Chapter Text
After ascending the throne as the first leader of the United Kingdom of Fodlan, Byleth sought to rebuild the war-torn towns and villages and to help guide the reformation of the Church of Seiros. After a few months of peace, remnants of the Imperial army joined with those who slither in the dark and marched upon the Garreg Mach. The barely recovered army lacked the power to repel the invaders, and defeat was imminent. The knights were scared, and hesitant; they’d thought peace was finally achieved, and had finally thought it was safe to settle down—pursue love and start a family.
The only reason many of them were picking up their weapons again, was the sight of their priestess doffing her regalia and standing at the very front lines of the battle. She managed to emulate Rhea well enough when she stood at the helm of the church, but not here. On the battlefield, she was a mercenary and a tactician. Faith had nothing to do with it, only a dedication to lead her army to victory and defend her people.
And defend she did. The battle had been ongoing for three days, and she hadn’t yet conceded an inch, regardless of how outnumbered they were. But the number of injured kept steadily climbing and defenses were growing thin.
“Rafael, go relieve the battalion guarding the Western gate. Linhardt, I need mages backing up Hilda’s squadron—” Byleth continued relaying tactics and instructions despite how raw her throat felt, how ragged her breathing had become, how utterly and completely exhausted she was.
The battle had been ongoing for three days for everyone else, but not for Byleth.
Byleth had experienced each of the last 72 hours over and over again—rewinding as far as she needed to each time the enemy gained, reliving each fight until she got it right. She had been on her last leg for hours in everyone else’s timeline, for days in her own; she’d pushed herself far beyond anything she thought possible. She wanted so badly to just give up, but this was her country. These were her people. She owed them the peace they’d been promised.
Her movements were lethargic, and if she didn’t have Sylvain defending her back, she’d be long gone, but she still maintained the front lines with all she was worth.
Then… The onslaught stopped. Just for a moment, and murmurs began amongst the enemy ranks, then murmurs turned into barked orders to maintain formation. And the weight of the world that had been resting on Byleth’s shoulders was lifted as the sky was blotted out by wyverns flooding in from the east. The enemy was thrown into disarray and the army of Seiros finally took back ground, fending off the imperials.
When the white wyvern that Byleth knew so well landed, breaking the ranks of an enemy platoon, and she met those dark green eyes, she had never felt more relieved. Claude was here. They’d held off the enemy for long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The monastery was safe.
Claude’s smile at seeing her quickly faded when an imperial soldier just feet away levied his bow, with Byleth in his sight. Claude tried to warn her, Sylvain tried to lunge for her, but the arrow was already flying. Panic was high for a split second, but everyone, ally and enemy alike, was shocked when it missed. The shot was perfect, but the target had shifted. Collapsed, actually.
The moment Byleth saw Claude, she knew she’d done her duty. And the moment her adrenaline faltered, her mind and body gave into the overwhelming fatigue she’d been fighting through.
“Byleth!” Claude shouted, jumping from the saddle and rushing to her side to find her skin pale and clammy, and her eyes refusing to open. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, looking for any obvious injuries as the sounds of weapons clashing continued around him. He couldn’t find the source for what had caused her to lose consciousness, and he looked around for a healer, but there were none. Instead, he shouted, “Ashe!” as he lifted Byleth up in his arms. “Find Marianne, bring her to the priestess chambers as quick as you can.”
As soon as Ashe confirmed his orders, Claude climbed atop his wyvern and took off, flying to the tower and landing between the lily ponds on the balcony of Byleth’s room. He carried her inside and set her gently onto the bed.
“Byleth? Byleth, love, please wake up,” he cooed, the thumb of one hand gently caressed her cheek while the knuckles of his other rubbed harshly against her sternum—praying the discomfort would rouse her. It was a trick Byleth herself had taught him in his brief lessons in healing many years ago when assessing the strengths and weaknesses of her new students. He lacked every knack when it came to magic; but in this, at least, he managed to succeed.
She stirred slowly, eyes taking too long to focus. But when she saw him above her, a smile found it’s way to her face. “Khalid,” she breathed his name—his real name, only revealed to her in the letters they’d exchanged since his departure to Almyra—aloud for the first time, and it sounded like a hymn. “You’re here. We made it? Held out? The reinforcements—” she trailed off, grimacing and letting out a soft groan.
“Hey, hey it’s okay, you’re alright,” he soothed, but the hand cupping her face was trembling. “Byleth, where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt,” she tried to say, but whimpered, face screwing in obvious pain.
He didn’t have time for lies right now, and his hands went to the laces in her leather armor, making quick work to open it; her undershirt didn’t have any obvious bloodstains and he couldn’t make out any injuries. “Where are you hurt,” he asked again, a bit less patient this time.
“I’m not,” she said again. “I just… I… pushed a bit too hard.”
His tense shoulders fell when she spoke. She was just exhausted. But if that was all, why was the pit of nausea in his stomach still worsening? “What do you mean… exactly?”
A second wyvern landed on the balcony, and Marianne rushed inside, but Claude hardly noticed. His attention was zeroed in on Byleth as she spoke in a voice far too weak for comfort.
“The dragon’s pulse, I… I had to keep the citadel standing, but… it fell, Khalid. So many times. I can’t count,” her voice was quickly growing distressed, heavy with emotion, “how many children I saw slaughtered. So I had to rewind, I had—I had to keep trying. I had to keep the walls standing until you got here.”
He felt his blood run cold, as Byleth shuddered and her hand rose lethargically to her chest as pains wracked her. He tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, “How many times did you use the pulse?”
She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know.”
“Then guess,” he demanded, the stress of the situation bringing out the commander in him, before he altered his voice to how a man should address his betrothed. “Please, just, try to give me an idea?”
“Thir—”
Thirteen—if she’d only used it thirteen times, she would be okay. That was her limit. She was tired to the bone after manipulating the flow of time so many times; he’d even seen her sleep a full day after hitting her limit before. But she recovered. She just needed rest—
“—ty.”
Claude froze.
Time might as well have frozen, too, with how still the room was, until Marianne broke the spell. “Ashe,” she said quietly. “Find Seteth.”
Byleth saw the look on Claude’s face and reached out for his hand. “I had to protect the city, no matter what it took—”
“Thirty.” Claude could barely get out the word. Marianne came to his side, and he looked up at her, a helpless expression on his face. “Thirty?”
Before Marianne could offer any words of comfort, Byleth had begun convulsing.
“No,” Claude choked out. “No, No. Marianne, what—what is this? What’s happening?”
“I, I don’t know, she’s seizing—” she trailed off, her eyes widening and Claude whipped back to look at Byleth to see dark blue beginning to streak through the sea green of her hair.
When the convulsions stopped, with Byleth’s eyes rolled back, Marianne slowly moved her limp hand away from her chest, and set her own directly over where Byleth’s heart would’ve been. The soft yellow light of healing magic began to emanate from her hand, but it didn’t last long.
It didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t something she could heal. “Claude,” she whispered. “Her crest stone. It’s… beginning to shatter.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” his voice was tinged with desperation, almost like he was begging, because he knew what it meant. He was begging for the answer to be anything but what it was.
“Her heart is failing,” Marianne said, her words heavier than he could bear.
He squeezed Byleth’s hand tightly before standing up from the bed and stumbling out to the balcony. He fell to his knees beside the pond and his stomach turned itself inside out as he retched painfully for minutes on end.
He was still bent over, his stomach empty but bile still rising in his throat, when the wings of Seteth’s wyvern blotted out the sun above him. Before he’d even landed, Flayn had slid from the saddle, and was rushing straight past Claude to Byleth’s side.
Claude fought his way to his feet, leaning against the brick wall for support when Seteth stepped off as well. “What is her status, is she alright?”
“No, she’s not fucking alright,” Claude’s voice was hoarse, his attempt to conceal his fear under anger unsuccessful. “Her crest stone is failing. She’s—” His jaw snapped shut, unable to utter the word, unable to believe that he could be about to lose her, not when he finally could have her after years of yearning. “…Because of what that sick freak did to her as a baby.”
Claude had never been fond of Rhea, and when she had admitted to using Byleth to try to resurrect her deceased mother, his dislike had turned into disgust. Maybe hatred, if he was being honest, so he didn’t bite his tongue. But to Seteth, his words were blasphemy against a god held most dear.
“Those are not the words of a king, Claude,” he seethed.
“King?” he hissed back. “I am not speaking as a king; I’m speaking as her husband!”
“You’re not that either—not yet. You left before that part, didn’t you? You gave her a ring and a promise to return, and you left her here to lead a fledgling nation alone, with no experience to rely on. You left her to defend this monastery on her own, and you want to blame her condition now on Lady Rhea?”
Claude’s expression was darkening rapidly, and his voice came out low from between clenched teeth—a warning in it to back down. “I came as quickly as I could, Seteth.”
“Clearly, that wasn’t quick enough,” Seteth said, pushing past him and into the priestess chambers, quickly kneeling beside the bed. “Lady Byleth,” he said, as she began to stir again. “Are you able to speak?”
“W—where’s Khalid? He—he was just here…” she muttered weakly.
Claude was still reeling, still trying to regain the strength in his legs, but when he heard her voice, that didn’t matter. He found himself at her side again in an instant, taking her hand into his. “I’m here. I’m here, love.” He tried so hard not to focus on how much of her hair had faded back to blue, or how her eyes were a few shades darker already. “Tell me what you need,” he whispered.
“Just. Stay with me? Please?” Byleth asked.
It might’ve been Seteth’s words, eviscerating him for leaving her to begin with, but the pleading note in her voice, as if she feared he wouldn’t oblige her, made his heart ache. “Of course. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” His grip on her hand was tight and unwavering. “Seteth, you were there, when Rhea… did what she did. You have to know what we can do for her.”
Seteth’s silence made Claude’s heart sink.
“Come on, there has to be something,” he pleaded, voice raw. “Heroes’ relics can be repaired when they break—”
“The weapon itself breaks, not the crest stone. A weapon can be repaired; a shattered crest stone cannot,” Flayn said, her comforting voice doing nothing to soothe the blow of her words.
“Then stop it from shattering; just do something.”
Byleth’s hand squeezed his weakly. “There’s nothing to be done,” she whispered. “I knew the consequences of overusing my power, but it was my duty to protect my people. I wouldn’t change my choice but, I am sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t get more time together.”
“But you can’t—” Claude choked back a sob. Marianne touched Seteth’s and Flayn’s shoulders, and nodded her head towards the door. Reluctantly, they followed Marianne from the room, leaving Claude and Byleth alone. “Byleth, you can’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, Khalid,” she said again. “You had such a bright vision for the world; please, don’t let this darken it. You can still make the future you long for come true.”
“No, not without you! You’re my future, Byleth, I’m not doing this without you. There has to be something, please.”
But her eyes were already back to the dark blue they’d been when he met her, as was her hair. She was fading quickly. When the seizing started again, he sobbed, his head falling to her chest.
“This can’t be happening. Please, please, please,” he murmured, his head spinning, trying to think of any kind of solution, but falling short every time.
When the seizure stopped, she was still for a long time, and he gripped her arm tightly, tears falling freely. He couldn’t catch his breath. When she finally moved again, she lifted her hand to his hair and combed through it gently before guiding his chin up to look at her.
“I love you, Khalid,” she whispered. “Always and forever.”
“Byleth—”
Before he could say it back, she had pulled him into a kiss by his cravat; and with his lips on hers, he felt a shudder run through her. He felt her hand fall limply beside the bed, and he felt his heart shatter at the exact same time hers did. He fell onto his knees and he screamed.
This was all his fault, just as Seteth had said. He left her with a burden no single person should have to bear. He left her as the leader of Fodlan, knowing exactly the type of person that she was. He knew she would give her lives for her students in a heartbeat; why should that be any different for her nation?
He wrote this ending for her, and all but signed her fate.
Still clutching her hand, he sobbed beside her bed, the ring on her finger mocking him as the sounds of war waged on outside of the window. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Byleth. Not to his Byleth.
No. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t let it.
Claude stood shakily, staring down at Byleth. Her dark blue hair was splayed around his like a halo, her lips slightly parted as her last breath had left her. Every emotion was swarming through him as he pressed a gentle kiss to Byleth’s forehead, and he focused in on the one that would get him results.
He slammed out of the room, and pointed at Seteth. “Get Hanneman,” he demanded, his voice low and rough. “Take him to the medics that have been moving the injured from the field. He knows blood—have him find a match from the dead knights.”
“Claude,” Marianne whispered. “You can’t mean—”
“The knights of Seiros vowed themselves to the church—Byleth is their priestess, and with Sothis’ heart, she is also their God. Do you not think they would want her to live?”
“That’s desecration,” Seteth snapped. “She wouldn’t want—”
“She’s dead!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I don’t care what she would or wouldn’t want; she’s dead, so it’s my choice. And I want her back.”
The devastation in his voice left them silent.
“Marianne, use your healing magic, keep her blood circulating. Seteth, find Hanneman and meet me in the clinic. I’ll remove the heart from the match he finds; no one else needs to break their morals. Just me.”
No one moved and Claude’s expression crumbled, a small choked noise escaping him.
“Please.”
It was the pleading of a lover, not the order of a king, and a tear fell down Marianne’s cheek. She prepared herself with a deep breath before she reentered the priestess’ chambers, to keep Byleth’s blood flowing and her lungs breathing. Seteth followed through the door before heading for the balcony to mount his wyvern. Claude held himself still to collect himself once more before turning to find Flayn still standing with him.
“Don’t,” he told her. “I won’t change my mind, so don’t try.”
“I won’t. Claude, Seteth wasn’t there when Rhea gave Byleth the stone,” she admitted. “I was. I know what to do. I’ll help.”
He stared at her for a long moment. He thought she would share Seteth’s views regarding the sanctity of life and the sin that Claude was about to commit. But she didn’t waver, and he had to remind himself that she was far older than she looked; that she’d experienced a devastating loss that had changed how she viewed life and death forever. “Thank you,” he told her. With her resolute nod, they both turned down the hallway, Flayn quickening her pace to keep up with Claude’s long, purposeful strides.
Seteth had retrieved Hanneman before they’d arrived, and everyone else had been ordered out. The doctor was steadfast; his portable device quickly evaluated the blood of the dead knights brought to this room for an eternal rest that Claude was ready to coldly interrupt. Seteth’s brow twitched as he saw Flayn donning a clean apron and gloves before sanitizing the surgical knife she had retrieved from the clinic on the way in. He didn’t speak though, apparently more forgiving of his daughter crossing ethical boundaries than Claude. Unsurprising; Seteth had never been fond of Claude.
Hanneman found a match. A knight, a Blue Lion from the year ahead of Claude’s class at the officers’ academy. They’d crossed paths during training, but Claude didn’t even know his name. Flayn was quick to cover his face with a cloth and Claude steeled his nerves as she handed him the blade.
Flayn’s voice was quiet but unwavering as she walked him through the steps. He followed her directions precisely, but his mind was far away from the steady movement of his hands—from this reality where the woman he loved lay unbreathing two stories above his head. He didn’t even realize he was done until Flayn was gently taking the unbeating heart from his hands and placing it into a cold steel box. “Let’s go,” she said and led the way back up to the top floor.
Claude didn’t shake from his stupor until he stepped back into Byleth’s chambers to the hushed but unmistakable sounds of Marianne crying as she maintained her magic that kept Byleth’s blood flowing despite her lack of a beating heart. Hilda stood beside her now, too. Her recent education in healing magic in her new position as a war cleric wasn’t practiced enough for this complicated and delicate work; but her hand was on Marianne’s shoulder, channeling her own energy into the more practiced white knight.
When Marianne looked up and saw the box in Flayn’s hands, her shaking worsened. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she cried. He wished he could feel remorse for asking this of her. But he couldn’t. He had only one thing on his mind, which was to see Byleth open her eyes once more, to hear his name from her tongue.
His eyes shifted to Hilda, who—despite her expression, twisted in emotional conflict—gave him a nod. She always had been on his side, and he was grateful beyond words that her support extended over the line he’d just crossed. She gently pulled Marianne away from Byleth as Claude and Flayn made their way to her bedside.
He swallowed as he stared down at her; and he prayed to the only god he’d ever believed in for strength as he slowly removed her tunic and sliced through the chest of his beloved.