Magdred is plain and Byleth imagines Gaspard to be much the same. Small territories along the border, meant to be ignored. Unlike Arianrhod and Rowe, which ran adjacent and knew themselves to be favored lands, capable of claiming defensive strength Gaspard and Magdred could not.
Byleth is loath to deem them boring already, especially with Ashe's horse beside her. Thinks that might be a little rude and much too callous.
So she lets herself be distracted by Ashe who nearly vibrates out of his saddle. Lets him point out little things to her as they ride, his mouth running nervously, providing her a steady stream of information as if needing some way of getting the energy out. She learns the schedule of Gaspard crops. The small festivities for the Garland moon. The preparations for the Rite of Rebirth next month. The new wines reaching their peak when the Blue Sea star rose to the sky once more.
All in all, Byleth has the impression the territories along the border are grey lands of simple houses and people who should have turned away from warfare. Comprised of mostly farmers and peasants more invested in their fields than warfare.
Modest, that was the kinder word.
She sees few bars in the villages and even fewer mercenaries. It's a place to pause but not stop. There would be no missions to be pulled from tavern bulletins and no coin to be paid. The people are mostly farmers, intent on their fields more than anything else. She does not see many of them glance up; those who do, toss out respectful salutes. Only children run up to them, gawking with the air of someone seeing a fairy tale jump to life.
It's only as they move closer towards the Gaspard border that the tensions start to bleed in. There are fewer people in the fields. More and more homes with only older men and women offering thin smiles. Their eyes knowing as the Knights take up residence on their lands. Thinly suppressed fear tinged with faint dislike. More and more homes with children too young for battle, who don't speak of their parents but think of them constantly. Reading tension from the adults and quieting themselves in response.
The Golden Deer and their latest sit-in - she was going to have to speak to Linhardt about that - Caspar, take to the situation better than Byleth had thought. Raphael and Ignatz make a point to speak to the families at each home they stay in. Raphael often tossing a boy or girl onto his shoulders or into the air until they squealed and laughed, their concerns momentarily forgotten. Sometimes he tosses them to Caspar who would roar and race through the house with them in his arms. And for a little while, shouts of children would shatter the uncomfortable stillness of the place.
Ignatz doodles little pictures. Of faeries and heroes and powerful beings.
The others, though more reticent, try their best. Hilda makes accessories, dragging Marianne alongside her, who delights her fair share of little ones with carefully toned down Blizzard spells. Lysithea teaches a few of the children to read. Leonie rolls up her sleeves and mends hoes, hunts rabbits, herds sheep, anything to lend assistance. And Lorenz … Lorenz lets them yell at him sometimes. Makes promises in his head. His expression pinched and full of open concern. And surprisingly, he works with them. Rolls up his sleeves and –
"Carrying out my duty as a noble, moving for the commoners."
"You don't have to do that you know," Byleth says to him and he only looks her in the eye and shakes his head.
As for Claude …
She watches him flit around, a little ribbon of gold spooling out around absolutely everyone, lighting on the very edges. As if he does not care to be touched by sadness and brings others with him in his delight. He charms and winks, steals little treats like a mischievous fae thing to be placated by bribes, and overall manages to win himself quite a few favors. Tucks them all away like a little dragon with his hoard.
On the final leg of their march, the night before they meet with Catherine's troops, he seeks her out in the stables, whistling low when he sees her in the middle of pull-ups. He's wearing two armloads of white rose garlands and a smile that reaches his eyes. When she doesn't pause, he waves at her in greeting, making the flowers rustle.
"Nervous, Teach?"
"What do I have to be nervous about?"
His eyes sparkle a little at the response as if she's said yet another thing to amuse him and for a moment she considers dropping herself on his shoulders.
"You're really not, are you?" he asks, shuffling close as he dared. Which meant close enough she brushes him each time she pulls herself up.
Green eyes linger on her face, poking and prying for changes, always so keen on reading her emotions. With a sigh, Byleth drops herself beside him and he does not flinch. As if he trusts wholeheartedly that she will not bowl him over. As if Claude von Reigan were a trusting man and not only a greedy one.
His eyes drift over her arms. Her chest. Jumping immediately back up to hold her gaze when she shifts. He at least has the wherewithal to duck his head in some semblance of an apology.
"Is that because you're accustomed to missions and battlefields?" he asks, looking only at her face now, genuine curiosity ladening the words, "Fought off too many enemies to be worried, huh?"
"Something like that…"
His smile softens a little. Dimming. No longer the brilliant gleam of a showman - but a little private quirk brought by interest and something else almost genuine.
"Oh, did I guess wrong, Teach?" he nudges at her with his elbow, "C'mon, you're not the type to indulge me with easy answers. Lay it out. Where'd I go wrong?"
"Haven't you heard the expression curiosity killed the cat?"
"Haven't you ever heard satisfaction brought it back?"
And he smiles like a well-fed feline still begging for scraps, angling his face up at her. Always angling himself to appear lower than her, sniping with sly smiles and wicked grins at a submissive angle. As if he were prey and not predator.
Byleth sighs, walking away from him, throwing an answer behind her as she goes, "Nervous is facing down an army you cannot best. When you go to output more than you are capable. I do not think this is outside of my capabilities."
Claude utters a laugh full of delight. From her words or the fact she had deigned to respond? She cannot tell. Regardless, he runs up beside her, pressing up close as if it were within his right and when Byleth steps away, stumbles and recovers with the unrelenting ease of a conman, with a twist of grace wrung from his very being as he runs up beside her again. Not as close as before but close enough the roses brush her bare arms. The barest tickle of blossom edges drawing goosebumps.
"Is that all? Is this so beneath you?"
"Not what I said. I only said this was within my capabilities," Byleth pauses midstep, watching him stumble to match her again.
She flexes her hand, opening and closing her fist. Shifting her grip around a non-existent sword. Watching minute muscles pull and stretch over a strong pulse, her skin gleaming with sweat beneath the torchlights.
"It's like a training field. When you hit a target over and over it becomes a thing easily done. It becomes simple. Ingrained in you. Do you worry about restringing your bow? Do you feel nervous about running laps?"
Claude hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "Not many people can say that about a real battlefield, Teach. What remarkable composure. I imagine it'd be terrifying facing you. No mercy. No hesitation."
"Because you're thinking of the battlefield as some end destination," Byleth touches the Sword of the Creator on her hip, "Have you heard anyone say 'the journey is more important than the destination'?"
"Another expression? You're starting to remind me of my mother," he says and then blinks. The faintest trace of discomfort in that admission. As if he had surprised himself with it. Unaccustomed to relinquishing information about himself. As quick as it had come, it vanishes.
"I heard it thrown around once. Some tavern in the Leicester Alliance. Only in passing. Not to be remembered. But I suppose it stuck with me. To me … I understand it as 'I am made up of things I do every day.' Swinging my sword, testing out strategy, pouring over maps and placements, sharpening my blades … Skill. Strategy. Strength. The end goal doesn't matter."
She doesn't have to swing her sword to know it's weight and heft. To understand the burn the Crest lent to her blood. To know how easily it can cut.
"What matters is what I am capable of here. Now. And I understand well what falls in and out of my means. This …," she gestures a little, a wide sweep of her arm to indicate Gaspard in the distance, "Is not beyond me. So, to answer your first question, Claude. No, I am not nervous. And if you intend to carry such fear with you to the battlefield, you should not be on one."
"Oh? And if you had no choice?"
"Make it one."
Claude sighs as he folds his hands behind his head, "Oh, how simple you make it seem, Teach. So this is the difference between heroes and mere mortal men."
He shakes his head, the gesture loosening a few white petals. They cling to his lapel and shoulders as he sighs again. Exaggerated and full of longing. The picture he presents could come from a story book. A young prince wreathed in flora with a schemer's smile and a fae's cunning. The roses are a nice contrast wreathed around his face. Delicate white against the sharp line of his cheekbones, kissing the curve of his jaw. She thinks he'll grow to be sharper, more clear cut. His nose and cheeks more pronounced. The smile tempered by age to become something handsome instead of boyish. It's not a difficulty to understand the ease with which he'd grasped the attention of the townsfolk.
"Heroes, huh? You've been reading too many Church fairy tales."
"How blasphemous," Claude says, looking around overzealously as if Seteth might emerge from the shadows to chide them both. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the green as vibrant as emeralds, "Careful, Teach. You never know who you might offend with such talk. Lucky for you, I'm your ever-loyal confidante."
"Confidante?"
"Hey, now, you wound me with your derision, Teach," he tuts, "Who was the only one in the Deer you told about Ashe –"
Claude jumps when she crowds him, eyes going wide and startled as she leans in, her fingers tipping his chin to look her in the face.
"Stop goading," she says, "I know you're not nearly careless enough to run your mouth. Not after the Mausoleum. So. Hush. I've already answered the questions you wanted."
"True enough," he doesn't bat her hand away, only tilts his face, a prince anticipating a kiss, his eyes dark as they flick from her eyes to her mouth, "But you're an endlessly fascinating study, Teach, and I can never ask enough."
She's tempted to press further, to lean into his willingness and encroach on his barriers as she would have any man or woman that so spoke to her in a tavern. To push and pry as he did her, teasing out the limits of his restraint.
With a huff, she swipes at his braid, makes it flounce and leap in the air, and pulls away. Unsurprisingly he follows. His eyes linger on her, pupil dark as he touches the end of his braid, teasing the strand between dexterous fingers, his gaze full of desire she doesn't think he realizes yet.
"Do you never want something beyond your means?" he asks lowly, pitched in a whisper, like a secret confession.
"No."
He looks at her for a moment. A gaze heavy and full of meaning. The feel of it on her skin making her prickle, twitching with a need to respond.
Claude turns his face upwards, to the heavy drape of stars, "Spoken like someone with true strength."
She thinks he isn't going to continue at first. His face still pointed upwards, gaze set far away from her for once. The reflection of the moonlight like a drape of lace against the profile of his face.
"What an impossible person you are. Y'know we can't be that far apart - age-wise - but looking at you move. Your skill in the Mausoleum. The way you command us on training fields. I never thought someone like you could exist," he says, his voice growing quiet and distant, "I thought we were similar. Back when we first met."
Byleth thinks to reach out to him. A comforting arm on his shoulder. A pat on the back. Something to wipe the quiet contemplative tone he'd taken. It reminds her of the nights with her father. When weariness hung over them as blatantly as the stars. The air full of meaning and things unspoken. Fraught with a fragile peace that could be easily shattered.
She keeps her hand on her sword.
"I wasn't exactly born into a life of luxury as a child," Claude continues, "I was … different. That's the best way of putting it. Resented. Hated. So I spent a lot of time running. Licking my wounds. Scheming. And ultimately plotting against my enemies. Going ass over backwards trying to stay ahead of them. Scrambling to leap out on top … so I thought we were the same. Strategists who have to be thirty steps ahead. A hundred. A thousand. Outrun enemies. Outpace even allies…"
He shoots her a sidelong glance, "But you're different, Teach. It's within your means to outmaneuver those who reach you. To outmatch those who clash their blade to yours even when caught off guard. How enviable. I wonder what it must take to walk beside you."
"It was necessary," Bylead says and the look in his eyes is terrible. Full of grief and stubbornness. Thinking of a truth he refused to face. Her brother pieced together by his simple desire to run after her even in this –
"Teach?" Claude peers at her, confusion and then concern creasing his brow.
He was growing damnably adept at reading the change in her expressions. His hand hovers over her arms, not touching but near enough she can feel the heat of his palm.
"Kids."
Byleth looks to her right. Sees Jeralt holding a bowl and some bread, walking towards them. His eyes drift to Claude. Then back to Byleth and she sees a little glimmer of something in his face before he can hide it. A look he'd worn since she found him by mother's grave. Thinking secrets he could not tell and holding grief she could not share. Of a burden, she could not carry. She blinks and for a moment, under the dim light of the moon, he looks so aged and lost in time Byleth feels a keen lance of uncertainty.
Grief like Bylead's.
Concern for something she couldn't circumvent. Pain she was unable to spare.
Byleth twitches. Her mouth barely moving with her next words, falling on Claude's ears only, "Something beyond my means, huh?"
The white roses crinkle as he bumps her gently. A look infinitely soft, full of understanding. As quickly as it'd come, it winks out like a star falling towards earth.
He pulls himself together, drapes a persona over himself once again as he snaps a salute at Jeralt, student and trickster once more.
Thunderbrand is hideous.
Bleached bone white.
A carcass on display.
It looks like a body brutally slain. Cruelly shattered. The pieces on both sides of the blade, a person's broken rib cage. The tip of the hilt, their torn throat.
Against Byleth's hip, the Sword of the Creator vibrates, a tremor like an earthquake. As if screaming in protest. She tightens her hold. The handle seems to melt into her touch, she swears she can feel something boiling beneath her skin. Writhing worms beneath decaying flesh. She grips the handle, aiming to force it into stillness with her will alone and though it takes some doing, she, at last, manages to silence the tremble of her new blade.
"Professor," Catherine greets, wearing a grin unbefitting a wielder of a reaper's blade.
She comes closer and Thunderbrand comes with her. Too close suddenly. Byleth hates the way Thunderbrand looks beside her sword. Hates the way they seem to fit. A neat collection of morbid parts.
"Hope you're everything they made you out to be," Catherine says as she extends a hand, her blue eyes clear and brilliant as a summer sky.
"Likewise," Byleth says, her words stilted but only to those who understood her.
Jeralt looks at her over Catherine's shoulder, a question in his eyes she does not reply to. By her side, Claude angles himself, leaning towards Catherine, as if ready to step between them. The rest of the Deer alongside Caspar and Ashe are at her back, crowded by the Knights of Seiros, the students leaning in to marvel at a legend.
Byleth makes herself take Catherine's hand.
Makes herself focus on the Knight instead of her sword.
"I've heard much about you," Byleth says, pretending she is not imagining her hands on Thunderbrand's hilt. The thought strumming up such discordant displeasure she wants to vomit.
"Likewise," Catherine says back, her tone and voice pitched to match Byleth's. A little tease given the way Catherine grins, "You remind me of someone."
Her expression turns considering as she relinquishes Byleth's hand. Then mischievous. Byleth narrowly steps out of the way of her reach as Catherine goes to swing an arm around her. Ducking her sword more than her.
"Yeah, exactly like her," Catherine laughs and it's a rough sound, stirred from a woman who did not much care for limiting herself. She laughs with her whole body. Her amusement softening her stance and it gentles some of the dislike in Byleth. Grants her a moment of clarity unclouded by base emotion.
"It's at least peaceful here," Shamir says, closing her eyes as she leans against the tree bark, "No idiots trying to grab me for hugs."
Shamir in a rarely talkative mood. Byleth lifts a flask to her in response.
"I'll drink to that."
Surprisingly, the mercenary accepts. The two of them trading sips from Byleth's flask. Shamir pretending she isn't watching the students run their drills like a hawk. Byleth pretending she does not understand Shamir's purpose in sitting in on the class.
Both of them blind and deaf to the other woman's abilities. Mercenaries from different hires existing in parallel, careful not to cross.
They watch Caspar lunge and duck under trees, weaving through the terrain with surprising maneuverability. Nearly adept enough to keep up with Ashe. Notice the way Ferdinand insists on standing his ground in an open field, urging enemies at him first and foremost. Understand the way Edelgard pushes him forward like a trap. Sees Hubert on the edges around him, ready to spring.
Shamir doesn't make notes. No reminders for herself. Nothing physical to be found in the event something went wrong. Instead, Byleth sees her tick information in her mind, one steadily filling scroll locked forever in the cavernous reaches of her head alone. A mercenary trained as a spy and a good one at that.
Byleth knows mercenaries like her. Ruthless. Straightforward. The best sort of partner. Steady and unfaltering. The type with well-defined boundaries who asked no questions and requested you do the same. A clear cut, simple relationship.
Not for the first time, Byleth thinks it was an unfortunate truth that they shared different employers.
"Let's hope you and I get along just as well," Catherine says, looking as if she is ready to pounce again.
As if they were rowdy customers in a closing tavern. Her, too full of drinks and too easily amused.
"I imagine we'll get along about the same," Byleth replies, shifting her weight in anticipation of another lunge.
"You're not how I imagined you," Claude says, cutting off another attempt, tying Catherine's attention to himself as he slips between them, "I'd heard you're intimidating enough to silence the howling winds."
"Yeah, even people in the Empire know the name, Thunder Catherine!" Caspar adds, pushing forward, his fingers hover over Thunderbrand's hilt for a moment before he catches himself.
"But to carry a Hero's Relic … how did you come by it?" Lorenz asks, "Such things are typically passed down through the bloodlines of the 10 Elites."
"Yeesh, Lorenz, show some respect," Leonie huffs, "You can't be implying she swiped the thing are you?"
"By no means. I was only surprised. Relics are not typically wielded by just anyone."
"A wielder is a wielder," Lysithea says, "The Professor is proof enough you don't need a noble birth to possess a Crest."
Her lips curl a little in displeasure.
"Well, the Professor is just like that," Hilda says, waving her hands, "Otherwise a Relic implies nobility. Right, Marianne?"
"O-oh, um –"
"Does that matter?" Catherine says, her tone broaching on defensive. Marianne flashes her a startled look and ducks a little closer to Hilda. The laughter smears away from Catherine's face, her expression going rigid.
"Of course not," Caspar responds before anyone else can, shifting a little at the new tension, "You're a legend. A hero! When I was younger, my friends and I would fight over who got to pretend to use Thunderbrand whenever we would play. To think we get to fight alongside someone like you today…"
Catherine's expression goes steadily stiffer. A little twist of disdain turned inwardly flitting over her features for a half-second before she folds it away. She plasters a smile on her face.
"Is that so?" she asks, her hand on the hilt of her blade.
She scans the students, falling on Ashe who twitches, his knuckles going white over his bow. There's a look of cold fury in him, the frost in his face like winters in Faerghus. When the air hurt to breathe, splintering in the lungs.
There is a moment between them. Catherine's mouth parting on unspoken words. Her eyes drifting towards guilt, moving towards an apology. And Ashe turning himself away from it all, his face and body condemning, demanding her distance.
And then it is gone.
Catherine's lips twist as she leans back towards Jeralt instead, "I wonder if the kids actually saw us fighting, those games would be still as popular. What do you think, Jeralt the Blade Breaker?"
A little flicker of displeasure flashes on Jeralt's face, better hidden and unnoticeable to all but Byleth.
"Guess we'll find out today," Jeralt says mildly.
"Ha - well," Catherine turns towards castle Gaspard, her thumb over the edge of her hilt, her expression settling into something grim, "Guess so. Funny how things catch up with us."
"Captain! The enemy is approaching!"
Ashe," Byleth breathes out as the Knights and her students move to join up with her father, "Are you going to lunge for Catherine?"
"No."
He looks at her, defiant. Fierce determination closing over unsteady fury and tense anxiety. Encapsulating it in a bitter herb he swallows down.
"I haven't forgotten my goal," he says, taking her arm.
She does not remark on the tremble in his touch, electing to see only the determination on his face.
"Very well then. At your command."
The fog was tangible on Jeralt's skin. An unnoticeable touch until Jeralt thought on it. Slick fingers dragging over his arms, the moisture webbing about him, threatening to swallow him up. The fog plumes like a breath, white slipping between their groups like a live barrier, kissing the green of the forest, drawing pale arms over tree bark.
A live thing that betrayed the presence of –
Mages, Jeralt shifts, raising a hand, knowing the gesture will be lost soon as the fog grows thicker.
His mercenaries move to reposition themselves behind them. Shift to line up the edges of their groups, always ensuring a Knight of Seiros stood with them. There were others moving amongst them. Not the sounds of a full army but a group smaller. Thinking to surround them and catch them off guard. Footsteps and armors clattering at the very periphery of their group.
"Wait for them to enter your field of view," he hears Catherine shout, the fog swallowing her up, "Take down anyone who breaks through and push through!"
Thunderbrand snaps at the fog as she swings, the glow of it like hellfire as she drives it through a soldier who'd broken through the fog. The blade whispers and snaps through the air, the glow fast growing dimmer.
"Death to the false goddess!" someone shouts - idiotic - and one of Jeralt's mercenaries drives an axe through his skull, splintering bone.
Leonie lunges past him, her lance swinging in a near imitation of his movements, puncturing another soldier who'd leapt at them from within the fog.
"Heh, like old times, Sir Jeralt," she says, a grin on her face that could pass for a grimace as she unhooks her lance from a dead man's skull. The man wears a little symbol for the Western Church, the shaped warped beneath the stain of his blood.
Mage fire and lightning snarl at Jeralt's cheeks. He yanks Leonie out of the way, remembering Sauin very differently. He slashes his lance, disarming another assailant, rolling his shoulders to allow an arrow to snipe the man out.
"We'll do what we can here!" the house leader – Claude shouts at Catherine as he draws up beside Jeralt, an arrow notched as he scans the fog, green eyes bright as if he can see through the magic.
There's a charge in his tone, a boy's command going unanswered by those more battle-hardened. With a shout, Jeralt tugs at his own knights and mercenaries. Draws them closer by them just as Claude pulls in the Deer, deftly weaves students between Jeralt's forces. Ensconcing them in the protection of others. Holding himself much the same, in the range of Jeralt's lance but not enough to deter his swing.
"Run if you're gonna die," Claude calls out to his classmates, winking at Jeralt, "I know I will."
And with that fires a rapid bout of arrows, urging Raphael to break ahead, his battle cry ringing out like a distraction. The flurry draws forth more men. The Western Church tearing from the trees, their magic and blades finding matches instead of simple targets.
Cutting Gale bursts from Marianne's fingers, forcing back the fog magic, tearing into foes that dared come her way. Lysithea and Lorenz enshrouded in dark magic, their fingertips burning with their spells before launching them to dispel Fire and Bolganone thrown their way. Raphael and Hilda hold a neat line alongside men and women with twice their experience, cleaving through enemies with brute force as Ignatz swings Heals and supporting Blizzards, moving with a nimbleness Jeralt had not expected.
Leonie presses up against his side, a form too tall, holding the wrong weapon –
Byleth's absence is a needle-prick against Jeralt's chest, a little sliver of anxiety he pushes away. Knowing she has no need for it.
"Her heart," Rhea says and Jeralt swings his lance with a ferocity unbecoming a knight, barely restraining the Crest threatening to break the surface of his skin.
Claude tugs at him, an easy smile on his lips that does not reach his eyes. Makes a gesture Jeralt recognizes as Byleth's hand signs.
"Enemies at the back. Swinging around."
"For a rebellion, we're sure missing a lot of rebels," Claude comments with a wink, darting away like a shot, splintering from the path Catherine had carved for them.
Armor and blades clang like bells. Shouts and cries rising like hymns in the cathedral. One of the Knights goes down, an arrow in his thigh and in retaliation one of Jeralt's mercenaries hurls a hand axe in that direction. A thick gurgle rumbling from the fog, alerting them of a death.
Mage fire then lightning.
The snare of a blade.
A rush of an arrow.
Jeralt goes where Claude had gestured, drags his hand up through the fog to bring his men with. Falling into warfare, stepping into battle, letting the familiar shape fall over his shoulders.
"Lonato will come to greet her," Ashe had said and though he'd anticipated, bearing witness stirs a pang in his heart nonetheless.
"For Lord Lonato!"
Ashe grits his teeth against a civilian, arrow gone from his bow before he can think. He runs out of their dying reach, not daring to look at their face. Cannot allow himself the precious time to determine an identity.
They had delved slightly into Empire territory, swung narrowly around the Western Church armies, and now, along the border of Gaspard, Ashe can see them. Lonato's personal forces. Mind racing as Ashe picks out targets, his heartbeat a cacophonous harmony in his ears as they are forced to engage a smattering of rebellion forces at the very edge of battle.
Men and women scarcely armed, brandishing their lives like weapons for a lord lost in grief.
Ashe can see faint shapes and shades in the fog behind them, moving like ghosts, teasing at the edges of Catherine's forces, beckoning her forward. Can see the barest glimmer of Thunderbrand flash in the thick of the fog. Coaxing her towards Lonato's vengeance and understands the path they want her to take from there. Relived they have outpaced her.
Ashe grabs for Byleth, guiding her forward, ignoring the blight of battle beneath his feet. Deaths tainting the ground he ran.
He guides Byleth over grounds he knew as a child. Over dips and crests of the land, he had sprung over with news of his acceptance to Garreg Mach. Dipping through the edges of a forest he'd once played hide-n-seek. Towards the edges of –
Ashe yelps as Byleth swings him out of the way, flailing at her side as a scythe rips the air where he had once stood. She shoves him aside like a dead weight, hard enough he drops his balance. Byleth lunges forward to meet the enemy without him. Engaging before he can right himself. Ashe's arrow lurches up to find nothing but Byleth's back as she slots herself between him and their assailant. Both refusing his aid and preventing a charge at him.
Ashe feels his breath hitch.
Death, himself, grins down at them, wearing a mask cursed with a wicked smile that tore into the corners of his cheeks. His figure carving out a dark shape against the backdrop of the fog, astride a black stallion lent from the eternal flames. Ashe understands warhorses and this one is massive. Built and bred like a weapon, it's bulk and powerful legs impressing a strength that makes Ashe's knees buckle.
"Move," Byleth snarls, reaching behind her to shove at him again and the knight takes the opportunity to lunge.
Sparks burn the air between them as their blades clash. The jagged teeth of the Sword of the Creator meeting the wicked edge of the man's scythe.
In the corner of Ashe's eyes, he sees another Crest light the forest. A buckle of wind - the edges of Cutting Gale - snapping the air about them. Catherine growing closer. Drawing in. He looks to Lonato's forces. Can pick his father from a crowd anywhere. Can see him raise his arms. Lowering them in a command. Moving out the rest of his troops as he goes for his stallion.
A Crest explodes at Ashe's back, flames bursting across Byleth's skin, making her a bonfire as her sword bisects the air.
"Move!" she roars this time, her voice a rumble, shaking the very earth with her command.
He goes.
Hears the clatter of blades just above his head and turns a blind eye to it. Understanding Byleth had moved to block for him. Lent her aid in carving out a path he had asked for.
He runs, closing his eyes and ears to the battle around him and the many parties that made up the field.
His eyes trained only on his father on –
"Lord Lonato!"
"The enemy has caught up! They – Ashe?"
Shock fragments Lonato's voice, lancing through the words, scattering the strength of his command. But he grasps it back at once as if grasping the reins of a skittish horse. His jaw goes firm. His expression drawing closed, shuttering over his surprise. A knight honed by self-discipline.
"Ashe, what are you doing here?" Lonato asks, voice cautious and pitched low. A slow understanding passing over him.
"Lord Lonato, please - I beg of you. Surrender."
Resolution hardens blue eyes, crystallising into something solid and full of jagged edges.
"So you would align with Rhea."
"No! I only came to understand your reasons. For this ... this," Ashe gestures behind him, a roil of something bitter and dreadful in his heart, "Meaningless bloodshed."
"Meaningless? My reasons?" Lonato breathes out a low laugh, the sound rattling like chains in the air between them, "Rhea has desecrated the Goddess. Painted herself a golden idol touting false ideologies. And stolen a child from me while claiming martyrdom. My reasons are just, Ashe."
"No! Dragging the townsfolk into this isn't right," Ashe retorts, "This isn't – this isn't something Christophe would have condoned."
A lance scores the air, swinging at Ashe's face, the tip drawing a trail of blood over Ashe's cheeks as he leaps backward. The few knights beside Lonato shifting forward in defense of their lord.
"Do not speak his name, Ashe," a low growl of warning, "Not my son – do not tarnish his memory like –"
"He was my brother too!" Ashe shouts, the words ripping from his throat, tearing from him, an old grief falling between them, "I knew him too. I knew what he was like in life. And I know he would have never condoned the death of so many in his –"
An arrow strikes his thigh. Making him fall. The ground rising to greet him.
Surprise. Shock.
Then pain.
It arcs through him like lightning, flaying the skin from his bones. Hurt, an acidic burn in his chest, marred by disbelief.
The shadow of a lance rises above him.
"If that is how you feel, prepare yourself. I intend to put an end to this."
The arc of a lance swung perfectly, carried by a knight who never slacked on his duties or training. Someone he had once hoped to become.