Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her head is ringing. It’s the first sensation she feels when she comes to. The next thing she realizes is that she’s flat on her back, her body aching all over as her blurry vision focuses onto an orange sky filled with smoke, and the ringing in her ears gives way to the clarity of roaring and screaming. 

She lies there on the ground, unmoving and uncaring. There are sounds of metal colliding with metal, steel cutting through flesh. There are sounds of fire crackling and burning, roars of beasts filling the air before the wails of soldiers follow suit. 

She would have stayed there and let it all consume her if not for a force nudging her arm. 

Marianne looks to her left to see her steed pushing her with its snout, urgently moving her as if to push her on.

“Dorte?”

It begins to come back to her now. She slowly, painfully pushes herself up and the destruction around her is evident. 

She was defending one of the walls of the Monastery. Her unit was tasked to this section of the Monastery as hundreds of Imperial troops marched down upon them. 

She saw her allies engage them, Deer and Lions side-by-side. Her friends rushed headlong to meet the first wave led by the Imperial Emperor herself. She saw him tear through bodies to meet the Emperor.

She did not see the trebuchet projectile fly overhead and crash into her unit before it was too late. And as she takes stock of the crater that left crumbling debris and corpses around her, it seems she will be the only one to remember what they did and did not see. 

Or maybe not. Because as she struggles to stand, three Imperial troops cross the bend and lay eyes on her. Marianne has no time to even think of death as they charge her, no chance to even contemplate that her life is about to meet its unceremonious end on the battlefield of war. 

“HEY!”

A flash of pink collides with the three soldiers like a cannonball, one giant swing from a mighty axe sending their bodies flying out of view. Before she can process it all, Hilda is there in an instant, the bruises and blood adorning her unable to cover up the sheer worry, fear, and relief in her eyes.

“Marianne! Are you okay?!” The girl shakes her by her shoulders, and Marianne nods wordlessly. She is brought into a forceful hug that hurts, but she cannot help but reciprocate. Carefully but quickly, she is helped up by Hilda and Dorte. Hilda motions and calls out, and Marianne sees the rest of her Golden Deer companions running to meet them, though their house leader is absent. They’re sweaty, battered, and bloodied. Finally taking stock of her person, Marianne sees that she is much the same.

“Marianne, thank goodness you’re alright,” Ignatz is the first to say when they’re all within earshot. He is a mess like the rest of them, the lenses of one of his glasses shattered. “We saw the explosion and feared the worst.” Her classmates nod in worried agreement.

“I’m okay,” she speaks, but she is unsteady. “It hurts. But I’m alive.”

“And thank the stars for that.” They turn to Lorenz, the young man staring out at the rest of the battlefield. “Because I’m not sure if it will remain that way for long.” Following his gaze, they look down towards the main entry point to Garreg Mach. Marianne can only stare dumbfoundedly at the sight of hundreds if not thousands of Imperial troops marching their way up the mountain, towards the castle town, and the Monastery, the main walls breached and unprotected.

They look at each other, somber and wordless. 

What else is there to say?

They had lost.

Their group makes its way to the opposite end of the Monastery. Other students that had stayed behind are fleeing in the same direction as well. Whatever knights and professors that remained are urging the students to run. They had placed Marianne on top of Dorte, the Golden Deer surrounding the horse and its rider to their destination, wherever that may be. The pathway is crowded, and the ridge to their left gives a clear view of the Church and Imperial forces clashing below, the former doing their best to stop the latter from making their way up the hill and to the escapees.

Atop her mount, Marianne can only watch the frantic and panicked faces of her peers and soldiers, alike.

Some are fine. Others were injured. 

Marianne does her best to not focus on the less fortunate who wail in pain or are unmoving entirely.

“Where is Claude?” Marianne manages to ask. “Is he…?”

“He should be okay,” Leonie answers. “He told us to find you and went to hold the line below this ridge with Prince Dimitri. In fact…” Leonie points down to the clashing soldiers. 

Her eyes manage to focus on Claude, sword in hand and deftly fending off soldiers. But what captures their attention is the Prince a ways off to his side, Dimitri’s spear viciously and mercilessly tearing through swaths of footmen. 

She cannot help but feel a pit form in her stomach. She still does not know how to reconcile the fact that the same kind boy she had shared precious moments with had seemingly lost himself to this. All she can do is look away and focus on their current predicament.

“Hey! You lot are still alive, too?” 

Their group is met by Sylvain, the boy riding his own steed looking worse for wear. Mercedes clings to him from behind, the poor healer appearing absolutely exhausted. Still, their eyes light up when they see her. 

“Oh, Marianne, you’re okay,” Mercedes breathes out a sigh of relief. “We went to find you, but there was no one there by the time we arrived. Thank the Goddess…”

“We showed up just in time,” Hilda spoke with candor, unbefitting the sounds of death in the atmosphere. “She might have switched, but you never forget your firsts, you know.”

“You can be as cheeky as you want as long as it keeps us moving,” Sylvain brushed her off. A tiring, shaking sigh escapes him, a rare, stoic look overtaking his features. “You know, I didn’t think we were going to win, but I certainly didn’t expect this.”

A booming crash and perilous screams in the background only served to accentuate his point.

“Where’s the rest of the Lions?” Marianne had to ask.

“Up ahead. The Professor should be with them helping assist the evacuation.” Jerking his head forward to signal them to follow, both groups make their way back into the herd. 

Marianne takes some solace knowing that none of her Deer nor Lion friends had been slain, judging from Sylvain’s response, at least. They had been defeated, entirely and utterly. But she and her friends could make it out with their lives. That was enough, for now. 

Their group silently proceeds, their somberness contrasting with the panic and frenzy of the evacuees around them. In the distance, Marianne sees the rest of the Blue Lions. They look even more sorry than them, though they do their best to funnel traffic towards the free ground ahead, carriages and horses strewn about sporting Kingdom and Alliance banners ready to take their own and escape. Ashe is the first to spot them, the boy pointing to them and alerting the others. Soon enough, their parties converge, and there is a moment of reprieve.

“Sylvain! Mercedes!” Ingrid helps both off their steed and checks over them for injuries. Sylvain waves her off, saying that they’re fine. Her eyes meet Marianne, and she offers her a relieved smile, one that Marianne acknowledges with a nod.

“Everyone’s safe?” Annette bounces on her toes while taking a headcount of both Lion and Deer alike. 

“‘Safe’ isn’t the word I’d use, but yes we’re alive,” Lysithea mutters. 

Hilda is looking around doing her own mental tally before a frown forms on her face. “Where are the Eagles?” Her question is met with some defeated and unsure looks from the Lions.

“They’re on the other side of the Monastery,” Dedue finally says. 

“Closer to the Imperial Army?” Raphael asks. “But why?”

“They’re evacuating their own,” Felix answers, mild disdain in his voice. “The Empire's granting safe passage to those of Adrestia that want to return. The Eagles didn’t want their presence to worry Kingdom and Alliance forces here, or so they say.” His implication is clear.

“Felix,” Annette says seriously. “They’re our friends. Just because they’re assisting Adrestian evacuees doesn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Felix interrupts. “Friend or foe, the Empire is gonna overtake their position soon, and they won't have a choice. Either they go back or defect. We won’t be seeing them again.”

Marianne remembers her time with each of the Black Eagles, scattered memories, here and there. Looking around and seeing the dark expressions on everyone else present, she realizes that it has sunk in for all of them, the Lions and the Deer. 

Alliances are fragile. And though they are allies in this current moment, their allegiances can shift in a moment. Especially in war.

“Unhand me!” 

A thunderous, furious voice rises above the rest, and their two groups arrive just in time to see their house leaders, the future rulers that decide where their alliances lay, quarreling. Claude struggles to pull Dimitri up the hill to them, the Prince manically attempting to escape back down to the Imperials hounding them.

“Can you open your damn eyes and read the situation around you?!” Claude yells. "You go back down there, you get swarmed, and you die!”

“It doesn’t matter if there are hundreds or thousands, I will have her head!” 

The Lions and the Deer move to separate their leaders. Dedue and Felix wrest Dimitri from Claude and drag him up with everyone else while Claude is helped by his friends, shaking his head in frustration.

“There’s hellfire and demons around us and you’re too preoccupied with a single person!”

“I do not care for what you think! I have a duty to uphold, and I will not have a meddling snake try to interfere!”

There is shouting and shoving and chaos between her friends, their conflict only adding to the pandemonium around them, and it is finally then that Marianne begins to feel that the world is ending. The Prince’s eyes are wide and frenetic. There is a moment when they meet hers, his wild eyes connecting with her haunted gaze. There is no recognition from him, and she wonders if he is well and truly lost.

An otherworldly call pierces the sky.

It is loud. So loud yet so inhuman that the whole world stills, their squabbling silenced by the force of nature they do not comprehend. A fleeting shadow passes over them, and both groups can only stare in wonder as a white dragon descends upon the Imperials before them.

Her hands go to cover her mouth at the sight of the winged beast blasting a beam of energy from its maw, raining destruction upon the soldiers who die like insects beneath a higher being. 

Those bearing witness to the sight are at a loss for words. 

Marianne cannot tell if the dragon is beautiful or horrific. 

“Everyone!”

An authoritative voice calls out to their group, and the Professor is there unscathed. Relief washes over her, his steadying presence a gift from above.

“Teach,” Claude speaks in a low tone. “What the hell is that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you even-”

“Claude.” The Professor’s voice and face are steeled and unflinching. “We’ve lost. All that matters are your lives.”

They can see the agonizing curiosity and frustration on Claude’s face, but he nods his head in agreement. 

“Professor, where is Edelgard?” Dimitri shoves those in his path aside without care and meets the man, staring over him with grave intensity. “You and I were with her last before we were scattered." The Professor stares back silent and unflinching. "Professor, please, I need you to-”

The Professor grabs Dimitri by the front of his collar and brings his face level to his, and their entire group is taken aback by the maneuver. Dimitri himself can do nothing but be stunned as the Professor speaks slowly and clearly. 

“We do not have the time. We have to escape. You and your friends have to escape.”

There is a brief pause and for a few mere moments, an invisible bubble surrounds them. The outside sounds of anarchy and warfare are background noises to the sight of Dimitri slowly turning his head to look at his friends. 

His gaze slowly takes in each and every one of them, each Lion looking back with urgency and concern. 

It sweeps over the Deer who do not know what to make of him. 

He locks eyes with her. A turbulent force of madness behind his pupils gives way to growing uncertainty.

All she can do is stare back, pleadingly. 

When Dimitri looks back at the Professor, he nods solemnly.

“If any of you are able, help me direct the students towards the carriages to the field," the Professor begins to order. “Above all else, escape when you get the chance.”

“But what about Garreg Mach?” Ashe asks meekly. “What about…?”

The dragon in the distance roars again, reminding them that the world is still turned upside-down.

“Garreg Mach is lost,” the Professor reiterates. “The dragon is buying us time, but she’s not saving this situation.”

No one makes mention of how the Professor specifies the dragon is a “she” or how he knows that fact. 

“When we leave, where do we go?”

“Home, ideally. As long as it’s far away from here and the Empire.”

“What about you, Professor?”

“The rest of the Knights and I will hold out for all the civilians for as long as we can, and we regroup elsewhere.”

“What about… all of us?” Annette makes a gesture to show the divide between the group of Lions and Deer. Both groups glance cautiously at each other. “What happens… after?”

“That is not for me to decide. The future from here on out lies on all of you.” His words are sobering and daunting. “But you all have my support. That will never change.”

Another piercing screech reaches their ears and Professor Byleth urges them into action.

Their party advances onwards toward the escape transportation, corralling anyone and everyone on the way. Marianne watches her friends take charge of assisting the guards in their ranks. She wants to help, but her body is uncooperative from moving off Dorte’s saddle. 

“Easy. Rest, for now, Marianne. You did well.” The Professor is at her side and escorting her and Dorte along the path. His praises do nothing to make her feel better about the whole situation. The sound of warfare is cacophonous, and now that they are in the final stretch, it is almost unbearable.

“I can’t believe this is how it ends…” she mumbles to herself. “We did so much this year… Why did it end like this, Professor?”

“I cannot tell you why it had to be like this,” he replies. “But this is no end, Marianne. There is still a fight left to live for. This world and your allies will be needing you in the future.”

It feels like she should not comprehend his words. What does this world need of someone as small as her? She looks out to her wonderful friends she had made throughout the year and sees them helping while she sits sidelined. 

She sees Claude, Hilda, Lorenz, Lysithea, Ignatz, Rapahel and Leonie. 

Her eyes take sight of Dedue, Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Ashe, Annette, and Mercedes.

Marianne looks at Dimitri, a contradiction of a companion. And despite what she has seen of him, the memory that flashes in her mind is that of a night that feels so distant, of a private moment with a trusted friend. 

A toast and a promise.

“To our futures.”

For just a moment unbefitting her, Marianne chooses to believe her Professor to be true.

Carriages are fitted and hauled away in a rush, animals braying then riding away in droves. They are on the outskirts of the Monastery, evacuees riding away towards the sole exit path outside of Garreg Mach. Behind them, the dragon and Imperial troops continue to battle in one of the marketplaces, the area walled off from the ravine. The sun is beginning to set, everything becoming bathed in an orange glow. Despite everything that has happened from the time she awoke to now, she imagines that only half an hour has passed, yet it feels like the stench of blood and smoke has stained her senses for an eternity. 

As the field begins to clear of vehicles, she finds herself and Dorte in their own spot, in-between both groups. Her Golden Deer companions have begun outfitting their rides and arranging their transportation behind her. The Blue Lions do the same some ways away. Both groups work hastily, ready to ride off at a moment's notice. It pains her that there are no joyful or hopeful goodbyes for any of them.

“You still live.”

Her breath catches in her throat at the sound of his voice. She looks to her left and Dimitri is there before her, so close to her that she can touch him.

He looks up at her in a daze. He is cut, damaged, and stained with blood. His right hand clutches a worn and messy spear at his side. Yet the only thing Marianne can see when she looks down upon him is a tired and exhausted boy. His eyes are no longer mad and wild but blank and sullen. There is no stress or anger. 

Dimitri looks up at her, defeated. 

“I do,” was all she could say. “And so do you.”

She watches his expression turn pained. He can no longer look at her.

“I failed,” she hears him whisper painfully. His voice is shaky and strained. “I could… I could not save them.”

The sight is all too much for her, a tightness forming in her throat. 

She had seen him at his best, and she had seen him at his worst. 

Whether he was righteous or vindictive, he has always looked strong .

It is painful to her heart now to see him pitiful and broken. 

“Dimitri, please…” There are no right words she can find, and all she can think of is how useless she still is. 

“I wanted to save them, Marianne,” he continues, his voice barely put together. "I wanted to free them so badly."

She does not understand who he speaks of, does not understand his inner turmoil, and it eats at her more than ever. 

“I’m so sorry.” Tears begin to gather, and her voice threatens to break. “But, please… you must carry on. I do not know, nor can I say I understand, but you must find the strength to continue on. I cannot bear anything else.” Wet streaks fall down her face. She thinks back to all the times he has comforted her, but in this moment when she yearns to do the same, she finds herself incapable.

Her hand reaches out, unsteady yet moving all the same. She did not mean for it to, but now its course is decided.

It settles upon his cheek, the prince gasping at the feel of her touch. His eyes squeeze shut tightly, his entire being trembling. 

“Please, do not…” his voice wants to continue but it quavers, and his plea fades away unspoken.

He leans into her palm before his hand rises from his side and comes to grasp hers. His fingers intertwine with her own. 

Marianne does not know if this is right. She does not know if it is safe. She does not know if either of them deserves this. 

Marianne does not let go.

His eyes open, clear and unclouded, and they peer deeply into her own. For the first time in months, it feels like she is finally seeing her good friend again. 

His mouth moves slowly.

“Will I ever see you again?”

It happens so fast. A pained and terrible roar as demonic beasts descend upon the dragon. Their Professor is there, the Sword of the Creator knocking a beast through the walls and down the ravine. They all watch in horror when mysterious assailants send the man down the same cliff, painful screams and cries filling the air around her. There isn’t even time to grieve as the thunderous march of Imperial soldiers finally catches up to them. 

It is chaos and hell. Dozens of platoons begin to descend upon them, arrows raining down on them. Marianne cannot react to Hilda pulling Dorte and her away towards the Alliance transport. 

She does not know she is still clinging to the Prince until their grasp is broken.

There is cursing and yelling, but their transport breaks free.

Dorte is galloping ahead of the rest, and Marianne finally finds it in herself to look back.

The last thing she sees of Garreg Mach is the shrinking forms of her Blue Lion friends. He is staring back at her before he is ushered away. 

It dawns on Marianne, then, that she never gave him an answer.

Chapter Text

Two souls slink out of the Goddess Tower, one after the other. Their timing is perfect as both slip out unseen right before the other students begin flocking there.

The weight of their private dance seemed to be settling in for both of them, the two wordlessly reconvening at the bridge connecting the cathedral and the rest of the academy. 

The Prince sheepishly struggles to meet her eyes. The girl does not even attempt to do so, her face burning while her gaze is locked to the ground.

Neither seems too regretful.

The both of them walk the course of the long bridge side-by-side, unsure of what to make of it all. The night is still young, though they do not know whether the night will still include their shared company.

The girl is finally starting to regain her composure when she feels the Prince’s footsteps slowing. She finally looks up to see him staring high into the sky, the moonlight covering his visage. He seems pensive, she thinks, before she stares up at the same sky.

They are halfway across the bridge. The music from the ball barely reaches them, the sounds filling the background. They are alone, joined only in company by the full shining moon and the dark expanse of the space surrounding them.

“I wonder what it would take to have another night like this again,” she hears him say aloud.

She is still just perceiving the current night. Nights such as this were not meant for her, she is used to thinking. The thought of another one is not even one she can begin thinking of for fear of losing the one she already has. 

“It’s hard to imagine,” is all she allows herself to say.

“It is. Though, perhaps in five years, the world will be blessed with another.”

“Five years?” The importance of it does not register. She looks at him, the young man still peering at the moon.

“The Monastery will be holding the Millennium Festival in five years,” he clarifies. “The class… we’ve promised to meet again, then.” His face falters for a sliver of a moment. He turns away from the moon to look at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m sure everyone would love to see you there, as well.”

“Five years…” 

The prospect of such a notion is foreign to her, something she cannot begin to comprehend. It was not long ago when her days were spent thinking of bleaker things, of days spent wishing for a future that marches on as it leaves her behind. It has been only recently that she has begun considering a future for herself at all, those same thoughts bringing her guilt and yet daring her to dream all the same. She blames and she thanks her time spent here with her friends for that. 

“It is far off, indeed,” the Prince says. “Where will you be, I wonder? No doubt busy and accomplished like the rest of our friends will be, I presume.” He chuckles softly, and it’s enough to leave the girl feeling lighter.

“It might be good to come back, then,” she says with slight whimsy. “It would do me no good to renege on our toast. Not with the King.” The recalling of their moment together after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion stirs something within the boy, his expression darkening slightly. An apology is quick on her lips, but he shakes his head. He looks back to the glowing moon, and his eyes are pained. 

“Forgive me,” he tells her. “I had forgotten myself then. I make promises for the future I have no business making.”

Hearing his words brings cracks to her heart. A weight begins to tighten around her chest. 

“I am sorry,” she whispers. So foolish, she thinks. She also forgets herself.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “You are a kind person. That is why you do not deserve the possibility of broken promises.”

There is a deep well of sadness behind his eyes, his words cryptic and inviting omens. She knows he is troubled. She does not know him entirely, but she knows the sentiment that haunts him.

“Even still, I do not regret the promise,” she speaks truthfully. “…do you?”

The girl watches him with bated breath, his face processing what she has asked of him. She does not know what scares her about his possible reply, only that his contemplative gaze has her hanging on the metaphorical edge. 

It all dissipates when he turns to her with a spark in his pupils that captures her. 

“I do not,” he says with a resignation belied by his weary smile.

It is then that the boy leans down. She is frozen as his face draws nearer and nearer, settling beside hers in such a way that they do not touch yet she can do nothing else but feel the warmth of him. 

The whisper that reaches her ears is low and soft.

“If we are here in five years… May I have the pleasure of seeing you, then?”

They are both aflame. She does not know what to think, his presence enveloping and dizzying her. She speaks what comes from within her, unfiltered and true.

“If you would be so kind.”

The Prince takes in her answer, every word of it, and slowly separates from the girl. The moon’s luminescence bathes them in an ethereal glow that makes the current moment feel like a dream.

They stand before each other, unsure, uncertain, and uncaring of it all. 

When they walk back across the bridge, they are just a bit closer.

Marianne’s eyes lazily blink open. Hints of a dream or maybe a memory from when she was asleep are escaping her, though she knows not what it was in particular. All she knows is that it granted her feelings of comfort. She remains in bed for a few moments longer to chase whatever it was, but in the end, her efforts are fruitless. Another early morning has arrived, signaled by the chirps of birds leaking into her room and rays of sunlight peeking through her window. She yawns disappointedly and leaves her bed, beginning her day in full and leaving the comfort of that fleeting dream. 

Her room is a mess, though it is her mess, and as such, she maneuvers around the scattered books and furniture to secure what is hers. She grabs a preselected outfit from the night before, a brush, and some hair ties and makes her way to the washroom. 

It is a monotonous routine, but she prefers it that way. She cleans herself and starts the process of making herself presentable. Her nightgown is swapped for her daily outfit, a simple and homely piece. She straightens out her long blue hair before wrapping it up and securing it around her head in as neat a way as she can make it. Her makeup is uncomplicated as she recounts Hilda’s advice from her academy days and applies just enough below her eyes to cover the dark circles. When it is all done, she stares back into the mirror.

She is there, staring back. Tired and unsure, but she is there.

~~~

Marianne enjoys the early morning hours of the Edmund estate when its halls are only just beginning to awake and its servants just beginning to emerge. She much prefers it to when the day is in full swing, the hustle and bustle of bodies moving around with haste as letters and documents must be taken and delivered, orders must be accounted for, and meetings must be started to discuss. The atmosphere didn’t used to be this busy and frantic when her father had taken her in. She supposed wartime demanded such attention from everyone.

Her morning route to her father’s study is usually quick and quiet. It is a straight shot from one end of the estate to the other where she will report to the Margrave for her duties for the day and do whatever is needed of her. Whether it is scheduling the aforementioned meetings and appointments, marking important documents, or reading correspondence between houses and writing drafts of responses for her father to finish later, Marianne keeps herself busy with the war effort. It has been this way since she returned from the battle of Garreg Mach over a year ago.

She does not know if what she does helps in the grand scheme of things, but it is how she lives.

~~~

Along her route, she pauses at the atrium. It is the loudest part of the walk where most of the servants gather as they prepare themselves for the day. She looks forward to this moment in particular for it is when one of the house’s main handlers meets her and hands her any personal letters addressed to her. As she moves, Marianne can’t help but notice the chatter of the servants is more animated than usual. She is no gossip, but her ears pick up bits and pieces of what the maids say to themselves in what they believe to be hushed tones.

“...his own Uncle, they say! Can you believe it?!”

“...I hear it was done in private… no public show at all.”

“-imagine things will be picking up soon. Goddess, help us all.” 

She is unable to parse whatever it is they speak of, but it does not matter. She sees the handler who walks over to her, hands her several envelopes, and bids her farewell in one brisk encounter. Letters in hand, Marianne moves to resume her routine journey.

~~~

She is content with the letters she has received. They are infrequent occurrences so she treasures whatever comes. They are usually from her friends, most of them she has not seen since they all went their separate ways to their own responsibilities. Ignatz has sent her something, no doubt an update on his merchant work. An envelope from House Ordelia is a welcome sight as it has been a bit since she has heard from Lysithea, as is the envelope bearing House Goneril’s crest. Marianne does enjoy it whenever Hilda writes to her. She is especially surprised to see a letter from Claude himself. Normally if he wanted to say something to her, he addressed it to her through official channels, much to her embarrassment. She is no leader yet, but it seems like he is unaware of that fact. She ponders, then, what would compel him to write to her like this. 

Still, Marianne feels a small pang of disappointment when there is no letter of Kingdom origin, but it is to be expected. It is harder to exchange letters with the nation openly engaging the Empire while Claude and the Alliance try to keep their neutrality intact. She still remembers the pure relief she had felt when she received a letter from Annette weeks after Garreg Mach. It was the only confirmation she had gotten that they all managed to escape. Letters from her Blue Lion classmates are rare and brief but are treasured all the same.

Mercedes prays for her safety. Ingrid wishes her and Dorte well. Sylvain tells her to keep a smile. 

She has not received a letter from him, though. She has thought of writing to him, herself, but she imagines a personal letter is trivial compared to the management of a nation. It’s what she tells herself to ease the ache in her chest.

~~~

“Good morning, Father.”

“Marianne, thank goodness.” She is barely two steps into the room when the Margrave shoves a stack of papers into her hands. “Those are the reports from Duke Riegan, himself. We must make our way through them to see where we stand.” Her father is rushing around his study in a whirlwind, anxiety emanating from his every action.

“‘Where we stand?’” Marianne repeats dumbly, yet her father gives her no time to ruminate.

“Yes, of course. Such a major event is going to shift the dynamics of this war entirely. Duke Riegan, that boy, will want to remain uninvolved, but if we’re facing a battle on two fronts, then we might have no choice but to pick a side.”

Marianne’s brow furrows as she skims the papers handed to her. They are official decrees from Claude, and she sees that a roundtable discussion between all Alliance Great Lords has been called. Her heart begins to race.

“Father, did something happen? What is going on?”

It is finally then that her father stops moving. He looks at her, slowly and concerned.

“Marianne… Fhirdiad has fallen. Have you not heard?” 

Her eyes widen in shock, incredulous.

“What? ‘Fallen?’ When did this happen?”

“Over a day ago, though, the news has only just started reaching us.” She is barely processing it when her father continues. “They say the Blaiddyd Prince murdered his uncle in cold blood. After his execution, the new leader claimed the Kingdom’s submission to Adrestia and-”

Everything stops. 

Marianne goes still. 

The clarity of the world around her begins to blur. 

There is no noise, her father’s droning turning into a distant buzz in her head that is drowned out by the ringing in her ears and the thunderous beating of her heart that begins to feel heavier and heavier.

In as steady a tone as she can manage, she speaks.

“I’m sorry, Father. Did you say Prince Dimitri has been killed?”

“Yes, yes. He was executed yesterday and-” 

The man catches himself when he hears an almost inaudible gasp. He sees his daughter, her expression and her eyes, the color draining from her person. She is deathly still in a way she has not been in years, her face both blank yet horrified.

“Marianne, my girl… I apologize. I forgot that he was your classmate. Forgive my crassness. I did not know."

She cannot hear him. She cannot perceive anything else besides the reality that she now has to accept.

"Marianne…? Are you alright-"

“Father." Her voice is flat and listless. "May I please excuse myself?”

~~~

Her walk is measured, slow, and unrelenting. She stares straight ahead, focusing on nothing and thinking of nothing. Servants and maids greet her, only to stand aside at the sight of the young lady of the house. Her feet move and they move. They go downstairs, and they leave out the back. She does not take in the sound or smell of the early morning, does not stop and appreciate the calls of the crows or the doves. She only walks.

She arrives at their family stables. The animals are excited to see her, but she cannot halt. Her feet take her to the end of the stables.

Marianne enters it, and it is only then that she finally stops. 

Her companion is there. Dorte approaches her slowly and carefully. Her old steed nuzzles her sympathetically like he already knows. He offers himself to her, and she leans against him and holds him tight.

Dimitri is dead.

There is no warning, and there is no fanfare. No last words, no final goodbyes.

No longer does the world hold the kind prince that commiserated with her nor does it hold the vindictive warrior that frightened her. His joy and his happiness, his sadness and his rage, everything that he is has been snuffed out, and the weight of this reality wraps around her throat so tightly and painfully that it makes her head numb and threatens to suffocate her.

She thinks of him, their moments together, everything they had shared and spoken of. 

There is a dance known only to him and her.

A promise known only to themselves. 

There is their toast to their futures, and she finally breaks.

Dimitri is dead, and he is gone forever.

In her tiny space in her corner of the world, Marianne wonders what was the point of it all.

He is barely conscious. His chest heaves as cold air is sucked into his lungs, over and over. He is bleeding and wet all over while more and more grime and filth clings to him. He can hardly see where he is going, one eye clouded by blood and the other marred entirely. Everything aches and stings and hurts, but he cannot stop. He must run. They scream at him to run.

The morning is cold, the forest ground beneath his feet rough and vicious against him. He does not know how long he has been running, does not know where he is running. 

He is not prepared when he bursts through the brush and is sent tumbling and rolling down the steep hill he did not know awaited him.

~~~

When he comes to, his world is still spinning. But as he lies there on his back making out the cloudy gray sky through his obscured vision, Dimitri realizes that for the first time in so long, he has stopped moving.

How long has it been since he was imprisoned? Two days? Three? He cannot even remember what he was doing that day when they ambushed him, Cornelia’s snakes striking soundlessly and efficiently before he realized what was happening. He had awoken in Fhirdiad Castle’s deepest dungeons chained, muzzled, and utterly helpless against the enchanted imprisoning tools prepared specifically for a person like him.

Cornelia was there to gloat when he came to. She slandered him, told him his uncle was dead, and he had killed him, and that he must be punished. She whispered to him that it would be okay, that Faerghus would see new heights without him.

And then she had tortured him. Relentlessly and endlessly.

A pitiful groan escapes him as his head begins to throb and pulsate at the memories flowing in. He was flogged and spit upon, beaten and bruised by instruments of both crude and sophisticated nature. They shocked him through his chains, burned him with fire, cut him with wind, and laughed as he struggled. Cornelia’s rancid smile is clear in his mind, her putrid visage filled with glee as she took a prod to his eye. 

Dimitri could do nothing. He did not even endure. In his dark cell, alone and subdued with no chance of escape, he could only beg for forgiveness from those he could not avenge. And, oh, how they berated him. A failure of a son and a friend who could not do something as simple as bring them peace. A pathetic end where he did not even have the solace of joining them afterward.

But Dedue had broken him out of his cage and his suffering.

He could barely believe him to be real, a trick from that hag or another specter, but when his friend unchained him, embraced him, and urged him to move, Dimitri could do nothing else but obey. Dedue, assisted by Duscur men he had never seen before, escorted the broken Prince wordlessly throughout the maze of a prison before pausing in a nondescript spot. Dedue moved a hidden paneling right beneath their feet, and under them were the capital’s underground waterways. Salvation right under their noses.

They did not see Cornelia’s men descend upon them, the magic and steel crashing into them. The last Dimitri saw of Dedue was his friend pushing him into the waterway below, his face contorting into pain as an axe embedded itself into his back.

“Dedue…”

Dimitri had been running since the moment he emerged from outside the capital’s sewer gates, and now he was here. 

Broken, useless, and responsible for the burdens of one more innocent spirit.

~~~

He is splayed out on his back. He has not moved since his body had stopped tumbling down the hill. He cannot move at all.

He could feel his consciousness fading, his eye half-lidded against the sky. The aches and the pain are beginning to no longer register, his body feeling more and more dull. He cannot feel the chill morning air. He cannot hear the doves and the crows. The sensations of the world around him are turning into a low hum that buzzes and buzzes until it, too, cannot be felt.

He does not know where he has fallen.

It is a suitable enough spot for a grave.

~~~

Memories of his life play in his mind’s eye. Snapshots of familiar faces scroll across in his semiconscious state. 

There is a meek boy with gray hair laughing with a spirited girl and their kind older friend, the trio indulging themselves in tea and cakes.

A boy with a sharp tongue and a young man with an easygoing grin on his face are accosted by a third girl, all of them engaging in familiar and played out conversations.

There is a boy with dark skin and a soft expression stirring a pot atop a stove, a small lady with green hair beside him with sparkles in her eyes.

A man with green hair and a blank face is teaching him, strict yet so full of care and knowledge. 

There is a girl with blue hair and ash-brown eyes.

Her smile is so bright that it sets the world around her aglow. 

He feels so cold, but it is fine.

There were worse ways to die.

“My son.”

His eye snaps open, so close to sealing shut forever. Visions of his friends and of her dissipate. There is only the cloudy sky above filled with the sounds of crows cawing and doves chirping.

“My son… what are you doing?” A figure slowly comes into view, and his father is there standing over him to his left. The shadow of his mother stands right beside His Majesty. He smiles down at him paying no mind to the horrid gash that severs his neck. “Get up, my son. You are free.” 

He is tired. His body, cold and lifeless only moments ago, begins to burn. 

“Come on, Dimitri.” Glenn is standing over him to his right now, his charred and shriveled body twisting itself a grin onto its countenance. “Listen to your old man. You've got places to be now. You’re free.”

A sob leaves him. He does not want to get up. 

“It is okay, Your Highness.”

Dimitri’s blood stills at the sound of that voice, his breath catching in his throat. Dedue looks down at him, gentle smile and all, unscathed.

“I am here, Your Highness. Please, come and stand. You are free.”

His friend is alive, and it’s just enough to muster what little strength is left. He grunts, and he struggles. The weight that had coiled around him is tough to shake free. It takes all that he has, but Dimitri sits upright, back to life and away from death. 

When his world is steady, he looks up and reaches for Dedue, an axehead protruding out from his friend’s chest.

“You are free, Your Highness. You are free to do what must be done.”

They yell and they scream, their voices melding into one cacophonous, thunderous chant for vengeance and violence that threaten to consume his senses.

Amidst the madness of his world, Dimitri realizes there was no point to any of it at all.

Chapter Text

The sun shines in full force. Across the wide training field, soldiers and students alike sweat under the effort of their strict regimens as they all strive to improve and perfect themselves. 

In a way off to the side where forest trees meet the open field, the two of them rest in the shade for a brief moment. The girl exhales, but her pause is short-lived. She quickly sets upon procuring the horse armor packed aside for their mounted combat training. It is not a full set, the armor only covering the head and the mane, but it is still unwieldy for herself alone.

“Allow me.”

He is there by her side, smiling and ready to assist. The girl already feels some guilt that the boy has committed to aiding in her riding lessons, and he only continues to show her kindness time and time again. 

Despite that, she does not tell him no. 

They outfit her friend, the two of them securing the straps of the armor over the horse. It pains her a bit to see such an animal fitted for battle, but procedures are necessary.

“Does something trouble you?” His question stirs her out of her thoughts, and he is looking at her, ready to help once again.

“It is nothing serious,” the girl says. “I’d just much rather see Dorte trot in peaceful ranges than outfitted for combat.” 

“Ah, I understand. It does seem cruel, the things we make these creatures do.” He pats the armored mane of the steed.

“Mm. If only there was no need for such cruelty.”

“If only,” he agrees wistfully. “Still, some things cannot be avoided. If blows were to be exchanged, I’m sure our friend here will appreciate the protection, though I doubt any man will approach this one with ill intent if they have any sense.” The horse seems to take offense as he snorts and lightly nudges the Prince and her aside. 

He laughs, and she absorbs its tenor in full.

“Despite the topic," he continues, "I do think his armor suits him well, don’t you think?” The girl was never one to appreciate swords and armor, but she does admire the sight before her. 

“He fits into it nicely,” she decides. “A very dashing one, aren’t you, Dorte?” 

“His rider will have to match him one day, you know,” the Prince says. “It would do him no good if you were not protected like him.”

She frowns at the thought of it, of the image of her sporting any sort of armor that is not her robes or her cloaks.

“Armor does not suit me,” she says meekly. “The picture of shining knights and brave paladins is not meant for me.”

Though her expression is sad, she sees that he is observing her with eyes that are much too kind for her. 

“Armor is not only for appearances,” the boy tells her with amusement. “It is just for protection. If it were up to me, I’d have all my allies wear full plate into battle. You, especially.”

“Am I really worth so much protection?”

The question slips out of her so easily and so casually that she is not ready to catch it and keep it hidden, stashed away with the rest of her thoughts stowed deep in the depths of her mind. Her face burns in embarrassment and shame, and an apology is soon to follow when she is stopped by the Prince peering over with equal parts gentleness and understanding.

“I think you are,” he tells her. “Very much so.”

His answer weaves into her, wrapping around her like a warm pocket of air. His words are too kind, his tone too tender, and it tangles and battles with the worst impulses kept deep within her.

The way he stares at her is filled with something that she cannot understand for she does not recall any other time when someone has looked at her the way he is doing now.

It seems to settle on the Prince what he is doing, his gentle eyes now filling with a different type of embarrassment from her own. 

“Full plate might be too much to start, though,” he recovers. “We’ll find something more suitable another time.”

He is chuckling and awkward, and the sight of it is enough to make her giggle too.

“Are you two ready?”

They just about jump out of their own skins, the two students standing at attention to the third party that now looks over them with an unamused face.

“His armor is not secure,” the man says with a frown, looking pointedly at the warhorse. “I said to be ready by now, you two. There is no time to dawdle.”

“Forgive us, Professor,” the boy is quick to say. “I distracted her before we were finished. We were just about done.”

There is a beat of silence, the teacher looking unconvinced. The Prince is standing rigid like a rod while the girl’s face looks no farther up than the ground.

“Three minutes more,” he grants them before walking away. 

The two watch his back shrink smaller and smaller into the field. The girl, ashamed in more ways than one, finally deigns to look to her side. She is met by his eyes, and she sees that he is embarrassed much the same. Still, she watches a sheepish smile overtake him as he attempts to restrain a laugh before it becomes too much. He laughs and she cannot help but join him, the pair incapable of stopping themselves from laughing and laughing under the protection of the shade. 

They are close to finishing the fastenings on the horse. The girl secures one final belt before speaking.

“I will properly equip myself one day,” she tells him. “I hope you will do the same.”

She does not expect an answer to her playful comment, nor does she look to him for one, but she picks up on a sound that is so faint but unmistakably him.

“If only,” he whispers to himself. “If only.”

The Faerghus wilderness is unforgiving. That, he has always known. In the north near his home, snowstorms can blanket the entire region in a single night. It is not uncommon for an ill-fated traveler to be swept away in those snows, enveloped, and never seen again until the snow all thaws away months later in the spring. Dimitri’s first few months are frozen and bleak, and he wishes to be drowned by the snow he loves and fears, covered and consumed until he, too, can melt away. 

But they do not let him die. They beg him to subsist, and subsist he does. Pathetically, he moves on.

His days are spent drifting about the wilds of Faerghus, unknowing of anything besides the existence he struggles with. He had lost count of the days when they had turned into weeks and those weeks turned into months. The life before he had begun this journey does not even seem real as it slowly but surely begins to fade away from his memory, like it belongs to another person entirely. It feels like struggling in the wilderness is all he has ever known.

There are days when he is somewhat conscious, and so he hunts and scavenges anything he can in the tundra in vain hopes of scrounging up something that can be called a respectable life. There are days when he can do nothing but lie ill, shivering and feverish, yet unable to die. Then there are days he misses entirely when he awakes, frantic, wild, and discombobulated in an area he does not remember sleeping in.

No matter the day, he has never been alone. They watch him from a distance. They walk alongside him during the day. They lay beside him at night. They are with him always, their voices clearer than the snow.

“Do not ignore us. You cannot ignore us.”

He wishes he could die, but he already has. 

~~~

It is night, and he has just finished lapping up the waters from the river he had found. He struggled, at first, but Dimitri had managed to procure enough materials to start a small campfire, the heat and warmth something he has not felt in so long. He had caught several fish, their bodies impaled and charring against the flames. When they are barely ready, he bites into them ravenously. He does not care that the flesh burns his mouth or the bones poke and prick his tongue. 

When he finishes, he is on his back, his one eye peering at the moon and stars above.

“Are you satisfied, Your Highness?”

He tries to focus on the sound of running water.

“It is okay that you ignore me, Your Highness. You may take your time. We will wait for you.”

“I’m not…” his voice is raspy and dry from neglect. “I’m not ignoring you. I promise.”

“If you say so,” another voice of a friend long gone tells him. “Do not worry. We will be here. Always”

“You will be,” Dimitri whispers sadly. “But you do not deserve to be.”

“And whose fault is that?!”

The voice of his father is booming and terrifying. 

“You lie there and you whine when you know what must be done!” 

He can do naught but whimper feebly as they lean over him now, their ghoulish faces filling his vision.

“Kill her, my son,” his father says with a mad grin. “Edelgard is out there, and you must kill her!”

The name makes him a shuddering mess, sadness and rage and wickedness boiling within his chest.

“She is responsible, my friend,” Glenn calls out. “How long will you make us wait?! You must kill her! ”

His head is pounding and throbbing. His eye shuts, and he clutches at his ears, but it is useless.

“She was our friend, and she had us killed,” Dedue tells him. “Avenge us, Your Highness. You are the only one who can save us. You must kill her!”

“Take her head!”

“Rip out her throat!”

“Break her neck!”

“Kill her,” “Kill her,” “KILL HER,” -

The moon shines over the riverbank. The sounds of water do not mask the sounds of screaming.

~~~

He has followed the river downstream for days now. Maybe more. He does not know. It sustains him and distracts him, and that is all he needs. His eyes are heavy, but he knows they will not close for rest like they haven’t since he began this trek.

“Edelgard…” 

He mutters her name letting it slowly drag across his tongue before leaving his mouth.

“Edelgard…”

His mind is transported to a tomb. A porcelain mask is at his feet. The Flame Emperor stood before him, unmasked.

“Edelgard…”

He remembers fire and blood and wailing and death.

“Edelgard… ”

He growls her name like he is spitting out poison.

~~~

The river is beginning to still. His feet are worn from uncounted days of walking. The moon hangs overhead once again. 

The waters of the river no longer rush but drift slowly and peacefully. He has not stopped walking until now, the dryness of his mouth and throat finally demanding to be taken care of.

When he leans over the river to quench his thirst, he is stopped by the appearance of its smooth reflection.

A young man is staring back. The bloodied wraps around its right eye do nothing to contain the unruly and matted hair that falls disgracefully along the man’s face. Its rags are tattered and barely fit the creature underneath. The only thing Dimitri can peer into is the dead blue eye that peers back.

He is a walking corpse and nothing more.

“...heard it was from the Blaiddyd royal armory itself.”

His blood runs cold at the sound of a voice, a human voice. 

“Yeah, equipment passed down through the generations is what she says,” another one replies. “A gift from the Dukedom to Her Majesty as a show of good faith and continued partnership.”

Dimitri slowly turns away from the river and to his left downstream. 

Two men are walking up, torches in hand. Behind them in the distance, he sees campfires and hears the sound of men, a full encampment stationed right along the riverbank.

They are the first men he has seen in ages. 

They are real.

And they are of the Empire.

“By the Goddess, who the-!”

Dimitri is still dumbstruck when he notices the two soldiers staring at him, wide-eyed and surprised. They are flabbergasted at the sight of him, unsure of what to make of his appearance.

“You scared the hell out of us, son,” one of them calls out to him. “Are you… are you okay, there?”

He looks at them in their red and black armor, the Adrestian eagle printed on their chests.

“You’re in bad shape, son. What are you even doing out here-”

“Did you say ‘Her Majesty?’”

His voice, gravelly and hoarse, speaks with a mind of its own, a mind set ablaze and beginning to burn. 

“Yes, Her Imperial Majesty,” one of the soldiers says cautiously. The man walks closer to him within arms reach. “You need some help, my boy. Come, our encampment is right there. We are riding for Adrestia to deliver a gift to Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard and-”

Dimitri’s hand wraps around the man's throat and crushes it instantly.

The lifeless body slinks to the floor, and his entire being is on fire. 

Footsteps charge him, and he looks up to see the other soldier roaring and bearing his blade down upon him. Dimitri steps to the side instinctively, and his hand wraps around the soldier’s face and squeezes.

~~~

He is sitting between two bodies in a growing pool of crimson. He stares at his bloody hands, horrified, and they shake violently. His breathing is rapid and shallow, his chest heaving as he hyperventilates.

He hears them. 

It is clearer than anything he has heard in months.

They are laughing. 

His breathing turns into cackling as he begins laughing too.

~~~

He is standing in the middle of the encampment when he comes to. His body is aching, and the adrenaline is leaving him. The world around him is becoming clearer.

He stares down at his body. He is covered in blood and viscera. He clutches a spear that looks very much the same.

He begins to tremble before finally daring to take in his surroundings.

There are only dead men around him.

He counts them. One corpse. Two. Three. 

When he realizes it will go past fifty, he stops.

~~~

The transport carriage is damaged and askew, the prized target of the Empire now protected only by dead and mangled bodies. When Dimitri pries open the back, equipment comes tumbling out of it like spoils. 

There are weapons and pieces of armor strewn about. He listlessly moves pieces here and there, unclear of what he is searching for.

There is a chest piece of burnished silver with a bronze lion emblazoned on the chest. It is flashy and fit for a king. 

It is not for him.

As he scrounges through it all, he sees that one armor stand had remained in the carriage. He takes it and places it outside to stand tall in the hell he had created.

It is a full set of royal armor, black like the night above. There is a dark blue cross fitted across the right breast. The cape nearly reaches the ground, and it is all enveloped by the black and white fur pelt around the shoulders.

It is not meant for protection. It is meant for killing.

It will do.

Deirdru is a pleasant place, she had come to accept some time ago. In her childhood, it was simply the capital city that she would hear her parents speak of on occasion, a monolith of her nation she would not see for quite some, nor did she care to.

She does remember visiting once long ago around the time when Margrave Edmund took her in, and the lively and bustling atmosphere and sensations were enough to make her sick during the entire business trip.

Now, though, with her constantly accompanying her father to and fro, she has decided that the port city with its salty air and view of the sea was something worth getting used to.

Even though the capital has lost its luster and its intimidation, the day itself is special. Her maids had dolled her up, a rare request from her, and she moved briskly to her destination. Her usually tied hair flowed freely down her hair head, a quaint floral headband adorned across the top of her crown. Her dress was a mix of blues with gold trim though still modest in a way unique to her. Extensive makeup was used to mask the dark circles that bruised the space beneath her eyes.

She did not usually put much effort into her appearance of her own free will, but she supposed the day was worth the occasion.

Guards of Gloucester meet her at the bridge that connects the main city and the isolated port on the other side. When she is cleared, she is ushered across.

On the other side of the bridge, a table is set with teas and treats. She sees her friends had already made it there before her, almost everyone present sans their leader himself.

Hilda is the first to see her, and she is met with a gleeful hug. As her friend squeezes her for dear life, the rest of them wave for her to come and join them.

It has been some time since Marianne felt this way.

~~~

It gives her comfort to know that they are mostly the same from their academy days. The two years since then have definitely shaped them, but if she did not know any better, she could mistake the sight before her as the same ones she saw in the dining hall of Garreg Mach.

Raphael and Ignatz converse like the old friends that they are, and they rope Lysithea into it who adamantly claims to not want to participate in their childish conversations as if her plate is not the one stacked with the most cakes. Lorenz is there, loud and animated in both figure of speech and bodily movements, and Leonie cannot help but roll her eyes yet humor him all the same.

And, of course, Hilda is there beside her, talking.

“You’d think little ol’ Claude would spare his good friends just a moment of his time,” she sighs loudly, dramatically slumping against Marianne. “The first time we’re able to all meet up together like this in two years, and he’s there debating and politicking.”

“I’m sure no one else wants to be here more than him,” she tells her friend and the other Deer take heed of their conversation.

“Yeah, Hilda, I bet Claude is thinking of us and this feast right now,” Raphael says, making note of the specially catered food that covered their table. “I still haven’t met a guy who enjoyed eating more than me.”

“I think he enjoyed the atmosphere of the feast more than the eating itself,” Ignatz clarified under his breath.

“Besides, isn’t his entire job just debating and politicking, anyway,” Leonie asked. “Don’t know what more you want from him.”

“You all are no fun,” Hilda concedes, and Marianne enjoys it all.

~~~

Their conversation topics are fun and silly. There is no rhyme or reason to whatever they speak of, ideas popping into their heads and quickly out of their mouths. Marianne much prefers this, and it is exactly why she came.

She sits back and lets the conversations flow around her. She speaks when it is expected of her, prepared and poised. She smiles when Lorenz compliments her appearance, she frowns when Hilda speaks to her of her nagging older brother, and she nods along when Lysithea speaks theory and magic to her. She laughs when she has to, a small and mirthless thing that is enough to keep everything running.

Marianne wonders for a brief moment if it could always be like this. Mindless banter where nothing is required of her but observing and understanding.

It is a burden to think of anything else.

But at this moment, it is all frivolous and pointless in the way it should be between friends, and Marianne does not want it any other way.

~~~

“I’m just saying,” Lorenz says emphatically, his palms flat on the table. “If we’re to be inheritors of our houses, shouldn’t we be allowed in the Roundtable discussions? I’m not saying we even have to speak, just be allowed in the room.” His pleas are mostly falling on deaf ears.

“I’m surprised you want to be in the room that bad,” Lysithea mutters between sips. “It’s all just bickering and squabbling between our families for hours on end only to decide on nothing. We have better uses for our time right now.”

“What could be more important than governing,” Lorenz laments. His eyes turn to her, desperate. “Marianne, surely you understand where I am coming from?”

She mulls it over so she can answer in a way that does not imply she is entirely on Lysithea's side.

“I think we should learn all we can outside the Roundtable so we’ll be well prepared by the time we enter it.”

Lorenz is entirely unconvinced, but he does nod his head, impressed.

“Diplomatic answer, Marianne. Well done.”

“That’s our rising star politician for you,” Hilda coos to the sound of playful claps.

“I think you all give me too much credit,” she answers demurely. 

“Au contraire, my friend. They’re saying there’s not a harder worker in your estate than you."

“Yup. You know, the lords around the Alliance have been really impressed by you. You’re basically your father’s right hand these days the way you handle all the busywork.”

"You could stand to learn from her example, Hilda.”

Hilda and Lorenz’s argument is background noise as she begins stirring her tea. 

Perhaps she has taken on more of a workload this past year to the point that she is exhausted and haggard, but it matters not. It is better than laying idly by with her thoughts and nothing else.

Marianne does what is asked of her and that is all. Nothing worthy of praise.

~~~

It has been a successful outing, all things considered. Her heart is full seeing that most of her friends are in good spirits, despite everything.

It is when the buzz of their energy begins to dull that Marianne steels herself. She figured that the topic was bound to drop any moment now.

It was the war that brought them all together, after all.

“So,” Leonie finally says during a lull in their conversations. “Do you think they’re gonna vote to join the Empire or not?”

The atmosphere becomes heavier, and Marianne is ready.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Hilda drawls. “Claude’s been good at keeping the whole issue at bay. I don’t see why that’ll change now.”

“Well, we didn’t have a house openly advocating for it until now,” Lysithea mumbles aloud for everyone to hear. They all turn to Lorenz who sighs at their accusatory gazes.

“You all look at me like I’m the one who put him up on the idea.”

“Eh, no hard feelings,” Raphael says. “I’m sure it’s a tough thing to pick sides, what with you and Ferdinand buddying up again.”

“You’re speaking with Ferdinand?” Hilda asks in disbelief. “When did that happen?”

“Only recently in-person, I assure you,” Lorenz says. “And he is a good man, despite the... circumstances." The word has some of them rolling their eyes, but Lorenz is undeterred. "I know we all have sour feelings about how Edelgard and Hubert orchestrated this whole conflict, but the rest of the Eagles were caught between a rock and a hard place more than the rest of us. They are trying their best, just like we do.”

They all nod solemnly in understanding.

“I guess you’re not exactly wrong,” Hilda says as she picks at her nails. “I wonder what they’re up to these days. 

“I heard Dorothea was performing at Mittlefrank again,” Leonie drops. “Wonder if merc money is enough to catch a performance."

“Petra returned to Brigid, according to some merchant friends that sail the trade routes between our countries,” Ignatz adds.

“They say Caspar’s been clashing with his father about the whole thing since it started, but he’s still there,” Lysithea says. “Linhardt’s the same, apparently, but with less fighting and more sleeping. And no one’s seen Bernadetta, but I think that’s normal.”

The circle goes round and round. It eases Marianne’s heart a little to hear her Eagle classmates still live, allegiances aside. 

However, Marianne does not like where the conversation is steering to. She has been silent since it started, her eyes focused solely on her teacup and its cold brew. She stirs it mildly, hoping the conversation will blow over.

“I wonder how the Lions are faring.”

Her hand slows, and she watches the swirling tea spin on its own, the table falling silent. 

She can feel it, but her eyes move up anyway to see them peering at her, intentionally or not. 

“I don’t hear from them that often,” she says, and it’s the truth. “They are busy fighting a war.” 

Her tone is measured. She does not want it to falter.

“Are they alright,” Raphael asks. “Hear anything recently?”

“Ashe wrote to me some time ago,” she offers. “He tells me that Mercedes has picked up merchant work in the capital and that Annette is isolated in her own territory. He stepped away from his post under House Rowe when they aligned themselves with the Empire.”

“Most likely to the Eastern Loyalists, then,” Lorenz mentions, and Marianne resumes stirring. “I would reckon one of House Fraldarius, Gautier, or Galatea would welcome him.”

“Makes sense,” Leonie says. “Can’t imagine they’d be happy fighting under the Kingdom- excuse me - the ‘Dukedom’ like that. Must be dire, fighting on the front lines.”

“Their whole nation is in dire straits,” Ignatz says sadly. “I’d imagine the rumors going around now only make it more chaotic for them.”

Marianne stills.

“‘Rumors?’” Hilda asks. 

There are puzzled looks on the nobles' faces, a stark contrast to their commoner friends who look at each other. Marianne figures that they would not know. They are not like her, someone who has thrown themselves into running herself ragged handling every affair, hearing every whisper or gossip thrown around.

“Uh, yeah.” Raphael approaches the topic carefully. “It's been something that's been brewing for the past couple of months."

"Out with it, then," Lysithea urges. "You three are the ones with their ears to the ground on matters like this." The ones not in the know are leaning forward expectantly. Raphael awkwardly scratches at his neck, his mouth contorting as he figures out the tactful way to explain it.

"Word is that Imperial troops here and there across Dukedom territories are getting… taken out.”

“That’s one way to phrase it,” Leonie says bluntly. “They’re getting slaughtered. Generals and entire platoons are wiped off the face of the earth overnight. I know seasoned mercenaries that have seen some of the sites, and they can't even describe it in detail without getting pale.”

Her friends’ faces turn aghast. 

She stares into her cup.

“My word. What’s happening to them?”

The commoners glance at each other again. She does not look up, but she knows they peek at her, too. 

“There’s no… definitive answer,” Ignatz says. "It could just be monsters," he tries to add reassuringly, the wording instead prodding at something deep and ugly inside her.

“Really? Not one solid theory?” Hilda asks.

“There’s… one,” Raphael says, his voice low. He sighs knowing that he cannot stop, and leans in closer to whisper, everyone except her coming to meet him. “Townspeople here and there are saying they’ve seen him.”

“‘Him?’”

“Yeah. One guy.”

No one speaks as they take in the information.

“One man,” Lorenz repeats with a disbelieving laugh. “You’re telling us one man is responsible? Preposterous."

"Just telling you what the townsfolk are telling us," Leonie answers. 

"Surely you all are jesting," Lorenz continues with incredulity. "One man singlehandedly ravaging entire platoons of trained soldiers?  Who could possibly..."

His laughter begins to wane, and his brow begins to furrow. His question trails off, Lorenz slowly sitting back in his chair as a revelation hits him the same way it had hit everyone else.

They are all quiet now, the table inadvertently stumbling into a topic that feels taboo and inconsiderate. The Deer all share tentative looks of concern and hesitation. They look at her like she cannot sense the energy, as if she is unaware of them dancing around her. 

“The Loyalists did say they never recovered the prince’s body,” Lysithea finally mutters, and it takes everything within Marianne to keep her face neutral. 

“Lysithea.” Hilda hisses at the girl while everyone shifts in their seat uncomfortably. 

“I’m sorry, I know,” the young girl says with genuine sincerity. “But we were all thinking it. It’s not fair to her to act like we aren’t.”

“Even still, you can’t just say-”

“Prince Dimitri is dead.”

They all turn to her. 

She is staring back, composed and practiced. 

“He was executed over a year ago,” she continues to say flatly. “He is no longer alive.”

Her tone is objective, and her voice is unwavering. She sips slowly from her cup, the cold tea coating her tongue and throat which burn. She sees them unnerved, but she does not care. 

“Even then…” Lorenz slowly. “You have to consider the possibility… don’t you think?”

Marianne swallows the rest of her tea, and she places her cup upon its plate.

“I think it is sad that many lives are being lost,” she states plainly. “And that a dead boy’s name is being dragged into it.”

~~~

She is standing at the edge of the port. She stares out into the sea, the many ships leaving and entering their city filling the horizon. Waves crash into the stone she stands upon, specks of water landing upon the bottom of her dress. She had excused herself just a moment ago telling them that she wanted to see the galleons depart. They let her be.

Marianne was prepared. She knew the Kingdom would come up under the topic of war. She knew they would ask of her Blue Lion friends. She knew he would come up.

And she was equipped to deal with these rumors, as well. She had formed her shield with the truth she had etched into her soul the day she had come out of that stable.

The boy from the academy was dead and gone forever. 

She cannot fathom anything else.

Marianne realizes her hands are balled up at her sides, and she finally exhales. It is shaky and breathy, the force of it an attempt to expel the stress and tenseness in her body.

When she is done, her body goes slack. She finds that she is looking aimlessly at the sky on the horizon more than the ships that dot the seascape. Silhouettes turn into formless blobs that cover the expanse and distract her. 

She doesn't hear the footsteps until they settle right beside her.

“Hey, Marianne,” Hilda calls out sweetly and softly. She says nothing more as the pair stand side-by-side.

They look out at the vast, wide sea. Hilda tilts her head at the sight.

“Wow. Lots of ships, huh?”

“Quite aplenty,” she replies.

They say nothing. The noises of the gulls, the waves, and the breeze fill the air for them. 

Another wave crashes into the stone before Hilda speaks again.

“We’re really sorry,” Hilda says. “We got too swept up in the conversation. No one actually believes that rumor, you know? It was dumb to bring it up. We didn't mean to upset you.”

“No one has anything to apologize for,” Marianne replies, and she is not lying. “Everyone was curious, that was all. It is I who must apologize for souring the mood.”

“Oh, Marianne…” Her friend leans against her, an arm wrapping around her side, and Marianne continues to stare ahead at the seascape.

“I’m sorry,” Hilda tells her again, and Marianne shakes her head.

“It is fine. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not what I’m apologizing for,” her friend says, and Marianne can feel her body tensing up again. 

“I don’t quite catch your meaning,” she mumbles. 

Hilda hugs her slightly tighter.

“We haven’t seen you in so long, Marianne," she says remorsefully. "One of us should’ve gone to you. Back when… everything happened.”

Her jaw is rigid and set.

“Nothing has happened since Garreg Mach fell, Hilda.” 

“You know that’s not true. Not for you.”

She does not care for this conversation. She does not want it to happen.

“You were close to him, Marianne,” Hilda continues, and the mention of him from another's lips is enough to sting directly at her heart. “We all know you and him were close. You should’ve been allowed to speak with someone about it. You were owed that much. You still are, you know?”

She is owed nothing. She is barely owed the life she is living now, if that at all.

"You all wrote to me," she assures her.

"And you never wrote back about it," Hilda counters.

Marianne is quiet. She had no answer for that.

“It was a sad affair,” Marianne settles on, unable to squash the tiny quiver in her voice. “But it is over. Time has passed. There is a war to worry about.”

It is all the things she has already told her servants, her maids, her father. It is all the things she repeats to herself over and over.

“Marianne…” Hilda turns to her.

She sees Hilda in her peripheral vision looking her up and down.

“You’re different, you know," her friend comments, and there is pride and regret in the way she says it.

"We're all different," Marianne says. "It's been over two years. More responsibilities and such."

"Hmm. True. But you're making good progress from the Marianne from the start of those academy days. I don't think that girl would have been willing to walk across Deirdru to enjoy tea with friends. Well, not without me having to clean up a couple messes for her along the way."

"I suppose not," she concedes.

"Claude's been talking about you a lot this past year, too. Says you're as deep in the trenches as the Margrave. Who knew government work would be so soon in your future?"

That last word feels pointed and evil, a word that should not have been reserved for her. It eats at her, and Marianne only hopes it does not cause her to betray her steely expression.

"I simply do what is required of me."

"Claude says you do too much." Hilda stares intently at her face. "You never did use this much makeup, Marianne."

She prays, prays for the Goddess to grant a weak and pitiful existence just an ounce of strength.

"You've changed a lot," Hilda tells her again with the same pride and regret as before. "I'm not used to the way you talk."

“I thought that was the first thing you got used to,” Marianne mutters, and Hilda’s laugh is airy and wistful.

“I was used to how you never spoke up at all. I'm not used to how you talk now, even though you're hurting."

Marianne’s eyes squeeze shut and her jaw quakes. 

She does not break. She does not cry. She had already done that enough for a lifetime. She does not want to do it ever again, not for this reason. It was the least he deserved.

"We're here for you, Marianne," Hilda whispers to her with warmth. "Always here."

When she is finally able to open her eyes, there are fewer ships in the sea.

“I am fine, Hilda,” she whispers her lie. “I will come to you if anything troubles me. I promise.”

Marianne's smile is melancholic, but it is a smile all the same. Her nightmares will be known to her alone, and her yearnings for death are only for the Goddess' ears.

When Hilda hugs her tight and wishes her well, there is an unspoken apology and an open invitation that Marianne will never answer.

~~~

Her friends are still at the table, and she must return to them soon. The waves have suddenly calmed, no longer slamming into the port.

On a whim, she peers over the edge and into the dark reflection.

She is there staring back. The floral band atop her head is a quaint accessory to the hair that frames her face. Her dress is picturesque and fits her neatly. She stares back into her ash-brown eyes, and it is enough to make her remember herself.

She is Marianne von Edmund, and she is cursed to bring misfortune to all those who come close to her.

She runs through the practiced and rehearsed lines in her head once again. She practices her smile and her frown, how she furrows her brow, and the way her face should settle and relax in every and any situation. Each and every tactic is hers, and it will keep everyone at bay.

She will never make the same mistake again.

It is not for her protection. It is for the protection of everyone else.

And it must do.

Chapter Text

The sounds of shouting fill the air as the Knights of Seiros frantically move to secure the perimeter of the Cathedral entrance. It is well past midnight, but the Monastery is in disarray. The discordant noises of the knights and their metallic armor and weapons threaten to drown out the constant orders being barked from commanding officers to their subordinates. It is a chaotic scene that she had not expected to see so soon after the last incident in the Holy Mausoleum. They knew the house leaders and the Professor had been embroiled in conflict alongside the Abyssians. They did not expect it to culminate into this.

There is an incessant and ugly voice within the girl that pins her as the cause of these unfortunate battles, but she will dwell on that later after she has finished tending to her friends’ wounds.

“I’m never following you into battle ever again,” her friend with pink hair says to their house leader, the two of them being healed by her hands.

“Yeah, sure,” their leader mutters, unamused. He tears a strip of tape off with his teeth before wrapping it around his injured wrist. “I’ll see you for our field assignment at the end of the month.” 

“Never getting involved with Baltie, too for that matter,” her friend continues, ignoring his snide comment. “I can stomach debt collectors, but how he managed to get involved with Aelfric turning into that freaky blood beast is beyond me.”

 When the girl is finished mending the wounds that need the most attention, they thank her and go off to accost the Professor and the Archbishop, but are intercepted by the rest of her classmates seeking answers from their lips.

They had already informed her of the details and the cardinal’s fate. They did not know that the idea of it makes her nauseous, that her paranoia flares and makes her feel like her blood is burning from the inside, nor did she let them know. 

Left alone amidst the chaos, the girl goes against her better judgment and peers into the Cathedral. Even after the knights had made decent headway in cleaning the place, there are signs that something monstrous had been within the way there is destruction and blood strewn about. 

A man becoming a monster. It is enough to make her blanch.

A hand settles atop her shoulder from behind, and she yelps. 

When she turns around, the Prince is there.

She watches the way his own shock turns into a frustrated sigh, more at himself than her. 

“I’m sorry,” he says with an apologetic smile. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” she answers though her heart still races. When it begins to settle, dread is quick to retake its place.

“Are you well?”

“I am fine…” she lies, but she cannot help but look back into the Cathedral and its grisly contents.

“Ah,” the Prince hums when he realizes. “It is a dreadful sight.”

The sounds of knights shuffling around them begin fading into the background. There are no right words to say, none that seem appropriate.

“It is a shame what happened to that man,” the boy does manage to get out. 

“It is truly terrible,” she whispers in agreement. “May the Goddess deliver his cursed soul some peace…”

“‘Cursed?’”

“Yes. I cannot imagine a fate befalling anyone who isn’t.”

“Hm. I suppose that is one way to view it.”

“Do you disagree?”

She turns to him and sees his face is solemn and contemplative. His eyes are trained on the debris but stare at nothing in particular. It takes a moment before he begins to speak. 

“I think it was his actions that led to the fate that befell him,” he tells her. “I like to believe we are responsible for the things we become. Though, maybe he was cursed to always end up this way. Only the Goddess knows, I suppose.”

The girl hums in acknowledgment of his idea, though it does nothing to quell her anxiety. She wonders if her act of living had already been enough to affront the Goddess from the very beginning.

“Do you think he knew it would end this way?”

The Prince’s expression darkens for a moment before turning into subdued somberness.

“I’m sure he did not intend for it to,” he reasons. “But his mind was set, no matter what. It’s a frightening thing… the power that lost lives holds over us.”

There is a pensive sadness on his face now, and the girl cannot help but feel a burning shame. She hated this, the way that she had bothered him with something only meant for her.

“Forgive me for speaking nonsense,” she mutters, turning away downcast.

“Your sympathy is not nonsense, my friend. Besides, I am the one who wanted to see if you were well.”

“I am fine. There is nothing wrong.”

“So you say. I hope you did not mind me checking anyway.”

“I only mind your time,” she tells him shortly. “Your friends could be looking for you.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine.” He chuckles reservedly. “They have been fussing over me since the moment you all arrived.”

“For good reason.”

“Yes, true. Though I found you standing here by your lonesome a good reason to stop by, as well. You looked like you could use the company.”

“I am not good company to keep.”

“On the contrary. I find your company quite fortuitous like always.”

Her face wrinkles with just the briefest hints of annoyance. His dogged persistence is enough to finally make her look at him so she can ask with force why he is being this way, and she is met with a tired yet wry smile on his face and a playfulness in his eyes. 

It dawns on her that there is a purpose to his persistence, his way of bringing levity to their situation. It was ridiculous, the girl thinks, to do something so insensitive at this time for her sake. Perhaps it is the absurdity that earns him a defeated huff and a short laugh. His face turns gentler at the sight of her brief smile, his eyes much more caring.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “That suits you much better.”

There is a part of her that wishes she was braver so she could tell him the same.

A voice calls out from behind them, and the pair turn around to see the Professor and their classmates down the stairs and on the bridge leading away from the Cathedral. The group is beckoning them over. 

The Prince begins to move, but not before he offers his hand to the girl. 

“Come. This night has done neither of us any good. Better to spend what little is left of it for rest.”

An impulsive need to stare back inside begs her to stay put for a moment longer. But when he looks at her like that, the exhaustion of his person giving way to the warmth he gives her instead, she accepts his hand and is led down the stairs. 

She does not spare any effort to look back. 

Her life is monotonous if Marianne had to describe it truthfully. Almost every day is filled with clerical work related to governmental affairs. She has pored over so many documents, scheduled so many appointments, maintained so many records, and penned so many letters that both her eyes and her writing hand ache for hours on end when she retires at the end of the day. 

For as tedious as the life she lives is, the work she does has some purpose, or so the ones in her estate say. “A carriage, even with wheels, cannot move if they do not spin,” her father tells her, and the carriage that is House Edmund must move if they are to keep the Leicester Alliance from splitting itself apart. And so she makes sure the wheels spin, her minuscule contributions hopefully having some ripple effects in the grand scheme of a continent at war. It is a life that has her occupied day in and day out, and it is the one she has resigned to live for years now.

Perhaps that is why she has not given up on it yet. Not from lack of want but from lack of time.

~~~

The air is cool in the early morning Marianne spends one of her rare days of break. She is with a friend, her only friend in the estate, and the two slowly trot across the range behind the manor as they bask in the atmosphere around them. These morning rides with Dorte seem to be the only thing that truly calms her these days, so she takes her time with her steed. 

It is not like she is not granted days to rest. She just finds that the company of her mind is not one she wishes to engage with. On most days like today, she prays. If she is not working or sleeping, she is praying, locked away in her room as she asks the Goddess for repentance and judgment. Other times, she dedicates herself to her magic practices. She recalls how a certain professor from the academy would tell them that if they do not use their skills, then they will lose them entirely, and Marianne feels a part of her owes that man some effort since he had given her his. Perhaps that is also why she keeps up her swordplay, even if the act leaves her at risk of remembering days best forgotten. Too many people that are long gone have given her their time. It is exactly why she cannot rest. It is not fair to them and not something she deserves.

Sometimes she wonders if she had forgotten how to relax or if it was an intrinsic part of her that she lost with everything else along the way. 

Her ride slows until he stops in the middle of their wide range, and she is grateful that her friend prevents her from wondering any longer. She leaves her saddle and retrieves two apples she had stowed away and moves to meet her friend. She lovingly rubs her hand through Dorte’s mane before offering him his apple, the animal gladly taking it from her. With a deep inhale and exhale, she takes a bite of her own. The breeze is gentle, and the sun is barely poking past the clouds that cover the sky. 

It is one of the few times she can breathe, so she soaks it in.

“I hope I have not kept you waiting too long, Dorte,” Marianne whispers to her friend. “It has been quite some time since we’ve had time to ourselves, hm?”

She is pleased that he does not seem upset with how he nuzzles her lightly. 

“Navigating the war is stressful for the Alliance. House Edmund is constantly evaluating where our allegiances stand. I hope you understand.”

Leicester has been embroiled in conflict for quite some time. House Riegan and House Gloucester are constantly at each other’s throats on whether to align with the Kingdom or the Empire. Marianne does not know how Claude keeps them all at bay, let alone together as a cohesive unit, but it is something she thanks him for greatly. 

“Tomorrow, we ride to Gloucester’s manor first thing in the morning, ” she tells her friend. “Count Gloucester and my father have important matters to discuss, no doubt about allying with the Empire.”

Marianne frowns at the thought of it. She cannot deny that Edelgard’s betrayal still stings, but her ideals and her unshakeable determination strike a chord within her, as does her vision. A world without the need for Crests is one she wishes she was born into, one she wishes future generations could see. 

What type of of sin is it, then, to think that it is not worth killing her friends for?

Though perhaps it is selfish of her to still think she has a right to call them friends. The letters they write to her are infrequent across the moons of the year, with minor updates to let her know that they still live and to wish her well. Despite that, Marianne can never bring herself to write back. She has not been able to write back since the days after, years ago, when their letters made their way into her hands, one after the other. They were filled with an inconsolable sadness and anger, a grief so strong that it embedded itself into her and still has not left. 

Yet in all of those letters, they had found time to comfort her like she had also lost something precious, and the guilt of earning their undeserved sympathy in their time of mourning was enough to make her sick with shame. 

It is too much to write back knowing that she may have had a hand in their misfortune.

“Oh, Dorte…” she sighs under the clouded sun knowing that she has lost any chance of a quiet morning for her mind. “They fight on the front lines of war while I tend to papers and listen to squabbling lords who hold their lives in their hands.”

The framing of it makes her feel small and pathetic. Her friends in the Kingdom fight for their homes, and yet she is here, carrying on with no purpose or reason. She is not brave like the Lions, nor is she talented and full of life or ambition like she sees in the rest of her Golden Deer companions.

She sighs again, and it is weary and worn.

"For what purpose am I still here…"

Dorte is there by her side, but the thoughts do not stop.

Her life is monotonous when it should not be anything at all.

~~~

It is beautiful in House Gloucester, she will give it that. 

It is not like Marianne has not accompanied her father to the main estate before, but their arrival tonight was prepared for festivities before their real work began the next day. The main hall was already somewhat lavish, as befitting the Gloucesters, but the way it is now with the glowing chandeliers above lighting the luxurious roses that seems to be outfitted along every inch of the walls is a breathtaking spectacle. The guests present for the occasion are dressed elegantly and dance to the tune of the band whose instruments swell the hall with wonderful music. She wonders if there is any irony in using festivities to convince someone to take sides in a war, but Marianne cannot find herself caring for she is not up for either.

She is dressed for the occasion, of course.  Appearances and expectations are important for this type of event. Her beautiful dark blue dress is lined with small beads all across the bottom skirt, and it shines under the light in a way that simulates the night sky. It is unfortunate for her dressmakers that Marianne has tucked herself away in the corner of the hall away from the lights and individuals that crowd the floor. 

Marianne has never been one for balls or parties, and the few she has attended had her in much the same position as now. She is content to simply stand alone on the sidelines and enjoy the music until an appropriate enough time has passed and she can excuse herself. 

Still, even tucked away from others, a young noble is there to greet her, a rose pinned upon his outfit and purple hair falling to his side.

“Hello, Marianne,” Lorenz says in his gentlemanly and refined way. “As beautiful as ever, my good friend.”

“And you as well, Lorenz,” she replies as gracefully as she can. “House Edmund is delighted by the hospitality that House Gloucester has provided us.”

“Of course. Only the best for our friends.” He has two drinks in hand and offers her one. She accepts even though fancy wine has never been one for her palate.

“It is good that I get the chance to see you so soon after last month,” he says. “We were so busy navigating the dispute of those conflicting merchant routes that I never got a chance to speak with you alone. A commendable effort from you, might I add.”

“I think we should be thanking Ignatz for giving us a stronger understanding of the lay of the land,” she clarifies. “We probably wouldn’t have resolved it without his expertise.”

“Yes, but you were the first one to suggest bringing him in.”

“You know him as well, Lorenz. I’m sure you would have thought of the idea sooner rather than later.”

It is easy enough to get him to drop the line of conversation. He takes a sip from his glass with a refined demeanor before speaking of something else.

“I am surprised you have come for these discussions about the Empire,” in a lower tone than before. “I did not think you’d be particularly interested.”

“House Edmund’s stake in the war is just as important as the rest of the houses,” Marianne says seriously. “My father’s stance is up in the air so it should be no surprise that he would like to hear about the Empire from a firsthand source.

“I am not talking about your father or House Edmund, Marianne. I am talking about you.” 

She tenses slightly at his emphasis, but she does not let it change her demeanor. 

“I must assist my father should he need me. You know that.”

“Of course,” he says simply. “Though, I’d imagine the… proposition may not sit right with you. I wanted to hear your thoughts, honest and true.”

She understands what he is getting at, what he is implying.

“I want the war to end,” she says briefly. “Whatever avenue best reaches that and best benefits House Edmund is what we will do, just like how House Gloucester operates.”

It is not necessarily a lie. She wishes for the war’s end as much as anyone else. But the thought of her house contributing to the end of the Kingdom and her friends as she knows them stirs a deep feeling of nausea and guilt in her that she can no longer deny that allying with the Empire is not what she wants.

Lorenz nods slowly at her answer, practiced and emotionless it may have been, and she does not like the way he seems unconvinced nor does she like the slight worry in his eye.

“Tell me, Marianne,” he says, uncaring of their previous discussion, “how do you fare these days?”

“I do well enough. I am busy, as we all are, but it’s what we must do.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what ‘Marianne, the Lady of House Edmund and Keeper of Affairs’ does, but how does ‘Marianne, my dear friend,’ fare?”

He is looking over her now with a gentle and pleading face that one sports when coaxing out a scared animal, and all she can do is sigh tiredly. She was not in the mood.

“I do my best, Lorenz,” she says wearily. “As good as one such as me can.”

“And it is admirable, indeed,” he tells her, his voice now only for her. He stares at her intently like he used to do when they were first acquainted. “Do you remember what I told you at the Academy, Marianne? About the realization I came to with you?”

His voice is filled with nostalgia, but Marianne tries not to recall it, choosing not to reminisce about days from a different time.

“What did you tell me?”

“I said you have an inner beauty that comes from your heart. And your heart tells so much. I think it deserves a little peace.”

A gloved hand enters her vision. Lorenz is offering it to her, smiling with kindness and a sort of longing. 

“You need not tell me anything, Marianne. I will not press anything on you. But please, enjoy yourself. If only for a moment.”

She considers it. She truly does. Physically, her hand can reach out so easily and grasp his, and she can throw her cares away for one night, at least. 

But when the thought of it crosses her mind, the heart that she keeps hidden aches in a way that threatens to dig up buried memories. Thoughts of a dance from a night that feels bygone flit to the top of her mind, and her heart aches so much. 

She cannot help but feel she is betraying the memory of a boy long forgotten, cannot help but feel that she has paid the price of this before. 

“I am sorry, Lorenz,” she tells him with a trembling voice and a small smile carrying agonizing regret. “I am not one for dancing. I don’t think I ever will be.”

He takes it in stride, and she is grateful that he does such a thing for her. There is sadness in his smile now. Not for himself, but for her.

“Of course. I understand. Let me know if you ever need anything. I will always be there.”

She watches him walk away, his body becoming lost in the shuffling and mingling of the rest of the guests present. 

Marianne looks at it all. The roses, the dancing, the laughing, and the happiness that fills the entire hall. She looks at it all and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if this was the Goddess’ judgment she has been praying for. Not of death, but the knowledge of knowing that the sights before her are not for the misfortunate soul she was cursed to be.

His life is hell. Dimitri cannot imagine describing it as anything else. He drifts from location to location and finds the rats that infest his homeland. He kills and he kills and he kills until they are purged and the specters are satisfied. 

It is bloody, and he spares no one. It matters not how many blows he takes, how much blood he loses, or how many nights he will spend near death. He will kill all of Edelgard’s soldiers. And when there are no soldiers left to sacrifice for the dead, he will kill her too. It has been his life for the past year, and it is the life he has chosen until he frees the souls of the damned.

It is why he cannot die. He is an agent of the dead, and their demands must be met.

~~~

He pulls the spear out of the soldier with finality, the soldier’s last breath rattling out of him and vanishing like the rest of his comrades. Dimitri kicks the corpse to ensure it remains that way and feels it is enough when it no longer moves. He looks around him and sees much the same as the sight of the footman at his feet. Bodies of Adrestian soldiers litter the white snow, the small detachment’s campgrounds now a marker for death. Only minutes ago they were full of life, and now their bodies will feed the crows and be buried under Faerghus’ snow. 

As the adrenaline begins to leave him, he grunts and struggles to keep himself upright with his spear as the wounds of his excursions begin to settle upon him. He breathes heavily, and each breath only serves to make him more conscious of where every wound, laceration, cut, and bruise is on his body. He growls and tries to power through it, his steps heavy and forceful, but he stumbles from the pain. He falls to his knees, his vision blurring as he kneels there, bleeding and breathing deeply. 

He is a force of death, but he is not invincible, and the accumulated wounds of tens of hundreds of soldiers over the course of months catch up to him.

But he cannot die. It is not in their plans.

“Rest, my son,” a voice whispers to him so close that he can feel the breathing. “You cannot fall here.”

“I must kill them,” he whispers back, strained and grim. “She cannot get away with this. I must kill them all.”

“And you will. You owe us that much. But you cannot accomplish that if you were to die here. Is that what you want? To fail and leave us behind?”

A dreadful feeling squeezes around his chest, and Dimitri weakly shakes his head.

“Good," the voice says to him with satisfaction. "Don’t forget, my son. You are our only salvation.”

The last word from his father lingers like a slow breeze before disintegrating in the afternoon’s cold winds. He remains there listless, acutely taking in every sensation and feeling. The wounds underneath his armor pulse around his body with debilitating pain. The snow beneath his legs seems to seep through his greaves. The wind blows around him, carrying the stench of copper and decay.

How badly he wishes it would all stop.

Dimitri shudders out a breath, and he refocuses his vision. With newfound clarity, he sees a town away in the distance.

Hauling himself upright against his spear, he begins to trudge through the snow. 

~~~

Under the cover of the setting sun, Dimitri slinked into the modest-sized town he had spotted and took refuge in its back alleys, while avoiding the eyes of citizens and guards. With his armor stuffed away in a burlap sack and his tattered rags barely hiding his salve-covered wounds underneath, he sits in the protection of the dirty, narrow passage he had settled into and waits until he is healed enough to move again.

He never planned to enter any settlements when this all began, but he could not hold out for long. They are warmer than the harsh snows of the wilds even if they are the streets of whatever alley he hides in, and there is food to be found even if he must feast with the vermin among the thrown-out scraps. 

Most of all, there is information to be had while wasting away in squalor. It may be his home, but the Adrestian army controls these lands. He sees their soldiers, and he not only knows how they walk and patrol, but he learns where they walk and patrol. In time, he will see where they end up, where the rats' nest presides, and he will do what must be done.

He sees other things in his time drifting from slum to slum. The war has done no good for Faerghus citizens so close to the fighting. He has firsthand experience with the damage the war is doing to its citizens under the Western Lords who swear allegiance to the Empire. Their people and the Adrestian forces that occupy them have a barely contained tension in their interactions, and fights that break the peace between them are common. The amount of displaced people who have lost their homes in the fighting and now live in squalor like he does are widespread. It is enough to fill him with a different kind of anger and rage, one for those who have thrown his Kingdom into disarray and show their back to its people to save their own skins.

But he has no ground to stand on.  He avoids interacting with anyone, scares them off if they come close, and they, in turn, avoid him. Even refugees that take shelter in the same passages that he does give him a wide berth, and it is better that way.

They are not his people, and he is not their prince. He had given up all of that the day he died. 

He is not beholden to the country he once loved. His existence is not for the living at all.

~~~

Dimitri had not moved from the spot he had made for himself hours ago. He is slumped over in the alley, his fur cloak wrapped around him as the cold night truly begins to start. His body is still recovering, and he cannot spare any effort to move. He is still, and he wonders if it looks like he is well and truly dead to any onlookers.

“Um… sir?”

Dimitri’s body flies into a defensive stance, his body screaming both instinctually and in pain at the threat. His eye is wide and wild, and he snarls at the person standing over him as he finally assesses the enemy.

A young boy is standing there, his arms held up non-threateningly and his face shocked and terrified. His sandy brown hair is neatly cut short atop his head, and there is nothing notable on his person besides a bag he holds in one of his hands. His brown eyes stare back with fear.

Dimitri does not move, but he does not stop glaring either. The boy, after a few moments of pause, awkwardly chuckles.

“You gave me a fright, sir,” he says. “Though I did sneak up on you, I suppose. My apologies for that. Hehe. Uh.”

Dimitri does not say anything. His one-eyed glare is enough.

“Right. Um. Here.” The boy slowly lowers his hand and offers the bag to him. Dimitri growls as he gets closer, unaware of what the boy was planning when the aroma reaches his nose. Trying his best to keep the boy in his vision, Dimitri quickly peers into the bag.

There are freshly baked loaves of bread within, the scent tantalizing and delicious. 

Dimitri glares at the young man with slight apprehension, who can only fight the tension with another strained laugh.

“My colleagues and I received some fresh food earlier,” he begins to explain. “We’re a young bunch relative to the rest, and the ones sending it like us a fair bit for that so we had some extra. I thought it’d be a waste to throw it out and let the insects have it, and I saw you here earlier when I was making the rounds.” 

Dimitri takes a moment to process his story as the boy’s bag of bread is left there between them. Understanding his life is not in danger, he scoffs and moves to sit back down like before. 

“Leave me,” he spits out at the boy before covering himself in his cloak again.

“Oh. Okay. Do you want me to leave this here, or…?”

“I do not care. Leave.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll leave this beside you, then.”

“Do not give me your sympathy or pity.”

“Of course not. I’m only giving you bread.”

Dimitri’s head snaps up from beneath his cloak to glare at the boy again who retreats apologetically. 

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he says with a smile. “But I do think you should have this.”

“And what makes you think I deserve anything?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s a matter of ‘who deserves what.’ The war has been terrible for many, you know? So I’m just simply helping someone I think could use it. Is that so bad?”

Dimitri’s eye narrows at the boy who looks over him with helpful eyes and a soft smile. Dimitri reckons the boy could be no older than when he was years ago when he enrolled in the Officers Academy. The thought of that place brings forth the memories of another life entirely, and he cannot help but remember the feeling of those days or the faces of those from long ago. The way this boy speaks to him brings to mind a reliable and earnest archer, and the memory of that boy in turn beckons forth the visages of others. They are the faces of friends long forgotten, or at least faces he has tried to forget. Some faces bring forth feelings of camaraderie and some instill confidence and pride. There is a face that reminds him of times when he felt light in both body and heart, and it threatens to stir something within him, feelings buried and left dead forever ago.

“Sir?” 

Dimitri had been staring for quite some time, and the young boy stared back. Dimitri sighs briefly as he remembers where he is and those fleeting feelings leave him like they were never there. 

“Do whatever you want,” he coldly tells the boy before covering himself in his cloak again. “I do not care.”

“Oh, good! Then I’ll just leave-”

“Oi! Phillip!”

Both of them turn to the sound of a girl calling out from the entry to the alley. She looks stern and around the same age, and she beckons for him to come.

“What are you doing mingling with that vagrant?” She shouts out to him. “They called us to investigate, so get suited up already!”

He turns to Dimitri and he shrugs bashfully. He places the bag of bread at Dimitri’s feet.

“Sorry for that, sir. Take care.”

Dimitri does not watch him leave. He sits in his spot and looks over the bag, the heat of the bread steaming into the cold air.

It has been a long time since he has had anything resembling a conversation with another living being, even if it was not of his own free will. He thinks of the boy who offered him kindness and tries to recall when was the last time he had been given that.

Phillip, Dimitri notes in his mind. The boy seemed decent enough.

He begins to reach for the bread when he hears it. 

He freezes as he focuses on the sound of armor and weapons rustling against each other, their metallic sounds starting to fill the air. Orders and directions are called out, and they rise above the town and fill the air.

Dimitri slowly stands despite his body’s protests. Cautiously, and using the shadows as cover, he makes his way to the entryway of the alley and peers around the corner. 

Imperial soldiers stationed in the town are scurrying out of their places of rest and are moving out. He watches them filing out towards the exit of the town.

A dark and twisted feeling consumes him as he watches the Adrestians move. He retreats into the alley, walks past his father and mother, Glenn and Dedue, and unwraps his armor. 

The rats have revealed their nest.

~~~

He had followed the soldiers from afar, their torchlight a beacon for him as he maneuvered through the brush on the side of the roads they traveled. He had stalked them for quite some time, the cold threatening to freeze him entirely, but he persisted in his pursuit. He took his spot a distance away behind some trees from where the soldiers had gathered and observed. 

They had returned to the site earlier in the day where Dimitri had left carcasses to rot. The site was lit up now from the fires of torches and campfires made to melt the snow away and unearth the bodies. The soldiers seemed petrified by the sight as many of them argued amongst themselves on how to proceed. 

They were uncoordinated and uneasy from what he could tell. This would be over quickly.

The sound of crunching snow and a gasp grabbed Dimitri’s attention, his eye snapping to his left. An Imperial soldier was there, the man unknowingly stumbling upon his position. 

Dimitri and the spearman stare at each other for a moment. His wild glare did not hide what he had come here to do, and the realization of that dawned upon the soldier who began to tremble.

“E-Everyone! He’s here-”

Dimitri lunged and knocked him to the ground. Wrenching the spear from him, Dimitri pulled it from his grasp then raised his foot and stomped.

His foot came back up slick and wet, the soldier unmoving, but his cry for help was enough. When Dimitri turned around, they were coming to him all at once. 

His eye darted and began to count before they were all over him. 

Five. Ten. Twenty.

Flourishing his spear, Dimitri knew it would not be enough.

~~~

He parried the weak blow from the sword slice of his opponent before running them through. When he pulled back, the Adrestian soldier fell wordlessly.

He scoffed at the pitiful effort.

The soldiers were strewn about. What was left of their bodies covered the area and were dimly illuminated by the dying fires. 

His eye narrowed as thoughts began pouring in. 

Many, if not all of them barely put up a fight worth battling. They flailed at him and swung their weapons with barely any skill, and he had punished them mercilessly for it. No group has ever been a match for him, but even this display was worse than what he expected of trained soldiers.

Most of them screamed in fear and tried to run. He did not let them. 

In the middle of his pondering, running footsteps began to start from behind. He turned around to see one last soldier making a feeble attempt to kill him. They ran at him with one last meager battle cry, their sword raised high above their head and swinging down on him. 

Dimitri dodged to the side with little effort. 

Seeing the stumbling soldier, Dimitri grabbed a discarded sword from the ground. Kicking the soldier onto their back, he sat atop them and plunged the sword into their chest

With the last soldier down, Dimitri sat there atop the body, his hands still on the hilt of the sword as he began to catch his breath.

“...Sir?”

A feeble, nearly inaudible whimper left the soldier’s lips. His eye widened in surprise. 

He recognized that voice.

Slowly, Dimitri looked up from the sword and down upon the soldier’s protected face. 

Past the visor of the helmet, he could see brown eyes that stared back up at him in fear.

His hands began to tremble and quake. Removing themselves from the hilt of the sword, they shakily moved and unmasked the soldier.

The boy from earlier was there, blood trailing down the corners of his mouth and tears gathering in his eyes.

“Sir…? Is… that you?”

Dimitri’s mouth was agape as it began to sink in.

“Mother… I want to see…”

The boy’s sentence was left unfinished as his life rattled out of him in one whimpering breath. 

Dimitri watched the life leave his eyes, so kind and full of warmth earlier now cold, dead, and empty. 

His breathing began to quicken. He moved to whatever bodies he could find nearby and took off their helmets.

He unmasked them all.

And Dimitri could finally feel the magnitude of his sins bearing down upon him like fire.

~~~

Dimitri sat in the middle of what he had made. He could not move.

His mind was a turbulent storm. It was at war with itself as it tried to justify what they had done.

Dimitri has killed so many before tonight. Men and women of all ages. This was no different. No different, a voice within him desperately repeated over and over again.

But no matter how much his inner monologue spoke, he was paralyzed into being still.

He could not risk seeing any of their faces.

They were not just the faces of young conscripted boys and girls.

He saw their faces.

His friends stared at him, lifeless and mangled. 

A lone figure walked up to him leaving no tracks in the snow. It knelt in front of him and leaned in closely.

“What is the matter, son?” His father asked him. 

Dimitri sat there, unmoving and horrified. A sob left him as he could not think of anything else except what he had just done.

“They were scum, my boy,” his father continued. “They were sent by Edelgard to disgrace our home and to kill you."

His father's face leaned in so close, the mouth of the specter whispering deeply and slowly into his ear.

"This is retribution.”

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to yell until his throat went hoarse and the snow consumed him entirely and utterly.

“Look around you, son,” his father whispered sweetly. “It is okay.”

Dimitri looks at it all. He sees Ashe, Annette, Mercedes, Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix in their faces. He sees her face among them. He looks at them all and lets the truth of his reality settle deep into his being.

This is his life, and it is the one he had chosen for himself.

Chapter Text

She swings up and swings down, her curved training sword landing squarely upon the practice dummy. Her slices flow like smooth water, the movements of her combo connecting seamlessly. The girl lets her sword arm settle at her side, the burning sensation of a full workout filling her body. Her labored panting is the only sound that fills the empty training grounds.

“Excellent form and follow through. I’m impressed.”

Her training instructor stands to the side, the Prince smiling at her with pride. She turns away from his beaming directed at her, the sight filling her with warm embarrassment.

“I don’t think it deserves much praise,” she tries to say. “That was the first time I was able to complete it without breaking my grip.”

“Progress should be praised,” he countered. “You only just started, after all.”

She is only three days deep into her personalized sword lessons. The Professor had assigned him to oversee her since the man was busy himself. It seemed sinful of her to take advantage of the boy’s kindness time and time again, but if he had any issues with it, she could not tell. 

This particular drill was how they have been ending their lessons. It was simple in theory. Twenty consecutive downwards and upwards strokes upon the training dummy. However, she did not anticipate how the continued shock of her blows or the repeated motions would numb her arm and cause her grip to break. 

“I apologize for struggling with the basics,” the girl tells him. “We probably could have moved on if I were better.”

“It’s not about moving along as fast as possible,” he replies. “Setting up your fundamentals is of utmost importance. And we’re progressing just fine.”

His tone is soothing and his words set her at ease a bit, but her self doubt is still evident on her face. Though she tries to hide it, the Prince can see it. Surprisingly, it brings a nostalgic chuckle out of him.

“You know, when I was a child, my father and my instructor made me do this drill every day for an entire year when I started.” 

“I doubt someone like you needed to spend that long on something so simple.” 

“That’s what I would tell them,” he said. “But they were adamant on it. They made me swing up and down until my arm felt like it would fall off, barking at me if my stance or my form ever got sloppy before telling me to start all over again.”

“Am I… going to have to do that?”

“Oh, I’m not such a strict teacher, luckily for you.”

He laughs again, and she finds herself smiling with him. It was rare for him to speak of his childhood to her like this, especially with such warmth. It feels like something she should not be privy to but could not get enough of if given the chance. 

When his laughter fades, he regards her with his usual care and patience he affords her. 

“What I’m trying to say is that it matters not how fast you need to learn, only that you learn something at all. The repetition of this drill will help instill a foundation to start and will help your discipline once you’re more experienced. So take your time.”

His advice sounds sage, and she nods along with renewed confidence. 

“I will do my best, then,” she says. “I hope it is enough.”

“I’ve yet to see it not be.” 

She returns to swinging her sword, the sound of wood smacking wood ringing out over and over again until she loses herself in it. She holds her training weapon tightly, the curved wood emulating a saber instead of their usual straight swords. The Prince had switched her over after their first day saying the finesse of it suited her better, and though she disagreed with his reasoning, she could not disagree with the results. 

With one more final downward swing, her sword connects, but her hand struggles to keep the hilt straight in place. The sword turns uncomfortably in her hand, but she manages to keep from dropping it entirely. 

The girl opens and closes her palm to ease the pain when she feels him close by her side. She hopes he did not notice the way her breath catches in her throat when she turns to him. He is standing there with his hands slightly raised, and he stares at her with a look in his eyes that is asking her for permission. She nods wordlessly and raises her sword forward in stance.

His hands settle lightly upon her, one on the top of her back and one on her sword hand. It is not the first time he has checked or corrected her posture like this, and it certainly would not be the last, and yet she cannot help but focus on the spots where his body meets hers. His hands are always gentle. Too gentle, she once realized, like he is afraid of applying any force upon her at all. But no matter how light it is, his hands upon her are the only things she can notice no matter how hard she tries to think otherwise. 

“You’re tense,” he says, and her heart almost bursts with shame until he continues. “Your muscles are a bit too rigid in your arm and in your hand. Probably overcompensating since you’re more worn. Relax a bit.” 

She follows his instructions as best as she can as she loosens the tension in her body. When he feels it is appropriate, he lets go and his absence is felt. When she turns to him, he beckons her to swing again.

Her slice is smooth and pure. He hums approvingly.

She is just about to start her last rep for the day when she sees him grab his own training sword. He motions for her to follow him until they are in the center of the Training Grounds sparring area. She looks at him with confusion.

“I think you’ve swung enough on inanimate objects,” he answers her unspoken question. “Before we finish, practice your last rep with me. A live partner is much better to get used to actual combat, after all.”

Her face narrows despite his eagerness. 

“Are you sure? I don’t know if…”

Her question trails off as her hesitancy grows. It is one thing to swing on a glorified wooden post. It is another to direct blows upon another human, a friend no less. She knows her sentiment is antithetical to learning a martial art, but cursed blood is in her veins, and she cannot help but feel fear of it harming him.

But when she looks at him and finds him looking back with his same care and patience, her anxiety stills for a moment.

“Don’t worry about me,” he reassures her. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t think you were ready.” He straightens himself and raises sword arm. “Trust me like I trust you.”

He peers at her behind his sword, soft yet expectant. There is no fear or lack of confidence for her. 

Steadying herself, she cautiously brings up her sword and swings downward like she has always done, and he is there to meet her. When she swings upwards, he meets her again, deftly and with force.

He smiles proudly. He calls for her to continue.

In the Training Grounds, she continues to swing. 

Up and down. 

Up and down.

Marianne brings her sword up, the blade of her saber whizzing through the air. She holds her follow through for a moment before letting her arm come to a rest at her side. She breathes in deeply before exhaling much the same, her sigh joining the breeze of the open range around her. 

It is another early morning in the Edmund estate, and she has taken her brief moment of rest to amble around in the range with Dorte. Her friend is grazing a bit off to the side while she practiced the motions of her swordplay. 

Usually, she practices in the training yard where the guards of the estate are, but she has taken to practicing by herself in recent months. The soldiers always found her efforts amusing throughout the years. Some even appreciated her technique and how she could keep up with them blow for blow. Still, they treat her more like a spectacle and not a fighter. They laugh sometimes and praise “whoever had taught the little lady how to hold a sword.”

They had become much too loud for Marianne.

She sheathes her saber at her side, a simple weapon for self defense. It had taken some convincing to her father to let her carry a weapon as the man was adamant that such things did not suit a noble government worker like her, but he relented when the war became too much and thieves and ruffians had become more common than ever.

Her aching muscles begin to settle, and the sun begins to rise higher above the cloudy horizon. She stares up listlessly at the gray sky, and she sighs deeply once again.

Another day has come.

~~~

She places the stack of documents down on her desk and rubs her eyes. It is late, and she is in her room getting a head start read of whatever papers demanded her attention tomorrow morning. She struggled to read with what little candlelight she had left before finally giving in. She leans back in her seat and yawns, but the contents of the papers she had just read are at the forefront of her mind.

A village on the outskirts of Edmund territory was requesting aid for an investigation. People loitering at night for whatever reason are missing the next day with their whereabouts unknown. 

Marianne does not realize she is burning until a knock on her door snaps her out of her thoughts.

“Come in.”

Her door flies open and her father enters quickly and with haste like he always does. He is just about halfway through a sentence he started speaking before he even entered her room when he pauses at the sight of her.

“Marianne, my girl. Were you working? It’s late. I’ve told you not to stay up after hours for this.”

“I am simply preparing for tomorrow,” she tells him straight. Her hand grabs the written request for aid, and she holds it out to him. “Father, have you read this?”

“I would have tomorrow like we were supposed to,” he mutters under his breath before taking it. His eyes quickly scan the paper line by line. He hums with curiosity when he is finished. “Hm. Another one, I see.”

“‘Another one,’” she repeats worriedly. “Father, how long has this been going on?”

“I can assure you that it’s only happened one other time,” he says with no urgency. “We’ll send the appropriate officials to handle this business tomorrow, and that will be that.”

“Father-”

“Do not worry, Marianne,” he interrupts her. “Everything will be handled. You need not concern yourself with this.”

His tone is soft, but his eyes are sharp and look at her like they ask for an understanding. She knows that he is asking her to drop the topic. It is the same look he gives when he tells her to act in her best interest but truly wants her to act for House Edmund’s. There is a dreadful feeling picking at her heart, but her body and mind are so exhausted. She concedes and nods solemnly. 

“Good,” the Margrave says. “Now, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I needed to let you know that Duke Riegan will be arriving within the week and that you should prepare for his arrival.”

“Claude?” Marianne frowns. It has been quite some time that she has seen her friend in person outside of a couple of glances when their families meet at Deirdru. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, I’m sure that boy is fine. He is probably just coming to do his due diligence on where House Edmund stands with the Alliance and with the war. I wanted to make sure you understand that House Edmund remains neutral to the Kingdom and to the Empire since you know he will probe.”

“Of course, Father,” she says with little energy. Her friend is visiting, and yet her father has to remind her that everything they do must be calculated. “Is that all?”

“It is,” he replies swiftly. He promptly makes his way to her door, only stopping short of closing her door. “Make sure you get some sleep, my girl. Can’t have you out on your feet.”

Her door clicks shut, and it takes everything in her to not sigh her soul out of her body. She slinks to her bed and gracelessly crawls underneath its covers. 

~~~

Marianne brings up the cup of tea to her mouth and takes a sip. The earthy flavor coats her mouth. It is not a flavor she would have chosen herself, but she is glad to see that her tea partner enjoys it as he lets out a deep and satisfied sigh.

“Finally, a house that knows how to treat a man right,” Claude says after taking another sip. “I’m surprised you people even have this stuff.”

“I made sure to procure some when I heard you were coming over.”

“And that is why you are one of my favorites, my friend.”

It does her well to see that Claude can keep his jovial attitude like he always has. It certainly threw her servants and her Father out of sorts when he had arrived in the morning on the back of his wyvern, but Marianne could only smile when he touched down and continued on like everything was normal. 

They sit together on one of the estate’s terraces. It is a beautiful day now that she had a moment to bask in it as the two sit under the blue sky where the hedges and modest fountain of the courtyard fill the background of their conversations. The good Duke Riegan had been insistent that he shared a cup of tea with his dear friend before the official meetings with the Margrave began. She could already see the maids hiding in her peripherals ready to assist them at their beck and call. 

It was fun, she had to admit. She could always thank Claude for that.

“When's the last time we had a decent chat, Marianne,” he began, his tea finished and set aside. “I hope wartime and government work haven't been too harsh on you.”

“I do as well as I can,” she tells him. “I pray you aren’t too worn yourself.”

“Ah, come on, look at me. Do I look like someone who’s struggling to keep a nation stitched together?”

She knows he is joking, but she can see how everything has affected him. It was inarguable that he had the most responsibility out of all them from their class, and it showed in his eyes and in his body. She knows how difficult it is to hide a weariness that has seeped into your bones. 

“I think you look quite alright,” she says to play along. 

He laughs and gives her a wink.

“I’m glad my charm can be appreciated by someone here.”

They speak for a bit, idly chatting about their friends and where they are. Claude had been visiting each of the houses of the Five Great Lords and had run into each of them at one point or another. They are all just like him, working and living their lives. 

It brings a rare genuine smile to her face to know that her friends are all succeeding in their own ways.

“I wish I could just shoot the breeze with you here all day and leave the busy work until tomorrow,” Claude tells her as their idle talks run their course. “Surely the Margrave can sit on his hands for one day.”

“It would be fun, but I’m sure my Father can only pace around in his office so much waiting for your discussion.”

“Then let him pace,” Claude says. Though he had been leaning back in his chair the entire time, he sits forward now. “Spare me a couple more minutes, Marianne.”

She can recognize the look on his face and the shift in his tone. She’s been through this countless times with her friends already. 

“Just a couple, Claude,” Marianne gets out, unable to completely mask the resignation in her voice. 

“Thank you. I won’t take too long. Everyone else got to take a crack at it, so I’m long overdue, you know?” Claude leans on his elbow casually, his face placed upon his hand. “How have you been? Truthfully.”

The sigh escapes her before she can hold it back. 

“I am exhausted,” she answers. “Truthfully.”

“I bet. Sometimes I still struggle to wrap my head around Marianne von Edmund from the Academy being the busiest worker out of all of us. I’d like to say I knew you had it in you, but not like this.”

“We all change, I suppose.”

“We sure do,” he says in a voice that carries a hint of some emotion. “Though, I was hoping some of that change would include a bit more relaxation. You got to find some moments of fun, yeah?”

“There is a war,” she replies somberly like she has the many other times she has run through this conversation. “I have to do whatever I can.”

“Mm. Sure.”

She watches him idly stir his lukewarm tea. It takes a few moments before he speaks again.

“Speaking of, I hope you have some plans after this whole war business is over.”

“‘Plans?’”

“Yeah. We’re going into year five of this whole thing. The end has to be creeping up sooner rather than later, the Goddess willing and all that. Gotta start planning for a life postbellum.” Claude leans in and lets his eyes capture her own. “Surely you got more in you than just slaving away under the Margrave until it’s your time to take over.”

It is a question that catches her a bit off guard. Not because she is unprepared but because she does have plans, though only for herself to know. Plans that Marianne had made a long time ago.

She would find her friends one more time and enjoy their company to the fullest in whatever way they wished. She would thank her Father for taking her in and putting her to work, even if she did not enjoy it nor deserve it. She would bring Dorte to a wide and beautiful ranch where he could lounge around for the rest of his days.

And if she was still alive after it all, she would take the opportunity to join the Goddess.

The thought of it all is clear on her face. Her mouth opens and closes, unsure of what exactly she wants to disclose to him. 

When she finally speaks, it is slow, measured, and soft.

“I think… I’ll take a break. Somewhere nice and quiet.”

Marianne watches him take her in, his eyes turning downward slightly like he is churning information in his head. He is silent for a bit before he begins to slowly nod his head.

“I see,” is all he says. He is reserved, but he looks at her with eyes that understand everything. 

A quietness settles between them. Marianne looks out past the terrace and into the courtyard. She does not want to look at Claude or the way he sees right through her. She could never hide anything from him, and they both knew that.

There is a part of her that fears the idea of someone knowing her intentions so plainly.

Every other part of her struggles to find the resolve to care.

She was just getting used to the sounds of the birds before Claude’s voice reached her ears.

“I never got to tell you this years ago. I didn't think you'd want to hear it. I’m sure you still don’t."

He looks out at the same courtyard, his eyes distant but his voice a solemn whisper. 

"But I’m sorry we couldn’t do anything for you. Or for him. Truly.”

She fully turns away, stone faced. 

It is exhausting. All of it. Existing to work but too haunted by her thoughts alone to do anything else. Sleep calls to her at every waking moment but nightmares of her parents, of her Professor, and of him have her too afraid to close her eyes, and it is exhausting. Her friends worry for her when she does not warrant such charity, and it is exhausting. She prays and she prays for the Goddess to deliver her to Her side, and yet she wakes every morning in her own bed, and it is all so exhausting.

The both of them sit in silence staring longingly away at nothing in the distance. Her heart beats rapidly, and her chest aches. 

Despite everything, she feels lighter. As if she feels slightly more free than she has for years. She does not want to imagine what these feelings mean for her.

The maids begin to call for them. Her father had finally grown impatient. 

She stands from her seat, and Claude reluctantly follows suit. She smiles as much as she can and faces him, her friend meeting her with a smile that was as forlorn as hers. 

“It was a pleasure spending time with you, Claude. Always. I mean it.” 

“I know.” He steps to her, and he hugs her tight. 

Before he lets her go, he whispers one more thing into her ears. 

“We won't give up. So take care of yourself. Please.”

She reciprocates his hug. Her throat is tight, but her voice is steady.

“I will try.”

~~~

Marianne slices down, her saber cleanly going through flesh from neck to waist. The man groans before he falls to the ground. She is too stunned to do anything else but watch as the blood pools underneath the body of what was once a living man.

It is another early morning in the Edmund estate, and she had taken her brief moment of rest to amble around in the range with Dorte. Her friend is wild and running around her, the horse frantically neighing and stomping around.

She was riding her usual route when something had shot itself out of the brush and thrown her off her ride. Before she could process it, she was flipped around and a man sat atop of her with a dagger to her neck. His eyes were panicked and his speech was hardly understandable as he yelled at her for anything. Her money, her belongings, anything.

If Dorte had not kicked the man off of her, she wondered if that dagger would be lodged deep inside her by now.

She was panting heavily, her shoulders moving up and down as she stared at the sight of the corpse she had made. She had not taken a life since Garreg Mach. She did not know if she had forgotten how it was supposed to feel, or if she had become numb to it all like everything else. 

There is shouting and screaming, and she turns to see servants and guards from the manor in the distance making their way towards her in a sprint. 

When her adrenaline begins to fade, she realizes that she is unharmed. For some reason, there is a dead person, and it is not her. 

The sun begins to break over the horizon. She stares down at her feet, the thief’s blood making its way to her toes.

Another day had come, and Marianne wonders how many it would take until it would finally be enough.

Dimitri holds his spear up and clutches it against himself. He sits underneath the branches of the tree he has chosen, the bark frosty and cold like the rest of the frozen wilderness. He leans forward and hangs his head low as the small campfire he had set alight crackles and gives him the warmth he needs to tolerate the debilitating chill. 

The moon has only just begun to rise for another night in Faerghus. He does not know where he is specifically, nor does it concern him. All he knows is that he rests aside a road for travelers, waiting. His shuddering breaths remind him of the countless aching wounds underneath his armor, old and recent ones alike sparking his nerves across his body. His ghosts flicker in and out of his peripheral vision in accordance to the dancing shadows brought by the flames.

They are usually louder on nights like this. Many nights, they speak with cries of admiration and disgust, love and hate. For now, though, they simply stand aside and watch him. Their haunted gazes on him burn hotter than any fire.

He allows himself a deep sigh in this rare moment of reprieve, his breath manifesting into frost that vanishes away into the air. He clutches his spear closer and balls himself up. It is a weapon that has only dealt death and violence, but it is the only thing he has kept on his person for awhile now. There is nothing else to cling to.

The moment the throbbing pains across his body begin to settle, he hears it. The snorting of horses, the spinning wheels of carriages, the sound of clanging metal and marching soldiers. Gritting his teeth, he leverages his spear and gets himself to stand. He kicks snow over his fire, and the ghosts disappear along with the flickering flames as he takes cover beneath the brush. 

In the distance, he sees the soldiers traveling up the snowy road. As they get closer, the Adrestian crests that adorn their party brings forth a fiery feeling in his chest. 

They do not notice him hiding, the rising moon not enough to illuminate his location.

Their screaming is loud, yet drowned out by the harsh winds.

Another night has come.

~~~

He bears down upon the group of soldiers like an apex predator striking outmatched prey. He is a whirlwind of steel that slices and stabs indiscriminately among the Imperial platoon he has ambushed. It is only after he is left panting and frantically searching for the next soldier that he sees that there are none left alive to slaughter.

He has lost count of the amount of soldiers he has slain over the past two years. He does not bother to check their faces anymore if he could help it. He does not need any more visual evidence to know the monster he has become.

Dimitri rummages through the carriages the platoon was guarding in search of anything. He grabs rations and weapons and tools and stuffs them all in a bag. It will serve to extend his existence for just a couple days more until he must do so again or else he will die.

The thought of dying crosses his mind. It is fleeting compared to the thoughts of avenging lives lost. 

After securing enough supplies, he is just about ready to depart when he notices a written report strewn across the snow. Whether it was a need to gather information or his own morbid curiosity, he listlessly grabs a page and skims its contents. 

It seems that this platoon was meant to bolster the forces fighting on the front lines against the Loyalist territories that have not submitted to the Dukedom. He reads that Houses Fraldarius and Gautier and other allied territories do not show any signs of bending the knee anytime soon.

He fixates on the names Fraldarius and Gautier. His mind cannot help but wander to times of a Prince from long ago enjoying his companionship with boys of those same names. He discards the report, but his mind is already running. Faces from a lifetime ago flash across his mind’s eye, numerous thoughts flooding and fleeting, and his eye clenches in a vain attempt to stop it.

How do they fare, he wonders. Do they fight? Do they hide? Do they live at all? Muddled memories of them form and dissipate in his head. 

He is powerless as his mind brings their visages to the forefront once again. 

It is when her face resurfaces, glowing and bright, does he let loose a trembling growl. 

He loathes these moments, sparse and scattered though they may be. It serves him no purpose to reminisce on another life. 

It is too painful to think about them. About her.

A groan breaks the stillness he had lost himself in, and his eye darts to an injured man bleeding on the ground. He is attempting to drag himself away. Dimitri sees the dying man and the ghosts that stand around him, cackling at the sight and calling for Dimitri to do what must be done.

In an instant, the foreign wistfulness in his chest is replaced with familiar, burning anger and contempt. 

His life before is once again forgotten to make way for the hell he lives in now. The faces of comrades are forgotten once more for the faces of the dead.

~~~

Dimitri quickly pushes himself up from the spot he had fallen and narrowly avoids the several spears thrusts aimed at him, the spearheads instead embedding themselves in the snowy earth. He scrambles a few more paces before turning around and taking in the sight around him.

He had underestimated everything. He had already been in worse shape than usual for weeks, but he had been scouting this Imperial general for months now. When the man finally left for travel alongside his regiment, Dimitri ignored how heavy the toll the injuries he accumulated affected him, how his body and head screamed at him to stay put, and followed suit. He stalked them for an entire day without rest until the sun began to set, and they began to set up camp. He was sloppy, borderline delirious, and was caught unaware by a second unit that followed after him and the general. They had caught sight of him before he could strike first, and there was nowhere to run.

Dimitri panted heavily as his eye moved frantically from one end to another. He had killed a good number of them in the initial clash, but they surrounded him on all sides now. Ten, maybe twenty guardsmen had their weapons pointed at him like a ring of death. Dimitri could see the general in the back barking orders at his men who stood terrified at the sight of the one-eyed demon. 

“Surround him!” The general yelled. “It’s just one man! Reinforcements are on the way! Form up and kill the bastard!”

Their leader’s insistence spurned the soldiers on, and they slowly began to enclose the circle. Dimitri bared his teeth and snarled at any that looked like they dared to charge him, but his situation was dire. He could barely get into a fighting stance. His vision blurred in and out of focus as his world threatened to spin entirely. He could hardly make out which silhouettes were soldiers advancing on him or the faces of those long dead haunting him even now.

He just managed to hear the yell coming from behind him, allowing him to instinctively dodge an enemy who had intended to run him through. The soldier’s spear just nicked the side of his lower back, the force of it enough to bruise but not enough to kill him. Within arms reach now, Dimitri pulled the man close and headbutted him hard enough to end the man then and there.

In an instant, soldier upon soldier began to charge, their bellowing war cries intermingling with the sounds of his specters screaming him onward to fight. Sounds of metal clashing with metal and steel tearing through flesh reverberated throughout his skull. When one soldier fell by his hands, another would seemingly take their place and strike him. 

It was all too much. When blood clouded his blurring vision, he simply roared like an animal and continued to fight. He did not see an end to them, but every savage part of him would not give until he was put down entirely. 

He swings and he thrusts. Their weapons smash against his armor and cut and nick his bare face. He brutally retaliates in kind. Blood is spilled, and he does not know how much of it is his. 

It is not until he is on his knees, battered, bruised, and bloodied, does he realize that the sounds of their war cries have diminished. He is still in a frenzy as cold air enters and leaves his lungs in huge huffs, his entire body heaving with great effort. When his adrenaline only just begins to wane and his eye is wiped of obscuring blood does he see that he is kneeling in a pool of corpses. He is the lone figure alive in a brutal pile of body parts that stain the white snow deeply and darkly red. He could just barely make out what appears to be the general amidst the carnage, unknowing of when the man joined the melee at all.

Dimitri’s shoulders sag. 

He is tired. Tired of everything. He kills and he kills for lives lost to the flames yet he is no closer to avenging them than when he started. His father, his mother, Glenn, Dedue, all of those that have lost their lives for him call to him at every moment, and he is tired. Edelgard lives and breathes so far away, yet he is tired. He has taken life upon life for years with no one to turn to in this agonizing, fruitless endeavor, and he feels so tired.

Unable to stand, Dimitri is helpless to do anything once his body keels over in the bloody wet snow. He falls onto his back, and the only thing that greets him is a cloudless, dark sky.

For just a moment, he wonders if this is finally it. 

He wonders if any will remember him. 

He prays selfishly, for just a moment, that they forget him.

~~~

The snow is light when it comes down upon him. He does not know he is conscious. The feather soft snowflakes settling upon his face make him aware.

His eye finally blinks open, his lid struggling to break free from the clotted blood that cakes his face. When he comes to, he is splayed out on his back in the same place as before. The sky above is black save for the glowing moon shining above. 

His body is both numb yet stings incessantly. His arms are spread out to the side where the tips of his fingers make contact with whatever cold body parts are settled around him. He cannot find the effort to move despite the risk of being buried underneath the falling snow.

He is still not dead. He cannot fathom why.

Slowly and painfully, Dimitri finally lifts his back off the ground. The mere act of sitting up is dizzying and has him gasping for breath. Still in a daze, he looks around and sees that the sight before him is much the same as it was when he fell unconscious. Nothing but dead men and the rancid smell of death.

He sees his father and the rest of them standing amongst the bodies. He does not even have the energy to spare them his gaze when they speak.

“Well done, son,” His Majesty tells him sweetly. “You did well, despite everything.” His father makes his way to him and fills Dimitri’s blank stare. “You have been forgetting yourself lately. Thinking of foolish things. I am worried that you will not see this through to the end.”

He tries to look away only to be met by Dedue beside him. He does not know when he made his way there, only that his voice is clear within his ears.

“You’ve been thinking of our friends, Your Highness,” Dedue says, and Dimitri falters for just a moment at the word. “I miss them, too. But they will never understand.” 

Dedue feels so close now, his voice carrying itself directly into his mind.

“Felix will never understand. Sylvain and Ingrid will never understand. Ashe, Annette, Mercedes… even the Professor. All of them.”

Each and every one of their names is accompanied by a ringing sound that grows higher and higher in pitch and threatens to deafen him entirely. 

Dimitri can do nothing as it peaks into silence, and Dedue’s voice fills every one of his senses.

“Marianne will never understand what you need to do.”

In this dead night, he becomes acutely aware of the countless men and women standing around him staring holes into him with their piercing glares. People that have died for him. People that he has killed himself. Every single soul that has fallen because of his existence is present and numerous as their one combined voice reverberates within his entire being.

“Edelgard must die.”

The shrill sound of a horn breaks through the still air. Dimitri finally looks up and sees that he is all alone in the carnage he created. Slowly turning in the direction of the noise, he sees lit torches being carried by a company of Imperial warriors. They fly the Adrestian standard, and they march unrelentingly towards him.

Wordlessly, Dimitri grabs his spear. It is shaky and takes nearly all his energy, but he stands himself upright. His mind is enflamed, yet his face remains blank and resigned. 

He stands before the oncoming enemies. His body is still slack when they see him, and they begin yelling and shouting as they speed up their advance. 

With one last trembling sigh, his face contorts into a menacing mask as he stares them all down.

Another night has come, and Dimitri knows it will never be enough.

Chapter Text

His footsteps are slow and heavy before they come to a stop. Dimitri is unsure of what to make of the sight before him. 

He had been stalking an Imperial escort for weeks now. He kept his distance and followed the troop as it made its way across the lands until they had reached a suitable destination for him to strike. Perhaps he should have been more mindful of where that journey was taking him.

The castle town around him is ruined, but it is familiar. So, too, are the roads that he walked to get here.

In the distance in front of the shining sun is Garreg Mach Monastery, still standing after five long years. 

Her mind is aimless as her body goes through the motions. Reports and papers are written and sent away to the appropriate workers. Documents and proposals are placed away for her father. There may not be much life to her actions, but Marianne gives her all nonetheless.

An absentminded sigh leaves her as she files away the last of her work for the morning. Marianne lets her pen drop and stretches her hand. She should be moving on to her next task, but she is not fully alert. She hadn’t been since the month had begun.

Leaning back in her chair alone in her office room, she stares at the ceiling as the sun rays leaking in from her windows fall on the calendar atop her desk. 

Tomorrow is the 25th day of the Ethereal Moon in the Imperial Year 1185. It meant nothing to her, she tries to tell herself.

Everything was eerily similar to how it was five years ago if Dimitri ignored the rubble and waste everywhere. The stalls of the Marketplace were surprisingly the same. The steps to the entrance and front gate would be a picture-perfect recreation if the metal gate were not blasted away and its gatekeeper absent. He moves from one area to the next, killing the Imperials that had holed up in the Monastery along the way.

Being here now and walking the same areas from years ago does no good for him. His mind is having trouble discerning which images flashing across his mind are memories from his time here or the ghosts of friends that have passed. He sees wisps of a blonde girl and her gray-haired friend walking into the Dining Hall and an older woman and her classmate giggling amongst themselves. He sees a fair-skinned boy enter the Greenhouse and a stoic professor scolding two boys, one scowling and the other laughing.

Fearful shouts from soldiers draw him out of his delusions. He sees several scramble away further inside the Monastery at the sight of him. 

He pursues them slowly. His feet feel heavier than usual.

Her father’s droning continues on and on. Marianne is registering the important information for later, of course, but she would be lying if she said that her mind was giving its full effort at the moment. 

Listening to the Margrave report about the recent happenings in the Alliance, she knows that nothing of note has changed from any other previous day to now. The continent is still at war. The Kingdom is trying to hold out. The Alliance debates on whether to support either side and will end up deciding on neither. 

“Perhaps there is no future in the Alliance,” she hears her Father mutter once again, and maybe there is truth there. Claude can only keep the territories at bay for so long, but eventually, one side must give lest they all be swept up by the Empire unceremoniously. 

Maybe the end of the war is closer on the horizon than farther. She imagines the Alliance will swing to the side of the Empire. It made sense logistically even if it created a dreadful and dark feeling in her heart about what such a thing would entail for certain souls in the Kingdom.

Her father snaps her out of her thoughts and asks if she is fine. She nods accordingly. 

When Marianne leaves his office, she is light on her feet. The end may be coming soon, after all.

It takes him the entire day to purge the Monastery grounds. They were more numerous than anticipated, but their bodies now littered the area all the same.

The sun is setting once he stops in front of the final holdout of the remaining stragglers. When he opens the door, they attempt to pour out and overwhelm him but are slain in an instant. He watches their death throes, their corpses now becoming obstacles upon the steps to the Goddess Tower. 

Every other place in the Monastery did not deter him, but it is the Goddess Tower that causes him to hesitate for a moment. Hints of a dream or maybe a memory prickle in his chest and dare him to turn around. It is the first time in a long while that he pushes through those feelings. Traces of long discarded emotions force him up the steps and into the tower.

When he arrives at the top, he cannot help but feel some sort of way. 

He had been here only once before. The memory of it comes crashing to the forefront of his psyche, a deluge of images flooding his brain at a dizzying pace. 

One step here. 

One slide there. 

One short dance with the girl with a glowing smile.

His face turns blank once he is able to open his eye. His clenched hand and trembling shoulders go slack.

Dimitri drags himself to a secluded corner of the room and sits himself against the wall, tired and bloody.

There is nothing left for him.

It is late at night once Marianne is finally able to retire to her quarters for the day. Her movements are sluggish as she changes from her dress to her nightgown, and she tosses her clothes haphazardly somewhere. Marianne had requested a day off for tomorrow so she considers the lack of care a small luxury.

Her request for a break was met with surprisingly little resistance. Her Father said she could use it desperately. Normally such an observation would worry her and how she keeps up her appearances, but even she could not deny that certain things have kept her preoccupied.

Though sleep calls out to her, she finds herself moving to the little work desk near his window. She stares out at the moon above before her eyes settle on her calendar. She cannot help her gaze from roaming to the 25th. 

Marianne wonders if she’s the only one who still cares about such a date and what it entails.

Her heartbeat quickens for a moment at the thought of rushing over to that sacred place as shameful thoughts fill her head.

What if she isn’t the only one? What if they’re there, waiting?

She can do nothing else but recall a certain scene on a moonlit bridge and the heartrending feelings that came with it.

A warm face.

A beating heart.

A silly little promise with a long-dead prince.

She shakes her head at herself and her insulting notions. It was ridiculous of her to think of such things.

Marianne lays herself in bed as the last of her emotions leave her. When they are gone, it leaves her empty and dull.

There is nothing left for her.

Chapter Text

“If we are here in five years… May I have the pleasure of seeing you, then?”

…

“If you would be so kind.”

Marianne’s eyes slowly open. Hints of a dream are escaping her, and she stays in bed for a few moments longer to let it run away. She no longer has the desire to chase it. Another day has arrived, and she pauses to praise her past self for requesting the day off to let her languish. She reckons it’s sometime past afternoon by the way the sun is fully out and shining through her open window. She allows herself just a few more seconds of nothingness before a yawn urges her to move. Perhaps it is for the best since the dream had refused to leave.

Her room is a mess that she deftly maneuvers around with practiced ease. Marianne sees some clothes picked out here and there but instead settles for a generic blue cloak that she wraps around herself. She figures that she won’t be leaving her room much today.

When she moves to her washroom to freshen up a bit, she catches herself staring at the mirror.

She is there staring back. She couldn’t imagine there could be many more days left of it.

~~~

Marianne’s time fixing herself is minimal compared to normal. She wipes the dirt from her eyes and tries to get her hair somewhat presentable before letting it fall and stay there. She could not find the effort to fix up a front on a day where she will spend most of it cooped up in her quarters. The last look she gives herself is a bit pathetic, admittedly, but it would matter little once she retired back into bed and attempted to sleep the rest of the time away.

She drifts back to the foot of her bed and sits there. She has been so used to keeping active that she feels some sort of obligation to do something before wasting the little time left of the day away. She looks to her left where her personal work desk is next to the window and peers upon the scattered papers decorating the top of it. 

The first thing she does is think about whether tidying up the papers is enough to fulfill her self-imposed quota before deciding against it.

The second thing she does is try and recall the last time she ever opened up her window.

“I'm glad someone finally decided to wake up.”

Marianne shrieks and her hands instinctively raise themselves up in the direction of the darkened corner of her room, magical glyphs forming and ready to launch a slew of haphazard glaciers. Her heart beats incalculably fast as her eyes settle on the rogue intruder sitting atop a handmade pile of her dresses and clothes looking entirely too relaxed. 

“Everything about this place is a mess,” the stranger smoothly continued on. “I’ve lived in places of squalor with more upkeep.”

“Wh- who are-”

She stutters and trips over herself, completely unprepared for confrontation. Marianne tries to ascertain the threat of the rogue and how dangerous they are to her life as she is only just now starting to get a clear picture of the man. He is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed carrying an amused expression at the sight of her. His frame is slender and lithe and covered in dark, light armor. His purple hair goes slightly past his shoulders. If she didn’t know any better, she’d also say that man was sporting some eyeshadow. 

The more Marianne looked, the more she could not help but think that the man looked somewhat… pretty?

“You can ease up on the magic, by the way,” the man says in a playful tone. “If I wanted to kill you, that would’ve happened an hour ago once I found you still sleeping the day away. Not that I minded. I was quite worn out myself after all the traveling. I needed a nap.”

He makes a show of how he waves his unarmed hands. She would have considered his request if the growing smugness on the man’s face did not irritate her.

“Who are you?” Marianne finally gets it out much to the apparent annoyance of the intruder who rolls his eyes.

“Consider me a little birdie, if that helps you calm down. I hear you like animals.” He steps out of the shadows of her room and moves in a bit closer despite the way her magic hums in response. “So, you’re the little Deer with a Lion’s roar that I’ve heard so much about, hm?” She watches his face take in every inch of her like he is studying some whimsical creature.

When he leans in too close for her liking, she fires an icicle at his feet.

“I’ve no time for games,” she tells him flatly with a steely expression. The magic at her fingertips intensifies in power. “Please leave, for both our sakes. I’m in no mood to harm anyone.”

Her threats earn her a laugh, though it is less condescending and more one that implied the man was impressed in some way.

“Marianne von Edmund,” he says with emphasis on each part of her name. “I can see why they were quick to mention you.”

“‘They?’”

“Yes, ‘they.’ Not just them. A lot of people, in fact. Your name gets around more than you seem to be aware of. I always wondered why Margrave Edmund’s little demure adoptee had such faith from high places, but you might actually be more than you let on.”

“Enough, please.” Though she is vexed, she does finally allow herself to lower her magic, the lack of hostility evident now. Her tone of voice changes to the one she uses when politicking and conversing professionally. “I’m assuming you snuck into the Margrave’s estate to do more than poke fun at his charge?”

“Straight to business, then.”

With swiftness, a letter is tossed to her person, and she clumsily fumbles it around before grasping it true. She looks back and forth between it and the man, unsure if there was any trickery involved before the blue-colored envelope demands her attention.

She can recognize it is of Kingdom origin.

“What is this?”

“Let’s say it’s information,” he says. “You should consider yourself lucky. Usually, I’d never lower myself to play carrier pigeon flying about the continent on such short notice, but our mutual friend is very persistent, and I owe him a couple of favors.” 

“‘Mutual friend?’”

“Oh, enough questions. You’ll know soon enough.” The man makes a brisk pace towards the open window, nonchalantly stretching his arms above his head. “Not that I have any class pride, but I was a Blue Lion myself back in the day, you know. Consider my services a classmate gift. I take care of my own, after all.”

The mention of that house name sends a shock throughout her body, the casualness of his conversation leaving her frazzled and overwhelmed.

He sits upon her windowsill with a sly smile directed at her.

“The winds of change might finally be blowing,” he says with finality. “I wonder where House Edmund will let it take them.”

Marianne shakes her head at his crypticness. Her eyes go from him to the letter once again, and she studies its exterior intently. It is only just a moment before she raises her head.

“Where did you say you-”

Her sentence trails off when she finds the man gone and her window closed. 

Stunned for a brief moment, she sighs heavily once the storm of the situation begins to settle. She couldn't say she quite enjoyed getting roped around by a man who held her life so easily in his hands.

She should make haste and report the presence of the intruder immediately. Perhaps the ensuing lockdown could still catch him. But when she stares at the letter in her hand, Marianne finds herself deathly still. 

It has been so long since a letter from Faerghus has made its way to her. It has been even longer since the last time she opened one. 

Her life has been a stagnant crawl, one defined by the appearances she has kept up and the walls she has built to keep it still, but there is an inexplicable feeling that tells her that what she did with this letter could cause it all to turn upside down.

Marianne could stash it away. She could discard it, even. She had cast this all away after she had deemed herself undeserving. It would be easy- no, necessary for her to keep it that way.

She may not know who had sent the letter yet or why, but she is not so clueless as to imagine who it could possibly be.

They were supposed to meet up today, after all. 

With light and trembling movements, Marianne tears open the letter. She inhales slowly, unfurls the message inside, and begins to read.

Dear Marianne,

I hope my letter finds you in good fortune, my friend. I know not when this may reach you, but Yuri says he has quite an extensive network of routes to get this to you quickly. I hope he didn't give you much grief but do not hold it against him. That's just how he is.

She exhales shakily at the sight of the familiar handwriting and the voice that takes shape. Marianne always found Ashe’s optimistic disposition positively blinding and intrinsic to everything he said and did. It was no different in his writing.

It has been so long since we’ve written to you. The fighting has kept us preoccupied, and we know you keep busy yourself. Perhaps it is not what you want to hear, but it has given us some comfort knowing that one of our own continues to live a life away from all this turmoil.

"One of our own." The line clutches her heart, and it clenches at the idea that they still think of her in such a way after all that she has done to them.

Her heartbeat is thunderous in her ears, and it takes everything in her to keep her hands steady so she can continue to read.

So much has happened, but circumstances demand I keep it brief. 

We’re here, Marianne. The Lions have met up at Garreg Mach. Most of us, at least. We know the years have taken their toll, and maybe our bonds may not be the thing that they used to be. But you’re the first person we had to reach out to. Not just to request the aid of House Edmund, but because you are our friend. No matter how you respond to this letter, you deserve to be the first to know after all of us. 

When her eyes settle on the next lines, everything that she had spent half a decade building up comes tumbling down. 

The endless slew of emotions that she has kept buried deep for years upon years in an instant turn into a tumultuous, unstoppable rumbling that threatens to burst from her chest.

We found them, Marianne.

The Professor. Dimitri.

They’re alive.

~~~

Her father is deep in thought as he paces back and forth in front of her. They are in his office, the day almost over if not for the breakthrough news that Marianne had brought to him.

She is still unsure of when she found herself here. Everything felt like an indistinct blur since she had read the letter.

“They’re alive.” Ashe’s words ring over and over in her head, and she is still not sure how to cope with the possibility. They would not lie to her, she knew that. But the deaths of the Professor and of him were the two truths that had etched themselves into her heart permanently. She cannot imagine anything else. She cannot hope.

“So this is true,” the Margrave asks her. “A man gave you this letter from your Faerghus classmates?”

She nods her head listlessly.

“And they would not lie? The crown prince of Faerghus and the man that wielded the Sword of the Creator, all of them are at Garreg Mach?”

“So the letter says,” she says only just loud enough to be heard.

Marianne does not pay attention to the man attempting to parse through the news. She still cannot come to grips with it, herself.

“The Knights of Seiros are mentioned in this letter, too,” she hears her father mutter. “If they are gathered with what remains of the Kingdom alongside the prince and that man with the sword…” 

She can see the gears working in his shrewd mind with the way he rubs at his chin in thought.

“This could change the course of the war,” her father finally says. “And it just might be what House Edmund needs to get ahead.”

Her brow furrows at his statement.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, my girl,” he begins. “The writing has been on the wall for quite some time. There is no future with the Alliance. This war has been in a long, drawn-out conflict with the same variables for years, but Adrestia simply can’t lose a battle of attrition. The Grand Duke has kept the Alliance at bay from an Imperial partnership as best he can, but even he can see it being an inevitability. But if this news is true, then the Kingdom remnants, the Knights of Seiros, and the Sword of the Creator could just be a powerful enough force to turn the tides. And we’re the first ones that know about this.” 

His explanation grew in frantic enthusiasm, his head nodding along faster and faster. It’s all irrelevant chatter to her. 

“Your time at the Academy has borne more fruits than we could imagine,” he continues excitedly. “Requesting our aid specifically means a debt that must be fulfilled later down the line, especially with your connections. Tell me, Marianne, you were close to the prince, were you not?”

It is a question that has her tightening her jaw and clenching her hands. Her academy days are so far behind her and so are its memories. She has left them there for a reason. When the mere thought of those memories surface, the ones with their time spent together, it sets her chest ablaze with a wistful pain. 

“We were… friends.” 

It is the most she can manage to get out with her whispery voice. 

“Then I think this is an opportunity we cannot miss.” The Margrave begins to hurriedly pick up assorted documents from his desk. “We will send an envoy from House Edmund to Garreg Mach post haste. We’ll be the first ones there to scope out their capabilities. If their words are true, then appealing to the crown prince and the Knights of Seiros before anyone else can put us a step ahead-”

“I’ll go, too.”

It comes out of her without warning louder than the rest of the words she had told him today. Her heart has not slowed since she received that letter, and it continues on furiously after her proposition. 

“Don’t get too hasty, Marianne,” her Father replies seriously. “We’re not sure how dangerous the surrounding areas are, yet. And we can't rule out the possibility of a trap.”

“They would not lie,” she says again with force. “I know they are there. We made a promise.” It’s the first time she has looked him in the eye since she entered the room. He has finally taken a moment of pause from speaking to truly look at her with a rare sincerity and care in his features.

“Are you sure you want to go?” 

Five years. She has not seen any of them for that long, and she knows part of it was because of her own doing. Fear, guilt, shame. All of it has followed her since the day she escaped Garreg Mach, and all of it has sent her on a self-inflicted punishment to forget them. 

Marianne wonders if it is that same shame or an attempt to cast that guilt away that compels her to move on from the past half-decade

“I will go,” she reaffirms. “I need to see them.”

Her foot is starting to ache with the way it’s been bouncing for the past day and a half. Dorte does not seem to appreciate the constant movement and neighs for her to stop.

An envoy consisting of herself and House Edmund’s personal knights had left the morning after Marianne was met with the letter from Ashe. On a professional level, she was meant to gauge the strength of the personnel gathered at Garreg Mach and decide whether it was worth House Edmund’s aid. On a personal level, Marianne was still struggling to come to terms with what she was actually doing. Just days ago, she was resigned to finish out the rest of her meager existence until it vanished, and now, she is chasing something she still does not know if she wants to exist.

It was one thing already to imagine facing the Lions after years of silence. It was another thing altogether to imagine what she would do if she actually came face-to-face with her Professor. 

She has not dared to imagine what she would do if she saw him as well. 

She breathes in deeply to clear her restless thoughts, but looking out at her surroundings brings forth different feelings.

Their journey is closing in on two days. They have been moving nonstop in order to maximize their advantage. She imagines that the news would just now be reaching the rest of the Alliance and Fodlan in full. Marianne could sit and think about the widespread ramifications the news would have, but nostalgia overcame her.

They were close to Garreg Mach. She recognizes the roads and the towns they’ve begun to pass by. The state of disarray leaves her heart aching. It all used to be so full of life. Now, only debris and waste are left in the ruins.

The Monastery fully comes into view in the distance, and the sight is enough to have her on edge. She really was here. No dreams or blurred memories. 

~~~

As they approach the entrance to the structure, they are finally met by human activity. Soldiers bearing symbols of the Kingdom begin pouring out of the sole entrance and stand alert at their arrival forming a line in front of the entrance. Their transport slows as the guards yell for them to stop. Knowing it was no longer time to sit anxiously, Marianne gathered her thoughts and unmounted her steed to do her duty. A stern soldier steps out to challenge her.

"What business do you have here?" The man is staring her down, weapon in hand.

"We are House Edmund from the Leicester Alliance," she explains.  "We have come to answer a request for aid from the Kingdom forces stationed here."

There are murmurs among the guards. They all seem unconvinced.

"I have heard of no such thing," the man replies. "How does the Alliance even know of what's transpired here, let alone Edmund territory?"

"I received the message from one of your men, himself," she reasons in an attempt to placate them, but all it does is intensify their glares. "Please, if you can just get a hold of-"

When she steps closer, their weapons rise higher. She flinches back at their hostility.

Marianne is unsure of how to approach them. Her transport flies House Edmund’s banner, but the guards still leer over them with their spears at the ready. It is apparent that the letter for her was truly made hastily. For a brief moment, she fears that they will have to flee, and everything she has mustered up to this point was all for naught.

It is a voice that calls from within that tells them to stand down and puts the soldiers at ease.

She watches, puzzled at first, as their ranks split apart and make way for the young man who orders them. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, his archer garb, and his gray hair, and it is only when the sparks of recognition and relief on his face at the sight of her does she pin it down. 

“Marianne!” He bounds towards her with leaping strides and places her hands atop her shoulders. “It’s really you!”

“Ashe…” She is stunned at the sight of him. The young and cheery boy was now a grown man with weathered experience behind his eyes. His smile is so bright, the same as it was when they were classmates.

Just seeing him has her emotional and makes her fully start to realize that this is real, that they lived beyond her buried memories. 

“Oh, it’s well and truly good to see you, Marianne,” Ashe continues on excitedly. “Yuri did say he could reach you quickly, but I still had my doubts. You certainly must have been traveling for quite some time with how fast you made it here.” He peers behind her towards the rest of House Edmund’s envoy and turns back to the guards. “Make sure House Edmund’s men are situated and taken care of,” he calls out, and the guards and escort begin to move around them.

“Ashe… " She tries to speak through choked spurts. "You’re… okay,”

He laughs wearily and brings her into a hug.

“As okay as we can be, my friend,” he says. “It's been quite a while. It will do all of their hearts good to see you.”

“Then it’s true? You’re all here?”

“Most of us.” His smile falters and becomes more forlorn. There’s a silent sadness that takes place behind it. “There’s a lot you need to catch up on, but that can wait. The rest of our friends will be ecstatic just to know you’re here.”

He tugs at her hand for her to follow, but her legs remain rooted in place. When he looks back at her confused, she cannot help but let her feelings spill out.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I never wrote back. You all have been fighting. I know I should have after all the kindness you all showed me, but I just…” 

Her trembling voice is not adequate enough to convey her regret. She doesn't know if anything can. 

Despite that, Ashe bears no look of anger or contempt. Just his same, friendly smile.

“It’s okay,” he says simply. “Knowing you were alive was all we needed.”

“Is it really okay? Truly?”

Her anxiety is quelled for just a moment at the sound and sight of him happily laughing it off.

“You’re here now, aren’t you? That’s enough for us.”

~~~

It is like stepping into a waking dream the way the familiar Monastery walls take her back to her year of studies. It is more worn and ruinous, of course, but everything is still here somehow.

Latent muscle memory even comes back with how Marianne takes Dorte to the same stables she met him at. It seems he remembers, too, how her friend happily trots their way there. The Marketplace area is a wreck, but groups of people are clearing the spaces out and even setting them up for use again. When she walks by the front entrance, she is delighted at the sight of the friendly Gatekeeper who enthusiastically welcomes her with his usual vigor.

The activity is lively, but the atmosphere carries an unspoken heaviness to it. Kingdom soldiers and Church guards clear out and clean the rubble, though she cannot help but sense some unspoken thing hanging over them. She is not sure what to make of it all just yet.

She takes her time making sure Dorte is safe and kept in the care of the stable hands. When she works up the nerve to stop delaying the inevitable, she moves slowly from the stables and back to the front entrance to the Main Hall. All the sights take her back and hurt her heart all the same seeing the scars of war that now litter the walls of this sacred place.

But in spite of it all, there is life here. There is purpose and intent.

She cannot recall the last time she had felt something like this within her.

~~~

When she enters the Main Hall in full, she startles at the person who is there to greet her. For just a second, she really does think she is seventeen again and walking the halls like they once were.

“Marianne,” the Professor says warmly. “I’m glad to see you are safe.”

He looks just like he did when he was lost to them five years ago. It is like the world is still with how she can only stare back at him, silent and unbelieving. She wants to reach out but is afraid that he will vanish again if she even thinks of acknowledging him. An unseen grip that has clenched her heart for many moons only just begins to loosen.

“Professor… is it really you?” 

She can hardly believe it when he nods, the man coming over to pat her shoulder.

“It is. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

The noise of disbelief she makes escapes her and gives way to a glowing and fiery feeling of relief and gratitude that burns throughout her. She hugs the man who reciprocates in kind.

“How is this possible? Where were you, Professor?”

“Asleep,” is all he says, and it is very much like him to move on as if it were a normal explanation. “I’m glad to see that you’re well. You’ve grown, just like the rest of them.”

“I am… still me,” she tells him as if to rebuff the pride in his voice.

“And I’m glad that you are.” 

With that, he beckons her to follow. She only needs to see the way his head jerks to the entrance to the Dining Hall to understand that this was it. Marianne gives him one last questioning gaze, a look of permission, and he nods.

~~~

Her steps are slow and measured as she approaches. When she steps through the doorway, she sees them gathered at the old table the Lions always sat at for mealtime.

“I’m telling you guys, just wait,” Ashe is there animatedly explaining to the group. “You’re really going to like this.”

The rest of them do not seem amused. 

"Spit it out or stop talking," Felix says. "You're giving me a headache."

"Don't be like that, Felix," Ingrid says, but she, too, has a tiredness to her tone. "Ashe, can you just let us know what's going on?"

"I promise, this surprise is worth it."

"I don't know if we can handle much more surprises this week," Annette answers. Mercedes is there nodding along.

“Ashe, buddy, I’m sure whatever has you in a tizzy is important, but unless you have an entire well-equipped army waiting outside to march on Adrestia right now then you really need to get on with it…-”

Sylvain’s drawl is cut short when he is the first to notice her. His eyes go wide at the sight of her, and he stands from his seat. It is a domino effect as they watch him and follow his eyes where they all eventually settle on her. Each and every one of them stands opposite her and stares in shocked silence. She does not know how many more sights she can scarcely believe today, but the lineup in front of her was near the top of the list.

Ashe. Sylvain. Ingrid. Felix. Mercedes. Annette. A group of individuals she had never expected to see in a place like this ever again all in front of her.

They are aged and different, but they are here before her, alive. 

“Um… hi-”

“Marianne!”

They shout her name in bunches and shoot from their positions to surround her. Annette, Mercedes, and Ingrid wrap themselves around her while they all pile a barrage of questions and acclamations upon her.

"Oh, you're here!"

"What are you doing here?!"

"Is that really you?!"

"You look so wonderful!"

"Well, I'll be damned."

Their emotional laughter and excitement are enough to nearly sweep her away. It’s Sylvain’s cool saunter towards her that brings her back as she watches him smile greatly at the lot of them.

“Marianne, you are a beautiful sight for sore eyes,” he chuckles. “How’s your smile been, my fair maiden?”

“She just got here Sylvain, don’t creep her out already,” Annette says through sniffles and teary eyes. “But he isn’t wrong. Look at you! Oh, Marianne, you can’t believe how nice it is to see you.”

“It’s truly a blessing,” Mercedes adds. “So many years have gone by, but it’s amazing that you made it here after everything. We've prayed for your safety so many times.”

“We weren’t sure if it was right for us to call upon you,” Ingrid explained. “We know the war makes everything precarious. But we wanted you to at least know what was happening.”

“It’s okay,” Marianne manages to get out. “I’m... I'm not worthy of such friendship.”

“Oh, anyone that’s willing to hear us sorry bunch out deserves our friendship and then some,” Sylvain replies. “Isn’t that right, Felix?”

Marianne notices how the man hung back from everyone else. He looks as sharp as he always has, if not more so. Still, at the call of his name, his eyes soften when they lock with hers and a reluctant smile takes over. 

“Yeah,” he answers simply. “It’s good to see you, Marianne. Thanks for coming over.”

The minutes after are filled with a regaling of tales of the past five years.

Annette explains the time she has spent stuck in the Dukedom territory with her Uncle. Mercedes speaks of her time as a merchant in the capital, and her efforts to upkeep the great cathedral in Camulus. Ashe details his escape from House Rowe, and his time spent fighting alongside Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid against the Empire.

From the Lions’ struggles on the war front and their various journeys throughout, there’s not a thing they leave out for her. Yet despite their bleak stories, their company, discussion, and laughter are so warm and nostalgic that Marianne could mistake it all for inconsequential gossip between friends.

She missed them dearly. Having them here now makes her wonder how she managed to spend so much time trying to turn them away.

“You know, Flayn and the rest of the Knights of Seiros are out securing the surrounding areas. Once they're back, things really might be on the move,” Annette sighs happily. “First the Professor, and now you, Marianne. I'm glad there's some good coming out of all this.”

The mention of the Professor causes her to look back. The man is leaning against the entryway with a soft look on his face.

It is then that she begins to look elsewhere around the hall. 

The group of them now is wonderful, but she knows that some are still missing.

“I’m sorry,” Marianne interrupts. “But where is Dedue? Is he also out? And… where is…”

Her confusion brings with it a heavy shift in their moods. Smiling faces begin to fall and look nervously at each other. They cannot bring themselves to look at Marianne anymore. She turns back to the Professor for an answer, but he, too, cannot help but look away. 

“Ashe,” Ingrid says. “How much did you tell her when she got here?”

When she looks at Ashe, his trembling lip and distant stare meet her for a moment before he shrugs defeatedly.

“Like I said, Marianne. There’s a lot you need to catch up on.”

~~~

The hues of the sunset sky leak into the Greenhouse that Marianne has situated herself in. Gradients of orange and purple color the long dead flowers and plants that fill the veritable garden she used to love. It seems depressingly appropriate considering what she has just learned.

She had spent so much of herself trying to accept the fate of those who had died and is only just accepting that they have returned.

She sighs lifelessly into the empty greenhouse. Marianne is not sure if her heart can accept the death of another friend.

Marianne continues to stare listlessly at the withered flowers as the footsteps that start from behind settle beside her. A hand settles gently atop her shoulder.

“It looks like we’ll have to start again from scratch here,” the Professor notes. 

“So it seems,” she replies.

“It’ll take some manpower. But maybe one day the flowers will bloom again. I’m sure he would have appreciated it.”

Her head hangs sadly at his words.

Dedue is dead. It happened during the day of the prince’s supposed execution. A last-ditch escape effort that led to the prince’s survival in exchange for Dedue’s life. The news had rattled her to her core. 

She recalls the moments she spent with the boy in their academy days. He was one of the rare few who did not mind her silence. Fiercely protective of his friends in battle and such a gentle soul outside of it. She does not know what it means that someone like him is gone while she still remains. 

“What’s on your mind, Marianne?”

Her Professor’s concern is too reminiscent. He was the only person that seemed to get her to speak her feelings so readily.

“I’m wondering why it all turned out this way,” she says softly. “Not just with Dedue, but with…”

Even after seeing everyone else, she still is unable to bring herself to say his name. 

They spoke of him like he was no longer human. Their descriptions of him seemed more fit for a beast than their friend and liege. Even Felix’s harsh rhetoric was more mortified than caustic.

Each and every one of them were terrified. 

“I do not know,” the Professor answers sadly. “If only I were not absent. I would have done everything to protect you all.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Perhaps that’s true. There is no person at fault for what’s transpired." The hand upon her shoulder begins to move reassuringly. "I hope you know that, Marianne.” 

His pointed words exacerbate the ugly and monstrous feelings swirling in her head and heart. 

“I cursed them,” she admits hauntingly. “What if their suffering and circumstances were preventable? What would have happened if I had never met them? What if I had-”

“Marianne.”

His firm grip on her shoulder steadies her rapid, panicked breathing. The ringing in her ears is much too loud and takes her some time before it dulls.

“Professor... Is there any reason for me to remain here,” she asks with anxious uncertainty. “I'm not sure anyone needs me.”

“I need you,” he answers like it requires no thought. 

It sounds ridiculous. He never needed her. She has always needed him and everyone else, and look what it has brought them. 

“How can you be so sure?” She cannot help the mild discontent that taints her words.

“Because we’ve relied on you for so much already. And you’ve always been there when we called. Even now.”

Her eyes closed at his words. Every part of her wants to reject them. 

“It’s not just me, Marianne,” the man continues. “I think they all need you, too.”

Her exhalation is shaky. She breathes in deeply before turning to him fully.

“…Where is he?”

The look on her Professor’s face is hesitant just like it was on the rest of the Lions when they refused to give her an answer. She watches him mentally work out the logistics in his head.

“He is in the Cathedral,” he tells her with some reluctance. “He spends every waking moment there, but we can hardly get through to him.”

Knowing that he is so close and yet in such dire straits that they speak of him like he is halfway gone tears her apart. 

“Have you… have you all given up on him?”

“Never,” he replies, swiftly and seriously. “But he’s different, Marianne. We do not know yet how to deal with him. I just want you to be safe.”

“And what does this have to do with my safety?”

“Because you want to see him,” he states plainly. “I know you have since the moment you first came.”

His words strike true. Truer than she had ever known herself. She turns away, the revelation bringing her some unexplainable shame. They stand in silence as Marianne comes to grips with everything.

Dedue is dead. The prince might as well still be. And she is still wondering what it means for her.

The late night has fully taken over the sky above the Monastery. 

The day has been the most emotionally draining Marianne has gone through. From the highs of her reunion to the lows of learning everything else, she feels the most exhausted she has in recent memory.

After fully catching up, they had all agreed to find out House Edmund and Marianne’s role in this tomorrow. With hearty hugs and smiles, they had all retired for the night as the Monastery began to sleep. 

She knows she should have done the same as everyone else.

The incessant beating of her heart demanded she did not. 

Marianne could not sleep. No matter how much she denied it, no matter how much she should heed their warnings, Marianne had to see for herself.

Illuminated by her small candlelight, Marianne’s footsteps seem to reverberate and echo against the walls. Her mind is at war with itself as every step taken to her destination brings forth a flood of warnings and demands that she turn around back to her quarters and sleep. Even if she could not close her eyes, even if she spent hours tossing and turning, it was better than testing fate. 

When she steps outside to the cool breeze and the long bridge connecting the Monastery and Cathedral, she is met by another. The man leans against the parapet with his arms crossed and stares at her expectantly.

“It’s late,” Felix tells her. “You should turn around and get some sleep.”

“I don’t think I could,” she says honestly. “And why are you here at this hour?”

“Guard duty,” he replies darkly. “Someone needs to.”

He continues to stare at her like he is measuring her worth. She stares back unflinchingly. 

“Turn around,” he repeats. “I don't know what you're expecting.”

She recalls how their exchanges had a chance of turning tense whenever it concerned the prince. The way he speaks to her now is not like that.

He is tired and defeated.

Unsure of what to say, Marianne breaks their gaze and slowly continues her walk. She slows when she gets to the foot of the bridge. 

“You won’t stop me?”

She is not looking at him, but she can feel how his eyes turn toward the ground. 

“He always liked talking to you,” Felix says quietly. His utterance has her breathing deeply, her chest blooming something that aches terribly. 

Her eyes are set straight ahead. The course of the long bridge leads to the Cathedral doors in the distance. One small step forward becomes another.

~~~

The moonlight is strong. So much so that Marianne blows out her candlelight and sets it away. 

She stands before the Cathedral. Outside of her own room and the stables, Marianne had spent most of her hours here. She prayed so much back then. She prayed for so many people and for so many things. Some of those prayers have never stopped.

Marianne prays just one more time before squeezing through the Cathedral doors left slightly ajar. 

The place is in horrible shape, she notices first. Worse than even the previous damage she saw. She looks around and sees debris left everywhere. The whole place is in disarray. Beams of moonlight shoot through numerous collapsed openings in the ceiling above.

At the front where the biggest opening is, the moon illuminates a lone figure standing in front of a pile of rubble.

Her heart catches in her throat at the sight. For the next few moments, all she can do is stare at the back of whoever stands there. 

If her steps were not loud before, they feel deafening in this destroyed place of worship. She tries to step as lightly as she can, but she cannot focus on anything else except him.

The closer she gets and the more the figure takes shape, Marianne realizes that years and years of forgotten dreams and memories would never have been enough to prepare for this moment in time.

When she steps close enough to enter the same pillar of moonlight that he is in, she stops. The blue cape and fur cloak over his shoulders seem to weigh over him like they threaten to drag him down to earth. Only a few paces away, Marianne can hear him muttering to himself, and the strained sounds of his voice mix with the dizzying sounds of her heart drumming within her head. 

When she steps once more closer, it is enough to have him turning.

The man is tall. Big. His jet-black armor is worn, dented, and bloodied. His hair is wild and unruly. When she tries to find his eyes, she sees that one is missing, and the other bores into her with such intensity that she fears she will wither under it entirely. 

She is paralyzed and does nothing when he walks closer and closer. It only takes him one stride before he is close enough to tower over her with a hateful scowl on his face.

When she looks back up at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape, Marianne knows it is unmistakably him.

“...Dimitri?”

It is the first time she has said his name in ages, and it is the last thing she needs to break free a lifetime’s worth of tears and regrets. Her throat and chest tighten up so much she feels like she might suffocate, and her barely choked-back sobs give way to tears she thought she could never shed again.

Despite it all, she looks back up at him. She cannot break away.

There is a turbulent storm of emotions visible in his demeanor. He inspects her with his one eye, disdain turning into wary confusion at the sight of her struggling to keep it together. She cannot understand why it feels like he is both looking at her and past her. She stands there equal parts relieved and terrified. He is truly alive, and yet he glares at her like he is ready to kill her. 

His wild eye peers deeply and intensely into her own like it is trying to decipher something hidden and complex. After an unbearably long moment of hostile tension, something within him seems to click into place.

The man's shoulders drop, and any tightness in his face loosens just a bit.

He stands before her now, incredulously resigned.

“You still live.”

His voice is deep and haggard. It burrows deep into her, familiar yet barbed. Any warmth she remembers from it has been stamped out.

“I… I do,” she can only whisper tearfully. “And so do you.”

He lets out a mirthless scoff.

“Do I?”

All the words she wants to say to him die in her throat. Everything that she wants to tell him seems so small and irrelevant compared to the sight of him.

“Why are you here,” he growls. “Have you come to kill me?”

“No… I could never. How can you say-”

“Then have you come to kill for me? Do you seek the Emperor’s head?”

“No,” she says again, shaking her head. “I don't have any reason to kill.”

"Then you are useless," he states cruelly. "I need soldiers, not healers and cowards."

"Please, don't say such things," she begs. Her aching chest feels like it will collapse into itself the more he speaks to her in such a tone. "I didn't come here for any of that."

“Then why did you come here?”

"I…"

The ruthless questioning coming from him has her tears streaming down her face. She clenches her eyes shut in a vain attempt to hold it back.

It is all too much.

“…I just wanted to help my friend."

His brow furrows at her answer for reasons she cannot pin down. 

She takes more of his person into account. He looks like he has not slept in days. Grime and filth cling to his face and his armor. Bruises and wounds cover any sort of bare skin visible.

Marianne cannot understand how he has lived. Her voice is a haunted whisper.

“…What happened to you, Dimitri?”

His eyes turn downcast.

“What needed to happen,” is all he says, spite and venom coating every word in his statement. 

Marianne and Dimitri say nothing else for a time. He is really here right before her eyes, yet it is like a nightmare to see him now, powerless on how to help him like she always has been ever since they have known each other. On his end, he continues to regard her with the same contemptuous look he adopted the moment he started speaking.

When she stares into his eye, she can see nothing familiar of the boy she had bonded with. She can find nothing from the boy who had embedded himself into her life in a way she could have never imagined.

When she looks into his eye, it is dead and cold.

“What do you expect out of this?” His voice is softer and weary. “Leave this place, if you know what’s good for you.”

She can sense him beginning to turn away, and in that moment, she feels that it might be the last time he will ever speak to her again. If he turned away from her now, it would just be like losing him all over again. 

Her mouth speaks what she has kept hidden for so long

“I cared about you.”

It is barely audible, but she says them. He freezes up at the sound of her words.

“I cared about you more than I ever thought I could allow myself for another person. Even though I thought you dead, even though I tried to forget you… I don’t think I ever stopped. I don’t know if I ever could.”

It spills forth out of her, and it is the most honest she has been with herself and another person in her entire, meager existence. They are words she never had the chance to say, both to him and herself. It is quiet and comes out choked by tears and sobs, but it is from her soul, true and heartfelt.

Her blurry vision is settled on the Cathedral floor as drops fall from her face to the tiles below. She is afraid to look at him, afraid to hear him turn and walk away. It is only when he continues to be still does she muster up the last of her courage to chance a glance at him.

There are no longer any hints of malice on his countenance. There is no scowl or glare. When Marianne looks up at him, she is met with a pained and regretful look. 

In his eye, there is deep sadness and torment. It darts back and forth between her and something unseen past her.

But when it finally stops and settles on her fully, there is just an ounce of clarity. There is a flicker of what she used to see.

For just a moment, Marianne sees her dear friend.

“Dimitri…”

She reaches for his face. Her hand moves slowly and trembles deeply, but it does not stop.

When Marianne is so close to touching him, he turns away.

“The person you cared for is long dead,” Dimitri whispers, and there is something agonizingly reserved in his tone. “Whatever you want from me, I cannot give you any more.”

Each word is a stab to her heart. It bleeds her of hope and leaves only a sinking, nauseating feeling in her core.

“I will have the Emperor’s head,” he says slowly as if to reaffirm it to not only her but himself. “If you will not help bring me that, then you do not belong here.”

Whatever ember of Dimitri she saw is snuffed out, and in its place, hatred and scorn fill it. In one swift movement, he turns his back to her and begins to walk away.

Instinctively, she steps forward to follow, and his head snaps back at her.

In his eye, Marianne can see him again. But alongside that spark of humanity is a fierce demand that pleads for her to stay away.

The sound of an unsheathing sword fills the air. Dimitri’s eye travels past Marianne and behind her. She looks back to see the glowing Aegis Shield and Felix at the ready. He carefully positions himself between Dimitri and herself, his eyes never leaving the fallen prince. Their gazes are locked for a few heavy moments, neither yielding. 

Sparing her one last glance, Dimitri turns away.

Marianne does not do the same until Felix finally ushers her away.

~~~

Their trek back across the bridge is wordless. Marianne feels that there is nothing left worth saying. 

Her feet are heavy and drag with every step. It is only just now that the weight of her feelings is finally bearing down upon her.

She sees the rest of them on the other side of the bridge. The Professor and her friends each carry the same dejected look on their faces at the sight of her like each one of them already understands what transpired.

Halfway across, she stops. She does not have the energy left to spend with others. 

Felix sees her and understands. He gives her a nod and continues on.

Left alone, she looks up at the wide moon. The vast expanses of the valley below and the sky above do well to remind her of how small she is.

She is empty. Not because she is hollow, but because she is spent. It’s not something she would have realized the difference for until now.

The former left her numb. What she feels now is broken.

Underneath the moon and her words with him playing over and over in her head, she is still left wondering why she is here.

Marianne wonders if she will ever deserve an answer.