Clean Hands
It was a strange feeling, being empress.
She knew this day would come of course. She'd known it as soon as she had any sense of comprehension, or at least, any understanding of language. She came to understand that her name was Edelgard. She came to understand that her father was the most powerful man on the continent, per his position as emperor of the most powerful geo-political entity on said continent (granted, "geo-political" was a word that she came to understand much later). She understood that when her father died, she, as his firstborn, would inherit the throne.
She also understood that the world wasn't as simple as that. She might end up with siblings, and the Adrestrian Empire had no shortage of usurpers – men and women, boys and girls who had died in unnatural circumstances, whose younger siblings had found themselves next in line. She also understood that the existence of the empire was in no way guaranteed either – the Faerghusians, the Leiceste, they would not shed a tear of lamentation should it fall. And as with all empires, there were plenty of dissidents who had no desire to remain under the banner of the black eagle, and who dared think that they were better off without the empire's guidance. That their mewling was supposed to annul the Goddess-given right of all emperors and empresses to steer the nation as they saw fit. And after all that had happened in the prior year, with war, strife, dragons, and everything else that had been thrown the land's way…well, suffice to say, even if the empire had come out of the conflict better than its neighbours, it had reminded her that her line, her land, her lineage, was not guaranteed.
So it was in such knowledge that she sat upon the throne, wearing the regalia befitting her station. Her left hand was rested on the throne's side, her glove's fabric resting against its wood. Her right held a golden sceptre – the symbol of her divine right over all matters facing the realm. In this case, insurgency.
"Lord Croft," she intoned. "You stand before me, having committed treason most grave."
"This is a-"
One of the royal guards hit the back of the man's head. He fell to the floor, barely able to steady himself given that his hands were bound.
"The province of Seras is on the edge of the empire," she continued. "Yet we have always protected you."
"This is absurd. I've committed no treason!"
"Perhaps being on the circumference has given you a wider view of the world. Perhaps you have gazed upon truths unseen that I have yet to behold." She frowned. "Or perhaps it is simply opportunity."
"My lady-"
"Your grace," she corrected. "Documentation has been obtained, Lord Croft. You planned to declare your province independent by the end of the month. Do you deny it?"
"I deny it with every fibre of my being."
"You do?" She leant forward. "Are you saying that the documents are forged, Lord Croft? Are you saying that you did not seek to, and I quote, 'break free from a decaying empire, and the child empress who is without clothes?'"
Croft said nothing.
"Well?" she asked.
"I would see the documents for myself."
"You would, would you?" She leant back. "I thought I made it clear upon my coronation, Lord Croft. Fódlan is in turmoil. I will not see a thousand years of history be thrown into the pyre of history. Justice must be swift."
"This isn't justice. Your father-"
"My father is dead, Lord Croft, may the Goddess watch over him." She sighed. "I would entreat the Goddess watch over you as well, but I doubt she has the time or inclination to watch over those who break the sovereign pact."
Croft, who had turned as pale as a ghost, protested that he'd broken nothing. She ignored him and beckoned for a servant to bring a parchment and quill over.
"Lord Croft, know that on this day, I sentence you to death. Come the rising of the sun, your head will be severed from your body, and mounted on the walls of this castle to warn the realm against such folly. Your lands will become a vassal of Myras Province until your daughter, Serrial Croft, come of age. Until then, she will remain a ward in Castle Hresvelg." She signed the parchment. "By my divine right, I make it so."
Croft began to scream and curse as the guards dragged him away. She didn't bother meeting him in the eye – in part because she didn't want to give him the acknowledgement. In part because it wasn't easy sentencing people to death, even if they deserved it. She'd killed on the battlefield of course. She'd nearly been killed in turn. But something about sentencing men and women to death was different. Perhaps because she didn't wield the axe herself, but rather entrusted it to men who hid their faces.
She'd considered doing the duty herself, but the court had urged her that it was most inappropriate to do so, that the hands of emperors and empresses were not to be sullied with the blood of traitors – those who were worse than enemies, for they had broken bread with the Goddess-anointed before plunging the dagger in their back. In the end, she'd relented – she understood their point, but also understood that she had the right to ignore it. But given how many heads had to roll, how many necks had to break, there simply wasn't enough time for that sort of thing.
Speaking of which…
She clicked her fingers at one of the servants. He walked over.
"Your grace?"
"How many more today?" Edelgard asked.
"How many executions?"
"No, how many matters of state."
He looked at the parchment he carried. Unfolding it, it quickly hit the floor. He looked at her sheepishly.
"All matters of the greatest import I take it."
"Indeed, your grace, or so the senate believes."
"The senate," she scoffed. "Half of these are matters that they themselves could sort out if they had the ability to agree on anything."
"Your grace, I might remind you that-"
"That I can disband it at will." She sighed, leaning back in the throne. "If only I could do that, Sebastian. Of course, I would then be forced to deal with all those matters myself."
He forced a smile – the type of smile that only a man with an opinion but with too much fear to express it could muster.
"I will retire for now," Edelgard said. She removed her cloak and rested the sceptre against the throne – a pair of servants ran to retrieve it so it might return to its cabinet. "We will meet here in an hour."
There was a chorus of affirmations. Like clockwork, the men and women of the court went about their business, as she went about hers.
She was the empress. She might have removed the cloak and sceptre, but she still wore the crown – a thing that she never took off, to remind her of the weight she carried. Of the burdens she had to bear. A reminder that she was the most powerful woman in the world, and no-one, least of all her, could ever forget that.
Not that it stopped her from taking an hour off to enjoy cake and biscuits.
The cake was strawberry this time.
The balcony here faced west – perfect for afternoon tea, so she might watch the setting sun. A perfect sight to match perfect tea, along with perfect food. Food that wasn't in any way healthy, but still, she had dinner to get her required nutrition, plus an hour's worth of sparring in the courtyard to burn whatever poisons remained in her system. With axe and quill, she'd survived the Academy. With axe and quill, she remained empress. In the war of yesteryear, it had been more the axe that had kept her alive, but still…
"Your grace?"
She looked at the servant that had come over to her.
"Hmm?"
"Your grace, Sir Byleth is-"
"Send him in."
The girl blinked at her.
"Have bees made a hive in your ears and filled them with wax? Send him in."
"Of course, your grace."
Edelgard couldn't help but smile, and not just because the cake was that damn good. She suspected the servant wondered how she knew that Byleth had come here. She couldn't possibly understand that….well, she just knew. It would be a lie to say it was as regular as clockwork for her old tutor to visit her, but the world had a nature to it. Somewhere, in that nature, was the fact that Byleth would always come back to her, to play the game he always did. A game that she was happy to play as well.
"Edelgard."
A game that she sometimes wished would end. A game that she'd be happy to call quits if what had happened in the war could be repeated.
"Byleth." She didn't even glance at him as she spoke. "Take a seat."
But of course, that could never happen. Not while she wanted to keep her head, let alone her throne that was.
She clapped her hands. "Leave us."
The servants obeyed, like the good little dogs they were. They might have suspicions, but she trusted them to keep silent. Their heads could roll much sooner than hers. Once they'd left the balcony to them, she finally looked at her former mentor. The mercenary turned instructor turned knight turned mercenary again.
"You look good," she said. "Fate has treated you well."
"I don't believe in fate."
"You don't? Well, I don't either to be honest." She took a sip of tea. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Cake? Biscuits?"
"There's a knife there. That might help."
Her eyes narrowed. "There's no need for that."
Byleth said nothing. He just sat there. Looking at her.
You've gotten older.
He'd gotten handsomer well, but Goddess damn her if she ever let that escape her lips. But she couldn't deny it…well, he was a fine specimen. Sound of form, sound of mind – the scar that ran across his right check suited him, as did the growing beard.
"I heard about what happened with Lord Croft," Byleth said. "Nasty business."
Oh Goddess, here we go.
"I also heard that the documents that supposedly prove his guilt were declared highly suspect by some of the justices of the Imperial Court."
Edelgard sighed. "Your point?"
"Oh, nothing. Only that it might have been prudent to hold a trial before lobbing a man's head off."
"If I recall Byleth, we both lopped plenty of heads off during the war, as did our enemies."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes. We fought to survive. We had a choice. You-"
"Are with the choices of oblivion or survival." Edelgard sipped some of the tea. "You sure you don't want some of this?"
"Edelgard, you-"
"Your grace," she snapped. "Use the correct term. And no, Sir Byleth. If you've come to me with another of your moralizing speeches, I've got no interest in having tea with you." She laid the tea cup down on the saucer. "Shall I explain to you what it means to rule the largest empire on the continent? It means acting decisively. It means that I have to be feared, as well as loved."
"I thought that ruling an empire meant acting justly."
Edelgard frowned. "Where'd you get that idea?"
"You," he said. "When you told me as such back at the academy."
The frown remained, even as she cut more of the cake. She put it on her plate, and with her fork, cut off a tiny slice. Not a speck landed on her clothes, nor the gloves that covered her hands. She took the piece up to her mouth and began to chew.
It no longer tasted delicious.
"Remember what else I told you?" Byleth said.
Edelgard said nothing.
"That blood gets on your hands one way or another? That even if you don't shed it in battle, when you lead, the blood gets there all the same?"
"I remember," she said, putting the cake down. "I believe that didn't come from you, but a quote."
"One from Bauthaus the Conqueror," Byleth said. "A brutal man by all accounts, but one that understood his own brutality."
"And thus he noticed the blood on his hands," Edelgard sneered. She held up her hands for Byleth to see. "Any blood there, former knight?"
"Technically I'm still a knight."
"Technically I could order you killed here and now."
Byleth said nothing. He just stared at her. That long, drawn out stare of his, when they'd poured over maps together. When they'd planned strategy. When being a soldier was all she was, and not the empress.
He just looked at her. And that cut deeper than any blade.
"Why are you here, Byleth?" she murmured.
He said nothing.
"Why are you here?" she repeated.
"Maybe I'm searching."
"Searching for what?"
"The old you."
"People change, Byleth. Crowns do that to a person."
"Do they change me this much?" he asked.
She said nothing.
"Go on, tell me. You're the empress. I'm just the person who you came to that night."
Edelgard glared at him. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?"
"Whore."
"What?"
"Son of a whore. My mother was a whore. Never knew her. Good enough to give me to my father to raise as a mercenary after I popped out."
Scowling, Edelgard looked away.
"How's our son?"
She kept her gaze in the other direction.
"Edelgard?"
She didn't answer.
"I asked you a question. As your former tutor, I-"
"As empress, I'm going to tell you that if you utter one more word about my…" She took a breath. "He's fine. He's in Grachiel Monastery. Most of the nuns don't know his heritage, and he never will either."
"Unless I tell him."
Edelgard's gaze narrowed. "You're not stupid Byleth, but I'm going to tell you two facts of life. First, the laws of the empire are clear – the firstborn is entitled to the throne, but that doesn't extend to bastardry. It means that our son can never claim the chair on which I reside."
"And the second thing?"
"The second is that there's been numerous cases in history where the people conveniently forgot the first fact."
Byleth said nothing – likely out of concern, but concern for whom, or what, she wasn't sure.
"Why do you care?" she asked. "He's safe. He'll grow up happy. It's none of your concern."
"It became my concern the night you came to me."
She looked for something – a sign of any kind of emotion. Yearning. Regret. Longing. Even lust. But there was nothing. He'd always been good at hiding his emotions. Still…
She remembered it – especially at night, as she lay in her bed, thinking of blankets more worn, of a mattress less wide. Of sweet honeyed nectar passing between her legs. Of flesh intermingled. Of her sweat baptizing her, as the Goddess's edict was obeyed – to be fruitful. Of the hours that passed afterwards, as they lay in each other's arms, as she counted herself both blessed and damned. How too she remembered the battles that followed. How she remembered the vows made, even in the knowledge that they could never uphold them. How, at the moment she was declared empress, that her thoughts were not so much on the crown that touched upon her head, but rather her ever growing belly.
She'd hidden it long enough to get to Grachiel – her sabbatical, before returning to the throne to rule. How she'd screamed like one of the countless wounded she'd seen on the field of battle. How she'd bled like them too. How she at last, had honoured the letter of the Goddess's edict, if not the spirit, and brought life into the world. Life that came not from wedlock. Life, that she had stayed with for an hour, cradling in her arms. Life that she'd given parting kiss to, before departing into the night.
"Edelgard?"
"Hmm?"
"You're trembling."
"Am I indeed?" She got to her feet – she knew the rest of the story, no need to relive it. "Quite right. I am. No doubt I must return to dispense justice."
"Judgement. Not justice."
"Your tongue's still sharp I see. Nevertheless, I will endure its absence."
"Edelgard-"
"Your grace," she snapped. "And before we share more words or whispers, I would ask something of you."
He bowed. "Of course."
"I…" She trailed off. She wanted to sound angry. She was angry damn it. But she just couldn't muster it.
Had to be a sugar high.
"What would you have me do?" she whispered. "Reveal my role in the creation of a bastard? You know that whomever I wed will have to be someone from within the empire, and by divine law, I must mother a second child – one who will take the throne, and be none the wiser as to their half-brother."
He shrugged. "Thought an empress could do anything."
"Technically, I can. Also, what's less technical, is the situation of the empire. I make one false step, I'll find myself falling with a noose round my neck."
Byleth said nothing. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he had nothing to say.
"Now I take my leave," she said. "Farewell, former knight."
"Still a knight," he said. "You technically never stripped me of knighthood."
"And technically…" She trailed off – as sharp as her tongue was, nothing came out of it. Instead, she kissed him. Briefly, of course – the walls had eyes as much as they had ears.
She turned to leave.
"Your grace?"
Turned once more to look at him.
"Remember what I said about blood," he said. He put up his right hand – scarred again, thanks to a blade that had passed through it. "It piles up, even if you're not the one holding the weapon."
"I…" Edelgard cleared her throat. "I…I think maybe…I can suspend the sentence of Lord Croft. To ascertain whether he is indeed a traitor."
"I'm sure he will appreciate that."
And will you?
She didn't answer it. As the stallion didn't concern itself with the opinion of the ants, so too was an empress not meant to consider the opinion of a disgraced knight turned mercenary.
"Farwell, Byleth."
She headed back to the throne, the crown feeling heavy.