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minttoy · 3 years

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this love we share (Ch 2)

CHAPTER TWO

Summary:

She loves him and he loves her back. On the surface, it seems easy, but she knows in some dark crevice of her mind, that even though love is selfish – escaping to these mountains was selfish – it is also good.

Her source of strength. The root of his humanity.

Time will come when it will teach her to grow, too.

[Eren and Mikasa through the four years. Alternate reality from Chapter 138.]

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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Eren has less than four years left to live.

It is something she has always known. The unspoken truth that follows them. Mikasa still does not know how to cope with the thought of him leaving. Every time, she is ravaged with body aches and head pains. There are days she has the cabin to herself and she’s hit with a startling clarity that she must get used to this silence. A life without him, with only memories to spare.

Desperation grips her, and she wants to tear down the calendar on their wall, or plead to the goddess to save him. She feels it like a wound bleeding. A fear she has no courage to face. A battle she’s already lost. For all the pain she’s endured in her life, this one is still unlike any other.

Mikasa begins to wonder if she shouldn’t have furnished their cabin with so many personals. Jars filled with sand and seashells they collected from the beach sitting on top of the fireplace. Flowers and leaves they’ve pressed onto parchment and framed on the wall. Baskets woven by hand occupying the corner of the room.

All of these precious mementos soon to become aching reminders.

She shakes her head, tries to shake off the sore notion, but her heart unravels with every break and every snap. There are days she feels restless and it takes everything in her not to burst and spill hot tears.

Eventually, she preserves this cabin like a keepsake and takes nothing down.

The door unlocks and interrupts her train of thought.

“I’m back!” Eren calls out as he enters their cabin and stows his shoes away.

He makes it five steps into the house and then she’s on him, arms snaked around his middle and face buried in his shoulder. The distraction is enough. He floods her senses and she seizes him like an escape, embraces this like waking from a nightmare. He is dirty and muddied after his fishing trip, but she cannot find it in herself to care.

“You’re clingy today,” he murmurs in her hair.

She only hugs him tighter. “I just missed you.”

Eren chuckles, and she feels the reverberations in his chest. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Mikasa lets him go and reaches up to wipe dirt off his cheek. For the rest of the night, she hovers. She cannot help herself – it is her nature and love language. He stopped brushing her off a long time ago anyway.

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She bakes a small cake for his birthday: a vanilla-flavoured concoction topped with fruit and light icing. The recipe was given to her from the wives at the market, some of whom claimed to have been watching her for a while now. They gushed at young love, and giggled when her cheeks flushed pink. She shrunk and brushed off their comments, not wanting to remind herself the truth of it all. Mikasa swears she never scurried out of the market faster.

Later, she stares at the finished cake with more apprehension than pride. All she can think is that he has three more birthdays left, three more years, three more cakes and suddenly she’s half-tempted to throw it into the trash. It will do more harm than good.

She steels herself against it, and reluctantly presents it to him when they sit for dinner.

He turns to her with a surprised gaze and she carefully gages his reaction, almost waiting for him to harden and arrive to the same realization.

It never comes, but she grows anxious anyway.

“I made it for your birthday,” she starts, because he’s not saying anything. “I’ve never baked a cake before, which is why it’s so tiny. It’s nothing fancy either, and it probably doesn’t even taste sweet.”

She doesn’t mean to minimize her efforts, but the words pour out of her mouth before she can stop them. Meanwhile Eren stares, listening to her preamble and probably picking up the nervous cues behind them.

She swallows hard and continues, “We don’t have to make a big deal out of this. I just wanted to do something special for today, but instead all I could think about was–” Suddenly she feels like crying, and she has to blink the sting out of her eyes.

There is a deafening silence. For some reason, it always comes down to this.

From the corner of her eye, she catches him slicing the cake with a fork and taking a sizeable bite. He contemplates for a short moment.

“It’s delicious,” he finally says, gazing at her with tenderness. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

He cuts another piece and holds it out for her to taste. She accepts it, and savours the soft texture and taste of vanilla bean on her tongue. She’s right: it’s hardly sweet, but she thinks she prefers it that way. With a finger, she wipes the crumbs off her lip and notices him staring.

“Do you like it then?”

He nods easily. “I do.”

With a breath of relief, they trade bites one after another until the plate is cleaned.

Afterwards, when they’re in the middle of cleaning up, she feels the warmth of his body behind her, his arms looped across her chest and his lips pressed against her temple. She relaxes into him and when one of his hands trails down to her abdomen, she wastes no more time.

She turns around and catches his lips in a bruising kiss. She can taste remnants of icing and sugar on his tongue, and asserts her desire by pulling him closer, hands roving everywhere and slipping under his shirt. All her pent-up frustration from the day disappears like smoke, and gives way to a different kind of desperation.

He welcomes her boldness and tries to keep up, dragging her cardigan from her shoulders and peppering breathy kisses along her jaw. Not one to forfeit her dominance, she palms his length, stiff and hard against her thigh. He grunts in response, and finds her lips again.

Mikasa gasps when he hoists her up with one arm, and her legs instinctively wrap around his waist. As he walks them over to their bedroom, she concedes that the rest of her chores will have to wait until morning.

They know this dance by now. They’ve woken to several mornings twisted in bedsheets and limbs tangled. Many nights he encourages her to take control, experiment and satiate her curiosities. Meanwhile, she tries to convince him she’s not made of glass.

Tonight he doesn’t hold back.

Her back hits the mattress, and she watches as he tests her entrance. She is wet enough, and his fingers slip inside her so easily that her back automatically arches to meet him. He pumps at a steady pace, and draws out the sweetest whimpers from her mouth. Even as she urges him, he doesn’t let her finish.

She aches with unfulfillment, and before she can gripe about it, he hooks his arms under her knees, pulls her legs forward and starts to fuck into her hard and desperate. Mikasa cries out, mouth wide and loud with feverish groans. The rhythm he sets barely allows her to keep up, even as her body tries to arch and move with his thrusts. Soon she gives up altogether, taking whatever pleasure she can find, soaring into delirium and moans turning into strained gasps when he repeatedly hits that spot that makes her jerk and writhe underneath him.

When she reaches her peak, she throws one arm over her face and the sounds of her voice come out like sobs. It is enough for him to follow and find his own release. They lie together in the aftermath and haze, her hands stroking his hair and his face buried between her neck and collarbone.

Later that night, she is lying next to him, head resting on his bare chest and hand over his heart. His breathing is soft and calm, but she knows he’s not sleeping.

She pats his chest lightly, “Eren?”

He grumbles out a sound, indicating he’d heard her.

She feels awful bringing it up now, but it’s plagued her mind the whole day and she knows she won’t find rest until it comes out.

“How come you… I mean, why is it that you don’t…” she bites her lip, struggles to say it even now. He strokes her back, encouraging her to go on. “Do you not grieve? About our future, I mean.”

His gaze stays on the ceiling. “Grieve?”

She sighs. “Sometimes I think I worry enough for the both of us, but maybe you just do it when I’m not looking.”

“What brought this on?” he asks.

“Your birthday,” she pipes up, a frown marring her features. “It’s not fair. Everything has already been taken from me, and even now, I am still losing. I feel it every time I think about you leaving, or the years we have left.”

Eren brushes the bangs out of her eyes. He thinks of apologizing for his numbered days, for leaving too soon, for causing her pain, but knows it will change nothing.

She buries her face in his shoulder. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says. “And I do grieve. More often than not, actually.”

She takes it back, because of course he does. She can’t even recall what made her think otherwise. Even now, there are parts of him that are still subdued. Perhaps it’s for the better.

There’s a question at the tip of her tongue, and she hesitates to ask, “How do you cope with it?”

Silence befalls them once again.

She’s about to waive the inquiry – in hindsight, it’s a loaded question to ask a dying man – but she feels his chest rumble underneath her. Not the wracked and thrashing sort of tremble that accompanies grief or sorrow. It’s light, and effortless. Mikasa anxiously peers up at him.

He’s laughing, of all things.

“Sorry…” he says, clearing his throat. “You caught me off guard.”

Mikasa shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I cope because of you,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

He exhales a slow breath. She feels it underneath, and matches her own breathing to his.

“If I really wanted, I could spend the rest of my life fretting and worrying about what’s to come, but….” His gaze is heavy, filled with something intense, significant and purposeful. It spreads to her too, and the feeling becomes tangled in her heart, forms a lump in her throat. There’s not a word for it. He lets out another breath, and the corner of his lips tug to a smile. “…I’d rather spend it with you. Mikasa, wasn’t it you who gave me that choice?”

The words flow off his tongue easier than anything that’s been said, and the stark realization of it leaves her breathless.

Her face crumples, as if something within her bursts and breaks. For once, it is not the same and familiar body ache that’s ravaged her like a sickness. It is something different entirely. All her life she wished for this: a caring pair of arms to ease her through life and all of its cruelties; someone to shelter her from reality.

She thinks of his younger self, for some reason. Rude, reckless and highly temperamental. And yet, he’s also the same person lying underneath her now. He’s grown and changed so much, and yet she loves him the same.

Mikasa makes up her mind then, to make the same choice. She shifts in bed until she’s hovering over him, foreheads pressed together. She leans forward, presses a light kiss against his mouth until he’s returning it, pulling her down and deepening it.

I choose you too.

Right now, nothing can break this peace.

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It sounds strange, but Mikasa has to learn how to live in the present. How to live for now, and not worry about what happens a week from today, or months down the road, or the year ahead. The learning curve is steep, but there are many reasons for it:

She is no longer in the military, and is free to reshuffle her priorities that don’t push timelines or goals.

Eren is not the same impulsive boy he once was. He will not charge towards danger with reckless abandon, and he is within her reach every day.

Mikasa is happier this way. It allows her to forget, even momentarily, and minimizes the breaks that threaten to consume her whole.

Time slips away from her, and she lets it.

Days are spent gardening, fishing, and building a life she never knew she wanted. Nights are spent in his arms, either quiet for comfort or loud with passion. The relationship they share is nothing like the one she dreamt in her youth, but it’s better in all the right ways. Eren is actually the quieter one between the two of them, and she never has to clamour for his attention. In return, she takes care of him and tells him she loves him without needing to.

This love is real, she thinks. Much like the love of their parents, and she is grateful for their example.

But the grief still lingers every now and then.

It sneaks up on her in the most blissful moments, and comes in the form of small, nagging reminders that this will not last forever. It always catches her off guard, and she has to ground herself against them.

It catches up to him too. There are times he clings onto her, or distracts himself with work, chopping more wood than they need until nightfall. On the hardest of days, he holds her steadfast and tight, or makes love to her like it’s the last time.

She knows his desperation like it’s her own.

In these moments, she wishes time would wait.

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But it doesn’t, of course. Time has no agency and pays no heed to her cause.

This blissful life comes to a screeching halt when a storm festers in the sky and a downpour of relentless rain hits the mountainside and reaches their cabin.

Mikasa has to cut her hunting trip short when it starts to pour. As she runs home, the deluge of water quickly turns the dirt into mud, and every step she takes threatens to suck her boots under and cause an accident. The sweltering summer heat combined with the downpour makes her struggle for breath, as if she is drowning in this rain.

She is soaked from top to bottom when she finally makes it home. When she sees him, Eren is inspecting the leaks in the roof of their house. He’s laid out buckets all over the floor to catch the droplets of rain that have seeped through, and he is so caught up in the task that he barely notices her.

As she collects herself, she realizes with shocking alarm that part of their floors are flooded, their furniture is in disarray, and all the crops they have carefully tended and grown cannot survive if this goes on. The tampered state of their home strikes like an awful robbery and still, this indifferent rain and storm continues to hammer and beat down on them.

It draws forth memories of that fateful day. Yes, that gruesome time she’d been forced to watch her own parents struck down in front of her, pale and bleeding, and how in that instant, her world collapsed and crumbled under her feet. She thought of how nothing could hurt more.

Right now, it feels as though it is still happening. As if she never left that godforsaken cabin.

Mikasa doesn’t even notice Eren in front of her until he touches her shoulder. His face is resolute, as if he has a plan. He’s being pragmatic, but somehow it’s not helping.

“Go find shelter outside, and stay away from the rain. I’m going to reinforce the rafters, and it could take a while.”

When realization dawns on her, she grabs his wrist before he can make it out the door.

“No!” she screams, because this is quickly turning into an awful nightmare.

He turns around and gazes with confusion.

She doesn’t know how to explain to him that she doesn’t want to see his titan again. She doesn’t want him to use it. They shouldn’t have to resort to that ever again. The mere thought of Eren biting into his hand, blood spilling and becoming that humanoid beast is something she can no longer stomach, because it is the very reason his life hangs in the balance.

“We can fix this ourselves,” she pleads.

His confusion only deepens. “But we’ll get sick in the rain.”

She shakes her head. He tugs his arm away, takes one step forward, but she catches the end of his shirtsleeve. “Eren, please! You don’t need to transform! You shouldn’t have to. It’s in the past now. We’ve moved on from that–”

“Mikasa.”

She stops, because she knows she is unravelling and now his expression hinges on anger. There is a fire kindling in his eyes that aches familiar, something she has not seen in a long while. She cannot recall the last time he’d been stern with her.

He yanks his hand from her grasp, and it sharpens the ache in her heart. As if noticing, he repeats his command, albeit much gentler.

“I’ll be back. Find shelter in the meantime.”

Eventually, she curls up against a sturdy tree with branches long enough to shield her from most of the rainfall. The lightning strike signalling his transformation blends too perfectly with the rain and storm, and it makes her wince. Even now, she still cannot fathom the swirl of emotions coursing her mind and beating at her heart.

Falling back to old habits, she brings the damp red scarf up to her nose. The familiarity of the old and tattered thing has never failed to comfort her in the most trying times.

Hugging her knees tighter, she forces herself to watch his titan. A hard-hitting sight to behold, because she hasn’t seen it in two years. This dull and harrowing realization sinks and cements itself in the spaces of her heart. Time is catching up to her now.

In the distance, he re-aligns the wooden rafters of their roof and secures one of their tarps over the leaks – a temporary fix. She knows he will use his titan again to rebuild it, and a bitter sensation settles in her mouth.

It is still raining when he finishes. By the time he’s cut himself out of his titan and makes it back home, Mikasa has already swept the debris to one side and is halfway through scrubbing their floors. Her efforts come off vain and hopeless, but it is difficult to care about anything besides restoring this place back to its former state.

When he crouches beside her, she quietly asks for space. To his cocked brow, she reassures him she’s not angry with him, because she’s not.

She knows this grief very well. A part of her always knew that it would find her again and take root. No amount of distractions will get it out this time. She is mortified and distraught, but somehow it feels important. Feels necessary.

She cannot find it in herself to say it loud, only knows it deep inside of herself.

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It doesn’t stop raining.

Mikasa falls asleep blocking the low murmurs of thunder, and wakes to the patter of rain against their windows. Her mind goes to the garden every once in a while, wondering if any of their crops could survive this storm. When the rain loosens to a light drizzle, she takes the chance to salvage what is left and gets her answer.

Nothing.

She punches a divot into the ground, knuckles white and shaking.

They are drowned. She only finds mud, wilted leaves and dead roots. Even her plants have suffocated from this storm. She sits back on her knees and feels the rain seeping her through her hair, and soaking through scarf and cardigan. The muddy terrain below her seems to boil and bubble underneath this sweltering heat and humid rain.

The downpour worsens then. She watches the thunderhead spiralling above the mountains, gathering another storm within its grasp. She should retreat to the confines of the cabin, but instead she sinks in this rain.

Fuck.

She mulls over the pain in the heavy fog of her mind, and weeps in the confined spaces. It was inevitable; every break and every snap colliding and bursting and erupting at the seams. There is nothing to wake her from this crumbling resolve. It hits her like open floodgates, a broken dam, or a single spark of wildfire.

I’m going to lose him.

Ackerman blood pumps through her veins, fuels her with the strength of a hundred men, and yet she is powerless to protect those who matter. She curses the stars and the goddess for saddling her with such a tragic and atrocious destiny; tending a love inside her that would grow beyond measure, only so she can watch him fade and wither too soon.

I would have to give this up.

She crouches into the field, head buried in her arms. Her hands grip the dirt beneath her like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing tethering her to this earth. She screams until her lungs give out, throwing her voice into the howling winds and joining the cacophonous sound. Her mind fills with images of life without him – she’s always resisted them – and the inevitability of it all comes down like crashing waves, robbing her of air and space to breathe.

She can almost feel the comfort of his arms starting to leave her. It renders her desperate and gasping for breath. Like a fish dragged out of water, or rain drying up in the sun.

I would have to forfeit all we’ve built and grown.

She exhales with exasperation, and feels her chest heaving.

But this life is paradise. Eren is my–

“Mikasa!”

Home.

She misses the panic in his tone. She misses his voice altogether.

He is all I ever–

A jacket is laid on top of her. Strong arms wrap around her.

Wanted.

She tries to breathe in deeply, and finds the task arduous with the weight on her chest and the lump in her throat. Her hands latch onto him like an anchor in this storm, and she holds on tight. He gently caresses her back in a steady rhythm – consistent and grounded in light of this erratic storm.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Mikasa follows his motions like a musical beat.

Eventually, she finds her breath.

Somehow, her despairing soul is rocked to quiet mending.

What am I to you?

Eren takes her hands and pulls her to her feet. She grasps onto him and follows him home, knowing he will ease her out of darkness again. He is the only one to soothe her aches, quiet the noise and let everything else fade into the background. She loves him completely for it.

You are everything.

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Lucidness returns to her as she dries and changes out of her wet clothes. Her face is red and puffy and there is a heaviness to her gait, but she comes out of the bedroom anyway and joins him in front of the fireplace. For a while, she holds out her hands and gleans warmth from the radiating fire.

“The storm makes me restless,” she breaks silence, eyeing a few wandering embers.

He gives a hum of agreement.

She turns her head to peek at him. “I’m sorry. I promised I’d do my best not to bring this up, but…” She shakes her head, pushing herself to say it in spite of her reluctance. “…I can’t see beyond the next two years. There’s nothing there. No future, no cause... Almost as if time will stop completely. And then I find myself wondering if things would have been different had we chosen to stay behind, but it’s not as though the curse would…” Her voice trails off completely, and she rubs the sting out of her eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to ramble.”

He watches her, expression crinkling a little.

“It would have been the same,” he tells, just above a tired whisper.

Mikasa’s face drops and she swivels to face him, legs still tucked underneath.

“How?”

Eren swallows hard, face twisting in pain and jaw hardening. The same expression that finds him when he dreams in memories, or speaks of destruction.

“It would have been by your hand instead,” he says plainly, but not without reservation. “I’ll lose myself and use the founder’s powers to start a war. Destroy the world according to her will. I push through with it knowing it’s wrong and cruel, but my actions won’t be justified. You’ll stop me because of it.”

Her entire face becomes hot all of a sudden. She just stares at her clenched fists, unsure why he sometimes speaks as though it’s still going to happen, and refusing to comprehend how she could ever –

Eren touches her shoulder, as if reading her mind.

“Mikasa. You do it to save me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ll save humanity because of it, and nobody will live in fear of titans after that.”

She’s shaking her head, eyes closed shut and nails digging into her skin. Even two years past, and she still doesn’t understand. She doubts she will ever understand. To choose between Eren and the fate of the world is too cruel of a decision to even fathom, let alone rest on her shoulders. As if the world hasn’t been unkind to her already.

She breathes with exasperation and looks at him with finality and defiance.

“I don’t want to make that choice,” she says, but then quietly, in the back of her mind, she wonders if she already did.

His expression softens a bit. “Everything changed the night you told me you loved me. It made me feel… human, because I loved you the same.”

She stiffens with the truth, face twisting and crumpling between anger, pain and confusion.

“No one ever made me feel that way. It was mine the whole time,” he continues, taking her clenched fists in his fingers and unwinding them. Her palms hurt, but she finds comfort in his hands folding over hers. She’s trembling like she’s on fire, but the calm and unchanging green of his gaze drowns out her rage.

“Escaping here was something I wanted, a choice I made with my heart. I would do it again and again, unless…”

She stares at him, unsure of the reason his voice breaks.

Eren sighs and dips his head, making certain they are seeing eye to eye.

“Mikasa, do you ever regret this?” he asks for the first time, with obvious difficulty. “I only have two years left. It will never be enough, and even now I still cause you so much pain and suffering–”

“No,” she cuts off, settling the argument once and for all. She shakes her head furiously, halting the thought before it sails. “I would do it again.”

And without thinking, she springs forward and throws her arms around his figure. Her kiss is hard and desperate. She is determined to prove every word. He returns it in full, and she cannot imagine why she would ever choose otherwise.

“I love you,” he says, even though he doesn’t need to. She feels it in everything he does.

They part only so their foreheads can press together, breaths mingling in between.

“I wish we had more time,” he murmurs softly. “That was the wish I made under the stars.”

She pulls back to memorize every line and curve of his face. “I love you too.”

It’s the only thing that needs to be said, and suddenly she is grateful for their choice.

Afterwards, she holds him tight and close to her, knowing she will do so until she is forced to let go.

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She loves him and he loves her back. On the surface, it seems easy, but she knows in some dark crevice of her mind, that even though this love is selfish – escaping to these mountains was selfish – it is also good.

It is clear like the blue reflective sheen of the ocean. Bright in the dark like the constellations in the night sky and the stars they wished upon. Beautiful in the midst of this world’s unending horror and cruelty.

Her source of strength. The root of his humanity.

This love is enough.

Time will come when it will teach her to grow, too.

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The rain stops and gives way to a brighter morning.

From her window, Mikasa spots the luminous streaks of colour in the sky, no doubt left behind by the storm, and feels as though a heavy weight has been lifted off her chest.

Eren is still sleeping beside her and quietly she extracts herself out of his embrace. She makes her way outside, where the sun warms her face and a soft breeze sweeps past her. The silence is easy and comforting. For a moment, she allows herself to bask in this delicate peace.

In the corner of her eye, she finds something in the garden. Perhaps not everything drowned in the rain.

Campanulas.

Mikasa crouches by the patch of purple-petaled flowers and traces her finger along one of them, careful not to disturb their growth. She wonders how they managed to endure the flood, even bloom as a result of it. So frail in appearance, but their roots must be deep, sturdy and strong.

Strange how this bellflower seems to follow her wherever she goes.

It grows under the wrath of the titans, and weathers the worst of storms. It is the only thing to survive the wreckage. It’s almost incredible how they managed to grow such a thing; she and Eren are so damaged themselves.

Perhaps this flower will remain. Just like the memories they’ve made.

Mikasa glances at her surroundings. The mountains in the distance, the trees circling their cabin, the river flowing downward and everything else still standing.

She sees this home they’ve built and finds pieces of him everywhere; his heart is carved in everything they’ve made, and said, and done.

When he passes on, maybe it will be enough.

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#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #eremika #eren x mikasa #eren yeager #Mikasa Ackerman #eren #Mikasa #mikaere #Chapter 138 #aot fanfiction

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minttoy · 3 years

Text

this love we share

CHAPTER ONE

Summary:

Her source of strength. The root of his humanity.

Time will come when it will teach her to grow, too.

[Eren and Mikasa through the four years. Alternate reality from Chapter 138.]

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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The cabin they build for themselves is a modest space. It reminds Mikasa of her first home, tucked away in nature’s peaceful embrace along with memories of her childhood. She recalls her father hunting in the early hours of morning, her mother planting vegetables in the garden, both of them showing her a love that was real.

She glances sidelong at Eren and wonders if they could ever build a life like that.

He offers to use his titan to build their house quickly, wanting to shelter them from rain and cold nights. It seemed unfair to her in the beginning, watching him pick up much of the slack and toil, but he reassures her he doesn’t mind. To make up for it, she takes rein of the finer tasks – building furniture, learning to cook with a wood-fire oven, carving out tools for hunting and walking miles to the nearest town to trade any extra game for coin and seeds.

Every night, she comes home with sore wrists and calloused fingers. She hides the limp in her gait to conceal the accident she sustained from slipping on the mountainous rocks. Eren is just as exhausted, and the cumulative stress of assuming his titan throughout the day takes a toll on his body and he often collapses into sleep.

Despite everything, it feels surreal – coming home to him. Just the two of them. And even though this work spares them little time to indulge or even speak to each other, the smile on his face when he sees her at the end of the day is always enough.

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Eren has been quiet since they arrived. Maybe even a little withdrawn, but he’s been that way for a while now. It is apparent in the way he works, always rising early in the morning and refusing to stop until nightfall. He welcomes the distraction, and doesn’t mind keeping busy. His manner is subdued, as he offers no complaints and shows no anger – a true testament to how much he’s changed from the brash, tantrum-prone child he used to be.

He’s changed in other ways too, particularly when it concerns her.

He waves off her apologies for meals she’s burnt while learning to cook. He always tells her to come home safe when she leaves for town, and offers his shoulder to rest when her head or her heart feels heavy. He even goes so far as calling her out for hiding her injuries and pain, and it leads to the first time he gazes at her with such heavy disappointment. She says she didn’t want him to worry, and he’s quick to point out the hypocrisy in this old habit.

Mikasa revokes her statement, and apologizes instead.

Their first argument ends with a mutual promise not to hide from each other, and she wraps her arms around him. She is ridden with guilt as she hides her face in his shoulder, but he pulls her close, hushes her muttered apologies and tells her she’s forgiven.

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“Two bedrooms? Is that necessary?” Mikasa asks, careful not to hint at discontent with her tone.

It’s clear the topic weighs heavy on his mind; Eren hasn’t touched his plate since they sat down for supper. He’s been quieter than usual today.

“Maybe not necessary, but I’d feel more comfortable knowing we slept in different rooms, even if it’s temporary,” he explains slowly, eyes cast downwards.

She bites her lip and shrinks in her seat. “Is it because of me?”

He looks up then, catches the forlorn look in her eyes and backtracks immediately. He reaches for her hand, attempts to dissolve the confusion. “God, no. Of course not. I just… I don’t sleep well at night.”

Her face falls. “Nightmares?”

Eren exhales a sigh and nods once. “Sometimes my dreams are so vivid I can’t tell what’s real, and all I can do is…react,” he answers, struggling for a better word to describe him thrashing in the night, gripping the sheets for purchase, scratching and clawing until his skin tears.

An image of him waking up and mistaking her for an enemy flashes across his mind and he winces, damned if that were ever to happen. He shakes his head, throws off the image by squeezing her hand.

“I don’t want you getting hurt if it can be avoided,” he says, a sense of finality punctuating his words.

She frowns. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Then at least, let me help.”

He draws in a breath. “Mikasa. The memories never go away completely. Sometimes, it doesn’t seem to matter how much I try.”

She leans back, notes the word ‘memories’ as opposed to dreams. Eren rarely speaks about this alternate reality, and if he keeps pushing her away, she doubt she will ever understand.

“We should be facing this together,” she quietly reminds.

“I know,” he whispers with a rattled breath, the quiet admission more for himself than anything. “But…please, Mikasa. I don’t mean to shut you out. All I’m asking for is time.”

He’s dwindling into mild desperation now. She can tell by the trembling grip on her hand, one she tries to quiet by placing her other hand above his. He means well, she knows. And right now, she’s left with little choice but to tolerate the sting, wait it out and trust him.

“Fine,” she says, gently cupping his face so he can look at her. “Only for now.”

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

----------

The structure of their house is finished now, leaving only the interior to furnish. At the same time, they’ve developed a stable routine with each other. It is a hard-learned lesson that nothing is ever earned without trails or hardship. In fact, this is the only way the days get easier. The roof on their head now gives shelter from the rain, their backs are no longer sore from sleeping on hardwood floors, and there is enough produce in their pantry to keep their stomachs full. Eren is more talkative now, too. Sometimes they indulge in pointless conversations about nothing, and she is glad for it.

It surprises her when the biggest snag of today turns out to be Eren’s hair, now just hovering above his shoulders. It’s the longest length she’s seen on him, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t suit him.

She notices his struggle long before he even asks. As she sits on her knees and digs out the deeper weeds with a trowel, she sneaks side glances at Eren making furrows into the ground. His sweat-soaked hair sticks to his neck and drapes across his face. It forms a curtain for his eyes that he constantly swipes at, or blows away, or tucks against his ear, only to hang loose again.

Pausing her work, she watches as he pushes his hair back again and then wipes the rest of his face with the hem of his shirt.

“Hey,” he calls out to her, not knowing she’s already paying attention. “Later, do you think you could cut my hair?”

Mikasa remembers that’s how they got here, a pair of scissors and razor on her lap and examining his brown tresses, still damp from his shower.

“It’s a shame. Long hair suits you,” she remarks.

He stifles a snort. “Does that mean I’ll be less handsome after this?”

“What do you mean? You’ve always been handsome.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, but she plants her hands on either side of his head, keeps him still so she can start trimming the back of his head.

They resume in silence, Mikasa set in deep concentration and Eren relaxed by her fingers working through his hair. He almost doesn’t hear her when she tells him to turn so she can trim his front. It takes an awkward maneuver to twist his body until they’re face to face, her knees sandwiched between his and Eren hunching forward to give her access to his long bangs.

The close proximity is difficult to ignore. The thump of her heart beats loud in her ears, and she hopes he cannot hear it. She focuses on the ends of his hair instead, choosing to keep silent for the rest of the way. Once finished, she withdraws her arms, leans back and appraises the new length; not shabby for her first time.

He runs his fingers along his hair, so much lighter than before. “All done?”

She nods, reaches for the mirror and positions it in front of him.

He examines himself from side to side, and catches her peeking behind the glass.

“Is it…okay?” she asks sheepishly, bracing herself slightly.

He offers a smile. “Yeah. I like it.”

She beams and smiles her welcome, gathering her tools and dusting the remainder of hair from her lap. When one his hands reach over to cup her cheek, automatically she looks to him in question. What comes next is one of many fleeting moments and sends her heart racing faster than if she were facing a horde of titans – Eren leaning forward and meeting her lips for a chaste kiss.

The first for both of them.

She revels in his warmth until he pulls away, and quickly follows up with short peck to her forehead. The moment ends with a breathy ‘thank you’ and then he rises to stand, lifting his chair easily back to its place at the table.

She stares dumbly ahead. Innocent as it was, it leaves her wanting.

They don’t say much in the aftermath, and Mikasa gets started on supper with a lightheaded daze. He seems to carry on unaffected, but when she catches a glimpse of his face as he sweeps the rest of the hair off the floor, he’s flushed just the same.

----------

Mikasa is frugal and strict with their spending.

Eren learns this as he watches her calculate their revenues and spending costs. The concentration on her face resembles a trance, so he refrains from disturbing her when she pulls out that notepad. So far, she’s quietly handled all of their finances anyway.

It makes him feel useless during their trips to town as she peruses through the market with ease, only buying what they need and nothing more. He also finds it odd, having to grow accustomed to socializing with others again after these last few months spent in isolation. He hardly misses it, and these weekly trips never leave him craving for more company.

On their way to town, Eren made a suggestion to split their shopping list. The gathering clouds and murky overcast of the sky seemed to precede rain, so she agreed. As he finishes up, he looks down at his bag and finds himself at odds, hoping he has not forgotten anything.

Regardless, Eren finds her easily in the middle of the plaza, speaking with a stout merchant. He stops when he catches her expression – unimpressed, and irritation lingering underneath her calm posturing. The man across her gestures wildly, seems to cut her off at every turn and then brusquely waves her off out of his stall.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and if these last few years hadn’t taught him to gain any sense of self-control, this grubby man wouldn’t be seeing daylight right now. Mikasa is capable of fending for herself anyway.

She walks a brisk pace and Eren maneuvers through the crowd to catch up to her. When he touches her arm to get her attention, she startles and almost drops her basket.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes crinkling with apology.

“What happened back there?”

“Nothing.”

He sighs, because she’s doing it again – showering him with white lies and shielding him from pain. She did this plenty when they were younger: minimized her injuries, refused help, reassured him that the bone-deep cut he inflicted on her right cheek didn’t hurt at all. Every time he asked, she was always just fine.

“What did he say to you?” he asks again.

She shrugs, arms falling to her side. “He just refused to sell me bread. That’s all.”

His brows furrow, mostly from confusion. “Why?”

“Umm, I think it had something to do with me…” she wonders out loud, gaze flitting off to one side. “I seem like an outsider to most of these people. No here vaguely even looks like me, and I guess he doesn’t do business with people like that.”

Eren feels his temper flaring. Self-control pushed aside, caution thrown into the wind, he swears he would have turned around if not for her arm on his shoulder, edging him in the other direction.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t bother me much,” she says, too calm in light of his growing rage.

“It bothers me,” he retorts quietly, and then suddenly recalls all the trips she’d taken alone. “Has this happened before?”

She shakes her head. “No, this is the first time.”

Eren is still so distracted, eyes scanning and peering back towards that stall. She stops him, hand going to his cheek and forcing him to face her. When she caresses the skin underneath her palm, he starts to soften.

“My mother used to bake bread when I was little, and I might still remember the recipe. I’m going to try it when we get home, if you don’t mind,” she pipes up. The change in subject is so unexpected, and her eyes so optimistic it leaves him with no choice but to acquiesce.

He grumbles and breathes out the rest of his frustration. She’s surprised when he takes her hand in his, intertwines their fingers, and squeezes them in reassurance.

“If he says it again, you can always show him what an Ackerman looks like,” he suggests, very tongue-in-cheek. She nudges his stomach with their hands, and he laughs it off, amused by Mikasa pouting, of all things.

The moment passes as she checks their grocery bags – always so meticulous – and when they set off on the path that takes them home, Eren doesn’t hesitate to take her hand again.

----------

He dreams almost every night.

Bodies piled like logs for a fire. Innocent lives trampled and tossed with a single step. The stark, and hollow loneliness that finds him when he loses himself. His humanity all but intact, and fate sealed. He is a slave in this pursuit for freedom, and the strange irony of it all does not escape him.

And then, he hears a voice.

Calm, and gentle. Like the warm caress of a mother’s touch, or standing steady in the shallows of ocean waves. It pulls him, and wards off the graphic and frightening visions.

Try as he might, but the walls he’d built to keep her away were never going to be enough.

Eren wakes from his nightmare, a low guttural sound cutting out of him as he lunges forward. His eyes flash open, bleary and wet with hot tears. His body is shaking and drenched with sweat.

He registers someone hushing him – Mikasa – and finds her face just inches away, both of her hands cupping his cheeks. Against the moonlight, he sees sorrow etched on her face, and worry lining her delicate features. Idly, he wonders how many nights she must have woken up from his screaming, only to whisper quiet assurances to soothe his troubled mind in return.

“You were crying out again,” she says gently, one of her thumbs swiping across his damp cheek.

He sighs his response, eyes closing and head dropping to the top of her shoulder. She shifts on the bed so she can wrap her arms around him too, hands rubbing his back gently to ease his ragged breathing. He relishes in her warmth, nuzzles against the skin of her neck and inhales her comforting scent. She squeaks when he plants a kiss on the sensitive skin there, and then he draws back to press their foreheads together. He thinks she looks beautiful in the moonlight.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs.

Their breaths mingle, and he feels her shaking her head at his apology.

“It’s not your fault.”

Eren swallows a lump in his throat, and wishes he won’t have to part with this. She’s already slipping from his touch, her arms falling in between them and gaze flitting once towards her own room. She leans back, and he reaches for her hand just to keep contact.

“Could you…stay? Please,” he asks, almost pleading.

Her eyes soften, and a nervous energy settles around her. He finds himself wondering and hoping this is a vulnerability she reserves only for him.

Mikasa gives a small nod and moves to the edge of the bed. He lifts the covers for her, and allows her to settle next to him. She wishes to turn around, just in case she has to soothe more night terrors away, but the space between them is quickly filled – he fastens her against him with need, arms wrapped around her middle and nose in her hair.

When he falls asleep, he hopes he dreams of her.

----------

It becomes inevitable.

The following nights, Eren craves the same closeness. He knows he should swallow his pride and admit it. Instead, he gazes at her when she’s not looking as evening comes. He pauses at her door when they go to their separate rooms.

He gathers courage one night, and knocks on her door. Words get caught in his throat when he finds her perched on the bed, reading a book against the candlelight. She tilts her head with curiosity splashed on her face, even though it’s obvious why he’s come. Against her silent inquiry, he just rubs the back of his head and offers a sheepish look.

She doesn’t tease him for it. Instead, she puts away her reading.

He moves forward and slips under her sheets with the same nervous energy. When she blows out the candlelight, he whispers his thanks. In return, she curls up against him with her head tucked under his chin. Stroking her hair, he waits until she’s drifted off to sleep, and then he keeps awake, admitting to himself that he loves her under the gleam of this moonlight.

----------

Memories of the alternative reality are revealed to her in small pieces.

She gathers most of it during late nights when he talks about the things that scare him most. Few memories are revealed unintentionally, like Eren apologizing for lying when he told her he hated her, even though he said no such thing. She hopes all of this will make sense one day, and that she’ll understand their purpose.

In between, she is happy to learn other things about him.

His body heats up like a furnace, and even on chilly nights he doesn’t mind sleeping with the windows open. The longest he’ll grow his hair is above his shoulders, which is the next time he asks her to cut it again. When he examines her delicate hair between his fingers, he remarks how long her hair has grown.

When they spar, he manages to take her down more times than she’s used to and it drives her mad and reckless when she’s the one pinned beneath him. The tally count always remains in her favour, and he manages to assuage her squirming and discomfort with a kiss to her forehead, her nose or her lips. It’s a strange reward for losing.

He does it enough times that when they return to the cabin, she asks him about it.

“Why do you always kiss me when I lose?”

He glances up at her with an honest expression. “Because you get frustrated with yourself, and it calms you down.”

“What? I don’t get…frustrated,” she retorts, even though her tone is unsure.

He arches a brow.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

Her answer comes out so quick and easy that it gives her emotions away. She bites her tongue afterwards. In that moment, her entire body must be flushing red because the heat is overwhelming her cheeks. She raises her hands to cover her face, not brave enough to look him in the eye.

“Sorry, I’m just…embarrassed, by all of this.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She just shakes her head.

“Mikasa, can you look at me?”

She tries, lowering her hands back at her sides. It’s only when he’s standing in front of her does she look up at him. His smile is sweet, and not teasing or mocking at all.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, needlessly tucking some of her longer bangs behind her ear.

She sighs. “I just want to be strong enough to protect you.”

Realization sinks in then – the reason she’s so frustrated with losing. He recognizes this old habit of hers, always dedicating her strength and training for his sake. She is not any less strong than she was before; his sore limbs and aching back can attest to that, but he can tell her as much and she might not believe it.

“I want to protect you too,” he says instead, honest and simple.

Eventually when Eren moves to take her face in his hands, it is Mikasa who leans forward to kiss him first. Nothing more needs to be said.

----------

“Do you know about constellations?”

They are settled on a grassy hill underneath the expanse of the dark and starry night. It had been Mikasa’s idea to stargaze, something they used to do when they were younger. Here in the mountains in a land without walls, the sky feels bigger somehow.

Eren shakes his head, and eyes her with a curiosity. She’s sitting with a blanket draped over her legs, eyes glued to the sky with wonderment.

“My father used to share all kinds of stories. Can I tell you my favourite one?”

His gaze softens with endearment. Humming an affirmative, he follows her fingers to a particular set of stars. Two twinkling lights, sitting side by side.

“The Gemini constellation tells the story of two brave warriors, named Castor and Pollux. They were twin brothers, borne from different fathers. Castor was mortal, and Pollux was the divine son of a god,” she explains, remembering the story just as her father had told.

He listens silently, gaze drifting over to her to appreciate the smile accompanying the memories of her parents.

“When Castor died, his brother grieved and prayed to share his immortality. His father took pity, and his prayers were answered – the twins were turned into a constellation so they could be together forever. Their names were given to the two brightest stars of that constellation.”

Eren keeps quiet, and does not interrupt. There is something uniquely enchanting about listening to someone speak with a deeply-rooted passion, simply because it is important to them. He knows Mikasa has carried this story in her heart like a secret. A memoir from her father, much like the mark on her wrist is a token of her mother.

“I like that story,” he pipes up, reaching for hand. “Do you remember anymore?”

She hums and contemplates until she catches movement in the sky. A shooting star, if she ever saw one, traveling across the horizon, a tail of light in its wake. A gasp escapes her lips and she watches stunned, nudging Eren before it leaves completely.

“Ah! Did you see that?”

Eren nods once. With her excitement so palpable, he knows he is seeing a different side of her. It is a welcome change, since he is so familiar with her worry and grief, every action she makes so careful and guarded.

“Should we make a wish? It’s customary.”

He stares thoughtfully. “Are you sure?”

She shrugs. “Why not?”

The expression on his face strains and hardens for a brief moment – she doesn’t miss it – and the reason is simple. He does not know how to tell her with gentleness that his most desired wish will not come true. Not even the stars can help him. He is a cursed man, and it matters not how many realities he lives and sifts through.

Their exchange is wordless, but it is enough.

Mikasa stares in silence as understanding dawns on her. She knows this is the first of many breaks, and the sudden realization of their short time together takes the breath out of her in the worst way possible. Her shoulders start to tremble, and her face falls.

Eren grips her hand tighter, regrets the sorrow in her face and beckons her to look at him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “I think I came up something.”

She nods, and even though a part of her doesn’t want to play the game anymore, she prods for him to continue.

He takes a deep breath before turning to the sky. “If there is ever a war or conflict happening in this world, my wish is that it never reaches us and takes away our peace and home.”

Eren turns to her then, “Is that a good wish?”

She smiles and nods eagerly.

“It’s your turn.”

Mikasa obliges and settles closer to him, both for warmth and comfort. “Okay. My wish is for Armin to be safe, and…that he forgives us.”

Silence lingers again.

She has thought of him many times, uncertain if he remained in Marley or returned to Paradis. The only thing she is certain of is that he is thinking of ways to fix this fractured peace. Armin’s always been like that: a fine balance between relying on his mind, and following his heart. Regardless of his reaction to their disappearance, she misses him all the same.

“Eren, do you think he’s okay?”

Somewhere in between, his eyes have turned wistful and glassy. He lets out a sigh.

“Armin is the smartest person I know. He’s probably doing better than any of us.”

She hums in agreement, and for the rest of the quiet night, she allows herself to dwell in this moment of peace.

----------

Mikasa doesn’t know what overcomes her when they come home to the cabin that night.

He returns to their bedroom clean and refreshed, brushing the longer strands of hair out of his face. She folds her scarf neatly and places it on the table, heart beating fast and ringing loud in her ears. When Eren moves to kiss her goodnight, she plants a hand on his chest and reaches up to meet him. Afterwards, she expects him to retire to bed and sense nothing abnormal.

But he stays, green eyes studying hers in the dim moonlight.

“Something on your mind?” His voice is low, just above a whisper.

Her hands gather at her middle, fingers wringing with hesitation. She starts to wonder just when he started reading her with ease.

“Can I try something with you?” she asks quietly, her voice small as she looks on with uncertainty.

His eyes widen for a moment, breath catching in his throat.

“Sure. I’m all yours.”

She smiles, innocent and trusting, before her hands go to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as she meets his lips for another kiss. He returns it sweetly, hand slipping into her hair and the other pressed against her back just as they’ve done before.

Suddenly, she pulls away. He gazes with mild confusion as she purses her lips in reconsideration, because this is not what she has in mind. It’s too chaste, and always has been.

“Mikasa–”

She kisses him again, her second attempt more hungry and messy, and she turns their heads, not caring if their noses bump or their breaths flutter. Her cold hands slip underneath his shirt and roam against the warmth of his skin. He shivers at the contact, gasps and she takes the chance to taste him, from the roof and corners of his mouth to his tongue.

Her nails scrape down the muscles of his abdomen and Eren parts from her to plant wet marks along her jawline down to the pale skin of her neck. Sweeping her hair behind her, he suckles at the sensitive skin behind her ear and above her collarbone, delightfully surprised when it sends her into a frenzy. A breathy gasp escapes her lips, and she cranes her neck to give him more access.

“Ah, Eren, can we–”

She forgoes asking and decides to do it instead. Feeling her knees go weak, she gently pushes him backwards until they’re tumbling onto the bed. She quickly straddles his waist, and takes in the perfect view of him. Swollen lips, flushed skin and pliant underneath her. Sheepishly, she wipes the saliva off his chin.

For a brief moment, Mikasa registers this new and uncharted territory. With no prior experience, it will take several more tries before the awkward energy wears off.

He raises himself on his arms, acutely aware that her nightgown now sits at her hips.

“Mikasa, are you sure?” he inquires, emerald eyes staring deep into her grey hues.

She nods her head, leans towards his ear and breathes, “I want you.” It casts shivers down his spine, and when Mikasa’s hands fumble with the hem of his shirt, he tugs it over his head himself and discards it off to one side.

Their kisses grow more fervent, bodies pressed and moving together like magnets. Her hands roam everywhere across his bare skin and Eren’s hands move down from her back to her thighs. Eventually, her hands find the dip between his shoulder blades and she carves her pleasure near the nape of his neck.

Eren recoils from her touch and winces. Withdrawing from him, she looks on with concern and whispers her apologies.

Hesitantly, he feels the area for himself, surprised to find such tender skin. So much time has passed since he last used his titan, but a phantom pain still lingers there. He suspects it will take time to lower his guard around it.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head. “No, but it’s…sensitive.”

She whispers another apology, expression guilty and crestfallen. He coaxes her with soft kisses on her nose, temple and cheeks and eases her in picking up where they left off. He swallows hard when she’s touching him again, hand moving below his navel, following the bony outline of his pelvis and settling on the fabric of his pants.

He resists the urge to thrust then, wanting her to explore at her own pace. A low groan slips from his mouth when her hand slips underneath and grasps his member. He holds his breath for a moment, wondering if he can ever be satisfied with his own touch after this, especially as he hisses in pleasure, and grasps at straws for self-control when she strokes him so tenderly.

Mikasa tries to gage his reaction, not knowing what to make of it.

She stops suddenly.

When he looks to her in question, her eyes drop down to her hands.

“I’ve never done this before with anyone, so…” She blushes furiously as she contemplates her next words. “…I don’t how to make you feel good.”

He wonders if she mistook his expressions for pain, and rubs her shoulders to reassure her otherwise. She cares so much for his pleasure that he’s left wondering how he’s ever been blessed with Mikasa loving him back.

“I’ve never done it either,” he says, clearing the air.

She smiles, so beautiful and lovely, and he cannot help it. He pulls her for another searing kiss before gripping her backside and flipping them over. He’s dreamt of this before: Mikasa lying underneath him, skin flushed and hair tussled across the pillows. He resumes at her neck where she is so receptive to his touch, earning him desperate mewls and sweet noises.

He lifts her nightgown, hands splaying across her abs before moving up to palm her breasts and nipples. Mikasa, growing with anticipation and need, moves his hand between her legs. The sensory overload drives her mad – Eren is everywhere except where she wants him.

“Please take this off,” she breathes, overcome with a sense of need.

He chuckles at her demand and kisses her nose, always so polite and courteous. He obliges, and pulls off her cotton underwear. At same time, she tugs off the rest of her nightgown and tosses it to the floor. Impatient, she reaches up to kiss him hard, dismissing any concern he might have about moving forward. She breaks off with a shuddering sigh when he teases her entrance.

Her legs spread apart, and he slips a finger inside. As she adjusts, he relishes the feeling of her warmth. When her hand squeezes his shoulder, she is wet enough that he can add a second finger with ease. Testing her, he thumbs her sensitive bud and spreads his fingers. When he curves his digits and begins to pump, her body writhes and she whimpers sweetly for him. In between breathless gasps, she begs him not to stop, and he does not refuse her. Determined to be a quick study, he learns how to make her unravel and call out his name.

Reaching her high, she becomes a shuddering mess before him.

He gives her time to recover, but it’s not long before she reaches for his member again.

Supporting himself with one arm, he grabs her nearest hand and squeezes it in reassurance.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs into her ear, as he pushes in slowly.

Halfway through, Mikasa draws in a breath for a sharp hiss. Her grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into the skin of his hand it almost hurts. Upon seeing the tears in her eyes, he stops at once.

“Mikasa, should I–”

“No, I can take it. Please keep going.”

He looks on with hesitation, and slides all the way in. He stills himself and for a moment, she is clinging to him, bracing and trembling as she adapts to the sensation of being so stretched, so open and so full of him. In between, he peppers small kisses everywhere he can reach and sweeps away the hair sticking to her face.

Mikasa grits her teeth and adjusts, prompting him to move as she tightens her grip on his hand and whispers quiet assurances. His thrusts are gentle and steady, and their bodies move together like ocean waves – ascending and receding in a slow tempo. Her lips part open as she starts to glean pleasure one thrust after another, her back arching off the bed to meet him and urging him to go deeper.

A pleasant moan resonates through her, and she loses herself in their rhythm. As the pain subsides, Mikasa feels herself spiralling higher into new heights of bliss and desire. Her hands clutch tighter to his backside, her head falls backwards and she screws her eyes shut to focus on the growing intensity of this fevered and dream-like heat.

Eren knows he will not last, and she cries out when he strokes her centre to help her along.

He revels in her soft moans, increasing his pace as her face becomes helpless and desperate, until his name leaves her lips in broken syllables. He feels it just the same, the squeeze and clench of her walls around his throbbing member sending him into a dizzying haze.

When Mikasa falls, she finds purchase between his broad shoulders and the sweat-soaked sheets.

He knows he’s close too.

Fuck.

Pulling out, he finishes onto the skin of her belly. Desperate to keep their closeness, he leans down to capture her lips. She returns it in kind, softly stroking his hair and smiling against him. And then he collapses onto her chest, catching his breath and listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

For a while, they linger in silence and exchange shy smiles.

He doesn’t think he needs anything more.

At the end of the night, when she is tucked safely and sleeping in the comfort of his arms, Eren is altogether certain that if there was any trace of goodness left in him, any part of him worth saving, it would only be her.

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#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #eremika #eren x mikasa #eren yeager #mikasa ackerman #eren #mikasa #mikaere #chapter 138 #aot fanfiction

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minttoy · 3 years

Text

Daylight (Ch 4)

CHAPTER FOUR

Summary: “She spent so much time counting her days. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.” - Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war.

Pairings: Linhardt/Lysithea

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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A high-pitched shrill of a scream resounds the room and jolts her awake.

Lysithea shoots up in a panic, hands grasping tight at her blankets and groggy eyes flashing open. When her mind comes to, she registers the sight of a bristling Manuela pacing the floor beyond her bed, arms crossed at her chest, and temper running dangerously close to boiling point.

“Hanneman! Come out, you senile bastard!” she’s yelling now, boisterous and irate.

Lysithea winces at the noise, covers her face with her hair to hide her embarrassment.

“Professor Manuela, I–”

“Do not start with me, young lady. I said it when you were a student: I do not enjoy people horsing around in my infirmary.” The older woman shoots a narrowed glare at the girl before resuming, “Just wait until I wrangle it out of that imbecilic prick.”

She keeps quiet, gladly content to keep her mouth shut and have her professors hash it out for themselves. Across the room, the former songstress stops pacing altogether, but Lysithea can still hear the click of her heels against the wooden floors, mingled with huffing and kissing teeth until the gray-haired crest scholar finally enters the room.

She dares to peek through her bedhead of hair.

Hanneman breaks into a grin. “Ah! My dear Manuela!”

“You idiot! I leave the monastery for a year!” she snaps.

“How are things going at the opera? Superb, I take it? You’ve arrived earlier than anticipated.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Come, we should talk over a cup of tea–”

Her lips are pressed. “No! We are settling this now!”

“Hush now, darling. It’s a beautiful morning!”

Manuela glares and jabs a well-manicured finger at his chest. “Quit being a dolt, and tell me what in goddess’s name happened in here!”

Lysithea wonders just how much can be inferred from the room alone. Evidence from yesterday’s trial are still lying about: concoctions sitting on the table, a single patient bed, scribbled notes spilling from the tables to the floors. It hardly requires an explanation.

“I – well, you see…we’re conducting an experiment,” Hanneman remains dumbly. Lysithea doesn’t think she has ever seen the renowned researcher so stumped. Maybe even a little fearful.

He clears his throat and resumes, “I have recruited sweet Lysithea. Truth be told, she is a very important asset to our team.”

Suddenly her eyes are flaring. Amber-coloured orbs with a shadow of fire and fury in its wake.

Perhaps it was inevitable – someone catching wind of their activities and shaking their head.

Manuela manages to get a hold of her bearings, even for just a second. “If this has anything to do with removing her twin crests…I swear to the goddess as my witness, I will burn down your damn office, poison you and throw you to a pack of giant wolves during feeding time!”

“How cruel! You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would do it right this second!”

Lysithea feels it then. Acid and iron burning her insides. She cannot control it.

Suddenly, her shoulders hunch, she doubles over, and out of her mouth comes the foul and putrid fluids from the back of her throat. Blood and bile quickly sully her sheets. She leans back, head spinning as she manages to gag down another spill.

What follows is complete silence, accompanied by the mortified expression on Manuela’s face and Hanneman leaving the room to fetch a bucket.

The aftermath is hazy.

Hours later, when the hysteria dials down a notch, Lysithea still ends up in the hot seat – face to face with Manuela’s calculating gaze. It’s as if she’s a student again, about to be interrogated for tardiness or breaking curfew.

“Tell me, sweetheart. How did this come about?”

Earlier she managed to grill Hanneman and Linhardt for their stories, even though the nature of their research seems perfectly clear. No surprise both of them left the room rather disgruntled.

Lysithea’s gaze flits to the window, idly wishing she were anywhere but here.

She clears her throat, prompting the younger girl to focus. “I implore you to be honest. I’ve known Hanneman for a very long time. That man will stop at nothing to complete his research, even going so far as using you for a test subject. It is despicable.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not like that.”

“Speak your truth, girl. If you’re lying to protect them, they’ve gotten too deep inside your head.”

“But I’m not lying!” she exclaims. “Professor, I consented to this. All of it. The research, the experiments, the trials… If I’m protecting anyone, it’s myself.”

Manuela’s eyes steel against hers.

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

Lysithea is too fatigued to avoid it – Manuela flicking her index finger against her forehead, as if that will snap her out of it. Her reaction is seconds late, but she mutters a small ‘ouch’ and presses the sore spot with the palm of her hand.

“Why in goddess’s name would you willingly put yourself through this danger? Have you seen the state you’re in? Your body is weak enough with two crests, and even more if you tried to remove them! My god, you could end up more damaged–”

“I know that!”

“But do you know the risks? This is your life on the line.”

Lysithea shakes her head. “Believe me. I’ve lived my whole life ‘on the line’, as you say, and I’ve done nothing about it until now.”

“But the war is over! It is done. Why strain yourself more?”

“If the war left any impression, I should fight for the sake of living.”

Manuela sits forward, and utters with perfect enunciation, “No. This is not the same. Do not compare the two. You are willingly gambling on death for the slim chance of living longer.”

“So what would you have me do?”

Manuela sighs in exasperation. “Give up this reckless endeavour.”

“No,” she insists.

“Lysithea. Even with two crests, you might live a long time. Why would you–”

“Because I want them gone!” Lysithea screams, hysteria in full display.

Manuela blinks, stunned.

The younger girl leans back on her chair, unable to grasp the swirl of emotions coursing through her mind. There is a throbbing pain in her chest. She exhales a sigh of defeat.

Silence follows.

The back of her eyes start to sting. There’s a heat rising in her body that she cannot fathom into words. It is strange – how her entire being feels like it’s on fire. She cannot blame her exhaustion this time, or the medications pumped into her system. It is years of repressed anger and fear settling in her nerves, rearing against her heart, surging through the course of her tainted blood.

She bites her lip and braces herself.

“The war is over and my days are still numbered…” she breaks silence. Her voice is so quiet that Manuela just manages to catch it. “I fought in war, I paid my dues…I’ve done all I can not to be a burden. It’s still not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I…” She stares vacantly at her hands, chews her lips as she struggles to translate.

“The moment I was branded with these, these…wretched crests, I became so powerless. I was robbed of choices I can never make, and a childhood I would never wish on my greatest enemy… This power has never made me feel strong.”

Lysithea exhales a rattled breath. Her hands curl into fists on her lap.

“Charon and Gloucester…” It feels odd calling them by name. They are such parasitic things. “I live my life at their mercy, and I don’t want to live like that anymore.”

Her stomach lurches again, eager to spit up more bile and acid. She knows without having to look into a mirror that her face has hollowed out, her skin has lost colour, and the bags under her eyes have darkened. A single trial could be her undoing. Subtly she wonders if this is what dying feels like.

“My dear, you’re in pain again.”

Manuela leans forward, readying her hands for another heal spell, but Lysithea halts her across the table with a shake of her head.

“It’s fine,” she says, despite wincing. “The pain right now is nothing to what I felt then.”

The older woman stares thoughtfully, and she’s biting her lip now. If the pity in her eyes is any indication, she might be reconsidering.

“This research…there is no guarantee, child.”

“Yes. I know.”

“And even if your crests are removed, there is no telling how long you have left.”

“…I understand.”

The older woman sighs. “I am resigned to think nothing will change your mind.”

Lysithea swallows hard, and shakes her head.

Her chair creaks against the floorboards when she takes a stand. “Very well.”

----------

Despite the initial flare-up and protest, it is Manuela who nurses Lysithea back to health. The younger girl almost forgets she was a physician during her tenure as a professor.

“Lin, did you come up with this all by yourself?” In her hands, Manuela quickly flips through Linhardt’s notebook of scribbled drafts and loose pages. Her eyes fill with visible awe and wonder.

Judging from his expression and tired gait, the green-haired scholar has not slept for three days, so Lysithea expects him to be a bit short today.

“Not entirely. Most of the work is sourced from the dark mages.”

“…Dark mages? What in heavens are you talking about?”

He sighs, and she knows him well enough he is rolling his eyes.

She explains in his stead to spare him the trouble. “They recovered hundreds of files from the Agarthan base. Professor Hanneman requested mine. You’re free to go over them as well, if you wish.”

Her mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’. Afterwards, she resumes with the notebook. “Regardless, if you were this knowledgeable and passionate about medicine, how come you never offered to help in the infirmary?”

He responds with a miffed expression. “Professor, there is only so much work I am willing to do.”

Hanneman chortles in the background. The older man has spent the last hour sitting comfortably in the corner of the room with a book in hand, and not a single page has been turned.

Manuela’s gaze cuts to him like a hawk, and he flinches. Of all the people in this room to receive her pardon, he would be the last.

“And what is your role in this project? I have yet to see you lift a single finger, let alone offer any input towards this…” She gestures ambiguously towards the room. “…questionable line of research.”

He feigns an offended front. “I thought it obvious. My role is to supervise. Overlook the process, if you will.”

She rolls her eyes. “Still meddlesome you are. Completely useless too, it seems.”

His jaw drops. “Wha– I also produce the materials, and provide the workspace. Sometimes I brew tea.”

“Workspace? This is my infirmary.”

He gestures grandly to the table, littered with crest tomes and tools. “And these are my instruments.”

“None of which were ever allowed in this room. Goddess, how many times do I need to say it?”

“Oh dear, are we still fighting about this? I had no idea.”

Linhardt coughs out loud, silencing the two. He turns, subtly vexed by the noise.

“While this has been a lovely conversation…” he drawls out slowly. “…could I ask for a bit of silence? If not, then at least refrain from this childish bickering.”

Lysithea cannot help herself.

Laughter, mostly at the absurdity of it all. Linhardt acting like the only adult. The ongoing spats she remembers from her academy days. The bizarre tension lingering about. She apologizes to everyone in the room, unsure what for, but she does not stop smiling.

----------

“Let it go on the record that I still do not approve of this,” Manuela mutters to Hanneman, even as she’s donning gloves for the procedure.

Several weeks have passed since the first trial, and Lysithea’s counted down to this day with mixed feelings. It is a new day, with a different formula and method. Since Manuela’s untimely arrival, she is constantly reminded of the risks and costs. Her own mortality, even. There is no telling how this will end, but she has always known this.

Lysithea consents to the procedure.

“We will run the infusion for approximately ten hours, which is doubled from the previous trial. A few modifications to the concoction and procedure have been made since then,” Hanneman explains to the room. It settles her nerves, even for a short while. “I will supervise. Linhardt will take charge of the infusion itself, and Manuela will sedate our subject to monitor and ease potential side effects. Any noticeable setback, we will halt the procedure entirely. Is that clear, Lysithea?”

She nods once.

“Then we shall begin momentarily.”

Linhardt moves to set up her lines. His hair has gotten so long. She only notices because it’s not tied up today, and falls loosely down his back. It makes him appear more relaxed and at ease.

She leans towards him. “It’ll work this time. I know it.”

He raises a brow and the corner of his lips upturn briefly. “And if it doesn’t?”

She shrugs. “Then we try again.”

He catches her by surprise – one of his hands moving to cup her cheek. His expression is all sorts of things. A delicate line between hopefulness and uncertainty, but with a hint of eagerness above it all.

“I’ll see you when you wake up.”

His arm falls to his side and she misses his touch. He is not the affectionate type, which means she tends to overestimate his gestures.

She does not know what to make of it. Their relationship has always been gray. She has no label for it, even though watching him fuss over formulas and lose sleep over it makes her want to halt this project altogether, if it means he can rest. It comes from a place of gratitude and respect for his work ethic, but there must be something more.

She seems to notice the small and trivial details: he loves pastry desserts more than any other food. He has delicate hands and long fingers, but his palms and fingertips are lightly calloused from magic burns. He’s impartial to his crest, but glad it serves primarily to heal, rather than inflict hurt. Lysithea enjoys learning all of these things. Though his quirks may be odd and peculiar, they are also endearing. Maybe this is what it means to adore someone.

Sometimes, a part of her wishes they could be more than this.

“Dear, I’ll be putting you to sleep now,” Manuela pipes up.

She recovers from the distraction. “Of course.”

The older woman shoots her a wink and a knowing smile. “You are sure about this?”

Lysithea smiles easy as she lays her head down on the pillow. “I’m sure.”

Magic spills over her, and she allows her last thoughts to dwell on him.

----------

When she finally comes to, her mind latches on to the sound of whirring machinery. It is a familiar noise – one of Professor Hanneman’s crest instruments. She looks to the window and finds the dark of night brightened with the tinkling stars.

How long have I been out?

It is a struggle to push herself to sit up. Her body feels unusually heavy. She tastes plaque in her mouth, and her mind is sluggish in jogging her memory.

“Ah, don’t move so quickly,” a voice pipes up beside her.

Professor Hanneman.

Her eyes widen at the sight of him. She attempts to speak, but what comes out is a rough, garbled sound. Her throat is coming up dry. He hands her a glass of water and she gulps it down in one go.

“You’ve been out for a week.”

She almost spits out the water. “A week? I thought…”

“We ran the infusion for three days. Manuela insisted, to ease your recovery and prevent any caustic side effects. It worked out for the best, but you’re probably feeling wearier than usual.”

Lysithea suddenly makes sense of her slack limbs and general lethargy. “Am I going to be okay?”

He chuckles heartily. “Of course. We’re coming to a close, you know. I can feel it in these old and rickety bones. Later, we’ll run your blood through the detection machine. We will know then whether we succeeded or not. If you ask me, I’m very optimistic.”

She nods slowly, and offers a thoughtful gaze to the older gentleman. “…Thank you, Professor Hanneman. I’m saying it now, just in case I forget later.”

“Perhaps a bit early? We do not know yet if your crests are removed,” he points out.

She smiles. “The effort is enough. Besides, you’re good company.”

“Well, you have a right to life just as much as anybody. And… I may as well retire on a good note. Recently, I’ve been entertaining the thought of hanging up my cap and robes for good. Perhaps it is time to pass the torch of crestology onto the next generation.”

She glances earnestly. “The monastery would not be the same without you. Who would keep Professor Manuela in line if you left?”

Hanneman scoffs, “That difficult woman…do you think she’s still angry with me?”

Lysithea just laughs.

----------

The next day, she has to lean on a wooden crutch to stand upright. They insist she perform the test alone, and do it as others would – holding her arm above the crest analyzer machine to determine the results of their research. It feels bizarre offering her hand to the device. For so long she’s avoided it, just to keep others from discovering her secret.

Quelling her nervous energy, she stills her hovering hand and waits with bated breath.

Time has never ticked so slow.

Perhaps because there is nothing.

She waits more, a few minutes of expecting those familiar patterns to glow.

Nothing.

Light glows from underneath, and it does not dare to illuminate those cursed and wretched crests.

Finally, there is nothing.

Her hand falls back to her side, and she lets out the breath she did not know she was holding.

This is a moment worth a lifetime of pain and tears. A risk worth its gamble. A dream becoming reality.

She cannot keep steady, and her crutch clacks to the ground as she drops to her knees.

There are no words to describe this new freedom.

Lysithea was cursed, once – but as she revels in the realization that she is no longer chained by demons past, she is also thankful for that haunted time.

Soon, the pain will dull and with it, her suffering can fade into history.

----------

Later that night, Linhardt occupies the stool at her bedside. He is relaxed and engrossed in a book that has nothing to do with crests. Hanneman left some time ago, whisking Manuela into town to celebrate their success in a more robust way. She is still too weak to join them.

Instead, she finds herself catching up on correspondence in the dim glow of candlelight. She lowers her quill once it becomes nightfall, and her gaze flits to the window once again. Beside her, Linhardt turns the page. He’s been quiet company all day.

She resists temptation to scold him for reading in the dark, because she does not have the heart to do it. At the end of the day, there is only one thing that needs to be said.

“Thank you. For everything,” she says, even though she feels words are not enough.

Linhardt glances up briefly and then closes his book shut. He sets it atop the bedside table.

There is no invitation, but he nudges her arm and she moves herself to the edge of the bed until they are lying shoulder to shoulder, closer than they’ve ever been.

She sneaks a glance at his profile. “This bed is too small for us.”

His vacant gaze stays on the ceiling. “It’s no problem. You’re tiny.”

She hits him on the shoulder with the back of her hand, not hard enough to mean it.

Afterwards, it is easy to match her breaths to his. Soft inhales and exhales. She wonders if he has always been so stable. A steady calm in trying times. An anchor she’s honed herself against like a slow healing. A well-deserved respite. Time could suspend itself in this delicate moment and she would not mind at all.

His eyes are closed now, and his breathing is light. He’s fallen asleep, she realizes.

Earlier, he had asked how she felt without the weight of two crests.

Light, she told him.

He did not prod any further, only smiled, but she felt so much more.

Happy, she ached to tell him. This is a freedom I could not afford, a future that was never mine until now. I love this feeling, the chill on my skin as I think of the endless possibilities. It is the same feeling I get when I look at you, Linhardt, and now I understand why.

Lysithea wakes to a warm morning, and the yellow-orange hues of sunrays lighting the room. She can hear his soft breathing beside her. As she works her way out of her covers, she acts in quiet so he doesn’t wake. She pads to the window, casts her eyes to the bright morning.

Three years have passed since the war’s ending, and she’s never felt relief until now. Finally, she can tell her family and friends how she survived more than the war. How she spent so much time counting her days. Those twenty years consumed with dark nights and uncertainty.

Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.

----------

Linhardt finds her in the greenhouse later. She’s sitting on her knees, digging into the dirt and tending to a small crop of daffodils growing wild and unchecked. He watches silently as she harvests a few of the larger flowers. Perhaps she will press them later to send back home.

“Lysithea?”

She looks over her shoulder, stands and then gestures to small patch of yellow flowers. “What do you think? These were the daffodils I planted years ago. I can’t believe they’re still here.”

He regards her small garden, brimming with life. “They’re beautiful.”

She removes her gloves. “Did you need me for something?”

“I suppose it’s more of a question,” he says.

“Sure, go ahead.”

He tilts his head to one side, a single brow raised. “What are your plans moving forward?”

Lysithea glances briefly at her basket of picked flowers. “Well, I was thinking of returning home, and sharing the good news. What about you?”

“I was considering taking some time off and taking a break from research.”

She nods. “As you should. You deserve it.”

There’s a beat and a pause.

Lysithea waits.

“There’s something else I had in mind…” he starts again, ears reddening. “Would you be willing to spend that time with me?”

She observes the hesitation in his voice, and the flushed skin of his face.

“What would we be doing if not conducting research?” she asks.

He shrugs lightly. “I can catch up on lost sleep. You can garden to your heart’s content.”

Images flash through her mind, and they are so peaceful. Beautiful, even.

“That sounds like bliss,” she tells him.

“Do you accept?”

Her heart leaps to her throat. It is strange, being unable to read his expression.

“Do I accept? Are you proposing?”

His tone is blunt, but steady, just like he is. “I am.”

Her smile disappears altogether, more out of disbelief than anything.

“How long have you been…?” her voice trails off. His gaze is so honest, she regrets asking.

“Everything I’ve done in the last few years…” he says with a tender voice. “…I did it so I could fulfill the promise I made to you here in the monastery, so many years ago.”

“Oh.”

In that exact moment, her mind is made. And when he moves forward to takes her face in his hands, it is Lysithea who leans forward to kiss him.

It’s the only answer he needs.

----------

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #linhardt von hevring #linhardt #lysithea von ordelia #lysithea #post-canon #post-game #fire emblem fanfiction

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minttoy · 4 years

Text

Daylight (Ch 3)

CHAPTER THREE

Summary: “She spent so much time counting her days. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.” - Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war.

Pairings: Linhardt/Lysithea

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

Weeks later, she’s still flipping through the days. Some passages are easier to read and few of them trigger difficult memories. It’s a blessing she cannot recall most of the things written in these pages.

Lysithea must look particularly haggard this morning, because Professor Hanneman waltzes into the room and starts the day with a peculiar joke.

“Are you and Linhardt married, by any chance?” he asks, a smirk dancing on his lips.

She’s tired and has no energy to vehemently deny it. “No.”

He’s hardly fazed. “Engaged, perhaps? Promised to one another?”

She shakes her head. “Neither.”

“Oh, but there’s something there, correct? The two of you seem to enjoy each other’s company.”

She does not remember Hanneman being this nosy. Perhaps Professor Manuela has been rubbing off him. “There is nothing between us,” she says, the words rolling lazily off her tongue. “We are not married, nor engaged, nor promised. We don’t talk about kids, or money, or growing old together. None of that.”

Poor logic at its finest, but she’s willing to admit it escapes her temporarily.

“Can I safely assume you two are not sleeping together?”

She startles, spilling a portion of her teacup as she brings it to her lips. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm.” He scratches his beard. “I suppose not.”

Lysithea hisses as she registers the burn from the still-hot tea water.

“Is there a point to this?” she inquires, holding back none of her irritation. With a sleeve, she wipes off a stain from the front of her shirt.

He shrugs loosely. “Perhaps.”

His response incites a harsh glare from the girl, but it does not last long. She reaches for her handkerchief across the table to pat down her skirt.

“This is highly inappropriate, especially from a man of your stature. I would appreciate if you were more respectful and unassuming of my relationships,” she says distractedly. “We share common goals and interests. There’s nothing beyond that.”

The suggestion was never meant to sound romantic, but she realizes in hindsight how it can be interpreted as such. Hanneman knows it too and raises her a brow.

“Linhardt is my apprentice and I know him very well,” he starts. “Believe me when I say I have never seen him more committed to anything than he is to you, my dear.”

She peers up at him briefly, and then back down to the soiled handkerchief in her hands. It’s easier to focus on other things when her face is flushed pink.

Hanneman continues, “I know what it takes to renounce one’s nobility – I’ve committed the act myself a long time ago. You give up almost everything. The people you call family, inheritance, prestige and status, the place you consider home, even a bit of yourself...” He shakes his head solemnly. “…it’s unfortunate. Despite all of that, at the end of the day, you are still the selfish one.”

Her gaze is trained to the wooden table, but she’s listening.

“My point is, I am certain Linhardt sacrificed much to be here.”

She blinks twice and looks up. “What are you insinuating?”

Her inquiry is blunt, but it’s not meant to accuse or invoke tension. The entire exchange has her squirming in her seat, even if he’s only protecting him.

“I am simply curious of his motivations,” the older man explains, meeting her gaze. “That boy is difficult to inspire and persuade, and I’ve seen it firsthand. I thought maybe you’ve done something to fuel his sudden ambition.”

She narrows her eyes. “I always assumed he took this up on his own volition, but I’m also willing to admit it’s a little far-fetched. If you’re wondering about monetary incentives, I’m not paying him or doing him any favours.”

“I never even wondered such a thing.”

She considers the idea once more. “…is it something I should be thinking about?”

“Heavens I hope not, or I would be sorely disappointed,” he scoffs.

“So what is it then?”

“You tell me.” Hanneman arches a single brow and presses further, “You said yourself the nature of your relationship is strictly business. Nothing personal beyond your collegiate partnership. Isn’t that right?”

Lysithea processes the complicated thought and attempts understanding for herself, wondering why this conversation keeps circling back on itself. The reason she keeps finding herself here.

Why do I feel like running.

She crumbles underneath his sharper gaze. “…that’s right.”

He leans back in his seat. “What’s your take on it?”

The question lingers.

“I don’t know,” she tells honestly, after a pause.

Silence envelopes them briefly.

“My apologies, child. I don’t mean to push you.” His gloved hand goes to her shoulder, and when she chances a second glance, his gaze is visibly softer. “It just warms this old man’s heart to see two of his students here at the monastery. There hasn’t been this much excitement since…well, a long time.”

She sighs, “Do you have to be so meddlesome?”

He feigns an affronted expression. “Can you blame a researcher for inquiring? I was simply…stating my observations, if you will. Did it come off as imposing? Forgive me.” His lips tug to a small smirk under his moustache. Unapologetic, despite what he says. “I admit. Occasionally I delight in wishful thinking. You see, Linhardt reminds me of my younger self. Fascinated with crestology, how it shapes the world’s foundation and transforms the individuals within it. Regrettably, I missed things because of it. The more I devoted myself to research, the more other dreams slipped further from my reach.”

Lysithea frowns and raises a brow.

“Before I pass from this world, it would give me great gratification to know he pursued such dreams. This applies for you as well, actually. Chase your ambitions, but don’t skip on life. You should get married, take care of each other, and have children. Research is its own reward, but I believe there are greater, more joyful things in life. Take this as advice from your old teacher and mentor.”

“Your advice is oddly specific,” she points out.

He laughs, characteristically barky, but jolly nonetheless. “I expect an invitation to your wedding when it comes.”

She breathes a lengthy exhale and loses her patience. Hasty, she downs the remainder of the hot tea and gathers her papers in her arms.

“That’s enough. I am done indulging in your strange and improbable fantasies–”

“Improbable? I beg to differ.”

“–I have little time as it is! We need to get back to work.”

He smirks at her attempt at scolding. Young, impulsive and puppy-like. A coping mechanism, he realizes. He indulges her anyway, gathering a portion of her file and adjusting his monocle.

“As you wish, my dear.”

----------

Lysithea is in the middle of bookmarking old texts when she hears it. A small gasp, barely even an audible breath, in the midst of the crest analyzer’s machinal sounds. She peers to the side to investigate the small commotion, observing the subtleties in Linhardt’s bare expression.

“What is it?”

He swallows hard and stares with furrowed brows. “This sample, it’s…crestless.”

His lack of energy casts a measure of doubt, but she strides over anyway. Wordlessly, he hands her the glass slide containing a drop of her blood and she runs it through the analyzer herself.

She waits.

Nothing.

No symbols appears before her.

No Charon.

No Gloucester.

No crest.

The blood is pure.

She feels her stomach drop. Her knees grow weak. She pans over to green-haired man, who jots down notes with a nonchalant flair. For someone who just reached his first real breakthrough, he is severely lacking in enthusiasm. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion.

“What does this mean?” she asks.

“It means we’re moving in the right direction,” he says blandly, not looking up.

She blinks at his aloofness, wondering what goes on in that tired and brilliant mind.

Linhardt finishes writing, flips the book shut and yawns into his hand. He finds her muddled expression.

“I’m not satisfied just yet,” he explains quietly. “On the bright side, it seems the formula I used on this particular sample yields promising results. I’m willing to test it on others to ensure it has the same effectiveness.”

He’s withholding himself, it seems. Saving the joy until the work is finished.

“I could draw more blood,” she offers, matching his tone.

He gives her a sheepish frown. She hides bruised arms under her sleeves.

“Please and thank you.”

She turns on her heel, and he catches her wrist when he realizes what she’s doing.

“It can wait until later. You’re tired,” he says. “I have to compound the serum again anyway, which will take time.”

He offers her a smile and she returns it.

----------

The three of them continue to work on this breakthrough. Linhardt, after studying the entirety of her file, is approaching the research with a medical lens. It’s apparent her crests were introduced like toxins to the bloodstream. She either rejected the virus and died, or survived the implants, forcing her crests to co-exist in one body. He intends to remove it the same way, coming up with a formula to dissolve her crests, akin to an antibiotic treating bacteria and disease.

Hanneman almost forgets he’s a proficient healer, well-versed in medicine and its properties.

That’s how they got here. Linhardt sitting on a chair, visibly pale and nauseous, hesitating to offer his arm. He was the one who suggested it – he and Hanneman offering their own blood to the cause, and hoping the recipe can eliminate their crests as well.

“I’m ready. Give me your arm,” she says.

“Please be gentle. The sight of blood makes me uncomfortable.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been working with blood for several months now.”

“That’s different. I dislike watching it spill from the body, especially my own. I should add that needles are frightening as well.”

She gives him an annoyed look, hoping it’s enough to get her message across.

“Do you want the sample or not?”

“I do.”

“Then get over it. It would have been done by now if you stopped whining.”

He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and finally stretches his arm. As she rolls his sleeves up, another thought flashes and he whips back the limb.

“Linhardt!”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t poke hard. I’m lightheaded as it is.”

He’s pouting, the most childish he’s become as of late.

“If you stay still, it won’t hurt as much.”

He gives her a suspicious eye.

She decides to change tack, softens her gaze and bends down so they’re at eye level. “Hey, I’m good at this, remember? It’ll be quick. You can trust me. I’ve done it on myself several times already.”

The reminder is stinging and leaves with him little choice and room to complain. This time, he offers his arm without another word.

The process is seamless and efficient, just as she promised. His veins stand out against his pale skin and he doesn’t tense when she rubs alcohol on it. He looks away and holds his breath when she punctures his skin. For him, it seems like an eternity until the needle is finally removed, and replaced with the pressure of her fingers. He lets out a long sigh of relief, and sinks down in his seat as if he’s been through a terrible ordeal.

He finally has the courage to look up and finds a smirk on her face.

“What?” he asks.

She removes her gloves and pats his head like she’s proud of him. “Such a good boy. I knew you could do it.”

He scoffs, “I am not a child.”

She laughs, and tips her head to a box on the nearby table. “I got you sweet pastries from town as a reward. Do you want it or not?”

He lights up, betraying himself. He doesn’t think he’s enjoyed her company more. “Yes, please.”

----------

The next step is obvious: a trial.

They’ve agreed to everything so far, but now there are three branches of thought.

Linhardt prefers to experiment with other crest-containing blood samples, reasoning they lack a sample size worthy of definite conclusion.

Hanneman insists on keeping the research between the three of them. This experiment will not be approved in the eyes of people in power, except maybe Edelgard herself.

Lysithea is growing increasingly impatient. Many months have passed since she’s made the monastery her second home and she pushes for the trial herself.

After much hesitation and few heated debates, they agree to one trial. The infirmary is turned upside down. It takes an entire day to prepare the room and concoct the mixture. Beds are moved, shelves restocked and the space is nearly emptied. A plan is devised if things go awry and her body rejects the serum. They don’t have the luxury of test subjects, Lysithea being the only one.

For all the irony in the world, the procedure is alike to blood reconstruction surgery itself. Linhardt admits he took inspiration from the mages to devise the method.

“If you have discomfort, I need to know. You have a penchant for acting stronger than you feel,” he says rather bitterly.

She stops poking around her arm for a vein and glances at the green-haired scholar. Unusually tight-lipped, rigid features on his face and posture incredibly stiff. He’s handling his instruments with a chaotic energy, revealing a side of him that hardly surfaces. He’s irritable and exasperated, which is far from his usually lax demeanor. She’s only seen it a handful of times.

“You agreed to this,” she reminds, matching his tone.

He still cannot look her in the eye. “Not willingly.”

“Don’t start with me,” she warns, keeping her voice low. “We fought about this already.”

He shrugs with nonchalance, and from her perspective, it’s kind of infuriating.

“Hmm. I still think we should wait,” he says, just for the sake of reminding her.

She tries to smile, but it comes off sarcastic and phony. She wonders how apparent it is how much she wants to pull her hair out right now.

“Too late,” she says, knowing how petty it sounds. “It’s happening today.”

“You can still back down. I won’t blame you,” he offers again.

She shakes her head and counters with a firm and decisive, “No. I won’t do that.”

He heaves with frustration and finally looks down at her. She meets his intense blue glare with as much defiance she can muster.

“You’re being impossible. I’m starting wonder if you’re doing this to spite me,” he delivers harshly, in a way he’ll probably regret later. Afterwards, he mutters some excuse about retrieving something from the lab and leaves the room in a matter of seconds.

In the deafening silence that follows, she stares down at the floor, heart suddenly weak and eyes glassy. Her breath is shaky as it comes out. Just as she expects, the feeling of scorn quickly fades into nothing, leaving a pained and bleak disposition in its place. She rubs her eyes before she crumples into a sobbing mess. These recent spats all end the same way. Her coming up empty, instead of angry.

“This will mean nothing later,” Hanneman reassures, suddenly beside her. “Both of you are stubborn. You only fight because you care for each other. If it helps, try to remember what got you here in the first place.”

Her breaths even out slowly. “…I don’t want to fight anymore.”

He shrugs. “You have to work it out somehow. Waiting is safe, but there’s no use dallying and delaying progress either.”

“Am I being unreasonable?” she asks in a whisper.

Hanneman sucks in a breath, and contemplates for a moment.

“It’s…difficult to say. I’m sorry, child. I don’t have all the answers.”

They resume in silence. She tries to pretend it never happened and connects herself to the machine. Linhardt returns a few minutes later, all traces of hardness on his face gone.

She tries not to look his way, except when he stands in front of her.

Their expressions mirror each other; remorseful and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers first.

She shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I’m the one pushing you.”

He dismisses it with a shrug. “We’re in this together.”

It eases few of her worries, enough to breathe easy. He gestures for her to take a seat so he can prime the infusion. She obliges without complaint.

“Tell me if you feel anything.”

“I will.”

After what seems like an eternity, it finally starts running. Linhardt gives her a quick onceover before taking the seat beside the professor, opening his book for notetaking.

Somehow, it feels like her last day on earth. She’s waited and dreamed of this since being told her days were numbered. Lysithea shakes her head, tries to throw off the memories.

Fifteen minutes in, there’s a sting in her arm where the needle is located. She tries not to hiss at the pain, but it becomes difficult to hide.

Hanneman sits up, the first to notice. “What’s wrong?”

She grits her teeth. “My arm is sore, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Linhardt stands, puts away his notebook. “We should stop it.”

“No! I can take it. This is–”

She stops as an abrupt, sharp pain sears the nerves up to her shoulder. It’s burning all of a sudden, and flaring with heat and spasm. Lysithea doesn’t scream, just a gasp and a choked-off cry, but somehow that makes it worse. She winces and folds in on herself.

He stops the machine and disconnects the tubing. That alone eliminates the sharp edge of the burn, but leaves a throbbing cramp in its wake. She collapses backwards in her seat, arm splayed limp beside her.

He’s giving her a look or reprimand, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one.

“Lysithea. This isn’t about being brave or strong. We only have one shot. If something happens to you, all of this would be for nothing,” he lectures softly, bending down to inspect for bruising or damage.

Hanneman hums in agreement and rises to stretch his arms. “The boy is right. Do not feel inclined to work beyond your limits. Our situation is risky enough as it is.”

She has no reason to get defensive. As far as she’s concerned, this is what she needs to hear. Beside her, she spies the faint glow of light. His magic is familiar to her now. She knows the feel of it: languid, light and listless. It induces a drowsy aftermath and she’s passed out from it before. It’s the work of his crest. Before she succumbs to its effects, she peers down at her partner.

“I really thought it would work,” she whispers, fighting the wave of exhaustion casted by the spell.

His gaze is surprisingly soft. “We’ll have to rework the formula,” he says quietly. Biting his lip, he casts his gaze down to her arm. “There’s a caustic burn on your skin. I’ll heal the nerves as best as I can, but I’m not sure about the scarring…”

She shrugs loosely. “It doesn’t matter.”

He says nothing back, watching as she enters a trance, wilting and slowly yielding to slumber.

“Can you be here when I wake up?” she asks, fighting off another yawn and blinking heavy eyelids.

He tilts his head to one side at the inquiry.

“Okay.”

It’s the last thing she hears before her vision goes blank.

----------

She’s plagued by nightmares, not waking until she’s seeing red and a silent scream is somehow working its way up her throat.

She lunges up from her bed, clutches the material in front of her chest and finds herself breathless. Her back is drenched with sweat and her hands are shaking. She stares blank at the window pane, catching sight of clouds filtering the light of the stars and moon. It casts a dark shadow upon the monastery and the surrounding forests. Slowly, the nightmare leaves her.

After that, she sighs. Lysithea looks down at her arms, one of them sporting an ugly reddened bruise and the other hooked up to a tube. Her gaze lazily flits upwards, finding herself linked to an assortment of fluids. Her head throbs wildly, more so than the fresh burn she acquired from the trial.

She’s alone, but hears the soft whirring of machinery across the hall. Mustering the strength to go, she drags the pole along with her and stops at the front of Hanneman’s office.

“You shouldn’t read in the dark,” she pipes up quietly. “It hurts your eyes.”

Linhardt startles and jerks lightly in the dim candlelight. He inhales deeply, and snaps his book shut.

“You should go back to sleep.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe later.”

He eyes her curiously, a long blue stare. “A nightmare, then.”

She shudders, and then absently presses her fingers against her throat where there’s a pulse. A cold shiver runs up her spine. Linhardt watches idly, staring into her eyes with question.

“It’s odd. I used to have nightmares about ghosts in my room, showing up late for class, or losing my teeth,” Lysithea starts softly, ignoring the constant thrumming in her head. “Nowadays, they’re more about feeling lonely, or losing control, or dying.”

He raises a brow. “Are you scared of dying?”

“I guess so,” she says, mild annoyance seeping through. She purses her lips, then shifts her gaze to the bookshelves. “It’s strange. I was going to die in those dungeons, and the only reason I didn’t was because I was so determined to see what life I could have outside of it, even if it meant surviving my crests. Gosh, I wanted to live so much, and still ended up dying.”

She says it with a hollow lightness, as if the whole thing can be a laughing matter. And then she’s shaking her head and rubbing her face.

“I’ve been counting my days ever since, and I’m sick of it. I’m so hopeless, and bitter, and lonely, and yet…I am still so, so terribly scared.”

Linhardt gazes with a rare tenderness. No words come to mind, so he says nothing.

Inevitably, there’s a long pause.

She drops her arms and unclenches her fists. Her expression is weary. “Do you have nightmares?”

He nods. “Occasionally. Mostly they are bloody visions of war – I wake up thinking I’m still in the throes of battle. To cheer myself up, I imagine myself lying down on a field of grass, in a place where I’m free to sleep, fish, or eat sweets whenever I please.”

She chuckles softly, “That sounds just like you.”

“Does your head hurt? I can help.”

“No, not right now. That magic of yours is like a sedative, and I…” She inhales and picks at her fingers, unsure how to say it. “I’d rather we just…stay, even for a short time.”

The air is so quiet and delicate she wants to bask in it. The lighting is dark, atmosphere thick but not stilted, and the whirring machinery drums like white noise. It’s just the two of them, but the silence is easy and comforting. They’ve let go of their posturing a long time ago. This is the most peace she’s felt in months.

This is what she means to say, even if he doesn’t get it.

He nods, and she’s grateful. Moving her metal pole in front of the sofa, she settles herself comfortably beside him and curls her legs underneath. He brushes off her earlier protest and picks up his book again, reading against the dim candlelight. Eventually she caves and tugs at his sleeve. Wordlessly, he settles the book in the middle so she can read for herself. The rest of the night is filled with silence.

He understands enough.

----------

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #linhardt von hevring #linhardt #lysithea von ordelia #lysithea #post-war #post-canon #post-game #fire emblem fanfiction

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minttoy · 4 years

Text

Daylight (Ch 2)

CHAPTER TWO

Summary: “She spent so much time counting her days. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.” - Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war.

Pairings: Linhardt/Lysithea

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

“Are you sure you can do this?” Lysithea asks again.

“I’m sure,” Linhardt says, not even sparing her a glance.

She’s sitting on a chair in his motel room, watching as he prepares for the blood draw. He lays his instruments out in meticulous fashion. Alcohol and gauze one side of the table, followed by needlework and labelled vials. He’s ready, but only in theory, she thinks. Perhaps he’s changed, but during wartimes, he used to turn his eyes from an open wound or slashed shoulder. Truly he could heal blindfolded if he wanted to.

“I warn you. This will be the first of many,” he reminds, but she figured as much. “I wish it weren’t so, but if I am going to get rid of your crests, I should think of them as blood-borne contagions.”

She nods. Her arm is already lying palm side up on the table, sleeves rolled up to her shoulder.

He pauses again, takes a moment to glance over her. He takes another deep breath, which makes five now, because she’s been counting.

He definitely cannot do this.

Some inane part of her allows him to try anyway.

He punctures her skin with surprising ease, but the façade quickly disappears. Blood flashes in the hub of the needle and his face starts to pale. Maybe a little green too.

“Linhardt…?”

He looks away, tries to get a hold of himself.

“…I’m fine,” he gulps out, sounding every bit uncertain. He quickly fights off the light-headedness and looks again, but that’s all he can take.

Hindsight is always perfect. His grip on her arm slackens and the other goes to his head. She acts faster than he does. The loose needle is discarded and she reaches for his arm to stop him from swaying. She stands, decides quick she won’t risk walking him to bed and just eases him to the floor instead.

He passes out before he reaches the ground.

She curses him for ignoring his limits and chides herself for letting him try. When she stands back up to observe her work – Linhardt lying unconscious on the damn carpet – she only shakes her head.

Troublesome, she thinks. How he managed to survive the horrors of war is a growing mystery.

Over the next while, his breathing becomes slow and deep, and he probably feels a little disconnected from the world (sleeping). She doesn’t bother with worrying. Instead, she steps over him and revels in silence until he wakes.

Ten minutes later, he jolts upwards from his short-lived nap. His eyes are wide and confused, wondering how he ended up on the floor. When he turns, she’s quietly wiping down the table with a rag. The smell of alcohol and disinfectant finds his nostrils. On the table, his vials are stacked neatly and filled with red. All that blood and she doesn’t look the least faint.

“It’s done,” she pipes up, finally looking down at him. She flicks the dirty rag in his direction, which doesn’t look threatening at all. “We need to establish some house rules. From now on, I will be doing the blood draws while you wait outside. You are too fragile for the job.”

His stares agape for a second. No one likes to be called fragile, not when he’s been forced into the throes of war for five years. The feeling dissolves quickly, because she’s right. The hardened look on her face softens too.

“I’m sorry, Lysithea,” he says, because it feels necessary.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Later, he pulls out his microscope and notebook. As he works in silence, Lysithea runs her hand over the analyzer and watches as her patterned crests glow and oscillate before her. She gazes at them stoically, her mind caught between acceptance and loathing. When she chances a glance back at Linhardt, his gaze veers to her. His face is calculating and thoughtful and when she asks what he’s thinking, he says nothing.

----------

Days turn into weeks. She spaces her visits and splits her time between him and work at home. Sometimes he requires her participation and sometimes she watches him work. It’s not a bother. She uses the time to finish her errands around town anyway.

She learns quickly when Linhardt is interested in something, time becomes a long forgotten concept. It’s strange. He neglects himself to make room for research, showing her a side she’s never seen. He becomes incredibly productive, burns his way through textbooks and writes pages of notes until all the ink has run dry.

She doesn’t expect it to become a problem, but with Linhardt, she finds herself picking her battles. He either sleeps or works for three days straight. There is no in-between.

“Ridiculous,” Lysithea grumbles to herself, just after she opens the door to his room. She suspects he’s intentionally leaving his door open because he’s gotten too lazy to open it for her.

He’s dozing off at his desk, cheek pressed against a book and snoring lightly. He was sitting there last night when she warned him against overworking his mind. If the unopened dinner plate on the counter is any indication, he passed out from exhaustion.

She keeps his well-being in mind as she attempts to introduce a semblance of a normal lifestyle in him – eating regularly and sleeping at night, ludicrous as it sounds. One would think a grown man can keep track of time and care for himself.

Naturally, she becomes familiar with his habits. He has a small appetite. He always feels cold no matter the weather. He enjoys the pastries they sell next door. She knows when he’s tired, when she can bother him for breaks and when she cannot. Nowadays, she tries to tell apart the differences in his barest expressions. If he notices at all how dependent he’s become, it doesn’t show.

----------

“Why are you doing this?”

Lysithea is gazing out the window when she realizes she’s never asked. They’re sitting across each other at a homegrown restaurant, mostly out of necessity. He’s grown a shade paler being cooped up in his room with no sun. He resisted stubbornly, of course, and it’s embarrassing how much coaxing it took on her part to get him outside.

Linhardt looks up briefly from his book, and then turns the page. “I was under the impression you wanted your crests removed.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is that enough?”

He shrugs. “It’s one reason. Do you think I acted foolishly?”

“Giving up your title and inheritance for the sake of research? Maybe a little. I figured you would prefer to live comfortably.”

He closes his eyes and flips his book shut. For a moment, she wonders if she crossed a line.

“I doubt it would have been comfortable,” he says softly, pondering the idea. “I was never cut out for noble duties, and the months I spent under my father’s roof were nearly unbearable. By choosing research, I thought I was doing everyone a favour. It seemed simple enough.”

“Hmm. That’s not simple,” she murmurs, wishing he wouldn’t minimize it.

Linhardt sits forward and props his chin on a hand. He looks at her thoughtfully, like he’s trying to read her, and it makes her uneasy. He’s been doing it a lot lately.

“Tired?” she asks, just to break silence.

He yawns into his hand, and then folds his arms over the table before burying his face into them. He uses his book for a makeshift pillow. She rolls her eyes when he’s not looking. This is the part where she should scold him, but sometimes she lets him have his way.

----------

Lysithea paces the floor, seems to burns a hole with every step.

When she casually slipped in that her parents were inviting him to dinner again, Linhardt didn’t even look up from his reading. He gave her a calm and collected ‘sure’ and proceeded to turn the page. His aloofness irks her most of the time, but now she wishes she were more like that.

She’d debated picking him up – he will sleep through anything if given the chance – but he arrives in time. Even with him here, she just can’t shake off the nervous energy. She knows her predicament is rather unconventional – she desperately wants them to get along, but not for reasons many would assume. They will ask if he’s come across any breakthroughs. They might suspect hidden intentions beyond research – goddess knows she has suspicions of her own – but uncomfortable as it is, they should get to know the person who’s trying to lengthen her life, maybe even save it.

Fortunately he’s polite enough. He’d been raised a noble after all. Besides his insomniac habits, there’s little to question about his general manners and speech.

“I’ve been interested in crests for as long as I can remember,” Linhardt pipes up when he’s asked. “Strange how they seem to govern our world, but also divide the people within it.”

Her father studies him for a small moment. “You must be speaking of crest inheritance.”

Linhardt nods once. “Right. Most people believe that crests are goddess-given blessings. Those of us in possession of one are thought to be closer to the goddess herself, both in blood and power, because it allows us to use her gifts and talents.”

Beside him, Lysithea starts picking at her food. She’s listening, but her mind seems far away from here.

“I speak of magic, of course, in the case of Lysithea and myself,” continues Linhardt. He rubs an itch from his eye to ward off fatigue. “…Other gifts are not so easily seen. Carrying pounds of heavy armor and feeling nothing at all. Possessing great sight and wisdom. Even a crest’s uncanny ability to shape one’s personality.”

Lysithea’s father indulges enough. “What brings you here?”

Linhardt frowns at his drink and keeps his tone soft. “…Personally, I don’t believe humans were fit to possess crests in the first place.”

Finally, Lysithea looks up at him. She doesn’t interrupt.

He sighs softly and sets aside his plate. Already his appetite has come and gone. “For those born with a crest, the cost often lives in inheritance. We see it all the time; families split apart, favouritism amongst siblings, noble daughters auctioned off for financial gains…” Linhardt’s looking down at his hands now, and considers his next words carefully. “…Blood reconstruction itself is an age-old practice, but I believe it proves how human blood is highly incompatible with a crest’s natural power. Many have suffered and died from it, and even those who survive don’t leave unscathed.”

There’s silence afterwards. A beat. They shift their gazes across the room, anywhere but each other. Perhaps the consequences are better left unsaid.

No one says anything back, or even stops him from talking, so he finishes his explanation.

“It’s only a theory,” he says, throwing in an unconcerned shrug. “Besides, crest removal could open new frontiers in research. It could also help people like Lysithea, who I care enough about to make it possible.”

Lysithea’s lips pull a little, almost a smile. She glances at her parents and reads the interest in their eyes. There’s skepticism too, and maybe even some wonderment. Linhardt can easily take up hours of conversation explaining the mere history of crests in Fódlan.

They pause to clean up and move to the living room, but the questions don’t stop. He seems more than willing to oblige. She doesn’t mind, because there’s something unspeakably enchanting about listening to someone speak with conviction and a deep-rooted knowledge. It never comes off as dry and uninteresting. One would never guess Linhardt slept through all his lectures at the monastery.

As the night goes on, she finds herself observing the details of his face instead. The colour of his hair, his skin, the lines of concentration in his eyes when her childhood is brought up. The politeness with which he responds makes her feel warm, and she wonders for the first time if she’s attracted to him – if this is what attraction even feels like. When he glances over her, her heart does an uncanny flip. There is a weight on her chest she cannot explain.

Lysithea falls asleep when he ventures to the Nabateans. It’s a story she already knows, one he shared with her on a rainy afternoon.

Later, she wakes to a dim candlelight. Before uncurling her stockinged legs underneath her, she listens for the quiet whispers at the door. She peeks discreetly, seeing Linhardt with his coat on and speaking in hushed tones with her father. Their conversation ends quickly. Linhardt bows, turns his heel and her father closes the door behind him. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up.

Her gaze goes over to his form. “What were you talking about just now?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, dear, but your friend is quite the historian.”

She smiles and picks herself up.

“You truly believe he can do as he says?” he pipes up, always the more skeptical one.

Tired as she is, her voice is firm. “I do.”

He says nothing for the rest of the night. No challenge this time, and she’s glad for it.

----------

The following week, she follows her usual routine. Walk the long distance into town, knock on his door, turn the knob to find it’s already unlocked and then find him either sleeping soundly or holed up in his next reading.

Today is different. She finds him standing by the window, eyes glued to a letter in his hands. She peeks around his arm to see who it’s from.

“Professor Hanneman?” she asks, recognizing his signature. “Is everything okay?”

He hands her the letter.

“They’ve uncovered a multitude of documents from the Agarthan base, some of which could be of use to us,” he explains casually, gathering his notes scattered across the table.

“Hmm. What kind of documents?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Many of them concern experimentations.”

She looks up then, and casts a doubtful expression. His expression doesn’t change.

“Your file is one of them,” he says, answering the question in her mind. “Professor Hanneman is holding onto it, but has not read it. He will not do so without your permission.”

She sighs and tugs at her sleeves for a bit. “Well, I have little reason to refuse. If it furthers your research, I won’t hinder it.” She makes her up mind easily, expression more resolute now. “Please tell him to dissect it however he sees fit.”

Linhardt doesn’t smile or nod. He acknowledges her with an arched brow and a curious expression. It makes her a little uneasy, like he’s trying to read her thoughts.

“I have other news for you,” he changes the subject. “There is no easy way to say it, but I’ve done most of what I need to do here. I’m going back to the monastery to meet with Professor Hanneman and discuss my findings. I’m also interested in reading those documents as well, if you let me.”

This surprises her more than the letter. “You’re leaving?”

“In a sense, yes, but I was wondering if you would come with me? It would relieve the hassle of going back and forth, and I’m sure Professor Hanneman would be delighted to see you. You could tell him yourself he’s allowed to read over your files.”

Her nervous energy spikes, and unconsciously her fingers start worrying with the edge of her tunic.

“I…don’t know,” she says honestly. “I’d have to run it by my parents first.”

He reacts without judgment. “I understand. Don’t feel rushed to make a decision now.”

----------

The Myrddin stables are populated primarily by tourists travelling between territories, merchants selling their wares, mercenaries looking for new contracts and hunters scouting for beast locations. The rooms are crowded enough, loud with guests coming and going. Lysithea’s tapping her fingers at the front desk, waiting impatiently for their room key. They were lucky enough to haggle for a room.

Their room is at the end of the hall. Lysithea settles herself on the desk and wonders if she should write to her parents. Linhardt is quick to claim the bed after dumping his belongings on one side of the floor, eager and glad to be off the road after three days of travelling. She doesn’t have the energy to scold him or even shoot him a disapproving glance.

In the afternoon, she peruses the merchant stalls and grabs something ready-made for dinner. Some of them are curious why a girl her age is travelling alone without an escort. She tells them she’s a tourist passing through, unwilling to give out specifics.

When she returns, Linhardt is in the same spot where she left him. She glares at his sleeping form, unsure why it irks her nerves. Maybe it’s the fact that her bones are aching, or the weather is getting cold, or she’s simply frustrated. She wonders how he will fare on his own when this is finished.

She nudges his shoulder. “Linhardt.”

No response.

She pokes his cheek. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

She picks up one of his arms and gives it a tug. Finally, he stirs and opens one bleary eye. “Hmm. Just five more minutes…”

She rolls her eyes and turns with a huff. Dinner is prepared none too gently, and she pushes his share to the corner of the desk. Afterwards she stews over her plate to will off the steam. “Tch, wasting my time…” Her knife digs a little too deep into the piece of meat. “I don’t have many years left and this is how I’m spending it.”

She’s unable to pinpoint the source of this pent-up frustration either. Taking care of Linhardt is only a part of it. She misses her home and her parents. Being on the road has not been easy. Her headaches have worsened. She hides her jealousy when she watches Linhardt perform magic without struggle. There are documents with details of her experimentations waiting at the monastery. She hates counting her days.

She also cannot explain why all of this is surfacing now.

There’s a rustle from behind and she hides her face from the candlelight.

He pads over and leans against the desk, tries to make out her face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She brushes it off, but the air is still stricken with tension. “Nothing.”

He tilts his head. “You’re upset.”

“I am,” she admits easily, with too much emotion. She slumps on the back of the chair. There are pangs of pain growing steadily at the front of her head. She doesn’t know if they’re because of her crests, or the war, or if it goes back further than that. Maybe everything.

She presses her fingers to her temples in a self-soothing manner, but nothing can erase the bitter memories.

“Headache?”

She nods enough to get across.

He replaces her fingers with his and spurs a soft healing incantation. His magic has always been warm and inviting. Infused and touched with light. Like a sweep of a soft breeze, or standing steady on ocean waves. It’s the nature of his crest. Hers has always burned like lightning, corrosive even to her own fingertips. Her hands were never meant to heal.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he mutters, and for a split second, she wonders if he’s read her mind.

Her head dips in drowsiness. “Sorry.”

He sighs softly, and continues his ministrations. Somewhere along the line, she stops thinking and worrying altogether and allows his light-infused magic to spill over her.

----------

Walking through the monastery gates feels like coming home.

The cathedral is still in ruin. The rubble is gone, but the space is empty. Pews and tapestries are missing. Statues have rusted. The atmosphere is hollow. Symbolic, she thinks, for the state of the church, but other parts of the school have been rebuilt.

She returns to her old room where she can’t help but settle. Drop her bags at the door, sweep a finger over her desk, slide over the dusty curtains. There’s a window in her head where she sees herself – late nights spent studying, scribbling notes, muttering spells and formulas in her sleep. How bittersweet to know many of the students who once housed these dorms are long gone. She’d been one of the lucky ones.

Her reminiscing is cut short as she makes for the research lab, but instead she finds them in the board room. Hanneman trifles through boxes stacked against the corner of the room and Linhardt fiddles with instruments scattered across the table.

“Ah, here it is!” the older man pipes up, heaving a stack of papers onto the surface. He adjusts his monocle for a better read. “Come, Lysithea. I believe this is your file.”

She looks in his direction, and then down to the offending papers. She steps forward and hesitates before taking her seat. She racks her brain and tells herself to pull it together. Hanneman slides the bulky folder to her and closely gauges her reaction.

“Perhaps you’d like to read it another time? No rush, my dear,” Hanneman interjects.

Lysithea fixes her mind on the truth, uncomfortable as it is. “No, I want to.”

Another moment of hesitation, and she finally opens the damn thing.

Her attention is drawn to the number stamped next to her name, and even though she expects it, it still stings the back of her eyes. The description written below piques her interest. Her hair had been lavender purple. Stature short and skinny. Tender age of four years old. Crestless. No affinity for magic or weaponry, at least not yet. She had other siblings.

Ah, damn it.

She doesn’t remember much about the mages in dark robes and masks, but she remembers how it hurt. She’d been reduced to a tool, often bribed with the idea of coming home, or seeing her parents again. But as a child, she had no way of knowing. Instead, she struggled to please, because obedience was rewarded – she was a good girl, the night was pain-free and she lived another day. She thought it normal, unaware how children were supposed to be raised.

Linhardt is reading over her shoulder and interrupts before she flips the page. His question is a silent inquiry, and she doesn’t lie. She moves her chair to make room and he pulls one over. She’s glad for the reprieve and company.

They take it day by day, in a literal sense. The mages documented meticulously, and it will take days to read each and every progress note. At the time, Lysithea wasn’t counting. Minutes stretched into hours, which turned into weeks. Time had been measured in the magic she learned – the moment she awakened Gloucester’s power, or the first time Charon singed her hands, or the multitude of times she failed to call either of them.

Hanneman leaves the room eventually. She hears his footsteps echoing in the hall, and somehow knows he won’t be back until next morning.

She makes it to Day 90 before the words start blurring into each other. She’s tired of sitting. Her back and shoulders hurt. She feels her eyes drooping. At one point, Linhardt has gone ahead of her. He has a pile set aside for records he intends to reread later and she marvels at his focus and concentration – such a strange enigma.

She tugs the end of his sleeve, rises from her seat and then neatly tucks in her chair.

“Leaving?” he mutters softly.

She nods and stretches her arms. “It’s late. Come with me? We can pick it up tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll stay.”

She gives him a tired onceover. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her mind goes to her room, still covered in dust. When she tells him good night, she catches his expression – solemn and earnest. Maybe the passages have sunk too deep. She squeezes his hand on her way out, just to let him know she’s not there anymore.

----------

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #linhardt von hevring #linhardt #lysithea von ordelia #lysithea #post-war #post-canon #post-game #fire emblem fanfiction

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

Daylight

CHAPTER ONE

Summary: “She spent so much time counting her days. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.” - Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war.

Pairings: Linhardt/Lysithea

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

At the war’s conclusion, Lysithea comes up with the idea to plant daffodils in the monastery greenhouse.

Nothing seems more suitable than the soft, yellow-petal flower meant to symbolize new beginnings. With Edelgard’s new reign, Fódlan is due for a drastic change, including an overhaul of crest-related policies and caste systems. Lysithea can note with some measure of gladness that the value of crests should fall, but more so that the war is finished. No longer will she pay the toll of using two crests in battle.

Admittedly, she never frequented the greenhouse much in her academy days. Most of her free time was spent cooped up in the old and dusty library, or learning new spells. Nowadays, there is little need to return to her studies. She should learn how to garden instead, or cook and bake. Her family will have little to spare due to restoration efforts anyway.

In the greenhouse, the keeper teaches her to pick apart the weeds and suckers from healthy sprouts. She learns how deep to plant her daffodil bulbs, and how to predict which ones will grow. For the first time in her life, she gets on her knees and digs into the dirt. Soil gathers at her fingernails despite wearing gloves, but she doesn’t mind much. They work away in silence, time ticking away unnoticed.

Before long, a knock resounds the room. She glances up to find the green-haired sleepy crest scholar standing at the doorway and stifling a yawn.

“Lysithea? When you have a chance to talk, I would like a moment of your time.”

He sounds tired, but she cannot recall a time when he’s not. Her eyes drop to the leather suitcase sitting at his feet before she tells the greenhouse keeper it’ll only be for a few minutes. She discards her gloves and gives her hands a wash. Linhardt waits patiently, and only pushes himself off the door when she beckons him to follow.

They make the short trek to her room. She leaves the door open because she knows this won’t take long.

He starts off with a sigh. “A while ago, I made a promise to show you the results of my research. It disappoints me so, but as of currently, I have yet to determine a conclusive way to remove your crests.”

Lysithea leans on her desk and looks at him earnestly, even though she expected as much. Wartime left them with little time to indulge in personal matters.

He shakes his head. “…While I am certain it is still possible, I require more time. For now, it remains a work in progress and for that, I am terribly sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one. “You’ve done more than enough. The fact that you went out of your way to research in the first place…well, I’m grateful. I should be thanking you.”

Her words offer little ease to his dissatisfaction, because in truth, Linhardt has always had strong convictions of his own – it just lies dormant behind a façade of laziness and apathy. He tries to prove he doesn’t care, but failure is not an option for him, and he’d be damned if he had to settle for it. In this case, he might have to, and it shows.

She attempts another tack to ease his mind. “Considering the state of the church, there will be little need for crests anyway. I’m certain Edelgard will make it so.”

He gleans nothing from it. “But what of your life? The war has reached its end and your days are still numbered. It hardly seems fair.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

The two of them reach a standstill and she stares at him for a bit, wondering what he’s thinking.

Lysithea doesn’t know how to counter that so she doesn’t. Eventually she shifts her focus.

“I just remembered. I have something for you,” she pipes up, turning to her pack. After some rummaging, she fishes out a small bag of twine. “…I suppose you can consider it a gift, or maybe just something to remember me by.” She offers the bag to him, and he accepts it easier than she expects. “Just a few daffodil bulbs. I know it’s not much, but I had some to spare.”

“Hmm, daffodils. How fitting,” he acknowledges, inspecting it briefly before pocketing it in his coat.

“I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty, but I figure someone else could plant them for you.”

He gets a small laugh out of that one, not offended in the slightest bit. “You know me too well, but know that I appreciate the gesture. I’m afraid I didn’t prepare anything for you in return.”

She shakes her head and dismisses his concern. In retrospect, they’ve come a long way since their academy days. A time when she would, quite literally, run and hide if they passed through the halls. He’d corner her and ask uncomfortable questions. She would fire back rudely, and tell him not to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong. He even tricked her into revealing her secrets in the first place. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit then, but he’s changed for the better.

“Are you leaving?” She gestures to the suitcase at his feet.

His expression sours into a childish pout. “Indeed. As much as I don’t want to return, my father has been summoning me back to the manor since the war ended. It’s rather troublesome, seeing as I’d much prefer to stay here with Professor Hanneman and continue my research.”

She offers a smile. “Maybe you could – one day.”

“Perhaps. In the meantime, I want to request something of you.”

More probing and inquiries. She braces herself out of habit.

“Please write to me every now and then,” he requests, surprising her a bit. “Forgive my bluntness, but your situation is rather…precarious. It would give me great relief to know you’ve made it home safe and sound. If you’re busy, I understand. You could send an empty page and it would suffice.”

She cannot tell if he’s joking. “Will you write back?”

“Well, of course. If I have a breakthrough, how will I let you know otherwise?”

She eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. This could be the last she’ll see of him. Although she will never admit it out loud, she will miss him. As if coming to the same realization, he exhales deeply and then reaches for his bag.

“Goodbye, Lysithea.”

On his way out, he gently lifts her chin with a finger, tilts her face so she’s looking at him instead of the ground. He scours her features, as if committing them to memory, and then he lets go. Grievance lingers in his eyes as he leaves.

----------

To: Linhardt von Hevring

I write to inform you that I am home safe and sound, just as you asked.

Lysithea von Ordelia

----------

To: Lysithea von Ordelia

Thank you. Do take care of yourself.

Linhardt von Hevring

----------

She’s been home for nearly three months when Marianne pays her a visit. She stays for only four days, but Lysithea wishes it were longer. The nearest town is a three mile walk, which is a long way to go for social conversation. The house is also quiet, just the sounds of crackling fire and creaking floorboards. Even though she doesn’t consider her parents to be dull company, loneliness finds her fast.

Their yard hasn’t been tended to in years, so Lysithea takes it upon herself to remove the shrubs and greenery growing wild and unchecked. She trims them to proper size and weeds the grasses before they grow too large. It’s back-breaking work, she quickly learns, so Marianne’s offer to help is a welcome reprieve.

One day, they commit the long distance walk to town and return with flower and vegetable seeds in their baskets. Lysithea adds to her repertoire and plants more than just daffodils. Marianne teaches her what to do with the trimmed overgrowth – how to arrange bouquets with only shrubs and greens, or how to press petals and leaves onto sheets of parchment.

Once she leaves, Lysithea pens another letter to soothe her loneliness:

To: Linhardt von Hevring

I understand it’s been a while. Things are going well at home with the exception of one thing: I’m terrible at baking. Rations are difficult to measure. I burned my last attempt at pastries. My dough does not rise enough in the warmer. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. We’ve let go of our kitchen staff to keep afloat, but I miss the cakes and sweets they served at the monastery every Friday.

On a more positive note, I’ve started gardening. With Marianne’s help, I’ve planted honeysuckle shrubs and lilies in our yard. At least that was a success.

Hope all is well with you.

Lysithea von Ordelia

She slips her best pressed flower into the envelope and sends it off with the town courier.

----------

A package addressed to her name arrives one month later:

To: Lysithea von Ordelia

I will be honest and tell you my situation is rather troublesome. I’ve been forced to help with restoration efforts. As you can guess, I have no willpower to sort out bland paperwork, nor do I have the muscle to assist with repairs. I have argued as much, but reason seems to evade my father.

I have asked a gardener to plant your daffodils. I’ve also been sleeping to catch up on lost time. I have no advice to offer on baking, so feel free to find the answers to your questions in the cookbook I have sent.

Oh, and Edelgard stopped by. She hopes you are well and healthy.

Linhardt von Hevring

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To: Linhardt von Hevring

Sleeping, huh? Sounds like you. Don’t forget to eat as you sleep for two days straight. And please send Edelgard my regards when you see her next.

Lysithea von Ordelia

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To: Lysithea

How inconvenient for both of you to make me your messenger. Why not write letters to each other instead? It’s really quite simple.

Linhardt

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To: Linhardt

You can a stubborn pain sometimes, you know that?

Lysithea

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To: Lysithea

Yes, I have been well-informed.

Linhardt

She crumples the paper in her hands and rolls her eyes at his lackadaisical response. Linhardt is an intellectual, but comes off petty when he wants to be. And yet, in spite of it all, she also misses that part of him. Even after a year’s time, he crosses her mind every week, just to wonder what he’s doing, where he is, and how he’s coping with family affairs.

She mails her response a month later, and deposits it quick before she regrets it:

To: Linhardt

I miss you dearly. Although it is unlikely, I hope we see each other again.

Lysithea

----------

She waits one month. Two months, and then three.

She gets nothing back. Perhaps the last letter was a mistake.

The town mayor approaches her one day and she forgets it temporarily. Her neighbours know she used to attend Garreg Mach Academy, but what they don’t know is that she helped end the fight against an immaculate demon with origins older than Fódlan itself. She doubts anyone would believe her. Regardless, she’s asked to eliminate the giant wolf beast prowling in the town outskirts.

She accepts the mission mainly for compensation, but she doesn’t expect the struggle that comes with it. She knew eventually how her powers would wane, but she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Her miasma comes out in short sprouts and small doses, her swarm is sluggish and her seraphim is difficult to conjure. It might be her lack of practice. In the war, she overused these things until it became second nature. It also didn’t hurt as much. Now, only one day of use and her palms burn, her wrists hurt and her blood pulses unnaturally. Her crests fight for dominance, and she’s lost control of both of them.

She stumbles home that night coughing up blood and sputum. Her body weak and trembling, her mind ravaged with head pains. She’s bedridden for a few days and she’ll lose the battle to her crests if she continues to fight. For now, she wards off magic use indefinitely.

----------

Lysithea is coming down the stairs and hefting a laundry basket higher on her hip when the front door rings. It’s the courier, she thinks, to bring in their daily mail and paper. Dropping her basket, she wipes her hands across her apron and opens the door to a halting shock. He’s definitely not the postman she was expecting.

“L-Linhardt?”

He smiles at her, too casual for her liking, and follows up with a lazy hand wave. “Morning, Lysithea.”

Her shock morphs into disbelief. She sneaks a quick glance into the living room, where her parents are sorting out paperwork, and she lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m here to resume my research, of course,” he says so nonchalantly, as if it’s obvious.

She makes a quiet, but exasperated noise. His aloofness is less than helpful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at her strange. “Oh. Is this the first time you’re hearing this? I thought I informed you, or perhaps I forgot.”

“You forgot?” she repeats after him, raising her voice a little.

He puts a hand to his chin and thinks back several months prior. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t put it past myself, and it does sound like something I would do…I suppose it would also explain your lack of response.”

Lysithea drops her face into one hand and drags it all the way down. “Linhardt, I haven’t heard from you in months.”

He sighs and puts on his most sincere expression. “How callous of me. Please accept my apologies. I’ve spent the last few months at the monastery actually. It’s kept me awfully busy, but I needed to pick up a few supplies and research material from Professor Hanneman’s office.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“Oh, goodness no,” he says, repulsed by the thought of it. “I renounced my noble claim months ago. I’ve been released from duty, and figured I should try being a scholar instead. Clearly, I’m not fit to do much else, nor am I particularly interested.”

She bites her tongue and cools her rage. It occurs to her suddenly that he’s come to help her. She doesn’t even want to imagine what other sacrifices he’s made in order to be here.

“I will require your consent, of course,” he pipes up, sparking her curiosity. “As you know, my goal is to develop a safe process in which we can remove your crests, and for that I would also need your active participation.”

She figured as much. And while hesitation rings in her mind and heart – by now she’s already come to terms with her shortened lifespan – some part of her still clings on to hope, desperate and foolish as it might seem. Strange enough, it’s almost easier to be blissfully ignorant and think it impossible.

“Umm, I…” she starts, fingers worrying and fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. His gaze is patient and sincere, and the conviction written on his face makes her want to believe. She supposes she would be stupid to refuse. “…Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes with uncertainty.

She nods once. “Okay. I consent.”

He smiles. “Wonderful. To be honest, if you had refused, I would find myself in a very awkward and unfortunate situation.”

She’s about to dig in and ask what exactly prompted him to come all this way – goddess knows Linhardt is rarely motivated by anything – when the sound of footsteps draw near.

“Lysithea, dear? Who are you speaking to?”

Her mother enters the room and Lysithea prepares for the inevitable. Linhardt shoots her a look, silently asking if she prefers to make the introduction. She would, of course, because knowing him, he would go about it in the most nonchalant way possible, as if liberating someone from a cruel fate is no big deal.

----------

He’s invited for dinner that night.

As she helps with meal preparation, Lysithea quickly cuts and shoots down any suspicion that he’s seeking courtship. He is here for research and requires her help. They are nothing more than former classmates. They also don’t need to house him, seeing as he’s already made his own accommodations at the town inn.

Linhardt arrives at approximately sunset, dressed in warmer robes. As he parks his horse at the front, she observes him more carefully. His hair is tied half-up and half-down, but it’s wavy and loose now. On the other hand, his features are still as delicate and pretty as she remembers. He seems relatively optimistic, but she holds on to her doubts.

Unfortunately, the dinner doesn’t go as well as she hopes.

The two of them do their best to explain the nature of their relationship. He explains his desire to help her, and then proceeds tells them in the most humanizing way possible that she is his subject. Lysithea observes carefully, and finds a growing fear and apprehension hidden in her parents’ eyes; all of this is sounding an awful lot like the initial experimentations. She knows it’s not his fault, but the mere notion of crests and blood and transfusions can trigger the horrific experiences.

To spare them the atrocious memories, she puts a hand on Linhardt’s knee and stops him from explaining the process any further. It might not even help, because the damage is already done and the conversation has taken a turn. The atmosphere is tense and almost unbearable. For a split second, she wonders if she is foolish to hope.

She changes the topic then, going back to happier memories untouched by war. Their favourite professors, classes and days at the academy. None of it helps their cause, but she does it anyway.

When the sun sets, Linhardt thanks them for dinner and politely excuses himself, explaining he should return to the inn before the night turns pitch black. Lysithea throws on a coat and follows after him, if only to escape the stiff atmosphere lingering in their dining room.

“I’m sorry if I made a poor impression,” he says with sincerity.

She watches idly as he prepares his horse, her mind heavy and deep in thought. “It’s not your fault. I should have saw it coming. My parents…well, let’s just say the world hasn’t given them much reason to be hopeful.”

He raises a brow at her words. “That would explain their skepticism.”

She sighs and nods in agreement. “Don’t be discouraged by it.”

Linhardt just shakes his head. “Of course not. All the more reason to remove your crests, actually. That’s how I see it, at least.”

She focuses on the dirt ground, wondering if he’s oblivious to the confusion that clouds her mind when he says things like that. After a while, he pats the mare and deems her ready to go.

He must be tired, having travelled from Garreg Mach to Ordelia territory the past few days, so she doesn’t keep him for long. Knowing Linhardt, he needs as much sleep as he can get. Before he leaves, he plants a kiss on her cheek – his own way of telling her to keep faith.

Suddenly there’s a knot in her chest she can’t quite explain.

“For now, I only ask that you trust me,” he says softly.

Her expression softens and loses its edges. “Okay.”

----------

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #linhardt von hevring #linhardt #lysithea von ordelia #lysithea #post-canon #post-war #post-game #fire emblem fanfiction

5 notes · View notes

minttoy · 5 years

Text

Song and Steel

Summary: “Annette can never how slowly, and then somehow all at once, he became someone to lose.” - Annette and Felix through the war. Missing scenes post time skip

Pairings: Felix/Annette

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

----------

Annette never meant to lose her composure, especially in battle.

It starts when she inflicts the final blow on the Gloucester heir – a quick gale casted for a counter. Had she known it would leave Lorenz at death’s door, she might not have done it. Her professor’s words suddenly throb in her head: Kill or be killed. She finds little comfort in the saying, because Annette doesn’t have Byleth’s mercenary background or ironed mindset. Instead, all she thinks is ‘What have I done?’ and she repeats it to herself like a mantra.

“Annette!” Someone is calling her from behind. She can’t distinguish above the noise.

She starts forward at a run, stumbling over dead bodies and slipping when her foot catches the end of a lance in her path. When she gets to him, she makes quick work to haul Lorenz’s body off his fallen steed and lay him flat on the ground. She doesn’t know when her arms became strong enough to drag a bloodied man almost twice her size out of tangled heap, but she shows no signs of stopping.

She tries to rouse him, checks his pulses, searches for signs of life – anything – but his blood just coats more of her hands.

“Annette, you idiot! Get out of there!”

When she looks up, Felix is too close. In a hurry, he catches her around the waist and starts pulling her backwards. When she pushes against him, he has to hook his arm around her chest to hold her back.

“He’s gone!” he shouts in her ear, because she’s still squirming.

“No! At least let me-”

A demonic beast is nearby. Fire is heaved and belched in their direction, setting the wooden rafters and planks and grounds ablaze. Suddenly the world is ignited in flame. She coughs twice as noxious fumes and smoke penetrate the air around them. Heat blankets her face as a nearby pillar catches fire. It cracks and falls, blocking her path to Lorenz’s body, and she would have been caught in the destruction if not for-

A light-headedness suddenly overcomes her.

She feels her knees buckle, arms fall limp and then she slackens in his arms. Her mind is too shocked to think clear, much less chide herself for recklessness. Felix lets out a heavy sigh from behind. She knows because she feels his chest move and his breath grazes her cheek.

A moment later, she’s pulled to her feet. His touch is considerably gentler, less forceful.

“Come on,” he pipes up, quickly appraising her balance when he lets go.

She has no choice but to listen. When he takes her arm, she lets him lead.

----------

War is a nightmare of itself, but taking down familiar faces is a different horror. After the battle, Annette ruminates the thought as she kneels down by Lorenz’s body, still distinguishable in spite of the burns and charred skin. She offers him a moment of silence because it’s all she can do. She whispers a soft prayer because it makes her feel better.

Felix stands beside her, arms crossed and gaze focused on the ground. Whether he’s here begrudgingly or not, she does not know, but his presence and patience are small comforts.

When she rises to stand, Felix meets her eyes with wary anticipation.

She sighs. “…I guess there’s no turning back.”

He shakes his head.

The image of his corpse is already burned in her mind. A shiver tracks her spine. “Could we ever get over something like this?” she adds, more as an afterthought.

He shrugs. “I doubt it, but maybe ask me again later, when the war is over.”

Having accepted the fact, she holds her hands between them so he can see them too. Like pouring alcohol over a festered wound, she flips over her palms and stares at the blood-soaked gloves. She winces and flashes a pained expression, digesting the awful sight. She knows she’ll carry this guilt for life.

“Are you okay?”

She pulls her gloves by the fingers first before removing them completely. To her horror, the blood is soaked even to the skin of her hands. Damn. A shadow falls on her face and a sigh escapes her lips. She tucks those gloves deep into her pocket, out of sight, but not out of mind.

“I will be,” she says, attempting some level of optimism, even though her voice is weary. It occurs to her that she’s killed before – a multitude of times, too. In theory, this time should be no different. It seems pathetic, in hindsight, how easily she lost herself when she’s casted storms to rain down her enemies before. She laughs at herself a little, hollow as it is. “…I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. When I saw him on the ground, I just wanted to save him so badly...I didn’t mean for you to-”

“Stop.”

She raises him a brow. She forgets the words on her tongue once she sees his softened features, a rare sight to behold.

“What’s done is done. You did what you had to. I don’t want to hear excuses or apologies, especially not for my sake,” he tells her point-blank. He’s never been a man of soft words anyway, not that she expected him to offer any. It’s a tough, sturdy kind of comfort. Sometimes it offers more than soothing words can afford.

“Thank you, then,” she says, mirroring his softened gaze. If he won’t accept her apologies, he might as well accept her thanks.

“Sure,” he scoffs before turning away, which is the most acknowledgement she’ll get out of him.

He stays by her side, and she’s grateful.

----------

“Professor?”

Annette peeks into the Captain’s Quarters. After the battle at the bridge, Byleth has quietly taken to moving all her things to Jeralt’s old room. Annette thinks her Professor can no longer bear the thought of sleeping in the student dormitories anymore, but it’s only speculation. Her professor remains a wild conundrum, even now.

“Come in.”

Byleth’s attention is focused largely on paperwork, brows creasing as her eyes flit across the paper. Annette can only assume the document is highly vexing, but she puts it away in a flash and sets down her feather quill, eyes now trained to her student. Her expression is blank and seemingly cold and there are traces of darkness under her eyes. When Annette asks if she slept last night, Byleth dismisses her concern.

“Professor, I’m looking for advice. In our last battle, I…well, you see, I did something that I’m not sure I can…”

Somehow, her point gets across.

The professor sighs softly. “Annette, I apologize you had to experience that. I understand it’s difficult engaging in battle with former classmates and peers,” she starts, tone neutral, robotic even, in spite of her words. “Awful as it is, you will never forget it. Believe me, I’ve also taken down foes who were once my friends.”

“I know. I just wish it didn’t have to end like that,” she tells honestly.

Byleth’s eyes darken suddenly and for a moment, Annette fears she spoke out of line.

“You regret it now, but a harsh lesson I must teach you is that war does not discriminate between you and your enemies,” Byleth says so evenly, as if she’s giving one of her lectures. Annette doesn’t notice how hard she clenches a fist under the desk. “It will take one after the other, and if you are lucky, you owe it to yourself to live another day.”

Hmm. That’s one way to put it.

Annette knows her Professor isn’t one for soothing words either. It is most apparent when she handles Dimitri’s outbursts and violent tendencies with a certain hardiness. He needs someone like that – someone to set him in place, not coddle and feed his murderous fantasies. People seem to think it’s her job as his teacher. Annette knows it goes beyond that. Her father mentioned once how forgiving someone’s darkness implies a love beyond measure. She thinks Dimitri loves her too, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

When Byleth asks if she has any other questions, Annette shakes her head. The rest of her day is spent kneeling by the church pews, as most people do when they have sins to repent.

----------

It’s almost sunset. Her father is usually here by now.

Lately they’ve been spending dinners with each other. It’s always a quiet affair and food rations from the kitchens are never tasty, but it’s taken a long time to get here. Gustave used to brush her off with a blankness that rivalled even the professor’s mercenary gaze. He is distant and haunted even now, but she refuses to be deterred. Somewhere along the push and pull, they’ve agreed to make things work. At the end of the day, she’s just grateful he no longer denies being her father.

After a few more minutes, Annette gets up and looks for him. She starts with his usual haunts: greenhouse, fishing dock, marketplace. Up next is the knight’s hall. She’s not looking to stay so she slips in quietly.

“Father? Are you- Bah!” Her eyes connect with a sharp navy blue pair and she reacts with alarm. Automatically, she straightens her spine and bows at the waist, as she would to any duke of Faerghus. “I-I’m so sorry for intruding! Lord Rodrigue, I should have knocked before entering. Please forgive me.”

He’d been in the middle of sorting documents and letters when she entered. Truly, he’s baffled by her insistent apology more than anything. When Annette looks back up, his expression molds into one of mild interest. He stands and abandons his work on the table.

“No need for apologies, Miss Dominic. Your presence is quite welcome, in fact.”

Her gaze is tinged with confusion. “…Pardon?”

He suppresses the urge to chuckle at her nervous energy. “You haven’t seen my son, have you?”

Annette fidgets with the ends of her gloves, thinking it’s been a long while since she’s seen Felix at all. “Err, I’m afraid not.”

She finds no disappointment on Rodrigue’s end. Rather, his gaze wanders in quiet contemplation. “He was supposed to meet me here for a spar,” he explains, not with any dismay or setback. “Sometimes, I find it’s the only way I can get him to speak with me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Her expression is largely wooden, only because she doesn’t know what to make of it. Felix has openly expressed his distaste for his father before, but she figured some of it had to do with his own stubbornness. He had a penchant for petty behaviour back then.

“Well, Felix can be quite fixed in his ways sometimes. I’m sure you know that as his classmate,” he reflects, maintaining a warm tone of voice despite their talk. He nudges his head in Annette’s direction, shifting course. “How are things between you and your father, by the way?”

She lights up. “It’s better, actually. We fight alongside each other and share dinners…Lately we’ve been catching up on the lost years. I’m glad we found each other when we did.”

He shoots her a fond smile of approval. “I hope you continue to remain positive, my dear. Gustave has a troubled past, but he means well. He also loves you more than anything. In fact, he let me know the other day how proud he is to see how strong you’ve become.”

She flushes a little, taking the compliment in stride. It feels nice to hear it from someone else. She understands it will take a while before her father is comfortable enough to say it directly to her.

Annette catches Rodrigue getting a glimpse of the clock, no doubt wondering whether his son has forgotten their meeting altogether. In secret, Annette hopes Felix isn’t that cruel. She knows the weight and burden of a strained relationship herself, but forgiveness is difficult too.

Rodrigue sighs softly. “Perhaps he’s not showing up,” he concedes. This time, the disappointment in his voice is more palpable, as much as he tries to hide it. He tips his head towards her with a raised brow. “…I hope he’s not giving you the same kind of trouble.”

She shakes her head resolutely. “Oh. He’s no trouble at all, actually.”

It’s Rodrigue’s turn to be surprised and his curious expression begs for an explanation.

Unconsciously, her fingers start worrying with the edge of her shawl. She doesn’t know if her cheeks are flushed pink or red, only knows she generally feels hot. “Felix, well…he’s kind to me, for the most part. I owe him a lot. He’s saved my life more times than I can count too. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

Rodrigue gazes with keen interest. “Is that true?”

“Of course,” she insists, and not just because she’s talking to his father. “He works so hard, especially with his training. Seeing him on the grounds everyday makes me want to become stronger.”

“How enlightening,” the man comments, quietly musing to himself. “You speak highly of him.”

She looks at him strange, thinking she has no other to speak otherwise. A lot of teasing and playful banter is exchanged between them, but she’s never mistaken any of it for cruelty.

“I suppose it’s fitting…” continues Rodrigue, her confusion going unnoticed. He puts a hand to his chin in contemplation. “You should know he speaks highly of you too.”

Annette did not know it was possible her face could heat up more, but it does. Her colour must be beet red by now. Embarrassed, she looks away to salvage any sort of control. She doesn’t notice Rodrigue chuckling at her unexpected predicament. Oddly enough, Felix teases her the same way just to get that reaction.

She startles with a yelp when the double doors swing wide open, rushing in a breeze of cool air. Felix waltzes in casually despite the awkward atmosphere, raises a brow at the pair and unceremoniously drops his weapons on one side of the room. Annette almost smiles in relief, and observes as he gets to work, quickly dusting his hands with powder before moving to the sword rack.

He shoots a pointed gaze at his father first. “Spilling all my secrets, old man?”

“Why, I would never,” Rodrigue says wryly, feigning an offended expression. “Am I not allowed to have pleasant conversation with one of your peers?”

It earns him an eye roll. “…Right.”

Annette eyes Felix in particular, thinking this kind of banter would have no place if he harboured so much hatred. Soon, he catches her staring, but she doesn’t look away.

“Annette.” He says her name so dryly, as to not suggest anything between them. It goes without saying how aware he is of his dad standing across the room. “I ran into your father in the dining hall. He’s waiting for you.”

She lights up in remembrance. “Ah, that’s right!” Her posture straightens up and she bows, mostly to Rodrigue, before turning to Felix. “I’ll…see you later?”

He nods curtly, masking his desperation to get her out of his father’s prying eyes. Even now, he won’t hear the end of it. Maybe she caught on, or maybe she didn’t, but she scurries out of there not a moment longer. Felix lets out a sigh of relief when she does and doesn’t miss the grin on Rodrigue’s face as he readies for a spar.

“Sweet girl,” he comments, shrugging off his coat and drawing his own blade.

Felix cannot tell if he’s teasing as a father would, or trying to lower his guard. “I would prefer if you keep out of my business.”

“Who says I’m meddling?”

He sighs in annoyance and unsheathes his sword. Felix is short-tempered to begin with, but Rodrigue could grate his nerves with a single look. Every moment like this resembles how they used to be, as if things could work out after all.

----------

Fate won’t have it.

Rodrigue falls in the next battle. He goes down the same way as Glenn and for a short moment, Felix despises the goddess for saddling his family with such an atrocious destiny; sacrificing themselves in the name of their king, or in this case, the boar. He’d be damned if he went out like that, not because he doesn’t care for the prince, but because Dimitri better get his grip on reality soon and start fending for himself. Even now, the man is still spewing insanity and nonsense from his teeth.

Felix doesn’t shed a single tear. All he can do is grit his teeth and bear it, even as the last words from his father is a whispered and choked-up apology.

Some distance away, Annette watches with grief, remembering how they used to bond over these things. Rodrigue and Gustave were hardly present and yet, she came to Garreg Mach in search for him. Felix scoffed at her, questioning how she could house a heart of forgiveness when she’d been intentionally ignored. He couldn’t fully grasp the concept at the time.

But Annette sees it on his face now, the way his eyes crinkle in pain and his hands clench in tight fists, that he understands it better.

----------

A week later, Felix is still unreachable. He spends his days sulking in the training grounds. Dimitri sulks in the church. He tells Sylvain to pass the message that he refuses to be consoled or coddled. As he takes out his frustrations on training dummies, he can’t seem to forget his stupid father, dying with regret and leaving this world with an apology. Felix thinks it would have been easier if he made no effort at all in the past five years.

Fuck.

He’s interrupted sometimes. Those who don’t know him usually scurry away. Sylvain stops by to bring him food from the kitchen, which looks like gruel nowadays. Mercedes stopped by once to heal his wounds. Today, it’s Ingrid who opens the door.

He thinks she’s here to scold him, nag him or drag him out for lunch. She acts so motherly even if she won’t admit it, but she surprises him today. Silently, she takes a lance from the rack and offers to spar.

He knows early in the fight that every strike and attack of hers is touched with anger. The unspoken person in the room is undoubtedly Glenn. Recently, she’s been reconsidering what it means to be a knight, no longer clouded with chivalrous tales and noble attributes. Both Rodrigue and Glenn had died with pain and regrets.

When they’re both bruised and catching their breath, she drops her weapon first.

He tips his head towards her. “Still intent on becoming a knight?”

Ingrid laughs, but it’s flat and empty. “Of course.” Then she withdraws from battle, stepping back and putting her weapon away. Before she turns on her heel, she looks over her shoulder and gives him a quick onceover. He can’t hide from her inspecting gaze.

“Felix, don’t overdo it. Please? I fear you’ll get reckless,” she says after a while.

Ah, there it is.

He scoffs, “I was waiting for you to say something like that.”

She doesn’t smile, not in the mood to joke. “I’m serious. If you die on the battlefield too, I won’t forgive you,” she says, which is her roundabout way of telling him she cares.

----------

Annette attempts to visit him the next day. Sylvain finds her sitting on the bench outside the knight’s hall. She’s leaning back, staring at the sunset hues of the sky, legs straightened out in front of her and a small box sitting precariously on her lap. A blank gaze graces her features.

“Annette?”

She jumps and startles. He’s about to dive for the sliding box until she secures it with her hands. She straightens up in her seat, eyes darting around until they settle on him. She exhales a small breath. “Oh, Sylvain. You frightened me.”

“How long have you been sitting here?” he asks, because the evening chill is starting to set and she looks paler than usual.

“Haha, I don’t know actually…” she answers sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I must have gotten carried away.”

Sylvain’s eyes shift from her to the knight’s hall. He might act a bumbling fool most of the time, but he dissects the situation easy enough. “Let me guess, you paid our good friend Felix a visit?”

She nods her head and gestures to her gift. “I went into town today and bought some goodies for him. The kitchen hasn’t been serving anything tasty as of late, so I picked out some meats and grabbed a few rolls of bread. Nothing sweet or covered in chocolate, of course.”

The redhead grins at that. Felix should consider himself lucky, because he hardly deserve her kindness. “That’s awfully kind of you. How come it’s still sitting in your hands?”

“He told me to leave his sight.”

She says it so bluntly Sylvain almost chokes on his saliva. He coughs and clears his throat, and Annette just shoots him an oblivious gaze. “Well, that’s rude of him,” he says when he finally gets his bearings. “I suppose he’s still being a jerk then. If you want, I could give him a piece of my mind?”

She chuckles, and then shakes her head. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I don’t think he’s ready yet. Maybe I should have been more patient instead.”

Sylvain resists the urge to roll his eyes. Felix, with his brash and condescending nature, doesn’t deserve this at all. What’s worse is he’s being difficult about it. Pushing away the thought, he molds his gaze to become kinder. “You know, I figured if anyone could reach him, it would be you.”

“Hmm?” Annette tilts her head curiously at him. “Why do you say that?”

Sylvain backpedals a little. “He warms up easier to you. With us, he’s more stubborn.”

“Oh, I see,” she accepts with ease. She gulps in her throat, and he recognizes she’s withholding something at the tip of her tongue. “Hey, you don’t think…he’s not overworking himself, is he?”

“Nah, I think he’ll be fine,” he reassures, not with a measure of doubt. Felix has his self-destructive ways, but he’s never spiralled out of control, not like Dimitri. Funny how some people think Sylvain is the least stable of the three of them. “Trust me. He acted the same way when Glenn died, and he turned around.”

Annette smiles, believing him. “Thank you.”

“You seem to care for him a whole lot.”

“Of course I do,” she says, flushing a light pink. It leaves Sylvain wondering when she became so bold about admitting to such things.

There’s a sound from behind. A heavy wooden door opening, and the clack of boots following. Felix emerges from the knight’s hall, looking dragged and worn. When his gaze cuts to the redhead first, his expression becomes annoyed. “Ugh, I knew it was you running your mouth out here.”

“Nice seeing you coming out of your shell,” Sylvain comments too casually, not interested in treating him with caution at all. Then again, Felix refuses to be talked with any hint of consolation or pity. “You done sulking yet or what?”

The dark-haired male just scoffs and turns to Annette, who’s standing now and clutching her offering between her arms. “You’re still here?”

She pouts, showing him her own stubbornness. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

The moment is followed by silence where the two of them just…stare at each other.

Sylvain’s about to interject and tease him again, but he quickly realizes what’s going on. He’s played this game before – the first to look away loses. A strange, but intimate way of arguing. Felix can easily take this one because he’s a petty and stubborn mule, but Sylvain pays special attention to Annette. Her lip quivers and she can’t hold her pout for much longer.

To his surprise, Felix submits first. He sighs and tips his head towards the room. “Get in. You’ll catch a cold sitting out here,” he says without a trace of softness.

She grins at her small victory and scurries inside because she’s shivering. She nods a small thanks to him when he opens the door for her. Before following after, he raises Sylvain a brow, particularly to the lopsided grin tugging the corner of his lips.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Felix is stubborn as always, not that he expects any different.

Sylvain notices he’s still holding the door open.

“You coming in?”

The redhead shakes his head. “And interrupt precious time with your girl? I think I’ll pass. Besides, third-wheeling isn’t really my thing, as you know.”

Felix puts a hand to his face and drags it all the way down. He peeks behind him in search for Annette, relieved she probably didn’t hear any of that. When he looks back at Sylvain, he’s already sauntering away.

“Treat her nice, Felix. She’s taking care of you after all.”

----------

Later, when the muscles in his arm ache from swinging his sword, he joins her at the table by the fireplace. She’s laid out a small feast for them, and sits in deep thought. When he approaches, she snaps out of her reverie. He quietly reminds himself to ask later what weighs heavy on her mind.

“Hungry?” she chirps.

He plops down on the seat in front of her with a grunt. “Starving.”

For some reason, she smiles at that. He reaches for the one of the bread rolls, breaks it in half and takes one in his mouth. It’s less stale than the ones they serve from the kitchen, but then he notices quickly she’s not taking any for herself. He’s about to ask why, but she breaks silence first.

“Felix, I always wondered…” she says, that faraway look in her eyes again. “What was your dad like?”

He squirms in discomfort, but hides it. He lets the silence go on for too long anyway.

“Sorry,” she says, withdrawing her hands from the table and onto her lap. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s just…now is not the right time. Once the war is over, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

That evokes a small smile out of her. She gazes at him earnestly because she hopes he’ll remember. “Is that a promise?”

He nods stiffly. “I promise.”

----------

Dimitri finally turns around. No one is probably happier than their professor, even if it doesn’t show on her face. He offers his formal apologies to his peers and friends, and again to his beloved teacher. Felix thinks it was nice hearing it the first time, but irritating the second and third time.

Even when the meeting is over, Dimitri follows him out the door and requests to speak with him. Considering the death of Rodrigue, Dimitri feels Felix is owed an extra apology.

“Felix, I must apologize again for my untoward behaviours. Words are all I have to offer, empty as they may be, but please tell me what I must do to make it up to you because I am, once again, indebted to you and your family.”

He rolls his eyes. Dimitri will follow him around and beg if he has to, so Felix saves him the trouble. It would prove more troublesome if it came down to that.

“To start, it’s annoying to see you reduced to grovelling,” he scoffs, unafraid of being honest. “If this is what the boar prince of Faerghus looks like, then the future is bleak.”

Dimitri actually smiles at the familiarity of it. “Perhaps I could make it up to you with a spar?”

“Hmph. Sure you could beat me? I’ve seen you let your guard down too many times.”

The blonde has a small change of heart, raising a brow at the challenge. “Perhaps it’s unwise to underestimate me? You have better speed, but I’m certain I have strength on my side.”

Felix huffs. He’s referring to his size, of course. Dimitri has always had the physical advantage when they fight. He’s taller than Sylvain now too, towering over most of them like a mountain, or a roof over a house. Even without his shabby cloak, the man appears imposing and enormous.

“I’ve taken down beasts like you before,” he jests, throwing in a casual shrug to tick him off.

Dimitri’s lone eye twitches. He’s surprised by how quickly they’re slipping back to their old ways. Always bickering and challenging one another. Simple conversations turning into pissing contests. Settling things with their weapons instead of their words.

“Besides, strength isn’t everything. If it were that easy, I would have done it myself,” Felix continues, following up with a shake of his head. “Even five years past, you still don’t know a lick of magic.”

Dimitri shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I doubt I would need it to defeat you.”

“Are you willing to test that out?”

“Well, I offered to spar, did I not?” Dimitri only wears a smug expression because he knows it gets under his skin. Rivalry has always been part of their friendship, after all. “We could settle it this evening and determine the results of our training then.”

Felix snorts, and then barely suppresses his laughter. “By ‘training’, do you mean the past few months you spent standing in front of the church rubble?”

Dimitri chortles, but he’s hardly fazed. “To be fair, I have spent the last five years on the battlefield.”

“Yes, and now you wear an eyepatch,” he retorts easily. “Unless it’s for show, I fail to see your point.”

The prince crinkles at the insult, but he’s still smirking underneath. “Oof, that one hurts.”

He shrugs. “It’s only your pride. Just wait till we get on the training grounds.”

They settle it there. Felix turns his heel and starts to leave the room. At the door, he pauses to hurl his parting words. Dimitri is still listening and waiting for him to say it.

“Keep yourself in line, Dimitri. That’s what my father asked of you before he died. Don’t make his sacrifice in vain. Personally, I don’t intend on dying to save your ass, so don’t let it come to that.”

----------

Fhirdiad, the crown jewel and capital city of Faerghus, is finally theirs again. It took a monumental effort on their part, worthy of a celebratory feast. There’s music and dancing. Lively conversation and laughter. Wine and liquor are being passed amongst the soldiers, so it’s bound to end in some sort of disaster.

When the server offers to fill his glass, Felix declines. Sylvain, rowdier than usual and drunker than most, passes him a full glass of whiskey before demanding him to loosen up.

Annette sits beside him and sneaks a glance every now and then. He still wears his perpetual scowl even in celebration, but part of it is irritation for the redhead’s antics on his other side. By the time dessert arrives, Sylvain is halfway done telling his exaggerated tales of bravery on the battlefield when he gets up and asks a vexed Ingrid for a dance. When he’s rejected, he pulls Mercedes instead, who doesn’t have the heart to refuse.

Annette, on the other hand, revels and savours each and every bite of her cake. They hardly serve desserts at the monastery, and nothing ever reaches this level of sugary sweetness. To no one’s surprise, she gobbles it up in minutes. When he notices she’s done, Felix nudges his serving in her direction. The expression of gratitude that flashes across her eyes is delightful. It warms his heart, even if he won’t admit it.

“Say, Felix…” she starts, spooning the frosting off the top of the cake. “Ever think about the future? You know, after the war is finished.”

“Nope,” is his short and curt answer.

She raises him a brow, wondering if he’s being difficult, or he legitimately has not given it any thought. For now, she’ll take his word for it. “I suppose it’s not that complicated,” she muses out loud, mindlessly picking at her plate. Somehow her mind always goes back to this. “When the war is over, Dimitri will ascend the throne. Some of us will have to do the same in our house.”

The two of them included, of course. Sometimes Annette forgets her nobility, much less that she’s heir to the house after her uncle passes. It’s been easy to brush it off because of the war.

“Does it upset you?” he asks pointedly.

She shrugs and pushes away the thought. Felix knows she’ll assume her cheery façade in no time. “No, but it’s just…don’t you have dreams or wishes? Things you wish you could do, but maybe you’re not allowed?”

He raises a brow, but he has an inkling of where she’s going with this. “Is there something you want to do?”

Annette sighs pensively. “Sometimes I think about becoming a teacher,” she admits, staring up at the ceiling. Mercedes has told her it’s far from unrealistic, but the war has dampened her hopes.

“I’ve always loved the school atmosphere,” she continues, remembering her academy days. Some people forget she was enrolled in another school before she joining the monastery. “Sometimes, I imagine what it’s like standing at a desk and explaining the basics of magic and spellcasting. I would have students of my own and I would treat them all equally, even the grumpy ones that don’t want to learn. I wouldn’t mind that for the rest of my life. Does that sound silly?”

When she tilts her head to him, his gaze is surprisingly tender. “Not at all. To be fair, I’m more surprised you don’t dream of becoming a singer or songwriter.”

He fully expects her to pout or nudge him on the shoulder, but she just laughs. He likes the sound of it; merry and bell-like. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” she tells honestly. “But I think I prefer to keep the hobby to myself, so don’t go around telling people.”

Annette has grown rather comfortable with the fact that he knows her secret. In quiet moments, she’s even allowed herself to hum a few tunes, scribble down lyrics and sing in his presence.

“A teacher, huh?” He considers the thought only briefly. “…I think you would enjoy it. Maybe one day, you’ll get to do just that.”

When she smiles, it reaches her eyes. Felix has supported every decision she’s made since she’s known him. It’s odd, considering what people say of him.

“Maybe,” she echoes. “At the very least, I’ll want to pass my knowledge onto my own children, if I’m ever lucky.”

He snorts. “Children? You already think that far ahead?”

She shoots him her usual pout this time. “Of course I do. You don’t?”

“Not when the war is still raging.”

She narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. “Is that just your way of saying you don’t want any?”

He chuckles at her expression and then shakes his head. “No. What I’m saying is that you should probably save a question like that for later. There’s no point asking it now.”

Her lips tug to a smirk, because she’s heard this promise before. “Maybe when the war is over?”

Felix knows it too, because he’s smiling as well. She’s adding it to her list as they speak, but a dark thought flashes – maybe there won’t be time after the war. If it came down to the two of them, he’d be damned if he makes it out and not her. All his promises would be empty.

“You better not die before then,” she pipes up, and even though her cheeks are half-stuffed with cake, she means it seriously. “I’ll be upset if you do. You’ll never get to hear the swamp beastie song either.”

He snorts and wonders how she read his mind just now. Of all things, he would hate to miss out on her singing too. “Hmph. That would be a shame. I suppose we’ll both have to make it out then.”

----------

Enbarr is a messy affair.

After a blistering effort, all the Empire soldiers have either fallen or retreated on their own accord. Dimitri enters Edelgard’s throne room to settle the war’s end and Felix takes the chance to clutch at a hastily bandaged cut above his shoulder to stop it from bleeding. He doesn’t bother calling Mercedes. She’s busy with dealing with a graver injury; Ingrid had nothing to cushion her fall when her Pegasus was shot down as she set off. She’s lucky to escape with a few fractures.

Sylvain stands nearby with a worried look. Ashe waits in silence with Dedue. Annette is nowhere in sight, but she’d been paired up with her dad. He reminds himself to find her later and make sure she’s uninjured. Goddess knows she can be more stubborn than he is at times.

When Dimitri emerges from the throne room, he nods to his peers. It’s the only signal they need. The Empire is finished, and just like that, they arrive at the moment they’ve long dreamed and waited, except it doesn’t end with raucous cheering and celebration. The sound of silence reigns above all.

Dimitri appears distraught more than anything. Beside him, Byleth’s expression is unreadable, but more so than usual.

Felix lets his gaze wanders aimlessly across the blood-stained palace, thinking now would be a good time for rest. The last thing he remembers before his vision turns black is the evening sky.

----------

When he finally comes to, his mind latches to the sound of humming. A sweet, lilting tune. He knows that sound from anywhere.

With a groan, he blinks the blur out of his eyes. Despite the steady throb in his head, ribs and legs, he pushes himself up anyway. The humming stops and her hand goes to his back to help him sit. He fixes her a soft gaze, thinking he wouldn’t mind waking up like this every morning and she’s the first thing he sees.

“You idiot,” is the first thing she says, naturally. Her smile is quickly replaced with a more serious expression to match her scolding. He braces himself for her reprimand. “You’re lucky, you know that? You lost a lot of blood out there. Thank goodness we found you when we did, otherwise you would be dead. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He’s hurt her. Just for that, he supposes he deserves it. “I’m sorry.”

Her lips quiver, but her anger doesn’t hold out for much longer. With him, it wasn’t meant to last. Annette can never fathom how slowly, and then somehow all at once, he became someone to lose.

“Don’t do it again,” she says, sounding defeated.

Felix softens his gaze. “I won’t.”

It’s all she needs to hear. She exhales deeply and sits at his side to embrace him. Her arms are shaking, he realizes. She’s desperate to feel him, and hear his heart beating. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s pressing against one of his wounds, so he just rubs her back to soothe her.

When she pulls away, a smile graces her features once again.

“How long do I have to stay here?” he can’t help but ask. It’s nice they pitched a medical tent for him, but as far as his injuries go, he’d rather be out and about than be bound to a makeshift bed.

“Couple of days, probably,” she says. His expression sours, and she pokes him on the cheek. “Hey now, I was the one who healed you. I’m not about to let you waste my efforts.”

He scoffs, “I promise I’ll be careful.”

She’s still shaking her head, unfortunately. “Nope. Nice try, but you’re staying here until you get better. Besides, I know you, Felix. You’re itching to go back to the training grounds as we speak.”

He harrumphs like a petulant child. If he crossed his arms too, he could be mistaken for one. She takes it as a sign that his recovery is well in motion.

Afterwards, she updates him on the war’s end. Who’s alive and who’s not. How their classmates are faring – alive, but not entirely whole. Dimitri in a rough mental shape, but not spiralling as he once was. The Professor seems to be missing, claiming she has matters to investigate about the war’s origins. Even at a time of rest, she does not stop.

When Felix asks about her plans, her tone shifts slightly. She takes his hand and wraps it in hers.

“I’m going home to visit my mom. My father’s coming with me, actually.” She says it with a certain glee. A sense of pride, too. He’s proud of her as well, because she’s been wanting this since their days at the academy.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

He inhales and exhales. By instinct, he squeezes her hand tighter. She chuckles at his reaction.

“We’ll see each other again, dummy,” she says, as if reading his mind. “There’s a lot I have to ask you now that the war is over. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

He smirks at the throwback and they talk until sundown when he’s hit with a wave of exhaustion. He knows when he wakes tomorrow, she’ll be gone like a distant dream, so he doesn’t let her go until she promises to write to him. How odd that he’s never given her a confession, and yet he’s comfortable requesting as such. She jokes that he’s becoming soft, but consents to the idea when he promises to do the same. After that, he memorizes her face and kisses the back of her hand. When he falls asleep, he hopes he dreams of her.

“Finally the world is at peace…” she whispers to herself, when she thinks he’s sleeping.

There’s silence, and then, very softly, she starts to sing.

----------

Dimitri’s coronation is three months later.

It will mark their first reunion since the war’s end. Most of them returned to their homes to resume their positions, help restoration efforts or bury the dead.

When the ceremony is underway, Annette stands with her father and uncle to represent the Dominic household. She spies Mercedes sitting at the front with Ashe and silently gives her a wave. In the front, Dimitri stands with the other dukes, most of them young and newly inducted. Felix and Sylvain are among them. Byleth stands by the throne too. She’s taken the role of the archbishop, but Annette likes to think she’s still their professor at heart.

Annette deliberately stares at new king of Faerghus. It’s obvious he still needs Byleth and that he depends on her – everyone depends on her, she’s the head of the church after all – but for him, it goes deeper than that. It’s as if he relies on her to keep him going, day after day. Like she’s all that holds him together.

It’s endearing to watch. Annette had been right about her suspicions all along.

Later, she wades through the crowd to find one of the people she’s missed the most. When she finds him, she lights up. Seeing him certainly feels like coming home. There’s a small crinkle in his eye when he finds her too. He barely gets out his snarky ‘hello’ when she takes his hand and pulls him outdoors for more privacy.

“Hasty, aren’t you?” he comments, even though he doesn’t resist.

Annette lets him go when there are no prying eyes to intervene. “You can stop me anytime, Duke Fraldarius,” she greets teasingly. She throws in a small curtsy when she pronounces his title.

He scoffs in mild disgust. “Ugh, I’ll have none of that.”

She laughs, warm and familiar. “Did you miss me?”

He wobbles his hand in uncertainty. “Meh. I hardly noticed you were gone,” he teases back.

She hits him on the shoulder, and then he catches her hand in his. “That’s too bad. I wanted to make it up to you.”

“Oh? And how are you planning to do that?”

She hums and muses out loud, “I could offer you a spar?”

“I think I’ve got enough soldiers at home to spar with.”

“What if I sing you a song then?”

He remembers the sound of her voice, all of a sudden. Soft lullabies she sang before he fell asleep. Strange lyrics she penned to distract him from war. Her soft voice offering peace to the screams in his sleep. When he looks at her and studies her face, he’s reminded of the small things she did to sustain him.

Impulsively, Felix leans closer, heart racing furiously in his chest.

She meets him halfway.

The kiss is soft, tentative and clumsy. It takes a moment to orient themselves to each other, but it hardly matters. He smells clean, not like resin or metal. She tastes like the bubbling champagne they served at the hall. Warmth unfurls in her chest and she grips the front of his shirt tighter when she realizes how much she’s missed him.

When they pull away, she smiles and tries to memorize the details of his face.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” she says the first thing in her mind. She’s acutely aware of how offbeat and un-romantic it sounds, but in a post-war period, it seems fitting. In return, he just chuckles.

He doesn’t say anything back, still not much for soft and soothing words. Instead, he pulls her again and kisses her deeper until all her senses and thoughts are filled with him.

Finally, they live in a world that knows peace. She looks forward to telling him stories, singing to him, getting him to laugh or smile, and asking him all the hard questions, but for now, this is enough.

----------

Thanks for reading! I paired these two up in my play through and it was worth it. I loved them so much I put it into writing. If you’ve made it this far, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the work. - Mint

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #felix hugo fraldarius #annette #post timeskip #romance #fire emblem fanfiction #felianne #felannie

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

Wayward (End)

CHAPTER THREE

Summary: The night at the Goddess Tower, Dimitri wished for a world in which no one would be unjustly taken away. Byleth made her wish in silence - that one day she would see him freed from his darkness.

She wakes up five years later, only to learn the world hasn’t been kind.

Missing scenes post time skip (Blue Lions route).

Pairings: Dimitri/Byleth

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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I entrust the young prince, and the future of Faerghus to you.

The clash at Gronder Field feels like an uphill battle. Soon the ground lays waste to students she once knew. There’s no use turning the hands of time. Things won’t go back to normal, if it ever was. Victory in war has always been paid with lives and spilt blood.

All I ask is that you continue to rein in Dimitri’s manic desire for revenge.

The battle is punctuated with a death of their own. Rodrigue is killed shielding Dimitri, bound to the same fate as Glenn. He’s now fulfilled his promise to the late King. Byleth bites her lip as he whispers his dying words – apologies to Felix, urging Dimitri to live for himself. He briefly glances in her direction and she nods, acknowledging what he asked of her.

Afterwards, Dimitri stays on his knees. His eye is closed. His hair falls and covers his face. She hopes he sees now that revenge comes a cost. Byleth knows it will be the same with Edelgard. She will haunt him just the same.

I’m glad you were the one to lead the Blue Lion house, Professor.

Rodrigue has passed her the torch to guide the prince in his stead. She won’t fail him.

----------

The journey back to Garreg Mach is quiet.

Felix insists he needs nothing. He refuses apologies or condolences from soldiers. He won’t be coddled or treated differently by his teammates. Dimitri is just the same, except he won’t say anything at all. How unfortunate, because if not for Dimitri’s temperament or Felix’s stubbornness, Byleth thinks their shared grief could help each other the most.

Felix hides behind a façade of exhaustion. His family has served the Blaiddyd bloodline for generations, but it has left him without a brother and father. He might care and believe Dimitri will have a change of heart, but Byleth still wishes with fervent desperation his hope doesn’t wane.

Perhaps Dimitri feels the same. The somber look he shoots his stubborn friend on a lucid day is more than telling. As if he wouldn’t blame him for abandoning him or his noble station at all, even if they’d been best friends at one time.

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It’s raining. He can hear the pitter-patter of drops against the window pane. The clouds filter away the sun, making the room dim and dank, but it’s almost calming. He’s used to this kind of darkness. When Dimitri opens his eyes, he registers he’s lying on one of the infirmary beds. When he turns to the window to glance at the rain, he startles.

There’s a woman standing there, her vacant gaze locked to the view of the monastery.

Silver white hair. Gowned in red. She wears horns for a crown.

He hates the sight of her. Grunting, he reaches for his lance, which stands against the wall at his bedside. He winces when he moves, but he grits his teeth and bears it.

“Don’t move. You’ll reopen your wounds.”

She sounds the same. The tone of her voice strict and commanding. Edelgard was never gentle with him, even when they were children. Even at the academy, where she scoffed at his concerns. The sound of her voice grates his ears now.

He ignores her and sits up anyway, ignoring the blood rushing from his head, leaving him with a throbbing headache. He questions what she’s doing here. She’s supposed to be in Enbarr, devising tactics and scheming to get Fódlan under her control. He’s supposed to meet her there.

“Hmm. You’re not even real,” he says gruffly.

“How cruel,” she says, feigning an affronted look.

He despises how she tries to manipulate him even now. “Leave me.”

“I’m afraid I have no choice in the matter.” Edelgard turns to him with a sigh, heavy cape swishing behind her. Her arms are crossed around her middle. The heels of her boots thump against the hardwood floors as she draws closer. She has the gall to take the stool at his bedside. He attempts to erase her from his mind, but it’s to no avail.

“Oh, my dear brother…” she starts, eyes glazing and inspecting him whole. She sees him now – his body covered with scars, fingers bent and broken, eye gauged and rendered useless from battle. She settles on his face where darkness colours the skin under his eyes. He can’t stop her, even though he wants nothing more than to wipe the pity off her face.

“Edelgard. Leave me. Now,” he repeats, a looming threat in his voice this time round.

“I’ve told you already,” she says coolly, unfazed by his crazed disposition. “It is you who lacks the will to leave me. Even after all this time, you still cannot let me go.”

Let her go? He knows no reason why she would be here except…No. Has she become one of his ghosts? Is she…dead? Was he the one who…?

She reads his mind and clears her throat, forcing him to look. When he turns, she opens her arms and lets him see for himself. His nose crinkles and lips curl in disgust.

A bloody wound is carved below her chest, splitting her skin apart. The soaked patch of blood in her stomach grows, seeping down to her legs and knees. Even now her wound still oozes and festers. Life withers out of her as they speak. He looks to her face in search for answers.

“Did I-” He hesitates and gags a little, not knowing why he falters when this is what he wanted. “Tell me. Did I do that to you?”

Edelgard doesn’t let up, even for a moment. She pulls down the neckline of her dress, revealing the jagged and uneven slits at her throat. Angry red lines and unclean, serrated edges. How hasty he must have been when he severed her head from her body. Even after all this, he finds no arrogance or haughtiness in her face. Instead, her features are scrunched in pain, like these wounds still hurt even after she’s passed.

He retches. The sight finally does him in and he looks away. So it’s true. She haunts him too.

“I…I don’t understand…” He buries his face in his hands and sighs in defeat. Why does he sting with regret after wanting her death for so long? Why does she haunt him? “El, I…I’m…” He thinks back on their childhood days when he encouraged her to live for herself. “I-I’m so sorry,” is the first thing that comes to his mind, absurd as it is.

“You apologize for murder?” She raises him a brow, rightfully so. He must sound foolish. His apology irks her, because she stiffens in her seat and expression hardens. “You are deluded. How much did my life matter then?”

Dimitri is unable to look her in the eye, even as she rains down on him.

He hears her sigh in exasperation. She continues without mercy. “Was it worth it? To hear the scream tearing from my lips? To see blood gushing from my chest?”

He doesn’t miss the cruelty in her words. He thinks he deserves it. Instead he looks down at his hands, thinking of the destruction and death they’ve caused. The throbbing in his head pounds harder the more she scorns him.

“How naïve of you to believe the voices would stop. To think that my death would be your salvation. Everything you have done has become in vain! Pitiful you are,” she spits harsh and unapologetic. “Am I not here by your own hands? Your own undoing? Tell me, Dimitri. Have I not become someone else you failed to save?”

He makes a frustrated noise as he cradles his head. “Stop or I will silence you myself!”

She laughs. “Ha! Silence me? So long as you tread in darkness, you will never be rid of me. I swear it.”

He refuses to look, but she must be leaning closer now. Her sharp words are so clear and certain, echoing loud in his ears.

“You are a failure, dear brother. How could someone as weak and pathetic as yourself ever hope to become King? I would never bow to you. You can hardly control your own nature, or save your own kin…”

Her voice hitches at the last part. He remember now she was once precious to him. He used to cherish their childhood. They shared a mother. He once gifted her something so important.

He listens to her footsteps as they fade into the background. She’s leaving, he realizes. After a while, he cautiously peers upwards, finding relief when she’s gone. He still wishes this would stop.

Soon there’s light humming on his other side. Fatigued, he looks to his right. A young girl sits, carefully examining a weapon in her hands. He was foolish to think she would leave him so easily, even though this one is different. There’s innocence in her eyes. Purple ribbons in her hair. Seeing the brown colour of her hair reminds him she harboured her own darkness.

She notices him staring. “Oh, you’re awake now.” This time, her voice doesn’t bother him at all. He watches as a young Edelgard hops off the stool and stands at the edge of his bedside. She holds the weapon out to him, perhaps to give it back. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did you give this to me? I don’t know how to use it.”

He groans lightly. As much as a part of him wants to take the dagger, carve out her heart and sever her head with it, he cannot do it. She is a mere child. She has committed no bloodshed. All his memories of this girl are fond and cherished. Instead, he tries to soften the hard edges on his face.

“You…you’re supposed to use it to carve your future,” he explains wearily. The concept seems jaded now, maybe even backfired on him, but it meant the world when he gave it to her.

She purses her lips. “My future? How?”

He shakes his head. “It’s symbolic. More of a gesture…I gave it to you so you could decide your own path. Don’t let others decide for you. You have to do it yourself.”

“Oh…” There’s a light in her eyes now, one that he never saw at the academy. She looks at the weapon with new understanding, admiring it now. “…I can do anything I want?”

He gulps. It breaks his heart, because even after all the death and destruction committed by her misguided hands, he still feels the same. She deserves that very right. “Yes. Anything.”

She beams and he misses her. He remembers the time they spent as children, misses the stories they shared of their mother. He wants her to stay, before she disappears and withers with time. Before darkness gets a hold of her. And for a second, he thinks killing her so brutally was a mistake. His most grievous error. Maybe he could still save her. He could offer out his hand, just as the Professor has always-

“Dimitri!”

With a choked-off cry, Dimitri shoots up from the bed, eye flashing wide open. He darts around the room looking for her and finds no blood or lilac eyes. Instead he’s met with the gazes of Ashe and Mercedes at either side, Dedue standing behind the latter. They peer down at him with concern and caution. Ashe removes his hands from his shoulders and Dimitri looks to him in desperation.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“El. Where is she?” It comes out before he registers none of them know her by that name. Besides the Professor, no one even knows of their past relations.

“Do you mean…Edelgard?” Mercedes’s soft voice pipes up. He pauses, and she takes his silence as affirmation. “Well, she must be in Enbarr, right?” She looks to Dedue behind her, who nods.

He breathes a heavy sigh of relief. She’s alive then. Dimitri finally glances around the room and at himself. His arms are wrapped in bandages and he winces at a pain at his ribs. He doesn’t remember how he got here, much less what day it is.

“Umm…” Ashe hesitates and it stings, because he knows he’s been prone to lashing out. “You started thrashing in your sleep. We worried you might hurt yourself. That’s why we woke you.”

Mercedes hums in agreement. “That’s right. You gave us quite a scare. You must have been having a terrible dream.”

Dimitri nods slowly. He remembers her bloody form with absolute clarity. “Ah, yes. It was a terrible dream.”

He’s met with strange gazes. They seem…surprised. The past months have been rather hazy – he can hardly recall the long stretches he spent in the cathedral. Perhaps it’s rather abnormal not to find him grumbling and snarling at his peers.

“Your Highness. How do you feel?” Dedue asks.

He clears his throat, dry and coarse all of a sudden. “Better,” he gets out before deciding to say it again, more for his sake. “…I feel better.”

Mercedes puts a hand to her heart. Ashe smiles wide, fear no longer in his eyes. Dedue nods at him. He shifts his gaze to the window where a simple white curtain blows with the wind. Edelgard still walks this world, roaming in a darkness of her own. He clenches his hands at the thought of it and then pushes it to the back of his mind. For now, he focuses on his peers, to whom he owes his life.

“I…Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. For taking care of me. I understand I have not made things easy,” he starts, sounding much like the Dimitri they knew then. Their house leader and friend. “I cannot promise I will never slip back to my darker ways, but…”

Mercedes shakes her head. “Oh, Dimitri. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else, just looks at them with gratitude. He swears to return the favour one day.

“I’ll go inform our Professor he’s woken up,” Ashe pipes up, already turning his heel for the door.

Ah, the Professor...Dimitri attempts to turn and swing his legs over the edge, but he stops to hold onto his side, still sore and bruised.

“Please do not overexert yourself, your Highness. Perhaps you should take this time to rest,” Dedue says, ever the voice of reason. Dimitri doesn’t argue. He knows he cannot win this battle and eases himself back to bed.

“Of course.”

----------

His darkness still shows from time to time, but it’s better. Years of harbouring hatred and anger does not leave him so easily, much less overnight. Mercedes and Annette tell her there are days when he seems to hold no darkness at all as he engages in conversation not of war or destruction. But then there are days he wakes up angry. Even if he quiets the voices in his head they still whisper.

Byleth peruses the thought as she ushers the horses into the stable, keeping them away from the rain and pending storm. She rushes a little because she needs to seek shelter herself. Her cloak has become soaked and heavy. It sticks to her back rather uncomfortably. Her boots have gathered water in their soles. She could catch a cold.

She pauses briefly at the sound of footsteps drawing closer. She doesn’t look. She knows the rhythm of Dimitri’s step, knows the heavy metal thuds that make up his gait. She’s become too familiar with his behaviours these past few months. She catches the frown on his face as she locks the bolts to the stable.

He’s withdrawn today, if the brooding look on his face tells her anything.

In this relentless rain, she listens as talks solemnly of the dead. One of his ghosts must have urged him to continue down his path of revenge. He tells her he cannot stop and he must have his vengeance. It’s been nine years in the making. Everything he’s done up until now will help him secure his goal, and she shouldn’t try to convince him otherwise. There’s pain in his confession, because it makes her feel used, ashamed even. Regardless, she tells him what he needs to hear.

He’s wrong. He ought to forgive himself. Live for what he believes.

Somehow, and perhaps because he’s always known, her words find their mark. Finally, he considers the possibility of living – not for retribution’s sake, but for his own sake. He wonder if he’s even deserving of such a precious gift.

Byleth’s answer is the same as it’s always been.

She offers her hand out to him.

He didn’t take it the first time.

This time, he does. It’s not without fear or hesitation, but that’s okay.

She knows now his distaste for fragile things was his fear of himself. It was never a lack of understanding of his own strength, but rather what he was capable of doing when his mind spiralled out of his control. She knows he resents himself for becoming that person. And yet, she sees how delicately he folds her hands in his, and knows he’s not that person anymore.

She looks at their hands, hers wrapped in his larger ones. She lets go, but only to unlatch his metal gauntlet and tuck it under her arm. Gently, she examines the criss-cross marks along his arm and his long calloused fingers. He doesn’t resist as her fingers scour his skin, tracing old scars and wounds.

She holds their hands together again, teaching him to intertwining them.

His gaze is trained on her fingers. He watches as raindrops run along them.

“Your hand is so warm…”

She doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand gently.

When he looks up, he finds a new expression. A smile that reaches even her eyes, captures her joy, and bares her soul. He’s drawn to it, mesmerized by it. He thinks it holds enough light for the whole world.

A calm settles inside and he memorizes her face, just as he did when he was a student. Gently, he squeezes her hand back, just as she hoped when his darkness breaks free.

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Dimitri shows up the next meeting and for the first time, he seems nervous. When he asks a moment of their time, he wishes to give his sincerest apologies. He knows words are insufficient, but it’s all he can offer. Instead, he promises to do the right thing moving forward.

Finally, he turns from Edelgard. He agrees to take back Fhirdiad. If he’s uncomfortable with the idea, it doesn’t show, even though she knows he has his reservations. The last time he’d been at the Kingdom capital was a difficult time.

When the meeting is over, he apologizes again to Felix, who hardly accepts it. In turn, he tells him to stop grovelling and then calls him a boar, albeit Byleth thinks it’s on friendlier terms. Even now, Dimitri doesn’t correct him. Perhaps the familiarity is more comforting than it seems.

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Later, when victory rings in the streets of Fhirdiad, they hold a feast to mark the celebration. She lets them have it. They deserve the small luxury. She doesn’t heart to tell anyone she’s out of her comfort zone when they shove a wine glass in her hands or invite her for conversation. She only slips out when she sees the moon and stars have become visible in the sky.

The balcony is empty, but she shivers and wraps her cloak tighter to fend off the chill. It’s cold enough her breath condenses when she blows heat into her hands. She hardly took up mercenary contracts here for this reason. She doesn’t like to admit how she struggles with the cooler temperatures either. It’s most noticeable during battle where suddenly, she’s low on stamina and gasping for air crumbs. Her students seemed rather comfortable though.

She feels a sudden weight on her shoulders.

Warmth.

Around her, she finds the black and white furry tendrils of his cloak draped across her shoulders. Grateful, she pulls it securely around her and breathes in his scent. Dimitri moves to her side where she murmurs him a soft thanks. He stands there with only his armour, gaze trained to the night sky.

They stay like that for a moment. Staring the stars. Bathed in moonlight.

“I came here to thank you,” he says, breaking silence.

She keeps her absent stare on a particularly bright star. “Hmm. You’re welcome.”

He snorts and laughs a little, distracting her. When she turns to him, he waves her concern away. “It’s nothing. It’s just…I wanted to explain.”

Her expression crinkles apologetically. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Dimitri chuckles at the nostalgia. Even after all this hardship, his Professor is very much the same. She has strength in all the ways that matter, but struggles sometimes with human conversation. He finds it rather endearing, even as she considers it her weakness.

“I want…no, I need you to understand how grateful I am,” he starts finally. She listens on with silence and peers up at him thoughtfully. “You saved me from myself, pulled me from my darkness. I see now how misguided and destructive I was, even to the point of hurting you. Truly, I do not understand how you kept faith in me.”

She nods and takes in every word, wondering how long he’s been working up to say these things.

He clears his throat. “I hope you will accept my apologies. I am terribly sorry for the pain I caused. To be honest, I feel very undeserving of you.”

She shakes her head. There’s kindness in her eyes when she tells him not to dwell on such things. He doesn’t argue, having accepted internally that his Professor always has the answers. Instead, he searches her face with a heavy-set gaze. She can be troubling to read at times, and she hasn’t said a word since he started.

“How are you feeling?” he decides to ask.

A small smile tugs at her lips and her eyes are bright. “Happy.” She tips her head to him. “And you?”

He chuckles, thinking he could ramble on and on about how he feels in this moment. “I feel grateful, relieved, glad, satisfied even…and happy as well. Is that too much?”

She shakes her head and remembers his beating heart. “Not at all.”

A chilly breeze brushes past them, and she wraps his cloak even tighter. He has seen her struggling to adjust to the cooler temperatures, but the sight of her cocooned in his oversized cloak is charming. He hopes it doesn’t deter her from staying.

Impulsively, he slips an arm around her and pulls her closer to his side. His heart thunders painfully against his chest, but Byleth doesn’t pull away. She ducks her head and molds herself to him instead, and he finally sees how much she’s shivering. Just for this moment, he allows himself to nuzzle against her hair, determined to share his warmth just as she’s done for him.

When they pull away, he settles for her hand and intertwines their fingers.

“Thank you,” he says again. “For saving me, day after day.” He looks up at the stars again, a calm resolve fixed on his features. “Once the war is over, I hope you will allow me to do the same for you.”

She squeezes his hand and follows his gaze to the moonlit sky. “Okay.”

In this quiet night, where the moon is bright and the stars are gleaming, she imagines this is what the world must be like when the war is said and done. A steady breeze caressing her face. Listening to the quiet hums of nature. Watching the moon illuminate the sky. She can look up to the stars and remember the nights she spent in quiet prayer. Prayers for peace. For safety. For him to embrace light.

Tonight, she thanks her lucky stars her wish came true.

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Thank you for reading! Dimitri’s brokenness is so significant and essential to the Blue Lion arc that I desperately wanted to explore it. I want to thank all the lovely readers who left their thoughts and taken interest. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. – Mint

#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #dimileth #dimileth fanfic #post timeskip #angst #romance

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

Wayward (Ch 2)

CHAPTER TWO

She wakes up five years later, only to learn the world hasn’t been kind.

Missing scenes post time skip (Blue Lions route).

Pairings: Dimitri/Byleth

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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So much blood is spilt at the Bridge of Myrddin.

She has to revert back to her mercenary ways. Taking down enemies with quick and efficient swipes. Clearing paths with the judgment and tact she learned from her years suppressing bandit hideouts. Aiming for critical points – head, heart, jugular, knees, ankles, open spaces between armoured units. She feels neither proud or brave of her actions.

In the midst of chaos, her mind comes to a shrieking halt when suddenly, she realizes what she’s done and whose life she’s taken.

Damn it! A slew of curses run unfiltered across her mind.

She didn’t see him at first. Her hands moved faster than her mind. She didn’t register in time that it had been Ferdinand von Aegir on that steed, shooting her a wide-eyed look of surprise when she positioned her bow in his direction. Her eyes went to his lance instead, and when he raised it, she fired her arrow hard and it found his chest.

She realizes her error a second later, when he falls from his horse, lands hard on his back, blood spills from his front and she catches his familiar gaze. And just like that, her façade is broken and blankness gone. The world becomes muffled and then muted, and she runs to his limp form even though the path isn’t clear.

“Oh no. Please, please, stay alive,” she begs futile. On her knees, she untangles his limbs. Her arrow is lodged just below his breast and jutting from his ribs. She presses on his wound to stop it from bleeding. Her breath shakes all throughout, her hands colour with red and she bites back a panicked scream. He’s gasping, not breathing, and a minute later, he’s choking up blood that splatters on her face and armour.

“Professor!” Mercedes’s voice.

When Byleth looks up, a soldier has come too close, his sword already raised at his side. Just when she turns and withdraws her sword, the man is cut down before her eyes. A lance catches his shoulder and forces him backwards. Byleth finds Ingrid in her periphery, who nods once at her before riding her Pegasus horse back to the thick of battle.

A steely resolve replaces the uncertainty on her face. No other students should have to die today, especially not her own.

She forces herself up. “Mercedes!” Her voice, now sharp with command, cuts through the murmur of clashing swords and growling beasts. When their healer arrives, even Mercedes notices her change in tone and posture. Byleth only gestures behind her.

“If you can save him, do so. If not, return to battle,” she says, back to snapping short-fire commands out of necessity. She ducks out of sight a moment later, joining the others in arms and Mercedes doesn’t argue with her.

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Hours later, Byleth surveys the aftermath of battle. The air smells of fire, metal and blood. It will take several days of rain to wash the stains off these floors. In front of her, Ladislava is dead on the ground, eyes and mouth still wide open from the scream that tore through her mouth. The beasts they fought have turned into bloody piles of muck.

Her vacant stare settles on two of her students. Just ahead, Lorenz lies in a pool of his own blood. It’s clear who bears the heavy responsibility. Annette is sitting on her knees nearby, shoulders still shaking, hands clenched and wrapped tight around her. Beside her, to Byleth’s surprise, stands Felix. His eyes are closed, face turned to the ground. Perhaps silence is all they need.

Eventually, Annette gets up on unsteady feet, and Byleth doesn’t know what she’s saying to him. Her face is pale as she whispers something with tremendous difficulty. She holds out her hands for him to see and Byleth notices they’re stained with blood that doesn’t belong to her. Not far, Gilbert watches with a solemn gaze, thinking there’s nothing he can do to rid of his daughter’s shame.

Byleth looks at her own hands, frustration and anger already sealed and bottled inside her. Mercedes finds her later and the somber look on her face is enough to confirm what she already knows.

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“Dedue?”

Dedue is alive. He’s back. He’s breathing. It takes a few minutes for it to sink. She’d just taken the life of a student, and now another appears before her.

When Ingrid escorts her to see him – she’d been so caught in the chaos of battle to mind his presence – she doesn’t know how to react. All sorts of thoughts wash over at the same time. Her mind flits between anguish, doubt and relief, and so her face just scrunches up in contorted confusion and pain, but it’s only her emotions manifesting in ways she can’t properly express.

“Professor.” Dedue bows. Seeing the scars on his face and hearing his voice strikes a painful chord. “I am glad to see you in one piece after so many years.”

Slowly, her face molds into resignation.

“Certain events have prevented me from taking care of His Highness the past five years. I am grateful you found him, and that you are taking care of him. I am in your debt once again.” His proper speech and wooden tone rings so familiar and true. “I wish to fight at His Highness’s side,” he continues. “Please allow me to join your group once more.”

Byleth manages a small smile and nods once, “Of course.”

The Blue Lions, although not entirely whole, are finally complete again.

To the surprise of others, she reaches up and lightly touches Dedue’s cheek, just to feel the warmth of life under her fingertips and know he’s alive and real. She hopes the soft gesture makes up for all the things she leaves unsaid.

Afterwards, she stands to the side and allows the others to flock and fawn over him. His expression cracks and the hard edges of his face soften at the sudden attention. Mercedes hugs him and hides her tears, Sylvain bombards him with questions about the missing years, Ashe promises to cook for him later, and Ingrid smiles with relief and contentment.

Byleth looks for Dimitri and finds him with Rodrigue. Even as the Fraldarius leader speaks to him, his gaze is trained on his peers. The moment doesn’t last. He catches her staring and promptly turns away.

----------

Byleth sleeps for nearly a full day when they return to the monastery. Someone was kind enough to leave a serving from the kitchen at her doorstep. She has complete faith Dedue will do the same for Dimitri in her stead from now on.

She exits her room to an evening dusk. Her feet take her straight to the cathedral grounds. She’s made a habit out of it apparently. The path is so familiar now. She understands a small part of why Dimitri spends every waking moment here. No amount of praying can wash the blood off your hands so instead you beg for forgiveness.

Strange enough, he’s not standing in front of the rubble today. Her brows crease at the sight, as if he’s missing from the picture. Instead, she finds Mercedes and Dedue standing in the middle of the floor. As she draws near, she catches a bit of their uttered prayers to both Duscur and Fódlan gods. Prayers for safekeeping and for the war to end soon.

One of them catches her waiting presence before long.

“Oh, you’ve finally woken up. I hope you’re feeling better,” Mercedes pipes up softly, not to disturb Dedue in prayer.

The man opens his eyes anyway and turns to see who’s approached. “Are you looking for His Highness?”

Many have developed a habit of associating her with the Prince, as if she’s become his caretaker. Her students are no exception. She wonders his whereabouts so she nods anyway.

“Dimitri suffered minor wounds from our last battle. We managed to get him to the infirmary to treat them,” Mercedes answers with nonchalance, even though Byleth can imagine the struggle it must have taken to get him there.

Dedue nods. “He is resting there as we speak, courtesy of Mercedes’s patience and healing magic.”

Byleth mutters a quick ‘thank you’ before turning her heel.

She arrives at the infirmary to a comforting sight. Dimitri asleep on the bed, more serene than she’s ever seen him, while Sylvain and Ingrid sit on either side. His fur cloak rests on the back of a chair, most of the blood stains and dirt washed off. Pieces of his armour are stacked along the wall. And even without all that, Dimitri still looks too big for the bed.

She looks to his peers. Sylvain shoots her a smile and raises a finger to his lips in a hushing motion. When he points across him, he doesn’t mean just Dimitri, but Ingrid as well. She’s dozing off in her chair, arms crossed in front of her as her head lulls to her breathing.

“He’s been asleep for most of today,” Sylvain speaks up softly. “Took a whole lot of work and patience to get him up here, but here he is. Finally.”

Byleth casts her gaze on the Prince, noticing now his arms and body are wrapped in bandages.

“He desperately needs the rest. Based on what we saw, he barely even recovered from our last few battles. Burns everywhere, infected wounds, nasty cuts that weren’t closed properly…” Sylvain exhales deeply and leans back on his chair. “…stubborn fool he is.”

Ingrid grunts softly, lulled awake despite his efforts. She blinks her bleary eyes and rubs her neck as she glances around the room. Her voice is groggy as it comes out, “Ugh…how long was I asleep for?”

The redhead leans back slightly to catch a glimpse of the clock. “About an hour now.”

She sighs in exasperation and shoots him her classic look. “You should have woken me.”

Sylvain isn’t one to be scolded. “Nah. You need your rest too. Besides, you looked so peaceful. And cute, sleeping so soundly. I much more enjoyed watching you than Dimitri over here.”

She groans. If they didn’t have to be quiet, she’d counter back. Regardless, she quits while she’s ahead and brushes the pettiness aside. She turns to watch Dimitri rest. Before anything else, Sylvain gets up, his chair creaking lightly under him.

“You know what? I’ll go brew you some tea. Care to have one, Professor?”

Byleth shakes her head. Once he leaves the room, silence reigns. It doesn’t last long.

“Did you know? Dimitri taught me something important about knighthood once.”

“What was it?” she inquires gently.

Ingrid looks away then, eyes shifting to the floorboards. She’d always been the type to carry her burdens in silence. “I’ve told you about Glenn before, haven’t I?”

Her professor nods.

“Well, I thought he was the perfect knight. He served the King well, even sacrificed his life in battle. After that, he became a hero and now he’s the reason I’m on this path to become a knight myself. Back then, I even wanted to marry him.”

The confession rolls off her lips so easily that it surprises her. Ingrid isn’t one to speak of marriage lightly. One would think she might even abhor the thought of it.

“I molded my ideas of knighthood around him, until His Highness suggested otherwise. Truth is, maybe he died with a heavy heart. Maybe even regret. Doesn’t sound so glamorous anymore, does it?” Her teacher doesn’t say anything, not that she expects her to. The blonde just shakes her head and straightens her back. “Anyway, it doesn’t deter me from pursuing my goal. He merely taught me that knighthood isn’t about sacrifice or becoming a hero, it’s about protecting someone you care about.”

Byleth smiles, seeing now how much she’s grown. Ingrid seldom reveals personal things about herself.

She follows up with a hollow sigh. “My Father is opposed to it still. Even now, he intends to marry me off to secure my family’s nobility within the kingdom, because I was born with a crest.”

There’s a snort from the side and Byleth watches as Sylvain returns with two cups in hand. He hands one to Ingrid, who mutters a quiet thanks.

“Your old man is still ragging on about that, huh?”

She nods, blowing at the edges of her teacup.

“I’d give up my crest too if I could.”

Sylvain says it so quietly she could have missed it. Byleth almost feels like a bystander. It never occurred to her how much these two had in common. She’s beginning to see how much their lives have been shaped by their crests, something of which they had no control. It is a disjointed notion of the world. To be born with a crest is to be born lucky, and yet she stares at the two in front of her and knows it to be a lie.

Inwardly, Byleth thanks Jeralt for not imposing or even allowing her life to be dictated by such. As if something as simple as what you’re born with is the most you have to be proud of.

There’s a groan from the bed and all heads turn to Dimitri. She looks on with wary anticipation, and finds herself confused by their rather calm dispositions.

“He gets nightmares,” Ingrid pipes up, as if reading her mind. “He’ll shake and mumble things in his sleep, but he never wakes from them. They usually pass on their own.”

It’s exactly as she says. Dimitri starts tossing lightly, head shifting from one side to another. The incoherent mutters come next. His hands clench, body stiffens and sweat drips from his hairline as a pained expression takes over. He breaks into low, uneven and choked sobs and Byleth forgets herself. Sylvain and Ingrid watch interest as she moves over to him, takes his hand and makes room for her to sit at his bedside. She barely engages with anyone, let alone with a level of intimacy.

She leans forward slightly, frames herself in his line of sight. A gentle hand goes to his forehead to wipe the sweat off his brow and she brushes the hair sticking on his face, tucks it behind his ear. She’s vulnerable where she is. He could easily wake and lunge at her.

She glances over his shaking form. To distract him from the noise, she cards her fingers through his locks and prays for the terrors to leave. She offers him her warmth and light, which is what she tried to do the day she found him at the Goddess Tower.

Sylvain and Ingrid aren’t surprised when it works. He doesn’t wake. His mutterings cease. Muffled sobs turn into quiet breathing and he doesn’t become restless and fitful. They still latch to her every thought and action, and watch as a curiosity molds her expression. When Dimitri is quiet again, her hand goes to his chest instead. For a while, she revels in his heartbeat and observes the rise and fall of his chest. And then she hears it for herself. She leans forward and lays her head on his chest, her ear pressed against his heart.

For a while, she just listens.

His pulse beats strong and loud. She has to wonder why it sounds different from her own. Hers always seems more mechanical, not as robust.

Perhaps it’s because she’d been a stillborn. It was confirmed in Jeralt’s writings. She was lifeless once, no beating heart to begin with and now the ability to feel and express is a daily struggle. Dimitri, on the other hand, feels too much. So much that he’s driven to madness. Maybe that’s why his heart beats so strong with life.

Byleth draws back and blankness finds her face again.

She’s still uncertain. When she rises to stand, she bows at the waist towards her students.

“Thank you for keeping watch over him,” she says, before leaving the room to ponder her realization.

----------

Byleth forgets about the young girl who begged to join their group. Her name is Fleche. They formally meet at the next council meeting. Her own thirst for vengeance reminds her eerily of Dimitri.

Speaking of which, the Prince is awake now and has been for several days. His ghosts have wasted no time as he easily slips back to his abrasive and erratic form. Every offer and attempt to distract him is spurned and rejected. She keeps her eyes on him throughout the table discussion.

Both the Empire and Alliance are making advances. If they take advantage of the situation, three military forces will clash at Gronder Field. What a shame. Taking a chance to fight old friends, wasting memories of teamwork and camaraderie.

Edelgard might show, which sways the vote to a majority, even as her own students show hesitation. Dimitri shows no such thing and it makes her tick. He shares no misgivings about killing members of the Alliance, whom she suggested they try recruiting to their side. Instead, she sees the beginnings of something cruel and terrible. Students fighting each other. Dimitri losing himself to frenzy and hysteria at the mere sight of his stepsister. All their efforts to appease his manic desire for vengeance becoming in vain. Byleth betraying herself, because she never wanted another student’s blood on her hands.

She stays when the meeting is over. The firm expression she shoots Gilbert and Rodrigue prompts them to stay behind as well.

When everyone has left the room, Rodrigue breaks silence. “You don’t approve of this plan, do you?”

Byleth shakes her head.

There’s frustrated a sigh from Gilbert, which he’s been doing a lot lately. “Sacrifices must be made, Professor. You know as much as I do how much the war has already taken from us,” he justifies, tone cutting and bleak. “If recruiting the Alliance falls within your interest, there’s no reason to pass up the opportunity to meet them there. For all we know, the war could end at Gronder Field if everything goes according to plan.”

She closes her eyes. Gilbert has grown fast and weary in these short months, and his patience is starting to thin. He desires to end this war once and for all, for the sake of Holy Kingdom, his liege and his daughter. Byleth knows she cannot argue with that. Their goal has always been to stop the Empire, no matter the cost.

Afterwards, she offers him a curt nod, as if to rescind her previous thoughts.

His expression loses some of its edges. “I apologize. It does not elude me how much responsibility has fallen on your shoulders, both on and off the field...” The downcast expression he wears is one of an unfulfilled man. “Truly, I am ashamed I cannot do more for you.”

She acknowledges the sentiment with a nod. Shifting to the other, Rodrigue’s expression has become rather curious. She raises him a brow.

He clears his throat first. “Professor, I noticed you seemed rather invested in Dimitri throughout the meeting. More so than usual, I mean. Are you troubled by something?”

If she feels worried or fearful at all, it doesn’t reach her face. “I suspect he might leave.”

“Leave?” The two older men repeat it in almost perfect unison.

She nods again. “Yes. He’s threatened to do it before.”

Rodrigue’s brows crease, first in doubt and disbelief, but then she watches as it fades into thoughtful consideration.

“Perhaps it’s best we keep a closer eye on him then.”

----------

Days pass and she grows in anticipation. She keeps tabs on his movements until he retires to his quarters, or sleeps on one of the church pews. There are days he’s in no condition to do such bold things – mornings and nights he spends on his knees, sobbing and begging the voices in his head to forgive him. And there are days he spends in rage, painting his sister as the devil, forgetting himself and forgetting she’s one of the only family he has left.

A few days before they plan to depart, she has a terrible foreboding. He barely slept last night and he was absent for the meeting. He’s lashed out few times already. He seems more deluded and tortured today, and they’re so close that he might as well go off on his own.

Afternoon light pours from the ruined roof of the church and Byleth looks to Dedue. She cranes her neck up and searches his eyes for thought. Maybe he has a similar inkling, but instead, the Duscur man confirms something she’s long suspected now.

“His Highness is very much back to his old self,” he pipes up, noticing her curious gaze. “He’s been this way for the majority of time I’ve known him. The young man you met at the academy was someone trying to suppress his nature. Regardless, I still feel he is too kind to be king. So tortured by his compassion for the fallen it has driven him mad.”

So it’s true. She hardly knew him. He’d been hiding himself the entire time. He’d been this vengeful and manic person much longer than the chivalrous house leader.

Her eyes move to Dimitri, gaze softer.

Dedue takes careful note of it. “Professor. His Highness has always felt much for you too and I believe he still does. Please do not forget that.”

----------

Later that night, her premonition proves right.

Just an hour past midnight, she’s sitting atop the stone steps of the monastery’s entrance. The night air is chilly and she rubs her arms for warmth. She’s alone here. The church lacks guards to assign watch for all the hours in the day.

The sound of footsteps draw nearer. She twists around where sure enough, a tall figure with light hair stands a distance away. He’s barely visible in the darkness. A disappointed sigh escapes her lips and she rises to stand despite the cold stiffness in her bones.

He emerges from the shadowy tunnel and steps into the dim moonlight, stopping when he identifies who blocks his path up ahead. His lone eye widens a fraction. He’s surprised to see her. It’s the same look he wore the day she found him. He thinks she’s one of his ghosts coming to stop him, but then he grunts and shakes his head, reminding himself what he set out to do.

Sometimes he can barely differentiate what’s real.

“Get out of my way,” he says darkly.

She shakes her head.

“I’ll say it again. Leave this place at once and let me go!”

“I won’t do that,” she voices calmly. Her sword is ready at her hip.

He grumbles and snarls, but it’s not aimed at her. The struggle he fights is internal, like his mind is split in half. “You don’t understand! I’d hate to kill you too!”

Briefly, she remembers what Dedue’s words. He’s always felt much for you.

Her gaze softens. “Don’t leave then. You’re safe here.”

His eye glowers suddenly. Something snaps inside of him. A wicked smirk curves his lips and he’s lost himself. The vengeful monster has taken rein. Whatever hold she has on him is gone. He squares his feet on the ground and finally reaches for the lance at his back. It might take a goddess miracle to calm him down.

He cocks his head to one side, appraising her for battle. “You leave me with no choice, Professor! I’ll cut you down too if I have to!”

She draws her weapon and that’s when he flinches forward, charging with an erupting rage and fire as he bears down his first strike and forces her to defend. Their weapons clash and her sword ignites in her hands, alight with her crest.

It takes all her strength just to hold him back and stop him from overpowering her. Dimitri is heavier and has always had the physical advantage. With their faces aligned, he must see her face so clearly. He growls and grits his teeth, his face set into hardness.

“Dimitri, stop this!”

He doesn’t listen, instead puts his weight on his lance before thrusting at her middle with deft hands and quick precision. She careens to one side, barely missing a straight puncture to her gut, and forces down another strike, which he counters easy.

“I already told you not to get in my way!”

She grunts against him and when he withdraws, she quickly ducks at a swing to her neck. She stays back this time to play on the defensive. The muscles in her arms still ache. Her palms burn. Her teeth hurt. Her body quivers with exhaustion. By sheer force alone, he could end her life if he truly desired it.

“Is that all you got?” he jeers, challenge edging his tone. He takes one step forward, and she takes one step back. He doesn’t miss it. “Ha! Scared, aren’t you? I thought you were better than that!”

Dimitri grips his blade in a two-fisted grip and snaps forward, mad with power and rage, lightning behind his teeth. She swiftly dodges the lunge of his lance, and then defends herself against another. It’s not long before his attacks become relentless. One strike after another, thoughtless and coming from all directions. Their metals clash and clatter with every slash. She feels his anger burn at every turn. He’s determined to find blood.

Her hands move to their own accord, even as the hilt of her sword burns and blisters her hands. She forces him to swing wide and takes advantage of his opening. Her free hand conjures the symbols in the air and she casts fire to his chest, chucking him backwards several feet away.

Reckless, she thinks. Blinded by his own delusion. She knows his weaknesses better than he does.

He makes a frustrated noise, but gets to his feet quickly. That same crooked smile finds his lips again as he wipes blood off his cheek. He’s never resembled a boar more than he does now.

“Finally taking this seriously, huh?” His body contorts into battle position, and he calculates her from afar. He lets his excitement and destruction possess him. “Come at me with all you got then! I’ve always wanted to fight you for real!”

He raises his lance again, but she changes her tack. Engaging him with violence was never what she wanted. To his surprise, she sheathes her sword instead.

A boisterous laugh erupts from his lips. He must think her senseless. “Are you giving up?”

There are two sides to him fighting for control. She needs to draw out the one who might listen. “Tell me, Dimitri,” she calls out, voice steady and even. “Is this what you truly desire? My death on your hands?”

He scoffs loudly as disbelief paints his expression. “This is no time for discussion! Draw your blade!”

She shakes her head and ignores his demands. “You wished five years ago that no one else would be taken away from you. Do you remember?”

“Drop this nonsense, Professor! You can’t help me.”

Her lips press into a thin line. She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t,” she says, voice warm and gentle. Her breath hitches. “I didn’t abandon you on purpose.”

His lone eye widens a crack, like a loosened seam. His lips move, but he struggles to get words out.

Byleth drops her hands and maintains her warm tone. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.”

There’s a shift in him. She can almost see it in his face. His mind is warring with itself once again. “Professor, I-”

His lance drops to the ground with a loud clack, and then he falls to his knees, clutching both sides of his head. The voices must be screaming again. Automatically, she moves closer to kneel in front of him and lays a gentle hand on his shaking shoulders.

“Ah- Father, I swear to you-” His throat catches and his gravelly voice shudders. “I promise I’ll kill her. I’ll see to it you’re avenged. Edelgard, she’s still-”

“Not real, Dimitri. Don’t listen to them-”

Suddenly, he hurls forward into a loud, barking coughing fit. She’s in his way, and she’s forced to catch his hauled body in her arms. As best as she can, she holds him steady, rubs his back gently as he heaves and hacks into the ground behind her. He’s still healing too, it seems. Long nights spent in a cold church hasn’t helped him in that regard.

He collapses and slackens in her hold after, drained and empty. His head lays atop her shoulder, and she rearranges her arms around his middle to keep him from slipping. Even still, she reaches one hand to his head to finger his locks, much like she did when he suffered his nightmares. It must be a familiar distraction, because he hushes once he feels it.

“I…it’s so loud in here…” he utters with raspy breath.

“I know,” she whispers. The voices haven’t left him and she adds suddenly, “I’m so sorry.”

He jerks in her hold and draws back to sit on his knees, relieving himself off her. When she catches his eye, he looks rather surprised to see her. Like he didn’t expect to hear her voice. He gives her the same look again. He thinks she’s a ghost. Their clash is all but forgotten. Like the Goddess Tower all over again, but instead of hissing violent threats, he just grits his teeth.

He grunts softly. “It hurts…” There’s a brokenness in his voice.

“Where?”

He swallows hard. “My head.”

“Okay,” she says, voice watery. She’s just as shaken too. “Let me help you.”

He doesn’t resist when she places a hand on his shoulder, willing him to slack under her touch. She shifts their bodies and guides him to her, carrying him with her small hands and not stopping until he’s settled across her lap. She holds his head close to her chest and brushes his hair to glance over his grown features. He’s never allowed her to get this close before.

He opens his eye when she touches him. His brows crease at her expression.

“Professor, you’re…”

She sees it before she feels it – teardrops falling on his cheek. She supposes that part of him never changed. He was always so observant of her emotions.

She shakes her head, tells him to think nothing of it, but it’s a white lie. She can only remember one other time she cried and it was for her Father. With her sleeve, she wipes the tears from his cheek. For reassurance, she tries to smile, but he doesn’t buy it.

“Was it me?” he asks, voice laden with heaviness. “Did I do this to you?”

She shakes her head furiously, but doesn’t know if it reaches him. He shifts in her arms and settles more comfortably, and then he’s quiet after. His breathing calms and he closes his eye. He stays like that until he’s fallen asleep.

She takes the chance while she has it and presses her forehead against his cold skin. She cradles his head, nuzzles his hair and warms his face with her breath. She closes her eyes too, content to listen to his quiet breathing. Eventually, she loses track of time.

She looks up when she senses movement from the side. Her gaze is cast towards the monastery gates where Rodrigue is standing. He approaches the pair quietly and she allows him to assess the sleeping Prince in her arms – more peaceful than his usual. His eyes then shift to her face, where he finds none of the blankness he’s used to.

“Please. Could you help me carry him?”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods. Gently, they stand him up and support him on either side. After a small discussion, they decide his room is best. Warm and familiar, because even now he still teeters on an edge. He’s barely awake as they walk him past the market and pond.

The older man senses her struggle before she does. One look at her and he can only assume her bones are aching and emotions running wild with bare understanding. Dimitri is drifting in and out of consciousness as it is. He pauses at the staircase.

“Perhaps we should get Dedue? We could use his strength getting him up the stairs.”

She nods at that and five minutes later, she’s back with the prince’s retainer following in tow. Dedue doesn’t ask any questions and instead goes to support his liege from the other side. Byleth doesn’t argue when she’s tasked to carry his belongings for the rest of the way.

Dimitri is barely conscious when they settle him in bed. Rodrigue takes his leave after, stating he has much to think about after what he just witnessed. Dedue chooses to stand guard outside. Byleth recalls how cold he felt in her arms and tucks him in. She adds his fur cloak on top for extra measure. When she exits his quarters, she finds herself face to face to the waiting eyes of her students.

Felix and Sylvain must have woken to the ruckus. By the looks on their faces, they’ve already been informed. The Fraldarius heir takes one look at her before turning away with an exasperated huff. Sylvain actually surveys her stained cheeks and reddened eyes, and gazes at her with pity.

“Tried to leave, didn’t he?” Felix pipes up, shaking his head. “What a nuisance. This many months in, and he’s still so far gone.”

Sylvain ignores his insults and tips his head towards the end of the hall. “You don’t look well, Professor. Get some rest. We can take over from here.”

----------

She retires to the Captain’s quarters that night. She’s been sleeping on Jeralt’s old couch since the battle at the bridge. There’s something about staying in the student dormitories that doesn’t sit right. Empty as they are now, she will face more of them on the battlefield.

Tonight, she feels quite ill. Her throat is sore and dry. Her limbs are cold.

She unlatches the armour off her arms and massages her wrist. Holding off Dimitri, even for that brief moment, wasn’t easy. Watching him struggle to fight his demons was even harder. Her mind goes to Jeralt instead and how much she wishes he were still here. She wishes it every night.

A knock on her door alerts her stance and she glances briefly behind her. Green hair. Seteth.

The older man observes her with a tilt of his head. “Should I call for a healer?”

She shakes her head.

He pauses, noting how her gaze flits to Jeralt’s old things. His old armour, sword, his old books. “You must be thinking of your Father.”

She remembers the rain.

A flash of red hair sauntering behind him and how in that instant, her world became bent and then broken. Not even divine intervention could save him. She’d been rendered powerless, crushed by the hands of fate. She clung desperately in the pouring rain, forgetting her students were there. She thought of how nothing could possibly hurt more than when he died in her arms and breathed his last.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

She nods. “I do.”

“Perhaps you should spend the next days in rest. We’re due to arrive in Gronder Field soon.”

“Of course,” she says, even though the reminder is bitter. She listens to Seteth’s fading footsteps as he retires to his own room.

When she drifts off to sleep, she doesn’t think of Gronder Field or the pain in her body or the even the war itself. Instead, her mind flashes to the moments before, when he looked at her with a brokenness she’d never seen. Dimitri thinking he caused her so much pain, but that wasn’t the case at all. A rising sensation growing in her chest, settling uncomfortably and manifesting in tears. She didn’t think she could feel so much for anyone besides her Father. She held him close for a long while to subdue her fear of him wandering off alone.

She falls asleep, a soft prayer on her lips that he never scares her like that again.

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#fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #dimileth #dimileth fanfic #post timeskip #angst #romance

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

Wayward

CHAPTER ONE

She wakes up five years later, only to learn the world hasn’t been kind.

Missing scenes post time skip (Blue Lions route).

Pairings: Dimitri/Byleth

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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I wish for a world in which no one would ever be unjustly taken from us.

She treads up the stairs with light, careful steps. She has to tiptoe and maneuver around dead bodies and old carcasses strewn over the floors, follow dried blood stains splattered across the walls. Her nose crinkles at the smell of metal, iron and blood. Byleth wonders what horror these Imperial soldiers must have seen before they were killed.

That’s a wonderful wish.

The last time she visited the Goddess Tower had been a joyous event. The ballroom filled with life and holiday cheer. Students dancing in step. Professors indulging in fancy drinks. Even Byleth herself, watching it unfold with curiosity, because the party had been the first she ever attended. Every single one of them oblivious, and too swept up in excitement that besides Edelgard herself, no one predicted the foreboding war, or suspected what lurked underneath.

She finally reaches the top of the stairs and catches the view from the open window – a peaceful dawn on the horizon. She only revels in it for a second before she shifts and finds him there, sitting in dark shadows. She suspected it briefly, having identified the mortal wounds on those soldiers as pierces slashed with angry lances and biting force, cutting through even the toughest armour.

Her lips form a frown. For a moment, she thinks ‘please’ and considers ‘maybe it’s not him’, because she doesn’t want to believe. But he looks up to the click of her heels and the blue of his single eye is the same as she remembers. Her breath cuts short and she almost falters in her step.

Oh, Dimitri.

His hair has grown, lathed with gunk and dried blood. His cheeks are dirty and muddied. Confusion and blankness cloud his visible eye, where she once saw determination burn bright so many years ago. His body is dragged and worn and scarred from battle. Even as she steps into the light, his expression is unchanged. She doesn’t know how to explain with gentleness the reason she’s been gone for so long, especially when she barely understands it herself.

She reaches an open hand out to him, tries to share her light, but he doesn’t take it. He groans when he moves, and turns away.

“I should have known…” His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak. “…that one day, you would be haunting me as well.”

Her face falls, and she cannot fathom the swirl of emotions that course through her mind, beat at her heart. Above all else, sadness lingers foremost. She’s almost unable to bear it, not used to such strong emotions that she has to cast her gaze elsewhere. With it comes a sudden, phantom pain throbbing in her chest she doesn’t fully understand.

He gets up eventually, gripping his lance for balance and stands his tall height. She observes him more carefully, and can’t help but think of a creature in the night. Swathed in blood and dirt. Disheveled and dressed with coarse furs. Tall and looming, bloodlust in his eye. She imagines him prowling the grounds, cold and unfeeling. No less than the beasts they’ve fought as teacher and student. Humanity all but intact, and underneath all that metal armour, she knows he is hollow.

He demands she not look at him with scorn, even though she feels nothing of the sort, and then swears darkly to himself that he will sever Edelgard’s head himself. Threats of death and destruction roll so easily off his tongue. She wonders briefly when this violent and uncontrolled temper had taken root, but even after his angry tirade, she can’t bring herself to stop him. Not yet, at least. Her words won’t find their mark, not when she knows nothing of the missing years.

Instead, she says the only she thing she knows for sure, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

He only scoffs at her, “Am I?”

Byleth opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Her hesitation betrays her, and her silence is more than telling. He walks off without a second thought, and before following after him, she quietly reminds herself of the wish she’d made here years ago.

I wish one day I could see you freed from your darkness.

----------

Everybody remembers their promise.

As they work to defend the monastery from a band of thieves attempting to steal what little is left, they show up. Even five years past, they fall back to their old battle formations and await her command. She hardly has the time to register their new faces and growth, only fathoms the reunion as painfully bittersweet. After all, Dimitri had been the one to suggest the idea.

She keeps a close eye on him in particular, watches as he strikes down his foes with no mercy. He’s out for blood and terrifyingly violent. The honour of battle is lost on him, even though she knows she taught him better than that.

They gather at the centre afterwards and Byleth finally inspects each and every one of her former students. She’s most surprised to find Gilbert here, who claims he’s been tracking down Dimitri for a while now. When he asks the prince how he managed to escape the fortress prisons of Fhirdiad, the worst is confirmed.

Dedue is allegedly dead.

She closes her eyes and offers a silent prayer. There’s a collective silence from the group and at this point, she doesn’t know if she can stomach much more. After all, a teacher shouldn’t have to mourn their student.

----------

She leaves them in another room to catch up with one another. Some of them take the time to grieve. Mercedes marches straight for the church afterwards, followed closely by Ashe and Annette. For her, that time will have to come later. She doesn’t even wholly believe it.

Eventually, Gilbert approaches her in the council room. She keeps busy after the battle, rigorously polishing and sharpening her sword with a whetstone she found on the training grounds. As a former mercenary, or a Professor even, she was never one to remain idle. What little emotion she feels throughout the day is taken out on grinding the dull edges of her blade.

Gilbert narrates the events of the past and present – who’s taken control of what territory, what vast expanse of lands the Empire has already conquered, how his search for Dimitri has led him here, and why he set out to accomplish a seemingly impossible task. From his explanation alone, she gathers that Gilbert carries his own ghosts and unfulfilled promises.

“Thank you,” she says softly, chancing a glimpse of the tired man. “For finding him.”

He shakes his head. “It was not me who found him. It was you, Professor.”

She stiffens in her seat, but says nothing.

Gilbert sighs and scratches the back of his head. He casts his tired gaze towards the window. “I’m sure you find Dimitri has…changed, over the years.”

Clack!

The whetstone slips from her hand, almost cutting an edge of her finger. Gilbert alarms at the sight, but she quickly waves off his concern. She puts the weapon down immediately, deeming her mind unfit for the task. Instead, she leans her elbows on her knees, buries her hands in her face and rubs at her temples.

He is not the same.

After practicing much restraint and disbelief, the truth finally surfaces and the pain is akin to a hard punch to her gut. The gravity of his situation and character finally weighs down on her. All of a sudden, she finds herself missing him, of all things.

The boy wise enough to notice a young girl being dragged around, because her path had been decided by adults in a drawing room. And so he gifted her a dagger so she could carve a future for her own, one that she wanted for herself. Even back then, he understood well that your life was yours to live.

The student who desired to teach orphans, even when he still had much to learn. She watched from the sidelines as he showed them how to hold their ground, corrected their stances, practiced with dull wooden weapons and repeated several times that weapons were tools for protection and nothing else. He already knew all too well how quickly the world could turn.

The young man focused so rigidly on his studies and training. His compassion had been enough to elicit a few small smiles. She’d gotten loose with herself, slowly easing out of her stoic demeanor and mercenary mentality. It was an uncomfortable, but not unwelcome change. He willingly called her out when she slipped, saying her smile was ‘mesmerizing’. He always said it with encouragement. She thought nothing of it back then, but realizes now it meant so much more. Jeralt commented once how her students brought out her humanity in ways even he couldn’t.

And now.

Five years have passed and she struggles to feel anything beyond the melancholic haze surrounding the monastery. Perhaps none of this would mean so much if she hadn’t made that wish. Or perhaps he’s still the same person she met so many years ago. She just didn’t know him at all.

He always had that lingering darkness, even at the best of times. Underneath that façade festered a hunger for vengeance. Young Dimitri phrased it so clearly. Sometimes the darkness takes hold, and becomes impossible to suppress. The five years he spent unhinged and wandering in darkness nurtured his lust for revenge. Nowadays, people only laid hands on him with the intent to kill, and he had no choice but to do the same.

Gilbert clears his throat, drawing her out of deep thought.

Forgetting her place, Byleth straightens her spine. She tries to mirror his tired expression.

“Dimitri has lost himself,” she says, following up on his earlier comment. She doesn’t know how else to put it.

The man shifts his weight to the other foot and rests his chin in one hand. “Yes. I fear his deep hatred and solitude have consumed him for far too long,” he explains with a downcast expression. “We must bring him back from the edge on which he stands.”

She nods in agreement, unable to word it better herself.

He hums with uncertainty. “It will not be a quick or easy task. In truth, I’m not even sure if my words will…” he trails off, but eventually shakes his head. “Never mind, it must be done, regardless of whatever circumstance. He is still needed in his Kingdom.”

She finally looks up at him, assurance in her eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she offers, even as she sees dark times awaiting them in shadowed corners.

“Are you sure, Professor?”

She nods. For his sake, she would have to.

----------

Later, everyone is gathered in the council room. She stands to one side, casting inspecting gazes to each of her students as Gilbert and Seteth discuss strategies between themselves before presenting it forward. There is much on the agenda. Talks of battle tactics, recruiting soldiers, rebuilding the monastery and more. Everybody has agreed the Empire needs to be stopped.

Eventually, Annette calls out the elephant in the room. Her leg hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she sat down.

“Erm, perhaps we should wait for Dimitri?” she pipes up anxiously. “He should be here, right?”

There’s a scoff from Felix, and the gesture is oddly nostalgic. “Hmph. The boar is holed up in the cathedral right now, talking nonsense to himself. I don’t see him getting out anytime soon.”

No one says anything, much less argues with him. Byleth just assumes everyone has seen for themselves how the years have hardened and changed their former house leader. The air is stricken with gloom now.

Naturally, Gilbert turns to her.

She promised to handle affairs concerning the wayward Prince. She figures most people are rather…fearful in discussing Dimitri’s condition. The way she sees it, it matters not. At the end of the day, their end goal is the same: Halt Imperial conquest and take back the Holy Kingdom. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, she is certain Dimitri feels the same way.

She straightens up from her spot and gathers the attention of the room. “We can resume in his absence. I can debrief him of our plans afterwards.”

----------

People have always flocked to the church in times of need. Although their numbers have dwindled, guards, monks and merchants alike have all paid a visit at least once.

Dimitri is here all the time. From morning till night. Akin to a lost soul wandering in limbo or purgatory, waiting for judgment to strike down like lightning. He occupies the space in front of the rubble, frequently muttering to himself. Sometimes, he speaks of destruction and violence. When the voices get too loud, he pleads and begs for forgiveness. Sometimes he says nothing at all.

For him, there is only one end in sight. Edelgard’s death and after that, his own. A preposterous notion – as if she would ever let him get that far.

She’s spoken to him a few times. Tried is a better word. He tells her to scurry out of sight and curses to himself when she doesn’t. He is still unreachable. She holds her words in her tongue because they won’t find their mark. He didn’t even attend the vigil they held in Dedue’s honour.

“Look at the creature,” Felix is saying, standing a fair distance away. “It’s pitiful to watch. Professor, do what you have to in order to fix him.”

Byleth, distracted by her own thoughts, rests her eyes on the prince. The wide berth everybody gives him makes it easy to observe. No one dares approach too close. Her eyes shift to Felix next. He wears his perpetual scowl, but underneath she knows he’s trying to figure out an end to this situation. She recognizes it as his way of showing he cares.

----------

A familiar face treads towards the academy.

Byleth remembers his face. General Randolph. He stood beside Edelgard as they destroyed the monastery. Dimitri remembers too, because he’s more difficult to direct. He’s determined to ravage his foes and sort out his problems with senseless violence.

She keeps a close eye on him and the others. None of them are her students anymore, but old habits die hard. Five years of sleep catches up to her too – her body is not yet hardened from rigorous training and everyday battle – and she slips up. A fast-flying arrow is shot deep into her left thigh and she grits her teeth and hisses in pain. Before she finds cover, she knocks her own arrow towards the perpetrator before he can deliver another blow.

When she looks up, Dimitri has already caught up to Randolph. She curses to herself, quickly assesses the blood-stained grounds to find most of the Imperial soldiers either dead or subdued. She has to force herself against her own threshold, musters up strength because someone must stop him, and she limps over to him unerringly. The arrow is forcefully removed by her own hand, leaving a trail of blood in her wake as she ignores the biting pains.

She watches as Randolph is brought to his knees, on the verge of his death. Dimitri is smug and bloodlust festers in his visible eye that it sparks angers in her. Randolph pleads senselessly, claiming he must live for his family before he has the gall to call Dimitri a heartless monster. It only feeds her ire, because he knows nothing about what he’s taken from so many people, including herself.

Byleth draws the line at Dimitri carving out his eyes, and kills Randolph herself. From behind, straight through the heart, swift and decisive. She considers it mercy, because anything by Dimitri’s hand would have been ruthless and even her worst enemies don’t deserve that kind of brutality on their deathbed. She quickly sheathes her sword afterwards, because even after all this time, it’s still not easy.

Dimitri laughs heinously at her actions, telling her she should kill him herself if she doesn’t approve. Fierce anger burns so hotly that for a second, she would earnestly consider challenging him if it meant dragging him away from his bleak and corrupted cravings for vengeance. But of course, she would never condone that. Instead, she cools down the foreign, unfamiliar rage burning inside and reminds herself there is no need for more violence in a world already plunged in war and turmoil.

What he says next is atrocious. Claiming to use her and her friends to exact his revenge until the flesh falls off their bones. Shock removes all blankness in her face, and she watches him storm off towards the monastery. The rest of them are mortified, having watched in horror of what he’s become.

----------

Byleth patches up her wounds on her own. She wraps her thigh in gauze and bandages, rubs salve on her wounds and hides the discolouration of her bruises with sleeves. News will spread to the Empire that they’ve made the monastery their stronghold, and she prepares for another onslaught.

She wakes up confused on some mornings. There are times when she picks up her sword and gets ready to complete her mercenary contract. Sometimes, she goes over to her desk to review lecture notes, only to find there are none. She’d also gotten used to hearing Sothis’s voice as the goddess flitted about in her room. She has to remember these things belong in the past now.

When her mind is too hazy, or things get overwhelming, she trudges over to Jeralt’s grave. In bright mornings, late nights, rainy weather or cold winds, she kneels down on the patchy grass and solemnly wishes for a world where she didn’t have to bury him. Time is forgotten when she sits in front of his headstone, but reality always hits its inevitable stride and she remembers this is hardly the time to grieve. Not before long, she schools on a blank and vacant expression, not minding the familiar faces that watch over her in concern.

----------

“Professor! Over here!”

Byleth looks to her left, where Mercedes, Annette and Ashe are beckoning her to sit at their table. She approaches over somewhat sheepishly, because she knows she should be spending more time with her students and honing them for battle.

“Mercedes managed to convince the chefs to let her bake a few sweets. You should try some,” Annette says excitedly, pushing forward the tray of small cakes and confectionaries in her direction.

She hesitates for a brief moment before taking one of the jelly squares in her mouth. Although she never had a sweet tooth, she manages a small smile, just for them. For some reason, they all seem to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Did you know? Dedue used to help me with kitchen duty. Have you ever tried his cooking? I’d say it was his hidden talent,” Annette strikes up conversation, taking one of the small cakes into her mouth in one bite. For a small girl, she’s always had a ravenous appetite for sweet foods.

Ashe lights up brightly. “I’ve tried his cooking too! You can really taste the Duscur inspiration. He was always a much better chef than I am, that’s for sure.”

Byleth gazes over them with fondness. She’s glad they’ve forged these unbreakable bonds. Even if one of them is gone, they choose to remember the good he’s done. As the two of them continue to reminisce of Dedue and his cuisine, Mercedes quietly turns to her.

“Professor, I must say. You seem rather…sad, as of late,” the soft-spoken girl remarks, a gentle smile gracing her features. “Are you also thinking of Dedue?”

Her eyes settle on the wooden table underneath her hands. “Always.”

Mercedes waits for a moment before speaking again, “And Dimitri, as well?”

Byleth still cannot look her in the eye. “I think of him too.”

“We figured as much…” Mercedes leans back in her chair and looks up at the ceiling. Ashe and Annette have quieted their conversation in favour of listening in. “I don’t think either of us have ever seen you show so much frustration as you did in our recent battle.”

She shrinks in her seat as shame tugs at her. Perhaps she got carried away back there.

“I’m sorry,” she prioritizes first. “I hope you understand I’m not angry with Dimitri, but rather the circumstances that have led him here. He’s much different now, as you know, and I ask that you be patient with him.”

Ashe nods his head. “Of course. He’s always been good to us, just like Dedue. When we were students, he refused to let me address him so formally.”

“Me too! And he used to tell me stories of my Father even before I connected with him. It was nice, actually. He said it felt like he knew me already before we entered the academy, because Father always spoke of me.”

Mercedes hums in agreement. “Dimitri also helped me with sword training. Although I’m still lacking in that skill, I think it was sweet of him to help, especially since I almost swung at him. In return, I taught him how to mend his clothes. He was a very good student.”

Byleth softens at the stories shared around the table. She shares her own too. It’s hard to equate the man he is today to the person he was before, but if her students have no problem seeing him as such, even with his cruel and callous behaviour, then she should do the same.

“We’re confident he’ll come to his senses one day. Until then, we should help him however we can,” Mercedes pipes up, with a sense of assurance.

For the first time today, she fills with hope.

----------

He still spends most days and nights at the cathedral. It’s almost reassuring, because she expects to find him there, instead of searching the monastery in fear he has gotten up and left. The only worrying thing is that he barely leaves the church grounds. He denies himself sleep, evidenced by the darkness under his eyes. But she thinks of his health, having never seen him take a ration from the kitchen, much less eat a morsel of anything.

She swipes a couple of things from the kitchen one day and wraps it in paper. A small loaf of bread and dried fruits. Someone told her one day he doesn’t care much for taste anyway. Her boots click and echo as she draws nearer, and he turns his head away from her when she kneels on the ground beside him.

Byleth prods her offering towards him, lays it on the ground where he can see with his good eye and utters out a simple command, “You should eat.”

He closes his only eye, still turned away from her. “Go away.”

She shakes her head and doesn’t get too caught up in his brusque words. “You’ll waste away and grow weary if you don’t,” she counters.

He groans to himself. A rough, grating sound, and says nothing else. He’s rather subdued today. The last time she visited, there was no stopping the slew of threats that escaped his tongue. She’s gotten used to that side of him, knows not to indulge in his murderous fantasies. Instead, she treats him with a level of hardness, because he doesn’t recognize comfort or kindness when it’s given to him. She redirects his thoughts instead. Questions his motives with caution and reminds him to take care of himself. Never engages in a fight or argument when none is needed.

She says nothing else and leaves him for the day. Later when she checks on him again, she notes with some measure of gladness that the plate is empty.

----------

The next war council meeting goes awry.

They are short on soldiers and resources, and there are talks of requesting backup from the Fraldarius house and joining forces with them. When Gilbert asks Dimitri if they should dispatch their troops to the Imperial capital or the Kingdom capital, his answer is predictable.

“We will take the Imperial capital. There, I will kill her. Nothing could be more to the point.”

The group remains divided on the subject, but Seteth passes her the final say as the stand-in leader of the church and she chooses the opposite. For the army’s sake, and especially Dimitri’s sake, they should take back the Kingdom capital. There are so many people awaiting his return to Fhirdiad.

He turns to her, a cross look on his features. “If Lady Rhea is being held prisoner in the Empire, we don’t have time to waste taking back Fhirdiad. Can you deny it?”

He is only testing her, making her out to be foolish in front of the council. She doesn’t bite. Gilbert senses the foreboding tension and cuts in before anything can ensue. “Either way, we are in need of numbers. It is essential we secure backup.”

When the meeting ends, Byleth keeps her ground and waits until most of them have filed out of the board room. Dimitri remains, sharp and cutting words waiting in his sleeve, intended just for her.

“We’re not ready to march into Enbarr,” she says point blank.

“You understand nothing,” he scoffs, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists at his side. “The time we spend in wait only grows her power. She will have taken all of Fódlan before you finally decide to fight back!”

Byleth furrows her brow and presses her lips into a thin line. “You would rush in haste to fight Edelgard instead? You would fall on her doorstep before you even get the chance to see her.”

“That woman must be stopped!” he grounds out in exasperation, slamming a clenched fist on the desk and alerting the attention of the room. “I will go alone if I have to!”

She drops her hands and narrows her eyes at him, face lined with hardness. A bitter sensation settles in her mouth at the thought of him wandering off on his own.

“No. I won’t let you.”

Dimitri laughs. A maniacal, delirious laughter. He steps one foot forward as a crooked smile finds his lips, like a man possessed. “You, Professor? Are you going to be the one to stop me?” His voice is mocking. A taunt, above all else. And she understands he means to intimidate her when he draws closer with a crazed look in his eye. “Be my guest! I dare you to try!”

When he gets too close, she shoves him backwards with both hands, just enough to afford her some distance. The sword of the Creator hums and hangs at her hip, but she makes no motion to withdraw it.

“Don’t challenge me,” she warns and her voice is mostly even. Intimidation isn’t her strong suit, but her eyes stay fixed on his single one with a stubborn determination. Even still, she steels herself should he ever reach for the lance at his back.

He shakes his head and at her adamant insistence, takes a step back. “Then I swear to you this, my dear Professor.” The hissing voice that comes out of that mouth is a poor mockery of Dimitri’s own, dissonant to her ears. “If you ever get in my way, or you dare to stop me from severing that woman’s head, I will not hesitate to kill you too.”

With a huff, he turns his heel and gruffly storms out the room. She waits for the wave of shock to pass, and then her brave face is gone, replaced with an old and tired expression. She finally lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding and suddenly, disappointment weighs heavy on her shoulders and she forces herself to sit down. Her breaths even out slowly.

Footsteps draw near, and she glances up to the waiting eyes of Felix and Sylvain, who’d been privy to that uncomfortable exchange. Felix is the first to speak.

“There’s no use talking to him when he gets like that. Nothing is going to reach him,” he offers rather brusquely, even though his words carry some ounce of sympathy.

She looks to Sylvain, who appears quite lax despite their circumstance.

“What he means by that is Dimitri’s had his rough patches before. Today was just one of them, so you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Besides, dark expressions don’t really suit you,” he remarks loosely. She raises a small brow at his nonchalance and as inattentive as Sylvain appears, he seems to read her cue. “Even I still have a hard time accepting who he is, but everyone has their faults, right? And he’s my friend, first and foremost. All I’m saying is, I’m not worrying just yet. As much as I hate seeing him like this, I have faith he’ll turn around eventually.”

“Tch. He’ll be grovelling when the time comes.”

Groveling?

She creases her brow, tries really hard to understand, but the redhead just shakes his head. “For now, the most we can do is keep a close eye on him and make sure he’s safe until he figures it out.”

“Hmph. That mind of his though. So consumed with the dead. The boar has no control of himself. I’m this close to being done with him.”

For some reason, Sylvain gets a laugh out of that one. It confuses her wildly, because they don’t seem to grasp the weight of the situation. Dimitri is on the brink of madness and they jest as if it were another day at the academy.

She thinks it over again though. They’ve known him longer. They’re more familiar with his patterns of behaviour. She remembers questioning it frequently then. The way Felix constantly muttered his distaste for the Prince and his ‘monstrous’ qualities, even going so far as refusing to call him by name. Or when Sylvain raised a brow and kept a worried expression throughout their battle in Remire, because of all the chaotic violence they witnessed. She didn’t know what all of that meant back then. His darkness had been kept a heavily guarded secret between nobles.

Sylvain is the more perceptive one once again. “I know it’s hard to forget all the awful things he says and does, but I ought to give him a chance. We’ve been friends since we were kids. I owe him that much, at least.”

She pauses her train of thought. “What makes you so sure he can change?”

The redhead shrugs, but it’s not without a level of uncertainty. “He’s done it before. Besides, he has you helping him this time. To be honest, he never meant for you to see this side of him, but the fact that you have, and you’re still willing to see him through it…well, he should consider himself blessed.”

Blessed? Mild confusion washes over again. She tries to wrap her head around it, the idea as clear as mud. And even when they leave, the thought sticks with her for the rest of the day.

----------

The meeting scheduled at Aillel isn’t without complication. Besides the scorching heat and blistering fumes in the land said to be born of the goddess’ rage, it turns out there was a spy among them and soldiers awaited their arrival. Somehow, and Byleth still isn’t sure how the goddess is carrying her this far, they make it back to the monastery relatively in one piece. Rodrigue has chosen to come with them, along with several of his troops and men. She is glad to see their army and resources growing in number.

She’s avoided clashing with Dimitri in any way she can. Their last conversation is still a fresh wound. Besides, Rodrigue’s presence seems to draw out some sense in the prince. She would be foolish to tamper with that. If she recalls correctly, this man had taken him in, even treated him as his own, when the King had passed.

Once again, she cleans her wounds on her own. She douses her burns and blisters in salt water, hisses at the searing contact, and pulls the sleeves over her arms when she leaves her quarters. Later that night, she ambles up the stairs of the Goddess Tower.

On their way back from Aillel, she came across a…revelation, so to speak. She’d been sitting with her former students, sorting out inventory of weapons and medicinal supplies. The routine has a soothing, meditative effect on her, so she was minding her own business for the most part. Somehow, they started reminiscing about their academy days – a frequent topic of conversation – and what they had done on the night of the ball. She��d been partially listening at that point, and only glanced up when they addressed her.

“Professor, are you aware of the legends associated with the Goddess Tower?” Ingrid piped up, features friendly.

She nodded. “My understanding is that wishes made in that tower will come true.” Briefly, she mulled over the innocent wish she made there five years ago and as an afterthought, she added quietly, “I’m not sure if I believe it.”

“Aww, come on. That’s only a small part of it. The tower is supposed to be a place where lovers meet, and the wishes represent the vows and promises you make to one another. That’s why the person you bring there should be important to you, like someone you love,” Sylvain explained. Ironically, he then went on to list all the girls he had taken there, much to the chagrin of the others.

Her face did not imply as much, but the information was new to her. When Dimitri asked her to meet him there, she thought nothing of it. She was clueless, even as he explained his disbelief for the old legend and still made a wish. For the sake of tradition, she made her own as well.

Afterwards, he considered if it would make more sense to wish they were together forever. By her own logic, that would cross the boundaries of their professional relationship, so she offered him a blank stare in return. He followed up nicely saying he improved in the art of joke telling.

Aware now of the romantic implications of the tower, he was right. It would have made more sense. She simply didn’t understand back then. As a Professor and even to this day, she’s socially inept at times, often failing to understand human conventions and emotions. Her students, and even other Professors, teased her often or said all kinds of crazy things to get her to emote anything besides her blank gaze.

“Professor, did you ever meet anybody at the Goddess Tower? Or made a wish of your own?” Annette had asked, giddy with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Yes. I suppose I have,” she tells truthfully, not expecting the collective shock that flash across their faces. Much to their disappointment, she’d gotten out of that conversation courtesy of Rodrigue, who requested to speak with her.

Byleth remembers that conversation. That’s how she got here.

Resting her hand against the stone wall, she stares out at the open window and gazes out into the starry sky and white moon. The same view from five years ago, when she made a promise to Dimitri. She understands now it wasn’t a wish, but more like a vow.

She repeats it to herself again, but with more hope this time.

I wish one day I could see you freed from your darkness.

And instead of relying on old legends to make it happen, she’s determined to see it through for herself.

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#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #dimileth #dimileth fanfic #post timeskip #angst #romance

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost (end)

CHAPTER FIVE (END)

Summary: Five years since the war has passed. Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard. Five years since she saw either of the princes. One of them is a King now. Rayla doesn’t consider herself blessed. How could she lose so much of herself and gain nothing back? The war has come and gone, and still she’s counting her losses. Amidst this fractured peace, she returns to Katolis to make up for lost time.

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

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Incense burns and fills the air with flagrant smoke.

Ezran’s on his knees, head bowed in front of his mother’s alter, palms pressed together as he mumbles in hushed prayer. Rayla kneels on the dirt beside him, hands folded neatly on her lap and listens. She offers her silence and respect to the alter instead.

In front of her, Queen Sarai is carved in stone, delicately molded to capture her beauty and heart. She’d heard many stories of the woman, spread and spoken by civilians and her own two sons. She noticed all of them vouched for her courage and kindness. As far as Rayla’s concerned, she’s grateful for the woman. The war would still rage if not for the way she raised her sons.

In the far horizon, the sky bleeds orange and yellow hues of warmth. A whisper of a breeze grazes her cheek. Combined with the earthy scent of doused incense, the atmosphere is soft and soothing. Ezran’s voice eventually hushes into silence.

“You know, if I could be granted a single wish, I’d wish they were still here,” he starts, not necessarily with a sigh. For a second, he also glances towards his father’s alter. “For guidance, mostly. I always fear I’m not doing enough as king, even though I’m just trying to do what’s right by this kingdom.”

When she looks over sidelong, he looks younger somehow. Underneath those royal garbs and golden crown, she sees the boy forced to grow up too fast.

“What more can you do? Is that not enough?”

Ezran shrugs loosely. “I’m not sure. It’s just…I feel overwhelmed sometimes.”

She places a hand on his shoulder. “That’s okay. Just remember, your parents loved this kingdom and everything in it. That means your job now is to protect it. So long as you keep that in mind, then I’ve no doubt you’re doing it right.”

He remains silent, unmoving. She can’t see on his face if her words are finding their mark, but his shoulders are relaxed and the hardness on his face has lifted slightly. He’s silent for a moment longer and it makes her wonder just how much he’s listening.

“How about you, Rayla?” he pipes up, shifting course. “If you had one wish, what would it be?”

Her lips pull to a small smirk. The concept is almost childlike, like a stretch of imagination, or based in fantasy. She’s had to ground herself in the soreness of reality for a while now. Her reality. But strange enough, she knows her answer.

“I wish my parents were here too.”

She doesn’t hesitate because she’s known for years. But her wish is largely different from Ezran’s. “I want to apologize to them. For a long time, I called them cowards. I despised them for what they did. Having been through it now…they didn’t deserve any of it.”

His expression is thoughtful, appreciative. She’s gotten better at being honest. He pushes himself up to his feet, catching her attention. “You should forgive yourself.”

She nods. For once, her voice is clear and calm, “I know.”

Ezran’s smile is radiant and proud, but he faces the side so she only sees the corner of his lips. He gazes out into the quiet horizon. “Your last day, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You should come back soon then. You’re welcome anytime here.”

Rayla stands up and follows his gaze. “I will.”

There’s an air of certainty this time, unlike the last. Ezran tips his head towards the direction of town. “Callum said he wanted to see you before you go. He might be waiting at the stable.”

She nods, but not before getting one last final look. She memorizes the curl of his hair, each line and crinkle of his smile, the way he stands up straighter now that he’s king. She commits it to memory.

“Thank you, Ezran. For everything.”

----------

The morning air is still crisp and cool. The streets are nearly empty this time in the morning, but remnants from yesterday’s festivities still remain.

Rayla’s already mapping her route back to Xadia, recalling the stops she made along the way. She fast-walks towards the stable, ties up her hair and slips into a loose coat. Remembering where she is, she pulls out what gold she has left to tip the keepers. Even now, she still finds the custom rather strange.

Sure enough, Callum is there when she arrives. He’s in the midst of dozing off, or was, because he pushes himself off the post with a jolting start when she walks into view.

She smirks and waves a casual hand. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

He straightens up slowly and yawns into his hand. “Apparently not. What about you?”

Rayla shrugs. It’s not hard to compare, especially when the comforts of a proper bed is infrequent in the Guard. She’s used to sleeping on the ground. “Pretty good, actually.”

She watches with mild amusement as Callum valiantly fights another wave of drowsiness threatening to crash over. His lids are half-open, and he forces himself to yawn again, just to keep them from closing.

“You should have slept in. You seemed exhausted last night,” she ventures, crossing her arms. She knows him well enough he won’t admit it. He’ll resort to stubbornness if it comes to that.

“But I wanted to see you off,” he says, but his voice is groggy. It gives him away. Perhaps his exhaustion, or maybe even a mild morning hangover, is interfering with his filter.

She follows up with a sigh. “Then could you sit down, at least?”

As if she just gave an order, he does just that.

Now that he’s in less danger of tripping over himself, she brushes past him to where her horse feeds on grains and roughage. Rolling up her sleeves, she hefts the saddle on the worktable and gets started on untangling the cords and untying belt loops.

Callum watches quietly, listening to the sounds of squeaky leather and clinking metal, mesmerized as she inspects the saddle for wear and tear.

“I still don’t know why you left, you know,” he pipes up suddenly.

She pauses her task, and when she turns her head over her shoulder, there’s no strain or discomfort in her expression, just confusion.

“I never told you?”

He shakes his head.

With a sigh, Rayla turns and leans against the table. She closes her eyes, contemplating how bizarre it is that she’s going to talk about her parents twice now just this morning. Already her day is filled with unusual happenstances.

“I’ve brought up my parents with you before, haven’t I?”

“A few times.”

She looks down at her palms and rubs the calloused spots, the way she does when she talks about something slightly uncomfortable. “They were part of the Guard too. I never saw them after that and eventually, they become strangers to me. As you know, I was raised by someone else.”

He remains silent. He already knew. Perhaps it was always that simple. She’d joined out of familial obligation and tradition.

She makes a cutting motion with her hand. “It’s not why I joined,” she adds, as if reading his mind. He blinks, appraising the hardening expression taking over.

She continues, “All my life, I’d always been curious. I wanted to know why they did it. Why they left. Why was the job so much bigger than me?”

Callum gulps, sensing where this is going. Part of him regrets bringing it up now.

“I used to rack my brain thinking about it. As a parent, what was so important out there in the world, that you would leave your child? Someone you’re supposed to love, right? Neither of them stayed so I was kept in the dark.” A hollow smile surfaces, followed by a defeated sigh. “And then the war ended. Right in front of me was an opportunity to solve my life’s greatest mystery.”

He peers at her cautiously. “You followed their footsteps.”

She swallows hard. He’s hit it right on the nail. “Imagine. Going through all of that just to find out it’s not worth it,” she says reflectively, bitterly. She bites down the memory. “I suppose I really am their daughter, aren’t I? Ironically, it meant leaving behind someone important and dear to me as well.”

Silence stretches between them. It doesn’t take him long to realize she means him.

Her expression crinkles a little and morphs into something apologetic. “I’m sorry I tested our relationship like that. It was selfish. I didn’t stop to consider how it hurt you,” she says, inwardly hoping this apology is her last. How horrible it feels to be so full of sorry and have nothing to show for it.

Callum looks more awake now after her small revelation.

Rayla pushes herself off the table and focuses again on the saddle. “Mind if I borrow a hand?”

He fishes himself out of deep thought and rushes to her side in a matter of seconds. Together, they tackle her mount with the worn-out saddle and Callum decides he won’t prod about her parents any longer. At the same time, he remembers how familiar this feeling is. The thought of her leaving again, with no timeline for return, puts a bitter taste in his mouth.

He ambles over to her side and pats the mare softly once they’re finished securing the bolts.

“I guess I’m good to go,” she says, stepping back to appraise the steed. She turns to him. “Anything else you want to know?”

He supposes a proper goodbye is in order. “Nothing else. Just…be careful out there. Keep your eyes on the road, take shelter from rain, get some rest…things like that. I know you’re more than capable, but can you promise me you’ll look after yourself?”

Rayla looks up at him, eyes gentle and bright. She knows he’s only asking for his own sake and assurance.

This time, she’ll give it to him.

When she reaches up to kiss him, it’s light as air, like particles meeting and separating. And yet, his lips are warm and so are hers. He soaks in the feathery feeling of the moment, her earthy scent filling his senses, her hand on his chest, her lips on his, even for the small and miniscule moment before she pulls away.

Afterwards, he’s caught between confusion and bliss.

She smiles, one last effort to convince him she’ll be steady and careful. “I promise.”

Callum watches as she hoists herself up on her steed.

“Any chance I could convince you to stay?” he asks coyly, perhaps for old times’ sake.

He expects an eye-roll or a scoff. Something along the lines of ‘Not again’, but he doesn’t get one. Instead, her face is instilled with contemplation.

“One day,” she finally says. From her perch, she smirks down at him. “…but not today. Maybe if you ask me later?”

He stares with wide eyes and raised brows. “Later? How long are we talking?”

She shrugs. “A year, at most?”

“Just a year?” he echoes in disbelief.

For some reason, Rayla finds his shock rather amusing. “Well, I have a few things to sort out at the Guard. I can’t leave my comrades in the dust just like that. That’s not how it works unfortunately,” she explains as a matter-of-fact.

He still hasn’t processed his disbelief yet. “I was prepared for another five.”

Now she scoffs and gives him the eye roll he expects. “It’s entirely up to you.”

She decides to leave it at that. A promise to both princes. She’ll do better fulfilling them this time. With a small kick, she prompts her creature to an unhurried trot out of the open gate. She shoots Callum one last look. He understands her better now. That alone makes the visit well worth it.

“Take care.”

“See you soon.”

Somehow, she leaves Katolis with renewed hope and vigour.

Somehow, her despairing soul is rocked to quiet waiting.

Somehow, she’s found it – amnesty, sealed with a promise. How lucky, for someone who doesn’t consider herself blessed. Even as the cold breeze caresses her skin as she rides off, her bones and chest are filled with warmth.

----------

Now that it’s finished, I want to thank all the lovely and wonderful readers who’ve taken interest and left their thoughts! Regarding the ending, perhaps down the line, I’ll make an epilogue forwarding a few years later. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed it! - Mint

#rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayllum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #angst #romance #Dragon Prince #fanfiction #dragon prince fanfic

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost

CHAPTER FOUR

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

----------

“Care for another round?”

Rayla sneaks a glance to the barman across the counter. She waves a palm and shakes her head.

Earlier, she thought it was strange. She can’t forget it. The baker was a mere stranger, and yet his words linger: Rumour has it…

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head, tries to throw off the memory.

In front of Callum, she can’t feign the same ignorance.

She sticks around at a bar until the moon is up. People have come and gone. Most are drunken stragglers now. The wide berth everyone gives her makes it easy to watch the rest of the bar. Only the most plastered of the bunch have the courage to sit with her. The last young man, half-lidded and only mildly aware, slurred and rambled for almost half an hour about why he doesn’t believe in miracles or the sun. Mid-sentence, he promptly asked for one more round before he was cut off. He stumbled out into the streets afterwards.

Now she’s alone again, nursing a terribly lukewarm ale, head somewhere in the clouds, but the moment doesn’t last long. Someone slides into the barstool beside her and when she turns over to look, she almost spits out her drink.

“C-Claudia?” The sight sobers her up a little.

The black-haired girl plops herself on the stool and gives her a wide grin. “Mind if I keep you company?”

Rayla can’t help but stare, distinguishing that her once-long locks are now cut at the shoulder. White streaks of hair mixed amongst black strands still frame her face – Rayla assumed she’d find a way to dye them black again, but even she’s kept souvenirs from the war.

She stops, fixes her gaze elsewhere to stop herself from gawking. The hair, for all its significance, takes away nothing. The woman sitting before her is a terrific scholar. A talented mage. A caring sister. She remains brilliantly beautiful in her own right.

She shakes her head out of her reverie. “No, I don’t mind.”

Claudia assumes a friendly countenance. “Soren told me you were back.”

Rayla loosely recalls the encounter. “I see.”

She tips her head in her direction. “I swore to myself I’d see you before you go, but I have to admit, you’re tough to track down. I’m lucky I spotted you in here.”

A nervous chuckle. Her eyes flit to the hair once again and Rayla reminds herself to stop doing that. “Umm, I think your hair looks great, by the way,” she says, just to make up for all the shifty glances.

“Oh, this thing?” She fingers through a few locks and pulls a strand across at eye level. “Be honest. You don’t think it makes me look older than I am, do you?”

Rayla shakes her head furiously. “No, I…it suits you actually.”

Of course, Claudia’s caught her off-guard more than anyone; old habits die the hardest.

Rayla clears her throat and pours more ale into her cup, a little unsteady. Words seem to stick to her tongue, or they tumble out of her mouth. Her head feels light. She’s warm too. Warm everywhere. Her arms, her legs, her face. Her knees are weak, and if it weren’t for this stool, she thinks she wouldn’t be upright.

“Umm, do you want a drink?” is the first question she asks. It seems inappropriate, even with where they are, but Claudia isn’t taken aback by it.

She watches as Claudia elegantly flags over the barman, leans over the counter and quietly asks for something on the rocks. Rayla gazes vacantly as the bartender pours some amber-coloured liquid into a cup and slides it smooth across the counter. She doesn’t know what to say next. The two never had so much in common.

“Hmm, I just realized something…” Claudia pipes up. She takes a sip of her drink first. “You must be the guest of honour, aren’t you?”

Rayla shakes her head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

Claudia turns in her seat, chin resting in her hand, elbow braced against the counter. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you should be. After everything you’ve done.”

“Hmm, it might be too late for that,” Rayla mutters, reaching up gently to push the hairs out of her face.

Claudia shrugs. “Maybe, but maybe not. No one can fault you for telling the truth.”

Rayla slumps her shoulders and fixes her gaze ahead. “You sound like Callum.”

She gets a laugh out of that one. “I actually work with Callum. We both teach at the academy from time to time. I’ve gotten to know him better these past few years.”

Rayla isn’t surprised. “That must be…tough.”

“Which one? Working with Callum or teaching at the academy?”

She hardly knows. The word tumbled out of her mouth. “…the academy.”

Claudia scoffs. “Nah. At least when you’re teaching, people listen to you – well, most people. Try looking after Soren for a change. Not a single day goes by where I don’t catch him trying to do too much.”

“Ah, I could see that.”

Claudia sighs. “He never got his legs back, you know,” she starts, voice firm with unspoken grief. “Last week, he strained his knee running laps around the bailey. He limped home and brushed it off like it’s nothing. I got so angry I scolded him for it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Rayla looks at her, really looks, because behind those green eyes there’s more than she lets on. She thinks there should be a word for that look. That glassy, surface, iceberg expression, always laced with an understated gloom.

Claudia even has the gall to smile on top of it. “I don’t understand him sometimes. He’s either in denial and overly optimistic, or he’s wallowing in misery. I consider myself lucky to find him somewhere in between, but frustrated too, because he goes back and forth.”

Rayla swallows hard. “Sorry to hear that.”

Claudia shrugs. “Most of the time, it’s fine.”

“If it helps, I know the feeling.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Well, sort of.”

“Let me guess. Your Uncle?”

Claudia’s familiarity with Runaan slips over her head. Then she realizes she’s backed herself into a corner, because now it’s her turn to reciprocate.

“Runaan, he…” She has to clear her throat, swallow down the acidity first. “He, uhh, lost his arm from the binding. I managed to get out of it, but he wasn’t so lucky.” She pauses for a moment, remembering the others who never got out either.

“I frequent his place when I’m not at the Guard. He’s bothered when he needs my help, even with simple things. To feel better, he doesn’t let me do much, or anything, really, but he’s always been proud like that.” Her breath suddenly catches and it forces a lump in her throat. “…nowadays, I just help when he’s not around. That way, I don’t feel worthless.”

“How does that work exactly?”

Rayla hesitates, looks down at her half-empty bottle. “It doesn’t, really. I don’t even think it’s helpful, but I do it anyway. I clean his place when he’s out. Stock his shelves. Cut his food. Fucking hell, I even boil the pot before he has the chance to notice.”

Claudia furrows a brow, picking up the change of tone.

“…I even go so far as hiding my weapons. Leaving them at the door, keeping them out of sight, so he’s not reminded he can’t use them. I don’t know why I do it because, my god, he doesn’t even fight anymore, even though fighting is all he’s ever known.” She closes her eyes and covers her hands with her face. “Awful, isn’t it? The war is finished and he’s become a fucking shell.”

She immediately takes it back, and kicks herself for thinking so cruel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Claudia knows the apology isn’t meant for her, but she keeps silent.

Rayla shakes her head. “Do you know what’s worse? I offered to braid his hair one time. It was pathetic, because I only did it so he can look like-” Himself. Her voice catches again, the word stuck in her throat. She can’t help but laugh at her own misery. She pities herself. “How stupid of me. He was always stubborn, even when he had both his fucking arms.”

Claudia frowns. “Maybe it’s just with you.”

She blinks. “Pardon?”

Her expression is neutral, listening. Rayla doesn’t glean anything from it. “He’s taught you since you were young, so it’s always been his job to take care of you. Maybe he prefers to keep it that way.”

She studies her for a moment. “That’s not…realistic.”

Claudia shrugs. “I know, but if you keep seeing him as weak and fragile, then that’s all he’ll ever be. I doubt it’s what he wants. To be honest, I came to a similar realization with Soren.”

Rayla takes two steps back, remembers how this conversation came about. Distracted and dimwitted as Claudia always seemed, she was never any of that underneath. Rayla saw it in the way she fought her enemies, defied commands, practiced the dark arts. You couldn’t be stupid to use dark magic, and back then she used it plenty.

Rayla submits to it. “Sorry, you’re probably right.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m just angry. With myself, mostly. I wish I handled it differently.”

Claudia starts to touch her shoulder. Rayla doesn’t jump. “It’s not too late to change. I’m sure he doesn’t mind. Besides, if it’s any consolation, I have the same struggle with Soren and as you can guess, he’s just as stubborn, if not more childish about the whole thing.”

Rayla smiles, realizing they seem to have more in common now than they did years ago. She’s glad for the empathy.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Claudia pipes up suddenly. “It’s about Callum.”

Rayla stares at her cup, takes a long and deep breath. “…Sure.”

Claudia gazes down at the counter like she’s stuck in a cloud of her own. “He let me flip through his sketchbooks one time.”

Rayla doesn’t freeze. Instead, her lips tug to a small frown.

She continues, “There were so many pictures of you. Pages and pages, all in your likeness. Some have it down to the finest details. I guess he didn’t want to forget. You were so far away at the time.” She pauses, looks up at Rayla with a tilt of her head. “I’m merely curious…what is he to you?”

What is he…?

Rayla thinks five years back.

Sweaty palms, nervous energy in her veins. Reluctance hiding behind a hopeful smile. The robotic, practice tone she used when she told him her decision – I’m joining the Guard – and how, in that exact moment, she knew it disappointed him. He ran through several facial expressions, all tinged with confusion before pulling out that iceberg look she’s come to loathe so much and wishing her the best of luck.

Days turned into months, elapsed into years, and then she could barely remember how she got there. How could she leave when her mind was so clouded, when she’d already been seeing so much red. She searched for him in everyone and failed. Five years pass and now she looks ten years older, more jaded and wrought with understanding.

“Friends,” she finally says, swallowing hard. She reaches for the bottle instead of her cup.

Claudia arches a brow. “I think he saw you more than that.”

Her chest starts throbbing. Rayla nods her head, because she knows it better than anyone.

“He did, “she says, and drinks directly from the bottle.

----------

Guilt seeps through and cements itself. In times like this, it just won’t go. It knocks a dull ache in her chest, sags her eyes, drags her footsteps. She doesn’t know how to make up for lost time anymore, but it only begs the question. Why did she come?

Eventually, she turns up at the castle before midnight. She pads up the long and winding cobblestone stairs, gripping the handrails until she arrives at the courtyard crowded with the most important folks in Katolis. Running to the comforts of the forest or her guest bedroom are enticing thoughts. How she wishes tonight’s moon was full, just to slip off unnoticed.

Talking to people, engaging with them. Nothing is more nerve-wracking, frightening even. Fearsome monsters and warriors she’s come up against, and somehow her knees buckle at this small and simple task. It’s the whispers, she thinks. They follow her everywhere she goes, even here. From the entryway into these gardens, she doesn’t miss it. Admittedly, they aren’t all bad. Some people are just curious.

At first glance, her eyes find Ezran first. He’s easy to spot. A young man dressed in royal garbs, always the centre of attention, heavily surrounded. Surprisingly, his eyes find her just the same. He couldn’t possibly have been waiting. She tries to wave him off as he dismisses himself and maneuvers out of the crowd, but it’s to no avail. She lowers her hand and sticks to the back wall.

“Rayla! I’m glad you made it.”

She puts on a sheepish smile and scratches the back of her neck. “Am I late?”

Ezran raises a brow. “Not at all. Callum’s about to start his speech.”

“Oh. Did I miss yours?”

He laughs lightly. “Nope. It’s just Callum tonight. We agreed on it beforehand. I’ve been doing the talking every year so I argued he should take the mantle tonight. Took some time to convince him, but he gave in eventually. Besides, he owes me a few favours. You know how he is,” Ezran admits, a little pleased with himself.

She chuckles in amusement.

“Did you tour around the festival?” he pipes up.

“I did.” She casts her gaze around the room, finally finding Callum at the base of the stage, sharing a laugh with guards and councillors alike. “I had a great time and the town looks beautiful. Your brother was gracious enough to show me around.”

“I know.” And then he shoots her a small grin.

She looks ahead of her, almost hiding her face from him. Right now, she doesn’t have the strength to deal with his knowing smiles. Instead, she tips her head to the stage, where finally, Callum makes his way up the wooden platform.

He struggles to gather the crowd’s attention, but they hone in eventually. Rayla settles herself against the wall, looks down at her boots and listens in. She nods along as Callum pedals back five years to describe a new age of peace, where there are no debts or looming perils threatening to take them down. Where it’s no longer a reality to fear what lies beyond these borders, become silenced by dark forces, getting murdered in your sleep. He thanks his lucky stars he doesn’t live like this anymore.

A knot coils in her stomach as he recalls the fallen in those troubled times. She thinks if it weren’t for the war, this town would still have its king, and Ezran would have gotten a proper childhood, and Callum wouldn’t be the one making this speech. Ironically, she would have been brought up as an assassin regardless of the war. It always seemed, even back when she was a child, that joining the Dragon Guard would be her destiny.

She waits it out until the end, until a round of applause sweeps the crowd. A server passes and Ezran grabs himself a glass of wine, prompting her to do the same. She clues in that it’s time for the toast. Callum dedicates this time to show gratitude for the past five years of peace and good fortune. He prays for many more, and his speech ends as he raises his glass and drinks it down.

“Cheers, Rayla,” Ezran pipes up.

“Cheers,” she murmurs to herself, downing the sweet drink in one go. She puts away the cup and suddenly, she’s craving another. But her eyes remained glued to Callum across the room. She watches as he’s joined by others, accepting compliments.

Her mind treks down that familiar road. At this point, she can only wonder – what it would have been like if she chose otherwise. If she took him up on his offer. Became a diplomat, a foreign officer, even if she’d never been a fan of the cold, political battlefield.

She supposes they would have travelled the countries, side-by-side, with their union displayed for the world to see. Maybe it would help to alleviate the longstanding discriminations. In between meetings, she could rely on him to keep her sane, and help her in ways others cannot. But there’s chance it wouldn’t last.

His humanity, with all its glaring differences. A shorter life, a different kind. Relationships between their races are uncommon for that reason. Besides the constant mockery and public disgrace, what other problems would they run into? And where would they go? Her home is elsewhere and his is here. Someone would have to decide, once and for all, that this relationship is worth keeping, worth saving, and maybe it won’t be good enough.

Or.

She swallows hard. Her lips press into a thin line.

Maybe it would.

Maybe they would have wed. Taken it to the alter, promise to love one another, for better or for worse. Committed to a love louder than their judgments, enough to quiet their enemies. She would know bliss like she’s never known and for the first time in her whole life, her heart would be full. It would have been worth it. Because now they wouldn’t be standing so far apart now, where the space between feels like harsh tundra. Every step towards each other is like walking on ice shards and broken glass. Thinking she’d built this wall to protect herself, but forgot it would keep him out.

“Rayla, you’re dreaming, aren’t you?”

She glances up, forgetting where she is.

Bringing a hand up to her face, she rubs the blur out of her eyes. There’s a nudge at her side and Ezran offers her his handkerchief. She takes it without hesitation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Don’t bother with me.”

He tilts his head towards her. “I’m not bothered.”

She looks him in the eye, thinks what’s stopping her. Is she waiting for the right time? Because she will never find it. Instead, she has to ask herself why, after everything’s already been said and done, she still tries to forget it. And more importantly why, after five years of staring it in the face, does she still scare of getting hurt.

“Callum, he…did you know he offered me to join him? Five years ago?” she asks slowly.

Ezran locks his gaze ahead of him. “I knew.”

“Sometimes, I wonder…” She clears her throat. “…how different it would be if I did.”

He exhales long and slow. “I…can’t answer that.”

She smiles, hides her own disappointment. “I guess it could have gone either way,” she says, softening the blow.

“Maybe you should ask him.”

She hums in question. “Maybe.”

----------

The clock strikes past midnight. Rayla turns on her heel.

“Ah, leaving already?”

She turns around, wondering how long he’d been eyeing her. She gives him a loose shrug. “It’s late.”

Callum tilts his head towards the crowd. “At least stay for the end of the festival?”

Rayla sighs, shifts her gaze to the clear night sky. “I shouldn’t, you know.”

“Would you stay for me?”

Rayla startles on his choice words. The questions hangs in the air and she lingers on the familiarity of it, like it’s a call back. Even though he’s not one to mock their past, or scoff at her decisions, she still considers it.

“Umm, I won’t take up too much of your time. Just a few minutes?” he rephrases. Maybe he senses her discomfort because now he’s looking away, stroking the back of his neck.

She attempts a smile to rid of the tension. “Okay.”

Grateful, he gestures to the walkway and allows her to lead as he follows behind. She settles down on a bench and he takes a seat beside her, mindful to keep space.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I hope the townsfolk weren’t too harsh on you. I know the attention can be a lot, like they’re suspicious and watching your every move, but don’t let it bother you too much. Ezran and I are trying to change it.”

She breathes deep, in and out. The attention slips past her now and in honesty, not all of it is rude and unwarranted. “It hasn’t been too bad. Better than I imagined, actually. And for the most part, they’re just curious. I don’t blame them. Humans get a similar kind of treatment across the border.”

“I know, but I still don’t like it,” he says quietly.

And of course he doesn’t. I think more people should know who you are. No one should. Even after the war, there’s still much to do with restoring harmony and resolving the tensions between races.

I think he saw you more than that.

She shakes her head to throw off the memory. “Umm, did Lady Freya end up coming to the festival?”

At first, he furrows his brows and then it dawns on him. “Oh, you caught that, huh?”

She nods. A lot was discussed during that breakfast, but this managed to get through. It wouldn’t surprise her then, or even now to find out how much he’s moved on.

His face flushes a light pink and he looks away, breaking eye contact. “She didn’t.”

Rayla lowers her head in return. “Are you involved with her? Or anybody?”

“I’m not.”

She turns to the ground, crossing one leg over the other. “Do you want to be?”

He gives a half-shrug and doesn’t say anything. It’s a weighty question, maybe even unreasonable, coming from someone like her and given their history.

Maybe you should ask him.

She doesn’t shake off the words this time. She asks herself again why, after all these years, does she still mince her words. As if the war didn’t teach her to do otherwise.

“Callum…by any chance, do ever think about…us?”

It seems to catch him off-guard. “…you mean, the two of us?

“Yeah,” she says softly.

He squirms in his seat, finding his breath has quickened all of a sudden. “Well…yes, I do. Sometimes, but more so in the years back,” he says, taking his time. He shrugs again and then lets out a loose breath. “I mean, it was hard not to. At the time, you were so important to me.”

A pained smile reaches her face for a second and then it drops. She glances at him through her lashes. “Do you ever think of what would have happened if I stayed then?”

The loaded question takes him aback, and he shifts his gaze to the sky. Exhaling through his mouth, he sinks down in his seat and sighs. “Oh…umm, you know, I don’t…” He stops to rub his face and think carefully of his next words. “Ah, this is really hard to say…”

“It’s okay,” she interjects. Perhaps it’s unfair to ask. She doesn’t even know what she wants to hear. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, it’s fine,” he insists, even though it’s a struggle to appear unbothered. He keeps his eyes trained to the sky where the moon shines so bright amongst the stars, and then he recalls the night was just as clear five years ago when they parted ways. He remembers he’s done this before.

He lets out a small breath. “You know, I can’t say for sure where we would have ended up, but…” he says, voice laced with a rare tenderness. A delicate smile paints his features. “…Rayla, I know I cared about you. For sure, I was always thinking of you – where you were, how you were doing. I think back on all the things you did for me and I’m grateful.”

Speaking these truths seems to relax him. He’s almost unfazed by the matter now. She supposes that’s the good in being honest. It’s why he always seems more free, less burdened from the war. She wishes she could be the same.

He doesn’t look taken aback anymore. “I mean, I…loved you then. I would have done anything for you.” From the corner of his eye, he notices her worrying a handkerchief between her fingers. He knows it’s no shock. No wide eyes, no surprises. Callum continues, “Afterwards, when you told me you were going to join the Guard, I supported your decision. It was yours to make and I wanted you to be happy.”

She hangs her head. I remember, because she already knew these things. All of them.

“If I’m being honest though, I wanted you to stay,” he adds, mostly as an afterthought. She can only wonder how long it took for him to say his piece so freely. “When I confessed everything to you five years ago, I meant it.”

“…I know,” she finally speaks, voice dulled to a whisper. A sad smile surfaces, because he speaks only of the past. “I’m sorry I left back then. At the time, I didn’t understand it so clearly.”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s okay. You followed your own path. I couldn’t fault you for making your choice.”

She shakes her head here. Not because he was wrong, but because she was. Her resolve is crumbling, her pride withering away.

“It…it wasn’t a good choice, Callum,” she finally admits, and her shoulders are shaking. “I’d already been having nightmares before then. I was slipping, almost every day, and it got worse.” Her breaths tremble as they come out and she grips the wooden slats of the bench hard in her hands. “…in some ways, it never seemed like the war had ended.”

His neutral expression fades, slowly replaced with concern and worry. “It got worse? In what way?”

In every way, she answers in her mind. She gulps, swallows hard and remembers the times she’d been alone. Slipping in and out, day after day. Writing in her book, taking every assignment and keeping busy just to avoid the night terrors. Feeling pathetic when she couldn’t even do that.

She recalls every moment spent in slow healing. Huddled in a corner or looking for quiet places to wait out her episodes. Some of them didn’t last long, but they never stopped coming either. One step forward and one step back, it always seemed. A repetitive, stumble of a dance.

“Rayla, tell me. Why didn’t you-” He stops all of a sudden, catching something in her eyes.

It starts as a high-pitched fire, followed by a deafening loudness taking over.

He’s watching her when it happens.

Memories of the war flashing before her eyes in that slow, dreadful moment before she slips over. There’s a loud ring in her ears. It must be an explosion. A bomb, maybe. Rayla reaches behind her, tries to draw her blade – nothing. Stupid, she left her sword in her room. Another explosion sets off and time ticks slow again. Her breaths turn ragged. She doesn’t recognize it.

There are hands on her shoulders.

“Rayla, they’re only fireworks! It’s not real! There’s no-”

She doesn’t hear it.

Instead, she drops to her knees, cowers to the ground to find cover. The ring is so loud and piercing that her ear drums might burst and bleed. She slaps her hands to her ears and plugs them tight. Block out the incessant noise fighting for her attention.

“Rayla! Listen to me!”

There’s a muffled voice there, mixed with all the chaos. She tweaks one eyes open and makes out his crouched form in front of her. Callum? How did he get here?

She follows his voice and hones in on it, until it’s louder than the clamour. After a while, she manages to slow her breaths.

“Ah, that’s it. Keep going.”

She finally feels the gentle grips on her shoulders. After that, there are no more clashing swords. Somehow it’s working. She closes her eyes, focuses on nothing else.

“I know it’s loud,” she hears. His voice is muted, but she recognizes it.

Rayla sits there for a while, hands still pressed to her ears. Listen. Just listen. He lulls hushed words to her, trying to instill peace to her turmoil. And she can hear him. She remembers his comforting truths.

I cared for you.

I loved you.

I would have done anything for you.

Soon, the roars soften to small pops, mere crinkles in her ears. Her shaking subsides. The raging war has stopped. She slowly opens her eyes and glances around. No explosions. No dark magic. No pain. She’s not bound, there’s no bloodshed and her sight is clear. She knows what’s real. The panic slowly fades and ebbs into nothing.

“Not so loud anymore, huh?”

When she looks up, he’s right there. Eyes meeting hers, and he’s smiling.

She gently drops her hands in front of her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, looking upwards.

She follows his gaze to the colourful myriad of patterns illuminating the sky. A spectacle of lights. Shooting up one after the other and coming to life in splendid colour. Blossoming into dazzling stars and kaleidoscopic forms. She stares slack-jawed and swallows hard. She hasn’t seen a firework in years.

“Beautiful,” she echoes.

For a while, they stare at the vibrant display. In her eyes, there’s something otherworldly and magical about the lights. She allows her mind to wander far away from here. Somewhere quiet and peaceful.

“Ah, Rayla, you’re-”

She looks at Callum, and then something drops in her hands. Her brows crease.

Teardrops.

“Oh, I’m…”

She stares down at her open palms, only registers the wet trails on her cheeks after they’ve fallen.

I’m…crying. Why…?

She doesn’t mean to. She didn’t even know tears could fall unconsciously, without her permission. Maybe they’re like instincts on a battlefield, knowing when to swerve left, or duck underneath a sword or run to take cover. She knows how to do all these things, except she hasn’t sobbed in a long time, and it’s a long forgotten feeling.

His gaze is gentle. “What’s wrong?”

She’s figuring it out herself. “I…don’t know.”

And then her memory trails backwards, flashing to a hundred fleeting moments. That’s when the sinking realization hits her – how much she’s missed him over the last five years. The emotions surface only now. She’s never given it much thought, which only makes her wonder how she can miss someone in retrospect like this.

Then again, she always knew she would. No one’s able to quiet the noise like he does.

All this time spent searching and pondering why she’s come, but deep down she already knew the answer. Callum’s different now, much like everyone else, and yet his touch still leaves a significant spark. She laughs quietly at her foolish self, and then her smile drops, overcome with something else entirely.

Five years gone and wasted.

Regret trickles in, seeps through the cracks and hardens.

Desire grows palpable in her chest and it’s so pure it hurts. All those years ago, she’d let go of something good and honest. She sees it now with absolute clarity. She must have been so dead to the world not to notice it. Blind, because she missed that chance. And utterly foolish, because a love like that is so extraordinary and rare.

This is what regret feels like. Carrying the weight of the world with no strength. Here he stands, and yet what’s left of her still remains an empty black hole.

She emits a heavy sigh. “Ah, I wish things were different,” she says so quietly.

“Pardon?”

Unsteady, she finds her feet and forces herself up, even if she feels lightheaded. He mirrors after her, keeping their gazes levelled. “I wish things were different,” she repeats, louder and resolute. And then she thinks about his honesty, and amends her remark. “I wish I stayed.”

For years she’s read him with ease, but now his expression is unreadable.

In between all the sentiments and fervent emotions brewing inside her, she finds the courage to smile. “…I loved you too, you know,” she finally says. No fear of getting hurt this time. She lets out a hollow laugh. “Back then, I was so convinced that joining the Guard was the right choice. If I had known I’d lose my mind, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Few tears still fall, she realizes. She can’t stop them.

“I guess it’s my fault we ended up here,” she admits, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Callum.”

The last set of fireworks light the sky and all that’s left are trails of smoke in a darkened sky. Silence takes over now. She smiles at him, features sad and delicate. He’s holding his tongue, thinking it through. She decides to wait, gazes up at the stars until his mind is made up.

Finally, she hears him exhale a breath.

“Thank you,” he says, breaking silence. “For telling me.”

She doesn’t miss his wistful gaze. Perhaps all these years, he been waiting for her to say it and now the confession falls short. It’s too late now. He’s coming up empty too. The years are lost on them.

Callum reaches for her hands to unclench them, and it registers how hard she’s been digging her nails into her palms. He unwinds her fingers with his, until they fold into each other and she can’t ball her fists anymore. Eventually, he loosens his grip, lets her arms ago and then presses her against him.

She startles at first, makes a surprised sound, but eventually settles in. Her restraint buckles, and she finds her arms tucked between them to lift them around him. Rayla can’t remember the last time she’s been this close to anyone, and yet the feeling is so familiar. It’s the soft and comforting touch she barely remembers. A reminder there are things worth yearning for in the aftermath of war.

And still, it’s not enough.

The pressure and heat against her torso isn’t enough. He kisses the top of her head, quick and chaste, and it’s also not enough. She could hold on, press her lips to his, trail her hands on every part of him and still, still, it will never be enough to make up for lost time. Nothing to mend this unaccountable and unavoidable pain that this is what should have happened years ago. Like they were supposed to be something together.

Her breath falters.

Soon, he pulls away and there’s a somber, apologetic cloud in his eyes. She doesn’t know why and he doesn’t tell her. Instead, he nods mutely, bidding her a silent farewell before gently brushing past her.

She doesn’t want him to go. Not like this.

“Callum, wait.”

He pauses his step and turns to face her.

“Do you think…?” she pauses and hesitates, even as her heart wrings with desperation. She musters up the courage, because she needs to know. “…maybe, there’s still a chance? For us, I mean?”

The next moment she spends in wait feel the longest. She fills with nervous anticipation.

He looks on, gaze wistful, says nothing. And when the silence reigns for too long, she loses her smile. Time is ticking and with each second she grows uneasy. He opens his mouth to say something – she silently urges him to – but nothing comes out. Her face drops here, fingers wringing the ends of her sleeves. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked.

“Rayla.”

When she looks up again, his eyes are steady, comforting even.

His regards her softly. “We loved each other once, right?”

She briefly bows her head and lets out a small breath. Her heart swells. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything afterwards, but a smile reaches his lips. He nods and bids her good night and finally, it’s enough. It’s the only answer she needs.

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#rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayllum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #angst #romance #dragon prince fanfic #Dragon Prince #fanfiction #Rayla #callum

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost

CHAPTER THREE

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

A violin plays a joyful and melodious tune in the background.

Streets lined with vendors, music, dancing and games with stuffed prizes. Concession stands catering foods from around the world are found at every corner. Wherever she looks, there’s a joyous atmosphere, reminiscent of the celebrations that took place at war’s end.

They’re standing at the castle entrance. Callum has taken it upon himself to entertain a curious group of kids with an assortment of ‘magic tricks’, the irony being it’s real magic, and they’re not tricks. Rayla watches with wry amusement from the side.

“Again! Again!”

She offers him silent pity as the children start another round pleas to see the trick for the tenth time.

Callum smiles tightly. “Alright, but this is the last time.”

He kneels to the ground, using the bottle of bubbles that has the kids so enthralled to blow another set. Drawing the sky rune in front of him, he whispers the incantation and a small gust of wind sends the droplets gliding and dancing in the air. The kids run in a flurry, trying to pop the most soapy water blobs before they soar too high.

The gust of air magic catches the hem of her pants. For the festival, she’s opted for loose human clothing. If it weren’t for her horns or markings, maybe she could pass off as one of them.

When she looks up again, Callum is doing his best to wave off the kids, promising them another show sometime later. There’s a wave of disappointment, but one kid pulls out a kazoo from his party bag and sputters out noise as he darts off in the street. The others eventually follow and Rayla eyes one girl in particular.

“Hey, little one. Be careful. You might trip and fall with your shoes untied,” Rayla calls out to the small girl that reminds of her of a younger Ellis.

The girl looks down to see that her boot laces have come undone and then she sort of waddles towards the elf. Rayla drops to her knees, levelling herself with the child. “I know you’re eager to join the others, but do you want to know what’s not fun? Getting hurt,” she says, tying her boot laces and then doubling it for extra measure.

Once finished, Rayla notices she’s been glancing between her non-human features, from the top of her head down to her fingers. The small girl soon erupts in a smile, having finally decided. “Miss, I like your hair!”

Rayla smiles the compliment. “Thanks. You can run along now.”

“See you later!” And then she bounces off towards the other kids with energy like the sun, reminding Rayla that kids are freer than anything in the world.

She rises to stand and dusts off her trousers. Behind her, she hears the faint sound of sketching. Charcoal on thick parchment paper. She glances up to catch Callum drafting something in his book. Something he wants to remember. She watches idly from where she is, studying the small ritual and fixed concentration in his eyes as he shades and fills the lines. Callum is so handsome still, and his boyish charm has aged well.

He soon finishes with the drawing, notices her staring and then tilts his head.

She looks away and waves off his silent inquiry. “It’s nothing.”

He arches a brow, but she walks over to him and peers down at his sketch from his side. Back then, he’d always let her appreciate his works, scrutinize them even.

In the book, he’s drawn the busy streets before them, the banners hanging across the rooftops, the food stands, the assortment of flags, a few passerby. She marvels at his talent, even as she’s seen him do it hundreds of times. He could draw in his sleep if he wanted.

“Figured I should remember this day somehow,” he starts.

She nods, because that’s how he remembers. Callum always draws people, places and memories that are important to him. She saw them firsthand, back when those pages were mostly of his mother.

“By any chance, do you still use that…book?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

She’s lost at first, but clues in afterwards. Of course. Her own book, littered with lists it would confuse anybody with no context. He’d given her the first one she ever used.

“I do.”

He doesn’t avert his gaze, instead searches her eyes for understanding. “You…still get nightmares every night?”

She shakes her head. “Not every night. It’s better now.”

They’re silent for a brief moment, but only because it’s a topic to be discussed later. He finally averts his gaze, closing his book and slinging it over his shoulder. He motions her forward, suggesting they go for a walk and the two walk in step.

“You know, I think sky has always been my favourite class of magic,” he strikes up conversation, shifting the tone.

Rayla looks ahead of her, careful to maneuver around passerby. The streets are littered with folks now, but she has no doubt it will be busier later today. “Sky, huh? Why is that?”

He hums noncommittally. “I don’t know exactly. I just find myself using it the most. Maybe I’m biased, since it was the first Arcanum I learned.”

“Well, you’re also good at it,” she says as a matter of fact.

Callum beckons her to cross the street and she keeps close when they pass through a horde of vendors and their moving carts. People stare and steal curious glances. She sticks out in human garbs and it doesn’t help they’re a tall pair walking amongst a crowd. For a second, they glaze over her form or peek at her horns, but sometimes they look over at Callum with a glint of familiarity. He has no crown or regal showing, so maybe he’s not the prince they have in mind.

She almost wants to take his hand.

Make a statement. Somehow show the world that humans and elves can get along. Remove the judgment in their eyes and make peace. She knows he’d go along with it too, even squeeze her hand in steady reassurance, because he believes it too, but instead, she keeps her arms crossed in front of her.

“So is this what humans do when there’s no war?” she pipes up, shifting her thoughts.

He casts a lazy inspection to a particularly loud group across the street selling tickets for a show. “I guess so? I mean, after the treaties were signed, we threw a festival much like this one and the town settled down quietly ever since.”

She tilts her head at him. “And you?”

He looks down to the ground, hands in his pockets. “I sort of became a…diplomat?” He seems to think the title sounds silly out loud, so he quickly waves it off. “It’s fancier than it sounds. Basically, I go back and forth between towns, attend all kinds of meetings, negotiate trade, arrange foreign affairs, deal with disturbances at the breach, make big speeches…it’s not that bad, not so complicated.”

She snorts. “It sounds complicated.”

His lips tug to a small smile. “When I’m here, I like to teach at the school.”

Rayla marvels at the thought. “I had no idea you kept so busy.” She reflects on what she’s done in her last five years. “Is being a diplomat still frustrating as you once said?”

He chuckles. “So you did read my letters.”

“Of course I did,” she says, surprising him with blunt honesty.

They settle for brief silence, letting the sounds of the festival fill the space. When she hears him exhale, she looks up again.

“It’s gotten better, or easier, I should say,” he starts. “It’s a lot of work getting people to agree with each other, but I shouldn’t complain so much. I mean, I get to travel the world and see all kinds of things, right?”

“And attend a lot of festivals?”

He smiles. “Yeah. That too.”

Callum looks at her and there’s a thoughtfulness in his eyes. He’s preoccupied with something beyond this mindless conversation, but she knows him very well and it’s only a matter of time until he comes out with it.

“What’s on your mind?” she presses.

A sighs escapes his lips and he submits to it. “There’s room for one more, you know,” he starts. This time, he doesn’t play it too serious, not like he did five years ago, and she’s thankful for it. “You could still come with me. I’m sure everyone would be interested to hear your side of the story.”

Back then, these had been her choices. Join him or join the Guard, and after three days spent holed up in deep thought and rumination, she left him and chose the latter.

Rayla casts a dubious look. “Everyone? Really?”

“Well, maybe not everyone,” he amends. “Most people. The good ones will listen, at least.”

Her mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I hope you’re not trying to convince me to quit my job.”

Callum shakes his head, laughs it off quietly. “Nah. It’s just something for you to consider. My point is you’re always welcome here. I just wanted you to know that.”

She smiles again, but it fades quick as regret comes back to sting her. A blank expression shapes her features again. “Umm, can I be honest for a second?”

“What is it?”

“It’s about your letters.” Rayla sighs as she runs a hand over her face. “I’m just…sorry I didn’t write back.”

He turns to her, and she finds no resentment or malice there. “It’s okay.”

For a while, they sit at the square, listen to the band play folksy tunes, watch townies perform traditional dances. Rayla taps her foot loosely to the beat, reminded of the ceremonies and traditions held in her hometown.

Afterwards, they join the lineup to enter the town raffle. The prizes sit on the back table, courtesy of King Ezran himself. Baskets of foods, houseware, kitchenware, boxes of wine, stacks of books and smaller gifts stacked neatly. Callum needs neither of these things and Rayla can’t bring back any of the gifts with her on horseback. She think it’s reason enough to opt out of the raffle, but everyone is doing it so they toss their ballots anyway.

They catch the noontime showing for the play re-enacting a dramatized version of the war’s end. She snorts at the interpretation of Azymondias, a name half the performers can barely pronounce. He breathes thunder and has sharp teeth, but years ago he was never as menacing as the play suggests.

Later, Callum somehow convinces her to try her hand in the archery tournament.

She’s not here to gloat, but he pushes for it. Maybe he’s improved over the years and thinks he can best her. Curious, she says nothing of it and motions for him to take his turn.

His first shot misses the bullseye by four markers, the second lands on the outermost ring and his third is the best, just one ring short. He’s not ecstatic with the results, but she gives him some credit. Back then, he could barely figure out the mechanics of the weapon.

“Pretty impressive,” she says as she accepts the bow from him.

Callum smirks. “I’m more curious about you, to be honest.”

He’s not the only one, it seems, as her eyes drift to the crowd. More onlookers have come to watch since they arrived. Families and cliques and tourists watch with wary anticipation. Even the brawny man supervising this tournament ignores the rest of the matchups to eye her with some suspicion. There are no other elves amongst this crowd, let alone this festival. She’s the only one with horns.

The matter is paltry.

Rayla eyes her target, sets her arrow and pulls back the string, releasing it with a deftness taught to her as an assassin, but honed in the Guard. With no moving targets and harsh fogs, she knocks the easy bullseye, and behind her there are gasps of surprise. She wastes no time, lifts the second arrow and launches it with more speed. It lands beside the first, just edged into the middle ring. Her third attempt goes awry, her concentration snapped when the large man in her periphery coughs loud into his mouth and her arrow goes straight into a hay bale behind the target.

She lowers her bow and briefly acknowledges the crowd before spying the burly man a look. Even some of the townsfolk have the decency to quietly applaud.

Raylat tips her head at him. “Is there a problem?”

He ignores the question entirely, getting up from his stool to yank out her arrows. “Sharp shooter, aren’t you?”

She shrugs. “Lots of practice.”

He raises a brow. “Are you trained in combat too? The art of the blades? Magic, even?”

Her expression sours a bit. “Does it matter?”

“You tell me,” he answers vaguely. He follows up with a half-snort, half-chuckle before snorting in ridicule. “Here we are, throwing all kinds of festivals and parties, thinking the war is over. Meanwhile, everyone living across the border act like it’s not.”

She doesn’t twitch. Her face is wooden. She silently hands him back the bow when he comes to get it. At his size, she guesses maybe he’s a retired guard. He speaks like a hard-bitten man, not necessarily contemptuous. Perhaps he served under the liege of King Harrow, now hardened having failed to protect his principal. Maybe he was there that fateful night and he’s seen firsthand what she’s capable of.

She stops herself from overthinking and swallows uncomfortably. “Umm, thanks for letting me play.”

He scoffs. “You can thank the prince.”

Rayla turns around, finding Callum in the corner speaking with a family across the fence. She stays nearby and tries to shake off the slight, but she’ll need something strong to forget that happened. Idly her gaze falls to the other matchups, where archery is done in good fun, but she knows when she returns to her post things will be different.

She hears clapping from her side, flushes with mild embarrassment as Callum walks over.

“Amazing as always,” he says, and her cheeks are noticeably pink now. “To be honest, I kind of underestimated you back there. I thought you were a swords-only type of warrior and maybe I could best you with my mediocrity, but I was wrong. Well, lesson learned.”

She sneaks a glance to the brusque man, unable to help herself. He’s still looking her way, curious of her relations with Callum. “Thanks,” she says absently.

“Is everything okay?”

Her mind reels back to what Callum said before. About how the war should have ended. What could have been done to end the persistent prejudice and bigotry. Suddenly, she stands to block Callum’s view of the archery tournament. “Everything’s fine.”

But she knows that face. Filled with question, concern and disbelief – he sees right through her. After years of separation, maybe he no longer feels obligated to act on it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he tips his head towards the streets and she sighs in relief.

In truth, she hadn’t anticipated spending the day with him. She’d resolved to watching a few festivities from a rooftop and then spending the rest of the day in the forest. Instead, Callum takes her to the bakery for the afternoon. This place is famed for their jelly tarts, but today they’ve cooked up all kinds of delicacies, treats and pastries she’s never seen. All pretty and glittered with extraneous icing and sugar dust. Ezran would love it.

Rayla looks up from the glass counter and eyes Callum at the register. He’s on friendly terms with the baker behind the counter and they exchange smiles as the older man hands him a box of sweets.

She walks over curious. When she tries to get a peek, he just hands her the box. Inside is a dozen of bare cookies. A concoction of butter, sugar and flour mixed together and baked to golden perfection. Plainer than anything displayed in the counters.

Out of age-old connections, the baker lets them head into the back kitchen. Callum goes straight for the piping bags with a strange child-like eagerness.

“Something you probably don’t know, when Ezran and I were kids, we always snuck in here,” he says, making a frosting bag with a tip for her with leftover icing. She takes it with hesitation, having never done this before.

“You two would sneak in here? What kind of castle lets their princes do that?” she asks idly, trying to figure out the bag.

“Well, the guards were always busy doing something else, or guarding someone else. And the bakers would let us sample the treats so it was well-worth it,” he explains, chuckling at himself. “Back then, the palace was always…tense, and sometimes we needed a break. Things never really settled after my Mom died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t feel so bad. That was years ago, and now this place holds good memories. Ezran got his jelly tarts and for me, the bakers were always nice enough to let me try my hand at decorating. I always looked forward to that the most.”

It makes sense, she thinks, because Callum always had a knack for art. She watches his demonstration on how to write with frosting, outlining a neat ‘R’ for Rayla on one of the cookies.

She tries to frost the primal moon next. It comes out as a sloppy oval. She doesn’t even try attempting the smaller details and moves on. She figures she should try something easier, but the next cookie she pipes out too much on the first squeeze and the most she can salvage out of it is a blob. She sprinkles chocolate bits to cover it up before deciding she has no affinity for the art and instead, leans on the counter to watch Callum instead.

She marvels at his concentration and studies the way his brows furrow when he connects his lines. He makes anything from snowflakes, trees and precise swirls that look like roses. On the last cookie, he sneaks a glance at her pair of sprinkled blobs before tracing the moon rune himself with more care and attention than she will ever obtain.

He slides it over to her and she thinks there’s a hint of smugness on his face.

“Well, you win this one,” she says, standing straight and glancing over the array of frosted cookies.

“I had no idea we were competing.” His smirk is still smug. “Does that make us even?”

She snorts. “Well, I’m not sure how much your cookie decoration skills would help you in a fight. I think I could still knock you down.”

He raises a brow. “What if I use magic?”

Rayla tilts her head in interest. “Is that a challenge?”

His smirk disappears and he hesitates, considering it over. “Err, you know what? I take it back. I already underestimated you once today. I’m not looking to embarrass myself again.”

She smiles and before they know it, they run into a silence. Eventually they would run out of things to talk about. She’s not going to recount the days they spent apart or their days spent in war. Unfortunately, there’s hardly anything in between.

The silence is interrupted and she’s glad for it. The baker walks in at the right time, beckoning Callum over. She makes a quick guess, like a small game, and she’s right on track when after their quick exchange, Callum looks over apologetically.

Peering over at the storefront, she catches a couple of guards whispering to each other. They’re looking for him. Her guess is he’s needed elsewhere, maybe due for some big hero speech.

“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” she says for him.

He nods. “There’s going to be a dinner celebration at the castle later,” he brings up. “I’ll see you then?”

She sends him off with a nod. When he’s gone, she packs up their snacks to go, not missing that the baker has chosen to stay nearby. She shoots him a second-glance over her shoulder in acknowledgement.

“You’re a friend of the prince, huh?” the old man pipes up. “What’s your name, lassie?”

She turns around, finds the baker appraising her. “Rayla.”

“You’re in good hands, you know,” he says for some reason.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs loosely. “The prince. He doesn’t judge. I mean, I don’t either – you’re welcome anytime here – but it’s different with him.”

Rayla raises a brow, unsure if that made anything clear.

He motions vaguely in her direction. “I’m guessing he met you through work?”

She hums noncommittally. “Not quite.”

“Well, I think he kind of likes you. I’m no expert, but I’ve known the kid his whole life,” he starts. She’s starting to wonder if this is some cautionary warning. “But hey, if you don’t like him back, that’s okay. Just – let him down easy. Rumour has it he had his heart broken by an elf a few years back.”

“Oh,” she says. “How…unfortunate.”

The man is only protecting him, it seems.

“I’m not worried. He’s got plenty of years ahead,” he says before sauntering towards the work table where a lump of dough waits to be kneaded. “It’s nice to meet you, Rayla. I hope to see more of your kind around.”

#rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayllum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #angst #romance #dragon prince fanfic #Dragon Prince #Rayla #callum #fanfiction

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost

CHAPTER TWO

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

For Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 (FF.net)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

She has a nightmare.

Swords clashing, bodies laying waste, the scent of blood and metal. Someone whispers draconic into the ominous air. There’s an ugly sound, a strangled cry, a loud splat. Her lip quivers as she looks unblinking. Around her, the wind’s whispers turn into screams. The trees hunch and cower in mourning. And then alarmingly, all at once, her vision goes red.

With a choked off cry, Rayla shoots up from the ground, grasps for her sword and strikes it hard halfway through the bark of a tree. Her eyes flash open.

She’s shaking, shivering, drenched in sweat. And then she takes a large breath, as if she’d just found an air socket, and kneels herself over. Her body knows the routine.

Close her eyes.

Plug both ears.

Stay still.

Remember to breathe.

The actions are ingrained in muscle memory, even in disorientation. The bridge, she calls it, from nightmare to reality. Year five and the impressions of war and bloodshed are still inescapable. As a child, she likened them to monsters hunting at night. They feed off dreams, ruin sleep, breed terror. They follow her still, but nowadays, it seems these demons like to tug, nudge, even jab every once in a while. They like to creep slow. They crawl as they please, but rarely in daylight.

The trick is to remember they’re not real, but that stopped making sense a long time ago. All her visions are real and difficult circumstances, conjured with terrible outcomes. Each night is a different mistake. A different failure. A different death. No matter what, the horror is the same: the war rages on.

Every night, she wakes to a different sky, but she’s always thinking, always trying to find ways to be thankful, thankful, thankful. If she doesn’t, then her efforts would have been in vain. So when the shaking subsides, she reaches into her bag, retrieves the small paper book, grips it in her hands like a lifeline.

She write lists. Odd, isn’t it? It’s one way of feeling in control.

She flips to an empty page, begins anew, thinks of all the worthy and wonderful things in the world. Like counting her blessings, but instead she writes them out, so she’ll never forget.

Runaan likes to count, but always up. Counting down is like a race against time.

The first time she caught him shaking in his sleep, this is what he’d done. He blocked out all noise, stared at the ground and murmured softly to himself. Back then, she didn’t quite understand, only knew it was out of character. Unaware she’d walked into something private and personal, she asked what was wrong.

He stopped himself, froze on the spot. And after a few minutes of swallowing his terror, he told her it was nothing.

At the time, she didn’t know to comfort him, so she did the opposite. “Elves aren’t supposed to show fear.”

He was silent for a while and eventually agreed with her.

She never brought it up again, but she doesn’t forget it either. At the time, she used to think he was invincible. Hard-wired, with potent strength. Daunting and efficient, as everything came easy with his speed and skill. Made of metal, because nothing pierced him.

Looking back, she wishes she wasn’t so tone-deaf. She can see now that night terrors run in her blood. The fear in his eyes that night told her things she never knew. He had his own fears, but seldom showed them.

But the morning sun has risen now. These monsters don’t appear in daylight, just spill through on occasion.

The first thing she does is grip the hilt of her blade, try to yank it free from the thick bark of the tree. It takes a few tugs, bends and pulls, but finally the blade is wrestled out. She sits herself on a mossy rock, takes the next few moments to sharpen it with a piece of whetstone. These blades are complicated crafts and she’s been taught to prolong their wear. Since joining the Guard, she’s already had them replaced too many times.

It’s a common practice over there. Coincidentally, so are the demons in the night. Some of the elves at the Guard are damaged beyond repair. Hopeless, too. How strange it attracts some of the most broken people.

Shouldn’t you have known this?

Rayla slows, and then stops sharpening altogether. A sigh, and then she rubs her hands on her face.

Didn’t you ask for this?

Carefully, she sheathes the sword behind her, stares at the patchy grass and her boots. The memories run deep. They are cold and dank, just like the stronghold. A place that seemed like hell in the worst moments.

She glances over to her bag, quickly recalls the night before. Her book of lists. She lowers herself to her knees and fishes it out. Some nights she can list out fifty good things. Other nights, only one. Sometimes it’s the same thing repeated fifty times. What had been the case last night?

She’s about to find out when she hears something in the distance. Rayla pauses, hand frozen on top of the book. She listens close.

Voices. Stomping. Horses. Not many. A small cavalry, but they’re close. The scene rings familiar. She sees herself in the window to the past, but this time, she doesn’t hide. She puts away the book and seals the bag tight, kicks it behind the rock. She reminds herself the war is over.

When they draw close enough, she glances up at them. Three soldiers, three horses and a bloodhound – they’re tracking her scent. She recognizes one of the riders easy enough.

“Rayla!”

The man on the white horse approaches closer. The other two stay a small distance back. She raises a brow, watching as Soren takes his time dismounting the horse. She lets him.

“Long time, no see, huh?” he comments, offering a grin and stretching his limbs as walks over to her. “You here by yourself?”

She plays along, looks around for other company, and then shrugs. “Yup. It’s just me.” To point out the difference, she tips her head to the soldiers standing guard behind him. “What about you?”

“Oh, you mean them?” He points to the troops behind him and she spares them another cursory glance. “We’re just following orders. Looking for you, actually.”

If he’s talking orders, it could only be one of two people. “Did Callum set you up to this?”

He shakes his head and then eyes her with suspicion. “No, King Ezran. Apparently you missed dinner last night?”

The terrible recognition sinks in, like something bitter settling in the back of her throat, and she has to smack herself in the head for forgetting. “Oh…right. Sorry, it must have slipped my mind.”

He waves it off, lightening the mood. “Nah, it’s fine! Think nothing of it. I just need to relay the message that you are A-okay.” She stares blank, not used to his volume and level of enthusiasm. Perhaps Ezran had suspected she left town. Suddenly, Soren hones in on her because he’s not getting the reaction he needs. “Umm, you are okay, right?”

She takes a step back, nodding once. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He claps his hands together, and it’s done with so much spirit she flinches. “Great! You’ll be happy to hear he also extends an invitation for lunch.”

This is when she takes another glance at the other guards. Poised and stalwart. She doubts either of them could boast the same energy so early in the morning. She looks at the man in question and considers the offer. “Do you have an extra horse, by any chance? For the ride back?”

The question is futile as Soren lights up in recall. “Extra horse? Oh, damn. I didn’t even think about that.” He glances around, as if one could magically appear before them. “Hmm, that does make things tricky, doesn’t it?” He scratches his blonde mop of a head and contemplates it for a short moment. “…you know what? I can escort you back personally, if you don’t mind walking, that is.”

Her expression is unsure, and surprisingly, so is his. The first time they’re on the same page. It shouldn’t be a problem, she tells herself, because they live in a world of peace. “I don’t mind. We can walk.”

He nods and waves a simple command to the other guards, tells them to forge on ahead. The horses turn and gallop at speed, carrying them away and now they’re alone. Of course, he makes a grand gesture of it and waves her forward. She picks up her bag, gathers her things and starts walking.

They walk in step as he pulls the reins of his stallion. “Can I assume you came back for the festival?”

That’s been the story so far. “That’s right.”

“I haven’t seen you since the war ended.”

She knew she’d hear it. The most she can do is shrug and spare him an excuse. “I haven’t been back. The last time I was here, I think it was…” her voice trails off as her mind thinks back to the full moon rising that night, her body dissipating into thin air. “…well, you know. You were there.”

It makes her want to crawl into a hole, but instead she plasters a sheepish look.

He seems to brush over it. “That’s so strange. I thought you and Callum hit it off back then. I kind of assumed I’d be seeing you around more often.”

She frowns, casts her eyes down as she walks. “It didn’t end like that.”

They’re silent for a bit. Just the crunch of leaves under their feet and the soft whistle of the wind in their ears. While his eyes are forged ahead, she allows herself a glimpse of him as they walk. Just as she expects, there’s a small limp there. He bears less weight on his left side.

She looks away and grimaces. Seeing it gives the same kind of ache when she bandages what’s left of Runaan’s arm.

“You should get back on your horse,” she pipes up. At the same time, she tries not to sprinkle her words with judgment or concern. “I know the way back to the palace. If you want, you can wait me there.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I need the fresh air and exercise. Besides, I am in much better shape than I was years ago. My limp’s gotten better too. Sometimes, I hardly feel it.”

He did notice her. She just didn’t want him to. Now that it’s out in the open, she doesn’t hesitate to clear the air. “I thought Claudia fixed you up.”

“Claudia used magic.”

The statement hangs in the air.

No need to say what kind. He says it firm enough, but not with any sort of anger. He only points out the two are not the same.

He stretches his limbs, his own way of shaking it off. “I guess you could say I never returned to my normal form.”

It’s become the unspoken truth. That even when the war’s been won, it’s impossible to return where you started. She knows, and even he knows, that he’ll never go back. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, akin to someone talking about an incurable or irreversible thing. It’s the bottom line and harsh reality.

“Does it get easier?” she asks in a slow and meaningful way, because no one walked away from the war unwounded.

He sighs. “Yes and no. I guess you could say it becomes more manageable. With time, of course.” He notices his own downward expression and then turns it around. “But…it’s nothing to worry about. I’m still a knight of the Crownguard, aren’t I? So it’s not like I lost everything.”

She puts on a pained smile, suspects his optimism is a means to cope. Hopeful, but without belief. She chooses to read between the lines. To hear what he’s not saying. Because hadn’t he lost his Father? How could he smile knowing his corpse is still rotting underneath layers of blood-soaked soil, in a land with no cause.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

He seems oblivious, but maybe she doesn’t give him enough credit. “For what? You didn’t cause this.”

It doesn’t matter. She knows the pain of losing something. “…I’m still sorry.”

“Rayla, had I known you had no place to stay for the night, I would have offered you a room.”

Ezran sits at the head of the table and she sits on his left. Her gaze hovers from one pot or plate to another, thinking there are enough bread rolls here to feed the castle. She doesn’t know how to tell him not to do things for her, like fetching her from the forest, preparing meals like this, offering her a room. The gesture is too great.

“I don’t mind. I prefer it, actually.”

He nods, taking a sip of stew. “How was the trip to the Banther Lodge?”

A loose shrug. “It was fine.”

“Brings back old memories, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to her now, eyes on her plate. She’s barely picked at it. “Callum…” he starts, almost sighing. “…I hope he didn’t upset you or anything.”

Her tired gaze turns into curiosity. She wonders if he knows. If he thinks the same. That even after five years past, there are still lingering regrets about how the war was won. If it’s a frequent topic discussed in kingdom negotiations, hushed meetings, locker room talks between guards and generals. She’s curious because she hears it in her own country too, from skeptics and conspiracists and politicians alike.

They act as if the war’s been lost. Refuse to settle past transgressions. Diminish the work she’s put into achieving this frustrating and fragile peace. The thought makes her enraged, fuels fire in her mind. It’s the reason she opted out of politics after the war. Such a peculiar battlefield. A different kind of cold. She translates herself better with swords than with words.

“Not at all,” she pipes up with a forced calm. “We just talked. Caught up on a few years. Exchanged pleasantries.”

From behind, the heavy door creaks and opens. Both of them turn, eyes following Callum as he shuffles along and makes his way towards the table. He looks like he slept three hours. Rayla sinks into her seat because, of course, the moment she lies, opportunity arrives to bite back at her.

“Late, Callum, but how nice of you to join us.” He eyes the way his brother drags his feet across the floorboards with wry amusement.

Callum just offers a phony smile at Ezran’s jab as he takes the seat across Rayla. “Morning, Ez.” He acknowledges her with a nod. “Rayla. Good to see you here.”

“Likewise,” she returns quietly.

Ezran wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and drops it on his lap. He’s been waiting for this moment because he clears his throat, commanding their attention. “Alright, I know it’s early, but I want to get a few things clear since I have the both of you.”

Rayla pauses, bracing herself as she fills with awful anticipation. It’s been five years since the three of them have been in the same room together.

“As both of you know, the festival is tomorrow, which means I’ll be busy with preparations all day.” He leans towards Rayla, offers her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rayla. I wanted to show you around and give you a proper welcome, but maybe after the festival? I hope you can stay a couple more days.”

She lets out a small sigh of relief and dismisses the apology. “That should be fine.”

He smiles. “Regardless, you’re free to do as you wish during the festival. I’ve taken the liberty of informing my guards to assist you if necessary. If not, I’m sure Callum will help.” Rayla tries to keep a straight face as Ezran turns to his brother, whose attention seems vacant. Either he’s fatigued or his mind is occupied elsewhere, or both.

“As for you, have you made your speech yet?”

He shakes his head absently and reaches for his cup. “I’m…still working on it.”

“What about Lady Freya? Have you received word whether or not she’s attending? I mean, you did send her an invite, didn’t you?”

Callum almost chokes on his drink, coughs up a few times to clear it out of his system. He puts the glass down. Certainly he’s awake now. Rayla peers up from her plate to follow the exchange, watching as Callum glances at her before glaring at his brother.

Ezran thinks nothing of it, just shrugs. “I don’t mean to be a nag, but everything needs to be sorted by today if we want tomorrow to go well.”

He takes a few moments to calm himself. “She, umm…sent a message earlier. She can’t make it,” he says quietly.

Seemingly finished with announcements, Ezran nods and then silence reigns.

Callum resumes his quiet disposition and stares idly at his lap. Ezran’s not far off as he sips his soup like nothing’s wrong. With the palpable tension creeping in, Rayla stares out at the open window, desperate for relief from this stuffy air. There’s no better way to put it than she feels the strain settling between them. It’s rather uncomfortable.

Before the tension silences her completely, she shifts towards the table, eyes latching to a basket of jelly tarts Ezran arranged the night before. It was impolite for her to forget, so she makes good on her promise, grabs a couple for her plate. It’s the first thing she eats today and no surprise, it’s delicious. Ezran’s noticed and he smiles.

Amidst the silence, she mouths him a small ‘thank you’ and the way he lights up gives her a rare joy. Because in that small, fleeting moment, he wasn’t the king. He’s the boy she met several years ago. Looking back, it seemed easier then. Somehow, fate had gifted her purpose. Filled her with enough desperation to bring peace. Enough that she betrayed her kin, took an uncalculated risk, found herself at death’s door. She could move mountains with that determination. At the time, she was just doing what was right. Things are different now.

“Rayla?” Callum pipes up from the other side. The illusion shatters. “I want to apologize for last night.”

It’s Ezran who reacts first. “You told her, didn’t you?”

Callum sighs in exasperation. “Yeah, I did. Go ahead. I know you’re angry with me. But you know what, Ez? I’ve kept it for five fucking years so cut me some slack.”

Rayla leans back in her seat. Funny how predictable the two of them are, having both just lied to Ezran about last night’s affairs. It’s rather troublesome how quickly things escalate when she’s involved.

Ezran stands, bent towards his brother. “I don’t believe it! You told me it was all behind you!”

“It is! That’s why I’m apologizing. I didn’t mean any of what I said. I was just upset.”

“That’s not how it works! You don’t air out your grievances and then apologize for them.”

They’re both standing now, except for her. Something hurts in her chest and this time, she can’t stop her hands from fidgeting and gripping the hem of her shirt.

“Ez, the whole thing is complicated. You don’t understand half of it.”

The topic is a tired one for the both of them too, it seems. “I don’t understand it? Callum, you can’t hold a grudge like that and then go about how we can improve peace. That’s hypocrisy and you know better.”

The timing isn’t perfect, but Rayla stands now, slides her chair back. She lets the creak of the chair against the floorboards interrupt their talk as she shakes off the nervous energy.

“Stop it. Please,” she begs, because this is more pointless fighting. The two of them turn to her and she looks to older one first before talking quickly. “Callum, I accept your apology. I hope we can put this behind us. And Ezran…” She sighs, ignoring the incoming pangs, which are increasing steadily. “…thank you, but you don’t need to protect me.”

She’s not innocent either. Kneeling, she quickly sweeps her bag over her shoulder before squeezing out of the dining table. “I’ll leave you two to sort it out.”

And with that, she heads for the door. She doesn’t spare them a second look, only focuses on making it out. She moves faster than she needs to, because her breaths are staggering and it’s spilling just how unsteady she’s become. Truly, she can unravel in a matter of seconds. She can’t afford to have them know.

She slows down and breathes a sigh of relief when she’s in the hall by herself. A hand reaches up to her heart, willing it to slacken its pace, even as her façade of calm visibly buckles and fades. She closes her eyes, tries to quiet down the dread and panic settling in her chest.

There’s footsteps behind her and she builds herself up again, tries not to hyperventilate even as she feels herself slipping.

“Hey, Rayla? Are you still here?”

It’s Ezran. She turns around in time as he reaches for her left hand to stop her from leaving.

He means no harm at all. His grip is gentle, and yet she yanks back her hand because all of a sudden, it is burning. She begs it not to, but it does. The world slows as a sudden, dreadful sharp pain sears through her hand and travels up her arm. She winces and grits her teeth together.

Fucking hell.

She hunches over, clutches her wrist and holds it close to herself, all the numb and tingly sensations flooding back like her wrists are tied again. She hears the exchange of vows and fancy words. Feels the thread snaking around her skin, sinking its fangs and venom into her blood. For a second, she sees her hand is blackened, crushed by the thin white thread of fabric. So unassuming but deadly. And still, even ten years past, she can’t explain this recurring phantom pain that she’s bound again.

The moment comes and goes, and then she’s snapped out of it. When she looks down at her left arm, it’s normal again. No pain. No binding. No black or purple skin. But now she’s scared to look up and face him.

“Rayla…?” He sounds frightened. “Are…are you okay?”

She doesn’t how long that episode lasted, but he’s seen enough. Sheepishly, she hides the arm behind her. “…I’m fine,” she says, even though she has nothing to show for it.

Concern and sadness paints his face like never before. To ease the mood, she attempts a smile, but it doesn’t come.

“Please don’t tell Callum,” she whispers.

He nods his head slowly and she knows she can trust Ezran to keep his promise.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Carefully, she raises her left arm. Shakes it lightly to get a feel for it again. Not bound, Rayla. Not bound.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You know, I think I have just the thing to cheer you up.”

Out in the gardens, Bait clambers out of the small pond once he sees her.

Rayla kneels down on the grass, gives him a few rubs along the back even though it’s wet to touch. He croaks, nuzzles into her hand and for a second his hide glows to a playful pink. Funny he’s changed the least out of all of them. Grumpy and scowling. It’s how she remembers him and how he looks right now.

“I missed you so much,” she says softly, tracing the spots on his skin. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

He croaks again and the most she can do is pretend to understand. “You’re curious about Zym, aren’t you? Well, he’s grown a lot since you saw him last.” She humors the thought, surveys the garden around them and imagines the dragon. “Hmm…he’s taller than that tree, maybe as wide as this clearing…his wings are probably as wide as that building.”

Bait makes a grunt and she smiles. “Of course he misses you. I doubt he forgets his first friends. Didn’t the two of you play all the time?”

His eyes glower and then she remembers it better. Zym was quite the energetic creature as a hatchling. If anything, it was more like Zym wanting to play and Bait wanting nothing to do with it. Add that to the jealous and petty moments between them and the two made a dynamic pair.

“I know I haven’t visited in a long time,” she starts. “Things are…complicated, at home.” He croaks and she chooses to interpret it as empathetic. “I’m trying to do better, even when it’s hard. I mean…I’m here, right? Finally, after so many years.”

She imagines Bait nodding, agreeing with her.

She casts her gaze to the stone castle behind her. The legacy of this kingdom is both revered and haunted. The night of the full moon, when everything was set into motion, she made a significant choice that eventually changed the world. It was noble, honourable, easy to keep faith, but she paid no mind to the costs. In hindsight, she knows now even noble choices have consequences. She made herself a hero in the war, but an enemy to her comrades. Who knew you could be both? The price was steep, because only Runaan is left and even he is not whole.

Ralya shakes her head, tries to throw off the memory. Instead, she inspects the grounds, assures herself no one is keeping watch or standing guard. That it’s just the two of them.

She glances down at him. “Bait, can I tell you a secret?”

His expression doesn’t change much, or even at all, but she thinks there’s mild interest written there. She reaches for her bag and pulls it close.

“You can’t tell Ezran though. He worries enough as it is.”

He croaks at the familiar name, and she takes it as an affirmative.

She pulls out the small paperback and sighs. “You see this book? This is where I write my lists. Mostly, I write when I’m sad or scared or lonely,” she says softly. And as if the glow toad can read, she opens the book and displays to him the first few pages. She feels rather ludicrous at the moment, but she thinks the effort might be worth it. “They’re blessings, prayers, wishes, reasons even. Things I’m grateful for. I started writing lists because it’s like counting, and there’s no need to go into detail.”

She sighs. It registers this is the first time she’s said it out loud. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

Her mind trails off as she flips to the last page. Her most recent entry, fresh from last night. She furrows a brow at the first word, friend, and then begins to read quietly.

Friend.

Artist.

Prince.

It clicks, because she remembers now who her nightmare had been about.

Partner.

Mage.

Confidant.

Lover.

Hero.

The last line is an incoherent scribble. She lowers the book, uncertainty clouding her mind. It’s odd, because he’d been written in the book before. Several times, but not like this. She’s never painted a picture of anybody with a list of words, like she’s trying to remember them and hold on tight. Perhaps it’s a wish, because she still wants him in her life.

“Rayla?”

She jumps at the sound, snaps the book shut and whips behind her, finding Callum slowing to a stop just a few feet from her. She puts away the book as discreetly as she can before rising to stand. Clearing her throat, she tries not to look so distracted.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise I only came to talk.”

She swallows hard and forces a nod, because her mind is still flummoxed by the book. “O-okay. Everything sorted out with you and Ezran?”

He gives her a smile. “Yeah, it’s fine now. No more hard feelings.” There’s a small silence, because she looks on with anticipation as he figures himself out. He clears his throat slightly. “About last night…I just want to apologize again. I had no right to make those accusations. They were out of line. I mean, I used to have those thoughts, but not anymore.”

She shrugs it off. “Callum, it’s okay. Really.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, more to himself. “When I saw you standing there, there were a million things on my mind. I didn’t handle it well and I don’t want you to think I’m angry with you, because I’m not.”

She nods as her heart abruptly picks up its pace.

He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his head as he continues, “I mean, to this day, I still think about you constantly. Everything we did together, and how you made me feel. I always wish you were still here.” He pauses, face flushed deep it almost matches the red on his scarf. “Anyway, none of that showed last night, but it’s what I should have said.”

He’s talking like she remembers. A bit of awkward, a lot of rambling. Finding the right words to say even as he’s speaking. Trying finding the right time. And when he doesn’t know what to do, he spew outs words until someone stops him.

He glances up at her and sighs. “I think more people should know who you are, what you did for them. I wish they could see what I see,” he continues, giving her a sad smile.

She pauses and observes thoughtfully. “…Does it still matter? Even now?”

His gaze turns wistful. “It does, Rayla. Because…we lost so much of ourselves. The war gave nothing back.” His eyes lift to meet hers and she’s a little taken aback by the intensity. It’s not of anger or rage, but grief. The feeling is so palpable her face tightens, turns rigid.

“I was still a child then, and I saw a lot of things I shouldn't have. I lost my mom, my dad and…” You. He gives her a hard stare and then stops short of himself. His expression loses its edges as he casts his gaze to the side. “…anyway, now everyone thinks I’m some war hero. It doesn’t feel right.”

Rayla frowns. “You are a hero, Callum. You saved your kingdom.”

He sighs. “You saved yours too.”

She looks away, uncomfortable.

He glances at her, features sad and delicate. “That’s what I mean. You don’t like it either, when I lay it at your feet.”

She shakes her head. She’s no hero, but the title is a heavy burden. He’s a champion with much to atone and live up to, and sometimes it’s hard to do both. But the world still needs its figures. People to represent hope. Symbols for peace and victory. Living reminders that things are better and the war is done.

Rayla sighs.

“Callum?” she calls softly, waiting until their gaze is levelled. “…I forgive you.”

She watches relief take over him. His eyes are earnest, he smiles with gratitude. He’s lighter somehow, like a weight pushed off his shoulders. The feeling you get when the person you love decides they love you back and forgiveness is just as important. That’s what it feels like.

“Oh, okay. Thank you. You don’t know how happy that makes me.” And suddenly, he takes one of her hands, wraps it in both of his. She feels a spike of panic and familiarity gripping her at the same time. “It means a lot to me. Rayla, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

She tries to smile back, but she makes a mistake – peers down at their linked hands for a second before glancing up at him. He doesn’t miss it. She knows he’s reminded of the void between them, filled with years of space and absence. He can’t reach out for her like before, back when they were comfortable doing this and so much more.

He lets go and her hand falls loose beside her. For some reason, her chest is hurting. It’s a different ache this time. Tinged with longing and hollowness. She thinks of the last time she maintained significant physical contact with someone, a gentle hand on her back or a reassuring squeeze of her hand, and she can’t remember.

He wears a sheepish expression as he looks at the ground. “Umm, thanks again.”

She offers a small smile. Rather boldly, she lifts his chin with a finger so his eyes meet hers. She hasn’t touched him in so long, but it feels necessary. “You’re welcome.”

#rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #Rayla #callum #angst #romance #dragon prince fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #the dragon prince #tdp rayllum

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minttoy · 5 years

Text

all that we lost

CHAPTER ONE

Pairings: Callum/Rayla

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

King Ezran of Katolis requests the honour of your presence at the upcoming festival to celebrate the Five-Year Anniversary of Armistice and Peace.

Rayla blinks twice at the invitation.

“You don’t want to go,” Runaan pipes up.

“No.” She finishes reading the contents of the letter. “I guess not.”

He’s leaning against a counter in her living quarters, careful with the kettle as he splits the brewed tea evenly between two cups. He’s gotten better living with a single arm. She’s learned he likes his independence, even swats her hand gently when she offers it, so lately she keeps to herself. To make up for it, she makes sure he’s not in the room when she sparks the flint to bring the tea to a boil. She doesn’t think the extra effort is helpful.

He slides her cup across the counter and Rayla puts away the scroll, shifting her gaze to the downpour of rain behind the glass window. Unconsciously, one of her hands reach to worry a single braid of hair, which has gotten ostensibly long in the past few years.

“…I know that face, Rayla. You’re reconsidering,” he says.

She pauses, tweaking her expression a smidge. Reconsidering, overthinking, hesitating. It’s all the same. “I have a penchant for that, don’t I?”

He sighs, “Since you were a child.”

She sneaks a glance back at the parchment scroll like it haunts her. “Runaan, please. Tell me what I should do.”

He inhales sharply before shaking his head, expression stony. “You’re not a child anymore, Rayla. I’ve long stopped telling you what to do.”

She looks away, bites her tongue. As expected of him. She has to repress the dull ache in her heart, not let herself be consumed with grief. A decade ago, he would have said otherwise. She despised it then, but now she wishes she were more like him. She’s too indecisive, utterly incapable of making a solid choice and sticking by it.

Nowadays, he’s careful to intervene. He doesn’t know she relishes him scolding her for something stupid, or calling her out on bullshit, because even for a small, miniscule moment life seems simpler. Sooner or later, reality hits its inevitable stride and now he has to rely on her to tie his hair, cut his food, spark a fire. He abhors it, and yet he offers her a smile of thanks. She’s not blind to the contempt and frustration concealed underneath. Lately it’s become unbearable to watch.

“If you go, might I make a suggestion?” he interrupts her train of thought.

“Anything,” she means with full sincerity.

He motions to the scroll, the problematic thing. Things would have been easier if it didn’t land in her hands. “Bring it with you. It contains a king’s seal. Peace may be at hand between the nations, but people are slow to change.”

She frowns and then nods, wordlessly. There’s no arguing the statement. “And what about you?” The question comes out more bitter than she intends.

He sighs, more in exasperation, and he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Rayla, I’ll be fine. I’m capable of caring for myself.”

She purses her lips, relinquishes the thought and regrets asking. “...I know. I’m sorry.”

That’s how she got here. Rayla remembers their conversation clear as day. She sits perched on a forest tree, capturing a landscape view of Katolis, which stills stands tall and proud despite years of war.

It’s been ten years now since she discovered that the egg of the dragon prince had not been destroyed.

Five years since the peace treaties were signed.

Five years since she joined the Dragon Guard.

Five years since she’s seen either of the princes.

One of them is a King now. Back then, she hadn’t anticipated joining the Guard would cut her out completely from their lives. At this point, it’s up in the air whether they even remember her fondly. This invitation may very well be a simple token of their past friendship.

Rayla hops off the tree. She pets the stocky mare she purchased from the first town across the border and gingerly feeds it apple slices without the core. To her luck, the creature has been a gentle one – she could never read animals as well as Ezran could. Eventually, she figures out the direction of the castle and realization sinks that she can make it by the afternoon. Her mind starts whirring, treading down that familiar path.

She could still go back.

Pretend to be lost? She never meant to come this direction.

Did she forget the scroll?

She fishes a hand inside her pack, because really, she could go back for it – never mind, it’s sitting in neat folds in the bottom of her bag. And the seal is intact. Her efforts are fruitless.

You’re an idiot, Rayla. You’ve already gotten this far.

She sighs, hoisting herself on the horse and beckoning the creature to a slow trot. She briefly considers taking the rocky cliffsides, just as she did a decade ago, but with the king’s seal, she could enter through the front gates, as a normal person would. She’d think it blasphemous if she were an assassin, but she’s removed herself out of those garbs and teachings a long time ago.

The guard at the front gate is mildly curious about her.

He doesn’t come off judgmental, maybe a little wary, but she’s encountered worse. He reads through her invitation, verifies the king’s seal, and then has a moment of contemplation to himself. Afterwards, he hands her back the invitation.

“So, I assume you’re coming from far?” he pipes up.

She looks up from her pack, shrugs lightly. “Yes. From Xadia, actually.”

He whistles in fascination. The distance isn’t as wide as people perceive, perhaps only few strict days with short rest. But even with a declaration of peace, only few have truly covered the distance. It’s one of those things that will take time, like recovering from war.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know the king?” continues the guard.

She hesitates for a moment. There’s a window in her head where she can see her younger self sitting in camp, surrounded by elven assassins. Under the moon, sharpening her blades, keeping vigil on cold nights, wary of all sights and sounds. She’s imagining how she would go about killing a young prince. A child. And there was always a sliver of doubt. In hindsight, she’s glad for the stolen egg. She never would have finished the task.

“I…knew him as a child,” she answers.

“Well, nice to know the king has connections outside the pentarchy. You’re the first of your kind to pass the gates for the festival,” he remarks, and Rayla remembers only a few souls in this town know of her. And even fewer understand the undertaking and sacrifices she’s made for the sake of peace.

Rayla’s gaze trails to the castle up ahead. “You wouldn’t happen to know the best way to speak with the king, do you?”

“In your case?” He seems surprisingly optimistic. “Your invitation has a special seal. It might be your ticket to skip the line and see him directly. Give it a shot.”

“I see…” she’s saying, relieved she may not have to scale those jagged and precarious cliffs a second time. “…Thank you.”

She walks on ahead, entering as a visitor, taking in the sights. There’s a nearby stable where she drops off the horse and pays the stable hand a hefty pouch of gold. Money has no value in Xadia, but crossing the border meant she’d have to get a hold of some. From one town to another, she snagged a couple of easy bounties and paid them off to keep comfortable.

Venturing forward, Katolis surprises her.

The town is bustling in the afternoon light. Townsfolk chatter amongst themselves in all corners, vendors set up their stands and a myriad of colourful signs and flags drape against the wooden walls and across the streets. With war no longer a terrible and painful prospect, the town carries on with merriment and joy.

The first pair of eyes reach her and the façade disappears as quick as it began.

They’re cold, uneasy and afraid. The group of vendors on her right gawk with alarm too. An enemy walking amongst them. Maybe it’s her horns? The colour of her hair? Maybe her markings. Rayla trudges forward, wonders if she spoke to them, offered to help set up their booths, cooked for them, did their chores, gave them all the money in the world, would they change their minds? Perhaps not. It was her kind that took the late King Harrow.

Runaan’s words linger. This town celebrates a fractured peace.

Five years is a long time.

It goes without saying, but she’s nervous because of it. She leans forward in her seat, elbows resting on her knees and she’s reduced to staring blank at the plush carpets. Guilt seeps in, because Rayla knows this is not the first invitation Ezran has flown out to her. He’s sent many. Personal updates, town celebrations, news of Katolis. Callum also sent a few letters of his own. She doesn’t remember when he stopped.

Ezran made her this promise back when she announced her induction into the Guard, and he’s never broken it. His duties as King would prevent him from visiting often, but she reassured him it didn’t matter. She’d make the effort to stay in touch as well.

What a fucking lie.

She would put them in the back burner of her mind until now.

The door opens, prompting her to stand. The armored guard motions to her. “The King is ready to see you now.”

Unsteady on her feet, she wills herself forward. Her heart picks up its pace. On the way, she takes her time, appreciates the portraits, listens to the click of her boots, counts her steps. Stalling. Her arrival into the room is met with suspicious eyes and wary stances. Already she’s had her fair share of encounters with guards. She didn’t anticipate the two of them would have company, but he is the King after all.

“Welcome back, Rayla,” someone speaks.

She jolts a little, startled because she didn’t expect his voice to be so deep and then she finds him in the middle of the room, garbed in regal attire coloured gold and red. The good-natured smile on his features puts her at some ease. She watches as Ezran looks to his company, signs a few commands and then one after the other, they file out in single line.

She looks back at him, mouths a grateful thanks and waits until the doors are shut. Finally, she casts a good inspection on him. This is the same boy she chased through the castle corridors, helped down a mountain, traversed the wide and open seas, consistently put herself in harm’s way. One of the very few to understand. He’s taller now, perhaps a couple inches more than herself, and at a ripe age of twenty. A handsome young man, with familiar blue eyes and a spitting image of his father.

“Do you, uhh, recognize me?” he asks after some time.

She clicks back from thinking, not realizing how long she’d been staring so vacantly. “Y-Yeah, of course. Ezran, you look…”

“Older? Sharper? Wiser? More handsome maybe?” he continues, grinning.

She grins back, realizing just how much she’s missed his company. “All of it. And kingly too, might I add. Should I be calling you ‘your majesty’ from this point forward?”

He waves a hand and makes a face, dismisses the notion as silly. “No need for that. Especially not from you. You’re like family to me.” Rayla winces somewhat and the corners of her mouth lose their grip. She watches him move towards a bench by the window and then beckons her over. She follows suit and takes the seat next to him.

“I take it you’re still part of the Guard, right?”

She nods. “That’s right.”

“How’s our boy Zym doing?”

Her mind fills with colourful images of the dragon prince. The not-so-little sky creature, with bright blue scales. A troublesome thing, and yet destined to become one of the most unfathomably powerful creatures to exist. She wishes he were still small.

“He’s doing well, just like you, Ezran. Growing up too fast, learning his place in the world, even his own powers. He’s an expert hunter now too. To think he used to fit on my lap…those times seem so long ago.” She amends the words in her head: those times were a long time ago. She shifts the subject. “He misses you, you know.”

Ezran smiles. “I actually paid him a visit about a year ago.”

Rayla hides her shock poorly and then shrinks in her seat. She looks to the ground instead.

“I wanted to pay you a visit too, but you weren’t there at the time.”

She probably had the week off, just as she does now. Looking back, she was probably sitting at home, counting down until she has to return, fretting about Runaan, sleeping off her worries for two days straight.

“I’m sorry I disappeared for so long,” she comes out with it, relieving a longstanding weight off her chest. “These years after the war have come and gone so fast. I’ve been at the Guard for most of the time and the adjustment wasn’t easy.” Here, she grips her fists a little too tight, and she softens her voice. “It’s still not easy.”

“It’s okay,” Ezran says, always the empathetic one. “It hasn’t been easy here either. Even now, I’m still learning the ropes. You do what you have to. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

She finds the means to smile, because deep down that’s all she wished to hear. “Thank you.”

“Ah, I almost forgot my manners,” he pipes up, rising to his feet. “You probably came a long way, haven’t you? Would you care for a drink? Or early supper? Maybe you prefer to get some sleep first?”

She thinks of her journey.

Long days, short rest, but her body’s been through worse. For that, she has to think farther back and peel just the surface of the aforementioned years. She’d been tasked to examine post-war fallouts and deal with the aftermath. Focus on rebuilding relations between races, fixing the broken parts and pieces, everyday counting losses and everyday mourning them.

She thinks of the Dragon Guard. Time ticking slow. Hours stretching into days. The stale and stuffy air of the mountains. She’d taken an oath to protect the dragon, which meant fortifying defences, halting unexpected coups, ending the rising rebellions as if the war never stopped. Days and nights spent alone enduring biting winters and harsh storms, lathed with sweat and dirt, all the while still trying to find ways to be thankful.

“Maybe a jelly tart?” she asks, because maybe, just maybe, that will permanently cleanse her mind, purge the hardship. He raises a fine-arched brow and she can see he doesn’t fully know, can only pick up a trace of her inner workings because he’s observant. If he’s at all concerned, it doesn’t show.

He goes along with it. “Sure. I can send someone to pick up a batch. There’ll be plenty at the festival so you won’t have to worry about that.”

She smiles in response, quelling the restlessness in her veins. She weighs her elbows down on her knees to stop them from fidgeting.

“I’d like to invite you for dinner too, if you’re up for it.”

Rayla has no reason to refuse. “Sure.”

“Good. I’ll make the arrangements then,” he asserts, glad to hear it. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

She smiles up at him, grateful for his fervent goodwill. There is something, more like someone, she has in mind. The other half of the princely duo. She mulls it over briefly for a second, wonders if the time is right, and then concedes. “Umm, Callum. How is he? Is he…here?”

Ezran gives her a knowing smile, because of course he expected her to ask, and then keeps his face levelled and neutral. Maybe he’s gauging her reaction.

“The Banther Lodge. He prefers the open space for magic practice. You’ll probably find him there. Do you remember where it is?”

She rises from her seat, waving a quick hand in dismissal. “I remember.” Nestled in a forest clearing, right beside the river. Their designated ‘winter’ lodge. “Do you mind if I…?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all, but do me a favour? Tell him to come back when the festival starts. He can’t hide in there forever.”

That teases a chuckle out of her. “Sure. I’ll see you later.”

She takes her time, doesn’t vault towards the trees or take to the cliffs. She walks to the lodge, not arriving until the sky bleeds orange red hues of sunset.

Callum is a both a human and an archmage in the making, which is a strange combination. He’s come a long way from the boy who tripped over himself daily, harbored a long crush on the mage next door and carried a weird sense of humor. Clumsy, awkward, even a bit of a jerk. And yet in spite of that, when they first met, he lied to her about his identity to protect his brother. She knows now that was a testament of strength – her first clue that he was never as weak as he looked on the outside.

Now the world knows him as a bright mage and understands what he’s capable of. He only needed time to find his place. The two of them stumbled to a sour end, but still she’s happy for him.

Rayla slows to a stop at the front door of the lodge, twists the knobs to find they’re not open. Not that she expected them to be. She takes a step back, surveys for open windows.

It’s the winter lodge.

It’s been empty for months.

No winter. No humans.

She shakes off the memory, deciding she’ll check around the area first. Not a second later, a gust of wind sweeps the grounds. Leaves and dirt grains move in contained swirls around the perimeter. Caught in between, the wailing winds induces shivers on her spine and she holds her ground, stopping to close her eyes and cover her mouth. The spell settles afterwards and the weather becomes still again.

I’ve always been kind of bad at well, everything.

And then you called me a mage.

This is not the simple Aspiro incantation spell.

She strides towards the back of the building, stopping short of the large clearing because after five years of total absence, there he is, standing within reach. He hasn’t noticed her yet. Callum’s got his nose in a book and at his feet, a shabby and well-worn backpack. There’s another book on the ground. She guesses maybe a sketchbook. Maybe he hasn’t changed too much.

She observes for a bit, watching as he scribbles notes on the side of the page. He draws the familiar sign in the air, murmurs something in Draconic and then the wind picks up again. But this time, it’s small and short. The gust dies as quick as it started. His concentration is snapped. In a smooth motion, he turns in her direction, and she has little time to react.

But she doesn’t move at all, only looks on. Their gazes carry no spark, no magic, not even a flicker of joy from seeing an old friend. Hers is an inspecting, tired gaze while his is tainted with doubt, like he might be imagining her. She swallows down a gulp, forcing herself to press forward.

You could still go back, Rayla. Turn around. Turn around. He doesn’t-

“Rayla…” He’s frozen, unable to say much else.

She stops before him, really looks him in the eye, somehow prove she’s real.

His expression is bewildering, a mixed bag of shock, confusion, panic, and horror until he corrects himself and settles for indifference mingled with light surprise. A poor disguise for the turmoil underneath. She’s in utter disbelief at how clear these emotions are to her still. Then again, she always read him with ease.

“It’s been a while, huh?” she forces out with resolute calm, even though she can’t help but look up and stare at those green eyes to see if she can hear his thoughts.

He takes a deep breath after her utterance and closes his eyes. He doesn’t reply right away.

“Yeah, it has…” he says with a soft undertone and she can almost hear him counting time in his head.

Silence comes between them and Rayla doesn’t know what to do with it. This conversation played out easier in her head. Now she reprimands herself for thinking she can simply walk in unannounced, forget what’s happened and expect them to shake hands. She stops herself, loosening her stance and casting her gaze in his general direction.

“Umm, Ezran told me you’d be here.”

He’s still trying to fathom that she’s standing in front of him. “Okay.”

“He, uhh, wants you to return in time for the festival.” Rayla hadn’t anticipated how awkward this would be. This early into the conversation and she’s almost grasping for words. “…he said you can’t hide in here forever.”

He perks up at that, like the words ring familiar and then he clears his throat. “Oh…” Realization sinks in his eyes. “Is…Is that the reason you’re here?”

Rayla hesitates, not sure if he’s asking if she’s here because Ezran sent her, or if the festival, in general, was what brought her here.

“I came for the festival,” she tells honestly.

“The festival,” he repeats curtly.

She hears the doubt in his voice and gives him an offhand look.

He continues tersely, “You came all the way here for a festival?”

She raises a brow tentatively at his manner. Him spelling it out like that is off-putting. “That’s right,” she insists calmly. “Your brother invited me. Is that so hard to believe?”

“It is.”

She’s taken aback that he says it with such candor. “And why is that?”

He might be more lucid now, but the disbelief taking up his expression gives him away. He’s still wrapping his head around her, searching for understanding.

“Because you…left. Just when the war was settling and the world was starting to see things our way, you disappeared,” he explains slowly, the pain in his voice tangible and felt. “…you work yourself busy at the Guard for several years and lose contact with us. And now you decide to show up?” He scratches the head back of his head, but it’s more to soothe himself.

“No precedent, no warning, no letters. Nothing.” The unsteadiness in his voice only masks some of his frustration. “Rayla, you could have wrote back. You could have said something.”

The familiar guilt trickles through. She has no rebuttal for that.

“Callum, I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

He’s still shaking his head, so he might not have heard it, but if he did, it doesn’t register.

“Do you know what’s the worst part?” he continues. She doesn’t interrupt. “After all these years, I still don’t understand why you left. Why I had to do it alone.”

She’s irked by the inflection in his tone. It’s two questions, not one. The latter one is an old and tired argument. She hoped it wouldn’t be brought up again and yet here they are, tossed back to the start. She’s grown jaded and weary talking about it, especially in front of him. And now she catches his frustration, because he’s goading her into it, guilting her even.

“I’ve already explained it, Callum,” she starts, voice stiff. “It had to be done by you. A human returning the dragon back to where he belongs. Because by doing that, you right the wrongs of the past. That was the gesture that mattered, because that was what ended the war.”

It’s to no avail. He shakes his head and it baffles her how nothing gets through, even in the most trying times. She exhales deeply, refusing to lose herself.

“Rayla, we spent years fighting the same war. We both walked through these warring lands because together, we agreed returning Zym would bring peace between our nations.”

She rubs the bridge of her nose in vexation. “Callum, that’s not the point.”

“Yes it is!” he exclaims, flustered by the notion, arms gesturing wildly to prove his point. “If you had just come with me – the whole way – and if everyone had just known what we did, what we went through to end the pointless fighting, then maybe-”

“Maybe what?” she cuts off, voice raised because she’s scared of where this is going.

He lowers his hands and hesitates to say it, “Then…” Another gulp. “…then maybe there wouldn’t be this divide between our races.”

Fuck. That’s not fair. Rayla steps back, shoulders tense and fists clenched. She looks on aghast, but it comes from a place of disappointment and anguish. “Are you blaming me for this broken peace?”

“No, I’m not,” he asserts firmly, standing his ground. He had five long years to make up his mind. “I’m saying you saw it wrong. From the start, it should have been an elf and a human working together for the sake of peace. That was the gesture that mattered, because it could have solved more than the war, but you never listened. You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Callum. Of course I trusted you.”

“Then how did we get here?” he asks pointedly, gesturing to this time and place and situation. But Rayla notices he’s changed his tone. Using ‘we’ instead of ‘you’, because he’s also mad at himself. He drops his face into his hands, rubs the anger out of his eyes as he inhales and exhales staggered breaths.

She doesn’t know how to answer that. Instead, she looks to the ground, unable to look at him and see the pain and damage written there. So she keeps silent, wonders the same thing. What have we done to each other?

He lets out a sigh, lets his hands loose beside him. He contemplates for a second, searches for his own answers, but comes up empty. No matter what, his mind comes back to the same old question.

“Rayla, back when the war ended…” He pauses, because it’s difficult to ask. “...why did you leave?” His voice is softer this time, more defeated. “Is it something I did? Because if it is, I’m so sorry-”

“Callum, it’s not. I promise,” she stops him. Do it quick before he sinks deep into that mind frame and starts blaming himself.

Silence finally overcomes them. She doesn’t realize how stiff and wooden she is until she shifts her weight. She blinks several times, tries to stop tears from leaking through. Stay strong, she tells herself, even though she feels anything but. He doesn’t notice. His eyes are on the ground, hands in his pockets as resignation takes over. It doesn’t feel right. They’re both starved for touch, in need of comfort that neither are willing to give.

He breaks silence first.

“Look. Rayla, I didn’t mean to spring this on you. Seeing you standing here, I got carried away,” he explains. She nods, watches as he kneels down to gather his books into his pack. For the first time, he offers her a smile. It’s more apologetic than anything. “Just forget about me and what I’ve said, but please, please stay. For the festival. For Ezran especially. I know it would mean the world to him.”

Her expression loses its hardness. With him, eventually it would. “Okay.”

#dragon prince #rayllum #rayla x callum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #rayla #callum #angst #romance #fanfiction

83 notes · View notes

minttoy · 6 years

Text

Silent Hero (End)

Part Two (End)

Summary: “The Calamity may be defeated, but at what cost? We lost everything. I was foolish to hope either of us could come out unscathed.” Post BOTW. Zelda POV.

Pairings: Link/Zelda

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

Days pass.

I write almost every day now, if I can. After all, I used to journal quite frequently in the past. I'm surprised it's taken me this long to take it up again. Mostly, I pen memoirs of the Champions. They're already celebrated in their own villages, but I want their efforts to be known worldwide. They shouldn't be illustrated as figures in stories because their stories are real. Hyrule has prospered from their sacrifices. They will be revered as heroes and deservedly so.

In between, I visit Link. Sometimes, he visits me. Most of our meetings are short and he's silent for a majority of them. He only speaks when he's confident it's just the two of us. I don't mind, really. It's a leap from what we were a month ago. I think we're simply waiting for the day that either of us decide to leave. Hylia knows I can't settle here.

I find it easier to write the memoir book when he's around. As a figure of the past, his presence helps me remember, even though I can't say the same for him. Amusingly, he must think I'm jotting down very important and serious research notes, because the second he sees the book, he focuses elsewhere. He doesn't utter a word or make a gesture until I put it away.

The first sign of trouble brews under a full moon.

The town's asleep, but I spot a candlelight glow from behind his window curtains as I cross the bridge. The moment I'm at his doorstep, I know immediately something is amiss. His door is unlocked and I usher myself inside without a second thought. I look towards the upper floor first, where I hear the telltale signs of a fitful sleep and an unending nightmare. I know the sounds of distressed sobs and restrained breaths when I hear them. Quietly maneuvering through the cluttered mess on the floors, I make my way to his bed.

As it is, Link is overly dressed and wrapped in tight covers and yet he sweats and trembles frantically. A century ago, I could wake him up with little consequence and reservation. It was something he asked of me because night terrors always left him paralyzed. Looking at him now, it's not any different. Still, I'm not sure if he'll react the same now that a century has passed and his losses have multiplied.

I debate the decision in my head. Knowing Link's patterns of behaviour, these nightmares will only grow more frenetic and severe the longer I leave them. Consequence or not, I see enough reason to intervene.

I start gentle: hushed calls of his name and soft nudges on his back, shoulder and arm. After some fruitless efforts, I use more pressure, but not enough to cause harm. "Link..." I raise my voice a bit louder, "Link…please wake up."

Nothing.

I sigh and look over his face, seeing sweat drops form on his brow in the dim candlelight. In the past, touching his face was the trick to wake him, but our relationship was different then. I'm hesitant to do it now, even though I still consider the risk worth taking. Slowly and cautiously, I reach over to lightly brush his cheek.

He jolts awake the moment I make contact.

"Link, I-"

In the next second, a choked-off cry escapes my lips as he seizes my arm and twists it forward in an arm lock. Off-balance, I stable myself along the sides of the bed as a sharp and burning pain sears through my wrist and shoulder. Damn it. I grit my teeth as I attempt to separate myself from him.

"It's just me!" I cry out, hissing at the flares shooting up my arm. "Link! Please, stop."

Finally, his gaze finds mine and he lets go. When he does, his eyes are large and filled with horror and disbelief. I can almost see the slow realization weighing in on him.

I step back to readjust, wincing at the remaining throb. When I chance another glance at him, he rests a hand on top of his chest, measuring his deep and heavy breaths. His concentration is fixed up at the ceiling as fear paints his eyes like I've never seen before. I can count with a single hand the number of times I've seen him this shaken and powerless.

Exhaling, I try to shake off the disturbance. "Link, you…"

Sluggishly, he lifts up the hand off his chest to interrupt me. I stop, letting him catch his breath and regain the control he's lost. With a large gulp and shaky breath, his expression collapses and he hides his face underneath his bangs – I know he's ashamed. While his posture remains tight and rigid, parts of him still tremble and twitch.

With the same hand, he points at me and signs loosely, 'Are you hurt?'

I frown. If Link is resorting to sign language, then he's truly rattled. I consider the pain in my arm, which has dulled greatly. I'm sure with time, the sprain is easily mendable. "No, I'm not hurt."

He swallows hard and brings up his hands again, making a light twisting motion of his arm to remind me of what transpired. I sigh in disappointment, because my words often go unheard in the most trying times.

He signs again, slower this time, 'I'm sorry. Please forgive me.'

My face grows dim and dispirited. I try to catch his gaze, but he won't look at me. He must think I'm frightened, but I was never scared to begin with. In my heart, I know he would never harm me under any circumstance. I try once more to change his mind, voice coming out small and tired, "I'm fine, Link. Think nothing of it."

No response. It's like he doesn't hear me.

I repeat myself again, mild frustration laced into my tone, "Link. I said I'm fine. It was an accident."

He remains sorrowful and heavy-hearted, but this time he lets his hands speak, 'What if it wasn't?'

I stop my breath, knitting my brows at him. "…what makes you say that?"

Visibly, he grits his teeth and after a long exhale, he motions gently, '…I've killed so many.'

My eyes widen, and then I look away in remorse. Silence finally overcomes us. In my heart, I understand what he means. Over time, I've learned that the crosses he carries are different from my own. The role of a knight, a soldier, a hero…the Link of the past once told me that battles and victories have blurred the lines of right and wrong. I didn't know how to respond back then. I didn't know how to comfort him. I still don't, probably because it's the truth. There's no shining light at the end of the tunnel; he'll carry this burden with him to his deathbed.

Link finally glances up at me, features sad and delicate. Bringing up his hands, he signs once more, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.'

Softening my gaze, I nod my head and bring one of my hands near my head, 'I know.' And then, as an afterthought, I sign again, 'I forgive you.'

He visibly relaxes afterwards, letting out a deep breath. I stand by his bed and wait until his breathing evens out and until he's asleep again. I tuck him in and blow out the candles, pondering the unbridled way fate has favoured us both in our lives. And yet, with favour comes victory, and victory comes defeat.

Unfortunately, we've got both sides of the coin. The calamity may be defeated, but at what cost? We lost everything. I was foolish to hope that either of us could come out unscathed.

"I've started writing."

The statement is random at best, distracting Link from his meal to glance at me across the dining table. I've debated back and forth about revealing my work and finally I've settled the matter. A number of years ago, I promised myself that if I ever survived Ganon's fire, I would leave nothing unsaid.

I open the book, smoothing out the pages in front of me. "I've given some thought to what you said – about writing things down because they're important?" He nods his head once. "…well, I've been writing memoirs dedicated to those who've passed. So far, the experience has been…therapeutic, cathartic even. I was wondering if you were interested in reading them."

He thinks about it for a moment and then leans forward, regarding the book with mild interest. In one motion, I flip the book and slide it across to the table. He flips through the pages carefully, inspecting the amount of content and seemingly surprised by it. Once more, he looks up at me, asking for permission and I nod in encouragement.

I hold my breath as he starts the first chapter, dedicated to my Father. I'm not sure if the passages will resonate with him. I'm sure he had his own personal experiences with the Champions, most of which are forgotten, but I hope sharing my memories will bring them back, even if only in spirit. After all, I've bared my life open in this book. I've gotten past the point of censoring the parts that were uncomfortable or depicted me weak, even if my past self would think it unwise. If Link has any takeaways from the reading, I hope he understands that he's not alone in his grief.

I look up once more as Link reads in silence, expression bare and ambiguous. Seeing no use for me here, I silently bid him goodbye and leave his house just as he begins the next chapter.

When I visit him again, it's not for another couple of days. On my way there, I try ignore the rising pangs of anxiety and fear. He's sitting by his cooking pot tonight, no doubt roasting some sort of mushroom or fruit concoction. Wordlessly, I take the seat next to his.

I speak first, as I always do. "Hello, Link."

He nods in acknowledgment, but keeps his eyes glued to the pot. For a moment, I wonder if this is going to be one of those nights where I'll get nothing out of him. He might have gotten better at voicing his thoughts, but I doubt it's become easier. From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. From his side, Link pulls out the familiar notebook I left with him earlier, and I sense uneasiness lingering in his eyes.

He clears his throat before speaking softly, "I have questions…" I watch as he flips to a bookmarked section at the end of the book.

I lean in closer to recognize my scrawl, which is sloppier than usual. My memoirs of Link were the hardest to draft, and I still remember the bouts of hesitation and reluctance that went into writing them. I sink into my seat, trying to keep my face neutral even as my heart picks up its pace.

He gages my reaction carefully, eyes wary. "Do you mind if I…?"

I shake my head but can't bring myself to meet his gaze. "No, go ahead."

He clears his throat again before reading a short excerpt from the book, penned and carefully arranged by me. "…I now regard Link as the Hero of Hyrule. The title is well-deserved, for I believe there is no greater rank. Not even higher than a Princess such as myself. For what can royal nobility afford besides the riches and inheritance of a kingdom? It guarantees not the greatest reward of all: the love and pride of my people. That honor belongs to the Silent Hero."

He flips the page, and I identify the sinking weight on my chest as dread because I know what he discovered here.

"One hundred years ago, my love for Link awoke a power inside me necessary to keep Ganon's power at lock, but it was too late. I'd already lost everything, and I wept as Link coughed his final breath in my arms. I thought I lost him too but hope prevailed. One hundred years later, he evokes a quiet strength in me still, especially now that my powers have dwindled. I pray that moving forward, his presence remains a pillar of strength, courage and hope."

What follows is a long, awkward and strained pause and I find myself staring down at my shoes. Gathering a bit of courage, I sneak a glance at him and take note of his wistful gaze.

He speaks up first this time. "…did I love you too? Back then?"

My lips form a pained smile, because it's all I'm capable of at the moment. I know he can't remember how he felt and unfortunately this time, I don't have the answers. Still, I've lived for more than a century assuming the feelings went unrequited.

Keeping my eyes on the ground, I answer honestly, "I don't know."

He's disappointed. I know it's not directed at me, but it's one of the few times Link has shown anguish towards his memory loss.

"Zelda."

Finally, I look up at him. He has the words in his head, and I can tell he's working up the courage to say them out loud. "You don't happen to…I mean, even now, do you still…?"

I wince at the question. It's funny how he never needs to finish his sentences around me. I know exactly what he's asking. I might be far beyond my comfort zone, but I foresaw this event the moment I gave him the book. I can't take it back now.

I attempt a smile, but it comes out strained. "I…loved you a lot," I utter with a great deal of difficulty, because the confessional words are always the hardest. "…I've found that feelings like that never go away completely…even after one hundred years."

Saying the words now feels partially liberating, but it's only half the story. It’s actually bittersweet. The loneliness that comes from being on this side of the confession is depressingly bleak, and no amount of self-pity is going to make it better. I'm almost ashamed of myself. In retrospect, it seemed natural to love him considering our intertwined destinies, and that's what made it so easy. The hard part came later, when I realized how difficult it was loving someone who expressed little in return. I doubt I could have prepared for this sort of heartache. I suppose there's no other explanation than old wounds never truly heal.

He offers me a solemn expression. "Zelda, I'm sorry."

I dismiss it as I should, because I don't expect him to feel the same. Not now, not then. Not when he only has parts of me.

Shaking my head, I try to move past it. "Don't be," I counter, but my breath staggers. "It happened so long ago. You shouldn't worry about something like that."

But you still feel the same, is what he means to say, and I agree. Minimizing what I feel doesn't make it less important and I don't know what else to say or do to make this easier. The truth is so imperative and binding, but it inflicts the most significant pains. This time, I don't know if our relationship will ever be the same.

A century ago, Link was once a source of courage and strength. I find he's still the same, but it's changed slightly. I have to find most of these things in myself now, as unsteady as I am. But sometimes, I wish I could go back to the past, when my Father ruled and guided with a steady hand. Back when I had others to share my burdens and struggles. Back when being in love with Link was something that made me stronger.

My hands lie still on my lap as I even out my breaths. "Link, I'll be okay. What I feel for you is largely out of admiration and respect. It might help if you look at it that way," I offer, my small attempt to lift the heavy air hanging between us.

He nods, muttering the smallest 'okay' and I think my time is up. I can't stay here for much longer. I've opened so much of myself already.

"I should go," I pipe up suddenly, rising from my seat. I'm about to make for the bridge until he stops me. I feel him tap the book against my arm, his silent request for me to take it back. I'd almost forgot that I came here to pick it up. Wordlessly, I accept it and all that's left is resignation on his face.

Rather boldly, I lift his chin up with a finger so his eyes meet mine. We haven't touched in so long, but it feels necessary. "Good night, Link."

I wake up to a pleasant surprise the next morning. I never thought to open the book again after what happened last night, but I did. Much to my delight, Link has penned his own passages. I quickly scroll to the last pages, wondering in amusement if he wrote anything on himself, but as expected, he did not. I am treated, however, to new content he's added to the following pages.

There are passages for Purah, Impa, Robbie, a Rito musician named Kass, a delightful Korok named Hestu, a merchant named Beedle and so much more. They're the names of those who've helped his journey. I recall meeting most of them.

Turns out his works add a wonderful touch. I struggle enough to get Link to express even the smallest of emotions, but his writings are a microscope lens to his mind. He illustrates the hardships he's experienced throughout his journey, recalls the odd folks he's met along the way and doesn't sanitize Ganon's brutality. He's shed blood and suffered turmoil for this land and it's apparent in his passages.

I could never get this kind of information through conversation. With his silence, I'm not surprised how well he expresses himself in writing. I never thought this to be the key to realizing him, but as I always suspected, Link's mind is not as simple as it seems.

I read from day until night, and then read through once more. To think I learned more about Link from this book than I have travelling the world with him. It's baffling, but with Link keeping mostly silent, it's not surprising either.

News of trouble in Central Hyrule eventually seep through the grapevine and reach the village. Without order or a proper policing force, there are bound to be groups, bandits or even remaining members of the Yiga clan merging and rising from the darkness. The castle, as unguarded as it is, would be a primary setting for this corruption.

I take it as the first sign to leave. Somehow, I have to find a way to re-establish order at the castle. Now that the calamity is finished, I'm not about to allow other uprisings run rampant. Ganon's plan may be thwarted, but peace is a fragile thing and wickedness still exists in human hearts.

I bring it up the next time I see Link.

"I'm going back," I tell him, no need to say where. He's not surprised at all by my declaration. I'm certain he's heard the rumours of trouble himself.

He regards me quietly. "When?"

"Couple days."

His expression hardens a little and I watch as his gaze lifts towards the direction of the castle, curious about what new dangers fester there. I shift in that direction too, wondering what I'll soon find. To be honest, I'm not sure how much influence I still possess with my name.

Then, without a hint of a pause, he speaks up, "I'll come with you."

I sneak a glance at him, seeing the determination he wears. Our thoughts and goals seem to be aligned. Just like myself, Link would stop at nothing to preserve the peace he fought so hard to restore.

Before stepping foot on Hyrule's grounds, we diverge from course to stop at the Great Plateau. For closure's sake, it seems appropriate to visit this place.

Link reminisces on his own. This land is significant to him in a different way. The last time I was at the Shrine of Resurrection, he was asleep and I was prepping myself for a battle lasting a century. Next, I visit the Temple of Time and marvel in its glory despite its decay. What's left of it is still beautiful, even with the overgrowth and crumbling walls. Standing here now, I'm filled with nostalgia. The goddesses have certainly answered the prayers I've made here a century ago.

Link also insists that I visit the building he calls the 'Old Man's cabin'. At first, I'm unsure of the significance of this house, but I realize it once I'm inside. Barren as the place is, the atmosphere rings a familiar tone of home and family.

"Father, you-"

Grief suddenly washes over me and the lump in my throat interrupts my speech. For some reason, saying his name in this moment brings the pinpricks of tears in the back of my eyes. I haven't cried like this in so long. Glancing behind me, I'm thankful that Link has chosen to keep this moment private. At this present time, I would rather he not see me in this vulnerable state. Slowly, I walk over to the table, fingering the pages of a tattered book containing a recipe I remember he loved. This must be what Link was referring to in his passage under King Rhoam.

"Father, I know you're watching…" I say quietly, finding control of my voice. My Father is long gone, but I sense part of his spirit dwelling here. "…I found it, you know – the power you yearned for me to discover in myself…I'm sorry it was too late."

In this quiet moment of solitude without an audience, I wrap my arms around me and let the tears fall without worry and care. The emotions feel important as I close this chapter of my life. Moving forward, I know I'll be focusing on rebuilding a different kind of Hyrule.

"…I wish you were still here. I miss you a great deal. I'm heartbroken the last thing you witnessed was Ganon's return," I continue. I wish I hadn't shown dissent towards him before he passed, but I learned there's no use regretting the past. Having lived through it all, there's simply too much to be grateful for. With a sigh, I swallow hard and bow my head to pay my last respects.

"I hope you're proud of me," I end softly. I glance around the room once more to preserve the memory and make a silent prayer for peace upon his soul. When I duck underneath the entrance, only the barest glow of the sun paints the horizon and the air is significantly cooler. I catch the Hero trudging towards the cabin with his sword upon his back, likely finished with clearing the perimeters.

Link has been silent all day. I suppose traveling these lands again does that to him. He acknowledges me with a nod and tips his head towards the thick of trees just ahead of us. I nod back, understanding what he means. He marches straight to the forest with supper in mind. While he's no longer my guard, he still goes through the measures to ensure my comforts and needs are met.

I'm about to forage ingredients myself until my eyes find a familiar object resting atop the log by the cooking pot. I haven't written in the memoir book in a while, but I noticed Link adding to it while I revisited the shrine and temple.

Curiosity eventually gets the best of me and I take a seat, flipping through the pages to read what's new here. Once I find it, the whole world seems to slow down as I'm filled with a heartfelt warmth.

At the top of the page, inscribed in his neatest scribble:

Zelda, Princess of Hyrule.

I don't notice, but a small smile curves the edges of my lips. I don't think I'm ready for this information, but I doubt I will ever be. I wonder if similar things went through his mind. Nonetheless, I press forward and read quietly to myself:

The Princess today is different from the one in my memories and yet she's also the same. She's more reserved now, and I fear she's broken inside. Perhaps I've been blissfully ignorant. Sometimes, I forget that the one hundred years I spent in sleep, she spent immersed in Ganon's torment. And somehow still, she possesses an unwavering love and loyalty to her kingdom. I solidly believe her tenacity throughout her trials prove stronger than my own.

One hundred years ago, she placed me inside the shrine of resurrection for the sake of saving Hyrule. I lost a part of myself along the way, but I hold no ill will towards her decision. I understand the sacrifices that needed undertaking at the time.

One hundred years later, her efforts prove fruitful, because Ganon is defeated. It was a hard-fought and blistering journey, but she guided me throughout. All the times I struggled and was brought to my knees, I reminded myself that she'd been fighting for much longer. Reaching the depths of Hyrule was worth it if it meant ending that fight.

The calamity may be finished, but we're left to pick up the pieces. She is a source of courage now, especially when I can't find it in myself. I wish I could tell her that. Someday, I hope she forgives herself. And I pray for a time to come when her heroics not go unnoticed, for I believe she's been the silent hero more than I.

-Link

A whisper of a breeze brushes my face and I sit quietly, the book still resting in my hands. My chest feels tight and I'm overwhelmed, but I'm smiling. For a small moment, I feel as though all my failures can wither and disappear. And I think back on all of the hardships and trials that have taken us here.

For the first time in a long while, I feel light without the weight of grief on my shoulders.

I finally find him after a long search. Across the decay and crumble of the temple and up the hill in front of the shrine of resurrection, he gazes upon Hyrule castle in its formidable and weathered state. I imagine his mind reels back to the day he woke up here with sudden purpose.

"Zelda…" Link's voice is soft, battle-weary, like the shadows on his face.

I slow down to catch my breath and stand beside him, casting my gaze upon the stretches of land that can be admired from this view. I linger in the sight for a moment, until I hear him exhale a breath, and then I look up at him.

When his eyes meet mine, I don't notice the persistent hardness that's followed him since the battle. Instead, what I find is acceptance and a quiet fortitude. Reaching over, I lean in to clasp his hand in mine for small reassurance and faintly, I feel his hand squeeze back before I let go.

"Are you ready?" I ask gently, gesturing to Central Hyrule, which will soon become our new battleground.

He nods once, firm and steady. I still don't know what the future holds, but perhaps I can be content with that. There's a chance I might fail. After all, history has its way of repeating itself. Perhaps my leadership isn't what I hope it will be. Maybe I've already used up most of my energy and strength. Perhaps I won't even live to see Hyrule rebuilt and restored to its full potential.

But just a few steps ahead of me, I notice the bloom of a single silent princess flower and I'm reminded of the reasons I won't. I've endured Calamity Ganon. The Champions are set free. Link has chosen to stay by my side. The rain has stopped.

Maybe this time, I can look towards the future with hope.

AN: Alas, it's finished. It's been a while since the game's release, but I still marvel at its beautiful intricacies. I want to thank all the lovely and wonderful readers who've taken interest. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much I did writing it. – MT

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