Byleth finishes securing the last of the packs to her mount at the stables. There's an itch under her skin that she hasn't been able to get rid of, a restlessness that even a hard, exhausting night and day haven't been able to get rid of long enough for sleep to truly claim her. She wants to be gone by dawn's first light and to head for the battleground far ahead of the armies on the move. If she can get there before them all, she can see where they are, who is with them, and just how many lives she's going to have to prioritize in the long run.
Jeralt's Mercenary band had reconvened at Garreg Mach the moment they'd learned from a merchant that she was alive. That had been an interesting reunion and she had them ready to back her at a moment's notice. All of them were down in the marketplace securing the last of their necessary supplies and would await her there. After her father's passing, she'd been de-facto leader and successor to his name and position. They hadn't minded, not really, weird shit or not that kept happening around her meant they got fat coin purses and a plethora of tales to tell in the varying taverns and locations around Fodlan.
A couple of them had even found a special someone of their own, much to her amusement, and had been flattered when they'd approached and quietly asked her to stand witness for them as they exchanged rings and vows in the church itself. It was only right, they'd said, having watched and aided Jeralt in raising her since infancy, that she be there to celebrate and stand where he should have been. Having her there was not the same, but their Captain was going to be there in spirit as long as she herself lived, and that was almost as good as having him there in person.
Cheaper too, they'd said, since they wouldn't be dealing with his damned bar tab.
She made them regret that particular statement when she'd put them all to shame and walked out with it on their tab instead. Like father, like daughter; and the curse flung her way with raised fist and good-natured laughter was identical to those thrown her father's way whenever Jeralt had gotten caught leaving his men the bill. They were good people, rough around the edges in their own way, but they were dear to her and her to them. Even if she still put the fear of the Goddess into them on the battlefield.
"Professor!" Flayn's voice breaks her concentration and she looks up, blinking for the first time in a few minutes, to see the young woman running her way with Seteth close behind. "Were you truly about to depart, alone, without so much as a word?" Her young face is both cross and hurt by the idea that she would leave without so much as a good-bye.
"Not alone." Shamir's calm, curt voice comes from somewhere to their left. Byleth glances over as the mercenary from Dagda nimbly slides off the corner of the stable roof she'd been perched on. She lands with a soft thud against the hay strewn area. The two of them exchange a wordless nod. Shamir knows full well Byleth was aware of her presence and Byleth knows Shamir would be following close behind the moment she left the safety of the monastery.
A shadow from overhead circled and landed with a powerful beat of wings and the telltale thick neck of a Wyvern. Cyril's serious face peered around his mount's neck and nodded to Shamir and Byleth both. He'd become Shamir's shadow in the way that he'd always been Rhea's. In a different manner, of course, but the mercenary had been quite serious in her training of the young Almyran. "Professor." He greets her politely without dismounting.
"You weren't about to leave me behind, were you?" Catherine's bold, deep voice rings through the quiet stables. The blonde swordswoman's grin was blade sharp as she saunters up with one hand on her blade.
Shamir looks to Byleth again, her expression is perfectly blank. "Apologies, Professor, we appear to have been discovered."
"I see." Byleth replies equally devoid of feeling.
Catherine scowls at them both. Flayn looks confused. Seteth coughs into his fist and clears his throat, a distinctive glint in his green eyes suggesting he's caught on to the joke. "I understand your desire for haste, Professor, but I have to advise against it. Should the enemy notice your arrival, it could throw the plan into jeopardy."
Byleth's brow furrows at the possibility. Her eyes turn to the south as a frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. If she left now… she could get there a few days before them. She could see them all again, however briefly, before this plan of theirs kicked off. She would have that precious few time to prepare, to have things put into place, and truly be ready for whatever might happen. They haven't sent her any messages informing her of where and when; just that it would happen near the end of the Lone Moon.
It was the beginning of the Lone Moon and Byleth had very little time left to figure out what her part in this would be and play it exactly to their plan.
Cyril dismounts and begins to help Shamir, Catherine, and Flayn remove the saddlebags from Byleth's mount. The young girl dashes off after a quick word with Shamir to go tell the mercenaries in the market to pull back to their quarters. She begins to protest their actions and reaches out to stop them.
Seteth's hand drops on her shoulder, a strong and warm weight, and squeezes gently. She looks up to see the stern-faced adviser with a remarkably gentler countenance. "Come," he says with the type of kindness and understanding that immediately guts her where she stands. His hand moves from shoulder to her back as he guides her away from the stables. His office, she guesses (correctly) is where he is likely taking her and she's not sure if she's about to get a lecture or… she doesn't know. Advice, perhaps. Something to delay her further than she already has been.
He says nothing until she is seated in front of his desk and pours her the same tea she's sent to Dimitri every week she possibly can. The soft aroma and herbal blend is meant to inspire calm in those who are troubled. She looks from the tea up to Seteth.
"I know." He says. "As you may recall, I was much the same when Flayn went missing. Have been since the Archbishop has gone missing."
Her eyes drop away from his face to his desk. She remembers all too well the frantic worry and fear on the stalwart man's face. His frenetic manner at the time was completely opposite to his normally unflappable demeanor and it still threw her for a loop to think about even now.
"As you yourself know, Professor, we cannot rush blindly into whatever may await us. I understand you have an idea of where this plan is about to unfold?"
She nods. She needs to focus on the shape of the steam lifting and curling about because looking at Seteth's face right now is something more than she can handle. There's no reason she can't approach this unobjectively; she's done it in the past, she can do it again. She was prepared to face them all down, to kill them with her own two hands if that was what it took. Had faced Edelgard down in the invasion of Garreg Mach and forced her retreat. So then… why now? Why now, when she knew things were supposed to turn out for the best, that the three of them had a plan that would bring the war to an end and were counting on her to make sure it would happen, was… was everything from the last few months starting to crash down on her?
Years, she corrects herself, it's been years for everyone else. The years she spent asleep, unaware and ignorant, and left behind by the world as a whole.
He glances out the window behind him. The dark clouds moving in and a steady, grey drizzle beginning to fall were enough confirmation as he turns back to this wayward family member of his. It has been much they demanded of her, Seteth knows and feels that sting of guilt lance through him again, and yet have done nothing to lessen her burden. The fire in her eyes, the ice in her cutting words, and the fury in her normally stoic face had been a sight to see when she'd stood in this very office and ripped into him for a number of topics ranging from quite personal to professional.
With the information Byleth had given him regarding Edelgard's condition, with Claude's unwelcome input and backing of the report, Seteth is reluctant to even attempt at navigating those particular waters; what his sister had done was nearly identical to what was done to the Adrestian Empress.
Nearly, and that was the pathetic loophole he clung to in terms of moral superiority.
Seteth takes a deep breath, reaches across his desk for her hand, and sets about trying to convince the stubborn woman in front of him to let go of her mantle of responsibility for an hour or two.
"Are the preparations in place?"
Claude is pouring over a series of documents piled atop a large map spread across the entirety of the table in the Alliance's War Room when Judith comes waltzing in like she owns the place. Given how much he owes her in terms of the support she's given him, the information, and supplies? He's going to owe her his first and second-born as well as a sizeable stead in Almyran territory; she may as well just prepare her House seal ahead of time and stamp it on his forehead just for safe measure.
Her presence is not the one he wants hanging over his shoulder at this hour, but she's a welcome distraction from the little snag he's found himself hitting. He should have been in bed at least, he looks at the oil in the lamp, two hours ago but the damned problem won't stop chewing on his brain and vice versa. So, rather than kill time staring at the dark ceiling or going out to star-gaze until he finds peace, Claude's running through the scenario for the twentieth time to see if altering the position of troops is going to help him fix the issue.
He doesn't look up from shifting a battalion into a different position and analyzing the repercussions and possible outcomes from that one change as he answers. "As prepared as we can be with as much unknown as there is. How's the bridge?"
Judith studies the map and the set of figures on it with a critical eye of her own. "Ready to be taken, as you requested. A lot of men are going to die taking it, but-" She tries tracing where this smart-mouthed brat's strategy started and where she guesses it may end as he continues to play through the scenario. She catches the tail end of where she thinks it's going, and if he moves that company of mercenaries a little to the left...
Claude grimaces. "But they're a necessary sacrifice. Yeah, I know." He sighs and shakes his head and moves a set of Wyvern riders up. "One day we won't have necessary sacrifices- or any sacrifices at all, for that matter." Green eyes trace the incoming attack from the opposite side of the map, the battle unfolding before his eyes as arrows and steel clash, beasts hit the ground and the corpses of the fallen litter the terrain.
And runs straight into the same damned problem as he had before. Damn it.
The sound he makes is an excellent impression of Halide when she's in a foul mood and ready to drop someone off a cliff. All the pieces are collected and meticulously put back into their starting positions for round number twenty-one.
Judith moves around to the opposing end of the table, the Empire's side, as he's taken to calling it, and splays her fingers on either side of the figuring representing its might. "Alright boy, I can see you're having some trouble. Put this one on my tab and let's go through this again. I'll be the Empire, you do your thing, and we'll clash in the middle."
"Whatever would I do without your generous spirit, Judith?" Claude asks her, relieved to have someone else play the role for once instead of trying to balance both. He's good at playing both sides of the field, in more ways than one, but damn if it isn't hard when he really needs to focus on one in particular.
The Hero of Daphnel laughs at him, a harsh sound coming out of such a comely woman, and begins her advance. "I'll remind you of that when it comes time to pay up."
Claude ends up outside on Halide's back anyways. Wrapped in a thick wool cloak, he sits astride the slumbering Wyvern's back and watches the sky. Everything they do seems so… significant, as though one wrong move, one slip, one failure is going to lead to catastrophic failure and spells the end of times for them all. But out here, looking at the sky, it's insignificant when he imagines himself up there where the gods are theorized to live among the stars. It's so small, so temporary that it both relieves and breaks his heart at the same time.
He wonders if Teach and the others are looking at the same sky where they are. What they're thinking. What thoughts are going through their heads as their time alone whittles down and the dawn of a new era is set to begin.
Not for the first time, he wonders if Edelgard is sincere in wanting this war to end and isn't just setting them all up for a second, greater betrayal in the end. If Dimitri is going to be able to hold himself together long enough to see this plan through to the bitter end or if he's going to go on a full rampage across the entirety of the battlefield and be put down as a result. Will the Knights of Seiros be there, ready and waiting, for them when all is said and done?
...will the Professor, will Byleth trust and believe in them as he'd asked her to?
Ahh, Teach. You've tried your best. The tea helps, even if you can't send anything along with it in case it falls into enemy hands. It's your way of telling us you're thinking of us and supporting us where you can. And the tea, funnily enough, does help in some ways. The scent of it, the warmth that spreads through his body as he drinks it… it helps stave off the anxiety and pressure that comes from his role. Dimitri too, even if he can't taste it. Getting some to Edelgard is more difficult and he hopes she's been able to hold on without such support herself and doesn't fall back into old familiar mindsets and patterns.
Neither of them are allowed to die until they're done repaying their debts- he's hit Dimitri with that one twice now when word has reached him that the future King of Faerghus is having a particularly difficult time and they fear losing him. Gotta love Ingrid and Annette's different levels of comfort relaying information; between the two of them and the messages Mercedes sends to Hilda? He has a decent enough grasp on the situation in House Fraldarius to know when a message needs to be sent. It's helped, even if it's just holding off the inevitable, and Claude can only hope it's enough until they're together again and Byleth can help sort them all to rights again.
He's sent a messenger back home to his mother asking, in code of course, for information they have regarding those who can see and hear the voices of the dead. He sent a second to his father, given that the man has an entirely different perspective than his wife, and hopes that the Almyran side of his family has some answers or information he can use to help Dimitri out.
Edelgard's issues are a little more in the classic vein and he's not quite gotten Lysithea to forgive him enough to actually talk about the experiments that were done to her. She was, however, incredibly suspicious of the reasons why he'd been asking so many pointed questions and promised to threaten him when she had a spare moment. He wasn't exactly looking forward to that, but plotting how to counter her had been an entirely entertaining thirty minutes or so. Whether or not he'll survive the counter is a different matter entirely, but hey, if he's going to retaliate, it's going to be in a way that counts.
He wonders how their fair Empress has been faring, alone, and without the ability to contact those who were technically her allies.
Just a little longer. Claude tells himself. Watches as the sky darkens above and the horizon begins to pale in preparation for the dawn to break. We need to hang on just a little longer, keep strong for just a few more weeks. We haveto hold on.
They didn't have any other choice; failure simply was not an option.