Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Imperial Year 1180.

“Listen to this,” Claude starts, and all the eyes in the room turn to him as his own shimmer with excitement. He’s naturally magnetic, his voice disarming, and Dorothea can’t help wondering what he could achieve if given the proper stage. She leans against the side of his bed, knees drawn inward, and lets herself fade into the background.

He turns the open book in his hands around and presents it to the group, fingers drumming against the edge of the pages. “House Albrecht is a minor house now, but they were one of the more distinguished families that fought in the Crescent Moon War,” he says. A beautifully-inked illustration depicts a broad, muscular figure standing triumphantly, gauntleted fists raised in the air. “Their fighting style was formidable and unpredictable. Interestingly enough, though, military scholars later noted similarities in their technique to that of the indigenous clans of Kupala.”

“That’s great and all, Claude,” Hilda sighs from Dorothea’s left, “but I’m pretty sure it isn’t going to be on tomorrow’s exam.”

Ignatz nods, scanning over the array of notes spread across his lap. “Yes—could we please try to stay on topic?”

“None of you are any fun,” Claude groans, shutting the book with a defeated thud and rolling his eyes.

“I enjoyed it,” Dorothea chimes in, and her heart skips a beat when a soft, unwitting smile curls for a brief moment on Claude’s lips. “It’s certainly more interesting than the actual material we’ve been studying.”

“Don’t encourage him, Dorothea,” Hilda warns. “We’ll be here all night if we let Claude go off on every tangent his inscrutable mind takes him.”

“Ooh, inscrutable,” Claude coos. “That’s a new one, Hilda.”

Dorothea rides the wave of laughter that sweeps across the room. She really wouldn’t mind staying here all night—wouldn’t mind hearing every little stray thought that Claude spouts from his pretty mouth. He poses each question with a deceptive innocence, throws out each blithe hypothesis like it just happened to occur to him in that moment. Edelgard calls him a schemer; Dorothea thinks he’s closer to a genius.

But she can’t stay here all night. Her eyes flick to the clock, catching the minute hand creeping closer to twelve and the hour hand just on the verge of seven. “Shoot, it’s getting late, isn’t it?” she wonders aloud, and the bud of playful bickering takes a back seat as everyone’s attention falls on her. Dorothea bites her lip. “For me, I mean. I have a…” she stumbles with the words. Her fellow Black Eagles are well aware of her habits, and she’s sure the rumors have spread across the monastery. But still she hesitates.

Hilda doesn’t. “A date? Exciting!” Her enthusiasm and encouraging tone are a relief, at least. “Wish I could be going out to dinner instead of poring over dry texts on the historical usage of siege weaponry.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Claude asks as Dorothea rises to stand, smoothing out her skirt. She swallows, hands fidgeting over her buttons, suddenly hyper-aware of her appearance. That’s her normal state, really, a constant barrage of self-assessments: the number of winding ringlets in her hair, the level of pout in her lower lip, the exact angle her head is tilted at. The focus cuts her like a knife, along with the realization that in this room, with these people, she’d let that guard fall.

“Oh, just a minor lord from Hevring territory,” she says with a dismissive wave. Or was it Bergliez? The details elude her. She has notes somewhere, ones that she’ll review as she’s practicing her best smiles and salutations in the mirror. Right now, though, she wants to hold onto the warmth of Claude’s room for a few moments longer.

“Just,” Claude repeats with a clipped laugh. “How many minor lords is it gonna take before you ask Edelgard out, already?”

She fixes him with a hard stare, reflexive and far too intense for Claude’s joking grin. He wavers before she can soften herself, smoothing over the tiny flair of annoyance. “I’m just saying you two seem close enough,” he continues. “She’s the Imperial Princess. Even if you don’t have your sights set on her specifically, she probably knows someone nice to set you up with.”

“I think the Imperial Princess has better things to do than play matchmaker, Claude,” Dorothea replies, stepping carefully across the sea of books and loose paper strewn about his floor. “I’ll be fine, so long as I don’t run too late. Which is why I must be off…”

Claude doesn’t argue, or provide another quip. She almost wishes he would—the silence in its place makes her cheeks flush.

“Well, have fun!” Hilda cheers, her bubbly voice lightening the mood. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Dorothea resists a sigh as she slips out the door. She pauses, takes a clarifying breath, and tries to ignore the pang of loneliness that sits like a cold weight on her chest as she stares down the long, empty hallway.

She’s barely taken three steps when a voice calls her back.

“Dorothea! Hey!” Claude’s casual lilt has returned, as if nothing happened. Dorothea turns to find him waving a small leather-bound journal in his hands. “You forgot this.”

“Oh,” Dorothea breathes, accepting the notebook unceremoniously. “Thank you.”

“Sorry for teasing you back there,” Claude says. “I don’t mean to meddle, but…” Dorothea raises a skeptical brow. “Don’t give me that look.” Consideration flashes across his face for a moment, and there’s a flicker in his eyes right before he adds: ”Alright, I’ll just come out and say it: why not aim higher?”

Dorothea blinks in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“You’re always going on these dates with minor lords. Small fry.” He sweeps his arms, motioning to all of her. “But you’re Dorothea Arnault, acclaimed diva of the Mittelfrank Opera Company. If your goal is status, you can do better.”

It occurs to her that she shouldn’t care about Claude knowing exactly what her game is. She definitely shouldn’t care or wonder whether he judges her for it—this is Claude von Riegan, carefree leader of the Golden Deer house, of course he doesn’t—but she worries anyway. “If this is about Edelgard, I assure you—”

“It’s not just about Edelgard,” he says. “I mean, Dimitri is here, too,” he points out with a grin and a shrug.

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “Your flattery is sweet, Claude. But…” Her eyes scan the hallway, checking for another clock, but the walls are bare. “Well, since you like studying lesser-known history so much, and I am a bit of a bard myself… perhaps you’ve heard the tale of Icarus?”

Claude nods, and there’s that same spark in his gaze from earlier, when he was the one sharing trivia.

“He was trapped in a tower,” she recounts, “and in order to escape, he crafted wings from wax and feathers. Very clever.” She takes a deep breath. “But he loved the sky too much. He soared ever higher, reaching for the sun—until its brilliant rays melted the wax on his wings, and he plummeted to his doom.”

“Poor guy,” Claude says.

“A bit of a tragedy, yes.”

“But I don’t think you need to worry about flying too high,” he argues, unperturbed. “You should chase your dreams, Dorothea—even if they seem unattainable.” He looks down and away, crossing his arms in thought. “When I was a kid, my father had a certain adage he loved to repeat ad infinitum: ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land amongst the stars.’”

She fails to properly stifle her laugh, and Claude doesn’t look surprised—there’s even a hint of embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I know. It’s cheesy. I used to hate it. Honestly, I’m still not sure how I feel about it. But I think it’s good advice.” He meets her eyes again. “You made it as an opera star, and you made it into the academy, against all odds. I’d expect you to be bolder.”

Boldness is something Dorothea thinks she’s only ever accomplished on the stage. Never in real life. “Claude…”

“Alright,” he cuts in, raising his palms in surrender. “Inspirational speech over. Wouldn’t want you to be late to your date.”

“You know, I’m starting to get the feeling you do want that, actually,” she teases.

He smiles wide. “Are you taking my advice already?” Then he shakes his head, reeling in his excitement. “But seriously, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back to making sure the rest of my class doesn’t fail spectacularly tomorrow.” He begins to walk away, but gives her a start with one quick pivot back around. “Oh! And before I forget…” His voice drops low. “Did you fill out that transfer request form yet?”

It’s her turn to smile, now. “I’m meeting with Professor Byleth tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” he says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Looking forward to having you join us.”

She nods and gives him a wave. “I’m sure you are. Good night, Claude.”

—

Dorothea groans and shudders in the morning gloom. Sky watch? Really? There must be some mistake. Usually Professor Manuela has her pulling weeds or tidying the library. She isn’t necessarily afraid of heights, but… well, she isn’t very good at riding a horse, either, and taking the principles of that and adding the complexity of flight…

“Ah! You made it!”

Claude’s voice is far too chipper for the early hour. Dorothea turns around and sees he's wearing a smile to match, strolling across the lawn that stretches in front of the sky stables. “It wouldn’t do for me to miss my very first chore shift in my new house, would it?” she says with a hum. “Though I’m not sure what Professor Byleth was thinking. I can’t ride a pegasus to save my life.”

“Have you ever tried?” Claude asks, coming to a stop in front of her.

“No,” Dorothea replies with a pout, crossing her arms. Though she supposes—

“First time for everything, right?” Claude lilts, finishing her thought. His hand lands on her shoulder, nudging her toward the looming entryway. “Luckily for you, I’m an expert at maneuvering a wyvern.”

Dorothea swallows. A pegasus is already scary enough to think about—but they’re supposedly accommodating if you happen to be a woman, and she has to admit that the feathers make them look more approachable. “You want me to ride a wyvern?” she asks with a shudder.

“Well, none of our flight instructors happen to be here at the moment, and I sure haven’t ridden a pegasus before. Maybe in theory, but—”

“Risking my life over a theory doesn’t sound appealing, no,” Dorothea interrupts, scanning the stables. Claude is right; they’re the only ones here right now—the only people, anyway. But the stalls are full of other life, stirring slowly as the sky grows lighter with the dawn. Wings flutter, soft, and somewhere a pegasus whinnies; the low, rumbling purr of a sleeping wyvern buzzes through the high-ceilinged hangar.

They pause in the middle of the building, basking in the ambient noise; Claude’s breathing joins the symphony, steady and soothing. Dorothea tries to match his calm. “What’s the plan, then, boss?” She turns to her partner, whose face has been rendered blank and passive in what looks like a meditative trance. Claude blinks, turning back to her.

“You can ride with me, if you’re worried,” he offers.

Oh. She holds her hands behind her back as a wave of timidity washes over her. “Is that standard procedure for a new flier?”

Claude stretches tall, raising his arms high before they settle behind his head, his hips finding a nonchalant sway. “Not exactly. I guess it’s how I learned, though.” He chuckles, his gaze still set forward at nothing in particular. Dorothea wonders what memory he’s lost in. “But are you really expecting something like standard procedure from me, Dorothea?”

She laughs, bringing her knuckle to her lips to muffle the light sound. “It sure isn’t why I joined the Golden Deer, no.” That was something more like… well, Dorothea can’t explain it, honestly. Maybe she likes that there are more commoners. Maybe she hit it off well enough with Hilda. Or maybe it was the oft-seen glint in Claude’s eye, the same one brightening the forest-green of his irises now, that piqued her curiosity. She heaves a sigh, widening her stance and placing her hands on her hips. “Consider me worried, then. Lead the way.”

He directs her away from the central expanse, into a tighter corridor that takes them past several beasts of the scaly variety. “You’ve seen plenty of these guys soaring around the monastery already, haven’t you?” he asks, several feet in front as Dorothea peeks her head into one of the pens. “If you’ve never seen one up close, though… they’re big.”

“Shocker,” Dorothea mutters, focusing on the back of Claude’s head. She prances forward to catch up, a floating sensation building in her chest. Why is she so excited about this, suddenly?

“Hey, I’m just giving you fair warning,” Claude says, meeting her gaze as she rounds his shoulder. “You might be startled, but there’s no need to be scared. Wyverns are trained from an early age to be around people. Like… like dogs, you know?”

Dorothea isn’t sure what’s funnier: the statement itself, or the strangely sincere way Claude says it. “Certainly the weirdest dogs I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He rolls his eyes as he comes to a stop; Dorothea nearly trips over him. “Yeah, I suppose,” he admits, motioning to the gate they’ve stopped in front of. “This is Buttercup. She’s been my patrol partner for a while now. We have a pretty good thing going.”

Dorothea cranes her neck upward, beyond the wooden fence, and finds the looming shadow of a copper-toned wyvern stretching its own head toward the ceiling. Her scales bristle, catching the light as she shifts to face them, and piercing yellow eyes cut through the space between. “Buttercup?” Dorothea repeats, holding back an incredulous laugh; it helps that the so-called creature has fully captivated her. Enough so that she hardly notices when Claude unlatches the gate and guides her through.

“Makes her seem a bit less intimidating, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

When Claude places a hand between her shoulder blades, Dorothea realizes that she’s stuck in place, still mesmerized. “She likes you,” he breathes, and again there’s a realness to his thoughtful observation that puts Dorothea’s whole body at ease.

She at last wrenches her gaze away from Buttercup’s jagged, beautiful face, scanning down the graceful curve of her neck and fixating on her saddled back—the same place Claude’s been trying to coax her towards. “Hopefully that makes this impromptu lesson a bit easier,” she says.

Despite her apprehension, Dorothea has ridden a horse before, so it’s easy enough for her to step into the stirrup and leverage herself up onto Buttercup’s back; a boost from Claude helps overcome the extra distance she isn’t quite used to. The world sways for a brief, disorienting moment as she swings her leg over and settles atop the cool leather. Claude flashes her a smile from the ground; then he scrambles up quicker than she can blink, sliding into the space behind her. “Take the reins,” he says, the simple command rumbling close in her right ear.

“Me?” she replies dumbly, her vision blurring as she blinks away spots from the edge of her eyes.

“You’re the one at the front, aren’t you?”

Dorothea resists a sarcastic quip, pushing down the nerves that are bubbling up and prickling over her skin. She picks up the leather straps resting over the saddlehorn, feeling a pinch of resistance as she draws them toward her. Buttercup tenses, and Dorothea squeezes her hands and legs instinctively.

“Easy,” Claude lilts, his hands resting lightly atop her wrists. “She’s more sensitive to these than you might think.” Dorothea relaxes, taking a deep breath. She’s held more dangerous things in her hands before—fire, lightning, a sword—so maybe this isn’t so bad.

Buttercup lets out a hum, long and low, and several things happen at once: she rises to her feet, resulting in a sudden lift that renews Dorothea’s dizziness. It’s accompanied by a turn that brings them to face the rear of the enclosure, which opens onto a great field. “She knows the drill, so this part is actually pretty easy,” Claude tells her. Dorothea struggles to maintain her posture as they lurch forward, lithe muscles working beneath her legs. The rising sun has begun clearing the distant peaks, its light dancing off Buttercup’s scales; Dorothea can make out flecks of silver and green in the rich brown.

“Um, Claude?” she finally manages, one hand gripping the saddle horn. “We’re moving a bit fast…”

“It’ll be over before you know it,” he says, in a tone that’s both casual and incredibly unhelpful. Surely he knows how terrible that choice of words is?

“What will be over?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

They’re moving still, clearing the overhang—the world brightens as open sky stretches above them. Dorothea has no time to process: her stomach drops, and her heart spirals out of her chest, pure adrenaline simultaneously numbing her and making her hyper-aware of the wind rushing past her face. For a moment she swears that she’s about to die—her life flashes before her eyes, sparks of memory spliced into a view of the ground growing very, very far away.

Then, like the flip of a switch, all is calm and smooth. Buttercup is gliding through the air, and Dorothea is on top of her still; her ears pop to signal a change in altitude. There’s a tightening around her waist—are those Claude’s arms? She didn’t even notice him hold on, too caught up in the exhilarating sensation of lift-off.

“Phew,” he sighs out, his grip falling away. She almost whines at the loss of stability, but catches herself before she says anything embarrassing like please don’t let go. “Made it up safely, see?”

Safely enough. “A little bit more warning would have been nice.”

“Sorry. I’m used to it,” Claude says, though he doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. Mostly casual, relaxed, but in a more tangible way than his usual carefree self. “You understand the general idea of sky watch, right? Did you really expect to be on the ground for very long?”

Dorothea tilts her head, rolling her neck—she’s surprised she doesn’t have whiplash. “No, I suppose not… But I still have barely any idea what I’m doing!”

“Um, you’re flying, obviously—and doing a great job of it. Look at you!”

“Claude,” she scolds, “have you ever taught someone how to ride a wyvern before?”

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Well… no, I haven’t.”

“No surprises there,” she says with a roll of her eyes. But on the plus side, she isn’t dead, so that has to count for something.

“Maybe you can teach me how to sing, and we’ll see if you’re any better at imparting something that’s so innate to you,” Claude challenges.

She considers it for a moment—imagines what his singing voice might be like, outside of the stiff environment of choir practice. Would it be deeper? Higher? Richer? “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she says, shaking herself free of the thought. “There’s still plenty for me to learn with flying, first.”

“Right. Getting in the air is just step one.” He pauses, considering. “You’ve still got your hands on the reins, right?”

It’s only then that she becomes aware of the straps looped across her palms, her limp hands resting on her thighs. “Oh,” she chirps in soft surprise. “I suppose I do.”

Claude hums, almost teasing, and she can tell he’s resisting a clever quip. “You can try steering us,” he suggests. “Where do you want to go?”

He turns silent, waiting for her decision, and Dorothea uses the time to get her first good look at the view.

There’s an abundance of words she could use to describe what she sees, but none of them manage to make it out of her mouth. Absolutely stunning hangs on the tip of her tongue. Garreg Mach is to their left, its grand towers sprouting from the mountainside like great stalks reaching for heaven. Winding staircases of sun-bleached stone hug the cliffside, trailing down toward town and beyond. The monastery is beautiful enough already when she traverses it by foot—but from this vantage point, Dorothea realizes how truly lucky she is to be here.

Claude’s voice is low and deep, more so than usual. Meaningful. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

She turns her head, scanning the rest of the unadorned peaks, wild stretches of unsettled territory covered in intermittent patches of thick forest. Before attending the academy, Dorothea had known nothing but Enbarr—nothing but alleyways and fountains and the opera house. On the stage, she’s played characters from all corners of the world: heroes that blaze trails and fight fearsome foes, princesses traveling across their domains, sailors braving the seas—but only now is she able to understand how truly vast it all is.

“There’s so much,” she finally says, her voice reverent. “And even then, I know this is just one tiny snapshot of Fódlan.”

“Makes you feel kinda small, huh,” Claude muses.

“Maybe,” she replies halfheartedly. Many things have made Dorothea feel small, much more so than this expanse of beauty and promise before her. She’s sure Claude has his own reasons for the sentiment. “But it’s a good way to see the bigger picture, isn’t it?” she adds, trying to cheer him up. “That’s Remire down that way, right?” She squints, trying to make out a village in the forest. “I can barely see it, but it’s there. Everything feels a bit closer from up here. More manageable.”

Claude laughs. “That’s a nice way to think about it. Seriously, though, where are we headed?”

“Well, we’re supposed to be patrolling, so…” With her left hand, she lightly tugs the reins; the world tilts, and she almost yelps as Buttercup follows her command, orienting them toward the monastery. Then they even out again, and Dorothea is awestruck by her own lack of fear.

“Hey, nice!” Claude cheers. “You didn’t even need me to tell you how.”

“Hm. I think Buttercup is just behaving because you’re here,” she jokes.

“I am a bit of a natural leader,” he says with a pleased sigh. “She simply respects my authority.”

“At least someone does.”

“Ouch! I know I’m not as imposing as Edelgard, or as formal as Dimitri, but I’ve got a pretty good handle on my class,” Claude argues. “You’re already an expert wyvern rider thanks to me, after all.”

She wishes she could shoot him a teasing glare, but it’s difficult for her to twist around enough while they’re sitting so close. He seems to get the message from her silence, anyway. “Alright, alright, we can keep working on it,” he concedes. Then his tone shifts a hair more serious. “How are you adjusting to the class transfer, anyway? Any stumbles or challenges I should know about? Lorenz isn’t giving you trouble, is he?”

Dorothea hums in thought. “I haven’t had any problems with Lorenz recently, actually.”

“That makes one of us,” Claude says with a chuckle, though a hint of exasperation breaks through.

“He still doesn’t accept your position, does he?” she says, sympathetic. “Here at the academy or in the Alliance.”

Claude goes quiet at that—maybe she hit a nerve. She didn’t realize that was possible.

Her voice turns syrupy, hoping to coax him out of his sudden and uncharacteristic ennui. “You know, Claude,” she starts, “I happen to be familiar with a noble’s particular brand of etiquette. If you’d like, I could give you some pointers on how to avoid any more tiresome disagreements.”

He’s quick to respond, back to his usual cheery self. “Ah, but what’s life without a little conflict or challenge? That’s how we grow—it’s how we make things change,” he says, with a self-assured confidence that only he can pull off. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I like getting under peoples’ skins.”

And putting them out of their comfort zones, she resists saying, taking another glimpse of their surroundings. Case in point. “I suppose an aspiring leader such as yourself would want to rock the boat a little. Maybe that’s where you and I differ.”

“Really? I don’t think we’re so different. You never seem to hold back on giving Ferdinand—or Lorenz, as it were—a piece of your mind.”

She laughs, thinking back on some of her more inflammatory moments with an almost sadistic fondness. “But they’re my classmates!” she says, as if that precludes their very-mockable obsession with their own nobility. “The Officers Academy grants this illusion that we’re all on equal footing, in some ways,” she considers. “I mean, I still hear plenty of gossip tossed around about how I got here, but it doesn’t change the fact that I walked through the same shiny gates as the rest of them.” There’s a mix of emotions swirling in those words, but Dorothea tries not to linger on them. Maybe she’ll dig deeper into the defiance, though. That’s the fun one.

“It’s pretty extraordinary,” Claude says, surprising her with the casual compliment. “Wouldn’t it be cool if the rest of the world was like that?” His cadence gains a fiery momentum. “If we could all talk to each other without being bogged down by assumptions and judgment… if we could make Fódlan a place where people don’t feel the need to conform to such rigid rules on how to do things…”

Sounds like a dream. “That certainly would be nice,” Dorothea agrees, taken aback by his lofty thinking—though far from opposed, either. Still, something holds her back—an invisible string that’s always haunted her every step.

“I may be prone to speaking my mind here, but I wasn’t like that in the opera,” she admits. “Our patrons expected certain respect—whatever they asked, I had to grin and bear it.” There’s a pause, like she’s waiting for Claude to cut in before she can touch on too dark a memory. “I wanted to succeed,” she says when he doesn’t move to stop her. “I couldn’t end up on the streets again.”

The air between them isn’t as heavy as she thought it would be, after that. Claude takes a moment, processing her words. “Hm,” he rumbles. “You might even say that Garreg Mach has made you bolder…”

She lets out a clipped laugh. “You won’t let go of that, will you?”

“I guess not. You just inspire me a bit, I think. And it’s nice to talk to someone who sees the world differently than most of the folks here,” he says. “You’re not even that religious, either, are you?”

What does that have to do with anything? “Oh, well—”

“No need to hide it,” Claude purrs, far too discerning. “Your heart isn’t in it when we sing hymns in choir practice—and you’re a songstress, so that says a lot.” He leans forward ever-so-slightly, the cloth of his jacket barely brushing against hers, a reminder of how close they are. It’s almost unnerving, not being able to see him when he’s right there. And he can see her—that isn’t fair. She wishes he’d reach out and take the reins—then at least she’d get a glimpse of his hands.

“It was just something interesting I noticed,” he says, the words honeyed and almost hypnotic. “Don’t worry—there’s no one here to eavesdrop on our radical points of view. One of the big perks of flying.”

It almost feels like a taunt—but if it is, she’s not sure who he’s taunting. Dorothea appreciates the reassurance anyway, savors the taste of a secret between the two of them. Without thinking she leans back, melting into him without a word. His shoulders slump forward against hers, accepting her weight, equally speechless. It’s quiet; nothing but the light flutter of the wind and Claude’s breathing, the subtle undulation of his chest against her back. His chin is inches from her neck, threatening to perch on her shoulder. She wishes it would.

Time passes. Dorothea isn’t sure how much—her gaze is softened, her body relaxed, basking in the joy of being airborne. How did she end up here? How is she not terrified of falling right now? There’s a great void in her chest where fear should be, and Claude inches further into that metaphorical space with each slow inhale he takes.

Her tongue moves unwittingly, her voice slow and sleepy. “Hey…”

“Yeah?” Claude asks, unmoving.

“How long are we supposed to stay up here?”

She hears him swallow, notes the subtle pull of tension across his muscles. “As long as we want,” he murmurs, far too surreal. A beat later, he perks up into a version of himself that Dorothea finds more familiar. “Well, technically. Did you want to land?”

“Not necessarily,” she hums, her own tune shifting. “But we aren’t really doing the watch part of our job, are we?”

“Speak for yourself,” Claude teases. “Directing us back to the stables would be good practice for you, though.”

“Maybe you can actually teach me something on the way down,” she says, straightening in her seat and running her thumbs along the reins. Claude slides away to give her space, but one of his hands comes to rest reassuringly on her hip. The other taps to her elbow, making minute and silent adjustments to her posture as she directs Buttercup to turn. Their destination lines up in front of them. “How do I tell her to fly us lower?”

“Keep the reins neutral,” Claude says, steadying her arm. “Apply pressure with both heels and lean forward—slowly.”

She takes the advice, and Buttercup bends her neck toward the ground as they begin to slant downward. “Good! You can relax your feet now. She has a pretty good idea where we’re headed. Just—” There’s a loud whoosh as Buttercup gives her wings a strong flap, surging them ahead. Dorothea gulps, gravity pressing at her back, their current flight angle giving her a far too clear picture of the ground. “Just hold on tight,” Claude mutters, his fingers digging into the fabric of her pants.

“How is this somehow scarier than going up?” she hisses, her hair blown back by the wind.

Claude’s laugh is far too triumphant when he says, “It’ll be over before you know it!” Dorothea doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a groan.

Their landing is smoother and less jarring than their take-off, a gradual and unimpeded descent. By the time Buttercup’s claws are skimming the tall grass, she’s adjusted to the odd unhindered sensation of it, finding some semblance of confidence in the saddle. It helps that Claude doesn’t let go of her.

He takes the reins once they touch the dirt, for the brief amount of time it takes to settle Buttercup. Then he gives Dorothea an encouraging pat on the shoulder before hopping down. She turns, dazed, to find him leaning casually against his wyvern’s side, a hand raising up to beckon her forward. There’s something inviting about the way he looks up at her, his hair perfectly mussed by the wind and a half-smile on his lips.

Her legs dangle over the side as she inches her way out of the saddle, eyes locked on Claude—she’s airborne again for a split-second before his hands meet her waist, firm and assertive. His arms are the only reason she doesn’t fall flat on her face, lowering her with control until her toes tap lightly to the ground. Her own hands have landed on his shoulders without her realizing, their posture mirroring that of two dancers.

And he’s staring at her, and she’s staring at him, making up for the past hour that she’s spent settling for his disembodied voice and brief flutters of the rest of him in her peripheral vision. Her palms smooth over the epaulets of his jacket, refusing to stay still but also refusing to drop away.

“Thank you, Claude,” she says, her voice coming out husky in the crisp morning air.

His fingertips drum against the gentle slope where her waist meets her hips, equally restless. There’s something inexperienced and innocent about the way his nervous touch lingers, and Dorothea wishes she could say the same for herself. “Yeah,” he breathes, applying light pressure that nudges her closer. Surely not on purpose. “No problem,” he adds, and Dorothea’s feet shuffle an inch forward. He’s not much taller than her; his lips are far too close for her to ignore. She focuses on the way they move when he speaks, and nibbles her own. “Anytime.”

Don’t do it, a voice chants in the back of her mind, at the same time another says shoot for the moon!

She’s halfway to a decision when someone else makes it for her.

That someone isn’t Claude.

“Someone’s here, Leonie!” Hilda’s distinct vocal fry buzzes through the air, somewhere behind them and close. Dorothea’s hands are at her side in an instant, slipping away from Claude as she takes a reflexive step back. He orients toward the sound, his expression unreadable; when his eyes flick back to meet hers, there’s a hint of apology in them. Dorothea tries to communicate her own silent I’m sorry with a furrowed brow and confused pout.

Two sets of footsteps approach, followed by a flash of pink and orange, and a particularly astonished rendition of “Claude?!”

He slouches his shoulders and swaps his enigmatic look for an unassuming smile with impressive speed, stepping away from Dorothea and raising his hand in a casual wave. “Hey, Hilda,” he greets. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Sure, I—Oh, hey, Dorothea!” Hilda sounds much less suspicious when addressing her, at least—some of the guilt in Dorothea’s chest lifts away.

“Hello,” she manages, sidling up to Claude’s shoulder as Hilda looks them both over.

“What are you doing here so early?” Hilda asks, her attention back on Claude. “I don’t remember seeing you on the shift schedule for today, either…”

Dorothea freezes, glancing at Claude. His shoulders have stiffened, but he’s still wearing that same dopey smile for Hilda. “Oh, it was a last-minute addition,” he explains. “We were just finishing up.”

“We can take Buttercup off your hands, then,” Leonie cuts in.

“So nice of you, Leonie,” Dorothea says, tapping her foot. “Shall we, Claude?”

He swallows, picking up on the thinly veiled aggression in her voice with ease. “Lead the way.”

Once they’re out of earshot, she drops the act. “You told me Professor Byleth assigned us to sky watch.”

Claude shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And you didn’t double-check me, apparently.” He manages a smile, somewhere between real and fake. “I appreciate the show of trust.”

Then why did he…? Dorothea bites back the question. Her heart is still beating too fast from their almost kiss mere minutes ago. She shouldn’t be losing it over an almost kiss, when she experiences plenty of actual ones all the time. “Well, I suppose I did have fun,” she says shakily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I assume you had a good reason for dragging me out here at the crack of dawn to do something so… so…”

She thinks about what Claude told her in the hallway, about aiming higher. Shooting for the moon, or whatever dumb phrase had apparently embedded itself in her brain. You’re not Icarus. After all, she flew toward the sun today—literally—and she’s still here. She’s great, even, a burst of hope and euphoria swelling in her chest.

When that rush of adrenaline urges her to look back at Claude, he has the audacity to be smirking. “So what, Dorothea?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “But when I figure it out, I’ll be sure to inform you. Now, if you’ll excuse me… all that flying was exhausting, and I could use a nap.”

“And I could use breakfast,” he says, coming to a brief stop as they exit the stables.

She takes a deep breath, scanning the pathway. The dining hall is in the opposite direction from the dorms, thank goodness. “I’ll see you later, then,” she mumbles, meeting his eyes hesitantly. Claude’s smirk is gone now, at least, replaced by something much more understanding.

“Of course,” he assures her. “Sweet dreams, Dorothea.”

Sweet dreams, she echoes silently as she walks away, trying and failing to hold herself together.

Yes, of course they’ll be sweet. She’ll probably be dreaming about him.

Chapter Text

Imperial Year 1186.

Dorothea sorely wishes she was dreaming. Unfortunately, reality is more like a numbing nightmare these days.

The battlefield is a symphony of pure chaos, but when isn’t it? Dorothea maneuvers through the mayhem with the grim familiarity of five years fighting, her hands charged with lightning and her ears attuned to the chorus of clashing soldiers. All around is the beating clang of steel; the pounding drumbeat of hooves; the shrill whistle of arrows.

The latter draws her gaze to the sky, following the trajectory with a tight dread seizing her chest. High above, she spots the unmistakable white flash of Claude’s wyvern against a smoke-obscured sky. He flies with deadly precision, and dodges the projectiles with graceful ease, but Dorothea would prefer it if he didn’t have to dodge at all. But their enemy is all too prepared to face flying opponents—they would be fools not to be, considering Claude von Riegan’s reputation.

He anticipated today’s abundance of archer battalions, of course. Most of the Alliance army’s aerial fighters have been positioned away from dangerous zones, or commanded to advance on foot. Everyone except Claude himself—apparently, precautions don’t apply to him. He gets to fly as boundless and recklessly as he wants, no matter the risks or potential consequences.

Dorothea has little time to grumble about it, though; while the archers have their sights set on taking down The Master Tactician, she has her sights set on them.

She wrenches her focus away from Claude, just as he narrowly avoids another attack and rains more of his own arrows down in retaliation. The offending archer is nearby, already notching another arrow, and she takes a sharp inhale; static channels through her body and out through the tips of her fingers. Bright blue lightning renders their attempt useless, and a triumphant smile curls on Dorothea’s lips.

It’s a success, but still she grits her teeth; there’s plenty more work to be done. At this rate, she’ll be saving Claude from close calls for the entirety of the battle.

Well, it’s not like she hates being so close to him, especially when either of them could meet their death out here. If they’re fated to fall today, Dorothea thinks she’d be alright going down beside a dear friend.

She refuses to go down without one hell of a fight, though.

—

Garreg Mach, at least, is one place where the war doesn’t feel so close. It holds memories of a peaceful time, even as it serves as their base of operations—even when the old Cardinals’ Chambers becomes the backdrop for all their war councils, or the library’s invaluable collection of strategy texts becomes its most frequented section, or the training grounds see more activity than it ever did five years ago. Dorothea can find some semblance of comfort here nonetheless.

The Star Terrace is a place she never got to see as a student, but she thinks it might be one of the most tranquil spots on the monastery grounds. It’s secluded and quiet, its perch atop one of the high towers making the rest of the world like a distant afterthought. It’s a pocket of unexpected serenity tucked away like a secret—Dorothea wouldn’t even be here, if she hadn’t been expressly invited by a very special someone.

Said someone is standing in the center of the open space as Dorothea steps through the doorway, latching the door behind her with a soft click. A Crest she doesn’t recognize is engraved into the tile beneath Claude’s feet, adding to the mystery of their meeting place. His back is to her, his head directed upward at the swath of stars it’s named for. A clear night, she thinks as she shuffles quietly toward him. How fortunate.

“You made it,” Claude says, turning around when she draws near. He always has the most beautiful smile when he contemplates the constellations, a combination of pure wonder and a hint of strangely alluring melancholy.

Dorothea nods, hesitating to greet him with words. A frustration sits on her chest, and she’s afraid that if she opens her mouth it will spill out in the form of anger and unchecked anxiety. But their eyes find each other, and even in the limited light, understanding blooms on Claude’s face. “You made it,” she manages. They both know she doesn’t just mean meeting her here.

“I think I know what you want to say,” Claude starts, rolling his neck and running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Go ahead and say it.”

She takes a deep breath, looking down at her hands as she intertwines her fingers. “You weren’t careful enough out there.” She tilts up to meet his gaze. “You know that, Claude.”

He turns away, his eyes half-lidded. “Yes. But hey, I knew what I was doing, too—and I can think of several other soldiers in our army who are more reckless with their lives out there than I am.” There’s no anger in his voice—his tone is barely even defensive. His cool-headedness is one of his greatest strengths, of course, but during times like these Dorothea wishes he had a bit more fire in him. He’s too detached, like he might just float off into the sky at any moment.

“If you’re set on a lecture, maybe try talking to—”

“This isn’t about them,” Dorothea interrupts, trying her best to control her volume. It drops too low and soft, next. “It’s about you. You’re the one that we—that I absolutely can’t lose.”

Claude’s face goes soft, taken aback. He has a tendency to process his emotions with a sort of curious puzzlement these days, like it’s the first time he’s ever truly felt them. “Dorothea…” But there's a hint of sentiment there, at least, a concerned whine sneaking into the way he says her name. “Are you truly that mad at me?”

She considers the question. No is her split-second conclusion, but she doesn’t trust that instinct. It’s too optimistic, too rash, too… bold. And maybe she’s a little stubborn—doesn’t want to admit to Claude that he’s right. That first and foremost, she’s relieved that they’re both alive—and fully prepared for more fighting. Dorothea is fine, because Claude is there to push all of them forward. To push her forward.

He’s a bit like the sun, maybe—but his guiding light is less harsh.

“Dorothea.”

He’s moved in close, placing his hands on her shoulders, grounding her. “I had you there to watch my back, you know? That position was too good a vantage point for me not to hold onto it.” She nods, relaxing as Claude’s fingers knead into her stiff muscles. “I had to take the risk,” he adds. Then his eyes light up, intensifying his attention on her. “But your being there helped make it less of a risk.” He steps forward to seal the already short distance between them, and leans his forehead into hers. “I trust you.”

A long sigh falls from her lips, her arms coiling around his waist as she melts into him. “I know, darling,” she says. He trusts her so much—he makes that clear in every strategy he orchestrates around her strengths. He makes it obvious in the way he lets her forearms balance perfectly against the tilt of his hips, allowing her fingers to skim the dip of his lower back. Dorothea raises her chin a fraction, nudging her nose to his and wondering whether she should test his trust with her lips, too. Instead, she slips her face past his and rests her cheek in the crook of his neck, hugging him tighter.

His fingers spread and sail across the bare skin of her shoulder blades. After a moment he asks, “Are you thinking of Icarus, again?”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

Claude’s wearing an inquisitive look when he pulls away to face her. “You think I’m flying too high,” he muses. “That I’ll slip up, make the wrong move, and plummet to my doom.”

That is along the lines of her earlier accusations, but— “I— no, I don’t think that.”

“But it is possible,” Claude quips back. “Even with how much I try to ensure our success out there.”

“Yes,” she admits, even as she shakes her head. “But Claude… You’re not Icarus.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad you’ve got a more open mind than you used to.”

“Thanks to you,” she murmurs, almost distracted by his smile. “It’s more than that, though.” She waits for Claude’s face to go tight with interest, until she knows he’s dying to hear what she thinks. “Icarus had an ingenious idea, but his wings were too fragile,” she explains. “Yours are made of sturdier stuff than wax, Claude.”

She takes a step back, giving herself room to gesticulate dramatically like she’s on the stage again. Her arms spread wide, palms raised to the clear expanse of sky. “You—you have this strong, beautiful vision of the future you want to make, and you don’t stop there. You have a plan that holds together, even under the harsh rays of the sun.”

Genuine surprise is painted across his flushed cheeks. “I think you have more faith in my plans than I do,” he says, bringing a hand to his lips. “Oftentimes it feels like they could fall apart at the slightest breeze.”

Dorothea smirks. “Aren’t you the one who told me to stop underestimating myself? Take your own advice.”

He hums and steps back to her, draping an arm around her shoulders and looking up at the sky again. The moon is a thin crescent, a pale smile, like Claude’s Crest of Riegan is watching them from on high. Dorothea doesn’t think much of Crests—they’re useful in a war, she supposes, but she’d still prefer a world that didn’t rely on them so heavily. Claude’s Crest is the reason he’s here, though, standing beside her and fighting for Fódlan’s future. In a sense, it’s the reason they met.

“Do you think Icarus would have been more successful if he’d tried to make his escape by moonlight?” he wonders aloud. “Maybe if he’d tried to reach the limits of the night sky…”

She takes hold of his waist again, nuzzling his chest. The cool night air makes her shiver, but Claude is warm. “I think maybe it would be too cold and dark for him to see where he was going,” she offers.

“Hey, the stars are bright!” he says, squeezing her close. “And beautiful.” He looks at her when he says that, before directing his dreamy, adoring gaze skyward again. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone flew up there and stayed, completely mesmerized by them for all eternity.”

“That sounds like another story I know,” Dorothea lilts. “I won’t torture you with it, though. I’m not sure if I remember it well enough, anyway.”

They both fall quiet for a short while, leaning into each other as they contemplate the heavens. Clusters of constellations hang in the deep void, countless bright points of light. Dorothea remembers the first time she flew, how simultaneously vast and traversable the world seemed from the back of a wyvern. The stars promise a world beyond their own, far larger than she can even comprehend.

Claude tilts his head, tapping it lightly to hers with a relaxed affection. “Someday, when there isn’t a war going on anymore, I’d love to take you on a moonlit flight.”

Dorothea blinks, processing the suggestion. Such a thing would be far too dangerous now—they could be spotted far too easily by enemy scouts, who would no doubt leap at the opportunity to take out the formidable leader of the Leicester Alliance. Someday, though… “That would be nice,” she murmurs, hyper-aware of the press of him against her. “I would like that.”

She raises her free hand to the sky, sweeping her outstretched palm across their field of vision as though painting a broad arc across a canvas. “You could fly me to the moon,” she says with a playful giggle. “You’re going to leave this world behind one day, after all.” Fódlan, she means but doesn’t say. “Aren’t you?”

Claude straightens, pulls his shoulders back and broadens his chest like he’s preparing to face a daunting challenge. “Yes.” He turns to look at her, soft with uncertainty. “You said you would leave with me, last time I asked. Are you still okay with that?”

The first conversation they had about this—about the future, about the dreams they were saving for after the war—replays in Dorothea’s mind. She has the lines memorized like the lyrics to a song, and she’s more than happy to reprise them. Claude speaks before she can, though, filling the silence with his concern. “Fódlan is your home, after all.”

Dorothea sighs and wonders, the old melody fading into the background. “I’m not as attached as others,” she says. “Certainly not as much as the nobles with actual birthrights. You have more ties and obligations holding you here than I do, honestly.”

“Right, but…” Claude shakes his head. They’ve had this conversation before, too. About not quite belonging anywhere; about being pulled between two identities, breaking themselves down into ever more infinitesimal pieces—like finely ground sand on a far-off shore, always at the mercy of the wind and the waves.

But she’s always loved the ocean and the water—she supposes that’s one aspect of Enbarr that managed to sink into her. “I’m okay with it, Claude,” she assures him. “I’m more than okay with it, if it means I get to stay by your side. There’s so much to see once this war ends and the world opens up again.”

For now, though, she’s content with watching the night sky. They lean into each other and let the world go quiet, like they’re drifting on the breeze.

“I read in a book, recently, that the moon is what pulls the tides,” Claude says after a while. His teeth flash excitedly in the dark. “Pretty cool, huh? How something so far away can have such a profound effect on the world?”

A chuckle bubbles to her lips, and Dorothea slides out of Claude’s hold so she can face him. Her voice is teasing. “You—” She taps the tip of her finger to his nose. “—are probably the biggest nerd I have ever met, Claude.” And she loves it.

“Says the girl who seems to know every single obscure myth and legend in Fódlan,” he shoots back.

Dorothea hums, perfectly content with her reputation. “Maybe one day we’ll be one of those legends,” she says with a soft sigh, before turning on her most dramatic voice. The Star Terrace is as good a stage as any, and Claude is the only audience she cares about these days. “A commander and a songstress who did all they could for this world,” she sings, pressing a hand to her chest. “And then, once all their work was finished, they climbed onto their trusty wyvern and flew themselves to the moon.”

He looks at her with wide, captivated eyes, a stunning green that seems to absorb the pale light and reflect it back impossibly brighter. Claude von Riegan is far from an innocent boy now, but he plays the role perfectly well when he watches Dorothea Arnault in her element. She flutters her eyelids, a teasing come-hither taunt, like one she might give him on a ballroom floor. He feigns shy hesitance for only a moment—then he takes her face in his hands, cradling her cheeks and brushing the pads of his thumbs over her skin. The anticipation tickles her like sparks of lightning.

But Claude’s lips on hers are like a refreshing breeze on a warm day, a burst of perfect weather in the midst of an otherwise harrowing storm. Dorothea arches her back as he crashes into her, weaving her fingers through his hair and imagining, for a moment, that the war is nothing but a long-faded memory. She pictures the moon well within their reach, and Claude’s hands migrate down to her waist to hold her suddenly weightless body firm.

It’s a thrilling rush, like the first time Dorothea ever took to the sky. Boldness shoots through her veins like victory, like the swell of tear-inducing exhilaration that comes with belonging. And even as their feet stay planted on the ground, the sky is just as promising a presence as the day Claude first showed her a new way to see. It waits for the day when they’ll be able to meet that opportunity again.

There’s a time and a place for soaring away. For now, a kiss will have to do.