Archive of Our Own ^beta

Claude meets her when they're young— not much more than children, really, still young despite the heavy burdens on their shoulders. It's just past the beginning of a new school year, and he is seventeen, and his thoughts are as much about the future of the Leicester Alliance as they are about his grades and his friends and his hair.

He's not used to having it so short, still, but at least it looks better than it did last year, when he hacked it all off with a kitchen knife. He combs it back and up to make him look taller, and he lets his cape drape off his shoulders to make him look wider, and he carries himself with a braggadocio like a young man who fears neither the Goddess nor death nor final exams, in the hope that maybe, maybe it'll be enough to keep him safe.

Marianne is his age, seventeen and haunted by something that looms over her like a storm cloud, dark as the circles under her eyes. She keeps her face turned downwards, her shoulders pulled in as if she wants the world to pass her by. Claude's heard about her— Margrave Edmund's daughter, if he's not mistaken. He met Margrave Edmund himself exactly once, and the contrast is stark; if anything, Marianne feels like she's woven from his shadow, a wraith he's given a name. Claude hears her speak maybe twice in those first few months, and it was so quiet, he couldn't even hear the words.

Claude has gotten this far because he knows how to read people, and he can tell in seconds that Marianne wears sorrow like a veil— or perhaps a burial shroud. There are secrets hidden beneath, and to tell the truth, Claude is intrigued.



The months go by— classes, practice, missions, chores, exams. Claude spends quite a lot of time in the library, for all that's worth, given how tightly moderated the collection is. He's tempted to nab some of them before they can be removed, but something about Professor Seteth's glare makes him reconsider. (Claude thinks he would know, somehow, that Claude was the culprit. Best not to risk it.)

He talks to Marianne a few times. Claude wouldn't consider himself a particularly talkative person, but he supposes that next to her, anyone would look like a chatterbox.

He asks her where she's from. She tells him to mind his own business. He can't say he didn't see that coming.

But it was probably a bit rude to start with such a direct approach, so he apologizes for it— and, somehow, Marianne ends up apologizing anyway. She seems to like that, or maybe it's just a habit she hasn't been able to break.



When Ethereal Moon comes, they're eighteen, and Claude doesn't feel much older than he did at seventeen. He's never been particularly enthused about his own birthday, and only really acknowledges it to keep track of his own years.

Marianne wins the White Heron Cup. She deserves it, as far as Claude is concerned—he didn't know she had it in her. But maybe Teach is just that good, and brings out the best in her. Claude wouldn't be surprised.

He sees her after the party winds down, out in the courtyard, clutching the certificate in her pale hands. For once, she's looking up, watching the stars in the winter sky. It's cold outside— that happens, this time of year. A layer of snow covers the monastery, and icicles dangle from the archways. Claude's breath steams in the night air. It’s snowing, just a little, and there are snowflakes in Marianne’s hair.

“Well, fancy seeing you out here,” he says, leaning against one of the stone pillars. It’s bitterly cold even through his jacket and cloak, but he doesn’t care.

Marianne looks up. “Ah,” she says. “Good evening.”

“To you as well,” Claude nods. “Congratulations on the certificate. Seems like a real big honor, since only one student a year gets it.”

She hums and looks at the certificate in her hands, signed by the Archbishop herself and all three professors. “I suppose it is,” she says. “I’m sorry, I just… I still don’t know what to say. It’s so hard to believe that I won.”

“Hey, you practiced hard for that,” he chides.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do that without the Professor’s help,” she admits.

"Teach is pretty incredible that way, huh?" he chuckles. "Bringing out the best in us, and all that."

Claude shifts, tucking his hands into his pockets. It’s a pretty sky, even with the few clouds up there. Something about the cold air seems to make the stars brighter, if you ask him, but he doesn’t have a clue why. He supposes he should just take them for what they are, rather than worrying about the whys and whats. It's an unnecessary habit to have, but he can't afford to break it, not yet.

“Pretty night, huh?” he comments.

Marianne nods.

“You know, I was actually gonna stargaze for a bit myself,” he says. “But not down here. The buildings block the view. There’s a really nice view from the Goddess Tower, though…”

She looks at him. “Are you asking me to go to the Goddess Tower with you? You know the story, right?”

“Sure I do,” he shrugs. “And you know it’s just a story. I like to think that I make my own wishes come true, no Goddess required.”

Marianne hums. “I don’t understand you,” she says.

“I’m just fine with that.” He shrugs. “So, is that a no, or…?”

“Ah,” she hesitates. “It’s… not a no, but…”

“Well, then, if that not-a-no turns into a yes, then you know where to find me,” Claude says, standing up straight again and dusting some fresh-fallen snow from his shoulders. “But between you and me? That view is something special. I think you ought to take a look.”



Claude’s not a very superstitious person. Faith, luck, chance— for all his life, they were luxuries he couldn’t afford to take. As such, he doesn’t put much stock in the old rumor about the Goddess Tower. To him, it’s just a nice place to watch the stars.

He doesn’t say anything when Marianne joins him. She lingers in the archway, and doesn’t seem to intend to step out onto the terrace.

“You know, you could see better out here,” he says.

“I suppose,” she says. “I’m just… not a fan of heights.” She ducks her head. “I’m sorry, Claude. I-I do want to stargaze with you, but…”

Claude shrugs. “You know what? Don’t worry about it.” He moves to stand with her under the archway. “We can see just fine from here.”



"I have to ask," he says. "So, I've seen you praying nearly every time I run into you. You claim not to be an expert in anything theological— fair enough, with just how much there is to know— but what is it you pray for?"

Marianne hesitates. "Safety, mostly," she says. "Plentiful harvests and kind seasons. My father's health in the coming years."

The hesitation tells Claude that she's lying, but he's not going to press. "So, the usual?" he says.

“Are… you here to pray, too?” she asks him.

“Me?” Claude chuckles. “I’m not really the praying type. No offense to the Goddess or anything, but I don’t really wanna leave the outcome of my fragile, very mortal existence in the hands of a cosmic entity intangible by our ephemeral human senses.”

Marianne hums. She looks up at the statue in the chapel, at Claude, and then back down to the floor, like usual. Marianne really isn’t a talker. That’s fine. Claude can talk enough for both of them.

“I do have something the Goddess might be able to help me with, though,” he says. “D’you mind if I say it out loud? Helps me keep things together.”

“I don’t mind,” she mumbles.

“Great. So.” Claude clears his throat, cracks his neck, and clasps his hands like he’s seen Marianne do. She watches him as he does— Claude can’t blame her. He is, after all, roguishly handsome.

“O Goddess,” he begins. “What’s up? It’s me, Claude, y’know, the one You blessed with superior wit, a pretty face, and enough charm to start a cult by accident?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marianne press a hand to her mouth like she’s trying not to laugh.

“So, yeah, I know I don’t pray much,” he admits. “But if You could do me a solid, that’d be really cool of You. See, I’ve got this big exam later today, and I promised Teach I’d study, but I ended up getting into a strategy game with Dimitri and Edelgard, and it got kind of heated, You know how it goes. But suffice to say, I have maybe half an idea of what’s on the test. I like to make my own luck, but if You’ve got any to spare, could you send it my way? Thanks, appreciate it.” He gives a two-fingered salute towards the statue for good measure.

Marianne’s failed at suppressing her smile. It’s a nice smile— soft, small, understated. Success, Claude thinks with satisfaction.

Claude chuckles, tucking his hands into his pockets. “How was that?”

“It was… unconventional,” Marianne admits. “But perhaps it’s like you said, and She appreciates the variety.”

“Huh, go figure,” he says. “The one time I pray, I break new ground. I must be a born visionary.”

“You’ve certainly given me new ways to see things,” she says, looking at the tile. "Even if I don't understand."

"How so, exactly?" Claude asks. "Out of curiosity."

Marianne takes a moment to gather her words, herding her thoughts into sentences with intelligible connection. "You're so… confident," she says. "Like you haven't a care in the world. Like nothing can bother you. Like life is a challenge and you're going to rise to meet it. Like… like no matter what happens, you'll always stand back up."

Her hands are trembling. "I wish I could do that," she mumbles. "Instead I just think, and pray, and tell my troubles to horses and cats and birds."

Claude thinks about this. "Marianne," he begins. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"Truth is? I'm not," he admits, and it feels painful but better than he thought it would to finally say it, like starting to dislodge something that's been poking into his side so long the bruise went numb. He hesitates, debating how much to share— how much he can even verbalize. "I… don't think I can talk about it just yet, even with you, but I had to get smart pretty quick when I was younger. I know how to scheme and plot and lie to get what I need. It's not noble, or anything some other folks like to preach, but I don't care that much.

He shrugs. "I'm not gonna say I'm a total fraud. But a confident man would make one plan and not think about failure, not even acknowledge it as an option. He'd rely on faith and luck to get him through. I can't stand that— if I did that, back when I was a kid, it wouldn't have gone well, to say the least. Why do you think I'm always so insistent on backups? Why do you think I avoid outright fights in the first place?"

He sighs. "If I act confident enough, then maybe I'll get there," he says. "But I don't think that'll happen. I'm always gonna be the schemer, even when I don't need to be."

Marianne is quiet. She's looking down again, fiddling with the ragged edges of her fingernails. "So," she says. "Even your confidence is a scheme."

"Yup," he says. "Act like you're hot shit, and for the most part, nobody will try to challenge it."

"I wish I could do that," Marianne mumbles. "Maybe… maybe people would like to be around me, if I did that. Instead I just apologize for everything and make everyone uncomfortable and… oh. There I go again." She shakes her head. "It's silly to wish, honestly. I can't see myself acting with your kind of braggadocio any more than I can see you acting like… well, me."

Claude chuckles. "We're different people, that's for sure," he says. "Hey, don't worry about it. I enjoy your company plenty… but if you want my honest opinion, you could stand to be nicer to yourself. That's my friend you're talking about."

Almost despite herself, Mariane smiles, hiding it in her hand. Claude, for a fleeting moment, wishes she'd put her hand down and let her smile shine, like it deserves. The thought evaporates before he can realize he'd thought it.



The winter warms again into spring and Edelgard declares war on the church, and it shakes everything so thoroughly that she may as well have knocked down the walls herself. The students uneasily return to exams, but nobody’s heart is in it.

Graduation, at this point, feels more like a mere formality to observe in exchange for the year they’ve had, but they do it anyway. Claude accepts his certification while tactics run through his mind, plans and backup plans and backup backup plans for every possible situation— he and Edelgard were never best friends or anything, but if he knows her, then she won’t be shy about the tactics she uses.

Then again, did he ever know her at all?

Goodbyes are said. People worry for their families, their territories— things do not bode well for the Kingdom, and if the Kingdom falls, then it doesn’t spell good things for the Alliance. Just his luck to decide to get to know his mother’s side of the family a year before everything went to shit.

“Looking forward to going home?” Claude asks Marianne. The carriage from the Edmund land was delayed by about a day, and Claude’s just putting off leaving.

Marianne hums. “Somewhat,” she admits. “I… like it here more than I thought I would."

"Me too," Claude agrees. "Our little microcosm of Fódlan. I'm glad I came here, though, if only so I can get a feel for the future of the Alliance— with a bunch of idiots like those guys in charge, I think things bode well, the war aside. Don't you?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know if I'd fit into your view of how the Alliance ought to be. Father thinks I have what it takes, but…" she hesitates.

"Well, nobody's asking you to run the house now," Claude says pragmatically. "At least, I hope not." He grimaces. "Circumstances being what they are, though…"

"Mm." Marianne is quiet for a while. She fiddles idly with her thumbnail, looking at the grass in the courtyard and thinking about anything else. It's a sobering thing to think about— it's not every day when a classmate announces that she plans to destroy the church, after all. Maybe Garreg Mach has students from all over the continent, but with everyone all in one place, it's easy to forget the very real lines that divide them. The fact that Claude was on friendly terms with just about everyone in the school won't mean anything on the battlefield.

Claude's not sure if he believes in fate, but he can't help but wonder if it's all some cosmic joke— putting everyone together like this, letting them spend a whole year together sharing meals and trading barbs, and then ripping them apart once more, and posing the question to each of them: how far are you willing to go?

"Do you remember when Hilda and Leonie had that fight?" Marianne asks, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," he says. "It seems silly now, in perspective."

"But at the time, it was scary," she says. "I didn't know what to do or who to believe. It was like one minute they were best friends, and then they weren't even speaking, and I didn't know who to ask to get the full story, because everyone knew something different. All that was clear was that both of them were very determined about something, and at least to me, it seemed like they had the same idea, but the fact that they thought differently and were too stubborn to admit it in the moment led to all that friction."

Claude chuckles humorlessly. "If I didn't know better, I'd call that a case of foreshadowing."

"I just wonder," Marianne muses. "If this is the same, at its core, then do you think it's possible to work it out without more bloodshed? Or, no, I suppose we're past that— do you think it could've been worked out, if someone had done something differently?"

He thinks about this. It's not easy to do, and given how much Claude thinks about things, that's saying something. It feels like he's too young to feel this way, but the notion of being too young for something has never really been a factor to him. If he's old enough to think about poison and espionage, he's old enough to feel this kind of regret.

"I dunno," he admits. "Probably. Maybe in another life, one just a little softer, a little kinder, we'd have been able to talk it out. Maybe a disagreement would've brought us together instead of tearing us apart."

He sighs. "This place is a fuckin' mess," he mutters. "Teenagers, y'know?"

Marianne chuckles. It's short, but it's real, and it soothes Claude's spirit like a balm. He finds himself smiling, even as he feels regret shift in his stomach like a rabbit in a burrow making itself comfortable for the long winter ahead.

"For what it's worth, though," he says. "I'm glad we're here. I'm glad I met Edelgard and Dimitri as friends on equal ground, not just sometime in the future as fellow royalty of very different nations. I'm glad I met Teach, and the rest of the Deer, and all the other students. I'm glad I met you."

Her cheeks flush. "I," she stammers, forgetting her voice again. "Um. Me, too."

"You know," Claude brings up. "It's probably pretty silly to think about, but in five years, do you think you'll come back to Garreg Mach, like we promised?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I have… a bad feeling about how things will go. War is awful business, and gets in the way of sentiment. But if it's possible, then I will. I don't want to break a promise, after all."

He chuckles. "Well, I know I intend to," he says. "Maybe we'll be the only two saps that show up. But I guess I'd be okay with that."

He holds his hand out. “For now, though,” he says. “I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad you’re here with me. Whatever happens, I wouldn’t trade these memories for the world.”

The night is quiet, as if it’s letting his words hang in the air like the stars themselves, letting them sink into Claude’s memory as something he’ll remember for some reason he doesn’t yet know. Marianne clasps her hands a little tighter like she’s trying to keep them close, but then she lets them relax, and she takes Claude’s in one of her own.

“I wouldn’t, either,” she agrees. “I’m glad that I met you, Claude.”



The years pass. Fódlan spirals deeper into war. The Empire grows stronger as lords pledge themselves to Emperor Edelgard. The Holy Kingdom falls, its royal family dead or assumed so. The Alliance tears itself asunder, with each lord either pledging loyalty or clinging to independence, and as per usual, nobody can agree.

Claude tries to keep everything together, or at least to get a hold on what, exactly, is going on. He keeps in sporadic contact with Hilda, Lorenz, and Marianne, all plunged into the disorder along with the rest of the country, the frequency of their letters limited by the danger messengers face. And all the while, he grows from a boy into a man, which he barely even notices until he realizes he has to look down to look at Judith, and she points out that he needs to start shaving. It’s nice to have something besides the war to think about.

It’s 1185, Claude is twenty-three, and he’s returned to Garreg Mach— he promised, after all.



The monastery's a lonely place without all the students there, but it’s almost worth it, seeing the rest of the Golden Deer again, not to mention Teach up and about. Everyone’s five years older, but other than that, hardly anything’s changed— Raphael still eats his weight in food, Hilda still fobs off her chores onto others as often as possible, Lysithea still hates being treated like the baby of the family, and Lorenz is still… Lorenz. It’s enough to get Claude a little misty, when he lets himself think about it too much.

He tries to avoid that. Wouldn’t do for any of the Deer to see their illustrious leader getting weepy over teenage memories.

Marianne’s changed the most, he thinks, but they’re good changes— she’s resting better, and she looks at people more than she looks down. Her smiles are still rare and her voice is still soft, but she’s in a better place than she was when they were in school, and Claude is happy for her.

“You have a beard,” she points out, when they get an occasion to speak.

Claude rubs his chinstrap self-consciously. “Yeah, it’s new,” he admits. “I keep getting told I look like my uncle, which is really strange to hear.”

“I think it works,” Marianne says.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Claude brings up. “How’d your dad react when he learned you won the dance competition? I kept wondering, but it never made it into any of my letters. Funny, that.”

“He was thrilled, actually,” she says. “It was… a little strange. Overwhelming. Kind of scary, at the time, just because I didn’t really understand it. But I know better now.” She smiles a little. She has a lovely smile, Claude realizes. He wonders if he thought that back in their school days or if this is new, seeing her with fresh eyes after five years of separation.

“I kind of miss dancing,” Claude admits. “Haven’t had the time for it.”

Marianne hums. “Well… if we get a moment, and you want to, then…”

Claude chuckles. “You know, Marianne, I thought you’d never ask.”



1185 wears on like stanzas of a poem everyone’s tired of. They push into Empire territory with help from the Almyrans and from Alliance nobles they successfully win over. Supplies flow in easier with each step they take, and Garreg Mach slowly comes back to life, and people call them heroes.

If heroics is killing your former classmates, then Claude doesn’t think he wants any part of it.



The war ends in 1186 and Fódlan is torn; the Church of Seiros is in shambles, the Alliance is exhausted, the Kingdom is fractured, and the Empire is left standing but with a continent's worth of blood on its hands. But if anything good comes out of it, it's that the nobles of the Alliance have some common ground, and from there, negotiations can begin. And so the Golden Deer splits up once more, scattered across the country; another year older, with more scars and more stories to tell. Claude plans to leave for Almyra, which he tells everyone before they part, but he can't do that until he's certain that the Alliance will be in good hands. What can he say? He's grown to like the place.

They say goodbye, but it doesn't feel final, and that's probably because he knows he hasn't seen the last of any of them. He makes sure that the rest of them know it, too.

Teach once asked him if he planned on making his pipe dream come true, and at the time, Claude hadn't known for sure. He was more focused on the war, and the looming uncertainty that he may not live to see its end. But now?

Well, he's still alive. He might as well try.

When he opens Fódlan's Throat, it takes a while for news to spread, but spread it does, and commerce starts to flow. Soon they're building bridges and repairing the roads to make them safer to travel, and then there's too much traffic even for the highway to handle it, so they turn to the seaports. The seaports aren't Claude's idea, actually— they come in a letter from one of the Alliance nobles.

It's a wonderful idea. Claude obviously must write back as soon as he can. He can't keep Margravine Edmund waiting, after all.



The next few years are made from parchment and sealing wax, roundtable conferences and diplomatic meetings and discussions of an official partnership with the Leicester Alliance. Claude freely travels between the two, and it becomes a common sight to see him in or around Fódlan's Throat. The visits are never long enough, if you ask him, but they're something.

The Edmund land is home to the biggest seaports, and thus the busiest when trade picks up. But Claude's visits aren't really to admire the testament to the growing friendship between Almyra and the Alliance, and one would be a fool to think otherwise. No, his visits, while business does get done, are really more personal in nature.

“Margravine Edmund,” he says, leaning in and kissing the back of Marianne’s hand, as is polite.

“Your highness,” she replies. Her smile is subtle, but Claude feels his spirit lighten just looking at her. “Is that your title now?”

“Technically,” Claude shrugs. “But you don’t have to use it. It’d feel really strange if my friends from school suddenly treated me like a prince.”

Marianne hums. “I take it Almyra is treating you well?”

“They kind of have to.” Claude chuckles. “It’s actually a little weird. I’m not complaining or anything, but this is way different from the Almyra I grew up in.”

“But that’s what you’re aiming for, isn’t it?” Marianne says. “Change? A world without cultural isolation?”

“Yeah, it is,” he says. “But I guess that even I have to get used to it.”

They talk for hours, making up for the time they were apart. Claude’s grown to love these visits he makes to the Edmund land— he loves her letters, too, of course, but a letter can never hope to capture the gentleness of her voice, the glimmer in her eyes when she talks about her plans for the Alliance, the smile she gives him that, somewhat selfishly, Claude loves is for him and only him. He wonders when he noticed this— it’s new, that he thinks this kind of thing, but he’s not going to complain.

Claude is still technically there for business, so business gets done. They spend afternoons in Marianne’s study going over maps and missives, comparing ideas on how to make the routes safer, and how to expand their reach past even Almyra. Claude’s thought of exploration into the seas in search of distant lands and the knowledge they contain, but Marianne thinks they might try Brigid and Dagda before they venture into parts unknown, which is probably a better idea.

There’s a flutter in his chest as they work side by side, not quite touching but close enough to feel it, and he can’t help but remember that time all those years ago, when they held hands on a promise to meet again.



From the manse's upper terrace, the night sky is huge and open, filled with sparkling stars. It’s something of a comfort to Claude to know that despite everything that’s happened, it’s still the same sky— for all the wars and schisms the world has seen, no matter how big it feels, it’ll never be enough to truly shake the heavens. No war will make the stars die; no collapse will pull the sky down with it. The stars are above such mortal concerns, and they will stay there until long after humans have gone.

“Well, now, this takes me back,” Claude says, leaning on the railing with one arm. “Like the night of the dance, on the Goddess Tower. Are you still afraid of heights?”

“Not as much, no,” Marianne says. Her hands alight on the stone rail, and her gaze is turned skyward, facing the stars. The moonlight draws her in silver, lighting up strands in her hair and tracing the curve of her cheek and chin like a lover’s tender caress. She’s beautiful— she always has been, and Claude just hadn’t noticed it. Or perhaps he had, and the fact stuck so firmly in his mind that it became one of those things that we know to be true without having to think about it, like the sky being blue or the sun being bright.

Marianne hesitates. She looks back at Claude, unease clouding her gaze. “Claude,” she begins. “May I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“When we were in school, when you asked me what I prayed for,” she says. “I… wasn’t completely honest.

“The truth is, I didn’t pray for peace or good harvests. I have never prayed for those things. I’ve always been a believer,” she says. “But I put my faith in the Goddess because I believed She could free me from this curse that I bear— the curse of my Crest. I prayed to Her because I was praying that today would be the day that She called me to Her side.”

Claude feels a chill down his spine. Marianne’s not looking at him— her eyes are on the horizon, the city and the forest and the sea, and the dark, distant stretch of land that is Almyra.

“I wanted to die, Claude,” she says, laying the truth bare between them. “I truly thought that life was worth so little, it could end with hardly a whisper. I learned better— I know better, now, the value of a life, and that mine is not a hollow or cursed existence.

“In some strange way, the Goddess was my lifeline, too,” she says. “She heard my prayers, but instead of bringing me the silent death I prayed for, She brought me through day after day after day— no matter how hard the day was, and no matter how fervently I prayed at the end of it, I always woke up. At the time, I thought it was divine punishment for praying for such selfish things, but now? I think She was helping me keep moving, until the day came where the pain eased.

“I think you helped me with some of that,” she says. “You shared your burdens with me. I wasn’t ready to share mine at the time, but now, I can trust you the way you trusted me.”

Claude nods. I think I’m in love with you, he thinks. He knows better than to say that.

“Thank you,” he says. “For trusting me. I can only imagine how hard it was to share that.”

“Believe it or not, I practiced,” Marianne admits. “There are drafts. I must’ve run through an entire inkwell.”

“Were you always this meticulous, Margravine Edmund, or is this something you learned in the past eight years?” Claude teases.

Marianne smiles, and it makes Claude’s heart stir how easily it comes to her. “I’m not entirely sure myself, your Majesty,” she replies. “I might’ve picked it up from you.”

“Well,” Claude decides, his tone softening. “I’m glad you did. I’m glad you’re still here. You’re one of my best friends, Marianne— I trust you, and it makes me happy that you trust me, too. The world would be a darker place if you weren’t in it.”

He holds out his hand. “For old time’s sake,” he says.

And Marianne smiles, and takes it. “For old time’s sake.”



Claude is in love with her, and the moment he realizes it, it seeps into his every thought. It floats around his head like dust on the wind— lighting up in the sunlight, dusting his shoulders, landing on his food, tickling his nose. He breathes it in every waking moment whether he wants to or not, and at night, it forms clouds shaped like her smile and her gaze until he falls into his typical restless sleep. But this time, his restlessness isn't hypervigilance— this time, his thoughts are not of schemes or tactics, but of a woman of gentle bearing and impossible resilience, of kind smiles and steadfast determination, even if she's never been able to see it herself. It's as refreshing as it is irritating. As nice as it is, to have his thoughts occupied by someone he holds dear, it's more than a little distracting when all he can think about is how close their hands are, how he can nearly feel her breath, while they're bent over some map or chart in the study.

And then comes the fact that he ought to tell her. He has to— he has to know if she feels the same way before he leaves for Almyra once more. He figures that if she does then it'll carry him to the next time they meet, and if she doesn't then he'll be able to bury himself in work to cope. Let it never be said that scheming doesn't work for matters of the heart.

They watch the stars together. It's become routine— finish working for the day, get some tea, go to the terrace, look at the sky. There's a sofa there, meant for outdoor use, and it's not particularly comfortable, but he doesn't really care. He'd sit on the hard ground if it meant he could spend this time with Marianne.

They're close, achingly close. It's not a large sofa. Claude swears he can feel her with the inch or so of air between them, and it's driving him crazy. He wants to hold her. He wants to feel the touch of her hand again, and this time never let it go. He wants to hear her sighs, her whispers, her gentle words. He wants, and he's not proud of this, to push through the layers of her clothing and feel the skin beneath, and know that she trusts him to do so.

He nods at the sky. "Pretty night," he says.

Marianne hums her agreement. She's so close. Claude could reach back and put his arm around her shoulders and it wouldn't even be hard, but he's not going to. He's just going to think about it very hard, and suffer.

"So, ah," he says. "I'm gonna miss you when I go back to Almyra tomorrow. I know we write all the time, but it's just not the same, you know?"

"It really isn't," Marianne agrees. "Your jokes just aren't as witty without the delivery."

"At least someone appreciates them," Claude says wryly. "But that's good to hear. Not that I'm happy you'll be sad because I'm gone, but that you'll miss me too? Or something like that." For perhaps the first time in his life, Claude flushes with embarrassment and he regrets opening his mouth. This crush business is really throwing him off his game.

Marianne frowns at him. Aw, shit, she noticed. "Claude, you're not acting like yourself," she says. "Are you feeling alright?"

Claude sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Alright, well, cat's out of the bag now," he says. "Listen, Marianne, I…” Just spit it out, Riegan. “Kind of… have a thing for you. Like, a romantic thing.” His ears are burning. Is this what blushing feels like? He suddenly regrets flirting with so many girls back in school.

He can’t even look at her, so he looks at the sky instead. “I’ve always been glad we’re friends, but lately, I just can’t get you out of my mind, you know? I trust you, and you know me well enough to know that I don’t trust easy. On a professional level, the fact that we’re friends has been great for fostering relations between Fódlan and Almyra, but lately, whenever we’re together, all I can think about is you.”

She’s quiet, and Claude almost panics. “You don’t have to feel the same,” he says quickly. He must look like a mess. This is awful. He hates this. He hates this so much and almost (but only almost) wishes he weren’t ass-deep in love. “I’m leaving tomorrow, I just— I had to say it before I left.”

For a terrible moment, Claude regrets even opening his mouth. It’s on the tip of his tongue to laugh it off, pretend it’s a joke, but even he can’t talk his way out of this one. That’s the awful thing about trust— you can’t say you’re just kidding after they’ve seen who you really are.

Marianne blinks. “Um,” she says. For a moment she sounds like the girl in the monastery who talked to horses more than people, and not the capable, competent woman she’s grown into. “You really… you… me?”

“Yeah,” Claude says. It’s almost a relief to see that she’s blushing, too. “I really do.”

“Well,” she says. “I’m glad you told me now, because… I feel the same way. I suppose I’d just never allowed myself to entertain the possibility until you said so.”

“Good thing I brought it up first, huh?” he jokes, but it feels like a weight’s been lifted from his chest. “We wouldn't have gotten anywhere otherwise.”

Marianne smiles at him, a real smile that turns up the corners of her eyes, and Claude feels his heart skip a beat. Everything she does, somehow, reminds him he’s in love.

"Hey," he says. He holds out his hand. Marianne takes it like she has before, except now it doesn't just mean a promise between friends— now there's another level, of knowing that the other is there and has no desire to leave any time soon. "Marianne."

"Mm?"

Claude swallows. He hopes his hand isn't as sweaty to her as it feels. "May I… kiss you?"

Marianne nods. Claude's had his fair share of flings, and won't deny that he has some experience, but it hits him that he's nervous about this one— he doesn't want to mess it up, because it's Marianne and she deserves the best. And it's not a picturesque kiss— his hands are shaking, and he's scrunched up his face in a way that's certainly not very handsome, and he could definitely make it sexier, but—

But it's Marianne, and that means it's perfect.



Claude looks forward to her letters, and this time everyone can see why. There are letters dedicated to business things, of course, trade negotiations and such, but then there are letters of a more personal nature. Speaking aloud had never been Marianne's forte, but in writing, her true eloquence shines. She claims not to be a poet, and yet everything she writes sticks in Claude's head— though that may be because he rereads her letters when he can't sleep, which is quite often.

He hears her voice when he reads. He's memorized her tone, the cadence of her speech. Even so, he wants to hear it again. He'll visit again, as soon as he can.

It's foolish, how in love he is. Claude thought for so long that he's above it all, that he can wrap people around his finger. He's a schemer, a plotter; an outsider that had to get smart and sneaky in order to survive. He was never meant for love, to be loved; never meant to be told sweet things in letters with that perfect penmanship. And yet here he is, getting mushy at the thought of soft hands and gentle kisses.

His visits are more personal now. They no longer part ways at night, retreating to separate bedchambers; they have the luxury of walks in the gardens and evenings in town. It's not just allowed, but expected, now that their courtship is public. Claude never thought he'd be so relieved for everyone to know something about him.

Another day's work is done. The King of Almyra is being remarkably cooperative, a fact that Claude thanks his lucky stars for. They retire to the bedchambers hand in hand, but they prepare for bed separately— it feels like the right thing to do, since they're not married. It varies, of course, how closely people follow that old standard, but Claude hasn't asked.

Claude finishes first. He usually does. Marianne's in her dressing gown, but allows Claude to see her anyway. Her hair's down, long and wavy down her back, molded into shape by the braid she keeps it in. She works a brush through it, getting out the day's tangles in the futile hope that it won't be as bad in the morning— it always is. Marianne's hair is fine and almost wispy, and she has quite a lot of it, which is a bad combination for keeping it tamed. (Claude can relate. He sometimes wonders why it took him so long to get fed up and chop it all off.)

"Hope it's not indecent of me to watch," he teases.

Marianne smiles. It warms him how easily she does it. "It doesn't matter much to me. I trust you." (Claude had never thought he'd feel truly happy at being trusted.)

"I'm glad you do," Claude says. "Hey."

"Mm?"

"May I kiss you?" he asks.

Marianne nods. She sits next to him on the edge of the bed and laces her fingers with his, almost without thinking. She's so warm next to him; so close, so inviting. (So tempting. That one's on him.)

Kissing her is easy— natural, at this point. Her lips are soft, sweet as the words she likes to write. With his other hand, he reaches up and touches her face, the pad of his thumb tracing her cheek.

"I love you," he murmurs, and he does. The way he sees it, love is like dust. It swirls and dances on the wind, and settles on bedsheets and windowsills, and collects in places a duster can't get to very often, and you can never really get rid of it, only move it somewhere else (and if you have hay fever, it can be quite annoying). It feels only appropriate that he notices dust more often now.

"And I love you," she replies. Then she hesitates, and Claude's brow furrows.

"There's something I want to ask you," she says. "And it's very… personal… but I'm led to believe that this is the kind of thing that lovers tell each other."

Claude quirks an eyebrow. "Well, if anyone can get a direct answer out of me, it's you," he says.

Marianne rubs her free hand over her face. She clears her throat, trying to remain composed, and doesn't really succeed. "Well," she says. "It's about… intimacy. And the… urges… that go along with it."

"Oh, right, like sex and stuff," he says. Marianne, very grateful that she didn't have to say it, nods. "What about it?"

"It's just been… on my mind," she says. "You've… have you? Because I…"

"Ohhh, okay, right," he nods. "Well, yes and no? Depends on what you consider sex. Because yes, sure, I've seen people naked. You know, back at Garreg Mach, I was quite the eligible bachelor."

"I remember," she mumbles.

"But my one rule," he says. "Was that my clothes stay on. I always told 'em it was because I carried too many hidden knives on me for it to be quick and sexy, and nobody really pressed. I took care of my own business after they left."

Marianne hums. "I can see how that would make defining 'virgin' a little difficult."

"Doesn't matter that much, anyway," he shrugs. "But yeah, if you think you're ready, I'd be happy to help you out. I happen to have had a lot of practice." He winks, and Marianne flushes. Flustering Marianne is ridiculously easy, and Claude finds it cute.

Marianne nods. "I want this," she says. She reaches out and squeezes Claude's hand. "I trust you."

"I love you," he murmurs.

Marianne leans in and rests her forehead against his. "And I love you," she replies. "I, um… don't really know where to start. Silly, isn't it? I'm a grown woman and a medical professional, but I don't even know where to begin with anything resembling, um… pleasure."

Claude chuckles. "Well, you only really get to know this stuff by doing it," he says. "Alright, I'll take the lead. If you don’t like something, tell me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Okay,” she promises. “Um… kiss me?”

Claude does. He starts gentle, but little by little, he pushes further. He feels Marianne sigh in contentment— a good sign. He breaks away for breath, but soon dives back in, his mouth moving down her jaw to her neck, his hands moving to rest on her waist.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Marianne gasps. “Should I…”

“That would streamline this process a little, yes.”

Marianne, her hands fumbling, undoes the belt of her dressing gown. It comes off easily, and lands half-on and half-off the bed. Her nightgown is modest, and it’s nothing Claude hasn’t seen before, but somehow, tonight, it’s special. Claude kisses the hollow of her throat, her collarbone. He can feel her flush through his lips.

The silky fabric of her nightgown pools and folds, making a ripple when he touches her through it, running his hand down her waistline to her hip. He moves it over her stomach and to her thigh, letting his hand explore curves and contours he’s never felt. He kisses her breastbone, just above the neckline of her nightgown.

Her cheeks turn red. She looks away self-consciously, undoing the lacing around her neckline. “I hope I’m not horribly ugly, or something,” she mumbles. “I don’t exactly have a frame of reference.”

“That’s alright,” Claude promises. “You’ve always been beautiful to me, Marianne. I doubt seeing more of you will change anything.”

Marianne smiles at him. Her nightgown comes off with a little more shifting, until it, too, is off and no longer their problem. Marianne’s bare before him, and he has to take a moment to look at her; the softness of her stomach, the pleasant way it gives beneath his touch, the pale little marks on her breasts and her hips.

“Knew it,” he says. He leans in to kiss her neck again. “May I touch?”

Marianne nods. They shift again. She leans back against the pillows, her hair splaying out across them. Claude pushes a loose strand from her face and leans in to kiss her. Her breasts are soft beneath his touch. She hums into the kiss, and Claude can feel her smile.

“Tell me if you don’t like it,” he murmurs into her lips as his hand starts to roam. It traces her breast, rubs a gentle thumb across her nipple, then down, over her stomach, and then over the mound leading down to the heat between her legs. His touch is gentle as he carefully works a finger between her outer folds.

She gasps, her hands gripping the pillowcase. “Claude—”

“Is this alright?” he asks.

“Yes,” she promises. “Just— new, I suppose.”

Claude chuckles, and leans in to kiss her cheek. “Just relax, and let it happen,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

Marianne nods. “I love you,” she says.

“And I love you,” he replies. “Now, let’s see…”

Her folds aren’t quite slick— getting there, though. He keeps the movement of his fingers slow and gentle, until Marianne sucks in a breath and her shoulders push back, and he feels the telltale firmness of her clit.

“There we go,” he purrs, gently teasing it with his middle finger. “How does that feel?”

“Ah— Claude—” she gasps, her hands white-knuckled as she clenches the pillowcase. “Good. It feels good. Keep going.”

With her green light, Claude kisses her neck and grants her request. He keeps his rhythm steady: up and down, taking his time on the upward motion and keeping it quick on the downward. Marianne bites her lip, but she doesn’t try to hide the hums of pleasure she’s making. They’re music to Claude’s ears.

Watching her flushed and gasping at his touch reminds him of his own want, a tug in his stomach, feeling his heartbeat between his own legs. He wonders what it might be like to have her touch him like that. He’ll guide her through it, of course, but it’s a nice thought that doesn’t have to actually make sense when it’s in his head.

“I’m gonna try something else now,” he says. “The one downside is that I won’t be able to kiss you while I’m doing it.”

Marianne frowns, pushing herself up on her elbows. “What are you going to do?”

Claude winks. “You’ll find out in just a second. But you need to tell me if you don’t like it, alright?”

“Alright.”

Claude kisses her shoulder, and then down to her breastbone where he was before, but this time he doesn’t stop. His hand still teasing her folds, he moves to kiss her breast. He doesn’t linger there for long, though, and moves down to her stomach before arriving at his destination. He pulls his hand back, admiring the thin sheen coating his finger, and looks up at Marianne. She’s still clutching the sheets, her lip between her teeth, but even though she’s trembling, she’s waiting patiently for him to do what he set out to do.

“Are you ready?” he asks, one more time.

Marianne nods. “I trust you.”

The exact words he wanted to hear. He nods, then he moves his face down between her legs. Her folds are pink and flushed, her clit just barely peeking out from where it was. He kisses the mound just above where her folds begin, and then he takes his tongue and carefully, gently runs it through.

Marianne gasps, but she doesn’t tell him to stop— in fact, she pushes her legs apart further, inviting him in. Claude takes the invitation. He goes a little deeper, working his tongue inside a little at a time, occasionally giving special attention to her clit, listening with satisfaction to the moans spilling from her mouth. When he pulls back, moving his thumb back to her clit to keep her going, he wipes his mouth with his shoulder and grins at her.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Ah— Claude,” she moans. “Claude, please—”

“I’m gonna assume that’s good,” he teases. “Hey, Marianne.”

She looks at him with her brow furrowed, almost pouting, as if she’s asking him how dare you stop to ask me something. It’s actually very cute. “Yes?”

“I’m gonna put my finger in,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Marianne nods. She bites at her lip. “Keep going,” she urges him. “Please?”

“Your wish is my command, Margravine Edmund,” he teases. And Marianne rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but smile, so Claude considers it a job well done.

But there’s no more teasing when he turns his full attention back to her. He works his finger inside slowly, gently rubbing at her inner walls while his thumb rubs her clit. She shudders, back arching, and she lets out a low whine. Claude’s pretty sure that’s good.

His name falls from her lips, and it thrills him just as much as her pretty moans do. As much as he likes pleasuring her with his mouth, it has the unfortunate downside that he can't kiss her while he does so. He moves himself back up until he can press his kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. Sweat cools on her skin. She registers him behind her, pressed against her, and moves one of her hands down until she's holding his. Her grip is tight, but Claude doesn't mind.

"How do you feel?" he asks. "Are you doing okay?"

Marianne nods breathlessly. "Keep going," she pants. "Please— please, I— oh, Claude…"

"Don't fight it," he says, gently squeezing her hand while the other is between her legs. "Let it feel good."

She heeds his advice. He feels her hips trembling, instinctually moving against his hand. She sucks in a breath. Her inner walls clench around his finger. She moans his name, shuddering, back arching. Claude slows his hand until she's done, sweaty and exhausted, and then he carefully removes it. Marianne lets him go, and reaches up to put a hand to her head.

Claude chuckles, and lets her get her bearings. "How was that?" he asks.

For once, Marianne's at a loss for words. "It… I…" she tries. "Wow."

"I like to think I'm pretty good at what I do," he says modestly.

She hums. "I'm glad my first time was with you," she murmurs. "I love you."

He leans over and kisses her cheek. "I love you, too," he says. "I bet you're tired."

She frowns. "What about you?" she asks.

"What about me?"

"Shouldn't I do the same?" she asks. "Pleasure you, I mean? It just feels right."

Claude hesitates. It's true, he would certainly like that, but it feels wrong to ask for it, especially from Marianne, inexperienced as she is.

Marianne ducks her head. "If you don't want to, then we won't," she says. "I just… I want to please you, too, Claude. It doesn't feel right if it's just me. I know I don't really know what to do, but if you tell me, I can…"

"Alright," he says, before he can change his mind. "But, ah, you should know, I've never… had anyone else down here before. Just didn't want to explain all that, you know? But I know what I like, so I'll help you. That work?"

Marianne nods. She shifts until she's facing him. Even disheveled, flushed and sweaty with her hair out of place, she's the most beautiful being Claude has ever seen. "May I kiss you?" she asks. Claude nods, and lets her move closer. She kisses him and her hands come to rest on his chest. It's a new feeling— but not unwelcome. Not if it's her.

Well, it's now or never. Claude pulls it from his shoulders and chucks it aside. He can't take it back now— Marianne's seeing him, scars and patchy hair and all.

She reaches out and runs her thumb across one of the long white scars tracing a curve across each side of his chest. "Should I…" her hand moves lower, down over his stomach, like he did. She's a quick study— Claude can't say he's surprised. It comes to rest just above the waistband of his pants.

He tugs them down. He doesn't bother to kick them off all the way— it doesn't matter, they're out of the way enough. He takes her hand and guides it down, down to his own folds. The main difference between them is that it won't take any teasing to guide his clit out.

She takes to it quickly. Her hand under his, she rubs gently, like he did, looking up at him for approval. "Is this alright?"

He nods. "Yeah," he says. Even with his hand guiding her, it's still strange feeling someone else's touch down there. "Just like that."

"Could I try…" she hesitates, her cheeks flushing. "Using my mouth? Like you did?"

Literally nothing could be better, he thinks. He really hopes his downstairs doesn't tangibly react, at least not enough that Marianne could feel it. "Yeah," he says instead. "Careful. And just here, not inside."

Marianne nods. "Tell me if you don't like it," she says.

Claude chuckles. "I trust you," he promises.

He had underestimated what a pretty image it would be, seeing Marianne's head between his legs. He moves one hand down and pushes it into her hair. She smiles, her cheeks pink, looking cute despite the highly explicit context. She looks at Claude's groin, back up at him, and then moves her head down.

Marianne is not the girl she used to be, who doubted herself at every turn, but her hesitance born from inexperience shows itself in the way she cautiously puts her mouth around Claude's clit, her hot tongue gently rubbing itself against it. Claude's breath hitches— unlike her, he's no stranger to sex, but this is the first time he's left his pleasure in someone else's hands.

She jerks back. "Are you alright? Did I do it wrong?"

Claude coughs. "No, no, it felt good," he promises, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. "Keep going. I promise I'll tell you if you don't like it."

She nods, and puts her head back down. Her hands come to rest on his thighs, toned and strong— riding a wyvern will do that. She ignores his own inner folds and focuses entirely on his clit, like he'd told her. Inexperienced she may be, but Marianne underestimates how quickly she picks up on things.

"Try sucking on it," he suggests. "Like— oh, shit, exactly like that." Marianne follows his direction eagerly, closing her lips around his clit and sucking gently, massaging it with her tongue. It's not the most elegant job, but Claude really, really doesn't care.

He feels arousal ache in the pit of his stomach, but amplified, somehow, by the anticipation. He doesn't know exactly what's coming next the way he does when he does it himself. It's somehow even better than he'd imagined, her mouth on him— his hand in her hair, her eyes looking up at him and carefully gauging his reaction; waiting for approval, to be told she's doing well.

"Like that," he groans, surprising himself at the tone his voice takes. "Gods, Marianne—"

He grunts, and has to consciously stop himself from pulling her hair. He feels himself shudder, his shoulders pressing back against the bed. He swears under his breath as the pleasure builds, builds, hurtling towards a finish much faster than he's used to— is he really that much of a quick shot, or is it just the novelty of having someone else do it?

In the moment, though, he couldn't be further from caring. It's the final stretch before the peak, that anticipation before everything comes to a head. It's seconds that feel like minutes and yet condense themselves into seconds again when it's over, where all that exists is raw, unrefined pleasure.

It hits him like a wave. He forgets where he is. He doesn't know how long it lasts— five seconds? More? Less?— but he does know that when the stars fade from his eyes and he breathes, already aching with exertion, Marianne's looking up at him, waiting for his feedback.

He smiles, and reaches out to touch her face. "You did great," he promises. "Hey. May I kiss you?"

Marianne pulls herself closer without hesitation, but she doesn't kiss him. "Are you sure you want to?" she asks. "Considering I just…"

"I don't care," Claude promises. "C'mon. It's the least I can do."

Marianne kisses him, her lips gentle and distinctively salty, and Claude, true to form, doesn't care. She presses her forehead to his and squeezes his hand, and Claude lets his other hand move to cradle the back of her head. Her hair clings to her skin where it touches. She's smiling, and no matter how much he sees it, it'll never fail to make him stop and admire.

"I love you," he murmurs.

"I love you, too," she replies. "Um, that was… well, when I was told of sex, I'd expected more…"

She gestures vaguely. Claude chuckles, and figures he knows what she means. "A dick?"

She flushes. "Well, I wouldn't say it like that…"

"There are ways to try that, if you're curious," Claude says. "I know a guy who makes fake ones. Well, Hilda knows the guy, but whatever. This actually works out great— we can start out small and work our way up."

"There's more to think about than I realized," Marianne mumbles. "But if it's with you, then I'm ready. I trust you."

He smiles, and presses his lips to the bridge of her nose. "Sounds like a discussion for another day," he says, only to be interrupted by a yawn. "I think it's bedtime for now."

"And you'll stay with me?" Marianne asks.

Claude chuckles, leaning over to blow out the candle on the bedside table. "Wild wyverns couldn't keep me away."