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1. (the beginning of the end)
Byleth’s marriage to Khalid ends after three months and seven days.
It hasn’t ended yet, but it will. She knows this as she knows the Almyran dawning sun will crest over their terrace across their bedroom in exactly eleven minutes.
Just as the first rays of light filter through the gauzy curtains, she feels the dread encroaching, roiling in her chest, turning her fingertips to ice, but she pushes it down, and swallows down the tightness in her throat.
Instead, she concentrates on the feel of the plush bed beneath her, the silk sheets wrapped around her legs, Khalid’s warm arm banded around her stomach, asleep and blissfully unaware.
She relishes how the soft morning light paints her sleeping husband, and gilds the edges of his countenance. She traces the shape of his face for the hundredth, thousandth time. Counts his lashes brushing over his cheeks, follows the line of his nose to his soft lips parted in deep sleep-breaths. She wants to brush the flop of wavy brown hair from his forehead, but she doesn’t dare move — doesn’t dare break Khalid’s peaceful slumber, as if staying still would freeze this moment in time, as if it could give her precious few moments she never has, and stop time’s inexorable, cruel march forward.
Remember this, she tells herself, remember him, like this.
The arm around her squeezes briefly, as if hearing her thoughts. The end of their time is approaching—
Remember, remember, remember —
“Morning,” comes the sleepy rasp, soft, affectionate, lips brushing across her shoulder..
“Good morning,” she whispers back. Khalid shifts closer, tucking her beneath chin as his hands roam down her back, his calf sliding down hers.
She should have learned by now not to be greedy, but with Khalid, it’s never enough. It is a luxury and a heartbreak to be loved by him. Yearning squeezes her throat.
“Byleth?”
He shifts onto his elbows, peers at her through the curtain of his bangs. She feels his fingertips touch her cheek, turning her to face him. When had she closed her eyes?
“What’s wrong?” The tender tenor of his voice is enough to summon the burn of tears to her eyes.
She only has a handful of minutes left.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, his hands coming to cradle her face as if she were precious. Thumbs swiping across her cheeks, wiping the tears — then his lips. It feels like stars dancing across her skin.
She looks into his forest green eyes looking back. Remember this, she repeats, the Khalid that knows you.
This will be the last time for a long time, and Byleth is not strong enough to endure it again.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” his reply is immediate, his verdant eyes crinkled in concern. She lifts her hand to cup his face, to smooth away that line between his brows —
Time shatters.
- (an inevitable encounter)
The moonlight paints the mercenary pale white, and Claude wonders why the Ashen Demon won’t meet his eyes. Wonders why it bothers him.
He studies her face as she watches Their Highnesses bicker. He’s never met this person before, he’s sure, but her steadfast refusal to acknowledge him puts a bitter taste in his mouth. It’s not the first time anyone had done this to him, in fact, he could say he’s used to being ignored, so why does this particular instance chafe him so? Irrational agitation builds a fire in his chest, and it’s a struggle to keep the insouciant smile on his face. He opens his mouth before his thoughts can catch up to him, chases the thread of the inane argument before anyone can notice he’s off-kilter.
“So then, capable stranger, where does your allegiance lie?”
Midnight blue eyes cut to him. That fire in his chest sparks.
“Faerghus,” she says and glances away. The soft rasp of her voice echoes down his spine, but her answer prickles across his skin. A faint, distant voice within, calls out. Wrong, it snarls. And then, an absurd compulsion to reach out for her arm, that same voice demands, look at me.
His disconcertment is cut through by Alois, calling for them to return to the monastery.
“You’re frowning,” Edelgard remarks. The Blade Breaker and his daughter turn to leave first. He watches the mercenary’s retreating form, before he realizes she’s talking to him.
“Am I? I must have a lot on my mind.” His lips quirk into his practiced, painted smile as he turns to his companions. “Our new acquaintance is interesting to say the least, no? Talented as she is, I can’t help but to think there’s more to her than we’re seeing.”
“I suppose it was unusual that she did not know the Knights of Seiros. Or that her father was once the captain.”
“I couldn’t read her at all,” Dimitri chimes in, “In fact she seems quite…” he trails off, not wanting to finish his thought with an unkind comment.
“Statuesque?”
“Hardly,” Claude intones.
That draws both Edelgard and Dimitri’s surprised gazes.
“And what did you see, then?” Edelgard asks when Claude doesn't elaborate.
He thinks of the sagging line of her shoulders when he asks where her allegiance lies.The sadness ringing around her eyes.
“Resignation,” he quietly says, and turns to follow the rest of the troop back to Garreg Mach.
He resolves to stay away from the woman whose name he doesn’t even know, and yet is able to evoke such strong reactions. The mere presence of her threatens to destroy his carefully crafted facade, and he cannot afford any distractions this deep into unknown territory. The mystery of her is not completely unappealing, he’ll just need to uncover her secrets from afar.
And even as he cements his conviction to stay away, that fire within his chest flares again. That same distant voice resonates within the core of him;
You can try.
- (love, enduring)
This is her thirteenth lifetime, and Byleth is not sure if she will last another.
Like a weathered cliff by the sea, each reset erodes her a little more, and soon there will be nothing left, a carved hollow.
Thirteen resets, and these are the truths that she has learned:
- Her father always dies
- The war happens, no matter what
- She always loses 5 years
- She doesn’t make it past 4 months after the war before time rips her back to the start
In the fourth truth, an addendum;
She never makes it past 4 months with Khalid.
In every reset, she has chosen him. How could she not? Every time after the first, the taste of happiness of their shared life at the end of hardship was enough to keep her going, to reach the end of the blood, and sacrifice, and struggle. Ever since the night under fissured starlight, when he told her that they could go anywhere, do anything, and turned to her with the eyes of a man wanting to build a new, softer world together, she’s wanted him. A kind schemer, a cunning dreamer. She’d thought, Yes, I’d follow you anywhere. She had thought, I promise to make it happen.
And each lifetime after that, she tried. He had said together and apart from keeping her father alive, Byleth never wanted anything as badly in her unbeating heart. To walk step in step and live in that world with him together .
She’s picked the Golden Deer for the first few lifetimes, then the Blue Lions, then the Black Eagles, and then the church. And though she may not have chosen Khalid first, she always makes her way back to him. Perhaps there’s something to be said about her stubbornness, but around the eighth lifetime, the creeping futility rattled louder and louder in her empty chest, shaking apart her willful ignorance.
That this vicious, cyclical cycle needs to break, and the common thread has always been Khalid.
Their shared life never makes it past 4 months, before time pulls her back to the beginning again.
And wasn’t that what Sothis was called anyway, The Beginning?
Maybe it was punishment, for a vessel like her to be able to pull time, for all the possibilities and timelines she’s snatched and erased and rewound. Her penance for thinking she could manipulate time. Punishment, consequence, whatever it is, every time she tugs on those threads, it’s as if the debt deepens.
Well, at least, it is what she rationalizes. It helps to apply logic to an illogical situation, but it might as well be a cruel, cosmic joke. Sothis hasn’t been with her in a long, long while.
So for this equation, she’ll remove the common denominator. She’ll have to be satisfied with the time she’s had thus far. Though she cannot be with the man she loves, and that this lifetime she’ll be miserable because of it, it does not mean her love never mattered. Doesn’t mean Khalid’s kind world cannot exist.
So, she resolves to stay away from Khalid this time. She’ll burn quietly from afar.
Perhaps she’s a coward, but if she has to lose her Khalid to the tides of time again, she will not survive it. Perhaps loving opened the soft parts of her that can’t stand to be hurt. The hope of change in each loop is slowly killing her.
And if she cannot have Khalid, she will at least beg for his friendship. She will lay the foundation of their love in her mind, build the walls with those stolen moments of their short-lived marriage, secure the lid with promises of past-lifetimes.
In the darkest hours of the war she cannot prevent, she’ll open that box and indulge in those precious memories like little treasures to covet and savor.
But for now, just for now, as she steps into the threshold of Garreg Mach and under Rhea’s avaricious gaze, Byleth closes her eyes and remembers the smell of Almyran palace jasmine, the feel of the late summer breeze buffeting her skin. Recalls the distant baying of wyverns by the emerald ocean.
She remembers the heat from Khalid’s skin, his broad palms at the small of her back, the bronzed hollow of his throat. The enchanting curve of his smile when he tells her he loves her.
It’s enough.
It’ll have to be.
- (like a language i cannot read)
After the mock battle, every student at the monastery wanted to bend her ear.
The new combat instructor with a mysterious new crest. Generous with her guidance, he sees the spark of revelation in each classmate’s eyes as they return from her much sought-after tea invitations. Even Hilda has idly chatted about how compelling Garreg Mach’s new addition has been, seconded by a begrudging Leonie.
Even so, the Blue Lions victory was helped in no small part by Jeralt’s instruction. A little bit unfair to integrate the mercenary - Byleth - in the Lion’s ranks, but the sheer efficiency of her systematic take-downs was a feast for the eyes. Claude clearly remembers the way his throat tightened as she moved across the green field - and imagined, just for a moment, a different type of sword in her hand. It only served to stoke his agitation to new heights, and ignited a new inconvenient label to attach to her - desire.
Desire to have her time, to pick apart her psyche. Desire to understand her reactions, her avoidance to him, the fleeting, sad look in her eyes whenever she deigns to meet his gaze. He felt like a boy back in Almyra, discovering the vastness of the palace library, eager to devour every book.
Claude is sure they have never met before Remire, but nowadays, he’s been questioning his sanity. That voice inside him has been silent since, but every time he catches blue hair turning around corners, that something within lurches towards her with a frightening ferocity. It’s just as well she’s been steering clear of him.
Though, the mutual aversion has finally come to an end. He thumbs the scrawled message, notes her neat, looping cursive. There are only so many students she can invite over for tea, before folks realize that he’s not been called on once.
Well, he thinks, might as well get it over with. Perhaps he’ll be endowed with his own revelation. Or at least be given the chance to douse the fire in his chest that hasn’t stopped roaring since.
*
The cup of Almyran Pine Needle tea reflects his own discontented face. He glances at the three-tiered tray next to the teapot, and is not shocked to find his favorite sweets among the selection.
Her hands wrap around her own cup, as if savoring the warmth. She still doesn’t meet his eye, but he supposes it wouldn’t be unusual for someone like her to take his tastes into account, if the feedback from his classmates’ own invitations are anything to go by. It still doesn’t answer when she had the time when she was busy avoiding him. Though, she’s always been like that — anticipating others’ needs and preferences.
Claude pauses. She has “ always ” been like that?
Perhaps she has misconstrued his silence for dissatisfaction, because she speaks up first.
“Sorry for calling you out like this. I wanted to talk, just the two of us.”
The quirk to his lips is automatic.
“Well, Teach, you have me all to yourself,” he leans back in his chair, doesn’t touch the proffered refreshments on the table. “What did you want to talk about?”
There — a small smile. It’s gone before he could assign meaning to it.
“About yourself,” she starts, and does meet his eyes this time. Pools of midnight blue, familiar and not. “About how you’re doing this academy year. If there’s anything you’d like to learn from me.”
Claude leans forward, elbows on the table, hands laced together in front of his face to hide the slant of his mouth.
“I’m not as interesting as you, Teach, but if you’re going to offer information on a silver platter, far be it from me to refuse you. Tell me more about your time before Remire.”
She does, straightforward and charmingly frank. Claude finds that she doesn’t mince words, only answers what he asks and nothing more. He asks about her father — Jeralt is the only parent she’s ever known. Her mother was in fact buried here at the monastery. Even when his walls are stacked high, he finds himself wanting to reach out to her. To forge a connection. That voice within has also been strangely quiet.
He asks about her time as a traveling mercenary. She tells him she has traveled across Fodlan, and even outside it. Has experienced Sreng’s bitter cold and Brigid’s tropical summers.
“And how about east?” he asks. She takes a moment to sip from her tea.
“I haven’t been east yet,” she simply replies.
There’s truth in her words and not. Her fingers tap against her cup before stilling. His eyes trace the slender shape of them, looking for —-what? Searching for something before he realizes he even does it. The reason why is slipping through his fingers like sand.
Byleth breaks his consternation.
“I’m still getting used to being a combat professor, but I’d like for you to come to me any time you feel like you’d like to talk. Or train.” There’s a rueful tilt to her lips. “I’d like for you to trust me a little more, and for me to get to know you a little better.”
His smile freezes on his face, and he decides it’s time to leave even as the voice within commands him to stay. He jerks out of his seat, commenting on the time, and ignores Byleth’s mild look of surprise.
Trust.
The word sticks to him, nips at his heels even as he cobbles together a flimsy excuse to flee back to his dorm.
- (how will i let you slip through?)
The rest of it falls like clockwork.
The Red Canyon, Lonato’s rebellion. The Sword of the Creator welcomes her like an old friend when her hand wraps around its hilt once more in the Holy Mausoleum. She supports the Lions as her father leads them against Miklan and his bandits, stops Flayn’s kidnapping before it happens.
The fresh victory from the Battle of Eagle and Lion is still pumping through the Blue Lions’ veins, and Claude announces a celebratory feast at the dining hall. Though she’s come to despise Gronder, the youthful joy soothes some of her bone-weary exhaustion.
It’s a natural progression from what she’s started since she’s been named combat instructor; training sessions open to anyone regardless of class. In her past lives, the monastery training grounds have been booked on a class by class basis, and unless the students have transferred to another house, cross-training was rare.
This time, all students regardless of status, class, or place of birth come to attend her hourly sessions. She sees Ingrid relax her knightly standards around Dorothea, sees Ashe and Ignatz bond over art and trade bow tips. Lorenz and Ferdinand discover they are cut from the same cloth, and forge a friendship beyond polite regards. Lysithea mentors Annette in black magic, and near worships Mercedes’ baking skills. Petra and Felix build a rapport, with Felix being surprisingly patient with her cultural faux pas, and Petra in turn teaching him the swordplay of her people. Even Bernadetta comes once in a while, as long as Dedue attends, as she discovers his gentle demeanor puts her at ease.
It’s the perfect melting pot that stops Claude from circling her like a weary animal. Ever since she had invited him for tea, Claude has made a point to keep a polite distance, his smiles strained. Byleth suffered from it, knowing better than to push his boundaries. She then rationalized that perhaps it was better that way, when she had to inevitably leave, it would be best if they didn’t deepen their bond.
Her training sessions proved difficult to resist however, and Claude soon became a frequent attender. First, insisting to just watch, affecting ease with his hands behind his head. Even when he tried to hide it in the shadows cast from the walls of the training hall, Byleth read the tentative aspiration lighting his eyes. She hoped it would lay the tracks of his dream in this lifetime, that with the right guidance, what he desired so badly could be possible.
One day, when Leonie had called him out for being a lurker and forced him to participate in the sword lesson, the resistance was minimal, and Claude readily gave in.
Byleth had placed a training blade in his hand with a tentative smile.
“I’m not any good with a sword, Teach,” he said as he waved it up and down with a sheepish grin.
Of course, he wouldn’t know that she knew the truth of his secret talent.
“I think you could be decent with it, if you would be willing to let me guide you,” she had said, and then in a softer voice, “Trust me?”
His green eyes sparked, an outsider’s yearning desire blazing back at her.
“I trust you,” he whispered.
*
She’s interrupted from her reverie when another tray sets down next to hers, and Claude claims the seat beside her. The dim roar of the dining hall rushes back over Byleth, mildly startled to see that he has taken the initiative to seek her out first.
“There you are, Teach, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What’re you doing all by yourself over here? His Princeliness has been wanting to do a toast for a while now.”
Before she can come up with an answer, Claude interjects.
“You seem like the type to hate noisy crowds, though, so I can’t say I’m too surprised.”
Byleth doesn’t correct him, quietly amused about his deductions. Predictably, Claude fills the silence between them, glancing at her from a bite of his pheasant.
“You were really something on the battlefield earlier, the Deers didn’t stand a chance.”
“That’s not entirely true. You used the environment to your advantage. That was clever of you.”
“‘ Not entirely true,’ huh?” he says with poorly disguised moue.
Exasperated affection bubbles up within her. She nearly forgot how much he hated to lose.
“You led the Golden Deer in an admirable fight. Took out two of the Lions, and picked off the rest of Eagles. You capitalized on each of your teammates’ strength while mitigating your losses. I know you’ll make a great leader one day.”
It’s only after she finishes recounting his performance on her fingers does she realize he’s staring at her, this time, with a genuine smile softening his features.
“You always know what to say to a guy to cheer him up.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Teach!” he laughs, her first she’s able to draw from him in this lifetime. Goddess, she’s missed it so much.
She brushes the bangs from his eyes, tucks his braid behind his ear.
Claude looks at her with wide eyes and pinked cheeks. Then the realization sets in.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, snatches her hand back and focuses on her meal before her.
“S’fine,” he mumbles back before clearing his throat. After a beat, the clink of glass captures her attention as Claude sets a fresh cup of peach sorbet next to her tray.
“I got an extra one for you,” he says, voice bouncing back to its usual drawl, “I know how much you like sweets.”
“I’ve never told anyone that before,” she says slowly, blue eyes flitting between both of his green ones.
Claude furrows his brow, trying to dredge up the memory, but it’s like grasping smoke. His chest aches and he doesn’t know why. “No, I —”
“Professor!” Dimitri interrupts, both of his hands carrying goblets of church wine. Both the Blue Lions and Black Eagles are behind him, raising their own cups in good cheer.
It’s a distraction both of them welcome.
- (between belief and faith)
A ball after the madness in Remire was certainly a choice, but Claude can appreciate the need for a distraction after a tragedy like that.
Remire, however, is far from his mind as he leads Byleth to the dancefloor.
That fire in his ribcage flutters as their hands lock at the knuckles. For a former traveling mercenary, Claude finds his professor surprisingly adept at leading the sweeping waltz.
“Have you danced before, Teach?” he asks as Byleth nudges him into a graceful circle.
“I did teach Felix, if you remember. He won the White Heron Cup.”
“That he did. Surprising that he even entered the competition at all, but you do have a way about you, Teach. To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of you at all but…” He trails off, and starts again in a softer voice, “But I think I’ve been dreaming about meeting someone like you. The kind of person who reaches out their hand to anyone, no matter who they are, or where they’re from.” He sees her watching him, eyes like glass. “It’s one of the things I like about you. I’m glad we met, Teach.”
Byleth opens her mouth to respond, just as the song ends. But before he can listen to what she says, another student asks for a dance, and she slips through his fingers like smoke.
He flexes his hand at his side.
“You guys sure seemed cozy,” Hilda chirps at his side. He spares her a glance before focusing on blue hair disappearing into the crowd.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve known someone for a long time, even though you’ve never met?”
Hilda’s eyes widened.
“You and the professor?” she asks, and then slyly smiles, “Are you talking about something like soulmates?”
Claude frowns, and Hilda takes the chance to elaborate
*
Every night after the dance, his dreams become more vivid and not. He dreams of white wyverns, and unified countries. An eagle clawing the eyes out of a lion, the lion crunching the wings between its teeth. He dreams of victory, of revolution, of sacrifice. He dreams of celadon green hair, a warm hand in his. Sees the face of his Teach whisper his real name.
He wakes from each dream with his chest aching and tears rimming his eyes.
Claude resolves to ask Byleth about them —
But then, Jeralt dies.
Claude chases after Byleth as seeks her revenge.
He follows the trail of carnage just in time to see the black mage formally known as Tomas banish her to eternal darkness.
The fire in his chest keeps him calm, says, look to the sky.
Sure enough, he sees the tip of the Sword of the Creator rips through time and space. His Teach, hair like starlight and eyes aglow, steps through and into their reality.
Before this, he would have said he didn’t believe in goddesses.
Now, he wonders if he kissed her here, would he then know what divinity tastes like?
*
Edelgard declares war and Garreg Mach falls into controlled chaos.
The church looks towards Byleth to lead the defense, and Claude watches as she bears it all with stoic determination. The Blue Lions lean especially hard on her when they cannot look towards their prince for guidance as his madness burgeons.
Claude provides what support he can. Revises battle plans, implements his tactics, strengthens the church’s defense with his schemes. It’s a lost battle, he knows, the Imperial forces will overwhelm Garreg Mach, the question is for how long will they be able to resist. It doesn’t stop him from devising escape routes A through Z in case their formation crumbles faster than expected.
On top of not being able to get a decent night’s sleep, the rattling between his lungs becomes unbearable.
Do not let her out of your sight, the voice near growls.
What’s going to happen? He asks, but he never receives an answer.
Regardless, for once, the mystery entity and he are in agreement.
On the eve of the battle, he spots Byleth’s green hair next to the archbishop.
Then, Rhea turns into a white dragon — the Immaculate One, his mind supplies — and tears into the demonic beasts slithering onto the battlefield.
But his gaze is for Byleth only. He brandishes his silver sword against Imperial forces. Slices through them to make his way toward her and the red glow of the Sword of Creator ripping through foes.
“Teach!” he calls over the dull cacophony of war.
Byleth whips around, astonished. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression on her before.
“What are you doing here?” She sounds truly incensed. With a flick of her wrist, the links of her sword expand, and it comes alive whip-like.
“I came here to help you,” he says, and now that it’s out of his mouth, it sounds a little ridiculous even to his ears.
“You shouldn’t be here, Claude,” her voice is low, edged with urgency. “You were supposed to be at the back, supporting the other students.”
How does he explain the voice in his head?
They are both torn away from each other, attention shifting to the combatants at hands. Byleth dispatches her enemy with a growl, flicks the links of her sword in a wide arc to give them space.
“ Why are you different this time?” he hears her over the dull din of war. Claude freezes.
“‘ This time’ ? Teach, my friend, I — we have met before?”
The look she gives him, he might as well have slapped her on the face.
Before he can open his mouth, her gaze sharpens over his shoulder.
He can’t turn around fast enough before Byleth lunges at him, pushing at his shoulder with shocking strength. He watches her mouth form words as he’s knocked to the dirt, but the strident, crackling roar of black magic drowns out the sound.
From his peripheral vision, he sees it before the horror sets in.
The globe of dark purple magic — it slams into her chest, kicks up dust and dirt and grass from the impact.
He’s too slow to scramble to his feet. He shouts her name through the dust cloud. By the time it settles, there’s a trench carved deep into the earth, stretching across the battlefield, to the precipice of the crevasse.
And Byleth, gone.
- (reunion at dawn)
On the final stair step of the Goddess Tower, she recognizes that silhouette that she has carved in her unbeating heart
Of course it’s him.
He turns to her and smiles, like he was made of sunlight.
It was Khalid or no one, and she was fooling herself thinking she could endure a life without him.
When he opens his arms, Byleth allows herself to walk to him, to melt into his embrace like rain to parched earth.
“You didn’t really think I'd given up on you coming back, did you?”
Dawn, she thinks, is wherever you are.
- (when am i gonna lose you?)
She cannot stay. She knows how this story ends if she stays with Claude.
He reads her fidgety posture, asks what’s wrong.
“I need to find Dimitri,” she says, not looking at him. “My father— he—” She hates the words even as they leave her mouth. “Dimitri needs me. Even before the war, he needed me. I have to go see to them — the Lions.”
“Then we go together,” Claude says, like the solution was that simple.
“No,” her answer is convulsive. She sees Claude’s eyes widen at her tone. “I will go alone. You need to stay here when your Deer arrive tomorrow.”
His eyes scan hers, and then in the quietest voice she's ever hear from him, he asks
"Are you going to leave me again?"
Thirteen lifetimes worth of guilt crushes her windpipe.
Maybe Claude saw something in her stricken expression, because he nearly sprints over to her, clutching her elbows like railings.
“My friend,” he murmurs.
She looks up at him, sees the crinkle of concern in his brows, the way his jeweled eyes roam across her face. His hands trace up her arms, over her shoulders and neck, cradles her jaw. His thumbs sweep across her cheeks in a tenderness that murders all her good intentions.
Sothis , why is she so weak?
“My friend,” he says again, and there was never a moniker so lovely and cruel.
“Sorry,” she says before she can stop herself, swallowing down the lump in her throat.
“For what?” he asks in a low soothing voice, and then turns gently teasing, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“No, you don’t understand, Claude, we — I—”
She hates herself as shakes from his tender touch, and flees from his kind regard.
9 ( The night before the reunion)
It’s like a tipping point, a single drop of water that starts the flood.
There, under the stars, the memories pour in.
The rush of emotion is enough to make him lose his breath.
He’s suffused with the memories, set alight. Incandescent. Weighed down by the profundity of his love.
He brings the heels of his palms to his eyes, but the tears track down his cheeks anyway. It’s as if a veil has lifted, the clarity like breathing in fresh air after spending a lifetime underwater.
Lifetimes, actually.
Byleth’s devotion, chasing him across time.
And then the grief blooms, sorrow sinking its fingers into his chest. Of how much she had to endure, the burden she must feel even now. She’s alive, he knows, with absolute certainty. The pull towards the Goddess Tower was fate calling.
Do you remember now?
Yes. I remember. I remember.
“My love,” he rasped to the night sky, “Byleth.”
- (anywhere, anyplace, any time)
Destroying training dummies was its own escape. The repetitive swings, the burn of muscle. Byleth finds temporary reprieve in the mindlessness of it, but her brain refuses to settle.
Perhaps it was inevitable, the pull between herself and Claude. Distance is what she needs.
She’ll need supplies, and a good horse. If she leaves tonight, she can make it to Faerghus in good time. The Alliance caches will be a good place to start. Pilfer what she can, and leave quietly in the middle of the night.
When her last swing cuts through the straw head of the dummy, the clicking of leather boots spikes her anxiety. She turns to catch the plaintive gaze of Claude von Riegan.
She lurches to leave, but his voice rings out.
“Byleth, please. Stay.”
She’s rooted in place, helpless to obey.
“Look at me?” he softly asks.
When she lifts her head to meet his eyes, it’s enough to keep her in place.
It’s just the two of them in the abandoned training hall of Garreg Mach. She hears the distant call of the owl. Notes the way fissured starlight falls across his figure.
Once he’s sure that she won’t leave, Claude runs a hand through his hair. Gives her a tremulous smile.
“I don’t think you know how often I think of you. These past five years — before that even — the spaces of my thoughts, there’s just you. Even the first time we met in Remire, there was something inside me calling out to you.” He huffed a disbelieving laugh, and then in a quieter voice, “But it wasn’t the first time, was it?”
Byleth stills like stone. Doesn’t dare breathe. Claude takes a step forward, palms spread beseechingly.
“Did you know that when we danced at the ball all those years ago, I told Hilda that it felt like I’ve known you forever, that how it could be possible to understand someone so deeply in such a short amount of time. And she teased me about soulmates. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but —”
He looks at her with determination.
“I know now you’re my other half. Nothing else makes sense.” He points at his chest. “There is a scar in the middle of your chest from where Rhea implanted the crest stone in you. You have another one on your left side, from where you took the hit for me from the Death Knight. I remember being inconsolable about that for days. When I took you to Almyra, I insisted on letting you pick out your own wyvern from the crags of the mountain behind the palace. You insisted on a jet black mare, after she bit your hand. You have two tiny puncture marks between your finger and thumb from her. I could tell you about every scar on your body, By. In every past lifetime, you’ve told me about every single one after we marry.”
Then softer, in Almyran, “My darling, I told you that I’d never let you go. I’m sorry it took so long, but I’m here now.”
Time slows to a syrupy trickle. Disbelief permeates through her. Denial. Then a rush of hope so sharp, it hurts.
“Khalid,” she whispers, voice wavering. The way she says his name is delicate, barely audible, as if she were to speak any louder, she’d shatter this impossible moment where her husband is here — now— with her.
His smile is slow and sweet, forest eyes soft, with the gleam of recognition — of knowing.
“Yeah,” he says, smile widening to reveal his dimples.
It’s all she needs.
Byleth drops her sword and closes the distance between them in two long strides, arms outstretched. Claude is ready to receive her, both hands cradling her jaw, sliding into her hair to guide her mouth to his.
Like a hundred kisses in their past lives, their lips meet in familiarity, like a homecoming. Claude clenches one fist in the hair at the nape of her neck, the other sliding down her spine, pressing against her lower back, melding her body against his.
“Khalid,” she gasps when they part, hands roving up his chest, tangling in his hair. Longing doesn’t cover what she feels
“Yeah,” he huffs a laugh against her jaw, lips skimming her skin, trailing down her neck, “I’m here.”
The sensation of his hot tongue against her pulse steals the breath from her lungs. She leans into Claude more as he groans. He jerks back his head with an impatient noise. Byleth’s eyes flutter open to catch his lidded gaze, sharp and hungry. He yanks off his gloves with his teeth, eyes never leaving hers, and flings it behind him, calloused palms cupping her jaw as he meshes their lips together again.
He backs her into a pillar, kissing her again and again, angling his nose to slide his tongue further into her mouth, to acquaint himself with her taste. When her back hits stone, Claude pins her there with his hips.
He draws back only just barely, his thumb pressing against her swollen lower lip. He looks at her through his dark lashes, the green slivers of his eyes roaming her countenance, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. Greedy, but exultant.
He leans in again so that when he speaks, his lips brush hers in the barest touch.
“Twelve lifetimes, huh,” he murmurs.
Byleth feels like she could cry. Already her eyes are burning, but she doesn’t want to take her gaze off Claude, the way he’s looking at her now. She’s so full of love, the relief near crushing. He knows her. He knows her.
None of her thoughts are able to make it past the lump in her throat. All she has for him is his name from her tongue.
Claude closes the scant distance between them, leaving chaste kisses on her bottom lip, the corner of her mouth, her jaw. He runs his hands down her shoulders, her waist, and squeezes her hips.
“I’m here, my love,” he repeats, feels his smile against her neck, before he lays more hot kisses on her skin. The scrape of his beard sends shivers down her spine. Her fingers tangle in his thick hair, gently pulling. She’s missed this — him — so much.
Claude meets her gaze once again, thumb brushing under her eyes, wiping away tears that have yet to spill.
“Have I ever told you I love the way you look at me?” he whispers, and she can hear the adoration dripping from his words.
“I could stand to hear it a bit more,” she husks back, swallowing the lump in her throat, and then quieter, “I’ve missed you so much. Khal, I—”
He steals the rest of her words with his lips and tongue, groaning as if he were in pain, pressing harder into her body. He breaks away with a gasp, “It’s strange,” he says as he dives in again to take from her lips, “I feel like I’m stuck somewhere between,” more kisses fluttering across her cheeks, “wanting you—” another hard kiss, “knowing it could never be, and remembering it all,” his sigh of pleasure burns her ears, “I think I’m drunk off of you.”
Byleth is malleable in his calloused hands, luxuriating in his attention.
“I thought I could stay away from you after twelve lifetimes,” she gasps when he hooks her thigh over his hip to press into her better, “I thought that maybe it was enough, that it would change—”
The bite at her collar bone interrupts her and she clenches his hair tighter. He leans his forehead against hers.
“When you married me the first time, you promised me everything — all of you,” there’s a rumble in his voice, “And I don’t intend to renege on our marriage vows, no matter which lifetime.”
He rolls his hips against her and draws a choked gasp, which sparks heat and hunger in his dark green eyes.
“I’m yours, Byleth,” he sets his teeth around her lower lip tugging before letting go, “and you’re mine. Always. Forever. You can go back in time as much as you want, but I’m going to find my way back to you, no matter what.”
“I love you,” she says, and this time tears do spill down her cheeks.
“Of course,” he says smugly. His lips swipe away the droplets. “You couldn’t stay away from me even if you tried. And you did try.”
“You—” she laughs, and he joins in, feels his grin against her temple.
“I love you, Byleth. That will never change. It was true for the first time, and it’s true now.”
A tender kiss.
“Thank you, for always choosing me.”