Chapter Text
Dimitri’s hands trembled as he stared at himself in the mirror.
It felt like a stranger stared back at him: a man in bright shining armor and a deep blue cloak, furs elegantly draped on his shoulders. A man who bore the silver circlet on his head proudly, who was calm and composed and ready for the day.
Rodrigue had told him that no man was truly ready on his wedding day. The thought wasn’t as comforting as he intended for it to be.
He supposed that he had at least one matter in his favor: his bachelor party had been blessedly tame. All that had transpired last night was a simple trip to a local tavern to eat and converse with friends. To Sylvain’s eternal disappointment, Dimitri hadn’t even drank a single drop of alcohol — there was absolutely no chance he would risk not being sober to his own wedding.
Though perhaps it would keep his hands from shaking.
His fingers rested on the brooch and pin fastening the cloak around his shoulders. Shaped like a lion’s head with a spear between its teeth, it was part of the ensemble. This armor set had belonged to his father, and his father before him. Silvery white, the crest of Blaiddyd proudly emblazoned on the front of the breastplate, he practically glowed in the sunlight.
Though it fit him perfectly well — he had worn this suit to his own coronation, and it had been carefully adjusted throughout the years — he still felt awkward inside of it.
You should not wear something so clean.
Staring down at his gloved hands, he swallowed thickly. His father hadn’t worn this suit of armor that day, but he’d always dressed similarly: the bright lion of Faerghus, noble and proud and strong. But when the fires burned and the attack started, Dimitri could only see him covered in blood and ashes.
How can you be her husband with those hands? No matter how much blood you wash away, you cannot change your strength. Your nature.
You should have told her to run away. Spare herself the pain and misery.
When will you lose her too, Dimitri? When will her blood mix with ours?
“Dimitri,” and he jerked up to see Dedue standing at the door, dressed in his own suit of silver armor; his Duscurian scarf proudly draped across his shoulders. “It is time.”
Heart quivering in his chest, he took in a deep breath and nodded. The voices still chattered — it seemed they would not leave him alone even on his wedding day — but he curled his hands into fists and focused on Dedue, following him out of the preparation room.
Garlands of white lilies and blue ribbons decorated the halls as they walked, Dedue leading the way for once. Dimitri had chosen him as his escort — while it was more traditional to pick a family member, his only option was not an option at all, and Rodrigue was busy securing the eternal flower crown.
Dedue was like a brother to him; there was no one else he would rather have lead him to his wedding altar.
“Dedue?” he whispered, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his cloak. “Am I making a mistake?”
To his eternal credit, Dedue didn’t even break his pace, though he did turn and look at Dimitri with a raised eyebrow. “What makes you think this is a mistake, Your Majesty?”
So many things. “You know me well, Dedue. Perhaps better than I know myself. So tell me, and speak honestly.” Dimitri forced himself to look his best friend in the eye. “Will I make a good husband for Byleth?”
His heart twisted when Dedue didn’t answer right away, his expression contemplative. Even he doubts you, Stepmother whispered. And why shouldn’t he? It’s as you said — he knows you best. He knows what you truly are.
“I believe you have answered your own question simply by asking it, Your Majesty,” Dedue said quietly, a small smile on his lips.
Dimitri blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“A man who only cares for wealth or power would not care about the happiness of his spouse. He would only care about outside appearances. But you have always cared deeply, Your Majesty, and not just for those who can directly benefit you. Others may call that a weakness; I call it a great strength. Despite it serving no immediate use to you, you wish to make Her Grace happy. Is that not so?”
“Well, yes, but…” He stared at the polished stones beneath his feet, trying to gather his thoughts. “Am I truly worthy of her?”
“As worthy as any other man.” Dedue paused, then added, “It is in my experience that the best relationships are not found — they are built, brick by brick and stone by stone each day. When we met, we could hardly understand each other, yet you still reached out to me and befriended me. If you do the same for Her Grace, then I cannot see an issue rising between you that can’t be mended.”
The words were a surprising comfort to Dimitri, regardless of the whispers that dug into him. Dedue was a man who spoke his truth — though he was wary about giving advice, Dimitri could trust him to not lie.
All too quickly, they drew close to the doors of the cathedral, and Dimitri paused for a moment, hand balling in the cloth of his cloak.
Goddess, let this day go well. For your archbishop’s scion, if not for me.
His faith in the Goddess was a frail thing: a wan plant on the verge of wilting. But for today, he would take whatever assistance he could get — divine or otherwise.
Those seated in the pews of the cathedral rose as Dimitri passed them by, bowing and curtseying to him. He nodded to them as he passed, listening as the choirs in the rostrum above sang praises and hymns. The sound was soothing, despite his nerves as he looked at those in attendance: lords and ladies from all three nations, some not even bothering to mask their discontent at the proceedings. Swallowing thickly, he did his best to keep his composure as he faced the most displeased of them all: Lady Rhea, standing behind the marriage altar.
When they arrived, Dedue joined Rodrigue at their place to the side: they would both be the official witnesses for the ceremony, despite the literal hundreds of people crammed into the cathedral. Thus, despite the warm smiles Rodrigue gave him and Dedue’s encouraging nod, Dimitri stood alone before the archbishop, meekly looking up to face her ire.
Yet Rhea didn’t glare at him. She only looked resigned, her green eyes dull as she stared at him. On the altar rested a bowl of oil, and he bowed his head as he knelt before it, feeling the cold droplets of oil seep into his hair as she anointed him. When he had been coronated the same rite had been done: a way to purify the soul before taking the next stage of their life’s journey. Last time the Archbishop had spoken words about his success and piety towards the Goddess, but this time she said nothing.
As he rose, her gaze bored into him, and a chill ran down his spine as they stared at each other. Just as it had the last time they had faced each other in private, a sense of uneasiness washed over him — there was a uncomfortable foreignness to her eyes, alien and glittering.
“You swore an oath to me and the Goddess. Never forget it,” she said quietly.
“I could not,” he replied, his voice far more steady than he felt.
The answer seemed to please her, her eyes glancing to something behind him. His skin buzzed as the choir’s singing swelled to a crescendo, a burst of whispers erupting behind him that grew closer each second. Slowly he turned, then stared dumbstruck.
White flower petals rained from the balconies of the cathedral, shimmering in the bright light of the stained glass windows. They fell upon Captain Jeralt and Byleth alike, the father dressed in a red and white suit of armor with a scarlet cape. And on his arm, her face and posture perfectly composed, strode Byleth.
The dress she wore was unlike anything he’d ever seen: no sleeves or straps to hold it up, save a ribbon around her neck to affix the same golden emblem she always wore over her heart. White silk fell in pleats to her ankles, gathered at her waist with a golden girdle that bore each of the crests of the noble houses. Her wrists shimmered with golden bracers, her feet clad with simple leather sandals. In that moment, he imagined he was looking upon Saint Seiros herself, much as she had been during the War of Heroes.
But — no offense to the saint herself — Byleth was the far more beautiful of the two.
A lump rose in his throat as she lifted her head to look at him: she wore no veil or circlet, her hair neatly pulled back from her face. They didn’t smile at each other, but she gave him a simple nod, as if to reassure him. He returned it, clasping his hands as he blinked hard to dispel the wetness gathering in his eyes.
In another life, perhaps, he would be openly weeping, shedding tears of joy at the sight of his beloved bride approaching him at the altar. Felix would scoff and Sylvain would laugh at him while Ingrid merely smiled despite his loss of composure. Perhaps his beloved would wipe his tears and gently tease him, and then they would turn to the archbishop and excitedly recite their vows. It would be the wedding he’d dreamed of as a small boy, filled with happiness and laughter.
But in this life, this day was just as bitter as it was sweet. Both he and Byleth knew what this wedding was and what it meant. This was not the fairy tale dream either of them had wanted. Fulfilled dreams were not their lot in life.
I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more.
Jeralt patted her arm once before he left, standing on the opposite side of Rodrigue and Dedue. Seteth the church officiant stood with him, along with Flayn. His chest felt far too tight as Byleth stood alone before him. For the first time, she looked small. No armor to bulk up her appearance, no noble air or easy smile.
She is afraid of you. As she should be. Soon enough she will see you for what you truly are, my son.
Slowly, her motions fluid, she curtseyed before him, sinking almost to the floor. “My lord,” she murmured, her eyes fixed to the floor.
That was the part of the ceremony he hated the most: the obvious deference. It didn’t fit Byleth at all; she was not one to bow before him or pay homage. He should be the one on his knees, thanking her for sacrificing herself for the sake of his kingdom.
Instead he grasped her hand quickly, bringing her to her feet. “My lady,” he murmured in answer, escorting her the last few steps to the altar. Her hand squeezed his briefly before she released it, kneeling in front of her grandmother as she was anointed in turn.
Rhea’s voice echoed throughout the cathedral as Byleth rose from her knees. “People of Fódlan — children of the Goddess. Today we witness the union of these two souls in holiest matrimony. Such a bond was given to us by the Goddess Herself, before she ascended to the Blue Sea Star…” Dimitri had heard this sermon three times already during their rehearsals for the ceremony: the story of how the Goddess descended upon the land, created man, and when his hubris grew too great, sent the divine Saint Seiros as a messenger to guide the lost to an age of prosperity. She gave mankind commandments that should be kept, as well as sacred rituals to foster love in the hearts of the people.
“Such vows are an expression of fealty from the heart. Speak them now before each other, these witnesses, and the Goddess and let them ring of truth.” Rhea lowered her hands, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Dimitri.
Right. Me first.
The words were the old traditional marriage oaths — legends told that Loog had spoken them at his own wedding, and thus every king of Faerghus recited them to his spouse. Swallowing thickly, he began. “As the Goddess has blessed me in my life, so too do I wish to bless you. My heart and life I give unto you, along with all else I have. My hearth is yours,” he murmured. “My bed is yours. My cloak is yours. My spear shall ever stand ready in your defense. In your darkest hour, in the blackest night, I will be with you always and turn your bitter mourning to sweetest joy. For where else could I go?” He paused, his heart constricting almost painfully before he recited the next line. “Who else could I love but you?”
Byleth said nothing, but her hand gently squeezed his, her gaze kind despite the lack of a smile. He squeezed his eye shut; at least she didn’t bear resentment for him for the hollow words.
Yet… This time, they didn’t feel hollow. Perhaps they did not bear the full truth — not yet — but they felt far more real than they did in rehearsal.
A curt cough from Rhea jarred him back to reality. “I-I, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, in the spirit of the Goddess who watches over us from the Blue Sea Star…” He cringed as the words flew from him in a torrent. Slow down. Give it meaning. “By the strength of the crest that flows in my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen wife.” His thumb ran over her knuckles, and he tried to focus on the sensation of her warm hands through his glove to calm himself. “I promise to love thee wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond — where we shall meet, remember, and love again.”
Such pretty words, Patricia murmured dryly. It is a shame they mean nothing.
You can promise her nothing. Not when you have not fulfilled your vows to us, my son.
He bit his lip hard; he couldn’t slip, not here, not now. “I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy family, and thy ways as I respect myself. Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor thee through this life and into the next. This I swear before thee and the Goddess.” Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked at her, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t noticed his wandering mind.
Green eyes reflecting nothing, her lips parted. “I accept your oaths, my husband, and take them as my own. I accept your hearth, your bed, your cloak and spear. All that possess I shall give you in turn. I shall be a shield for your back in companion to your spear, and so I shall accompany you through the darkest valleys and the highest peaks. For where else could I go? Who else could I love but you?”
She spoke so elegantly, so calmly. Yet her hand trembled slightly between his fingers, and he clasped it tighter. The corners of her lips twitched upwards at the gesture, and his heart eased somewhat. “I, Byleth Eisner, in the spirit of the Goddess who illuminates both the land and soul — by the strength of the crest that flows in my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen husband. All that thou hast promised, I swear the same, even past death — where I shall find thee that we may meet, remember and love again.”
Why would she find you? She does not love you now; why would she love you again?
“So we speak as one,” Byleth finished, turning towards Lady Rhea.
“I witness your vows and accept them.” The Archbishop sounded almost bored, though she smiled gracefully upon them. “The Goddess smiles upon you and the bond you have forged this day. May She preserve you and your love, even after death.” Raising her hands, she continued: “These are the blessings She would give you: love deeper than the widest oceans, descendants greater than the sands of the desert, and happiness richer than all the treasures of the earth.” Lowering her hands, she stepped back. “Thus are you married, and your marriage binding in all three nations. You may seal your union with a kiss.”
It was his turn for his hands to tremble as he released Byleth’s. She rose an eyebrow — in all their practicing yesterday, their safe kisses had them holding hands. Yet…
I did like it when you touched my face.
It was a pathetically small expression of his appreciation. But as Dedue often said, the smallest things meant the most to people.
So, holding her face in his hands with all the gentleness he could muster, he leaned down and kissed her. Short, but no less sweet than all they had shared yesterday. Chaste. Light. Perfect.
Not enough, something dark whispered in the back of his mind as they parted, but the cheers and applause of the crowds gathered in the cathedral drowned it out. His cheeks burned as they turned to face the people — he swore he could hear Sylvain whooping somewhere. Dedue smiled warmly as he clapped, and to his shock Felix actually had a smile on his lips. Ingrid looked like a proud older sister, and if he was closer perhaps he would have been able to see if she was actually crying.
It took several minutes for the applause to die down to the point where he could actually hear himself think. The hardest part is over, he told himself, looking to Rodrigue who stood nearby with the crown jewels. A few priests laid a cushion on the floor before Rhea and he watched as Byleth knelt upon it. Though her face was carefully composed, he could see the apprehension in the corners of her mouth, in the dull shine of her eyes.
This was no practice rehearsal. And this time there was no contract to divide the weight of what they were about to do.
“Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd,” he recited, and something buzzed inside him at the sound of his last name after hers — a sort of hyperactive giddiness, or anxiety perhaps. “You come to Faerghus as a stranger, an outsider. You have not dwelled amidst the snows nor sought refuge from the wind. Today I invite you into our people to share our blood. But such an oath one does not take lightly.” He rested his hand on the clasp that held his cloak together. “Do you swear to follow our laws and our customs until your dying day?”
“I swear,” she said calmly.
“Do you swear your loyalty to us? That when the time comes for men to draw swords and stand together, you will stand with Faerghus, even until death?”
“I swear my loyalty and my blade until my dying day.”
“Do you swear to do good to our people — all our people,” and here his eye drifted over to Dedue, standing still at Rodrigue’s side, “—that live within our borders? That you will not cheat them, persecute them, or lead them astray?”
“I swear to treat them as if they were my kin. No lies nor falsehoods shall pass my lips, and no bruise nor scratch shall I lay upon another.”
“Your oaths are accepted.” Withdrawing the silver pin from the lion’s brooch, he carefully gathered the heavy fabric in his hands. His poleyns hit the stone loudly as he knelt in front of her, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he draped the cloak over her shoulders. “As I now clothe you in my raiment, I bring you into the blood of Faerghus. No more will you be a stranger to us, but of our kin. Wind and snow will flee from you, and every hearth and hall shall be forever open to you.”
“Full glad am I to wear your raiment and share your blood,” she intoned. “I rejoice in no longer being a stranger but of your kin. I embrace the wind and snow and shall give alms at every hearth and hall.”
He smiled. “Then you are ready to bear the greatest weight of all.” Rising to his feet and turning to the side, he waited for Rodrigue to approach, sucking in a deep breath. The ornate chest rested in the Duke’s arms, and Dimitri hesitated before opening the lid. Even now, he feared he would break the crown — or even worse, drop it. Every time they’d rehearsed this moment he’d used a simple wooden circlet as a placeholder, and he hadn’t managed to crack that, at least.
Delicately, carefully, and resisting the urge to hold his breath, he took the eternal flower crown in his fingers and lifted it over Byleth’s head. “Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd, first of your name,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as his hands. “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus as is your duty?”
“I solemnly promise and swear,” she replied.
“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in fullest mercy and grace, to be executed in all your judgements?”
“I will.”
“Will you to the utmost of your power maintain and champion the commandments of the Goddess as chronicled in the Book of Seiros? Will you defend their sanctity and live their spirit as well as their letter? Will you protect its priests, its followers, and all those who take shelter in the loving arms of the Goddess, no matter their allegiance? Will you bring to bear your strength and sword in defense of Her Church if Her Radiance the Archbishop summons your aid?”
“All this I promise to do,” Byleth said solemnly. “The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep. May the Goddess bless my soul and give me the strength to fulfill my oaths.”
“Then I can in nowise refuse you your station.” He swallowed thickly; his heart pounded as he looked down at her, mint hair veiling her face. “As your husband and King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, I crown you Queen for the rest of your days.” A lump rose in his throat. “May they be forever blessed.”
The crown felt far too light in between his fingers as he leaned over her, resting it on her head. When he pulled away, his breath caught as the light of the stained glass window shone down on her, causing the gems to sparkle as she lifted her head.
It was a sight he would never forget: Byleth kneeling in front of him in brilliant Blaiddyd blue, her mint hair framed by diamond and sapphire blossoms. In that moment it was as if she wore a crown of stars, her skin gilded with the radiance of the sun itself.
If someone had told him that the goddess knelt before him, he would have believed them wholeheartedly.
Slowly, his hands trembling, he reached toward her. “Rise,” he said, his voice barely more than a husk of a whisper. “Rise in glory and highest honor, daughter of Faerghus, and may you never fall nor falter.”
Carefully holding his cloak closed with one hand so it didn’t fall, she took his other and stood, a soft smile on her face. He returned it with a soft exhale of relief; the most difficult part was over. As she turned to face those gathered in the cathedral, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Lords and ladies, sovereigns and servants, I here present unto you Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd, your undoubted Queen of Faerghus! All you who are come this day to do your homage and service, shall any deny her?”
The hall remained silent.
“Then rejoice, for Faerghus once more has a queen! May her radiance long shine upon us!”
Somehow the roar of the cathedral was all drowned out by the slight curve of her smile.
Byleth’s ears still rang from the thunderous applause as she and Dimitri were escorted back into the upstairs of the monastery by her father and Seteth. “Excellent,” he said, giving them a proud smile. “Both of you did very well.”
Dimitri flushed, she nodded; they had done well. Their first time in rehearsal had been full of awkward pauses and stammering. Though there had been a few hiccups — inevitable, all things considered — it had been a good wedding ceremony.
“Once you’re done eating, return back here for portraits,” Seteth reminded them.
Byleth turned to look at Dimitri, who still was a bit pink. She felt like she should say something, now that they were married. Something profound, or hopeful, perhaps. They had both crossed perhaps one of the largest milestones in their lives. The occasion called for something, surely.
“Good, uh… good job back there,” she mumbled.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Thank you.” Dimitri cleared his throat. “You as well.”
Silence.
“Have fun with your friends?” She didn’t mean for the words to come out as a question; her shoulders shrugged at the end as if to save the sentence.
“And you with your family,” he replied evenly.
“Right.”
Good heavens, kill me now.
“I guess I’ll get going,” she mumbled, gathering up her skirts. Well, what little skirts she had to gather. This dress was nothing like the puffballs she’d heard Flayn describe.
Dimitri’s hand reached for her, and she paused. Yet he quickly turned his head away, cheeks a deeper shade than before. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.
Honestly, it took everything she had to not sprint down the hallway.
In her sitting room was her family and the midday meal — just some fish stew and bread due to the feast tonight. Dimitri would eat something similar with his friends instead of joining her; it was actually something she insisted upon. They would be attached at the hip for the rest of the evening, and he’d been so excited to go visit them when they’d arrived at Garreg Mach. So she ate in the company of her family while he dined with his friends, one of Dad’s large shirts over her dress so she didn’t spill anything on it.
Surreally — wearing a crown and a wedding dress — she noted that this would be the last time she would likely ever eat with her family like this ever again.
“Can’t believe this,” Jeralt would mutter every few minutes, looking at her with a mix of what she assumed was annoyance and joy. “My little girl. Married.” Flayn would beam at her happily from her fish stew, and Seteth would nod every so often.
Grandmother said nothing, though when their gazes happened to meet, her eyes weren’t icy. She just looked… sad. Resigned.
Byleth didn’t have much of an appetite.
Carefully shimmying out of her dad’s too-large shirt, the next phase of the day began: the wedding portrait. Flayn pulled her aside to help correct her hair, as well as touch up her makeup. She didn’t really see the point, considering a portrait was more of an idealized representation than anything else. But it was quick, and soon she found herself standing in the hallway again.
Clanking armor announced Dimitri, who apologized for being late — apparently some of his friends struggled with punctuality. Byleth had an inkling as to which one, but she simply shook her head and said it was nothing.
The painter’s apprentice, a young man with spectacles, ushered them inside the room that had been repurposed as a gallery. Byleth had no idea who the artist was; Seteth had contracted him, reassuring her that the man was well skilled in likenesses. At the behest of his apprentice, she stood in the center of the room with Dimitri slightly behind her at her side. She blinked when Lord Rodrigue entered the room, carrying a large polearm with the head wrapped in a blue silken cloth.
Dimitri took the weapon reverently, and Byleth’s eyes widened as he removed the cover. The unmistakable burning glow of a relic cast shadows about the room, and something in her chest constricted as she looked at the curve of the blade forged from dragonbone.
Areadbhar, relic of the Blaiddyd bloodline. Grandmother had told her the name was old, ancient Faerghan. When asked what it meant, her eyes had grown cloudy, her hands curling into fists.
“Slaughterer.”
“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” the painter asked, his assistant helping organize his palette.
The tightness in her chest did not leave; aside from the Sword of the Creator, carefully locked away in the Holy Tomb, this was the first divine relic she had ever seen. And aside from Seteth, who had his own grim look, she was the only person in the room who truly knew what Dimitri was holding.
“Everything is fine,” she said softly, clasping her hands in her lap as she straightened up. “My apologies.”
Dimitri said nothing, but she felt his hand press slightly against her back, between her shoulderblades. Hopefully he would think she was merely tired — which wasn’t exactly a lie, considering she hadn’t slept well last night.
Together they stood, both trying to keep as still as possible. Occasionally the assistant would have them slightly shift as the painter worked. The portrait wouldn’t be completed today, but sent to Fhirdiad to have it finished with a proper background. Byleth had to hold back a few yawns as the minutes stretched onwards, and she could see Dimitri slouching a few times as well.
It was probably the most tedious part of the day, and unfortunately that was a good thing.
After nearly falling asleep twice and Dimitri having to softly jostle her awake each time, the painter thanked them for their patience and reassured them that the end product would be “a spectacle for the ages.” The only spectacle Byleth was looking forward to was the feast table, but she managed to smile as Dimitri expressed his gratitude.
Then they were whisked away again — Dimitri to change into an evening suit from the armor, she to refresh her makeup and carefully stow the eternal flower crown back in its chest. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually worn it even when she took it off her head and pressed it into the crushed velvet.
There was no outfit change for her. It was a custom that the bride wore white her entire wedding day, and while she had plenty of white dresses, she figured she should get the most out of this one while she could. It was comfortable enough, and the lack of sleeves would be a welcome reprieve come evening when hundreds of people would be crammed into the ballroom in a sweaty mess.
Flayn buzzed around her like a bee as she cheerfully wove flowers into Byleth’s hair — a much more temporary flower crown. “You should have seen yourself,” she cooed. “Oh, it was a sight for the ages, Byleth! And King Dimitri looked like he would weep!”
Byleth raised an eyebrow; she certainly didn’t see any misty eye on Dimitri’s end. He’d looked more terrified than anything else. But she let Flayn continue to talk; it was rare enough that her aunt had something to be so excited about.
Hunger and fatigue sapped at her ability to pay attention; Flayn, bless her, seemed to understand, growing quieter as the minutes passed. Soon enough she was deemed ready, and even if she hadn’t, she might have sprinted to the ballroom anyway.
Was it bad that she was looking forward to the food more than seeing her husband again?
But see him she did, and she raised an eyebrow at the ensemble. Fur still rested on his shoulders over a royal blue cape, but beneath his cloak he wore a black tunic with golden lions embroidered on the front. A dark contrast to her white ensemble. “You look nice,” she said, extending her hand towards him.
He took it, not bringing it to his lips as other nobles would do. Instead, his thumb swept across her knuckles, a touch that was quickly becoming familiar to her. She swallowed thickly as he looked down at her with… something in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly, smiling. “You look… beautiful.”
It felt silly, but the compliment felt different, coming from him.
Before she could dwell any more on that line of thought, they were escorted into the ballroom. Chandeliers glittered, casting light on the polished floors and the immaculate tables arranged for the feast. She swallowed hard again, her stomach rumbling as she did her best to keep her pace measured. Unfortunately, unlike Dimitri’s surprise feast he’d made for her, here she was expected to have a modicum of propriety.
Thankfully, the seating arrangement worked to her advantage — on her side of the high table was her family, along with a few cardinals. Dimitri’s side had a few major lords from Faerghus and their sons; two of them were his close friends. Hopefully they wouldn’t bother her while they tried to eat.
After sitting down — Dimitri pushing her chair in for her — the dishes were laid before them, and Byleth couldn’t grab her fork fast enough.
The next hour passed in a blur; she honestly couldn’t recall a single word of conversation she had, except to remember the names of Dimitri’s two friends: Felix Hugo Fraldarius and Sylvain Jose Gautier. What she did recall was the extraordinary taste of the soup — cheesy yet not too heavy on the cream — and the satisfaction of digging into the goddess messenger fish cutlets. Dimitri, fortunately, broke no plates nor bent silverware. In fact, he seemed rather relaxed as he ate, chatting with his friends. Grandmother was engrossed in her own conversation with the cardinals, and Seteth knew better than to interrupt her in the middle of a good meal.
Unfortunately, that meal ended all too soon, and while she was full enough, Byleth did not look forward to the next phase of the evening: dancing and mingling.
Thankfully, Faerghus wedding traditions didn’t dictate that she and Dimitri lead the first dance of the evening. But they were expected to be on the floor and socialize, and so they descended from the banquet table to the ballroom dance floor. Two seconds hadn’t passed before they were approached by all sorts of nobles — most of them wearing furs, which she guessed indicated they were from Faerghus — congratulating them. Putting a smile on her lips, she listened carefully as Dimitri introduced her to each one. As queen, she would be expected to know the names of the influential in the kingdom, and there would be little tolerance for error.
She also paid close attention to Dimitri’s body language as they spoke. With Lord Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier he was relaxed and spoke casually — though she noted that with the Margrave Dimitri took on a sterner tone. He knew him well, clearly, but did not entirely approve of the man; it made sense, considering he was the father of his close friend, Sylvain. She wondered what issue Dimitri had taken with him.
Count Rowe and Count Galatea were warmly welcomed, and Dimitri introduced another one of his friends to her: Ingrid Brandl Galatea, a young woman that held a no-nonsense air, despite how she looked fondly at Dimitri. Count Kleiman, on the other hand, spoke loudly and brashly, and Dimitri’s arm tensed beneath her hand. She would have to gather more information on him later.
Eventually there was a pause in the seemingly endless stream of nobles, and Dimitri smiled wanly as he looked at her. “I’m sorry; it must be terribly boring speaking with all of them.”
It was, but she was used to it as the scion of the Archbishop. Politics was mainly about connections more than anything else, and she wanted to foster those as soon as she could — not just for propriety’s sake, but so she could figure out how best to help Faerghus prosper. Handling the situation with the Western Church in Arianrhod would only be one piece of the puzzle. To truly effect lasting change, she would need allies, those in power who would listen to her.
“May I ask Her Grace for a dance?”
Holding back a sigh at the interruption, she took in a breath and turned to face their newest noble offering congratulations. To Byleth’s surprise the person that approached her was not a man, but a woman of slight stature dressed in crimson.
The Emperor of Adrestria, Edelgard von Hresvelg, held herself with a commanding air as she stood, hand perched on her hip.
Yet that commanding air faltered when Dimitri turned around. “El!” Byleth’s eyes widened as he swept her into a firm embrace, a fond smile on his lips; the emperor was more restrained but she accepted his hug with a polite pat on the back. “It’s good to see you!”
“Yes, indeed. Twice in the span of two moons; surely the world must be ending,” she joked, violet eyes twinkling. “Ah, but forgive me, I have forgotten myself.” She bowed in the masculine style, sweeping her arm out to the side while tucking the other to her breast. “My deepest congratulations on your union, Your Majesty, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Byleth said, nodding her head. “As for the dance—”
“Your Majesty,” a deep voice rumbled, and she looked up to see Dedue there at Dimitri’s shoulder. “I apologize for interrupting, but you said to let you know if I spotted Sir Dominic?”
“Oh.” Dimitri gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Byleth. I promised an old friend a favor; do you mind if I leave you for a moment?”
“Not at all,” she said, smiling faintly.
“Enjoy your dance, then.” She nodded as he squeezed her hand, an almost sweet gesture, before turning away and following Dedue along the edges of the ballroom. I suppose there’s no getting out of this one, then. Really, there was no need to be nervous.
It was just that Byleth had never danced with someone she had rejected for marriage before.
“Your Majesty, I fear I am a poor dance partner,” she began, clasping her hands in her lap.
Edelgard returned her smile, though there was something artificial about it. “That is just as well; while we wait for your husband to return, we may refresh ourselves with some drinks.” The way she lingered on the word husband set Byleth on edge a bit; it was clear that she did not like the way things had turned out the night of the Millennial Ball. Byleth could understand that, in a way. And yet…
If anyone had asked her why she had refused the emperor of Adrestria yet chosen the king of Faerghus, she would have told them that it was a simple matter of where she was needed most. Adrestria thrived; Faerghus languished. She could do more good for the kingdom than for the Empire.
But the truth of the matter was that there was something about Edelgard that was just off to Byleth. That night she had spoken grandly of restoring Adrestria to its former glory, avidly proclaiming that together they could lead Fódlan into a new golden age. Such talk was appealing, but while Byleth had been sequestered in Garreg Mach for her whole life, she still knew what had happened in Adrestria. The Insurrection, then the Reclamation, then the bloody purges. Edelgard had resecured her throne and birthright by force, and whispers still remained that spoke of secret polices, spy rings, and certain nobles disappearing into the night to never be seen again.
Byleth could work with such a person, perhaps. But she couldn’t trust them. And who could love a person they could not trust?
Still, Edelgard was polite in her request, and it would be rude to refuse her. “A drink sounds delightful,” Byleth said, nodding to a passing server. Both women plucked flutes of champagne from the tray, and she followed Edelgard to a secluded corner, where they could watch the dancing couples on the ballroom floor. “I hope you are enjoying the evening,” Byleth said carefully, taking a small sip from her flute.
“The festivities have been rather delightful, yes,” the emperor replied. “Quaint, in a way. My sister would greatly enjoy it all.”
Byleth raised an eyebrow. “I did not know you had a sister, Your Majesty.”
“She cannot travel long distances; her health does not permit it.” Edelgard’s gaze went cold for a moment, her grip around her flute tightening. “An unfortunate childhood malady.”
“My apologies,” Byleth murmured.
The iciness left her eyes as Edelgard smiled, though the expression was too flat — she knew the signs of someone repressing strong emotions well. “None is required. My brother is here, and that is quite enough family for me.”
“I do not believe we’ve been acquainted,” Byleth said cautiously; from last she remembered of the guest list, Edelgard was the only member of the Adrestrian royal family confirmed to be in attendance.
Edelgard’s smile gained some warmth. “I daresay you have. You married him, after all.”
Byleth stared blankly for an embarrassing amount of time before the words finally clicked. “Di— King Dimitri is your brother?” she asked, dumbfounded.
Lilac eyes twinkled. “Stepbrother, to be more precise.”
That made a lot more sense — Edelgard’s chestnut hair and violet eyes were the polar opposite of Dimitri’s gold and blue. Where her face was round, his was sharp and angular. But even the idea of them being related by marriage baffled her; who had married whom?
“It is a rather tangled web,” Edelgard said pityingly, taking a measured sip of wine. “My father was a good man, but he had his vices, as do we all. He feared that the crest of Seiros ran thin in him, and so he took multiple mistresses to sire as many children as he could — all in the hope of gaining a cherished major crest.”
Now this was something familiar to Byleth; Emperor Ionius’s decision had been a traditional Adrestrian method of securing an heir bearing a crest, but all of her family had found it distasteful. When the plague that had afflicted Faerghus descended on the Empire and killed most of his children — Edelgard’s siblings — Grandmother had coolly called it a tragedy born of arrogance.
“My mother was one of them,” Edelgard continued quietly. “There was a… falling out, of sorts. She never spoke of it, but she clearly did not feel welcomed in Adrestria. Thus she left for newer and brighter horizons, where she caught the eye of Dimitri’s father, King Lambert.”
“They married,” Byleth surmised. “Thus making you siblings, if not by blood.”
“Precisely. We would not have met before attending the Officer’s Academy, if not for the Insurrection of the Seven.” Edelgard’s lips pursed together in a grim line. “Fearing for my safety, my father sent me to my only other family a kingdom away. That was where I met Dimitri for the first time.” To her surprise, the emperor smiled, taking another sip of champagne. “We struggled at first, finding the other insufferable. The boy had two left feet and thumbs for hands. But we eventually made up and decided to let bygones be bygones. I suppose both of us wanted another sibling more than we wanted to fight in the end.”
“You speak of him fondly,” Byleth noted.
“He reminds me of younger times,” Edelgard replied. A wistful note colored her voice, her eyes melancholy as she watched the dancers spin and promenade around the ballroom. “Things were simpler then. We hardly thought of ourselves as heirs to our nations — just children playing around in the garden, unaware of the storms that would soon take us.”
Byleth’s eyes fell. The Tragedy of Duscur.
“The years have divided us, changed us in many ways. While I do have fond memories of our time spent together, Dimitri is not the boy I once played with. Neither am I the girl who taught him how to dance.” Edelgard glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “I have come here to warn you.”
A chill crept down Byleth’s spine.
“I care for Dimitri. I truly do. He is a good, noble man, with good and noble dreams. But that does not mean he does not have a shadow.” Her eyes narrowed. “When I met him again at the Officer’s Academy, he had changed significantly. I expected that; I know what it is like to lose your family.” Her voice dropped bitterly. “That is why I alone could see what simmers beneath the surface. He has one singular goal, Your Grace, and for all of his high talk of improvement and saving his people, that is secondary to his true desire.”
“And what might that be?” Byleth asked coolly.
“Revenge.”
Her breath caught in her throat, any retort dead on her tongue.
“He is… better than he was before,” Edelgard continued calmly. “But I still see it in him. That shadow. You have seen it too, I presume.”
Flashes, at times. In the courtyard when they sparred together, when he bought up his lack of taste, when she had touched his eyepatch. They had been short, only brief moments — the rest of the time he had been so honest, open with her. Yet she knew there was only so much one could get to know about a person in a handful of weeks.
That was the risk she had taken by marrying him.
“You mean for the Tragedy of Duscur.” It was not a question.
Edelgard nodded curtly. “He told me as much during the Officer’s Academy.”
Byleth’s nails curled against her glass. “Why are you telling me this?” Was this some sort of petty lashing out, a way to sully Dimitri’s name because she hadn’t chosen Edelgard? It felt presumptuous to think of her doing such a thing, but she’d seen people with better reputations stoop lower for the sake of a grudge.
Yet the way Edelgard spoke… she knew Dimitri. Or, at the very least, she had known him, and for far longer than six weeks.
“Do not misunderstand me,” Edelgard replied, her voice gentler now. “I do not mean to sow discord between you. But if you married him for the reasons I believe you have, then you must watch and tread carefully. There are those in Faerghus who would take advantage of his lack of vision — are taking advantage. You are heading into the lion’s den, Your Grace, and Dimitri may not be able to protect you from the worst of the beasts.”
“I am not a fragile maiden that needs protection,” Byleth said flatly. “Nor am I unaware of those who seek their own selfish gain.” Unless Edelgard was clairvoyant, she knew nothing of the Western Church’s embezzlement. “I thank you for your counsel, Your Majesty, but it is not needed.”
Edelgard paused, then bowed stiffly. “I speak only to protect him, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “Distant though we may be, he is still my family — and I have precious little of that remaining.” Yet her violet eyes flashed with poorly concealed frustration. “I bid you a good evening, Your Majesty. May your journey to Faerghus be swift and pleasant.”
“And your return to Adrestria as well.” Byleth inclined her head as Edelgard bowed once more, her departure heralded by the flare of her cape and the click of heels on stone. You could have handled that better, she thought, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.
Yet Edelgard’s words troubled her, and not just because they were inflammatory and vague. She was right, in a way: Dimitri had a shadow. How deep it was, Byleth didn’t know.
A shadow is not substance. It may cast a man in darkness, but it is not his true nature.
She had to trust in that. That she had made the right decision, that her instincts weren’t wrong. She hadn’t made a mistake.
Finishing her glass of wine and giving it to a passing server, she stepped out of the alcove into the light of the ballroom. It had been a while since Dimitri had left with Dedue; maybe she could find him, hopefully before someone else asked her for a dance. Most of the men and women she passed bowed or curtseyed, but thankfully they returned to their own conversations. She still felt cold from Edelgard’s words, and Dimitri—
Byleth blinked as she bumped into someone, who turned to look at her in annoyance. “I’m sorry, my lord, I—” Then she froze.
The man standing to her side wasn’t Dimitri. He couldn’t be Dimitri: he was too old, too lanky, and his clothes were all wrong: a white suit with a blue cloak. But the resemblance was so strong that if he’d been two decades younger she’d have thought them brothers. Who…?
“Ah. So I finally get to meet my niece and he doesn’t even introduce her to me. Typical,” the man drawled, taking a more than polite sip from his wine flute. Byleth noted that the liquid inside was not the golden tint of champagne but something clear; even if not for the color she could smell the alcohol radiating off him in waves.
Niece. So he must be…
“Lord Rufus,” she said, dipping into a small curtsey. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”
“You can end the charade, girl,” Rufus Blaiddyd said curtly, and she nearly had to hold her breath to keep her head from swimming; the stench of alcohol only grew more powerful the more he spoke. “I know your husband has nothing but terrible things to say about me.”
Frankly she could already see why, but she shook her head. “He was very respectful when speaking about you,” she said evenly. A technical truth. One could express their dislike of a person respectfully.
“I thought they raised nuns to not lie,” he said bluntly.
She wasn’t a nun, but she did her best to smile. “Indeed. Honesty is greatly valued by the goddess.” Rufus’s eyes only narrowed, and she glanced to the side to look for Dimitri. Where was he?
“Looking for your knight in shining armor to save you?” Rufus chuckled darkly; her hands curled into fists. “Don’t worry, girl. I won’t do anything to you; he’s won his prize. Though I’m tempted.” His gaze slid downward. “With tits like those I could certainly blow a load.”
It took everything she had to not flinch.
He’s goading you. She’d heard crass things from the knights before — Dad had tried to keep her away from such talk, but in a military unit it was inevitable, even with her status as the woman who didn’t fit in — but those had always been about other women. Though she knew that her figure was alluring to others, she’d never heard such talk about herself.
If this is what he’s like in public, what does he do in private? She fought to keep herself from pressing her lips together too hard or even take in a steadying breath. Instead she stared at him flatly. It was clear he wanted to provoke a reaction from her; she would not give him the satisfaction.
“Byleth, there you are! I’m so sorry, it’s just that Dedue thought he saw—” She couldn’t help but relax as she felt Dimitri’s hand rest on her shoulder, his presence behind her like a living wall she could lean against. Even with just that simple touch she felt the tension of his posture, could almost see the hardness of his eye as he looked at the man opposite them. “Uncle.”
“Boy,” Rufus said bluntly.
“It’s a pleasure to see you tonight,” Dimitri said, though his tone was far too stiff to be convincing. She’d always sensed that he was a poor liar, but the hostility between the two Blaiddyd men was so tangible that not even a perfect lie could mask it. Carefully she reached up to touch his hand, and he seemed to relax.
The tension came right back when Rufus responded, “Don’t bother with false niceties, Dimitri. We both know how you feel. You didn’t even tell me that you were going after the Archbishop’s heir.”
“I didn’t find it relevant,” Dimitri ground out. His hand slid from her shoulder to her waist, guiding her away from Rufus. “I’m sure my uncle has introduced himself to you, Byleth. There’s actually—”
“Yes, we’ve gotten to know each other very well in the five seconds we’ve talked.” Rufus smirked. “Why so eager to take her away, boy? Are you that afraid I’ll steal her from you?” Byleth tensed as Dimitri’s grip on her waist tightened, his breath heavy against her hair. “Don’t worry. She’s yours now. I wouldn’t dream of whisking her away from you — how else will you finally bed a woman? Though goddess save her, she certainly won’t enjoy it.” He took a large gulp of his alcohol, then glared at the inch remaining as if it had personally insulted him.
“How dare you,” Dimitri hissed. “Speaking of her that way—”
“What you’re going to find out about my nephew, Your Grace,” Rufus drawled, drowning out Dimitri’s words, “is that he’s a spoiled brat and a coward. He talks of justice and fairness and kindness, yet promptly shoved me back to Itha so he could have his turn in the royal chair. And has he done anything to improve matters for Faerghus? No.” Byleth’s lips pursed together as Rufus smiled thinly, his bloodshot eyes cruel and vindictive. “My nephew has probably told you that I did very little to help Faerghus. But considering that I was only allowed to take the reins for a year and a half until he was handed the crown the second he graduated from that school for brats, I didn’t exactly have time to do much. Yet he has managed to do just as little in five years. It’s impressive, really, how impotent he is.”
Byleth’s grip around Dimitri’s hand tightened, yet he didn’t even flinch at the words. I knew that they deplored each other, but this— If Rufus was anyone other than Dimitri’s uncle, he could be imprisoned for half of what he’d said alone.
“Alas, you’ll see just how impotent my nephew truly is before you even get to Faerghus. I’ll be impressed if he manages to stick his cock in the right hole. That is, if he can manage to get it hard enough.” He chuckled as Dimitri said nothing. Beneath the calm mask she wore, Byleth was halfway ready to throw out any propriety and kick him in the groin. “He doesn’t even talk back to me, like the coward he is.”
“I find that a true measure of strength is holding back from an opponent that is not worth your time nor energy, your lordship,” Byleth said quietly.
Both Dimitri and Rufus stared at her in silence. She felt the stutter of her husband’s breath against her hair.
Then Rufus laughed, a cackling sound that only amplified the stench of drink around him. “Well then, boy! You’ve managed to find yourself a woman with fire! Good, perhaps she’ll teach you how to grow a pair. Or more likely you’ll just let her fuck you until you moan and cry like some alley whore.” He chuckled as he leered down at her, his gaze predatory; she didn’t realize she’d taken a step back until her shoulder bumped Dimitri’s chest. “As for you, Your Grace, if you get tired of my nephew’s fumbling, I’ll be willing to show you what a true man—”
“Enough!”
That one word held a guttural quality, a sharp ragged edge in Dimitri’s voice that Byleth had never heard before. It sent a chill down to her bones, and even Rufus spluttered to a stop, his eyes wide. Dimitri’s grip on her waist grew almost painful. “You will leave this celebration,” Dimitri commanded, that subtle growl lacing each word. It was as if he’d grown three inches taller, every part of his stature demanding submission to his authority. “Now.”
“Are you threatening me, boy?” Rufus said incredulously, raising an eyebrow. Yet Byleth saw the trembling in his hands, the way the clear liquid in his glass shimmered as it sloshed about. “Getting so upset over trifling—”
“Trifling words?” Dimitri released her to move between her and Rufus, pushing her behind him with a sweep of his arm — it was awkward, but she appreciated the sentiment.
“What do you want? An apology?” Rufus’s sneer was blocked by Dimitri’s large frame, but she could hear it in his tone. “I never got an apology for being kicked out of the house when I was younger. No ‘sorry’ or even a ‘thank you’ when I had to take charge of things because you went off to school to play like all the other brats!”
That is quite enough.
Byleth’s eyes narrowed as she joined Dimitri at his side. “I will ask you to leave this reception, sir,” she said coldly. “You have insulted my husband and I multiple times to our faces, disrupted guests, and have shown yourself unfit to be here.” She raised her hand to beckon for a knight, who would escort Rufus out quietly — despite how unpleasant everything had been so far, she wanted to keep this as calm as possible.
Any chance of things being quiet, however, died the second Rufus grabbed her wrist. “You shut your mouth, you fucking bitch,” he hissed. “You don’t know shit—”
What happened next could have only taken a second, perhaps less, but it was frozen in Byleth’s memory.
With a sound that could only be described as a roar, Dimitri’s hand grasped Rufus’s arm and twisted, tearing him off her wrist. At the same time his fist connected with Rufus’s face, followed by a deafening crack echoing in her ears. If Dimitri had been an ordinary man with no crest, it might have caused Rufus to fall to the floor.
Instead he shot back like an arrow released from a bowstring, nearly knocking over an unfortunate lady before crashing into a nearby pillar. The wineglass in his hand went flying, breaking on the floor in a crystalline explosion that seemed to draw everyone’s eyes directly onto them.
Oh dear.
A cacophony of howls and violent cursing erupted from where Rufus lay crumped at the base, blood streaming from his broken nose in a torrent. Her eyes widened as she stared at Dimitri — his chest heaved as if he’d exerted himself greatly, yet his movements had been effortless.
And yet… an ordinary man could break a man’s nose with a punch. Dimitri could do far more than just that with a single blow. But aside from that, Rufus was fine. His wrist wasn’t even broken.
Honestly, Byleth would have been impressed at the control Dimitri just exhibited, if not for the fact that they were now the center of attention in the worst possible way.
Fix this, now!
The world shattered around her, light and dark reversing. As time’s flow came to an abrupt halt, she could see the room perfectly, a painting with a bizarrely distorted palette. A thousand eyes stared at them, each asking the same question. Some she recognized — Dad stormed toward them with a murderous glare, Seteth stared agape, and Dimitri’s red headed friend winced.
Sighing and rubbing her forehead to dispel the oncoming headache, she pushed back the seconds. Sixty seconds: that was the limit to her ability to manipulate time. Any farther, and the crest stone inside of her would begin to crack, her unbeating heart unable to bear the strain.
People moved, shadow and light shifting as the world slowly rewound itself. Rufus rose from the floor, flying towards them instead of away. Dimitri’s hand returned to his side. People turned back to their conversations. Slowly, carefully, she took her place at Dimitri’s side.
Forty seconds. Good enough for now.
Light and dark reversed, and she blinked as time resumed. The roar of people talking nearly overwhelmed her, and she had to grit her teeth to focus on what was going on in the conversation.
“... like the coward he is.” Rufus leered down at her, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Not too late to get an annulment, girl. There’s better out there for you.”
“I am perfectly content with my position as is,” she said calmly; Dimitri’s breath stuttered against her hair. “As for my husband, I find it a mark of strength that he does not waste his time responding to immature insults. You are not worth our time, my lord. You are not worth my time. Now I kindly ask that you remove yourself from the premises.”
“Or what?” Rufus said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll throw me out?”
“Yes,” she replied tersely. Glancing to the side, she saw Jeralt standing guard at a nearby doorway; she was too far away to call him over, but hopefully he would look their way soon…
“You can’t touch me,” Rufus hissed, and she winced as his bad breath clouded her face. “Unless you want an incident.”
“And you cannot touch her,” Dimitri growled in return, and she had to bite back a curse as he once more pushed her to the side, taking a step towards his uncle. “Say what you will about me, Uncle. But if I hear one more word about Byleth come out of your wretched mouth—”
“Are you threatening me, boy?”
This man is far too confident for his own good. And Dimitri’s protectiveness, while sweet, was doing nothing to deescalate the situation. Nervously she waved to Dad, but he didn’t look her way, speaking to some knight that had approached. Did she need to pulse again? Maybe farther back she could divert the conversation, guide them towards—
“Hey there, Uncle Rufus!”
She turned to see, of all people, Sylvain wrapping an arm around the taller man’s shoulders. Rufus’s lips curled up as if he’d touched something foul, but Sylvain just grinned happily, as if he’d found an old family friend. “You’re looking a bit pale there. You sure you’re doing okay?” He patted his arm, flashing them an obvious wink. “Drinks a bit too much at parties like these, you know?” To her shock he actually managed to pull the older man away, steering him towards the entrance to the ballroom. “How about we get you some fresh air, eh, Uncle Rufus? I think that’ll do you good.”
“Get your fucking hands off me, you shit fucking son of a—”
From the scandalized gasps nearby, Byleth guessed that Rufus’s comments did not go unnoticed by those close to them. Sylvain firmly guided Rufus towards the exit, and Byleth let out a held breath as Dad finally looked her way, raising an eyebrow. Silently she tapped the corner of her eye, then cocked two of her fingers towards Sylvain and Rufus. Keep an eye on them.
Jeralt nodded grimly, then picked up his spear and followed the two men at a somewhat discrete distance. Still, several pairs of eyes were on them, and she bit back another curse. Plastering a smile on her face, she curtseyed. “I am terribly sorry for the disruption, your lord and ladyships. Please, continue to enjoy the evening.”
That seemed to do the trick: the chatter in the room instantly resumed, and most guests turned back to their conversation or dance partners. Some still stared, and Byleth realized that they weren’t looking at her, but at Dimitri.
Who was frozen in place, as if her Pulse hadn’t released.
“Dimitri?” When she gently touched his shoulder, he jumped as if she’d stabbed him with a pin, his eye wide as he whirled around to look at her. She could see sweat beading on his neck, could see the unrestrained panic in his eyes.
“I-I…” His shoulder trembled beneath her hand.
“Fresh air?” she asked quietly.
He only nodded, and she took his hand as slowly and gently as she could. Dimitri himself applied no pressure, letting her lead him the opposite direction Rufus had gone. Sylvain had wisely taken him towards the front gates and the market place, away from the inner courtyards. There they could find some privacy in one of the tea pavilions.
While most of the damage had been averted by her Divine Pulse, she sensed this was a conversation they needed to have.
Most of the guests were inside — one or two couples jumped to attention and gave their hasty congratulations before fleeing the area, their clothes in various states of disarray. Rubbing her forehead, she guided them into a smaller pavilion, against a nearby hedge; the rose bushes would keep them somewhat out of sight. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly, looking up at Dimitri’s pale face.
A huff of breath fanned her face, and she realized it was a laugh — broken and not at all happy. “Am I—” He choked off, shaking his head. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she reassured him softly; it was clear that whatever was going on inside him, he didn’t want to speak of it. Or perhaps his only thoughts were concern for her. Either way, she let her question go. It would not be answered, not tonight.
“I’m so sorry,” Dimitri breathed, and her eyes widened as his fingers brushed against her cheek, soft silk against skin. “I had no idea he would — if I had known he would ever speak to you like that, I…” He swallowed thickly, pure dread in his eye. “Did he touch you?”
“No.” The lie came easily, smoothly. In this time, this world, he hadn’t. That was all that mattered now.
Yet the answer didn’t appear to give Dimitri relief; he squeezed his eye shut, a shudder coursing through his body. “I cannot even begin to apologize for his behavior, Byleth.”
“You don’t have to,” she said quietly. His eye opened again, staring at her incredulously as she took his hand, interlacing their fingers. “You’re not responsible for Rufus’s words or actions, Dimitri.”
“Still, he…” Something flashed in Dimitri’s eye, an echo of the rage she’d seen before, and she felt the hairs of her neck stand on end. “What he said was unforgivable. Despicable.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, “it was.”
Yet the anger did not abate in his eyes. “I never should have invited him,” he muttered, his voice lowering to a growl. “I knew that something like this would happen, I knew that he’d say something or do something — but of course I let him come anyway. I—” He laughed, a harsh bark that was so different from his soft chuckles and gentle mirth. “I’m a fool.”
“You’re not a fool,” she said firmly. “He’s your family, Dimitri. It would have raised more eyebrows if you didn’t invite him to your wedding.” She squeezed his hand. “In the end, it turned out all right.”
“All right?” His eye widened. “He said all those things, he—”
“It was unpleasant, but I’m not a fragile maiden. I’ve heard worse from the knights,” she said dryly. Never mind that their talk had never been about her specifically, and only in hushed voices. “I’ll live with my honor intact, thank you. Besides,” and she frowned as she looked up at him, “his worst barbs were about you.”
For a moment he said nothing, his eye distant.
Then: “He hates me. But I can live with that.”
Something harsh twisted in her gut at the words. Dimitri had spoken so matter-of-factly, as if it were typical for the last surviving member of your family to despise you.
The last.
Which made Rufus’s behavior even worse. There was no other Blaiddyd left besides his nephew, and he treated him like that? She considered herself slow to anger and slower to hatred. But Rufus, she could easily hate.
“What I cannot live with,” Dimitri continued, and she froze as his gloved fingers once more passed over her cheek, “is his behavior towards you.” His eyelid closed, hair hanging in his face. “He can call me whatever he likes, say whatever he wishes about me. But you… You should not have to hear such vile words.”
Her brow furrowed, a flash of something hot and sharp in her chest. “And you do?”
His eye opened slowly, and she felt cold as he looked down at her — his gaze heavy and unyielding, a hundred emotions roiling within. “If it is a choice, yes,” he said softly, his voice hollow. “I would take it for you, every time.”
Such words seemed romantic on the surface. Flayn would have squealed about such a declaration of protection. But looking into his eye, feeling the weight of his stare like armor on her shoulders, she did not feel flattered. It was a bit patronizing, what he had said — she was not a child, and she did not need to be sheltered from every unpleasant thing — but more than that…
Edelgard had said he had a shadow. In this moment, Byleth agreed, but she saw a different shadow entirely from what the emperor had meant.
“You shouldn’t have to,” she murmured. “No one should.”
He blinked, as if that answer had never occurred to him before.
Sighing, she rubbed at her forehead, then smiled wearily. “I’m sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist for a moment. “For all those things he said to you. I should have stood up for you earlier.”
Once more his breath hitched, hands hesitantly resting on her back. “You… There is no need to apologize, Byleth.” His voice lightened, and she could tell he was smiling — weakly, perhaps, but he was smiling. She called that a victory. “Some of the things you said, I’m still in awe.”
She snorted. “I’m not that clever.”
“Cleverer than I,” he said, pulling back, and she blinked as he looked down at her. He was smiling, larger than he’d expected. So large, in fact, that she could almost forget this fiasco had ever happened.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Majesty,” she said, folding her arms. Yet she smiled, and Dimitri wearily returned it.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said softly, folding his hands in his lap.
“You are readily forgiven.” She sighed as she looked at the stars above. “Do you want to go back inside?”
He too looked reluctant — even without Rufus, she sensed that he’d needed a break from the stuffy ballroom and all the people. She’d needed a break. But break time was over, and they had to go back to being rulers of Faerghus.
Now that would take some getting used to.
With a worn eye, he offered his arm; with an equally worn look she took it, and together they marched back into the ballroom.
Their wedding celebration would continue for two more days, and the idea was far more exhausting than wonderful to Dimitri.
Before they had parted to retire to their separate rooms last night, he had tried to apologize for his uncle’s despicable behavior to Byleth, but she would have none of it. Her eyes weary, she had hardly let him speak a word before reminding him what she’d said earlier: she had heard worse and could take care of herself.
Lying alone in bed that night, he supposed that perhaps he had been overbearing. Byleth was a strong woman, capable and clever. Had he insulted her with his worrying? That hadn’t been his intention at all.
Yet she was his family now. His wife — goddess, it still felt strange to think of her that way. And it was his duty to keep his family safe, even from its other members.
A duty that he had failed so many times before.
Yet he supposed there was one blessing from the perpetual whirlwind of activities. He was always distracted, and the loud voices of the crowds and the endless stream of congratulations from nobles filled the silence that would normally be occupied by the dead.
Byleth at his side, a constant companion, was also a boon, and one he knew he would not be able to have forever. Once they returned to Fhirdiad, they would return to their duties and this little reprieve would be over. Her hand would not always be in his, nor would he always see that slight smile of hers.
It was a strange thought, realizing that he would miss her more when they returned home.
But she was here now, and he had to remember to keep his mind in the present. Let go of the concerns of yesterday, focus on the now — that was what Rodrigue always told him. It helped that he had reassured him that Rufus would be monitored; Captain Jeralt himself kept an eye on the man, and while it embarrassed Dimitri to no end that his father-in-law had to watch over his uncle, at least last night’s incident would not repeat itself.
After a long day of socializing and feasting, the night’s crowning event would be a play depicting the events of the War of Heroes, then the War of the Eagle and Lion. To his delight, he and Byleth would have a private balcony from which to view the play in the monastery’s courtyard — which meant that they could actually be alone together. A chance to let down the mask and just be a tired newlywed couple.
Sinking onto the plush couch together, Byleth sighed as she let her head fall back, flowers falling from her carefully arranged braids. “Goddess be praised,” she groaned; he would have laughed if not for the fact that he was sprawled over half of it himself. His head ached horribly, and he resisted the urge to take off his eyepatch. The last few hours had been spent in endless conversation with different nobles from different countries, all eager to speak with the two about every topic under the sun. Some had seemed genuinely happy for them, others barely concealing their venom as they glanced his way.
Not for the first time, he pondered on how miraculous it was that Byleth had chosen him, of all people, to marry.
Byleth’s sandals fell to the floor with a clatter, and he blinked as he saw her rub her feet with a hand. “If I never have to wear sandals again, it’ll be too soon,” she grumbled. He smiled in sympathy — they were little more than strips of leather, and he doubted they were comfortable for more than an evening stroll through a hot summer garden.
“Fortunately, you will be living in Faerghus,” he noted, sitting up slightly. “It’s too cold for sandals.”
“Good.” Running a hand through her hair, more flower petals showered onto the velvet cushions. “Sorry, it’s just that all these pins are giving me a headache.”
“I don’t mind.” And he truly didn’t — Byleth looked no less beautiful with her hair free and tangled than when she was perfectly styled. Some of her makeup had smudged, a bit of her lip paint smeared on the corner of her mouth. Hopefully no one would get the wrong idea about that.
Below, the limelights were lit to illuminate the stage and the orchestra began a bombastic overture. Dimitri had seen the latter half of the play many times — it was common to perform it on Faerghus’s founding day — but he’d never seen the first half. Apparently it was more common to perform it in Adrestria, but considering the ties it had with the Church of Seiros, it was an appropriate form of entertainment for the marriage of a church figure.
When he mentioned this, Byleth chuckled. “I haven’t seen it in years. Or well, my father had to take me to a street performance when I was little. I’ve never seen an official production.”
Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Mm. Grandmother hates it. Frankly, I’m surprised Uncle Seteth told the theater company to perform it.” She paused. “Well, not that surprised.” When he stared at her blankly, she added, “Family inside joke.”
That did very little to clarify matters, but he nodded anyway. “Why does the Archbishop dislike this play?” It was technically rude to speak during a performance, but he figured that since they were in their own secluded space, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone, and the performance hadn’t actually started.
Besides, it had been a while since he’d been able to converse with his wife — his wife — alone.
“There are a few historical inaccuracies, according to her,” she said, relaxing back into the couch as the limelights shone on the stage. “I’ll point them out to you.”
The story began with Nemesis — dressed in black — proclaiming that with the power he held as a blessing from the Goddess, he would lead Fódlan into an era of glory. But soon he fell prey to his vices: his lust for power consumed him, in a rather artistic flash of light that Dimitri recognized as a fire spell. Saint Seiros then arrived clad in white, her heart heavy at how the people had succumbed to their base desires. She mourned that the hearts of men had failed them, and called for them to arise from the depths they had sunken to.
Only one man answered, dressed in a scarlet robe: a representation of Wilhelm Paul Hraesvelg. He watched as the man drew close to the actor portraying Seiros, reassuring her that he would support her cause. “I will be your sword and shield, my lady,” he proclaimed, falling to his knees before her. “And together, we shall bring light to the land once more.” Seiros tearfully accepted his offer, and Dimitri watched as they embraced, violins playing a romantic score.
“That,” Byleth said, a wry smile on her lips. “That never happened.”
Dimitri blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The romance. Seiros was never interested in Wilhelm that way — she needed allies and he was willing to follow her into battle. They grew closer later in life, but they were never more than fond friends. At least, that’s what Grandmother tells me.”
“It does seem rather… sudden,” Dimitri agreed. The scene quickly changed as two armies clashed — Saint Seiros illuminated by a limelight as she prayed for Wilhelm’s success. Wooden swords clacked together as he dueled Nemesis. Eventually the King of Liberation fell, and Wilhelm declared that the Adrestrian Empire was the victory.
“And that didn’t happen either,” Byleth said. “Wilhelm wasn’t even alive at the end of the War of Heroes.”
Dimitri chuckled. “That seems a grievous oversight for the playwrights to make.”
“Well, it’s not about the truth. It’s about the spectacle.” Byleth’s smile faded. “Saint Seiros was the one to kill Nemesis. But it’s more romantic for the knight in shining armor to sweep in and vanquish the enemy.”
Dimitri’s lips pulled down into a frown as he stared at the stage. “I see.”
The play concluded shortly after Wilhelm had been crowned Emperor by Seiros — though as Byleth had said, the man was long dead by that point. A short intermission followed as the actors organized the sets for the next performance. “I have to admit, this play is rather fanciful as well,” he confessed as the lights dimmed once more, turning to look at Byleth.
Only to find that she was asleep, curled up against the arm of the couch with her hair in her face.
Oh.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, hair fluttering with each exhale. Despite the loud music, she seemed fast asleep, her dress pulled over her legs with her arms folded on the couch arm. Her shoulders rose and fell in a slow rhythm, flower petals strewn all over her hair.
It was a sight he would never forget: silent breathtaking beauty frozen in time.
Then she shivered, and he realized that there was a slight draft in the cool night air. With only her dress to shield her from the elements, no wonder she was cold.
Trying his best to move quietly, despite the bombastic fanfare, he unpinned his cloak from his shoulders and rose from the couch, crouching before Byleth’s sleeping form. Carefully and slowly, he lowered the fabric over her, tucking the fur mantle beneath her chin. As her hair fluttered in front of her face, he hesitated.
Then, fingers trembling, he brushed her forehead and swept the stray locks behind her ear. Her skin was shockingly warm despite the chill, and he bit his lip as he pulled his hand away.
Already you yearn for her touch, and yet you know she does not love you. How sickening, Stepmother sighed in his ear. I thought you were better than your uncle.
Curling his hand into a fist, he swallowed thickly and sat back down on the other end of the couch. Without his cloak, the night air bit at his skin, giving him clarity and focus despite his fatigue. Below the actors brandished their swords, proud knights of Loog who valiantly swore to defend their beloved kingdom of snow and wind.
He wondered, now more than ever, if his ancestor would not be disappointed in the weakness of his descendents.