Chapter Text
“You need to work on your fishing skills,” Byleth had told him early that morning as she watched his near-empty basket at the dock. Only a single, puny fish gasped for air inside. “You’ll catch nothing with that hook.”
He had laughed, then, hours ago. But still, she gave him the hook she had made with her father’s help, the last one Captain Jeralt had gifted her, and said, “Take it. You need a good luck charm today. That hook always catches something.”
Now, the fishing hook rattled in his pocket, clanging against his thigh, and he hoped it would protect them all.
The battle at Rhodos Coast was chaotic and brutal. Seteth hated it. Not that he ever much liked the battlefield.
He didn’t want Flayn here, either, yet she still insisted on coming. With Byleth here, he felt she was safe. Or, safer. As safe as one could be, at least, in bloody combat.
The Western Church was not an easy opponent, and their dirty tactics of using the sea mist as cover and hiding their wyverns in the tide dealt them a heavy blow.
The truth was, Seteth brought them into this situation—brought the people he cared about into this situation—knowing that they’d have a disadvantage. And it was selfish of him to feel some semblance of comfort knowing that they were there fighting alongside him as he and Flayn secretly came here to also protect the grave of his wife and Flayn’s mother.
Naturally, the battle had dissolved into fragments of noise and confusion. He was familiar with the cadence of it. He had lived it, breathed it, for over a millennium now.
Steel rang against steel. Waves crashed against jagged rocks. Orders were shouted, swallowed by wind and mist before they could travel far.
Seteth cut down another traitorous soldier and immediately searched the battlefield.
This was a habit.
No.
Not a habit then. An instinct.
Flayn.
Where is she?
He found her quickly, protected by a handful of students as she supported the wounded, her hands glowing with white light. Relief loosened something in his chest.
Then, almost without thinking, he looked for Byleth.
Pain throbbed in his chest as he searched for her for what felt like hours and did not see her in the throng. But then—
There.
She was too far ahead.
Seteth's expression darkened.
The professor was pushing toward the enemy commander alone, carving a path through soldiers with relentless precision. Wherever the line threatened to break, Byleth appeared. Wherever someone was cornered, Byleth intervened.
As if her own life held no value at all.
She was fighting too hard, too fiercely, for a battle such as this one. The Western Church was an enemy, yes, but in the grand scheme of things, Byleth should not have to sacrifice herself for it.
So why…?
A familiar irritation flared in him.
She was being far too reckless.
Every battle had become the same since he met her. Byleth shouldered burdens that belonged to everyone else, accepted wounds that should have been shared, and marched forward as if exhaustion were merely an inconvenience.
And yet, the irritation never lasted because Seteth had also begun to notice the cost upon her.
In the quiet moments when Byleth thought nobody was watching, when they shared notes on classes they both needed to teach, when she asked him questions on subjects she wanted to understand better for her students—it was the lingering fatigue. Sometimes, he spotted a slight twinge of her nose when she lifted her hand to her temple as if suffering through a headache.
The way her hand occasionally drifted toward their chest after invoking that strange power of hers, the one from the Goddess that allowed her to know when something woul.
Whatever dwelled within her, whatever divine miracle allowed her to turn the tide of battle, it was not limitless.
Byleth simply behaved as though it were.
Suddenly, the sky erupted.
A hidden wyvern rider burst from the fog overhead.
"Professor!"
The warning came from one of the students. He did not know who. But by then, it was too late.
The rider's bow snapped upward…and the arrow flew. He saw the arc, the curve, the mighty reach. He knew without a doubt that his eyes did not deceive him.
After all, he had spent over a millennium on battlefields.
Its target was not Byleth.
It was Flayn.
Flayn, the most experienced healer on their side. Flayn, whose death would mean sure losses with such an important healer gone. Flayn, his only daughter.
“Flayn!” bellowed Seteth. He rushed forward, tugging on his wyvern’s reins, its wings flapping with frantic chase.
Flayn looked up. Her eyes widened.
There was no time.
No time.
No—
Green light exploded across the battlefield, and a sound like shattering glass broke the eerie silence that had descended on them the moment the arrow had launched. That silence before one’s impending doom.
The world lurched. For an impossible instant, everything seemed to stop.
And then, Byleth vanished from the front line. She appeared beside Flayn.
The arrow struck.
Seteth pulled on the reins once more, a horrifying feeling rising into his stomach and then clawing his throat until bile threatened to spill from his lips.
It was such a sickening sound.
Byleth staggered, face drained of all color. The shaft buried itself deep beneath her shoulder, right into the crevice where there was a break in her gambeson.
Gasps erupted from the students. Flayn’s face went snow white.
Byleth did not fall. Because of course she didn't. Instead, she ripped the arrow free, blood splattering across the beach’s sand, and immediately turned back toward the enemy.
As if nothing had happened. As if that wound were irrelevant. This foolish woman. Seteth felt anger surge through him.
But before he could move—
The green light appeared again.
And again.
And again.
Too many times.
Byleth tore through the battlefield with impossible speed, bending that divine power beyond anything Seteth had witnessed before.
Until finally—
The enemy commander fell. The remaining Western Church forces broke.
Truly, victory should have followed.
Instead, Byleth took one step. Then another, and another. And collapsed into a bloody heap.
The moment her body struck the ground, something inside Seteth shattered.
He found himself landing without knowing that he had made the move to do so. His feet caught the ground, sand flying in the air as he sprinted—sprinted through the wet and bloodied sand with a feeling far older than himself.
A feeling that scared him.
The battlefield vanished. For a terrible instant, he was somewhere else. On a different field, a different war, a different fight. Rivers of crimson broke the earth, rivulets like trails of rain redder than fate’s threads. Fire burned through the hills, tearing down structures until everything was merely ash. And his home in ruins.
The unbearable certainty of arriving too late.
The memory struck with such force that he could barely breathe.
No, he thought.
No.
Not again.
Before he realized he had fallen to his knees, he had already.
Students scattered aside.
Flayn was kneeling beside Byleth, hands glowing frantically with healing magic.
"Professor—Professor, please—"
Seteth dropped beside them, reached for Byleth’s still hand. Her skin was ice cold. Blood soaked through her cloak. Up close, he could see the bags under her eyes, dark circles that were like bruises.
She had only lost her father just over a month ago. Was she shouldering this burden by herself? Was that why she had been so reckless?
A horrifying pressure crushed his chest. The sort of terror that cared nothing for reason. He had felt it before, long ago, when nearly everything precious had been torn from him.
His hand seized Byleth's shoulder.
"Byleth." Her name was drawn from him, a desperate thread. He had never called her by name before. But now, when things were so bleak, all he could do was cherish the sound of it.
His voice came out sharper.
"Byleth."
Nothing.
Around them, victory celebrations had ceased entirely. Everyone was watching.
Seteth scarcely noticed.
The professor's pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingers. Too weak.
His stomach twisted.
An impossible thought crossed his mind. The thought was irrational. Absurd. Yet it struck him with the force of a blade from an opponent he was no match for.
If she died—
The realization hit before he could stop it. He’d lose all of this. How Byleth listened, truly listened. Her quiet tendency to simply know what was wrong with someone, to eke out their emotions through sheer observation. He’d lose those times together after they were done with work in the dining hall, sharing a meal.
If she died—
Byleth’s eyelashes fluttered. A faint breath escaped her.
Alive, he thought. Alive.
The crushing pressure loosened just enough for Seteth to draw air into his lungs. Beside him, Flayn began to cry openly with relief.
“Why did you have to save me like that, Professor?” Flayn sobbed. “You were hurt so badly…”
Byleth smiled weakly, trying to sit up. “I couldn’t let you die.”
Seteth grabbed onto Byleth’s hand, unsure why this strange frustration had now flared inside him. “Then couldn’t you at least think about yourself? You were reckless today. Far more than usual. Why?”
She looked at him, her dark eyelashes fluttering over the violet of her eyes. The look she gave him was indecipherable, as most of her emotions seemed to be, but this time, something shifted. And he wasn’t sure what.
“Because I know this place is important to you,” she said.
He blinked. “But—”
“I can tell.”
⊰══════════⊱
He brought Byleth and Flayn with him to the beach where his wife’s grave lay.
“This is the grave of our…our mother,” Seteth lied. “Flayn’s mother. My…”
He didn’t want to lie to her. Yet, he did anyway. The truth of everything sat like a hand around his throat, choking away the words.
Byleth’s face was just regaining color, her injuries only just patched up. Flayn’s healing had done wonders, but a day of bed rest would be good for her. He wished, in part, that he had never brought her here. And yet, he knew that he would regret it if he did not.
“Our family,” Flayn finished for him, eyeing him from the corner of her eyes. He felt his daughter’s knowing gaze settle on him. After all, it was a burden so few had to face…the burden of near-immortality. Changing who they were every few decades was tiring, but at least in this, they had each other.
For a long while, none of them spoke.
The sea stretched before them, gray and endless beneath the evening sky. The tide had begun to retreat, drawing ribbons of foam back across the sand. The battle felt impossibly distant here. The shouting, the blood, the fear—all of it belonged to another world.
Flayn knelt first.
She carefully placed a handful of white seaside daisies at the base of the stone marker. Her fingers lingered there, brushing over the faded etching of his wife’s name.
"We protected it," she said softly.
Seteth looked away, watching instead the waves tease the bluff below.
Protected it. As though the woman beneath the grave could ever be harmed again.
His wife had been gone for centuries. The stone itself had weathered storms and wars. Entire kingdoms had risen and vanished since he had last heard her voice. Her face now was a distant memory, a smudge blurred by time that had dimmed his recollection of her. Her dark green hair, longer than her waist, emerald eyes, and the narrow slope of her nose. She was tall, he remembered that, and elegant too. But he could scarcely remember the rest of her.
And yet he still came here.
Beside him, Byleth stood in respectful silence. She had not asked questions.
Most people could not endure silence. They rushed to fill it. Byleth never seemed bothered by it. She simply stood beside them, watching the sea.
The sight tugged unexpectedly at his chest.
His wife had been like that. His wife and Byleth weren’t identical. Never exactly the same. Yet there had been moments. Small moments. The way Byleth listened more than spoke, the way she noticed things others overlooked, the patience she showed with frightened students, the quiet certainty she carried even when she doubted herself.
These were fragments, pieces, echoes.
Seteth hated himself for noticing them.
He stared at the grave.
"You always did enjoy the ocean," he murmured.
Flayn smiled faintly.
"Mother used to say she wanted to look at the ocean all day.”
"She did."
The memory surfaced before he could stop it. It was an old memory. But he could see now the shade of his wife laughing as waves chased her feet. Feel the warmth of her hand in his. Her smile.
A life that had once felt eternal.
His throat constricted.
When he spoke again, his voice had grown quieter. "There are days when I still expect to hear her."
Flayn lowered her gaze.
Seteth continued staring at the stone. "It is foolish," he said.
"It is not," Flayn whispered.
Yet the shame remained.
Because lately, when his thoughts wandered toward happiness—toward companionship—they no longer stopped at memories. They found their way elsewhere.
And now that he had almost lost that happiness—
Byleth finally spoke. "I think she must have been remarkable," she said. Her voice was quiet, contemplative. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon line. “To be remembered this long.”
Pain twisted inside him. A small smile touched his lips. "She was remarkable."
Byleth nodded.
Seteth looked away before she could notice the conflict in his expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was composed once more. "We should return to Garreg Mach before nightfall."
Flayn rose reluctantly, but Byleth stopped her by placing a gentle hand on her back. “Then let me give you two some time first.” She glanced over her shoulder, and that served as the signal Dedue needed to come to her aid.
He watched Byleth leave, her arm reaching around Dedue, who acted as her steady barrier, a cautious shield.
He and Flayn were alone now, at least for a few moments. The sea breeze coiled through the strands of their hair.
“She makes you smile, Father,” whispered Flayn. She placed her hand atop the grave marker.
He schooled his face into something more neutral. “You’re seeing things.”
She hummed a familiar tune, perhaps an ancient lullaby. He recognized it, somehow. It was a tune his wife had sung when Flayn was a child and had trouble sleeping, when what was left of their people was on the brink of destruction.
I’m sorry, he thought as he knelt before his wife’s grave.
He didn’t know what he was apologizing for.
A millennium of wisdom, and still, he could not untangle his own heart.