Unmarriageable Girl
25th Day of the Red Wolf Moon
Year of the Goddess 1186
Silver Snow
Sunlight crept through the valley like a flood of apricot leaves careening through a river's estuary. Morning sun illuminated each dust-bitten brick of Fódlan's Locket, individually carving away at the ridges and cement of the stronghold. Flocks of untamed wyvern encircled the mountainous pass, prowling for meals above the low fog of dawn. Sentries exchanged posts, retiring their shifts amidst the stifling eastern heat.
On second morning's rise, Bernadetta would be jostled awake by the clanging of boots on the berm lookout above her quarters. Booming throughout the halls, amplified by the prison-like structure, Holst von Goneril's laugh stabbed at the young queen's brain. Unpleasant enough without the rowdy applause, sleep circumvented Bernie, who's cot was too small to share with her Professor. In lieu of her husband, Bernie resigned to burrowing under sheets with her stuffed hedgehog, one of the few welcoming relics of her childhood. With only one eye, Bernie had searched high and low for a matching button to repair her disheveled cyclops. "Why not just sew two new matching buttons on?" Byleth had always suggested.
Sighing, Bernie adamantly returned, "You just don't get it." With such puerile thoughts aside, Bernadetta clung to her stuffed toy in the bowels of Fódlan's Locket. Waking to find she had overslept, she hurriedly unraveled her blanket, inevitably tumbling to the floor engaged in her impassioned struggle.
"Ow… Stupid Bernie, you overslept during such an important day! Ohhh everyone is going to be so furious with you!" Freeing herself, the queen scanned the sea of barren, bedraggled cots. "Huh? I'm the only one still sleeping?! Bernieee!" Tossing her borrowed sheets aside, she'd carefully tuck her hedgehog atop the assumed cot. Hoisting her signature bow of the same name, she'd gather her belongings and make for the head to bathe and dress.
Postponed for a night, the royal caravan's Almyran rendezvous was peculiarly absent the day of the original planned meetup. Holst insisted that their Majesties return to House Goneril, as the Almyran's nonappearence could signal an ambush. Byleth assured the general that he had faith in the Almyran prince, that their meeting was mutually beneficial to both countries. Holst begrudgingly allowed their caravan to spend another night, but no more. Just as Hilda predicted, Byleth got on well with Holst, who had been initially skeptical of the incumbent king's reign. Though unable to match the general's enthusiasm, Byleth tolerated the man as well as any other.
Lavender hair jumbled and resembling her days at the academy, Bernadetta trotted towards the sound of the eager general's hearty echo after finishing her daily preparations. Barging into their above-deck quarters, Bernie's heart leapt when she was met by Holst and his men. Her husband was decidedly missing from their meeting. "O-Oh, I'm so sorry, I was looking for Byleth! I'll go look somewhere else!"
"Nay, Lady Bernadetta!" Holst bellowed, shaking the disheveled hairs on Bernie's nape. "His Majesty is topside, foolishly awaiting our dear Almyran guests, who are now a day late to the party."
"R-Right, of course. I'll just go see him now. Good luck with your… shouting." Rubbing her eyes, Bernadetta shuffled towards the door. Pauldrons of her bow knight armor clanked against Hedgehog, the modified silver bow that never left the queen's side.
"Hold on just a moment, milady!" Holst hollered, incapable of muted human speech. "You look awfully tired! Would you like some coffee to liven your step?"
Hand on the thick plated door, Bernie turned inquisitively. "Coffee? I've, um. Never had it."
"Woah-ho!" the general heartily blasted. "All the more reason! Talsworth, fetch our lovely queen a freshly brewed mug!" A uniformed guard nodded and hurried to a uniquely shaped kettle unlike Bernie had ever seen. "We get the beans from a local trader what does business with us," Holst explained. "Such a lovely gal, for an Almyran." He slapped at his comrade's chest, who keeled over in pain but feigned laughter nonetheless.
Bernadetta held no experience with Almyra or it's citizens, yet never agreed with discriminatory remarks towards the eastern denizens. After all, why should the place of one's birth hold so much significance over their deeds? Bernie frowned, but said no more without her husband nearby. Returning with a mug of thin black liquid, Talsworth placed the cup in the queen's hands.
Sniffling the pungent beverage, Bernie recoiled. "It… smells kinda strong."
"Oh it'll wake you up!" Holst assured, downing a tankard of his own brew. "Could you tell I only slept three hours last night? Woah-ho!"
"No," Bernie lied. She couldn't rest with all of the general's boisterous whooping. Raising the mug to her lips, she recoiled again, this time at the heat. Cooling it with a gentle blow, she sipped the harsh liquid, wincing for a third time and puckering her lips. "Pfft! It's so bitter! How can you guys drink this stuff? N-No offense…"
"Woke you up, didn't it?" Holst inquired. He was right, the shock had certainly thrusted Bernie awake.
Taking her leave, she'd thank the general for his time. Pondering discarding the coffee by pouring it on the ground of the fort's grand wall, she instead clutched the mug in apologetic acceptance. Occasionally she lifted it to her mouth and winced to life once a pack of royal guards, Bernie hustled to find her husband lost in the center.
"Goodmorning, Bylie!"
"Look who's awake," the king would respond, stooping to greet his wife with a modest kiss. "Are you drinking coffee?"
"Drink is a… subjective word," Bernie insisted. "More like, I'm definitely trying."
Byleth reached for the mug and Bernadetta did not hesitate to hand the burdensome liquid over to him. Gulping down a much larger swig than Bernie could muster, Byleth wiped his face with his wrist and returned the cup. "Not bad, though I'll always prefer tea."
"How can you guys drink this stuff!?" Aghast, Bernie would reluctantly sip from the mug as she stood in wait with her war-clad husband. Though dressed for combat, Byleth held little concern, trusting in the correspondence he held with the Almyran prince.
Startling the pair, Holst approached from their rear, offering little more than a scoff and animated roar. "Told you the guy wouldn't show, Your Majesty. It's a waste of time."
"We didn't come all this way for nothing, general. He'll be here," Byleth assured, his gaze fixed towards the eastern sun's rise.
"How can you trust this guy so much? You've never even met 'em," Holst questioned, folding his disapproving arms.
"Faith, general. Just have faith," Byleth lectured, his face unreadable. Bernadetta smiled, nodding her head in agreement and leaning her body against a manned watchtower.
Perhaps it was his tenacity for optimism, or his desperation to succeed in his quest for knowledge, but either would fuel Byleth's patience. Minutes turned to hours and the sun's blinding light hung in the noon sky's canopy. Goneril's men fervently observed the valley, hailing no sign of movement, not even wildlife. Fog had lifted over the stronghold, drifting further east and settling over rolling hills deeper in the Almyran wastes. The air was still, unperspiring. Bernadetta slouched next to an empty mug, jittering and bouncing her leg in place as she absent-mindedly made popping sounds with her mouth.
Flayn had joined the pair, kicking her feet atop the beveled castle wall. Despite her own tenacity, Flayn was growing weary in hoping to avoid a resignation of defeat. Craning her neck towards the general, Flayn would ask "Sir Holst, do you know much of this alleged prince we are to meet?"
Holst lifted his helmet, scratching at his receding wine-red hair. "Not much. Came outta nowhere, that's for sure. He claims to want to work with us to stabilize his country. I can't even entertain the thought." Holst took a swig of his third mug, to Bernie's count. "Almyran prince wanting to work with us, hmph. I'll believe it when I see it," he huffed.
"Still," Flayn insisted. "Has he not shown an adherence to peace?"
"Peace? Hmph," Holst bellowed, rocking Bernie and Flayn with his might. "Almyra has been at war with itself for years, tearing itself apart faster than the damned empire did. This prince, he's bringing the hammer down on the Tanrin Ma."
"Tarni- um, what?" Bernie asked, swatting a fly from her airspace.
"Tanrin Ma are a religious rebellion in Almyra," Holst explained, slamming his tankard. "Dastards are obsessed with Ma, some deity a majority of Almyrans rejected years ago. It's all a bunch of heresy if you ask me."
"Well I don't believe anyone did, general," Flayn punched back. "A peculiar name, when translated. Though my studies have been neglected, I'm afraid."
"What's it mean, Flayn?" Bernie asked, her knees twitching with unused energy.
"If I am not mistaken, it would translate loosely to 'Hand of God' in classic Almyran script. Though, my understanding of the dialect may be a tad dated!"
"Right on the money, little green," Holst bellowed. "Princey has been cracking down on them, which is fine by me. The more distracted the Almyrans are, the less I have to deal with."
"They're all people, Holst. Same as us." Bernie said, shaking her head. Bernadetta's attention was enveloped in a flock of wyvern unlike any she had seen. Some twenty draconic beasts slapped at the clouds above the Almyran valley. Wondrous, the creatures were unfamiliar to Bernadetta outside of the war-broken dragons she had encountered in combat. As though slashing at her fascination, a sentry called.
"We've got incoming wyvern knights, prepare the ballistas!"
"K-Knights?" Bernadetta called, staggering to her feet. "There's people riding all of those?"
"Our special guests, it would seem," Holst announced, slapping his tankard to the ground and leaping to the brim of the castle wall, squinting. Shouting to his men, his voice must've shook trees throughout the mountains themselves. "Hold the ballistas!" Byleth jogged towards the platform, meeting with his wife and Flayn.
"Is this really them? Is this the prince?" Bernie asked, her mind racing about. She'd mistakenly kick over her mug in the commotion.
"It would appear so," Byleth answered. "Flayn, you may want to stand back. I don't want you in danger should you be recognized."
Flayn apprehensively agreed, pushing her way through soldiers to the rear of their formation.
"Why would they recognize Flayn?" Bernie asked, hobbling backwards to clear room for the wyvern riders to dismount.
"We can never be too careful," the king would assure. "Seteth would want it that way."
Bernie grumbled, expecting more involvement for her capable friend. Before their discussion could continue, the gust of three wyvern apexing the formation would be felt atop the wall. Now closer, Bernadetta could discern the banners hung from the creature's necks, a rabbit depicted in gold encircled by olive branches. Moving to land, the trio of draconic beasts broke from their accompanied formation, touching down on the smooth stone wall of Fódlan's Locket.
Holst approached, pushing past Byleth and his queen. "State your business here!" he blasted, startling the wyverns themselves. Byleth took the general's shoulder, beckoning for him to heel. Just then, the central figure would hop from his mount, boots jangling on impact. He'd pat the beast's neck and bow his head perpendicular from the king. Removing his helmet, the prince of Almyra addressed Byleth alone.
"It was fate that brought me here, and fate that brought you back to me." Revealing himself to the crowd, Prince Khalid smirked and shook his braided hair, combing it through with his gloved hand. "Long time no see, Teach."
Not much amazed Byleth, the homunculus man given life by the Goddess herself. But this? This was unexpected. "Claude…"
Bernadetta had not recognized her former classmate, and clasped her hand over her mouth in aghast surprise. "C-Claude..?"
Claude courteously extended his arms in salute, approaching Bernadetta, who's knees quaked more so than ever. "Your Queenliness. How privileged I am to bask in your charmed presence, Lady Bernadetta." Claude winked, taking Bernie's trembling hand and bowing, offering a respectful kiss to her gloved knuckles. Startled, Bernie finally understood their previous discussion surrounding the prince's boyish charm.
"Uh, um. H-Hi, Claude. You, um. Right back at you..?" she sputtered.
Releasing her hand, Claude would pivot to bow before his former Professor. "And you, your Kingship, it is an honor to reunite on these terms."
Byleth smiled, offering an amiable bow in return. A genuine thrill swept through the king as he addressed the Almyran prince. "You've done well for yourself, I truly feared the worst after Gronder."
"Sheesh, coming out the gate with the heavy stuff, eh Teach?" Claude crossed his arms mockingly. Holst had staggered off to the sidelines, allowing the meeting to take place to his dismay.
"I mean no disrespect," Byleth corrected.
"Heh, of course. Truth be told, my disappearance at Gronder was the best thing for the Alliance at the time. We were fighting a losing battle, there was no way I wanted to march my citizens into a war we already lost." Claude stroked his forehead, slicking back his bangs. "Guess you could call it the strategic retreat to end all strategic retreats."
"So your disappearance," Byleth pondered. "That was part of your plan to return home, to the land of your birth, I'm guessing?"
"Right again! You really don't let anything by, do you?" Claude's alluring smile made for an alleviating sight. "I always admired that about you."
Unbeknownst to the king, another wyvern rider had disembarked, striding up to the trio with haste. "Khalid, where would you have our troops land?" Pointedly, the woman was clad in an angular plating transfixed atop several overlapping weaves of thickly-spun leather. Abruptly shaven antlers implanted in her helmet formed a trio across her temples and forehead. Cut to roughly 2 inches each, the horns' display of power felt artificial at best, and flashy at worst.
"Oh," Claude addressed, snapping his attention away from Fódlan's royalty. "Set them down in the valley. Teach, Lady Teach, and I are gonna discuss a thing or two in private."
Huddling in closer after exchanging an apprehensive glance with the king, the female Almyran guard whispered. "Khalid, I can not allow that."
"Of course you will," Claude grinned, disagreeably shaking his head. "Teach, this is Legate Marwah, she's the commander of my guard. Don't let her scowling ferocity fool you, she's as gentle as a kitten on the inside."
"I protest this notion, Khalid," Marwah barked, turning her back on the three. "I'll give the troops the order to set down in the valley while you prattle on with your friends."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Byleth interjected into thin air, the legate seemingly miles from his voice.
"Don't be so hard on her," Claude advised, casually leaning against the watchtower of Fódlan's Locket as though it were his quarters. "Not everyone can be warriors of the heart like us." Bernadetta had remained steadfast in her adamant refusal of jealousy. But if ever a time arrived to feel jealous, it was now. It was certainly now.
"But nevermind that, whaddya say we continue this little chat in private?" Claude's smirk appeared painted on, an oil canvas caked with vibrant insincerity. Bernadetta, struggling to read the young prince, wished she could dump water over that canvas and see what truly lies beneath. Nevertheless, the queen, Byleth, and Flayn trailed Claude into Holst's office, the general gawking in silent protest.
"Long ago, before the Goddess or the 10 Elites, Almyra was a loosely knit band of villages and nothing more. Unified only by desperation, the people of Almyra clung to what little they had, often sparking conflict between neighboring villages. A sense of pride was imbued in everyone from birth; one's place of birth mattered deeply. Eventually, people grew restless, tired of poverty and war. They cursed at their gods, who had seemingly fed their people to the wolves.
From that strife, a hero rose, as they so often do. Tawayr, or as he'd better become known, The Godbound King. Tawayr arrived seemingly from nowhere, some legends claiming he was born a man overnight. In truth, Tawayr was just another tired, sick survivor. Through force, he unified village after village, forming alliances that led to empires, all leading to one unified nation under Tawayr's banner. Almyra as we know it wouldn't exist without Tawayr, but as with Fódlan's 10 Elites, he got a bit of an ego. I guess being the most powerful man in known history can inflate your head, huh Teach? Remember that.
Legends of Tawayr's reign are varied, but legends aren't typically known for their accuracy. Some claim The Godbound king earned his title by slaying the gods themselves, enacting his revenge for their abandonment. Neither god nor man, the only thing he feared was losing that power in death.
That's where To'ur comes in, the God of Souls, as you put it. Legends speak of their enslavement under Tawayr's iron fist, their godly might stripped away and funneled into a method to cheat death itself. This is the origin of the fabled Alogan, colloquially known as The Well of Souls. Alogan is a place of myth, a bottomless pit where one's body is rendered useless by the disunion of their soul. In Alogan, it's said that our essence can walk free of our body.
Allegedly, Tawayr used this pit to become ageless, unkillable. The Well of Souls not only separates your consciousness from your body, but also the souls you've taken during your lifetime. Simply put, the people you've killed can appear before you in Alogan. Some say the consciousness that enters Alogan may not be the one that leaves. Now, it's debatable what that entails, but the most widely accepted version of the tale is pretty simple. Your body is a vessel for your soul, and it's one-size fits all. Anyone's soul can walk right in, just as easily as you can walk into any old room. Now class, can anyone tell me how that limitless potential could be exploited?"
"Reincarnation."
"Bingo, points for Flayn if anyone's keeping score. Reincarnation. This is where the legends stop and factual history begins. Tawayr exploited this godly hole to live for an eternity. Towards the end of his life, he'd select his mightiest warriors to face him in combat. Whoever could best the elderly Tawayr would earn the privilege of becoming his next body. I wish I was kidding, but people would train from birth in hopes to one day sacrifice themselves to this guy. It was considered the highest privilege in Almyra to become Tawayr's next body. Can you imagine how many times he did this? Nobody could stop him, the entire country was wrapped around his finger, er, fingers I suppose.
Tawayr ruled for centuries. For a thousand years, this man would repeat the cycle of dying at the hands of a capable warrior, just to be reincarnated in said warrior's body at the Well of Souls. Naturally, with a thousand years of tyranny comes a thousand years of enemies eager to end the vicious cycle.
Eventually, a devilish trickster snuck into Tawayr's palace somewhere around his 17th reincarnation, and slit the king's throat in his sleep. Before Tawayr's men could do anything, the vigilante took his own life, forever placing Tawayr's soul out of reach. With their king gone for good, his empire crumbled. Picking up the pieces, the former enemies of Tawayr would come together to form a conglomerate state. They'd name it Almyra after the trickster who sacrificed his life to end the Godbound King's millennium of tyranny."
Byleth stroked his chin, slouching negligently over the table. "So, is it real?"
Claude leaned his chair back, folding his arms nonchalantly behind his head. "Not everything works how it does in Fódlan. Alogan is real, and it's comfortably inaccessible." Stationed at the door, Legate Marwah motionlessly observed their royal summit. Rounding out the team, Bernadetta and Flayn sat opposite of one another, the four huddled around a miniscule table in Holst's office.
"Inaccessible? Or perhaps lost to time?" Flayn pondered, lifting an open palm to offer her question.
"Inaccessible," Claude flatly denied. "After Tawayr's death, the leaders of the newly formed Almyra concealed Alogan's location, removing any official records of it's existence. The Well of Souls has only survived in legend to most citizens, only a select few closest to the ruling families know the truth behind the myth." Claude winked, planting his chair firmly and shifting in formality.
"Would I be correct in assuming you know the truth?" Byleth inquired. Claude's smile never ceased, his disposition locked in a cheery charisma. During his recital, however, Claude's eyes hung low, full of a clouded judgement. In a word, deceptive.
"Of course, your Kingliness. What do you think I just told you?" Claude would offer with a chuckle. Legate Marwah had not budged, like an inattentive statue transfixed on the wall adjacent to her position. Bernadetta watched as a beetle landed on the soldier's cheek and to the queen's dismay, the woman's statuary pose did not falter.
"Khalid," Byleth began, leaning across the table to mirror the foreign prince. "There's more to this story than you're letting on."
"Easy there, Teach. Of course there is," Claude hinted, massaging the ridge of his forehead. "But you don't think I'd give up my only bargaining chip for nothing, do you?" Bernie found herself again staring at the Legate, anticipating any movement from the soldier. Disappointedly, she would have none. Flayn caught the queen's gaze as well, joining her absentminded stare.
"What is it that you'd like to bargain for, Khalid?" Byleth implored, stroking his chin inquisitively. "Name your price."
Holding up a trio of fingers, Claude would answer. "Just three things. First, I want you to consider opening a dialogue about tearing down Fódlan's Locket." Bernadetta nearly gasped at the first sight of Marwah's livelihood as her upper lip seemingly quivered to Claude's ludicrous request."
"That's asking quite a lot," Byleth would reply. "Even if I agree with the sentiment, it's unlikely to be approved by anyone else involved."
"All I'm asking is that you try," Claude said through a smirk. "Second, I wanna know why it was so important that you travel all the way here just to discuss some dusty legend."
"Well-", Byleth would be interrupted before shambling together an excuse.
"Ah ah, Teach. Let me finish, as I'm sure my last two questions are relevant to one another." Clearing his throat, Prince Khalid would lean his chest over the edge of the oaken table. "Just what in the world are you?" He whispered.
All present were taken aback by the inquiry. Flayn, Bernadetta, and the king himself all understood the urgency of that truth. Revealing the Goddess within their souls would grant Khalid the upper hand over all of Fódlan should he blackmail their leader. Trickery was in his nature, the proverbial pit of the young prince's schemes was as seemingly bottomless as the fabled Alogan.
"But before you make any decisions on that," Claude would maniacally jest. "Let me be honest about my proposal, Your Worships. I know where Alogan is. I can even take you there." Had Bernie and Flayn not been distracted by Claude's suave speech, they may have bore witness to Legate Marwah's winced disbelief.
"Your Majesty," Flayn broke the silence. "Do you believe this Well of Souls may present a valued step in our quest? Could it perhaps not be the very solution which we seek?"
Claude's brow furled in inquisitive charm, his interest piqued. "Yes, Your Majesty, could my help be imperative in your quest?" he mocked.
Pressured, Byleth pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Bernadetta's mind hung in the silence, unaware of what to expect of her husband. "Fine," Byleth finally agreed. "I'll tell you what I can, and after you take us to Alogan, I'll reveal all that I know. Is that fair?"
"Fair is fair is fair," Claude shrugged on the edge of his seat.
Flayn's eyes sparkled, Bernie's shivered in anticipation. Byleth cleared his throat, extending his hands as he kicked to life. "The way you spoke about souls makes a lot of sense to me, Khalid. In truth, I was born with two souls." Claude's eyes did not shoot wide in amazement, but squinted in abject expectancy. Though a simplified variation on the tale, Byleth ran a story that was adjacent enough to reality. "We came to Almyra hoping to find answers in separating myself from this other entity."
"Say no more, Teach. I had you all figured out," Claude lied. Twisting his attention to Flayn, he'd offer "Perhaps I should've requested your identity instead, Miss Flayn."
"Hah! A ridiculous notion, I'm afraid." Flayn humbly chuckled. "Should that be the truth you sought, we would be returning to the monastery empty handed." Bernadetta, silent thus far, held onto her friend's words in a turbulent haze. Flayn's identity had been called into question more than once in her presence. Mysterious as it had been, the truth behind the youthful girl had never felt more alluring.
"Or perhaps," Claude joked. "I could've asked for the harrowing tale of how Bernadetta here ended up as your wife. No disrespect, your Queenliness. Maybe I should've filled in the blanks with all of those private tutoring sessions you had back at the monastery." Wink.
Bernie, finding herself in the crosshairs, was unamusedly flush, sputtering to life in protest. "H-Hey! It was nothing like that," she said, lying through her teeth. Claude could see right through her. Everyone could. The three of them shared a laugh before the King offered his hand to squeeze, relieving some of Bernie's pent-up nerves.
"I can tell you all about Bernadetta and I on our way to Alogan, right Your Princeliness?" Another laugh spread across the table. Byleth's quipping was less reserved than Claude had remembered, much to the delight of the easygoing prince.
"You wanna go now?" Claude asked, a sly laugh hidden behind his words. "Never been one for patience, have you, Teach? Lucky for you, it's not terribly far. If we take the wyvern it's eight hours tops. We can discuss the removal of this antiquated fort along with gossiping about your love life." Wink.
Crawling from her heavy lungs, Legate Marwah's urgency pierced the summit in objection. "Khalid I can not allow you to travel with these," she shot a disapproving glance towards Bernadetta, perhaps too fearful to meet the king's eyes. "These foreigners." Bernie surmised that the legate had chosen her words lightly. Curious, also, that she had not spoken in her native tongue. As though she wished for her dissent to be known.
"Marwah," Claude disapprovingly began, wiping the oily smirk from his lips. "That's frankly not your call to make. If I'm to create a new Almyra, one free of the prejudices and turbulence of war, it starts with making friends with our neighbors." The prince folded his arms after waving a dismissive hand. "Call the guard back to the palace, just leave us a spare wyvern and we'll be out of your hair."
Advancing a step with balled fists, Marwah's urgency filled Byleth's heart, as he stood in preparation to defend his former pupil. Unwilling to meet this request, Marwah backed down. Claude did not budge, seeing no immediate danger in his captain. Shooting a glance between the two, Marwah begrudgingly accepted.
"This foolishness will not sit well with the council, Khalid."
"The council isn't here, are they?" Wink.
"It does not sit well with me," the legate barked, storming out of the summit with defeated vigor.
Byleth's defenses lowered and the tension similarly faltered.
"As gentle as a kitten, huh?" Bernadetta fearfully inquired.
"Should I have been more specific? I meant a lion cub," Claude joked.
Bernie would never adjust to the adrenaline of flight. A sensation of curious vertigo overcame her each time she regrettably peered half-lidded at the land below. To make matters worse, the dust-laden Almyran surface was concealed beneath a low hanging fog. Even at their altitude, the air was misted and humid. It expanded the queen's lungs in muggy apprehension as she clung to her pilot for safety. Commandeering the beast, Flayn's knack for flight was a godsend for Bernadetta. Effortlessly supporting the two girls, their borrowed wyvern obediently cut through the swampy sky.
Similarly, Claude and Byleth headed their two-beast formation, with Claude taking to the reins. Byleth did feel a sense of unease being in such intimate contact with the young prince, but his nerves were somewhat calmed by Claude's familiarity. Bernadetta's jealousy had wavered, assured in her husband's disinterest. Anxiety was not absent, as the young queen's mental ache manifested in the fixation with the king and prince's conversation.
Ohhh I know they're talking about me! What are they saying? I hope Bylie isn't revealing too much, I'd be so embarrassed! Come on, Bernie, pull yourself together! Who cares what they think? They're only the two most powerful men in the immediate area. Sorrow, oh blissful sorrow, carry my wretched heart far from these woes!
"W-What do you think they're talking about?" Bernadetta apprehensively asked of her pilot. Her grip tightening around her.
Flayn pondered her inquiry for a moment. "Surely diplomacy, mature topics befitting two prestigous men of great power." Yards ahead of the ladies, Claude waved his hands in 'expletive maturity'.
"One time, Hilda and I came up with this game," Claude chortled, yanking the Professor back in time to their days as academics. "You know the big cushioned mitten things you wear while boxing? We'd put those things on our feet, stand on our hands and wail on each other until one of us fell over."
Baffled, Byleth stared wide-eyed at the prince's back, ignoring his craned neck and glimmering white teeth. "And they're putting you in charge of the whole country?"
"Well I had to get her to train somehow. As a result, that girl's got some killer feet." Claude turned his attention to the invisible path ahead before snapping back around. "Not in like, a weird way or anything."
"Claude," Byleth offered. "Do you think there's any context where saying that isn't weird?"
To their rear, Flayn engaged the queen in some lighthearted banter, aimed to quell her anxieties. "I've always adored flight, wouldn't you agree that it's serene to view our world from such a unique perspective, Lady Bernadetta?"
Nauseous, Bernie knocked her forehead to the back of Flayn's head, the girl's large swirls of hair cushioning her fall. "Huh..? Oh, um. Yeah. It's- It's great."
Flayn giggled, turning her face to the queen, who's forehead found a home on her friend's shoulder. "Your words do not match your tone whatsoever, Lady Bernadetta."
Bernie ignored the ebb and flow of the wyvern's flapping wings, having endured the motion for hours. The inside of her thighs felt chafed against the creature's draconic skin. "Have you ever called me my name without being so formal? I can't remember if you've ever just called me Bernie or Bernadetta."
"I wish to adamantly respect your position! It would be uncouth of me to not bestow the proper reverence," Flayn's vocabulary had always perplexed Bernie. Claiming she had gleaned her formality from tales of chivalry as a child, Bernie was unconvinced. Another drop in the pool of mystery that submerged the girl.
"Try it," the queen urged. "Just say, 'Hey Bernie!' and see how it feels."
"Your Majesty, I mustn't!" Flayn retorted. Her curled locks of emerald hair fluttered with their ascended pace. Bernie struggled to ignore Flayn's hair that tickled her nose and encompassed her vision, decidedly closing her eyes instead of wrestling it.
"Come ooon," Bernadetta squeezed around the girl's waist tighter, pulling airy laughter from her pilot. Flayn's giggling reminded Bernie of a child aware of the sinister trouble they were about to get into.
"Greetings, B-Bernie!" Flayn's merry snickering was cutely childlike, the queen noted how different her friend behaved away from the monastery. More carefree, Flayn was gleefully outgoing without her brother's constricting gaze.
"Close enough," Bernadetta chuckled. Before long, the coiled lock of Flayn's hair became too much to ignore as it flowed into the queen's eyes, nose, and mouth alike. Swiping the girl's hair from her tickled face, Bernie would move to tuck it neatly beside her cheek and behind Flayn's ear.
"I-I must ask that you not do that, Lady Bernadetta!" Flayn snapped, startling the young queen. "I'm… quite insecure about my appearance when my hair is unkempt."
"Hm?" Bernie hummed. "You're beautiful, Flayn! Is it really so bad to change up your hair every now and then? If it makes you feel any better, I won't look, but I don't think either of us want your hair to keep getting in my mouth." Spitting out tendrils of her aforementioned hair, Bernie moved to amaurotically tuck the strands behind the girl's ear. Before Flayn could protest further, the wyvern lurched, and with it, Bernie's heart. Flayn gulped, twisting her chin to her shoulder and watching Bernadetta's face enlighten with wonder.
"Flayn…" the queen began. "Why is your ear, um. Like that?" As their wyvern jerked aside, the pair bounded against one another in silence. Bernadetta solemnly basked in her friend's abashed countenance. Flayn's seemingly ancient vernacular fell silent, replaced by her descending afrightenned stare. "Flayn," quivered Bernie's voice along to the beat of wings. "Ever since the war ended, you and I have been good friends. I, um. I feel like I can confide in you. You know all about me, where I come from, where I'm going. But I can't say the same about you. You're one of my closest friends and yet, I have no idea who you really are." Visibility faltered as the fog surrounding the duo grew. Claude and the Professor were scarcely visible against the clouded wisp.
"Bernadetta," Flayn relinquished. "I… I am sorry if I have been deceitful. I can assure you that my intention was never to circumvent you in regards to my identity." She gulped and swallowed a repressed breath. Bernie's eyes fell on her, seldom aware of the growing fog. "In truth, dear Bernadetta, I see now that my deception has fallen quite treacherous on our friendship. I do sincerely apologize, as what began as protection has quickly turned to betrayal of your trust."
"Protection from what?" Bernie inquired, tilting her head like a curious animal.
"From those who may wish harm upon me and my brother," Flayn explained. "Though I suppose vagueness should not befit this conversation. We are assuredly alone, and for you, my dear friend. I shall impart the truth." Bernie sighed, not in relief, but in resignation.
"Go on," she urged.
"I suppose I will start with my brother, Seteth." Such disquieted words, and yet Flayn began to brim with vigor. "In truth, Seteth is not my brother at all, but my father."
Bernie gasped, forlorn. She recalled the countless fatherly encounters she had had with Seteth over the years. In truth, the queen had unveiled Seteth's fatherly expertise many times. "So that would explain why he's so overprotective of you," Bernie disclosed. "Wait, are you related to Lady Rhea? I remember she had ears like yours too! We only noticed after her rescue when she made less of an effort to hide them. Wait, is she your mother!?"
"In a manner of speaking, Lady Rhea and I were of similar kin, but we are not related," Flayn reassured, jerking the reins of her aerial steed. "Seteth bears the same pointed ears as I and Lady Rhea, though I suppose you may have gleaned that. I am sorry for imparting such truths quite suddenly, Lady Bernadetta."
"N-No! It's fine! I've wondered for a while, and I suppose there's another question that's always bugged me," Bernie pondered. "Your age, how old are you? You seem so young yet you never age, and you speak so… anciently."
"Is my manner of speaking really so foreign and proper?" asked Flayn. "I've been told that before." Dodging no longer, the girl revealed herself. "Truly, I do not know my own age."
"What? You don't know your own age? You and Bylie have a lot more in common than I thought." Again, their draconic steed lurched, searching for it's leader ahead of the fog.
"Regretfully, I do not know. However," Flayn began. "Undoubtedly I am several hundred years old, though most of that was spent in slumber."
"S-Several, um." Bernadetta sputtered. "Sorry, did I hear you right? D-Did you say several HUNDRED?"
"Correct," Flayn sedately reaffirmed. "Mayhaps brother-, no, father, may know my true age, though I have little desire to learn such things. It is better that I remain ignorant of myself to better fit in with my colleagues and friends within the church."
"I might be way off here," inquired Bernie, thoughtlessly kneading at the saddle beneath her. "But If you're that old, were you around for the beginning of the church? L-Like the war with the saints and all of that?"
Flayn, gravely inhaled, a dispirited countenance falling over her like the shadow of an executioner's axe. "Yes," she concurred. "You could even say I was quite intimately involved in such events." Flayn paused to allow the queen to pester her further, stalling in hopes that she may yet swallow her revelations. When no such query was presented, Flayn continued her tale. "I took part in the final battle."
Sparking her, Bernadetta finally questioned, "You… You knew them then? The saints? I have the crest of Indech. Did, um. Did you know him?"
Shuttering, Flayn answered. "Yes."
"I… I think I need to lie down, but of course I had to learn all this on the back of this smelly thing and not in the comfort of my own home." As if cued, the wyvern snorted in protest, trailing the scent of its comrade. "Did you know Saint Cichol by chance?" As if peering around an apprehensive corner, Bernadetta's words were shrouded. "I… I've always admired him. He seemed so patient, stern but fatherly in a way."
Esoteric to the queen, a briskly salted tear fell from Flayn's cheek as she complied. "Yes. I am most familiar with Cichol in particular." Saying the name aloud gave winces to her heart.
"Am? D-Did you mean 'was' familiar with Cichol? I-I'm sorry, is that insensitive? Oh Bernie, you shouldn't nitpick such tiny things, you're gonna end up hurting-"
"I chose my words purposely," Flayn flatly replied.
"Wait," Bernadetta sniffled, shaking herself from her insecurities. "If you're from ancient times and you survived for this long, and Seteth has too, does that mean… No. The saints can't still be alive, could they?" The Four Saints were not only imperative to the Church of Seiros, but in the hearts of Fódlan. Heroes, icons, legends, the Four Saints were universally renowned for their contributions to history. Each represented their own respective strengths, giving courage and hope to the meek of their nation.
"Bernadetta," casually, Flayn's head craned to face her queen. Her eyes sodden, a smile took root from her lips. "I beg of you, search your feelings. You confided in my father that he reminded you of Saint Cichol. Stern yet caring, strict yet full of life. I beg of you, search your feelings. What do they say of the saints? Of me and father? Who do they say we are?"
Plummet. As though dropped from the back of their shared winged escort, Bernie's heart sank lower than her stomach could serve. Pinching, the back of her neck sweated in a chilled ire disproportionate to the heated Almyran fog. Truth parted her lips, but closed her lungs, trapping her words inside. Stuttering, the queen's arm, once tightly wound around her pilot, fell limp in sustainable shock. Agape, her mouth swallowed the humid air with bewildered haste. "No. You. You couldn't be."
Another tear fell from Flayn's cheek, but curved along the lips of her gleeful smile. "It… It gives me immeasurable joy to speak openly to you in this way, Lady Bernadetta. It brings me such relief to part with my mask. I am honored to be your dear friend, not as Flayn, but as my given name, Cethleann."
Forbidden, this knowledge encased Bernadetta, spiralling her as though caught in a whirlpool. Dizzy from mental impact, the queen's head swiveled aimlessly. "Y-You're… You're… I'm friends w-with… A-And Seteth is…"
"My father, Cichol." Flayn confirmed, a slight apprehension in her speech.
"O-Okay," Bernie murmured. "D-Definitely should've been lying down for that one. I-I am SO sorry, Your Worship! I-I had no idea! I-I never meant to pry! P-Please don't smite me with your holy magic, though I understand if you must!"
Giggling, Flayn lightened the mood. "Come now, Lady Bernadetta. You are my cherished friend and queen to Fódlan. It is only natural that I would eventually reveal myself to you. Your husband was made aware before the war ended."
"B-Byleth hid that from me!?"
Disagreeably, Flayn shook her head. "It was not his secret to tell. Respectfully, he withheld the information at my father's request. Though had he not honored that promise, I can assure that he would tell you immediately. He hides nothing from you! How lucky for you to find yourself in such a literary romance! Oh how I envy you, Lady Bernadetta."
"Y-You envy m-me?" Bernie gasped, swallowing Flayn's words and choking on their meaning. "S-Saint Cethleann envies… me? I'm- I'm friends with Saint- Oh I feel dizzy." Shrieking, Bernie reflected on her past interactions. "Ohhh how humiliating! I gushed to Seteth about how much I admire Saint Cichol! A-And he laughed! I thought he was just agreeing with it! Ohhh Bernie, how could you not see that he was standing right in front of you! Idiot! How could Saint Cichol even stand you after that!?"
"Oh how flattered he was! I recall the smile he held when telling me of your admiration!" Flayn giggled again, this time leaning her head back to rest on the queen's shoulder. Imitating her father, Cethleann's voice deepened and wavered, "Oh dear sister! I had to keep my mouth shut through her tales of admiration! How flattered I was! I had never come closer to revealing my secrets, haha!"
Both her and Bernie erupted in reserved laughter, easing the tension. For a few moments, Bernadetta would search aimlessly for the right summary of her feelings. Arriving on nothing, she instead focused on her father. The late Count Varley served as the religious minister for the Empire in his early years. Though there was little relation between the Church of Seiros and Adrestia, this exposed Stewart von Varley to a number of religious texts.
Particularly, the dastardly noble held reverence for the Four Saints, as he misinterpreted them as fearless, bloodthirsty warriors without foibles. Forcefully, Stewart placed these ideals onto his daughter, forbidding her from friendship, comfort, or fault. How fruitful it felt to be resting her head against the worshipful Saint Cethleann, to be fathered by Saint Cichol, and to bear the Crest of Saint Indech which her father concealed his lack of. His reverence was misplaced. They were not warriors. They were his daughter's confidants and friends. They were her friends.
Ahead of the ladies, Byleth and Claude's wyvern sliced through the humid Almyran haze. Claude unwrapped the colorful bandana from his forehead, letting the natural curls and braids of his hair tremble in the breeze. "Ya know, my father is apprehensive about me taking the throne," the prince began. "He views my loss in Fódlan as a sign of weakness." Claude shifted, drying the sweat from his headband in the wind. "We have drastically different understandings of the war. My retreat was intended to save lives above all else. The Alliance was exhausted from war, and hesitant compliance would be the only way to ensure my people's survival. I understand that what I did may appear as cowardice, but that defamation is fine by me so long as there's still people around to defame me with it."
"Your father," Byleth inquired. "Would I be correct to assume he probably values a capable warrior over all else?"
"Right you are, Teach. He wants me to be the kind of king that can stomp out resistance with ease. That's why he's tasked me with taking on the Tanrin Ma rebellion." Here, Claude removed a flask of water, taking a conservative gulp and offering some to Byleth, who obliged the offer. Continuing, Claude explained "He thinks that if I prove myself capable in obliterating Tanrin Ma, that I might earn some leeway with the nobility here."
"Nobility?" Puzzled, Byleth swallowed his water and inquired again with a clearer mouth. "I wasn't aware that the nobility system existed in Almyra."
"It's not like the Fódlan nobility at all. In Almyra, there are only a select few noblemen and women who serve on a high council of sorts in the palace. Some say the king is just a figurehead for these old cooks, but I aim to change that sentiment. You see, I have a dream that I've pursued since I was just a boy. I want to unite everyone in Almyra under the same sentiment. I want to put an end to the prejudices that exist here AND abroad. That's why I want to tear down Fódlan's Locket. It's easy to look at a stone wall and make assumptions about what horrors exist on the other side, but you'll never truly know until you stand there yourself. If I tear down that wall, maybe we'll all see each other for what we are; just people, born in different places."
Byleth pondered the sentiment for a moment, picking apart the prince's honeyed words before ultimately agreeing. "You have a good heart, Khalid, and your words echo true. Being born into the mercenary lifestyle, I was never exposed to any prejudices between countries. When I came to learn that people were so harsh towards our neighboring lands, I was disgusted by the notion. I want to help lift that dream to reality, Khalid. You have my support, but that is all I can promise."
"Of course, Your Kingliness," Claude jested, poking at Byleth with his elbow. "All that matters is that we try, for all of us."
His words elevated the king's heart, who felt swayed by Claude's speech that rivaled fate itself. Craning his neck, Byleth searched the dense cloud behind the pair for his wife. "No sign of Flayn. Did we lose them in the fog?"
"Doubtful," Claude adjusted, knocking his relic about. Failnaught was strapped alongside the Sword of the Creator to the side of Claude's beastly escort. Each relic clanked against the other like common weapons, treated with the same casual nature as typical steel. "Wyvern typically rely on scent to navigate their surroundings in low visibility. The Southern foothills, where we're heading, are notoriously foggy. Good place to hide some secrets, wouldn't you say Teach? But seriously, their wyvern knows Alexandre's scent well enough to follow him from miles away." Claude patted the neck of his wyvern, which let out an acknowledging chirp.
"Alexandre," Byleth considered the name for a moment before returning to meet eyes with Claude. "Did you really name this beast after-"
"What can I say?" Claude chuckled, swiftfully winking. "I miss the guy." Clearing his throat as well as an opportunity to joke further on the premise, the prince lifted his head as if in search of something unseeable. "We're here." He tugged the reins, screeching Alexandre to a halt.
"How can you tell?" asked Byleth, peering over the side of their ride. "It's fog in every direction."
"But hear that?" Claude asked, cupping his hand around his air to amplify sound. Byleth followed suit, honing in on the sound of rushing water, perhaps cascading. "There's a waterfall right in front of our faces and we can't even see it. This whole region is the source of the fog. It's kept the Well of Souls nicely hidden for centuries."
"So we're there, then? This is Alogan?"
"This is Alogan," the prince confirmed. "Or, just about."
To their rear, the fog morphed and throbbed, the wings of Flayn's wyvern displacing the clouds surrounding them. Pulling beside the stationary Alexandre, Claude waved to their companions. "Ladies, so nice of you to join us. We were just discussing how hopelessly lost we are."
"L-Lost!?" Bernie panicked, shrieking over the wyvern's grunts.
"No, we're not lost. Claude is just teasing," Byleth reaffirmed. A wave of relief rushed over his wife as she calmed herself. "We're here, actually."
"Here?" Bernadetta asked, repeating the same process her husband had just minutes ago. Peaking over the edge of their wyvern, she'd ask "How do you know?"
"Don't worry about it," Claude implored. "Just, um, hold on real tight, okay?"
All present turned their focus to Claude, who had left his context absent. Before anyone could question the purpose of his words, the prince yanked his creature's reins, shouting a command in Almyran. "Hya! Zhir!" Without warning, their wyvern bellowed, flipping itself to a disorienting degree. Byleth lurched, wrapping his arms tightly around Claude, who laughed at the king's displeasure. Barrelling near directly upwards, Alexandre forced the wind to abide by it's wings, a force that jittered and rocked both riders.
"Oh nooooo!" Bernie screeched, knocking the wind from Flayn with her rigid grip. Following suit, their trailing wyvern mimicked Alexandre's formation, shooting upwards. Exhilarated, Flayn enjoyed the thrill, but remained mindful of easing Bernadetta's trembling discomfort.
"It's okay, Lady Bernadetta! We'll be fine!"
"Why the HELL are we going UP!?" She cried, her profanity jolting Flayn, who was not used to the language.
"We're following Claude and His Majesty! I'm sure he has his reasons!"
"Well I hate them! I hate his reasons! I hate flyiiiiing!" Before she could finish her screech, Bernie's mouth began to taste a light dew. Discernibly, the liquid originated from a waterfall that ran perpendicular to their ascent. Clawed, their wyvern's feet dragged through the upright stream as casually as if it were a lake.
Slamming her eyelids shut, Bernadetta accepted her fate, to die at this angle in this strange land. To plummet to her doom, inevitably crashing to the mountains below and exploding on impact. This was the way she would go out, and that was just unavoidable, it seemed.
Sunlight. Absent from their journey thus far, the scorching Almyran sun brushed the queen's clenched cheeks. "Your Majesty! Look! Oh it's wondrous!" Flayn hollered. Bernie timidly parted her eyelids, protecting her exposed eyes from the sun's blistering rays with the back of Flayn's head.
"Is this it?" Bernie wondered aloud. "Have I died and gone to some afterlife?" As vision returned to her, her suspicions would be seemingly confirmed. Sandwiched between two layers of gossamer clouds, Bernadetta was surrounded to every degree by a voidant expanse. A pocket in the clouds, a heaven. Fluttering, her heart could scantily behold the effervescence of this magnificent airy field. It was unlike any place she had ever dreamed of. Alogan, the Well of Souls, existed in the clouds like a rapturous pretense of heaven. Parting the clouds, a spire of transfigured earth shattered the angelic illusion. Roughly the circumference of Stewart's Moat, the pinnacle was a nearly perfect circle, unlikely formed by nature.
"No wonder this place has gone unnoticed for so long," Bernie said through bated breath. "How would anyone find this..? How did WE find this?" Drawing nearer to the cylindrical apex, Bernadetta discerned that the base of it was likely hidden in the treacherous southern mountains. Even if someone were to find the spire's base, who could possibly understand what majesty lies atop it?
Amidst Flayn's ooing and aweing, the sound of the waterfalls intensified. Bernadetta noted that the plumes grew from cracks and crevices in the rocky length below the plateau. The apex itself fell inward towards the center, a large stone slab that accentuated the circular mound was surrounded by a mystified steam creeping forth from what appeared bottomless.
Unmistakably, that was the Well of Souls.
Upon landing, Bernadetta half expected the ground beneath her feet to be an illusion. Fearful of hopping down, she allowed a moment to compose herself before descending from her steed and clanking her boots to the ground. There was no foliage amidst the craggy surface, likely unsuitable for the altitude. Still, a natural beauty filled the young queen's lungs. Flayn helped her to gather herself as the pair was approached by their royal escort.
"Well ladies, welcome to the Well of Souls. You can't say I never took you anywhere nice," Claude joked, folding his hands behind his scalp.
"This is beyond words, Your Highness," Flayn remarked, hardly containing her excitement. "I have never witnessed such a wondrous place! The serenity is unmatched!"
"Oh the places I could show you, young Flayn," Claude returned with a wink. Flayn masked her face with her hands, blushing and giggling at the thought. Bernadetta leapt to her husband, wrapping her arms tightly around him for the first time since morning. She had experienced so much since then, and needed her outlet.
"Remind me to never let Claude take me anywhere ever again, Bylie," she said, burying her face in his shoulder.
"I'll keep a note of that," Byleth chuckled, kissing the top of his wife's fearful head.
"Actually, just to be safe, maybe I can just, um. Never leave the monastery again!" Bernie's hopeful disposition was veiled in sarcasm, but not thickly enough to be noticed.
"Not happening, Varley."
She pouted.
"Well Your Majesties," Claude began, throwing an arm around each member of the royal couple. "Let me show you to the lovely bottomless hole of despair. Taking the lead, Claude and Flayn pushed on towards the center of their elevated heaven. Bernie and Byleth still could not move past the splendor that surrounded them in the clouds. It was a sight neither of them would ever forget. Bernie knew exactly what she'd paint when she returned to the monastery.
Foraging through some natural debris, the team soon found themselves standing before a shadowy pit. A humid steam rose from within, masking the floor of the pit if one should exist. Roughly a yard thick and three yards wide, a bridge connected the land to an ovular platform in the center of the pitfall. Appearing sandstone in color, the stone ring was fixed with carvings of an ancient language lost to time. Inner rings within the oval platform appeared to glow in the sunlight, emitting a scarcely whispered hum. Anxiety rushed forth from the queen, who felt the location befitted an eerily familiar radiance to Shambala.
"This is it, Teach. This is where I enact my sinister plot and kill you two for power! Fódlan will be mine!" Wink.
"That would be funny if not for how realistic it would be." Byleth sighed. "It's been a long year. But on a serious note, this is the Well of Souls, so how do we, um. How would we go about, er-"
"Never fear, your roguishly handsome guide will tell you everything you need to know." Hopping to the bridge, Claude beckoned for the trio to follow, offering them his hand for an extra lift one at a time. Once all four had found their balance against the drab khaki bridge, Claude diffidently edged his way towards the center, stopping at the edge of the several yard wide inner circle. "I wouldn't step any further, Teach. This is where the magic happens. Entering this platform will trigger the reaction from below, and your soul will be sucked into the metaphysical realm."
Lost, Bernadetta turned to the prince. "Say, Claude. For an ancient god pit that hasn't been touched in forever, you sure know your way around it."
"Sheesh, feed me to the wolves why don't you," Claude shyly laughed. "But seriously, I've been here before. My father and grandmother have too. Every leader of Almyra has to witness Alogan for themselves. Fully knowing the horrors that exist here, they can make the choice to continue hiding it from the public."
"It doesn't seem so horrible to me," whispered Bernie, her eyes fixed above.
"So if we step into this ring, what will happen exactly?" Byleth hurried them along, anxious to continue their journey.
"You'll feel light-headed, and there's this funny little smell, like onions and chocolate mixed. If you sit down and close your eyes for a moment, you'll feel light, weightless almost. Open them again, and you're surrounded by fog. Nothing has weight to it, nothing feels real." The prince shook his head and shivered. "But Teach, just promise me you'll be careful. Like I said, if another soul takes over your body, you'll be trapped in that ethereal realm for good. Can you trust this other soul that resides within you that much?"
Byleth pondered the question for a moment, meeting eyes with his wife before replying. "Yes. I've trusted her with my life in the past, and I'll do it again."
Sighing, Claude acquiesced. "Alright, it's your call. Don't say I didn't warn you. Remember. There's no telling what you'll find in there. You've killed a lot of people, Teach. Do your best not to upset their souls."
"W-Wait!" Bernadetta unexpectedly called, startling the focus of all present. "Claude, you said you can meet the people you've killed in there, right?"
"Yep," Claude smirked.
Nodding, the queen struck a confident pose. "Then count me in, too!"
Byleth's viridescent eyes fell solemnly towards his wife. "Bernie, are you sure? I don't want you to take any unnecessary risks."
"I'm sure," she confirmed, a twinge of dynamism lighting her silver hued eyes. "There's someone I have to talk to, and I'll never get another chance."
Reassuring himself moreso, Byleth nodded in a silent agreement. "Okay. Just promise me you'll be careful." He took hold of his wife's shivery hand, firmly tugging on it, wishing never to let go. "I love you. I'll see you when I wake up."
Bernadetta's heart fluttered at each utterance of Byleth's amorous displays. Now, at the eve of their boldest adventure yet, the pair would enter the Well of Souls hand in hand. Bernadetta stepped first, prompting Byleth to kick himself into gear and stride alongside her, stoically as a fearless leader, and an attentive husband should. Crossing the threshold, Bernie felt compelled to hold her breath.
First the smell, just as Claude had described. It tickled her eyelashes like walking through a spider's web. "You have to breathe!" Claude called to her, imparting his final instruction. The pair sat facing one another. From that moment onwards, Bernie only remembered the swirling image of her husband's face, smiling as he began to drift aimlessly. For the first time during the process, she felt fear. Disfigured, her husband's face filled her with a dreadful scorn when manipulated in her faint vision.
Our song will never end. Right Professor?
Mere moments had sputtered along the ethereal wind for Claude and Flayn, who sat on a boulder overlooking the Well of Souls and their comatose friends. "They look peaceful," Flayn offered. "Like they have gently fallen asleep under a shaded tree."
"Eek, if you say so. They give me the creeps," Claude retorted. "Who knows what's going on in there. Makes me uneasy."
"If I may inquire, Your highness," Flayn began. "What did you see when you entered through the ethereal passage?"
For once, a genuine sadness presented itself center stage across the prince's face. Curtains fell and a true burden crept from his lungs, repressed away for his own whimsical benefit. Flayn detected the disquietude and attempted to quell his racing thoughts, but Claude shut her down.
"No, it's okay, really. I saw someone I cared for deeply. Someone who never deserved the cards fate had dealt to him. It tore me apart. He just stared at me with eyes like a wounded beast. I… I don't know if he even knew he was dead, or worse, that I was the one who…" Claude's voice broke, his tone wavering as he shook his hand to dismiss his grief. Glancing towards his wyvern, the prince's agitation seemed to loosen. "Still, a part of him lives in me now. And I'll honor his memory as best I can. It's what he deserved."
"I…" Flayn struggled through her own hurricane of thoughts. "I sincerely apologize for asking you to recount such a hurtful experience. Had I known how terrible this had been, I surely would never have-"
"It's okay, really." Claude's smirk fell to an egoistic grin and a wink. "Now that I've told you that, maybe you should make it up to me and finally tell me who you are, young Flayn."
"Ha!" Flayn laughed like a sudden geyser burst. "As though I expected to be trading secrets, now! I expect you will come to know in time with your clever words and boisterous prying."
Before their banter could continue, a swooshing wind rattled through Claude's attuned veins, rustling Flayn's swirled hair and sending the young prince to his feet. "What is it, Your highness?" Flayn asked, a small crack in her voice as she returned to her former attentiveness.
"Company," Claude vaguely replied. "Uninvited guests." Storming off, Claude darted down no path in particular, hopping from boulder to boulder as though an expert in the sport. Clamoring to his feet, Claude came face to face with the intruder's own bestial wyvern. Craning his gaze upwards, the prince hastily called to the invasive rider.
"Why the hell did you come here, Marwah? I told you to fall back to the palace! You can't be here!" Claude's ferocity rarely showed through his deceit, but his bark echoed through the rocks of Alogan well. Flayn, slower to her stride, trailed behind the prince, keeping a healthy distance as he bellowed.
Without disembarking, Legate Marwah hoisted her frilled helmet's visor to reveal her refused countenance. "No, Khalid. It is you who trespass here."
"What the hell are you talking about, Marwah? The council is gonna have your head for this!"
As though her lungs were virgin to laughter, Marwah scoffed, a smile creeping from ear to ear that promptly flung Claude's ego aside. "How rich that you still believe you have power over me, dog. You fell so perfectly into my lap that I almost feel I should reward you. The man who killed my mother, leading me to Alogan? Every moment of your incessant gasconade, your hollow wit, your cowardly impotence, it was all worth it for this moment."
"Your mother..? What are you-" Claude stammered, stepping back a pace before a wave of horror crashed on his shore. "Oh. Oh I get it now. You're the daughter of Ilsha, the Tanrin Ma chieftain. I should've known. You both have the same hideous scowl."
"How easy you've made it, Khalid. You will step into the Well of Souls and my mother shall be reborn to lead the Tanrin Ma and reinstate the rule of Ma'ur!" Foreign conflict was lost on Flayn, who now only assumed that trouble was ahead for the pair.
"How precious, Marwah." Claude chuckled, a feverish pitch in his voice. "Sorry to get in the way of your devious monologue, but I'll skip ahead to the part where I kill you, if you don't mind."
"If you will not obey, then you will meet your end with force."
"Ha!" returned the prince. "By yourself? You may be a skilled fighter, Marwah, but against all four of us, you're-" Claude's words trailed off, void by the sight of several winged beasts parting through the clouds. "Right. I had to open my big mouth."
"You've even knelt the king and queen of Fódlan before me. After Ilsha is reborn, I will grant her the honor of slicing their heads from their bodies!" Marwah's ravenous snarl only grew, thrusting her spear in the air to rally her approaching soldiers for combat. "Hail Ma'ur. Hail Tawayr."