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Dimitri stood spellbound at the threshold to his bedroom, hardly daring to breathe so as not to alert the woman within. The moonlight cast a shimmering glow on Byleth’s pale hair as she waited for him on the edge of his bed. Her back was to him, and, as always, she held herself with precise, straight-backed posture, revealing nothing about her state of mind. It was impossible to know if she was nervous, or happy, or if she truly felt nothing, as her reputation suggested.
He hadn’t actually anticipated her being here, which he now realized was an utterly stupid assumption to make. It was their wedding night, after all. Of course she would expect to share his bed.
He knocked on the doorframe to announce himself. She stayed still and silent, only turning her head enough to glance at him over her shoulder. He’d noticed over their brief acquaintance that she never wasted a movement, never used words when a gesture would suffice. A moment later, her gaze fell back to her lap, where she fiddled with something on her robe.
He rounded the bed, anchoring his turn with a hand on the frame of his sturdy four-poster. The king’s bed was massive even by the nobility’s standards, the posts as thick and solid as oak trees. “To withstand the ownership of a Blaiddyd,” the housekeeper had once told him with a chuckle. A sick feeling settled in his gut now that he finally grasped the full meaning of those words.
As he came face to face with her, she finished untying her thin robe and threw it open as if to present herself to him, though she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Saints, he still didn’t understand how a woman this beautiful could even exist, let alone be willing to marry him. She’d clearly dressed for her wedding night, heavy breasts barely contained by white lace, and her underwear— if such a small scrap of translucent fabric could even be called thus— leaving nothing to his imagination. Garters held up patterned stockings that dug into her ample thighs, a white version of the black tights she often wore, though the effect was hardly innocent.
He reacted, naturally, like an idiot.
“Goddess, I— Byleth! What are you wearing?” he cried, slapping a hand over his eyes.
“This is what they told me to wear,” she answered in her always flat tone.
Hopefully they were Duke Ifan or some of the ladies of the Blue Lions, not Sylvain or Claude seeking to humiliate him.
When he peeked out from behind his fingers, she had covered herself, crossing her arms over her chest and holding the sides of the robe closed tight all the way up to her neck. She looked almost… self-conscious.
Well, of course she was. He’d just shouted at her while she was mostly naked and vulnerable before him. A boar, through and through.
He sighed, trying to soften his harsh tone. “Please forgive my outburst. I didn’t mean to imply that you looked unattractive. Quite the opposite, really. It’s just, well… we scarcely know each other.”
“We’re married,” she said, and he couldn’t exactly fault her logic.
“Still,” he said, scrambling for words, “there’s no need to rush into… that.”
Her brow furrowed ever so slightly in confusion. “Don’t you want heirs?”
Someone had probably told her that bearing Dimitri crested heirs was her role in this marriage. As much as he didn’t care for Sylvain’s self-destructive ways of coping, his friend did have a point about the nobility’s obsession with crest babies, as he called them.
Dimitri had hoped to foster a peace long enough to let Faerghus’ many relics rust, so the need for crests would fade on its own. And now look at him, entering into the very kind of loveless, crest-driven marriage he’d sought to eliminate. His weakness, his impotence, had allowed Edelgard to take an axe to his naive hopes for peace.
[You dare mourn your pathetic reforms while we suffer unavenged?]
Pain pulsed in his temples. Oh, goddess, not tonight, please.
He forced a smile, hoping it was passable enough to fool Byleth. “My goal is to build a new system of governance that does not rely so heavily on such things. I do want children, in due time, of course. But I do not wish their mother to be a stranger.”
He didn’t say that he also needed that hypothetical mother to fight his war for him. Otherwise, there would be no throne or subjects for their children to inherit.
“I see.” If she was insulted, or relieved, he couldn’t tell. “Should I leave?”
It wasn’t unheard of for spouses to keep separate rooms, but if they slept apart tonight, gossip would surely spread throughout the castle. Not that Dimitri cared about the opinions of such backward-minded fools, but Byleth would probably bear the blame for any perceived failures in the bedroom.
And that was unacceptable. Conflicted as he was, he had sworn an oath today to protect Byleth. And he would, whether it was from the dark spells of those rats that had killed his father, or the barbed words of his own court.
“No, please stay,” he said, trying his hardest to speak gently. It was probably a wasted effort; he’d seen her cut down a battalion of soldiers single-handedly. Yet she still seemed so small and fragile off the battlefield, and he'd never done well with delicate things. “It will be good for us to become accustomed to spending time together, at least.”
He fetched a spare nightshirt from his dresser and held it out to her. Still holding her robe closed, she shuffled to the washroom to change. As soon as the door clicked behind her, Dimitri deflated with a heavy sigh.
They’d gotten married today. It hardly seemed real. As silly as it sounded, during the entire process of negotiations and planning the wedding, he’d never once stopped to consider the reality of having a wife. Yesterday, Byleth was just a conveniently placed mercenary whom he’d met a handful of times. And now he was supposed to share his life with her. Make her happy, ideally. Was he capable of such a thing?
When his advisors had told him Lady Rhea had found a promising marriage prospect fighting alongside the mercenaries for the Federation, he had no illusions that their relationship might blossom into love. The whole affair was treated like a legal contract, as impersonal as trading some of their lumber for grain from Gloucester.
Between his duty to the dead and his own monstrous nature, he knew he had no future to offer anyone, let alone love. So he had contented himself with a marriage that would benefit his people and strengthen the Kingdom.
“We should seriously consider this offer, Your Majesty,” Rodrigue had urged. “Not only would this put the most powerful weapon in the world on our side, but a marriage handpicked by the Archbishop… It could mollify many of the more devout common folk that think you are not wholly committed to the church after allying with the Federation.”
Shez, of course, had other ideas.
“Are you insane? This is the Ashen Demon we’re talking about! You know what she’s capable of!”
Dimitri nodded. “I do.”
What she was capable of— wielding the world’s strongest relic and publicly reaffirming their commitment to the church— was rather the point.
Shez was practically trembling with rage. “If you do this, I… I don’t know if I can continue as your commander.”
“That would sadden me greatly, but my first priority must always be the people of Faerghus,” Dimitri said. They weren’t losing the war, exactly, but it was taking a huge toll on the Kingdom’s land and people. If it went on much longer, there wouldn’t be anything left to defend but a line on a map. And if they managed to defeat the Empire, the tenuous truce with Leicester would crumble shortly afterwards; Claude had practically said it right to his face. The sword of the creator would go a long way in discouraging the Federation from attacking its weakened ally. “My life is not my own.”
Shez scoffed. “Where I have I heard that before, dismal Dimitri? The people of Faerghus don't want your life to be miserable. You do.”
Shez stormed out without a word. She hadn’t left his service outright, but she had been cold to him ever since. Another connection severed by his duty.
“Your Majesty,” Rodrigue said, clearing his throat awkwardly, hovering by the door. “She's right. We can say no. There will be other ways of appeasing the church.”
“And I suppose other relics lost to time will become available, too? No, refusal is out of the question." He beckoned Rodrigue back, his hands steepled on the desk. “There’s one thing bothering me, though. It seems almost too good to be true. What does Lady Rhea get out of this?”
“The archbishop believes that when Thales and his ilk find out about Miss Eisner’s crest, they will stop at nothing to get their hands on her.” Dimitri’s head throbbed at the mention of his enemies, trying to focus despite the wrathful howls of the dead. “From what I’ve heard, Lady Rhea cherishes Miss Eisner like a daughter. I think she simply wants your assurance that you will protect her as your queen.”
“Well, that goes without saying, of course. It’s just so odd. If she has a rare major crest and the devotion of the archbishop, why was she out taking two-bit mercenary jobs in the backwaters of Leicester? I just hope I’m not inviting a spy into my home.”
Rodrigue shrugged. “If she reports back to the church, we have nothing to hide. If she reports back to Riegan, well. She’d be one of many doing so. Half his generals are mingling among our forces.”
Dimitri would later learn that it was highly unlikely his bride would spy for the church. The first time she’d ever so much as stepped foot into a chapel was when Lady Rhea whisked her off the battlefield to Camulus.
The priestess performing the marriage ceremony was visibly annoyed at having to educate the future queen in the traditional prayers required. Byleth hadn’t even known her own father had been captain of the Knights of Seiros once upon a time.
That ignorance, combined with a crest which was thought to be lost to time, and her ability to wield the sword of the creator without its crest stone… It was obvious there was more to Rhea’s motives than she had disclosed. What’s more, he suspected she was keeping the truth from Byleth herself, as well.
The rattling of the doorknob pulled him out of his thoughts. Byleth came out of the bathroom with her hair loose, his nightshirt practically an oversized cloak on her. He couldn’t help but smile. As tempting as she had been in lingerie, he found he preferred her like this.
Together, they stared at the bed as if it were a complicated reason formula.
“Do you have a side of the bed you prefer?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Really, I’m not picky, so you wouldn’t be intruding—”
“I’ve never had a bed.”
He cringed at his thoughtlessness. She was a mercenary. On the rare occasions she had the luxury of sleeping at an inn, the bed was probably barely wide enough for one occupant. She’d even opted to stay in her father’s camp with her mercenary company right up to the day of the wedding.
“Right. Er, I guess… sleep wherever you like tonight, and if you’d like to switch, just let me know.”
She huffed, and then a mirthless laugh bubbled up out of her. There was a manic edge to it he was familiar with, like the reality before her was some kind of twisted joke.
He could hardly blame her. In the span of a few weeks, she’d gone from sleeping on a worn bedroll under the stars of Leicester to having the king of Faerghus fuss over which side of his room-sized bed she preferred. From mercenary to queen. Had anyone even bothered to ask how she was feeling during this entire process? He certainly hadn’t.
The uncanny sound cut off as abruptly as it began, her face reverting to its unreadable blankness. “I’ll take the side closest to the door,” she said, and slid under the furs without another word.
Puzzled, yet strangely relieved to see a bit of emotion hiding under her placid facade, Dimitri shrugged and climbed in after her. Before he could turn his back to her, she surprised him by shimmying backwards until she was nestled against his chest, close enough to smell the fragrance of her shampoo— chamomile.
His body froze, arm hovering in the air above her. There was ample space on the bed for them to toss and turn without ever encountering each other, so why… ?
She’s your wife, he reminded himself. Just minutes ago, he’d said himself they should get accustomed to spending time together as spouses.
He willed his muscles to relax and settled his arm over her waist. Self-doubt flooded him immediately. Was that too forward? The absurdity of the question was not lost on him. They were married, yes, and she had laid close to him. Hell, under normal circumstances, he’d be making love to her right now. But that didn’t mean she welcomed his touch.
Studying the back of her head gave no hint of her feelings about his forwardness. Her breathing was so even and steady that it was hard to tell if she was even still awake.
He realized belatedly that he hadn’t considered his chronic insomnia before trapping himself here. Her sleep would be disturbed if he got up and lit a candle to review letters, as he usually did until the small hours of the morning. He’d doomed himself to a night of awkward—
“Thank you,” she said, apparently still awake after all.
Stunned, he blurted out, “Whatever for?”
“The other mercenaries warned me against marrying a nobleman. They said I’d be no more than a dairy cow in your eyes. But we didn’t even…”
There was a long enough pause to infer that she didn’t intend to finish the uncomfortable sentence. Still, it was more words than she had spoken to him in the past few weeks combined, so he was determined to answer her with care.
“Though I cannot deny that such noblemen still exist, I hardly deserve praise for basic human decency. I will never see you that way, Byleth,” he said, her name unfamiliar on his tongue. If he were an honest man, he’d admit that he actually saw her more as a weapon. Something bothered him, though. “Why did you agree to the marriage if you thought that’s how you would be treated?”
Her much smaller hand ghosted tentatively over his where it lay flat against her stomach. “People call me the Ashen Demon, you know.” He did know that, of course. It was the only name he knew her by until Lady Rhea came to him with the proposal. Byleth shrugged one shoulder. “Better a cow than a monster.”
That was surprisingly close to his own reasons for marrying. He was naught but a husk, a trail of death and destruction his only possible legacy. This arrangement allowed him to channel his strength into preservation, not annihilation, even if saved only a single life. They might have more in common than he realized.
He waited until his eyes grew heavy, but she did not speak again. Her body was soft and warm against him, and, perhaps it was the scent of chamomile, but he was surprised to find that his insomnia granted him a reprieve that night.