The Oracle vault.
The large, stone salon was tucked somewhere on the face of the stone that held up the monastery main buildings. A wrong turn away from the Abyss settlements, the chilly, mysterious room had always elicited some strange regard from the new Archbishop.
Before the war, Rhea would use the room to make predictions about the future and the wishes of her mother, trying to communicate with the Blue Sea Star. The monks tasked with the prophecies used all sorts of methods, from magical objects, narcotic substances and, mainly, ritual dancing. So much so, the White Heron Cup was usually held to identify students with a particular talent for it, as, upon victory, they were brought here to further education in magic.
Of course, the former Archbishop's attention to it was uneven. At the dawn of the Church of Seiros, Rhea would invest heavily upon the art, hoping to bring forth Sothis through their magic. After the Four Apostles failed so shamefully and were purged away from the religion, the woman started investing in Crestology and alchemy instead, returning every so often, after another failed experiment and lidden with guilt for perverting her mother's creations in such a manner, hoping for absolution and guidance.
Byleth does not know why she cares for this room, as she is unsure about its power to predict the future and the will of the Goddess. She understands why she appreciates the gardens and gazebos, and do have fond memories of her old classroom, but, prior to the war, she had never even heard of this place.
It was far more contrasting from the others, consisting simply of stone walls and arched ceilings, a large empty space in the middle, as if what should go there was yet to appear. On the dark and damp corners, mismatched tapestries draped in ruffles from the walls in bursting colours, equally so in the various sizes cushions and chairs with rugs to match. Other objects as pebbles, scales, magically-infused items and strange clothing were discarded around, as well.
Regardless, it laid empty and forgotten. The Oracle mages and dancers were seen by Edelgard as the consubstantiation of everything that was wrong and corrupt about the Church, just short of the Immaculate One in foulness, and so made her personal business their systematic persecution and murder. Seteth said it was unlikely any of them managed to survive, and if not, they had no news of any of them. Their art is mostly lost, and it elicits a bit of a melancholy in Byleth's heart, knowing that.
"Why is it that we are coming here?" Sylvain asks with a sigh, trailing behind her as Byleth ascend the last few steps of the winding spiral staircase.
The green-haired woman turns to him with a slight wicked grin and a raised brow, a look he soon returned as he grasped her hand in his own.
"I think we could do with a change of scenery, after all." She responds with some ease. "I am growing rather tired of the Goddess Tower and the Star Terrace."
"What is wrong with the Goddess Tower?" He scoffs in faux offense, his brows furrowing as she tugged him along with her into the vacant room as he looks over his shoulder once more.
"It is far too cold and cloudy to go up there tonight. Besides, this is one of my favourite rooms in the whole monastery if you must know. You will survive mingling with the Abyss people just this once, Sylvain." She jests light-heartedly, releasing his hand to skip ahead of him as he groaned at her sudden absence and he had no choice but to follow her.
Though, he felt that he would follow her anywhere, and this was a proven fact with the conflict that came to a head only a few Moons prior.
"And if I do not?" He calls after her just to be difficult, pinching a piece of red velvet fabric between his fingers before his eyes roam back to her.
Byleth turns on her heel and purse her lips at him, narrowing her gaze as she fights her bemused smile. She shakes her head as he holds her stare in just the same manner, his head tilting and eyes squinting as he challenged her and she readily gave up on suppressing her grin for a moment longer.
"You did not have to join me if this is not to your taste, you know?" The Archbishop says, and he rolls his eyes as he tugs her close to him by a gentle grip on her hand. "If you have such a strong opinion of my wards, you are more than welcome to turn around and leave, but I have a feeling you would miss me too much if you did."
The horseman silenced her very logical words with a kiss, her chuckle dwindling as she relaxed against him. His kiss was soft and tender as he hummed against her lips, his hand coming to brush her hair behind her ear as his lips moved from her own to sweep across her cheek. They linger just under her jaw before pressing chastely under her ear, his nose brushing over her skin.
"Must you always pick on me, darling?" Sylvain murmurs, his breath tickling against the shell of her ear.
Her soft laughter starts up again at his words, pulling his attention back to her gaze as he pulls back to look at her. She rests her hands on his chest, her fingers splaying across the azure fabric of his wool-lidded coat and smoothing over his furred collar.
"Yes, I think I must." The woman concludes and, with that, she turned away from him and left his loose embrace much to his dismay.
She walks over to the centre of the salon, and twirls around slowly, taking in the static air buzzing on her skin. She knows her companion can feel the magic, too, and was just being a contrarian for sport. Besides, they were deep underground, behind complex magically-protected doors. If there is a private, unassuming room in all of Garreg Mach, this is probably it.
Sylvain watched as she smiled contently, her eyes falling closed as she tips her head back and bask in the peace that came with nightfall. In the enchantment of the room. For it was the time where they could love one another as freely as they would like, for as many hours as the moon remained in the deep navy sky. He wanted desperately to love her in the light of day, without fear of prying eyes and listening ears, but she knew why things were the way they were.
The House of Gautier were devout followers of the Church and loyal subjects of the Kingdom. The Margrave's assistance on the Homefront during the war against the Empire was undeniable, and absolutely invaluable on their struggle for resistance.
However, for all the decoration and respect the family has amassed throughout their existence, and above all the more recent achievements, are believed by the current house head to be thanks to their Crest, and its consequent ability to yield the Lance of Ruin. As such, the blood must be protected with all zeal.
In Fódlan, that usually meant inbreeding, but the House of Gautier has not birthed a girl in one hundred and fifty years, and so incest was a material unpracticality, even between cousins. So, it was established a rotation between the Crest houses of the Kingdom: Blaiddyd, Dominic, Galatea and Fraldarius. It was believed that, through this system, the family would profit from the influx of blessed blood, but no one other Crest would be able to supplant the Gautier, as it happens from time to time with noble children.
In this regard, while Byleth carries a valuable and powerful Crest, coveted by many houses throughout the continent, a match between her and the only heir to Gautier seemed like an existential threat to the Margrave. Not only she carried the Crest of Flames, the sign of the Goddess' favour, the Church documents seemed to indicate that both her parents carried the Crest of Seiros. They would certainly overpower the Minor Crest of Gautier the old noble and his son carried.
While Byleth cannot say for certain which Crest her children would bear, or even if they would bear one at all, or even still if she is able to have children of her own, the Church does know of ways to make one carry any Crest. From blood reconstruction surgery, to Crest Stone rituals, to even a valuable collection of Dragon Seals hidden away, if there is a pressing need for a bearer of the Crest of Gautier, she is guaranteed of its supply.
Nevertheless, it was widely agreed amongst the war generals that Crests were an undesirable feature of their society, and they should be let naturally purge away in the coming centuries. She cannot go back on such an important and consensual position for her own personal gain, especially if it means announcing to the world that the Church could have granted Crests to anyone all this time.
So, Sylvain's father pressured him to sever his ties with his girlfriend, he is constantly pressured to wed either Annette or Ingrid, and they continue their liaison under the clandestine guard of the Garreg Mach nights. It was not a situation that would be left standing for long, but the dices will fall where they must, and Byleth has decided to deal with them as they do.
For now, to his great delight, the nobleman watched the way the torchlight glowed against her divine beauty as it shines against her verdant hair, falling like a protective veil over her head. It danced across his girlfriend's unmarred and soft skin, as soft and jovial as a new-born's, in bitter spite of the many years of probations she endured.
Such an ethereal beauty left him wondering how someone so perfect could love someone so flawed. He found himself to be an anchor tied to her at times, his grievous mistakes and current standing in the nobility something he felt kept her from thriving the way he knew she would, the way she deserved. She already was, far more than he could say for himself.
His girlfriend still had that unsettling unfazed look on her face, that tendency of over-rationalize what is said, but, as he grew accustomed to it, he found it more endearing than disturbing. In her own way, she radiates warmth and, above all, acceptance, something he so desperately craved and found he could not keep himself from. To him, she was the embodiment of sunshine and he felt he was quite the opposite, rather bringing storms and rain. Yet still, she chose to love him in spite of it.
He felt guilty, really.
Guilt for having a father who made her feel like their relationship was in jeopardy without ever having the displeasure of meeting the man. For not being able to love her as fully and openly as he so desired.
"Are you going to join me or are you going to stare all night?" Byleth quips, breaking him from his pestering thoughts.
His gaze flickered from the vacant spot she once stood in to where she sat on purple velvet cushioned stool. She smiled as the crystal sphere flowed before her and a grin of his own tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a seat on the small crimson stool right next to her, finding himself a bit too tall for such a small seating arrangement but he decided against complaining.
The sphere before she contained a fog-like haze that swirled around much like the clouds many floors above their heads.
"Just what are we doing?" He asks, an amused smirk on his lips as he raised a brow.
The green-haired woman shrugs. "As the Archbishop, I suppose I should be proficient in every aspect of the religion I am expected to lead. Perhaps I would be able to see something on these. I was told they were quite easy to operate, in fact."
"Are you having any luck with it?" He asks, as his girlfriend peers ever closer to the object.
"Unfortunately, no." She says, laughing at his scrunched nose and the way he gripped her stool and tugged her closer with one swift pull. "Tell me, what will our future be in five years' time?"
He chuckles, shaking his head fondly as he looked from the crystal to her. "That is quite simple, I do not need some silly crystal to tell me that."
She raises her brow in amused curiosity. "Is that so? What lays ahead, Oracle?"
The redhead nobleman looks at her attentively, his smirk softening to an adoring smile. "Of course, Your Grace. The future is that I will love you as long as you will have me, and even more."
Byleth nearly rolled her eyes at his sappy words, but she found them too earnest and the look on his face far too endearing to do so. She cannot deny the fact that she appreciates his steadfastness, too, but she also did not have it in her to miss an opportunity to tease him.
"Is that so? The crystal ball seems to disagree from you. As I see here, I shall sustain a wart on my nose in the next five years, and you, heartbroken from the lost beauty of mine, shall flee with a travelling minstrel." She jests, and he rolls his eyes as he fights his smile.
"I am convinced you love to torment me." He frowns, even in spite of his half-amusement from the stupid joke.
Despite the light-hearted moment, he finds he cannot enjoy it fully with the worry weighing heavy on his mind. Her question was merely playful, but it had been one that frequented his thoughts far more than he cared to ever admit, more than he ever will admit.
In a perfect world, one there were no Crests, that there was someone to shoulder the responsibilities he is so eager to shirk, Sylvain would have felt confident with the idea of loving her for the rest of his life. Would have felt rather excited for their future together because he loved she entirely too much for his own good.
However, it was much too difficult to indulge in thinking of such dreams when there were things in particular pressing down on his shoulders.
That one night in particular, to be specific, he would never forget that.