c/w: themes of relationships ending in the Byleth/Mercedes scene.
He woke with a start, hands immediately pressing down on him to keep him down. Felix gasped in pain.
"Sit still!" a woman's voice commanded. "You're not well enough to move."
He knew that voice.
"Manuela?" he asked, voice weak but no less astounded.
"In the flesh," she answered. "Do you know where you are?"
Felix looked around, seeing a humble single room home around him. "No."
Manuela didn't look much different. Wearier, perhaps, but the woman was blessed with incredible beauty. Time hadn't robbed her of it yet. "We're in a small village in northern Leicester, not too far from the border."
He remembered passing the village on his journey, choosing not to stop in it. Had he run all the way back there? That had to have been a league from where he and Dimitri…
"Wait," he asked. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Manuela quirked a grin. "Good to see you haven't changed since you were my student, Felix. But to answer your question, I was on my way to the Derdriu refugee camps. I heard they were in need of healers." Her smile fell. "I had been healing at the front for a while in Faerghus…but it was too much for me."
Felix nodded and looked down at himself. His entire torso was wrapped in bandages and he realized he was laying on his stomach so as not to agitate the wounds on his back. His shoulders felt heavy. "Did you patch me up?"
Manuela's eyes flared. "Indeed, how did you get in such a condition?" Her protective tirade began in earnest at the thought of one of her students being in mortal danger. "Your burns on your back are serious, but not life threatening. I fixed your collarbone, but the bone itself was in pieces. I had to open you up just to get a look at it. Plus, you still have broken ribs, though I stabilized them to a degree. I managed to spare you of the scars on your face, though that taxed me to my limit. You're littered with cuts, wounds, and all manner of bruises. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, what in the hell have you done to yourself?"
He winced. "It was a rough fight."
She leaned forward, like a menacing mother hen. "I expect a better answer than that, young man."
Felix looked away. "I was fighting someone around a lot of fire in a forest. It could have gone better."
Manuela, sharp as a tack, connected the dots. "The wildfire…" Her gaze hardened. "Felix, that wildfire is a distance north of here. The villagers told me they saw you wander into town at dawn. Did you run here?"
He didn't answer.
She continued. "What could have possibly possessed you to run, injured as you were, all the way here? Better question, how did you manage to run such a distance with those injuries?"
His composure cracked. "I was fighting Dimitri. It…didn't go well." Memories were flickering back to him.
"He's alive?" Manuela whispered.
"There's a lot to catch you up on, professor," he murmured, not meeting her gaze. "It's a long story. And…there's no happy ending."
"Tell me," she asked. "The Blue Lions were like children to me."
Felix complied, starting with his king and ending with Dedue.
Petra continued her sit-ups as the door opened behind her. Her guest waited politely while Petra finished her repetition.
Bernadetta blushed on seeing Petra without her shirt on, chest wrapped and extremely toned. "I-I can come back later!"
"It's fine," Petra said. She threw on her sleeveless black top again, more for Bernadetta's benefit than her own. Fódlani people had strict sensibilities when it came to modesty. In Brigid, it was far too hot to wear clothes all the time. "What brings you here?"
Count Varley swallowed her awkwardness and pulled up a chair next to Petra's bed. "I have some news, and it's not good."
"Never is," Petra murmured. "Let's hear it."
"The Agarthans know you're here," Bernadetta explained. "Myson just met with Caspar and told him he knew you were here."
Petra shrugged. "It was only a matter of time."
"True," Bernadetta admitted. "But aren't you worried at all?"
She shrugged again. "Then they tell Edelgard. They won't kill me, I'm too important of a prisoner."
Bernadetta looked like she wanted to ask her about that, but thought better of it. "Is there a reason you're not reporting in to Edelgard?"
"Caspar already figured it out," Petra said. "I wasn't supposed to kill Gloucester."
The repercussions of killing the man wasn't what she was scared of. Hubert had done everything and worse to her already. The punishment for why she killed him, that scared her. Her moment of conscious weakness, the sole one in five years.
"Edelgard has put you in my command," Leander had said jovially. "So your first task will be removing that man who was once my son."
She'd doomed Brigid with a moment of compassion to save Lorenz. Anger had driven her to kill Leander. Then attacking Claude, she'd stopped herself from finishing the job.
"Disobey her majesty," Hubert snarled, "and I'll personally ensure that there are no prisoners taken in Brigid. I will kill all your people and make you know it was your fault. So be a dutiful dog, and follow your orders."
She'd done so well at staying in line. She'd killed so many before for Edelgard, why had she lost it now?
Petra knew that answer. Because she didn't want to further hurt the people she loved and had never gotten to know as well as she wanted.
Ignatz…
And now that mistake would break Brigid. The only reason why the rebels in Brigid were still fighting was because the Empire considered them a minor threat. Her treason would mean the absolute death of her people.
"Petra?"
She shook herself from her thoughts. "Yes?"
"Does death wait for you back at Enbarr?" Bernadetta asked.
"Eventually," Petra answered. "I suspect Hubert will have his fun with me first." Her tone was cavalier, as if she'd given up all hope for anything. And she had, hadn't she?
"Did he…do that to your tattoos?" her companion asked.
Petra reflexively scratched at the scars on her arm, concentrated on the tattoos she'd had there. Remnants were still there, but they could hardly be called prayers anymore. Each tattoo was a prayer of protection, a story in and of itself. A person of Brigid did not receive one on a whim, not even a princess. You earned them, by doing deeds that earned you the protection of the spirits. Her arm, the ones on her back, on her leg, below her eye, they all had been tributes to her successes and the favor of the spirits.
And Hubert had erased them all. Even below her eye, which she could tell Bernadetta was trying not to stare at, had a thick scar through it. So thick it could be confused for a wound from battle. But it hadn't been.
"Yes," was all she said, tone dead.
Bernadetta squirmed. "Have you…thought about escaping?"
"And doom my people?" Petra asked. "My grandfather is dead. I am my people's leader. It is my duty to protect them. I…I will give all that I have to keep them safe."
"And you're okay with that?"
"Of course not," Petra snarled, lashing out. "But I am not having a choice, Bernadetta. I made the choice to protect my people, and that is what it is."
Bernadetta shrunk away and Petra looked away, feeling guilty but not apologizing.
After a few long moments, Bernadetta said, "What if we faked your death?"
"Don't be absurd," Petra dismissed.
Bernadetta persisted. "I mean it. I have friends in the Alliance army. I could help you get there, then maybe they could get you to Brigid."
"That'd be treason, Bernadetta," Petra said, neutral.
"Yes," she admitted. But she sat up straight. "But maybe it's the right thing to do. The Agarthans won't keep quiet about you for long."
"Whose side are you on?" Petra asked, eyes narrowed.
"Does it matter?" Bernadetta asked. "What Edelgard is doing to your people is wrong. I want to help."
Petra shook her head. "The time for that was five years ago. There's nothing to be done now."
"You've given up," Bernadetta realized.
Those words hurt to hear aloud, with how true they were. Petra felt like an animal that was too wounded to heal, waiting for time to consume it or a hunter to put it out of its misery. She just wanted to be done, free of this world and these scars. Too stop hurting people.
"Maybe," she murmured.
"If…" Bernadetta glanced around them. "If that's really what you think, then maybe you can help me with something."
"Didn't you just figure it out? I'm done, Bernadetta," Petra said.
"Do me one favor," Bernadetta said. "There's something I want you to see and do."
"What?"
"Go ask Caspar for the report from Hrym, about what happened to Holst's army. Then decide if you've given up."
"You're bolder, Bernadetta," Petra remarked.
"I grew up," Bernadetta said, eyes boring into her. "My station demands things of me. What about yours?"
"What?"
"Would your people really want you to lay down and die?"
Petra growled.
Bernadetta yelped and shrank away. "Just go talk to Caspar. I'll leave you alone after that."
"I'll think about it," Petra said. "No promises."
"Thank you," Bernadetta squeaked. "And Petra?"
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "For all that you've gone through. I didn't know what they'd done to you. I don't think Caspar knew either. Maybe not even Lysithea."
"You should go," suggested Petra, in no mood to continue the conversation.
"Of course," Bernadetta said, standing and offering a bow. "Just know that if you ever want my help, I am here to assist."
"Why?"
"Pardon?"
"Why go out of your way to help me like this?" Petra asked, voice betraying her cynicism the past five years had hammered into her.
Bernadetta just cocked her head to the side, puzzled. "We're friends, aren't we?"
Petra said nothing.
Caspar folded his hands behind his back as his father's honor guard road into the front plaza. Around him, several soldiers stood at attention.
Hopefully his father wouldn't remark on Bernadetta's absence. This might be the last and only time she could meet with Petra unbothered.
Victor von Bergliez, if you listened to the stories, was a hulking fighter of unmatched proportions. That wasn't necessarily false, per se, but the stories had outgrown the man in that regard.
No, Victor von Bergliez wasn't just a fighter. The man was a military genius of no equal. Unless, of course, you asked someone from the Alliance, who would answer that Holst was. What he had over Holst objectively was speed. Victor was the fastest man with an axe that Caspar had ever seen.
Caspar's father slung himself off his horse, still wearing armor despite not having seen battle recently. One of the man's tenets was to not ever be caught unaware. While war persisted, he donned armor in all situations. People still talked about the same set of armor he'd worn for the entirety of the war with Dagda.
A new set had been commissioned for this conflict, a suit of black and gold. Neither Empire colors, but rather the colors of House Bergliez.
Victor walked towards his son, this being their first meeting in person in five years. The last time they'd seen each other, he'd arranged for Caspar to receive his Crest.
"Son," he greeted. His cheeks were thin and body lacking any ounce of fat. He kept himself in peak shape, even as he grew in his years, and never afforded luxuries to himself that weren't first given to his soldiers. The army was loyal to him, and him alone; his greatest asset.
"Father," Caspar responded in kind, not breaking his attentive stance. He'd grown taller than the man, at long last. Wisps of grey threaded through brown, a further reminder of how much time had passed.
The Minister of War rested a hand on Caspar's shoulder, and smiled. "You've done well, son. From the reports I've received, Merceus has been under good care in your hands. I'm proud."
He stood a bit straighter at the praise. "I do what I can, father."
"At ease," Victor said, retracting his hand. "Come, show me around. I wish to see the state of affairs here."
"As you wish," Caspar said, respectfully. "If you'd follow me."
"Any better?"
Hilda looked up to see Claude leaning in the doorway. "No change." She reflexively reached out for one of Holst's hands.
"You should get some rest," Claude said, watching her. "One of the other Deer can watch him, if you don't want to leave him alone."
She nodded, distracted. "I will. Later."
Claude accepted that response. "Good, because Marianne sent me here to make sure you agreed."
That drew a smile from Hilda. "Bless her. Yes, I will. You don't have to worry about Marianne being angry."
"A frightful sight that is." Claude winked.
"Hey, Claude?"
"Hmm?"
"A late apology is better than none. I'm sorry for getting so angry at you back at Derdriu when Marianne decided to go back to Edmund Manor," Hilda said.
He looked taken aback before immediately shaking his head. "No, you were right. I shouldn't have rolled over when Marianne made that decision. All of us are more important than plans or a vote."
Hilda chuckled weakly. "Guess we've both put some thought into this."
"I never held anything against you," Claude said. "You're my best friend. My sister."
She smiled, wider. "I don't like fighting with any of our family. Not when it could be the last thing we do…" Her hand gestured at Holst. "The last thing I told him was he was stupid for worrying about me going to Myrddin."
"He's going to live, Hils," Claude promised, walking over and hugging her. "You'll have plenty of chances to tell him what you want. Or call him stupid again."
"Ass," she giggled through fresh tears that were falling. "Claude?"
"Yeah?"
"I'll always have your back, no matter what."
"And I you, sister."
Mercedes waved a hand and a small flame evaporated a few puddles off the stone steps they'd found. The side street was relatively unoccupied with the occasional soldier passing by. Sun peeked through the clouds for the first time in days, a momentary reprieve from the rainy season.
"So," Byleth said, growing uncomfortable with the quiet, "how have you been?"
Mercedes sat down on the now-dry steps, patting the spot next to her for Byleth. She did so, leaving space between them.
"Good, all things considered," she said in that light, airy voice that only Mercedes could use. She'd cut her hair since last Byleth had seen her, opting for a more matronly outfit than her academy days. "And yourself?"
"Fine, I guess?" Byleth said, squirming internally. "Just, you know, fighting a war. Yeah." Goddess, she sounded stupid.
Mercedes nodded and sighed. "So what happened to you? We thought you were dead. I thought that was the case until Marianne told me otherwise this morning."
"I was dead or something for four years," Byleth said, the standard story a comfort she latched onto. "After Garreg Mach, I was almost dead. Rhea put me in a sleep to recover, or that's what I assume. Maybe coma is the right word. Regardless, Yuri found me in a river four years later."
Mercedes listened patiently without interrupting.
"The past year I was with the Wolves in Abyss," Byleth continued. "Yuri made me a deal. Stay and help them solidify Abyss and in return, they'd help Claude's dream. And…" She paused. "The added bonus was hunting down my father's killer, too."
"I thought we killed Monica?" Mercedes asked, confused.
"As Yuri tells me, Monica carried out the deed but Myson planned it. Turns out Aelfric was an imposter, or something to that degree. It doesn't matter. Whoever he is, he planned my father's death. I'll make him pay."
"And you trust this Yuri?" Mercedes said, skeptical.
Byleth grew defensive. "They're my friend. I trust them, completely."
Backing off, Mercedes nodded. "Pardon, I was just concerned. Please continue."
Trying to recover that sense of control she'd just lost, Byleth went on. "The Wolves are all hunting him too, turns out he stole a valuable relic from them, something called the Chalice of Beginnings. So the five of us are united in taking him down. I spent the past year killing bandits and helping out the people of Abyss. It was fulfilling."
"That sounds wonderful," Mercedes murmured, crossing her legs. "Did you think to find us, though?" A note of betrayal lingered in her voice, faint as it was.
"I was scared I'd find something like this," Byleth answered, gesturing to Mercedes.
"Ah," was all her once-lover said.
"Are you…" Byleth struggled with the words, knowing exactly what she wanted to say. But with them, it felt like admitting an end. "Are you happy? With Dorothea?"
Mercedes blinked in surprise. Then, "Yes, Byleth. I'm very happy."
"Happier than with me?" she asked in a small voice.
"Oh, By," Mercedes whispered. "Don't go down that road, it'll only hurt."
"I have to know," Byleth begged.
Mercedes closed her eyes and sighed. "Yes, I am. You and I…we weren't good for each other."
Her insides turned to ash, as much as she expected an answer like that. Hearing it aloud still hurt. "I…I see."
Mercedes instinctively reached over to grab Byleth's hand in comfort, as she would do with anyone hurting. But she stopped an inch away from it, thinking better of it. It did not go unnoticed by Byleth.
"Byleth," Mercedes began, "I think we were using each other. I'll admit it's unfair that I've had more time to think about this than you, but that's the conclusion I came to. Me, for the idea of an escape from my adoptive father's agenda. You, for a lot of things." She didn't need to say what, Byleth already knew deep in her heart.
"Did it mean anything to you?" Byleth asked, not bearing to look at Mercedes.
Mercedes rested a hand on Byleth's shoulder until she turned to look at her. "Byleth," she said in the hardest voice Byleth had heard from the woman, "do not doubt for any fraction of a second that you were not important to me. I cared about you, and still do, so much. I might not be showing it as well as I could be amidst everything, but inside I am rejoicing. You're alive, Byleth. You're back with us." She smiled, wide. "That is a gift from the Goddess, to all the Deer, but most of all to me. When you died…well, when you went away, I lost a best friend."
Byleth broke down, weeping.
"Shh," Mercedes whispered, embracing her. "I know, it's hard." She rubbed her back, letting the woman cry into her shoulder. "You've been through so much, and I wish things hadn't brought us here."
"Could—" Byleth choked on her words.
"Take your time," Mercedes murmured.
After a few minutes, Byleth managed to say, "Could we have ever worked out?"
Her face was still buried in Mercedes, so she didn't see the melancholy on her face. Mercedes said, "In another time, in another place, maybe. But not here." Her voice didn't allow for any illusions of them continuing together.
"I—I think I loved you?" Byleth croaked amidst the tears. "I don't even know anymore."
"You don't owe anyone that answer," Mercedes consoled. "The only one who needs to know is you."
They sat like that for a while, losing track of time as the clouds passed over their heads. The drips of sunlight vanished and distant thunder came calling.
Byleth finally spoke. "Sorry."
"I'm sorry too," Mercedes said. "For a lot of things. Marianne told me how you found out about myself and Dorothea. That is not the way I would have liked to tell you."
"It is what it is," Byleth said, pulling away from her. She wiped tears away from her cheeks. "I…don't know if I'm ready to be your best friend."
Mercedes smiled sadly. "I expected that. I would love for you to be friends with me, but I understand if this is too much."
"We're still family," Byleth said, finding some resolve in herself. "Deer. A herd. We're a family. I won't let this get in the way of that."
Mercedes laughed. It was so beautiful it hurt. "Byleth, that alone tells me you'll be okay. This pain is only temporary, trust me."
"Are you okay?" Byleth asked. "With everything." It was vague, but Mercedes seemed to understand.
"It was rough, the first year after you were gone," Mercedes whispered. "I lost Annette, I lost you, and the world was in disarray. Dorothea was—is—incredible. She helped more than she'll ever know." She smiled. "So yes, I'm okay now. Better, knowing you're alive. The pain I feel at seeing you hurt, it'll pass. I hope it does for you, too."
"Time heals all wounds, doesn't it?" Byleth said.
"Sometimes," Mercedes said. "But I think time just gives perspective."
Byleth nodded. "I'm…" She took a breath and tried again. "I think I need to go."
A flicker of hurt flashed across her face before she could hide it, but she smiled sadly. "I understand. If you ever want to talk about anything, just…let me know."
Standing, Byleth hummed in agreement. She walked away, managing to keep herself together until turning the corner of the street. There, she leaned against the wall, staying there in a prison of thoughts for some time. Mercedes did the same on the steps, lost in a world of her own.
Only when the rain came an hour later did they each move on.
Marianne had been ushered out of Holst's room under the insistence that she rest. Which was fair, she needed to. But relax? With her brother-in-law still in a coma? That didn't sit well with her.
Work kept her occupied in her and Hilda's room. She poured over the research notes that Hapi and her had scavenged. The contents were…graphic.
They brought back awful memories.
But she persisted through, retaining information even as the thought of needles and mages pushed her nauseous limits. For one, it seemed that Desmond von Varley wasn't a sacrifice, but rather the subject.
The processes, as best as Marianne could understand them, were trying to bring life back to Lord Varley. But such a thing was impossible.
And so was talking to animals, she supposed.
The researcher, or scientist, or whatever they wished to call themselves, fancied themselves something of a fanatic, it seemed. They waxed on about their work in the margins, providing commentary on their own notes.
"'And Varley will rise a Deadlord,'" Marianne read aloud, "'cloaked in shadow. The devices for controlling demonic beasts from Gloucester have come in handy. I have successfully interfaced them into the host. Varley will command as easy as he did in life.'"
Nothing about it sounded good. The Gloucester devices, those had to be the bracelets that Ignatz had encountered back in the academy. Magical inventions that could be used to control wild monsters and, as the war had taught them, demonic beasts.
Had Gloucester been in contact with these people, these Agarthans? Marianne though it unlikely. Tangentially, perhaps, but the Empire had clearly gotten their hands on them from him. It made more sense that the Agarthans had gotten them from the Empire.
Plots within plots. And Deadlords, what could that mean? Had these Agarthans broken the barrier between life and death?
"We're searching for something called the Chalice of Beginnings," Hapi had said a few weeks ago. "Dunno what it does in reality, but legends say it has the power to restore life."
Marianne's stomach plummeted.
The door to their room opened and her wife stepped in. Marianne closed the book and stood up from her desk.
No words were exchanged, none were needed. Marianne helped her wife undress and guided her to the bed. Just as Hilda had held her so many times when she'd felt lost, Marianne did the same.
"Thank you," Hilda finally mumbled, sleepily.
"You have stood by my side, so shall I stand at yours," Marianne promised, kissing her cheek. "Sleep, the world will wait for you."
Hilda hummed, surrendering to dreamland within seconds. Respite came much slower for Marianne, though. Thoughts of the research notes plagued her mind.
They kept her awake for a long time.
"So, you're the revolutionary."
Anna would never get used to being addressed as such, as much as it was true. "So I am. And you're the Duke?"
Claude nodded. "Pardon for taking so long to introduce—wait a minute, you're that merchant from Garreg Mach, aren't you?"
She blinked. So that's why he looked a little familiar. "I had shop set up there for a while, yeah. Went to Hrym after."
"Huh, what are the chances," Claude said, chuckling. He sat down on a crate in the mess of supplies she was inventorying. Holst had appointed her something of a quartermaster. "Though I remember a woman more concerned with profits than anything else."
Anna sighed. "That's true."
"So, profiteer to hero of the people?" he asked, wanting the story.
She didn't want to tell it. "People change," she said, evasively.
Claude didn't let up. "Sorry, I can't accept that. If you're motivated solely by money, then the enemy could—"
"My daughter died, alright?" she snapped. "Pittacus killed her in Hrym. It was revenge."
Claude went quiet.
"What, expecting storytime?" she growled, the pain still so fresh. Goddess damn this man. Goddess damn everyone. She just wanted to be left alone.
"I'm sorry, that was horrible of me to press. Would you like me to leave?"
"Yes," she said, closing her eyes. Anna heard him leave and sighed, plopping down on the ground.
Riley…
Killed for the sin of being born. Born with a Crest none had heard of. Her Crest.
"Fuck you, Ernest," she growled. "I hope you're in hell."
After a few minutes, she picked herself up and carried on, just as she had the past two years.
He was about to pull his shirt off when she walked in his room.
"By?" Claude whispered, thoughts of sleep forgotten. "Are you…"
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. "Can I…can I stay here tonight?"
He nodded, gesturing to his bed. "What's mine is yours. I'll find a spare blanket for the floor, for me."
Byleth stopped him, grabbing his arm. In a small voice, she said, "Please. I really don't want to be alone right now. Stay close?"
His heart softened, and he embraced her. "Of course, By." She cried into his shoulder for a minute before he said, "You shouldn't blame yourself, Byleth."
She pulled back, giving him a sad smile. "I think I need to, finally."
Claude didn't know what to say to that. He guided her to the bed and watched her pull off her armor, physical and emotional. Together, they crawled into the bed, big enough for two.
A younger Claude might have had a different reaction, but it was nothing but chaste. Comfort extended from one friend to another. His romantic feelings had nothing to do with it. These were thoughts to a friend.
"Claude?" she whispered, turning her head towards him.
He did the same, mirroring her. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
They fell asleep looking at each other.
Author Notes: Okay, so that Mercileth scene. I've been dreading writing that ever since they hooked up in Part 1. I hope I did it justice.
In reality, I don't think so many of us are blessed with someone as selfless as Mercedes. Relationships, particularly failed ones, are real ugly. I unfortunately speak from a lot of experience. Conversations like these, they can get emotionally abusive fast. I strive to make the emotional struggle of characters in this story be realistic above all else. But this story is dark enough as it is, so I made the decision to have a more hopeful tone to that scene than maybe people expected. This is a story about healing as much as it is about pain. To me, pain without healing is just gratuitous in storytelling. Yes, these characters are all manners of messed up from war, but they're trying to put themselves back together, each in their own ways. The Deer are a support group for each other, just as found family is.
If you disagree with that interpretation, that's fine and valid. I'm not going to pretend like my opinions are objectively right. I made that choice mostly for my own wellbeing. And this plotpoint isn't done, by any means. But this was likely the most intense scene regarding it and I'm very happy to have it in the past now.
Editing Notes:
2/14/2022: Minor grammatical adjustments.