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Their final fight against Edelgard had gone more poorly than anticipated.
Firstly, he had wanted to take Edelgard prisoner — however considering he just watched Byleth send the Emperor’s head spiralling across the throne room floor, that was out of the question.
Claude lands his wyvern and walks up the stairs towards the throne. With Edelgard very clearly dead, the remnants of the Empire’s forces were scattering or surrendering; the fight was over.
His shoulder aches uncomfortably. He palms at it through his armor, trying to slip his fingers through the cracks and find relief.
That was the second thing: Hubert had had more time to rally up reinforcements than he had assumed. They were already exhausted by the time they breached the Imperial Palace, and the guard watching the Emperor wasn’t exactly the B-Team.
It was a nasty fight, brutal — but his friends had lived, and that was what mattered.
Byleth’s back was to him, chest still heaving. He placed a hand on her shoulder, softly, as not to startle her.
“I didn’t want to kill her,” Byleth says, and her voice is so small. She moves her free hand up on top of his, slick and stained red.
“I didn’t want to kill her either, my friend,” he replies, “but that’s the reality of war.”
Byleth breathes again. Now that he’s at her side, he can hear the thick noise rattling out from her chest.
Claude’s brow furrows as he steps around to look at her face.
His blood runs cold.
Byleth being covered in blood is not exactly a rarity, but normally it wasn’t her own. Through the splatter marks of their enemies, blood streams from her eyes, her nose. When she opens her mouth to speak to him, a wine-dark pool falls and stains the floor.
“Ignatz,” she coughs, looking over her shoulder for the Deer in the mess of Imperial and Church troops. “Lysithea, Hilda.”
Claude whips through his short term memory, retracing the battle and Byleth’s shouted commands. How many times had they fallen? “They’re okay, Teach. Still standing, thanks to you.”
She turns her head back, refocuses on him. “And you, Claude?”
He remembers a gust of wind Byleth sent his way, knocking him off course. And the arrow that followed cutting clean through his hair, inches away from his neck. How many times had he fallen?
Claude moves his hand from her shoulder up to cup her face. “Not a scratch,” which is close enough to the truth. He could have lost a whole arm in this fight, and he’d still look better than she does, swaying on her feet.
“Good.” Byleth whispers. Her eyes close, and the only thing that saves her from collapsing directly onto the stone is Claude’s free arm locking around her.
Blood roars in his ears, drowning out everything else.
No, no, no, no.
Marianne is next to him in an instant, hands already a brilliant white before she even touches the professor. She guides Claude to lay Byleth flat on the stone, then gently shoulders him out of the way.
Hilda is there, too, turning his face to look at her. “Claude,” she was — well, probably saying, but he couldn’t hear her words, just read her lips. “Breathe.”
Claude desperately tries to wrench his head back to Byleth, but Hilda holds him in place, damn her strength, until he matches her breathing.
It’s an eternity before a wave of healing energy washes over him, and Hilda drops her hand off his chin so he can turn to Marianne. Her face is grim, but she doesn’t look completely despondent. “She’s still alive. I think I’ve stabilized her, but we need to get her back to camp. Do you know what happened?”
Yes, Claude thinks. “No,” he says.
Marianne nods. “Hilda, could you carry her?”
“I can —” Claude begins, but Hilda looks at him and shakes her head.
“She’s dead weight, Claude. Okay, poor choice of words. But still — you’re exhausted from the fight. I’ll do it.” He starts to protest again, but Hilda leans in a little closer. “I’ve never heard you scream like that before. Please. Let me help you.”
Claude deflates and nods his head.
He trails along after Hilda and Marianne like a stray dog, not letting the pair out of his sight. His wyvern will find her way home on her own.
Hilda deposits Byleth into a private area of the med tent; Flayn, bless her, had flown ahead to prepare it. The moment she’s laid on the cot, every medic in their force descends. He’s pushed to the back of the room, though Hilda does sneak in a chair.
Claude sits on it gratefully, reaching up blindly — eyes still locked on the small glimpses of Byleth he can see through the gaps in healers. Hilda catches the hand he’s extending and squeezes it. “I’ll buy you some time,” she whispers, and stops only to kiss Marianne on the temple before leaving to run interference.
They’re long, agonizing minutes. It’s a flurry of activity around her: shouting and glowing hands and gauze flying. It feels like the whole army is surrounding her bed, tapping in and out as their knowledge runs short or their magic falls flat. A Leicester Alliance combat medic he doesn’t even know the name of — someone Duke Gloucester sent — has her hands all over Byleth’s head and throat. He can barely see her. He can barely catch a breath.
Eventually, the team of medics and healers disperse, leaving only Marianne. She comes and squats next to his chair so they’ll be at eye level. She’s trying hard to display a level of impassivity, but there’s too much anxiety around her eyes to be convincing. She must have drawn the short stick, having to give him the bad news.
“As far as we can tell, we’ve been able to staunch the internal bleeding. It doesn’t look like she got hit in the head, which is a good sign!” And then she hesitates.
“Rip the bandage off, Marianne.”
“We don’t know what caused it, so we have no idea when, or if, she’ll wake up.”
He doesn’t remember what it felt like to get shot in the throat, because that reality never existed in the first place. He wagers, though, that it probably didn’t feel as bad as this does right now. His eyes go back to Byleth, lying so still on the cot.
Please don’t die for me.
Hilda ducks back into the tent, a flurry of pink hair in his peripheral vision. Marianne disappears from his eyeline. He can hear the whispers from behind them, but doesn’t bother to pay them any mind. If you really focus, you can see the slight rise and fall of her chest under the remaining layers of clothing Byleth was wearing. Maybe he’s imagining it. Gods, please don’t be imagining it.
The tent flaps ripple again, and before he knows it he and Hilda are left alone.
“You need to go give a speech.”
“Absolutely not.” Claude answers, immediately. “I’m not leaving this room.”
“Yes you are, Duke Riegan.”
With immense effort, Claude moves his gaze to glare at her. She’s out of her armor now, wet hair pulled back with a single strip of leather. Her split lip bleeds under the weight of her frown.
“Half of our army just watched what they believe to be the reincarnation of their goddess collapse in a heap of her own blood. Someone needs to go settle their nerves and congratulate them on a war well fought. And it has to be you.”
She’s right, of course. He and Byleth have been running this operation from the beginning — too closely, if the rumors are to be believed. Which, honestly, gives Hilda an even better case for why he has to do it; if Byleth were really dying, he wouldn’t be away from her, right? The men would relax, the edge would come off. And if he really is seen as her other half, he needs to shore up her position with the war coming to a close.
But with Byleth lying on her death bed because he had been careless in battle, how could he leave her side?
Marianne sticks her head back in, passing Hilda a full bucket of water and a sponge.
“What are you —”
“I’m giving the Professor a bath, obviously. I’m not going to let her lay there covered in blood, that’s disgusting.
“Unless,” Hilda sings, giving Claude his least favorite of her smirks, “you want to be the one to bathe her?”
His face flushes against his will, sending a flurry of giggles through the room. “Hilda,” Claude begins, voice pinched.
But Hilda places the bucket and sponge near the foot of the cot, and turns to grab Claude’s hand. “She’s gonna be fine,” Hilda says, softly. “If anyone is going to get to her, they’ll have to go through me first.” Claude follows the subtle tilt of her head to see Freikugel leaned up against a support beam.
The thought of leaving this tent threatens to suffocate him. However, there’s only two people in Fódlan Claude would trust with his life, with his secrets, and now, apparently, with his future — so he tucks his emotions away, transitions into the future king, and decides to extend his faith in Hilda that much farther.
“I’d like to see them try.”
The speech is awful, frankly; saying it’s half-assed is generous. However, the soldiers don’t seem to mind — if anything, it does soothe their nerves — and once he has Raphael crack open the barrels of ale, all is forgotten in favor of raucousness.
No sooner is he stepping off the makeshift dais than Lorenz is behind him, verbally strong-arming him into bathing. Claude can’t tell if Hilda has put him up to this or if the other man is genuinely ashamed at him addressing their troops while sticky with dried blood, though knowing Lorenz it is almost definitely the latter. He acquiesces after the third threat that Lorenz is going to stay to watch to make sure it happens, wading in the river until his hair fluffs up and his fingernails are clear.
He dresses quickly in his tent — only the bare minimum, his white undershirt and brown slacks. It’s sentimental, maybe, but he does take the extra minute to grab his sash and loop it around his waist. It was a gift from his mother; perhaps she could lend him strength with it, despite the distance.
Yes, he could almost pretend it was for that reason alone.
“Where did you get it?” Byleth had asked during a training session, flicking at the dangling pom poms. “I like it.”
Claude arrives back at the med tent under the guide of Enbarr’s lamp lights. It’s quiet now, everyone else asleep — save for Hilda, who’s wringing the sponge out as he ducks through Byleth’s makeshift door.
“You look much better.”
“You didn’t even look up.”
“Okay, you smell much better. Happy?” Hilda stands, placing the dirty bucket of water just outside of the tent flaps and carrying in another. “She’s almost fully clean, changed and everything — just have to wash her hair. I don’t suppose you’d like to…”
His throat dries up. “Yeah, I can. Thanks Hilda.”
She drops the bucket at his feet, and pushes up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Anytime, Claude. Now, I have to go make sure my girlfriend actually ate dinner and then maybe we can finally sleep. Far too much work today for my liking.
“I’ll see you in the morning!”
The curtains fall back, and they’re left alone. Claude carries the bucket to her bedside. With all the blood gone off her face, she looks almost… peaceful — a rare sight from Byleth since she came back, the worry line between her eyebrows a near permanent fixture.
Hilda left a blanket draped over her waist, but it’s clear she didn’t dress Byleth in her own clothes. His stomach twists when he realizes the white button down shirt she’s dressed in is Sylvain’s — but the feeling is gone just as quickly as face heats.
Jealous over a shirt, how old was he?
Claude settles in on a stool near the head of the cot. Hilda had positioned Byleth so her hair hung off the edge, and moved her pillow to prevent it from getting wet. He reaches over for a cup left behind by one healer or another, dumping the liquid and dunking it into the bucket.
Claude is slow, deliberate. He uses a free hand to cup Byleth’s forehead, preventing the water from running back into her eyes. Once her bangs run clear, he lifts the bucket up on his knees, dropping the rest of her hair into the sudsy water. He massages out the gore gently, thankful for his dexterity as he manages to unknot large tangles that have formed from long days on the road to Enbarr. By the time her hair returns to its seafoam green color, the water is black with dried blood.
Claude lifts up the fabric panel behind them and sends the bloody water rushing out onto the grass.
And, impulsively, picks her hair back up.
If anyone asked, he would explain that braiding it only made sense. It was a protective style, after all, and Teach liked her hair — even if she didn’t say it with her words, she certainly showed it. Who knows how long she’d be unconscious? The Deer would agree; she would appreciate the gesture.
Hopefully no one would notice it was a traditionally Almyran style.
He twists her strands together as tightly as he can; he’s never tried anything this complex on her hair texture before, his fingers clunky as they try to adjust. He remembers his mother’s servants in the mornings, braiding flowers or charms into the smaller strands as they pulled into a larger, bulkier braid. His unpracticed hands do a passable job at it — but even a poor imitation of the hairstyle of an Almyran queen on Byleth’s head has his heart throbbing.
When all of her hair is tucked away, Claude uses some twine from the medical supplies to wrap a triple knot. He picks up the braid to tuck it back under her head — but stops short, unclipping a pom pom from the sash and securing it tightly to the end of the twine.
It wasn’t flowers or jewels, but it would do.
When he gets her all set up back in cot, pillow fluffed and blanket tucked up to her chin, he can almost pretend everything’s fine. Almost.
Claude leans back in the chair, kicks his feet up on the stool, and falls into an uneasy sleep watching Byleth breathe.
It’s very kind of the others to not bring up that all military business is now being conducted at Byleth’s bedside.
Claude refuses to leave until she wakes. From the uncomfortable wooden chair, he settles disputes, plans their next moves, re-reads a letter from Hubert with problematic implications, and watches Byleth. Her breathing is stronger now, at least, but there’s been no other changes in the past two days.
He knows the army is getting restless. There are only so many parties you can throw — but, luckily, Hilda is willing to throw as many as she can feasibly get away with to stall. And from what he’s heard from the others, their makeshift dining hall is home to quite the rager tonight.
It’s quiet this close to the river, only the chirping of grasshoppers and gentle ruffling of the breeze through fabric. The medical tent has been vacated, save Byleth; anyone who was still injured was loaded onto wagons headed back to the Monastery as of this morning. They’re alone, for better or for worse.
He flips through Edelgard’s personal journal for the 500th time, trying to glean any new insights on “Those Who Slither”. His eyes glaze over yet another long entry discussing her frustration with Hubert and Ferdinand’s relationship, or lack thereof. From behind the journal, Byleth stirs.
It falls from his hands as he sits up in the chair.
She cracks an eye open.
He’s at her side in an instant.
“Wh —” she begins, but breaks off coughing. Claude reaches back and grabs his own glass of water from the floor, kneeling at her bedside and letting her use his shoulder as leverage to roll over and drink. She sips gratefully, slowly draining the glass.
“Thank you. Could you help me sit up?”
Claude moves his hand to her waist, steadying and guiding her, as Byleth pushes herself up from his shoulder. The moment she’s settled, he drops his hand like it’s on fire.
She glances down at him. From where he’s kneeling on the floor, the candlelight bounces off the walls and catches behind her head. A halo, fit for a goddess.
“What day is it?”
“Day two of the Blue Sea Moon. You’ve been out for almost three days.”
She grimaces. Claude can’t help the chuckle that escapes him at the sight, even if he swallows it down quickly. “What happened to you? Was it —”
“Rewinding time, yes.” She’s still croaky, and he watches her sway slightly to the left. Impulsively, Claude joins her on the cot. Byleth drops her head to his shoulder. His breath catches.
“How many times did you go back?” He asks, hoping the tightness of his voice doesn’t give anything away.
“I lost count.” Byleth sighs, closes her eyes. “A building fell near Sylvain and he got caught in the rubble; I don’t know if he perished but I was not going to wait to find out. Ignatz died a brutal death when he got caught by Hubert’s reinforcements — I ended up returning to right before we entered the city to fix that mistake.”
“That’s why you changed our deployment at the last moment.”
“Ignatz was needed to help snipe the incoming flyers, and the easiest way to get him away from the armored knights in time was just to start fresh and flip him and Flayn with Petra and Felix. It took a lot out of me though.”
“Hilda and Lysithea?” he asked.
“Hilda took a blast of lightning to the chest that was meant for Marianne, despite the fact that Marianne would have been fine. I had Lorenz intercept her to keep her out of range.”
“And Marianne dodged it, of course, because she doesn’t have 700 pounds of armor on.”
“Exactly. Lysithea cut a blind corner to cast a spell against one of those dark mages, running right into the beast that cut her down. I sent Raphael and Leonie over a few minutes earlier to engage with it and clear her path. ”
“And me?”
Byleth pulls back her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “A white wyvern makes you an easy target in the air, Claude. You are very clearly not a random Alliance soldier. How many times must I ask you to watch your flank?”
“At least one more,” he chirps.
Byleth scoffs and drops her head back down.
Her breathing is steady, even if it’s still more shallow than he would like. He yearns to wrap his arms around her, bring her to his chest and keep her there until she falls back asleep. Instead, he tightens his hands in the blanket on the cot.
“How are you feeling?”
Byleth considers this for a few moments. “Weak physically, but otherwise fine. I do have a headache, but it’s fading.”
Claude opens his mouth to speak, but Byleth grunts softly and pushes herself off his shoulder. Their knees touch as she turns to face him.
“What have I missed?”
“What?”
Byleth frowns. “The war. Where are we now?”
Now it’s Claude’s turn to frown. “We can talk about that in the morning; you need to rest.”
“Absolutely not. If you still intend on making me the queen of the united realm, I need to be apprised of our situation.” She says it neutrally, but Claude cringes as if reprimanded.
It would be a lie to say that Byleth was excited about her new position. They spent many, many a night arguing over the war table in Garreg Mach, as Byleth tried to pass the buck to anyone else and Claude kept insisting that if it couldn’t be him — which, obviously, it could not be with Almyra in the wings — it had to be her. She’s come to accept the responsibilities he’s foisting upon her, but the dark thoughts in his head at night whisper that he’s ruining her life at the cost of his own ambition.
He cannot unite Fódlan and Almyra without her, this much is certain. But what else is certain? She would be much happier being a mercenary. And if Claude told her it was fine, he’d find someone else, she’d drop the crown in an instant.
But he also knows well enough at this point that she will be the Queen of Fódlan until the day she dies, because he asked for her help.
Guilt creeps into his voice as he answers.
“With Edelgard dead, the Empire has officially fallen. The other heads of the Alliance are currently rounding up war criminals for us to jail and eventually put to trial. We’ve recruited the formerly-rebellious scholars to help us save the important information from the Palace, and then it’ll, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll turn it into a museum.
“As for our rag-tag troupe, everyone’s preparing to leave back for home. All of the decisions regarding where to go next have been put on pause while we waited for your input. Y’know, future Queen and all.”
Byleth rolls her eyes at him, which he takes as a small victory.
“Rhea is recovering well under our healers, though she’s still very frail. We left her in the Imperial Palace; I’m sure she’ll be looking to speak with you now that you’re awake. Hubert…”
“Hubert what, Claude?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you this, but you’re not taking any action on it until morning. He left us a letter, in case we were victorious. Very thoughtful, frankly. It details how to track down the people they were working with, the allies of Monica and Tomas.”
Byleth’s eyes flare to life. “The people who killed my father.”
“Yes, but —”
“But” is not enough. As he feared, Byleth scans the room for the letter and lunges towards the stool where he left it.
Before she can fall flat on her face, Claude darts out and grabs her wrist, holding her in place. Her eyes snap back to his.
“No. I’ll give you the letter tomorrow. You need to rest.”
Byleth gives a small tug, not enough to get away — just testing. Claude tightens his grip as much as he can without hurting her.
“Please. We were all very worried, you know. I was worried.”
Byleth’s eyes soften. She stops trying to force herself out of his grasp, relaxing back on the cot. Claude can’t bring himself to let go of her.
They’ve been dancing around this, whatever it is, for far too long.
It would be naive to say his relationship with Byleth was the same as the ones she held with the other Deer. At the beginning of his academy days, maybe, but no amount of homework being equally distributed could change that she told only one person, not even her father, about being able to rewind time. He was alone, the cool stone of her bedroom floor eating into his legs, hearing her voice shake for the first time as she asked him to keep it a secret.
And he did.
It’s been shifting even farther since she woke up. Strategy sessions melting into conversations that last all night. Glances that linger a little too long. Byleth asking for help to improve her archery, even though by all accounts she taught him.
The shared meals and visits to the Goddess Tower, their verbal and physical spars, their tents always pitched side by side. An elaborate house of cards they’ve built between the two of them, so delicately balanced. Can’t get distracted, after all, the war is on.
But the war is over now, and Byleth nearly died in his arms two days ago, and in two more he might be on his way to Almyra.
Claude takes a deep breath, and plucks a card right from the bottom.
Fuck it.
“I haven’t left your side.”
Byleth’s eyes widen under the weight of the confession, but she stays quiet. Claude swallows and shifts his hand down to hold hers.
“That chair over there? I’ve been sleeping in it. I’ve been conducting all army business out of it. I’ve been watching you breathe, because I was too afraid you were going to stop.”
“Claude…”
“I can’t lose you. And I know what you’re thinking — it’s not.” Claude sighs and uses his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s not because I want to make you the Queen. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about that right now; it was the furthest thing from my mind. I can’t lose you, Byleth, my… friend.”
Claude braces himself for the worst. Byleth squeezes his hand.
“Edelgard is — was, very perceptive. She was always very good at reading people.” Claude almost thinks she’s going to trail off, but her voice instead drops to a whisper. “She killed you ten times.”
“She — what?”
Byleth nods gravely. “I didn’t want to kill her, but she left me no choice. Anytime I left her an opening, she would kill you. Not because you’re the leader of the Alliance, not because you’re a threat in combat that had to be taken off the board. She did it because she wanted me off balance, and she knew what you mean to me.”
“You’re just assuming…”
Byleth shakes her head, and Claude watches her braid tumble down her shoulder. “She told me as much during one of my cycles. She knew I wouldn’t join her, and she knew she couldn’t kill me in a fair fight,” Byleth stops for a moment, casts her eyes downward.
“Edelgard saw what happened to me after my dad died. She wanted me to shut down. She knew how to get me there.”
Claude sucks in a sharp breath. “Byleth…”
“I’m not very good at this,” she admits with a small laugh, looking back up at him. “I only just got emotions… Well, you were there. But I can’t lose you either.”
They sit in silence. His emotions threaten to drown him; heart in his throat, stomach tumbling around. He wasn’t sure how he expected this to go, but somehow, not like this.
Byleth takes a deep breath and steadies herself. “Claude, if I’ve misread the situation, please stop me.”
She moves her free hand to his thigh and uses the leverage to hoist herself up. Claude completely freezes. Byleth stops just short of connecting their lips in response, starting to pull back — but he manages to pull himself together enough to save it at the last second, closing the distance between them.
It feels like coming home.
He pulls her in, pushing his hand behind her braid and tangling it at the base of her scalp as their lips glide across each other. She’s moved her hand from his thigh to his waist, holding herself in place. Their hands are still locked together, and there’s no better way to describe it than euphoria. The applause at the end of the play.
When they finally pull apart, Byleth pushes their foreheads together. “I didn’t misread, then.”
Claude laughs, breathless, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “No, my… Byleth. You didn’t.” He moves again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But don’t think this will get you out of resting.”
“Worth a shot.”
She’s started to tremble, so Claude helps her lay back down. He tucks her in with the thin blanket and moves to settle back into the chair.
“You could just get in the cot with me,” Byleth suggests.
“And what would our men say when they find me laying in your sickbed in the morning?”
“Nothing, because they’re already convinced we’re fucking.”
Claude gestures to acknowledge the point, and compromises by dragging the chair closer. “There’s not enough room for two. Once Marianne gives you a clean bill of health, we’ll talk.”
Byleth closes her eyes, humming softly. “Always did wonder why you needed that giant bed.”
“Half of it’s been waiting for you,” he replies, blowing out their candlelight and dropping his head next to hers on the pillow.
A comfortable silence overtakes them, save for the lullaby of the crickets. He’s almost asleep himself before —
“Claude?”
“Yes, Byleth?”
“Did you do my hair?”
He rolls his head to try to see her better. In the dark, he can barely make out her holding the braid into her eyeline, thumbing across the pom pom. “Ah, yeah, it’s from my belt. Sorry, I —”
“I like it. Thank you, Claude.”
“Anytime, Byleth. Just say the word.”
She elbows up to press a kiss to the top of his head and just as quickly settles back down on the cot, asleep.
There’s a lot they have to navigate, Claude knows — the Almyran-shaped elephant in the room being the main offender — but as he watches Byleth address their troops the next morning, pom pom still hooked to the end of a very messy braid, he feels confident everything’s going to be fine.