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Once upon a time, there was a beautiful prince. Born with hair the colour of spring lilacs and a tongue sharper than the harshest steel, this prince was not a prince of all the land, great wealth or immense power: instead, he was a prince of the people, their sworn protector. Known by many identities, his subjects called him Yuri.
To celebrate his birth, the people from his meagre village congregated and bestowed many gifts upon him: wisdom, strength, wit, kindness, and most all, beauty. He was known far and wide as the most beautiful creature in Faerghus, nay—Fódlan, even!
The king’s court mage, Cornelia, hearing of Yuri’s virtues and goodness and so affronted by him, cast a curse upon the prince:
“Place this curse upon this boy and let it lie:
At age nineteen, he shall prick his hand and slowly die.”
And so the spell was cast, and Yuri’s mother could do naught but love her darling son as best she could. When he was but a child, she took in a wise elderly man and nursed him back to health. He had been named Aubin, and during his convalescence, taught Yuri how to read and write as payment for her kindness.
When the illness turned into a plague and Yuri’s mother was assured he would die, Aubin healed Yuri, blessing him with his holy blood. He knelt by Yuri’s bedside, and giving him the cure to the illness—and moreover, his curse—whispered:
“Dearest child, fear no longer,
Take heed of my words and you shall live longer.
I break the wretched curse that follows this boy;
No longer demise, I offer slumber to death’s alloy.”
Aubin lessened the curse, and shortly after Yuri’s recovery, Aubin passed away.
But heartache had not finished her fight with Yuri, for shortly after the plague had ravaged his village, it took Yuri’s beloved mother with it. Motherless, Yuri left his home behind, and travelled the length and the breadth of the land: from Adrestia’s sun-soaked beaches to Leicester’s bountiful forests and mountain ranges, to the relentless snowfields of Faerghus, Yuri saw them all. But the realm he returned to most often was the Abyss, a refuge for all others shunned by society, hidden far from the eyes of those on the surface.
Here, he earned his name as the Savage Mockingbird, the protector of the weak, known far and wide for his cunning and his coldness, Yuri protected the lost and the helpless, and he lived in the image of his mother’s wishes: to care for others.
Born at the same time was a young knight, the son of a captain and a nun. His name was Byleth, beloved by Archbishop Rhea as her greatest disciple, Byleth was groomed to become her successor.
By chance, he met Yuri beneath a moonless sky, where their glinting swords crossed each other. As their blades danced and exhaustion preyed on them both, they soon relented. Bemused by his emotionless sparring partner, Yuri spoke:
“Ho, dear friend
I fear this battle must end.
I wouldn’t want to lose my pretty little head,
So I must stray from where I’m led.”
Yuri fled into the darkness. With temperance, trust and time, the two became friends. They continued to meet, first crossing swords, then paths, and finally, as the Goddess looked down amused at their game, twisted their threads of life together. While Byleth flourished as a knight of Seiros and Yuri as the prince of the underground, they met in secret, becoming lovers.
Beneath the pale moonlight, Yuri and Byleth found comfort in each other’s arms. Yet Yuri knew that as long as the curse hung over their heads, their love could not last. At the demand of the archbishop, Byleth rode out with his battalion of knights for a long campaign, but before he left, he took Yuri’s hands and gave him this blessing:
“He who has luck may go to bed,
And bliss will rain upon his head.”
Byleth kissed Yuri, and wrapped him in his cloak. To Byleth, Yuri gave him a sacred and special notebook, which he recorded the names of everyone he loved and had lost in it. In the cover, he had written his true name, only for Byleth to know.
The two stayed in each other’s arms until the morning. And Byleth left only when the dawn’s first light cracked through the dreary cloudscape and his mission could no longer be delayed.
As Yuri’s 19th year drew closer, so did his fear of the curse. Confiding in his dear friend, Constance, he asked for her aid. Constance, a great mage herself, promised to ensure that the Underground would be cared for.
“Leave it to I!
I shall see this curse fell,
For I am Constance von Nuvelle!”
With her help, Yuri cleared the Abyss of every spindle, flax and sewing needle in the hope to spare himself of the curse. As Constance researched the spell deeply, and attempted to break it, she promised Yuri she would, but to no avail.
On the eve of his birthday, a bouquet of roses came from his love, sent from Gloucester’s blooming flower fields. Delighted, Yuri took them and plucked one. The rose’s thorns dug into his fingers, and the curse took effect. Gazing at his spilled blood, Yuri gasped and proclaimed:
“How foolish I have been,
This… I should have foreseen
My blood is now spilled,
the curse has been fulfilled,
and now I go to slumber’s call,
Byleth, my one, my love, my all.”
Constance found Yuri, and the curse had indeed taken effect: he had fallen asleep amidst the rose petals that Byleth had sent him. Constance attempted to wake Yuri, to no avail, and relenting at last, carried him to his room, placed him in his bed and saw him comfortable in his eternal slumber. Then, knowing that Yuri’s beloved Abyss would be threatened in his absence, Constance placed the entire realm—and with it, its people—it under a spell. Drawing forth her magic, she proclaimed:
”Hale and hearty, wide and wise
I place this land under an eternal sleep,
Come night, and place those in one so deep
That time no longer passes, and no soul dies.”
With her words, the people of the Abyss fell asleep. The altar’s candlelight dimmed, the scrap heap rusted away, the teacher drooped at his desk, and the Wayseer shut her eyes, no longer able to divine her future. Constance saw her dear friend asleep in his bed and then, fearing for his safety, covered his door with a bramble of brier thorns. As she left the Abyss, with the sunlight making her once more dreary, she proclaimed,
“Yuri, oh sweet Yuri,
How sorry you must be…
You deserved a better friend than I,
A fate so foul, I must cry…”
The seasons changed from summer to autumn, to winter and back to spring’s vernal splendour. Byleth remained away, writing letters to his beloved Yuri, surprised that his love did not return them. He travelled the land for some five years until great Garreg Mach soon beckoned him home. Upon his arrival, he did not see Yuri at the gates, nor did he hear of his beloved Mockingbird. Instead, throughout the hallowed halls of the monastery, he heard this tale:
”Legend has it down below,
Sleeps a prince in heavenly glow;
Stuck in eternal slumber and cursed to forever sleep,
His people guard him and his soul to keep.”
As Byleth made his way to realm of the Abyss, he found his usual route blocked. The tunnels had been closed. Desperate to see his love, Byleth dug his way through the tunnel, moving stone and rubble with the strength of the gods.
Surprised, he saw that the Abysskeeper had no greeting for him, instead slumped against his lance, with slumber weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Even curiouser, the residents of Abyss, who had begun to love him and look upon him as an equal protector, were also asleep.
“How strange is this,
Sleep and slumber rests upon the entirety of the Abyss…” He mused.
He travelled the way to Yuri’s room and was shocked to see the thick wall of rose briers barring the door. Byleth drew his sword and slicing away the heads of the red roses, saw them grow back instantly. He reached for the handle, just as a thorn scratched his hand. He hissed, drawing back his hand and then, reaching for a blade that Yuri had given him, cut the outline of the door. Byleth wrenched the door back.
There, in his eternal slumber, laid Yuri. To Byleth, he had only grown lovelier from the time when they parted. Kneeling before his love, Byleth took Yuri’s hand. Only one mark marred his beautiful body: the scratch on his palm where the roses had extracted the curse. Byleth brought Yuri’s hand to his lips, kissing the wound gently, and whispered:
“My Yuri… My love, my life,
With you gone, I face strife.
Wake now, my love,
Or I shall join you in eternal sleep with a hand of foxglove.”
Yuri made no stirring. Besotted and heartbroken, assured that his love no longer lived, Byleth leaned down and kissed his beloved. As Byleth mourned the loss of his darling Yuri, his tears fell onto his love’s cheek. With his kiss, his tears, Byleth had broken the spell! Yawning, Yuri’s lashes fluttered as he woke for the first time in five years, taking his lover’s face in his hands. With great concern, he asked:
“My sun, my moon… My Byleth,
Why, friend, do you look so bereft?”
Byleth, unbelieving, kissed his love again. As he did, the rest of the Abyss began to wake: the altar’s candles sprung to life, the scrap heap yawned with the dawn, the teacher snapped awake, pulling his head from the textbooks, and the Wayseer rubbed the sleep her eyes, her vision once more clear.
All of the Abyss delighted in the breaking of the spell, and soon, Byleth and Yuri were married, continuing to protect the Abyss. While it is said that they are still as young and as beautiful as they were once upon a time, no one has seen them for many years. And when the tale of Yuri and Byleth is told to good little girls and boys, this one moral is often speculated and discussed: he who has luck may go to bed, and bliss will rain upon his head.
“You wrote a fairytale about me passing out for five years?”
Byleth’s eyes slide from Yuri and to Bernadetta, who seems to wilt with every passing second, turning more red than Byleth ever thought possible. Byleth simply sips his wine, watches as Bernadetta squirms and shivers and trips over her words:
“W-W-Well I just—”
“It’s an awfully weird way to show affection, Bernadetta.”
“I-I meant it in a good way, Yuri, I swear!”
“By writing about me falling into a deep sleep where my closest friends all die before me?” Yuri asks then tsks. “And making Constance flop a spell! How mean, isn’t that mean, Byleth?” He glances up to his love for support.
Byleth just sips his wine again as Bernadetta whines. “S-She just… It was for plot convenience, okay?!”
Yuri’s pretty lips curl into a smirk. “I noticed that you didn’t write yourself in there…”
“A-An author sh-shouldn’t…” Bernadetta whimpers and hangs her head. “You’re so mean, Yuri…”
Byleth can only watch in amusement for so long. His eyes flicker back and forth between his lover and his former student, Bernadetta. Byleth, in the back of his mind, wonders if he should call for Raphael to come and help out Bernadetta—give her a boost for her so-called “training”…
This was supposed to be just an armistice ball, a happy engagement of friends reuniting after years of being parted. Wine to be drunk, food to be ate, merry to be made… Besides, it got both Yuri and Byleth away from their writing desks, forging new policies and settling disputes between old Imperial and Kingdom houses in Fódlan’s new dawn.
Byleth finally goes to Bernadetta’s aid, just as she scrambles, saying, “It’s n-not just you! I w-wrote a story about Hilda and she didn’t like it all that much either…”
Yuri’s fine brow cocks, and just as he opens his pretty mouth to give Bernadetta guff, Byleth cuts in, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “I thought it was a kind gift, Bernadetta.” He says. “And I enjoyed that someone other than myself took a five-year-long nap.”
“Of course you did, friend.” Yuri’s voice drips with mild amusement at the last word. “You weren’t the one taking a dirt nap thanks to a rogue rose.”
Byleth gives him a look. “You didn’t sleep in the dirt.”
“You know what I meant.” Yuri says, then takes Byleth’s chalice. Byleth catches his hand for a second before raising the back of it to his lips and pressing a ginger kiss to his palm.
Yuri just smiles, drinks Byleth’s wine and looks back to Bernadetta with her wide, unblinking eyes. “Thank you for the story, Bernadetta.” Byleth says. “It must have taken a long time to add the illustrations.”
She looks down at her dancing shoes over the large brim of her skirt—made by herself, of course—with a crooked but delighted smile on her lips. “I-It wasn’t that hard. I liked it actually.” She murmurs. “Lorenz, actually, um… He offered, if I write more—I mean…”
“To print them?” Byleth asks, somewhat surprised.
Bernadetta simpers slightly then nods quickly. “I-It’s only an offer!” She exclaims. “I-It’s not like I’m seriously entertaining it! I don’t think I can… It would be a tiny book, and parchment is so expensive… I would need to write more, but there’s so many policies that I have to see through—”
Yuri lowers the chalice from his lips, a warm look on his face. “I think you should take him up on it.” He says gently.
“R-Really?”
“Yeah.” Yuri says, and Byleth finds himself nodding in agreement. With a chuckle belying his words, he says, “What can’t Countess Varley do… Revive the rust belt, lead the remaining Imperial territories, write novels, be effortlessly entertaining…”
Bernadetta pouts, just in time for her training partner—and nothing more! She swore when she arrived with Raphael on her arm, He’s a knight in service to House Varley and tr-training me! I mean, not like that… Oh Goddess…—to sidle up beside her. He dwarfs Bernadetta as he conducts a quick check-in, stooping down to ask her quietly how she fares.
It makes Byleth smile gently. I was right to have them battle beside each other. He thinks approvingly.
Raphael and Bernadetta only stay a moment longer, giving their well-wishes and warmth to Byleth and Yuri before Raphael cuts a line towards the snack table, holding out his hand behind him for Bernadetta to take.
“They’re a weird couple.” Yuri says, swiping another glass of wine off a passing servant’s tray. He hands Byleth’s glass back to him and takes a drink. “But it’s good to see Bernadetta so happy… I never thought she would be with her lot in life.”
“Indeed. Raphael has done her a lot of good.”
“Though…” Yuri says, looking up at Byleth and lowering his glass from his lips. “Pray, friend, how did she know about my notebook?”
Byleth feigns ignorance. “No clue.”
“I keep that notebook’s existence rather quiet…”
Byleth sips what’s left of his wine.
“Let alone my name…”
“But you did know Bernadetta as a child, yes?”
Yuri throws him a look. “Fine, I won’t shovel all the blame onto your pretty little conscience.” He says. “Now dance with me before I regret this next glass of wine.”
Byleth takes his hand, presses another kiss to the back of it before leading him out to the dance floor, pulling Yuri close to himself and feeling the warmth from his dearest love warm his body.
The wine has softened Yuri, turning him into a caramellesque figure of himself: melty, soft and gentle, curled into Byleth’s frame as they both enter his old dorm. The monastery is cold, but Yuri is warm enough to fight away the chill. When the door closes, he clings to Byleth, holding onto him tightly.
“I see now why Bernadetta wrote about you as a sleeping beauty.” Byleth says as he helps Yuri into the bed. He turns Yuri’s face up to his, then wets a handkerchief and gently wipes off his makeup.
Yuri looks up at him. His lips curl into a soft smile. “I knew why she made you a prince. You’ve got all the makings for it.”
”I believe you’re mistaken. I was a knight, and you were a prince.”
Yuri just smiles up at Byleth. “Well you marry me in that story, so technically you’re a prince too.”
“So I am.” Byleth smiles softly. He continues to gently wipe away the mask that Yuri spent the better part of an hour painting on. His eyes flicker over Yuri’s pretty face, admiring how he looks the same after a decade. While Raphael had once again doubled in size thanks to his training regimen and Bernadetta’s eyes looked incredibly tired from many nights at her writing desk, Yuri and Byleth seem unchanged. Hilda with her lively children, Caspar with new scars, Marianne looking hale, Claude with longer hair, Lorenz with laugh lines and Leonie with a new split in her brow… Lysithea’s hair turning brown, age becoming her…
All his friends are aging. All his friends will pass before him.
But not Yuri. Yuri, who is like him, will not age a day, forever bewitching and beautiful.
At least she got that right. Byleth thinks as he runs his hand through Yuri’s petal-soft hair. He brushes it over his shoulder, and Yuri shifts into his touch.
It is a scary thought, not aging, outliving everyone they love. Suddenly, Yuri’s notebook makes sense: having someone to remember you is… comforting.
Yuri’s arms come around him, enveloping him in a warm, solid embrace. Byleth’s thoughts shatter with the movement, his eyes tracing down to find Yuri’s in the velvety darkness of the dormitory.
“Come here.” He whispers, his voice warm and low. His arms pull Byleth closer to him, wrapping Byleth a cocoon of his warmth. The smell of Yuri’s cologne coupled with the warmth and post-wine haze turns him soft and gentle too.
He holds him tight to himself, curled into his frame.
”Byleth,” He breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.
”Yuri?”
“I think we should read Bernadetta’s story once more.” He muses gently. “For proofreading purposes.”
Byleth’s lips crack into a smile. He reaches to the bedside table, takes the little parchment book into his hands, and opens to the first page. As Yuri curls into his frame, his eyes fluttering shut, Byleth reads Bernadetta’s lovely fairytale:
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful prince. Born with hair the colour of spring lilacs and a tongue sharper than the harshest steel, this prince was not a prince of all the land, great wealth or immense power: instead, he was a prince of the people, their sworn protector. Known by many identities, his subjects called him Yuri.”