Chapter Text
It is Imperial Year 1176, and Archbishop Rhea is inducting a new member into the Knights of Seiros. She leans back in her chair, as she asks the human why she has decided to serve her. The Archbishop has done this countless times. It does not matter. Not really. Thousands of them have pledged their loyalty to her over the centuries. They promised a faith that would last without end, a bond that would transcend time… but they go away. They always go away. And Rhea lingers, an eternal constant like the ocean’s tide. Always there, and always alone.
“Why do you stand before me, and pledge your loyalty, oh faithful knight?”
The years seem to crash around the Archbishop, even as she says the words.
Now, it is also one hundred years before the Adrestian Empire will be founded, and the woman who will one day be Saint Seiros is running with her sister Iris through the fires of what had once been her home. She can remember so little of that time. How the sun felt or how Zanado looked or whether the mole on her sister’s chin was on the right or left side. All she can remember is fear and confusion, as her sister begs her to remain quiet, whatever happens.
The knight begins to speak, and Rhea is back in the audience chamber. The humans get to live one moment at a time, but the Archbishop experiences all of the moments of her seemingly endless life at once. That is the curse of eternity. She has lived and lived, and lost and lost, until the past has taken away even the present. She tries to force herself back to the now, and the woman in front of her.
If she still had hope, she would scream, rather than stay in this Goddess-forsaken chair for another moment. But she does not, and so she sits, and waits, and listens to this person who will soon flicker out like a candle.
“I am Cassandra Charon, Archbishop,” said the young woman, her eyes downcast and her silver armor gleaming. “I pledge my service to you, because I believe in the oaths of loyalty, of chivalry, of honor and service. Since I was a child, all I have dreamed is to serve under a worthy master, and that is you, Archbishop.”
It is Imperial year 1139 and Rhea has created another life. It is tiny now, but it will grow. If all goes to plan, someday this artificial being will become Mother. She tries not to feel guilt. She is the Voice of the Goddess, and is beyond such things. To give one’s very self to bring the light of Sothis back to Fodlan... what could be a more worthy use of a life? The vessel grips onto Rhea’s thumb. She names the baby Sitri.
Rhea looks down from her prison, and she sighs. She has spent hundreds of years lying to herself. Each day, she tells herself so many falsehoods: that she is happy with the choices and compromises she has made; that the throne of the Archbishop is not a gilded cage she herself has built; that everything she thought good about herself had not died long ago with Wilhelm and her family.
That the loneliness was a burden she could bear to shoulder even one more day.
All the lies have given Rhea a great gift, and a great curse – the ability to see when those around her are declaring falsehoods. Cassandra Charon is lying.
“That is not why, child…” says the Archbishop, as she extends a practiced hand into the air. For a moment, she watches the rays of light dance on her fingertips. For a moment, it is over one hundred years before the Adrestian Empire will be founded, and the girl who would one day be Saint Seiros is hiding underneath a bed. She shakes her head. “Tell me the real reason.”
Cassandra lowers her sun-kissed face. She is young and beautiful. Thunderbrand begins to hum, and the sound increases as the knight’s face grows more and more distressed. It gets louder and louder and louder, until without warning, Cassandra takes the weapon that had once been Rhea’s family, and throws it aside. She rises to her feet, and the real woman shines through. The knight extends her arms wide, with a brashness that is almost intentionally offensive. It is as if she wants to push people away.
“Archbishop… can I speak honestly? It’s not about honor. It’s about…” She cannot bring herself to say the last word, even though they both know what it is.
Rhea nods. The years begin to take her again.
It is Imperial Year 36, and Saint Seiros is waking up next to Wilhelm, the Emperor of Fodlan. He is tired and he has not shaven, and his brown hair is filled with cowlicks. He is wonderful. She has not had a nightmare tonight. There will be a battle today, as there often is, but it does not matter, because he is with her, and she knows it is not just about revenge anymore. She has built an Empire with this man – given the people fresh water and food and hope – when she had only expected to destroy like a great cleansing fire. He holds her, and Seiros does not feel alone.
It will not last.
Cassandra Charon is speaking.
“Growing up… I believed in knighthood, because a girl like me… well, I didn’t fit in.” Cassandra chuckles to herself. “I was rough, and I liked to scrap and play in the mud instead of wearing dresses. Being a knight… it felt like freedom. I wanted to be strong, and to fight to protect the weak. Thunderstrike Cassandra, defender of the innocent… not just some silly noble girl who’d get married off to the highest bidder.”
“Is that your reason?” says Rhea.
“No.” Cassandra looks away. All the strength on her face bends and cracks, before it shatters. There is a lost woman underneath. “I… used to believe in all those things. I was going to be brave and selfless and noble… but then… then…” She pauses and swallows. “I killed my best friend.”
“Christophe Gaspard.” The Archbishop remembers bringing him forward for execution. Yet another sinner to whom she has meted out punishment. “I know.”
Cassandra begins to pace back and forth. She grabs her messy blond hair. Rhea knows she is trying to forget the fact that she killed Christophe herself.
It is Imperial Year 95, and Seiros is driving a sword through Charon of the Ten Elites. He drops Thunderbrand to the ground, and he struggles, but the Saint takes the Sword of Seiros, and she twists it, hoping to make his final moments hurt. She tells herself that this is what Wil would want, even though she knows it is a lie. She tries not to think about the empty bed she will lay in tonight, and how many hours she will stare at the ceiling and pray for someone to hold her. Charon falls dead at her feet. Part of Seiros envies him.
Cassandra picks up Thunderbrand, and she looks at it.
“I… all my oaths, all my thoughts about my own goodness… they meant nothing. The person I was… the good, principled woman I wanted to be… she died with him. When I tried to live up to my ideals… I killed him. I killed him, and all I feel is dead inside, no matter how much I fight or how much I drink. I… he…”
It is Imperial Year 91, and Rhea is stabbing Nemesis in the face with her dagger. She watches herself kill the man who had tormented her dreams for over a century. The Saint screams some words at him about remembering the Red Canyon, and she hopes that for a moment, he feels the same fright she felt. The knife just seems to go up and down, her mind not even realizing what she is doing. All she can feel is the rage, and the void in her heart that Wil and Mother and her family had once filled.
“You loved him.”
Cassandra stops pacing, and grips her forehead. Her body and shoulders shake, but there is no sound. No tears. She turns and stares at the Archbishop, her face beyond sorrow, anger or pain.
“I can’t trust myself anymore. I can’t. If I… all my idealism, all my hopes… if they led me to this place… then I shouldn’t. I’m nothing but a weapon. Something for the Voice of the Goddess, a good woman like you to point at and command. That’s all I am, and all I’m good for. So yeah…” All the woman’s sincerity and despair is replaced by a caustic laugh. “That’s why I want to serve you.”
Rhea stares at her, a thousand flashes from her ageless life dancing in her mind. And she understands.
The Archbishop begins to walk down the steps, in the careful, rhythmic procession she must always walk. Catherine raises Thunderbrand to the sky, and Rhea tries not to vomit as she holds the bones of her family in her arms. She begins to give the blessing…
It is some other time. It is not the past. Rhea feels herself tumbling and spinning and falling, cast adrift on time’s shore. It is a vision. Guidance, from Mother. It is hope.
She sees the same room, with two figures. An archbishop, and a knight, just like now. The knight has short blond hair, and she is kneeling before the throne. It is not Cassandra. And… the archbishop… the archbishop that is sitting at that throne… it is not Rhea.
The woman has green hair, and emerald eyes. Mother’s eyes. There is only one thing this can mean. Rhea had succeeded. She was free, and Mother was alive.
“Why do you wish to be my knight?” says the mysterious woman, her voice filled with an authority and power that makes Rhea remember a time before.
A time before she did so many terrible things. A time before she was Archbishop. A time before she was Saint Seiros. A time before she had turned herself into a living instrument of divine vengeance. A time before she was a girl, hiding under the bed from Nemesis.
It is Mother. It has to be.
“I want to serve you because…” the strange knight pauses. “Because…”
The woman tries to raise her head, but cannot. She fights and fights, her body shaking from distress, until she finds an inner well of strength, and yanks her head upward. Her reddened face is filled with tears. This new Archbishop makes her way forward, and kneels before the knight.
“Professor… I… I… I killed my best friend. I killed her, and I didn’t realize it until… but I loved her. I loved her more than anything.” The knight whispers the words so quietly, Rhea can barely hear them. “And I can’t live with myself. The color’s… the color’s all gone from the world. But… I know that if I protect you, if I keep you safe… she would like that. And that’s… it’s all I have left.”
This woman who will be Mother is silent, and rests her forehead against the knight. She is crying as well.
“Please…” begs the knight, the words coming out in wrenching, choking gasps. “I need… without her I’m…”
“I know,” says the woman with Mother’s eyes. “I am too.”
Rhea blinks, and she is standing above Cassandra, her arms extended.
Rhea does not allow herself to be bothered by the sorrow she has seen. There will always be grief, no matter the path. Her endless life has taught her that. She has tried to bring Mother back through that accursed chalice. She has tried to bring Mother back through vessels that she would fill with Mother’s spirit. She has tried so many strange and terrible things, just so she can be held, and not feel like she is still trapped underneath that bed.
For a moment, it is the Fall of Zanado again. And Rhea is watching Nemesis’ feet, his toenails chipped and dirty from the dust of the canyon. He drags a sword along the tiles of her home, the scrapping noise burrowing into her ears. Rhea is hiding, and she is pressing her hands to her lips, afraid that if she breathes, he will look under the bed, and see her. She can see her sister’s eyes, pale and lifeless, staring at her. He sits on the bed for what seems like hours, and the girl who would become Saint Seiros promises herself that she will make him feel just as afraid as she feels one day. There is a rage inside her, bigger than everything.
But the Archbishop has been given hope today. She can make things right. She does not have to be trapped in the past anymore. She reaches out, and pulls Cassandra to her feet.
“Archbishop…?” says Cassandra quietly. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” says Rhea, with a new serenity, as she realizes that all she has dreamt of will one day come true. “All is happening according to the will of the Goddess… Life is like the seasons. Spring passes to Summer, and then Fall and Winter… but even in the darkest depths of the snow’s chill, we must believe Spring will come again. It cannot be stopped. Winter cannot last forever. And when it does… all will return to how it should be.”
Cassandra smiles, and seems to take great comfort in these words, though the Archbishop knows they are not truly meant for her.
“Soon, the Goddess will return, my knight, and bathe us in her light.” She smiles at the newest member of the Knights of Seiros. “So arise, Catherine, and know that when that day comes… all the sins we carry shall be forgiven.”
The truth of Fodlan was that it was not the Church of Seiros, or the Kingdom, or the Alliance, or the Agarthans that Edelgard von Hresvelg had made her ultimate enemy. On that painful day when Edelgard had returned from the dungeons, and stared at a reflection she no longer recognized, she had resolved to make the world her foe.
The Crests were to blame, not just because of the rapes and kidnappings and savagery that they legitimized, but because they told the world what people could be. That fate was inescapable, the future branded forever in their blood and on their soul. It was an unceasing cycle, a wheel of suffering that could not be escaped. A Gautier would forever roam the frontiers of Faerghus, slaughtering multitudes of Sreng in the name of peace. A Galatea would harass a woman with countless letters for daring to defy his will. A bearer of the Crest of the Beast would live their life in fear of the monster that lay within. And a Hresvelg would stand alone, separated from the world by crown and Crest.
That was the destiny she was fighting, written in the stars and in the books of Seiros. It was the mountain, the great apex, that Edelgard von Hresvelg had chosen to climb.
She had resolved to be alone in this great task, because who would join her? Who else but a woman who had been cut apart and reshaped could choose war, no matter how brutal and false the peace? Even the Goddess, the holiest and most loving of all beings, had not listened to her pleas.
But Byleth Eisner had.
She had chosen Edelgard in the mud and the rain of that evening outside Remire; she had chosen Edelgard as her student; she had chosen Edelgard as her friend; she had chosen Edelgard as the woman she loved. And even when logic and duty and faith and ethics had told her to strike down the Flame Emperor, she had chosen to protect the girl underneath the armor instead.
Not because El deserved it, not because she was good, or strong, or wise… but because Edelgard was Edelgard, and that was enough. It was a light in the dark, showing the young Emperor the necessity of all the small pieces of humanity she had denied herself in her stoic march toward martyrdom. And because of that, El had done the one thing she had sworn never to do again; she had opened her heart, no matter how dangerous and foolhardy it seemed.
It had given El not just allies, but a family. A family that was formed not by the bloodlines Fodlan’s aristocrats valued so deeply, but from the love that came from choosing one another over and over again. Byleth had given them all a gift, and the consequences of that single brave decision gave them the strength to fight through all the toil and tragedy, and dream of a brighter tomorrow.
It had carried Edelgard and all the Black Eagles to this final moment, this last battle. Byleth was the fulfillment of all the most intimate prayers and desperate wishes her students had begged for in the darkness. Their teacher showed that these ancient shackles could be broken; that true faith was not formed out of rigid chains of obedience and duty, but wings that lifted them up to become their best selves.
That all they had really needed was to be loved.
The Immaculate One fired a blast of blinding white heat from her mouth, and Edelgard von Hresvelg rolled out of the way. She could feel the intensity of the flames cutting into her cheeks, and heard the explosion of rubble behind her. She did not let it stop her. Nothing would stop her -- not when this final obstacle lay before her.
“YOU MUTINOUS WHELP!!!”
The Archbishop’s voice was deafening, seeming to come from everywhere, at all once.
Edelgard glared up at the Immaculate One. There was no name in Fodlan’s language for what to call this monstrous form. For a brief moment, the Emperor thought back to her childhood, and that day she had wandered Saint Seiros’ Cathedral. She remembered the tapestries and statues, showing both the holiness of Saint Seiros, and the awe-inspiring visage of the Immaculate One.
She had believed in all of it: that Seiros was a righteous blade against the wicked, and that the Immaculate One was the guardian of her homeland. She had believed in the faith, and more importantly, she had believed that it mattered. And even now, when Edelgard had turned her back on all of the false promises and gilded lies of the Church, a small part of her mourned. The faith should not have been this. Should never have been this.
Before she could stop herself, Edelgard was yelling up at the great Saint who had fought alongside her ancestor.
“A mutinous whelp, am I? So you admit you stand above all of us, striking down those who dare to stand against your rule. Do you value human life at all, Archbishop?”
The Archbishop swung a massive tail at her tormenter, causing the Flame Emperor to leap backwards. The great, pale beast crept forward, and her reptilian eyes narrowing as they stared at the Flame Emperor. The fires of her rage lessened, replaced by a hatred as cold as ice.
“You understand nothing, child. Do you think yourself unique? Special? There have been so many like you, braying on endlessly about their ideals. Humans prattle on about freedom… but all you need to do is look around you. This destruction… it is the truth of Fodlan. Day after day, night after night, all you see before you is never-ending war. That is the truth of this world, and it is what Mother’s guiding hand was meant to protect you ungrateful, unruly children from.”
Edelgard raised Aymr, and met the Immaculate One’s gaze.
“Is this all that the Church stands for? Invocations of empty despair? You’ve betrayed everything Saint Seiros was, Archbishop. You’ve betrayed every little girl who once believed in you!”
Rhea’s anger returned, and she threw herself at Edelgard with a speed that caught even the battle-hardened warrior by surprise. The Emperor was thrown backward, and could feel the Immaculate One stomp toward her.
“I betrayed nothing! Fools who do not accept their sins are unworthy of salvation. You humans betrayed me, and you betrayed my mother!”
Edelgard felt the ache in her bones, as she used Aymr to pull herself to her feet.
“Would you say that to Wilhelm?”
Rhea’s rampage stopped, and for a moment, her eyes lost their manic gleam.
“I… do not dare to sully his name with your blasphemous lips… he… he was…”
Edelgard glared at her opponent. “You speak of betrayal, Archbishop, but who was the one who claimed to speak as the Goddess’ Voice?! Who allowed the Southern Church to ferment rebellion in the Empire, and sanctified a Holy Kingdom?” She felt the anger tumble out of her in a righteous wave. “I swore the same oath that Wilhelm did, upon the red blood and the white sword, the ancient covenant between the Hresvelgs and the Church. I promised to achieve peace for all, Crest or no Crest… have you done the same?”
The Archbishop’s jaws sliced the air that Edelgard had been standing in a moment before. She had known this was a risky gambit, and Byleth had objected, as she always did to Edelgard placing herself in danger… but ultimately, even Garreg Mach’s star professor had to admit the brilliance of the strategy. Edelgard’s words were worming underneath the blanched scales of the Archbishop like no relic axe ever could.
And Rhea was tiring.
“You do not understand, usurper!” screamed the Immaculate One, her mind struggling with a fresh agony. “My family… my mother… I was the only one left! When the humans were given power, given freedom… the first thing they did was slaughter my family!” She was arguing with both Edelgard and the air. “I was left with the memories! I was left with the sight of their bodies! Do you know what it means to carry that weight, each and every day?”
“Yes, I do,” said Edelgard, looking up at the fires swirling on the roof of the palace. “And that is why I must stand against you, Immaculate One. No one was there for Marianne or Ingrid or Byleth or Dorothea… but I am. I am their voice. Archbishop… and I never betrayed you, or your mother. I never believed in this broken world you created to begin with!”
Edelgard could see the glint of the beast’s sharp teeth shining in the waning light. The Child of the Goddess threw herself at the heretic, and Edelgard tried to sidestep. As Rhea collided with a nearby building, a shower of brick and stones was sent toward the Emperor, almost knocking her off her feet. Rhea’s powerful body coiled itself to strike a killing blow, until a voice echoed over the ruined city.
“Stop.”
Byleth Eisner stood atop one of the houses of the burning kingdom capital, her ornate outfit and gleaming emerald hair silhouetted against the moonlight. The Emperor was not a woman given to displays of emotion on the battlefield, but even she could not help but smile at the sight.
“Rhea…” said Byleth, her eyes as deep and as frightening as the sea. “This is not who you are.”
“You… you dare to pretend you understand me?” shouted Rhea. “You only have life because I placed Mother’s Crest Stone inside you! All that you are, every breath since that night, is because of me. I know what you are, thief.” The gleaming white form of the Immaculate One shook with fury. “A broken vessel carrying that butcher’s sword. A mistake unwilling to accept the destiny I chose for you!”
Byleth stopped, and for a brief instant, she lowered her head and looked down at her heart. El could see it, if not one else could… there was a hurt there, an ache as agonizing as any suffered on the battlefield. And then, in a flash, that vulnerability vanished. The Enlightened One looked down at the woman she loved and nodded in reassurance, before her attention turned back to her opponent.
“You didn’t choose anything, Rhea.” Byleth raised the Sword of the Creator, both her calloused, imperfect human hands resting on the hilt of the Goddess’ blade. “This…” She gestured to her heart. “This was a gift.”
She pushed off the ground with a superhuman leap, the Sword of the Creator unfurling and twisting in the moonlight. Byleth wrapped the flails of the weapon around the jaw of the Immaculate One, every muscle in her arms straining from the force. As she landed on the ground, she pulled the Archbishop to earth with a cataclysmic crash.
As the dust and the debris flew about the ruined city, Byleth turned to Edelgard.
“Are you all right, little flower?”
There was a sincerity there, no matter the strange outfit or mysterious green eyes. It was the same earnestness Byleth had shown when she had asked Edelgard’s help to feed the monastery cats. The same honesty that had caused this strange and wonderful teacher to offer to soothe Edelgard’s nightmares. The same bravery that had stood in front of the Church’s blades.
Byleth was like the ivy on the ancient walls of Garreg Mach. She had entered the Emperor’s life, and slowly and steadily crest across the ramparts that Edelgard had constructed to keep the world at bay. And now, Edelgard’s life was intertwined with this woman. She did not know when it had happened — The Holy Tomb? Her return from the dead? Perhaps it had been that very first meeting – but El’s life did not belong to her anymore.
Edelgard tried to find the words, but she couldn’t. So she did what she always did, and adopted a confident smile, extended a hand to the woman she treasured, and hoped that it some small part of the tender thoughts that only ever seemed to grow would shine through.
“Are Flayn and Seteth ready, my wings?”
Byleth allowed a nod to stand for a reply, attention still focused on the Immaculate One.
With a mighty roar, the Archbishop burst apart the Sword of the Creator’s flails, the weapon retreating and retracting back into a familiar form.
Whatever control Rhea had left was lost, and she screamed to the sky about betrayal and perdition. As if sensing her distress, the remaining mechanical golems she had unleased into the city returned to her side. The metallic clanking and whirling of the Church’s great machinery brought a spasm of dread to El’s heart.
Two of the grand machines made their way to her side, and for a moment, the Immaculate One was soothed.
“Wilhelm, Iris…” she muttered in a deep growl to the automatons. “Of course you both would not abandon me.”
That night in the Holy Tomb, Edelgard had watched the Archbishop’s soothing demeanor snap into a violent rage. Byleth had defected, and Rhea’s world had come apart. And this was what was left in the ruins; a woman talking to her mechanical creations, giving them the names of people she had once loved.
Not for the first time, Edelgard felt a chill pass over her spirit. This could have been her, so easily. She thought again of the dissonant echo of the world that almost was, the world where she and Byleth had been pulled apart, and the Flame Emperor had lost El forever. All that she had done, all the striving and strain of her messy journey to allow herself to love and be loved… it had only come from the belief of Byleth and the Black Eagles.
“We will help you, Edelgard.”
Petra was flying above, and with a quick turn of her head, she gestured to the Eagles gathered behind her. Caspar and Linhardt and Lysithea and Ferdinand… all of them, here to support Byleth and Edelgard at this last moment.
Edelgard did not speak; there was nothing to say. Leading these people had been the greatest honor of Edelgard’s life. To say that she loved them, and they loved her, was almost insulting. She simply nodded, and gave Petra a knowing smirk.
The golems and the Immaculate One charged toward the Black Eagles, with Byleth and Edelgard leading their forces in a final desperate assault. Arrows and spells and swords and spears whirled about like autumn leaves, but Edelgard and Byleth pressed forward.
The Emperor had long been a woman of contradictions; she believed that the only way to build lasting peace was through war. She believed in the strength and potential of everyone she met, besides herself. And she had suffered under the most cruel, inhumane tortures humans could inflict, and yet come away with an abiding belief in humanity’s freedom and potential.
Perhaps all of it was absurd; perhaps she was simply a child still lost in the dark, striving to find meaning where none could possibly exist. In the end, if the world was ugly and absurd, then Edelgard would still fight. She snuck a glance at Byleth, cursing that her axe-wearied hands were more adapt with a weapon than with a pencil. If El was fighting for anything – if there was some beauty at the core of the Flame Emperor’s bloody revolution – it was in what Byleth Eisner represented. El carried that talisman with her, on each and every exhausting stride.
Her legs cried out with a burning cry, as she dodged a golem’s sweeping arm; the weight of Aymr seemed unfathomably heavy. She did not let it stop her. Byleth hacked away at the automaton’s lower half, the machine lowering itself toward the woman. A cloak of black magic shrouded Rhea’s creation, and Hubert lowered his hand. There was no theatrical cackle, no attempt to intimidate; just concern for a friend.
Edelgard pushed off the ground, rising through the black fog Hubert had created, Aymr high above her head. She heard Byleth shout her name from below, and the Sword of the Creator flew up out of the mist. Edelgard grabbed the weapon, and landed on the top of the metallic being’s neck. El felt a immense surge of energy flow through her body, a nausea far beyond any she had felt when her teacher had used the Divine Pulse.
El decapitated the mechanical golem with her two relic weapons, kicking the golem’s head aside with a blue boot. As the machine fell to the ground, El quickly handed back the divine sword to her teacher, hoping it would calm the uneasiness rocking her body.
For a moment, in the darkness of the Faerghus evening, she feared that her skin was turning into the scaled, monstrous form of her nightmares. The Agarthans had meant for her to wield that sword as their weapon of vengeance, empowering her with Nemesis’ Crest. If the woman who shared her Crest had not shown her another path… all that would have been left was an empty husk.
Byleth’s arm was resting on Edelgard’s forearm.
“You’re all right, El.”
It was not a question. It was a statement that communicated so many things, and soothed any doubts or despair at the worlds that could have been. She had Byleth, and that was what mattered.
The other golem crashed to the ground under the strain of Linhardt’s spells and Caspar’s gauntlets. Its great arms moved and whirled about in a frenzy, before Ferdinand drove his spear through the creature’s head with a mighty cry. He turned to Edelgard with a sly grin.
“You shall have to intensify your efforts, Edelgard, or I may just outpace you…” He winked at his friend. “Finish this.”
The Emperor nodded, turning to Ingrid, who was flying high above the ramparts. The knight dove and spun forward through the flames, accompanied by a young girl on a pegasus, and a bearded man on a wyvern. Their mounts hovered in front of the Immaculate One.
It was strange to watch such a massive creature’s posture turn defensive, but that was what the Immaculate One did, retreating into herself.
“Have you come to attack me as well?” she spat into the air. “You have betrayed our people. You see what they have done, and yet you fight for them!”
“Rhea…” said Seteth, in the same voice he had once used to give the Black Eagles a lecture on the historical influence of the Saints. “We are not here to fight for them. I have not raised my spear to help them. Flayn and I are here for you.” He extended a hand. “This does not have to…”
The Immaculate One’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand. It always will end this way. There will always be a war. There will always be more fighting… unless I fix it. Unless I bring back Mother.” She stomped toward Seteth, her rage building with each step. “Did you wish to live forever in fear, constantly knowing that the humans will gut your daughter, just to obtain power? I was bringing us more than peace. I was bringing us hope, Seteth!”
“Look around us!” Flayn shouted at Rhea. “Look at this! Do you think Sothis would look at this, and say that we have protected all that is good and the beautiful? I wished to be a Saint. To heal. And I have stood by, as we broke the taboos of the faith we created.” She stared at the city, burning to ash around her. “Sacrificing the Professor, lying to those who believed in us… children died, begging for my help, and I was not there.” She raised her doll-like hands to Rhea. “I do not want empty promises to be Saint Cethleann’s legacy!”
The Immaculate One screamed to the sky.
“None of you understand. None of you have lived what I have lived. All I had, all that made the years tolerable was this small seed of hope…. and they stole her…” She glared down at the Ashen Demon and the Flame Emperor. “They stole all I had.”
The great beast charged toward the Ashen Demon, a swing of her head knocking Seteth off course. Edelgard turned to Byleth and nodded, a certainty animating her limbs. She did not believe in destiny, but it felt as if her body was moving of its own accord.
A great blast of fire rose out of the Immaculate One’s mouth, but Edelgard and Byleth separated from one another, the wall of flames passing harmlessly between them. The years fell away. It seemed so long ago that Byleh had stepped in front of Edelgard, protecting her and shielding her from Kostas’ blade. El had adored this woman, her teacher and wings and light, but she had never believed she could be her equal. And yet, that was what Byleth deserved. Not to be worshipped like a god, or to simply guide El as her professor… but to be loved as Byleth Eisner, just as Byleth Eisner had loved El.
Their eyes met, and they sprung from the ground, just over Rhea’s grasping claw. Edelgard could feel the stones crumple from the power of her leap, and for an endless moment, she and Byleth rose into the sky. Rhea looked up, filled with anger and fear and despair, before the Sword of the Creator and Aymr were driven into the crest stone atop the Immaculate One’s head.
Edelgard swung her weapon for countless people. For her siblings, left to die in the darkness, longing for a light that did not come. For her family in the Black Eagles, who had deserved a world so much better than this. For all the countless innocents sacrificed, never even allowed the small comfort of justice. For her enemies, fighting to keep lit the dying embers of the past. For her teacher, her friend, the love of her life… the woman who was more than just an empty vessel for the gods. And for El… the woman who could have been.
That was why Edelgard swung her axe.
Edelgard could feel the force of the impact send a painful rattle from her fingers all the way up her forearm. She wondered for a moment if the hilt of her weapon would shatter. And then the pain all vanished. She could see Flayn out of the corner of her eye, bombarding Edelgard, Byleth, and the Immaculate One with healing magic. She was shouting from the exertion, unleashing the full power of the ancient staff that rested in her hands. For a moment, Edelgard was bathed in Saint Cethleann’s light… until it sputtered, flickered… and finally stopped.
Edelgard and Byleth landed on the bricks of Fhridiad. The Immaculate One staggered and swayed, until with a final, awful cry, she fell backwards. The sound echoed in Edelgard’s ears, even as a small pool of Rhea’s green blood lay at the Flame Emperor’s feet. She saw Flayn falling, the healing spell she had cast at Rhea taking all of her energy. Ingrid swooped down and caught the Nabatean in her arms, before giving Byleth and Edelgard a reassuring nod.
Byleth was looking at Rhea’s immense form, motionless on the ground. The teacher’s stoic face betrayed a quiet tinge of pain.
“We did what we needed to do,” said Edelgard, trying to find some words to reassure the woman she adored. She reached out, and rested the palm of her glove on Byleth’s cheek, trying to pull her back to the world.
“I know.” Byleth turned to El, and those ethereal green eyes seemed to refuse to blink. Edelgard could not help but wonder what other visions and futures were dancing in them. Byleth paused, and swallowed, with the finality of a person closing the door on something, or perhaps many somethings. She reached up a hand to grip Edelgard’s, and that unbearable weight lifted, and the light returned. “Little flower…” She nodded with her signature brusqueness. “We won.”
“We did,” agreed the Flame Emperor, who could not fight down the grin forming on her face. “We should…”
Byleth grabbed Edelgard’s arms, squeezing them so hard the Emperor almost winced.
“No.” Byleth shook her head. “I need to ask you something, before all the work and celebrations and everything else. I need to know. There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time. Since the night I met you, I think, or maybe even before.” There was a desperation peeking through the even and steady voice of her teacher. “Edelgard… El… will you… stay? Always?”
Edelgard put a hand to her mouth, this simple question carrying more beauty than any opera or painting she had ever experienced. She tried to find the words, tried to move her lips, but then she noticed her teacher.
Byleth was swaying, her face the pallid color of her old nickname. The emerald in her eyes was flickering, on and off like a candle in a windowsill. She was staring at Edelgard, trying to fight, trying to stay with her. Her hand held on to Edelgard’s shoulder, the strong grip of her teacher suddenly so frighteningly weak. And then, with a horrible, silent finality, Byleth fell to the ground, and was still.
Edelgard felt as if she was an observer in her own body. Before she knew what was happening, Byleth was in her arms. She rubbed her teacher’s limbs, cradled her head, shouted words of panic that she herself could not hear. No matter what happened, Byleth’s chest remained still, and Edelgard’s horror grew and grew.
Perhaps it was a final, absurd bit of spite from the Goddess. What other explanation could there be? At one moment, Byleth was alive, and now…
Edelgard cursed herself. She should have been more vigilant, should have known that whatever had been done to Byleth long ago to give her life could also be taken away. The Flame Emperor had grown soft, and now the woman she loved would pay the price. It felt like all that Edelgard was had fallen somewhere, down deep, and she could no longer feel anything at all.
She somehow knew her friends were behind her, silently watching Edelgard’s world crumble. No one could offer a word at that moment, and El simply cradled her teacher, staring at the world through empty, soulless eyes.
The Goddess is all things. Her eyes see all. Her ears hear all. Her hands receive all.
The words of the scriptures taunted Edelgard, reminded her of days spent gripping her sister’s warm hands in the shimmering light of Saint Seiros’ Cathedral. It brought back the despair she felt as she gripped Aggie’s cold and lifeless hands in the dark. The words washed over her, reminding Edelgard that her life was an endless circle, a ring of suffering that ensnared everyone around her. The good and the beautiful died, and El remained alive. That was the true message of the faith, as inescapable as death itself.
How could she ask for a miracle, seeing what she had seen, and doing what she had done?
That sublime sword is entrusted to you.
She remembered Byleth that day in the Mausoleum, as the Sword of the Creator glowed crimson in her hand.
Those Emperors are crowned before you.
She remembered Byleth’s hand squeezing hers, as Edelgard prepared to enter the Imperial throne room.
Those wings clear your path.
She remembered Byleth returning from the dead, lifting the Adrestian Empire to victory over and over again.
Part of Edelgard had foolishly believed that Byleth was the true Goddess she had longed for, down there in the dark. That this story could end any other way than she knew it would end.
“Byleth,” Edelgard smiled down at teacher, hoping against hope she could hear. “I love you. For so long, I feared that my feelings would be unrequited, but you… chose me. And so long as I had you by my side, it never mattered how many enemies I amassed. You were all I needed. I… began to believe things were different. That the solitary reign of Edelgard had come to an end. That we could walk this path together.”
The Enlightened One did not stir, and Edelgard pushed a messy strand of green hair off the woman’s forehead. She looked so peaceful and serene, even now.
“I don’t believe in the Goddess, Byleth Eisner… but I believe in you. Your kindness, your sincerity, your goodness. I have faith that you and I could be the light that shines over Fodlan. That together, we can dispel the darkness that has lingered over this world. But…”
She felt her voice develop that terrible hitch, but pushed the final, desperate prayer past her lips.
“I can’t do this alone. Faith requires hope, like a flower needs water. So please, Byleth… if you can hear me… you chose to protect me in the Holy Tomb, and a thousand days beyond. Will you choose me, one last time? I… I need you.”
She knew that the words were fruitless. As the last sparks of hope in her heart fell away, Edelgard could only listen to the same barren silence that had followed her prayers over her sister’s body. Edelgard gripped her teacher, holding her tightly to her chest, wishing with all her heart that she could no longer feel.
And then she heard it.
A gentle, rhythmic thumping, so weak and faint it seemed a mirage. El grabbed Byleth, pressing her ear against the Enlightened One’s chest. She prayed to the Goddess, her sister, and Byleth that this was what it seemed to be, that Edelgard’s senses had not crumbled under the weight of grief… and then she heard it again. Louder, and stronger, as if it were slowly gaining momentum with each beat.
And all Edelgard von Hresvelg – the great heretic, the destroyer of the Church of Seiros — could think was of the next words in the Scriptures.
Those words of trust will pardon your heart.
As the Flame Emperor watched, the otherworldly green of Byleth’s hair faded, slowly overcome by a blue as dark and as beautiful as the evening sky. It was her hair. Not the one the Goddess had chosen for the Enlightened One, but that of the woman who had protected Edelgard that night in Remire.
And then Byleth’s eyes fluttered, and Edelgard fell again into a deep and endless azure ocean.
“El…” said Byleth, a luminous smile breaking over the face that was always so stern. She spoke as if she had just woken from a particularly restful nap. “I’ll always choose you. Always and forever.”
For so long, Edelgard had fought back each and every tear of joy and sadness. They were shameful, remnants of the girl that had once felt and believed and laughed and loved. When Dimitri had died, or her teacher had returned… it did not matter. Each was a silent phantom of the person that had once been, a sign of all the possibilities and goodness that had been sliced out of her down in the dark.
El cried. Without shame, as if a dam inside her had broken. For so long, she had feared losing control over her emotions, over herself, and yet all that fear was gone. She could hear the sound of her voice gently weeping over the steady rhythm of Byleth’s heart.
It was as if she could see all the color in the world again, as if all the grime that coated Edelgard’s life and morals had washed away, revealing the beauty that was always all around her.
Byleth was alive. The Goddess had given her back.
And at that moment, just as Byleth Eisner regained her humanity, so too did Edelgard von Hresvelg.
That evening in the medical tent passed quietly by. As Hanneman, Manuela, and Linhardt all passed through to hum and fuss and fret over Byleth, Edelgard simply sat with her and held her hand.
There was not much to be done. They were still awaiting word from Count Bergliez and his troops in the Alliance, the messengers strangely delayed, and most of the work was now left to the Imperial clerics and healers. Ingrid and Hubert had shooed everyone else away to allow Byleth to rest, and Edelgard had shooed Ingrid and Hubert away to allow her knight and retainer to rest. For a few hours, before the hard work of rebuilding would begin, they were alone, in a world just for the two of them.
Edelgard sat amongst the dim candlelight, as she let the sharp smell of medical lotions wash over her. Byleth was sleeping, resting on her shoulder, a small bit of drool dripping from her lips. It was more beautiful than anything Edelgard could have ever imagined. The steady rhythm of Byleth’s heart pulsed against the Emperor’s forearm, causing her own to beat faster and faster.
Edelgard looked to the ceiling of the tent. For so long, she had found the idea of prayer obscene. The very thought of leaving the world up to chance, to rely on miracles, had seemed not just ridiculous, but the basest form of cruelty. And yet… here was Byleth, resting against her, hair blue and heart beating.
She traced the seams of the canvas roof, for once, unsure of what to say or who she was even speaking with. She thought and thought, planning grand monologues, and layered interrogations, before swatting them all aside. Whether it was Sothis or her siblings or something or someone else, El finally realized all that she wanted to say.
“Thank you. I’ll treasure her each and every moment. You have my word.”
Byleth stirred, caught between dreams and consciousness.
“El…? What’s going on?”
Edelgard smiled, and squeezed Byleth’s hand.
“Nothing, my love… just talking to a friend.”
Edelgard was finally stirred from a dreamless slumber by a hand on her shoulder, and a great shadow looming above her. Hubert was staring at her, brows furrowed and posture rigid. The Emperor looked around her, realizing in that moment what was not there.
“Where’s Byleth? Hubert, is she…”
“She is fine,” intoned Hubert, his body language still bearing the lingering traces of the formality that had once defined their relationship. “I sent her to discuss and prepare because…” He shook his head with a dramatic flair. “Flayn's spell... we have a complication.”
Edelgard was on her feet, the old rhythms of war returning to her in an instant. She gave Hubert a brisk and clinical nod, allowing that to serve as a response.
“It is the Immaculate One,” said Hubert. “It appears… she is still alive.”
