he can still bargain for his life. He has another country to run, after all, and dreams he still wants to achieve.
“I’m responsible for the others,” he continues. “If you’re as smart as you seem, I bet you’ve figured out why I was able to summon Almyran reinforcements. Wouldn’t it be better to let me go and have me in your debt?”
Edelgard and Byleth exchange a long, conflicted glance—his judge, jury, and executioner. In those quiet seconds, time—that cruel mistress—seems to stop in its tracks; not even the wind blows. Then Byleth takes a step forward.
And they raise their sword.