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The battle was close. Too close.
They lost men and horses and precious, precious supplies- barely pulling through with their own lives. Her closest allies had all dodged death by the skin of their teeth. Thank the goddess, some would say. And yet, when she reaches within herself, Byleth finds no deity to pray to. Is she supposed to be a god now?
She grips the question like a shard in her palm, and as she walks through the camp of soldiers mourning their dead and tending their wounds she asks helplessly- what god would be so powerless?
A nameless weight falls from Byleth’s shoulders the moment she slips into the privacy of the commander's tent. There will be no meetings yet, and so, no need for strength, or confidence, or dignity. She sheds them all away, hands clenched into unsteady fists, head hanging over maps and marching routes that only serve to remind her of all the ways she failed today.
She hasn't cried in years, but gods. Right now she is so close. She waits for them to come, for the warmth to pool in her eyes, for the heart she doesn’t have to break and spill its contents onto the papers before her- but her face remains ashen like her other name. The table stays the same, papers mocking her in their tidy piles on its surface. Why is it so hard to do something as simple as this?
Claude trails in behind her- one of the rare men in the camp that survived the bloodshed with little more than a few minor scrapes. She had made sure of that. Pulled back the threads of time until her spirit tore and her body screamed, enough, no more, not again. And still, she would pull and pull and pull, chanting her own prayer into the godless void in her soul.
Please, please, please.
Please let him live.
Please let him stay in one piece.
Please don't take him away.
When he sees her shrunken figure, he knows this too.
He approaches gingerly from the other side of the tent.
“How many times?”
She had braced herself for the question to be scrutinizing, but his words are gentle, soft.
Something finally drops in her chest at this tone in his voice, ripples into an ache behind her eyes and leaves a metallic dryness in her mouth. She distantly realizes that she cannot tell whether the ringing in her head is from the strain of undoing her carelessness, or the memories of all the ways his body hits the ground. Sounds she never wanted to hear, sensations she never wanted to feel.
Please, please, please.
She does not know what she is begging for anymore.
“Byleth?”
Her name comes out almost a whisper. His hands are holding her like she's made of glass and it feels true- that she's paper thin and only a touch away from shattering into sharp edges. Her head rings, but she steadies herself and counts.
“Twelve. And then eight for the others.”
A knit forms between his brows as she speaks.
“That's far too many.”
“They went for the convoy, then reinforcements came from behind. Our troops were spread too far ahead.”
She catches herself gripping his sleeves in tight fists and lets go before she leaves a mark on herself, or worse, on him.
“We tried to save them,” she continues quietly. She can feel his remorse radiating through her fingertips.
“Yes.”
Then, even more quietly.
“You kept getting hurt.”
His gaze hangs between them as she speaks, a solemn silence sitting in the air until the rest of her mind falls out of her mouth.
“There was nothing that would work, nothing else I could do. I had to make a choice. And I…”
I chose you.
He seems to lean into those unspoken words, dipping his head as he receives and considers them.
He's always considering, she thinks. Byleth feels him turn thoughts in his mind before he finally responds.
“I'm sorry.”
From anyone else that phrase would feel hollow, and perhaps, to anyone else, they would be hollow. Common condolences do so little to offer comfort after all, arguably even less so from a prince as cunning as he, but Byleth hears his own unspoken words.
I'm sorry you had to choose.
I'm sorry for the way it hurts.
I'm sorry I can't save you from the burden you carry.
I'm sorry, I only know how to receive all these things you give.
And then like a steady note beneath it all, like the reassurance of sun beams reaching out through clouds in the horizon, promising dawn after an endless night, like a thread that holds her aching pieces together:
But I'm with you.
So she draws him close, pulls his weight on herself because there's no need for any more words between them. He envelops her in return, the simple press of their bodies a reminder that they made it through the day. For just this brief moment in the present, the only thing that matters is the way they can still hold each other.