Chapter Text
The untimely spring snowfall turns to freezing rain as they ride into Southern Gloucester territory—the small and modest hamlet of Elsinore. The spires of the castle in the distance are still visible in the dreary drizzle and misty twilight as fog settles in on the wood and homes below. Horse hooves meet browned moss, frost, and cobblestone as they draw nearer to their destination, pulling on the reins to stop before an indiscriminate wattle and daub building on the fringe of town.
Hubert dismounts his steed first before helping her down. She clings to his forearms as her boots meet the cold wet stone. Tugging her cloak tightly around her frame to shield herself from the wind and rain, she follows closely behind her retainer as he pulls open the wooden door of the building, bathing the two of them in the warm glow of the pub within.
The establishment is mostly empty, but Hubert proceeds with caution, the tension in his shoulders visible beneath the heavy fabric of his cape.
Hubert was adamantly against this meeting—not just because the journey is treacherous through the mountains surrounding the monastery and into Alliance territory this during one of Fódlan’s longest winter seasons in recorded history, or that the political climate is still precarious given the sting of war and turmoil are still fresh after the Empire had successfully seized Garreg Mach from the Church just a mere few weeks ago… but because he feels like obliging this particular former classmate of theirs is not only incredibly dangerous to the newly crowned Emperor, but, in his words, “a complete and utter waste of time.”
Edelgard would like to think otherwise. Maybe it’s unwise or foolish. But perhaps her desperation is pushing her to the brink of illogicity. After the past few weeks of scouring every ravine surrounding the monastery and the lands beyond for her beloved professor, she feels gutted and numb, her cheeks and nose raw from crying at each moment of solitude. The one person who she trusted in, who showed her kindness and forgiveness beyond measure… the one person who had every reason to turn away that day in the Holy Tomb…
Gone. Vanished into thin air.
She was distraught at first, heartbroken beyond measure. Her fellow Black Eagles reminded her that their professor had come back before, that day where she split the sky in two with that glowing arcane sword… but as the days turned into weeks, Edelgard’s hope dwindled into despair. Then, of course, there was her anger. At Rhea… at the goddess and those that adore and follow her, and those that oppose her from the darkness.
But then Edelgard reminds herself that in order to move forward, she must reach out her hand. She must rely on others, even if it’s not easy… her professor taught her that, the value of reaching out one’s hand to another. So against Hubert’s advice, she had penned a letter to her former classmate in the wee hours of the morning, sleepless from nightmares and stresses of leading an army into war against the most powerful institution of Fódlan. One week passed without a reply, then two, and she thought perhaps Hubert was right, that reaching out to him was pure folly and nothing more.
But much to her surprise, an owl turned up on her windowsill a few nights ago—it was an odd-looking messenger owl, missing a few feathers and one eye clouded over into a pearlescent slate color. Cutched in its talons is a parchment tied with thin leather rope, sealed with a brilliant golden wax. A response at last—and more than that, a promise to meet. A promise to listen, in her mind—which is a glorious opportunity that mustn’t be squandered. Hubert was quick to warn her of traps and false promises, though, reminding her that she’s leading their world into war, and there are many who would pay a high price for her head. The harsh reality of her station is not lost on her, and neither are the risks of this meeting.
But the parchment of the letter sent to her, folded and tucked away in the breast pocket of her jacket, is a symbol of the little flicker of hope and promise she has left in a world where her greatest ally had disappeared, and her other allies are only using her and her soldiers and friends as pawns in their game. A terrible game that, without the might of her professor, only has one possible ending for mankind.
Dimitri had made his choice that day in the Holy Tomb and in the days that followed—crowned King of Faerghus and pledging his fealty to Rhea and the Church of Serios. There is no hope for reconciliation between their two nations. But the Alliance, despite its persistent neutrality in the face of this conflict, could potentially be swayed to join her. So instead of playing war general, Edelgard shifts away from battlefield tactics to the fine art of politicking and persuasion.
Which, she understands, will be just as awful of a game when played with one Claude von Reigan. But years of biting her tongue between saying what others want to hear have prepared her for this very moment—influencing the scion of House Reigan to come to aid of the Empire.
The bartender raises his head at the sound of hers and Hubert’s footsteps on the creaky wooden floors. He stops what he’s doing at once to move toward the door behind the bar. When he swings it open, Hubert stiffens, his gloved hand readied with the purple smoke of a Mire B. Edelgard swiftly grabs his forearm and lowers it, throwing a pointed look up at him to effectively cease his grumbling protests. He tenses again when the bartender swivels back around and raises his hand, and she’s sure Hubert would have let a spell lose if it wasn’t for her vice grip on him.
The bartender flicks his wrist, and Edelgard hears the main door latch lock shut behind her. She and Hubert turn to look as the curtains draw shut on the two large windows at the front of the pub with the same breath of magic.
“I wish I was more surprised that you’re not alone,” a voice announces.
Claude steps out from the back door, moving around the bar as he approaches them. He still has the same air of impenetrable confidence about him, and his presence easily commands the room. His intense green gaze is as scrutinizing and calculating as Hubert’s, though it’s far more unnerving because unlike with Hubert, she doesn’t know Claude’s intentions here this evening.
“I am surprised you returned my correspondence,” Edelgard replies cooly, hyper-aware of her tone and maintaining a neutral distance between them. She raises her black sheepskin gloved hands to either side of her face, removing the wool hood from her head. Her snowy white locks are in stark contrast to the rich crimson of her cloak as she shakes them loose from the confines of her surreptitiously casual garb for the journey here.
Claude smirks. He waves a hand to the barkeep behind him, and the man excuses himself, leaving the entire vacant pub to the emperor, lord, and heir. “A letter from the Empress herself—how was I not to reply?”
“Her Majesty is not the most popular in all corners of Fódlan,” interjects Hubert, his voice scathing as he lowers his own hood. “Unless you’ve somehow managed to forget all that has transpired in the last few months.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. And yeah, being unwelcome and unliked is something you and I both have experience with—right, Hubert? Well, except I’m not ostracized because of war crimes I’ve committed.”
Edelgard frowns and folds her arms. “This is war. I was acutely aware of what I was doing before I chose to do it,” she stresses. “But you, Claude… you look down upon my actions, yet you were undeterred in calling this meeting here tonight.”
“Who said I look down upon what you did?” he challenges, green eyes flashing with something unreadable to Edelgard. She waits with bated breath as Claude runs a hand through unruly brown locks that begin to curl slightly at the ends. Hubert, though, is far more impatient than her.
“My Lady, this meeting is as I expected it to be—another one of von Reigan’s jokes,” he sneers. Her retainer stands tall and widens his shoulders, one of his quirks to appear more intimidating to those who irritate him. “Hailing the Emperor of the Adrestian Empire through the mountains in the dead of winter only to waste her time with silly contradictions and false promises—”
“I’m assuming he read the letter I sent you,” Claude interrupts, speaking directly to Edelgard as Hubert fumes beside her. “Maybe your Minister of Lies and Spies needs to get his eyes checked, because nowhere did I promise anything. Right, Edelgard?”
“That’s Your Majesty to you,” Hubert warns, his voice venomous.
“Sorry, my bad. I must still be stuck on the fact that just two months ago, she and I sat next to each other in class,” Claude rolls his eyes at her dark-haired retainer. “Anyway, Your Majesty,” he drawls with an exaggerated bow, now refocused on her. “If you recall my letter…”
Edelgard can feel the corners of her mouth threaten to twitch upward into the hint of a smile, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she clears her throat before her reply. “...You stated that you wished to meet with me to discuss my offer. Which, if you recall, is to foster an alliance with the Empire. And given recent correspondence I have received from Leicester, it appears some of the great lords have already expressed their support of the Empire.”
“Some? More like one,” Claude laughs. “Count Gloucester has been hounding my grandfather at the roundtables for weeks now. His feelings are certainly no secret to anyone in all of Fódlan, so I wouldn’t label that correspondence, Princess—er, Your Majes—”
“Edelgard,” she corrects politely and gently. She senses Hubert about to protest, but she motions for him to remain silent before he goes and ruins this for her. This is Claude—and in order to discuss anything this evening, she would have to play his game. She’s gleaned a few things about Claude from their time at the Officer’s Academy together—the main one being his incessant need to be in control of every situation he finds himself in. So she flashes a smooth smile and allows him to take the reins of the conversation.
“Look, we’ve all read your little manifesto. Hells, I’ve seen what Rhea is with my own eyes that day. So I get it, believe me.”
“So after what you’ve witnessed to be true, would you not tell your grandfather and the other great lords? Your account could convince them to take up arms against the Church—”
“Convincing rich nobles to risk their business and Relics to go to war against a literal dragon is quite the feat, even for me. You realize that, right? Like we just discussed, I’m not exactly popular over here, either. I appreciate your confidence in me, Edelgard, but the majority of the roundtable agrees with my grandfather. Going to war is a tough sell for anyone. You ought to realize that more than anyone.”
“Yes, but the Alliance cannot feign neutrality forever while benefiting from trade with both the Kingdom and Empire, especially when your main trade route is on our shared borders,” she argues. “It would be more advantageous to maintain that route before the Church and Kingdom force you to cease trade with us entirely or be labeled a heretic.”
“Oh, I’m already a heretic,” Claude smirks. “But it’s cute that you think the Bridge of Myrddin is our main hub for trade. We’d be fine without it.”
Edelgard furrows her brow, genuinely caught off-guard by his comment. Surely that is untrue. It’d be foolish to abandon the imports from the Empire—there is no possible way that trade between the Alliance and Kingdom is more profitable and sustaining than that of Adrestia. Gronder Field—the breadbasket of Fódlan—resides in the eastern Empire; the lands of Faerghus, in stark contrast, are cold and barren, yielding little crop. The Kingdom always had to rely on other nations to ensure its people didn't go hungry. And now in the dead of winter and in war, all trade between the Empire and Kingdom has ceased, and surely the Kingdom will suffer for it this season as they try to organize for the battles to come.
“Don’t think too hard, now—it’s not a good look on you,” he continues in the face of Edelgard’s speechlessness. His teasing is unnerving, and perhaps she had the wrong strategy for this conversation. “Look, you and I both have secrets, Edelgard. And that’s why this,” he says, motioning at the space between them, “little entente you dream of will never work. There’s too wide of a gulf to cross.”
“That is where you’re wrong,” Edelgard disagrees. She stands firm, looking up at him defiantly. “The difference between us is that I’m willing to share my secrets, because I see the benefit in trusting someone.”
“An honorable sentiment. The professor showed you that, huh?”
Edelgard swallows. She can’t form a rebuttal because there’s nothing to argue, and she can’t form a reply because the mention of Byleth is enough to bring her to the edge of tears once more. “You know, you’re right, Edelgard. But not in the way you think. You’re not willing to share your secrets—at least not with me. But there’s some secrets you’re really bad at concealing. Like how without the professor, whatever plans you had disappeared along with her. It’s all over your face and in how your troops have been making circles around the monastery for weeks instead of mobilizing for a war you started.”
Edelgard looks away sharply, her face burning with shame. “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it? Hate to break it to you, but I can’t be a stand-in for Teach. Why else would you reach out to me? Though I’m flattered you think I’m worth trusting despite the fact that you know nothing about me.”
She shakes her head before finally lifting her violet eyes to meet his with a fierce intensity. “I do know you, Claude,” she insists. But he does nothing but smile sadly in return.
“You really don’t. For all you know, I could be the biggest threat to you and your Empire. Now, would you really risk losing a whole lot by trying to coerce me into being part of the Imperial machine?”
“I don’t want you, Claude. I want the Alliance,” she corrects. “And if I thought you were any threat, we wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
“Well, I question your judgement. In this matter, anyway.”
Hubert grumbles at the heir’s response, but doesn’t speak on the topic... though without a doubt he has a strong opinion about both Claude and her judgement of him. A tilted smile splits across Claude’s face, and Edelgard begins to regret her decision to not take the lead in the conversation. All of his deflections are absolutely maddening, and his assessment of her is shamefully correct. If the professor were still by her side, she would not require allies like Claude. Seeking his aid and influence to ally with the Alliance was simply born out of necessity. Survival. Desperation in Byleth’s absence.
She needs to redirect him to cooperate with her. Like she did with Linhardt to keep his brilliant mind and research on the side of the Empire, or with Petra to prevent her from returning to Brigid... she needs to uncover what Claude requires of her for concordance.
“That means we can agree on something, at least?” she asks, looking to start finding similarities somewhere.
“That Rhea is quite literally a monster? Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Claude ripostes.
“I see. Then what will it take for me to coerce you into allying with the Empire against this monster?”
Claude taps his lips with an index finger in mock contemplation, devilish grin on his face. “Well, you can’t coerce me. And you probably won’t convince me, either. But you can woo me, Your Majesty.”
Edelgard blinks dumbly in response. “I beg your pardon…?”
“There will be nothing of the sort,” growls Hubert.
“You heard me, your Imperialness. Woo me. Now, obviously winning my favor is going to be difficult dance when you’re over there and I’m stuck here—you know, neither of us can get caught sneaking around in each other's territories—”
“Enough with the joking,” Edelgard interrupts, at her wits end. “I did not come all the way here… I did not risk penning a letter to the next sovereign duke of the Leicester Alliance in the fresh fog of the war started at my behest…”
“If I was going to agree to this alliance you proposed, I would have done so in my return letter. But I wanted to see how serious your intentions were about allying with Leicester, so blame my curiosity,” smiles Claude, his eyes twinkling mischievously. It’s clear that his curiosity was hardly satiated by this ineffective negotiation. “But color me intrigued, Your Majesty. I cannot do much to sway the great lords now, but in time, I can. You know… you can try to understand me, I can try to understand you. I must say, I quite enjoyed reading that letter you sent me. Besides diplomacy, we have many other matters we can discuss with our correspondence.”
“We are here now,” Hubert hisses, leaning forward and looking down at the shorter man. “And we can stay here all night so that Her Majesty’s proposal may be deliberated now. In person.”
“No can do, Hubert,” shrugs Claude with an indifference that visibly offends her retainer. “These kinds of negotiations take time. Besides, I think we both have other matters to attend to.”
He waves casually at them as he turns to leave, leaving both Hubert and Edelgard in stunned silence. Throwing her woolen hood over her head with a huff, Edelgard draws her cloak tightly around her small frame in her frustration and silent fury. She strides wordlessly to the door to the pub, flips the latch with her gloved hand, and opens the door to a light flurry of snow in the dim lamplight and their pair of horses waiting for them.
The ride back to the monastery is more hazardous than their initial journey into Elsinore. During the arduous passage, Edelgard spends much time thinking about Enbarr and how warm it must be on the Palace grounds during this Harpstring Moon. Or maybe it’s still unseasonably cold there, as well… it’d be fitting—a symbolic chill taking hold of all of Fódlan, making winter seem to draw on forever. What she wouldn’t do to see spring, or to see her professor again.
The ride back to the monastery is quiet between her and Hubert, as Edelgard ruminates over what she’ll write when she’s back at her desk.