A/N: Graphic violence in the next several chapters, folks. Be gentle with yourselves.
An eagle flies ahead, unseen, but its lonesome cry heard across the land.
Edelgard's mages, masked and loyal not to her but to those she wishes dead more than any other, acknowledge her wordless command and begin to channel their magic into a devastating strike. Fire crackles, condensed into volatile spheres, and launched high into the air. No side of the battlefield is safe from the flames. Either side of her and in front; she will not be caught off guard by a surprise assault.
Explosions rock the ground beneath their feet and she hears the screams of man and beast alike injured and dying to the fire. Edelgard does not believe in the Goddess, but if she did, she would pray that they find peace and they not hate her too terribly for what she has to do. This was a choice they made; it didn't have to be this way and they didn't have to die.
Edelgard steps forward, drawing her army's attention as the fog begins to dissipate. She sees the telltale glow of Relics from across the battlefield.
They're here. As promised. As destiny demands.
Her voice, amplified by magic, crosses the distance between herself and her soldiers, and quite possibly any of the enemy armies close enough to listen. "Years ago, we fought here as classmates."
Her confidence wavers, just a moment, and she looks upon those who will lose their lives in this battle with regret. Those who will die as traitors. And those who were truly innocent and committed the crime of following their Empress into battle as their pride and heart demanded.
That regret filters into her voice for just a moment as she casts her eyes to the side. "But not today."
There is no turning back.
"And so we fight on."
Her forces unsheathe their blades and rush to meet their enemy.
Claude isn't close enough to the front lines to be directly impacted by the flames themselves. It's a tactical move on his part and winces as the stench of burned flesh and hair hits him all at once. He looks at the men and women, the beasts, dying from their injuries. He sees the ones who might make it, should they receive adequate medical attention, and those who are well on their way to meet their maker.
Funny, isn't it, how the vast majority of those dying are those who joined the Alliance's forces in hopes of providing a steady income for their families?
How they were just regular people born the way they were just looking for a way out of poverty, of becoming something more than what they were born into, and no one will remember their names or faces after this battle. They wanted to dedicate their lives to a purpose they could believe in above all else- and this was their thanks. Another series of faces and lives lost to time and the ambitions of the nobles who have the means to fund their wars without so much as setting foot upon blood-soaked soil themselves.
That is the reality of war; there is no strategy board or texts or lectures that will ever be able to drive that home to the blissfully ignorant and the privileged.
"As big class reunions go… this has gotta be the worst." Claude mutters in disgust as he hefts Failnaught upon his shoulder. The first blow, and blood, has to belong to the Adrestian military. He doesn't have the mage power to back that kind of coordinated assault, Lysithea not counting, and the Empire always has been known for their gift in magic. His archers and mounted riders are at the ready; he's been teaching them more than a fair few techniques he'd been taught in Almyra. He's seen Lorenz's side-eye and the considering look on Holst and Hilda's faces as well during their drills the last few weeks.
Let them wonder; it'll be good for 'em both. No sign of Byleth or the Knights yet. He's certain he'll see her at least on the battlefield. If he knows her the way he believes he does, she'll cut a path straight to Edelgard to better meet him and Dimitri both. Not just to remind the three of them of the price of betrayal should they renege on their vows.
This is it.
Claude lifts his hand and drops it with a roar as his forces rush forth.
"Know that I will tear your head from your shoulders. The dead must have their tribute." Dimitri's voice is a steady thunder that rolls across the Kingdom forces. The uninjured and those with their wits enough about him look up as he strolls through the battle, Relic flaring with bloody light at his shoulder, and stops just before the flames dying down against the fog dampened grass. The blade sweeps forth, light streaming in its wake, as he aims the point of his spear in the direction of the opposing armies.
He moves undisturbed by the cries of agony and wails of the dying. The stench in his nose of offal and charred hair and flesh just another part of his waking nightmare. For the first time in weeks, Dimitri is unburdened. The dead do not cling to his body and weigh him down. Their voices are still there but are fading by the moment as everything comes into too sharp clarity around him. They know as well as he that the time for vengeance has come and that this is the day he takes from the enemy what should have never been taken from them.
His eye reflects the dancing flames in front of him as though he has already cast himself into their eternal embrace.
Even the cries of the dying fade away to glorious silence. He is left alone, empty and bereft of even their frigid company, as nothing but a mere tool utilized to seek revenge on those who deserve it most in this world. There is nothing before his eye but the crimson-on-silver of the Adrestian Empire and the ochre-on-silver of the Alliance in front of him. Just a sea of bodies that will lay like so many other broken shells and damned souls he has left in his wake.
Claude and Edelgard are there. He knows they are lurking within the mists, thinking themselves clever and unnoticed. The fools; no one can hide from the dead. They are everywhere: they see and know everything. And the dead will not be denied!
His lips pull from his teeth in a smile.
"Kill every last one of them!"
Another body hits the ground.
Byleth pulls her blade from the man's stomach, stabs down a second time when his chin lifts enough, twists, and rips it free. A flick of her wrist to get the majority of the gore off the blade and she's off with the next target in her sights. Thrust, parry, and slash- an Adrestian Empire soldier's intestines spill through the widening gap in both cloth and armor alike. He goes down trying to keep the coils of offal contained where they are. He still fails to keep them from slipping through his fingers. Everyone familiar with the battlefield knows he will die a terribly painful death after far too long.
One of the mercenaries following her into battle grants him a mercy he may very well not deserve.
Jeralt raised a demon as his successor. She was a nightmare in the battlefields past, but this is personal. This is a beautiful savagery that they haven't ever seen out of her before. Any soldier, Alliance, Kingdom, or Empire who challenges her is cast aside as though they are wet paper against a meteor crashing to the ground. For as expressive around Garreg Mach, around them, and around her students as Byleth has become over the years? It's as though someone plucked the woman of five years ago, the one who'd never touched the monastery or had her heart moved by the students, from the stream of time and dropped her into the middle of this war.
The Ashen Demon has made her return with a vengeance.
She's headed straight up the middle of Gronder Field, the wooden platform a tempting target at the center, when it explodes into flame with Imperial and Kingdom troops alike on it. They too, die horribly, cooked alive within the metal armor and burn within the fire. It's a sickeningly sweet and oily smell in the air along with hot steel. In some ways, this is worse than Remire Village because these people are here and willing to die of their own volition.
Byleth gives a freezing glare to the flames that bar her path and works her way around it. The steel blade in hand is an old friend, one that is as much a part of her as taking the lead, as commanding others to follow or to do their tasks has become. Her arm reaches back and thrusts the point forward into the back of a mage's exposed neck. He gurgles with several inches of steel jutting forth from his throat and stumbles forward when the boot kicks him hard in the back to dislodge him.
A flash of color and her blade slams hard enough to send sparks along the blade of her opponent. She's forced to shove back, regain her footing, and charges in again to meet the enemy. She is unwavering, eyes taking in and calculating the best means of cutting him down when a grin and flash of cinnamon-brown eyes catch her attention. There's something familiar about this particular exchange of blows. Byleth frowns. Catches the grin a second time and the way her opponent shifts his weight to the right and prepares for a strike meant to take the blade from her hands and leave her wrist numb. Why is her opponent smiling? And, for that matter, what is there to smile about on a battlefield and who would even-
Felix.
Honestly, she should have known by the swordplay. Byleth mentally chides herself for not picking up on the footwork in particular sooner. She dances out of the way of a well-aimed lightning strike that shoots from his fingers and puts some distance between them with a warning look the dark-haired swordsman. If Felix were there, that would mean some of the others were as well, and she isn't sure if they are friend or foe in this.
"So this is what you're like even now. Not bad." He compliments her and darts forward. Her blade is up as well as her guard in preparation as he avoids the retaliatory strike from her. Felix grabs her shoulder with one hand and fires off a second stream of lightning from his actual sword at an Imperial Soldier trying to get the jump on her from behind. A cocky smirk is sent her way as he gestures further into battle where the banner for House Blaiddyd can be seen waving in the distance.
"The Boar is charging straight for the Emperor, but you already knew that. Hurry up and leash him before he gets any of us killed, you're the only one capable of it."
A series of arrows rains down from above and Ashe hits the ground running as a Wyvern tumbles from the air and hits the ground, thrashing in its death throes. He gives a quick grin to Byleth before his bow is up and firing again, catching a soldier in the slats of their helm with a strangled scream from his target. "We'll cover you. Hurry, Professor!"
Claude says every foul curse and more in Almyran as well as Fodlan's native languages as a series of arrows and a fucking javelin solidly thunk into place. He feels the moment Halide's wing snaps like a twig from the javelin that pierces it at the joint. He definitely it as Halide falls beneath him. He tenses and leaps just before she crashes, hits the ground rolling and winces at the myriad of bruise and stiff muscles that is going to result in. He's on his feet in a matter of seconds and runs low and quickly back to her side.
She bellows her pain and fury into the air and thrashes. Her great talons gouge furrows into the turf as her blood pours into its soil along with so many others'. Her eyes are red with bloodlust and pain as she snaps her jaws at his movement. His expression hardens as he sees the bloodied froth from her mouth- she's taken a lung wound- as she snarls her displeasure and tries to breathe.
She doesn't recognize him anymore, not with the pain she's in.
Like so many others, she has made her sacrifice for his sake and has kept him safe for all of these years. Losing her is a pain he doesn't have time to acknowledge and he can't do anything more for her than this. Failnaught is drawn, arrow solidly in place, and the damned Relic glows the same color as a live ember as he puts it straight into her skull. Twice, for good measure, and uses the dagger he keeps in his boot to slit her throat to make sure she doesn't suffer.
His hand lingers against the bloodied corner of her jaw, just for a minute, and hopes whatever deity out there that may look out for beasts of burden and noble steeds will take special notice of her fiery spirit. Halide is worth the praise and the divine blessing, as far as he's concerned, and he will miss her. But now is not the time to mourn a friend he's seen raised from a hatchling. Now is not the time to weep over his inability to keep an eye out for every single threat out there or berate himself for not being good enough to protect his friend.
He can see where Edelgard stands, however faint but distinctive her figure is in that crimson surcoat and armor, and makes a run for it.
Claude swears again, twice as loud, as he catches sight of Dimitri emerging through the trees with a look he's never seen on the man before. He can't go chasing the man down, not now, not when his plans rely on him being elsewhere at the moment. His eyes follow Dimitri for a moment more before he grits his teeth and veers sharply off into the thickets at his left. If he's right, there's a mount in there with his name on it and he'll be able to get back into position and advance the next phase. He's gotta get to the cliffside and soon if he's going to pull this off.
Teach, I don't know where you are, but we have a problem.
Petra and Dorothea have their orders and are busy cleaning up some odds and ends at the back of the forces assigned to guard her. She trusts them to do exactly as she has instructed and surveys the battle raging around her.
Claude was felled by a series of attacks, she saw him roll free and nothing else after. Her heart had leaped into her throat at that perilous fall. If he were to die here… would they forgive her? Would those of the Alliance understand their leader's sacrifice for the greater good? Would Almyra cause an international incident? Would they mourn him? Did he even mean anything to its people other than a possible means to an end the way nobility here in Fodlan saw their heirs?
Focus. She sternly tells herself and hefts her axe into position. It's time for her to wade into battle herself now. Enough time has passed that her army has given her the advantage she needs to begin what is necessary for this war to end. Edelgard takes a step down from her position and pauses as a series of movements off to the east catches her attention. Her eyes narrow as she lets her gaze focus on the skirmish going on ahead.
There's a flash of pale green and black. Her heart sinks in her chest. My teacher…
Of course she would be here. Of course Byleth would be sure to arrive at the battlefield and witness it all first hand. No, not just witness, participate herself. She was no noble, no one of royal blood who would sit back and allow others to do what she herself would not. If there was a battlefield to stand on, if there were a cause, if people she valued and cared much for were involved… of course Byleth would be at the front lines.
Who else had so much single-minded determination and dedication to carving her own future out?
It was one of her favorite traits about her old Professor, after all, and many a lecture had transpired where she'd hung on the former mercenary's every word as her battle prowess and expertise had been discussed. The seminars had been her favorite and one of the rare occasions she, Dimitri, and Claude had all joined forces in order to be closer to her. She wanted for nothing and seemed to want nothing in return. A woman content to simply make her living traveling about and selling her sword for coin enough to live with no further ambitions than that.
An impossibility. No one could be that simple-minded. She'd been convinced there was something more that the woman had wanted. She'd even set Hubert on her to be sure, if he could find something, she could exploit it and get what she wanted out of her. There would be little Edelgard would have stooped to in order to gain the mercenary's favor and clout.
But she had come up empty. Blank. Nothing. And it had disturbed Hubert like nothing she had ever seen before. That revelation, as well as the first night the Professor had stopped by after hearing her cry out during a nightmare, had been the tipping point for her. She'd fallen, hard, and had never been the same since.
"Edelgard!"
It's time.
Aymr lifts instinctively at the sound of Dimitri's voice and her head turns away from the Professor's distant form to that of the Faerghus noble's rapidly approaching one. A sweep of his Relic sends five men flying- two of them in pieces- away from him. Her chin lifts and she resettles that cold, cold mask over her face once more. There is no time to be soft and reflecting upon the past that will never be again.
"Dimitri."
He is muttering something as he approaches and she knows better than to assume he recalls their deal. Why would he? She betrayed them, again, and as far as he's concerned; she's a dead woman walking and it was just a matter of when he could manage to pull it off. And if he could not? Someone else would, he'd ensure that. She doesn't, however, see any sign of his companions. Perhaps they have fallen in battle and their loss adds to the whip that drives him in his madness.
A pity. He might have made a half-way decent king if he were able to harden his heart against the pain of loss.
"I will allow you to choose your death." He's done rambling and ends with an offer she wants to roll her eyes at.
"I'm not interested in the methods of dying. All that matters is when death takes place, not how." She tells him as though they are back in the classrooms of Garreg Mach and debating something trivial. Edelgard's eyes narrow. Aymr glows brightly in her hands as her feet settle into a proper stance.
"And I have no intention of dying today."
"I'm sure all of the people you've slaughtered so far thought the same!" His words, as they come, cut her deeper and she promises there and then she will end his misery once and for all.
It's the least she can do.
She's too late.
Byleth knows this the same way she knew the moment Kronya's blade plunged into Jeralt's back that she was too late. It's the same as back then; she's not going to get there in time. Even if she tries to turn back the hands of time, she simply cannot make it in time to stop what is about to happen. She cuts down as many soldiers as she can, boots one square in the jaw as he reaches for her ankle to hold her still. She feels the way his teeth give way and the chin snaps to one side.
The steel blade sinks deep into an Imperial Mage's throat and out the other side. He chokes, drowning in his own blood as she shoves him to the side and focuses on running as fast as she possibly can toward the clashing figures ahead of her. Blue and red meet, separate, and clash again. Their weapons throw light and embers as they collide. The thunderous blows echo across the raging battlefield and reverberate in her very bones.
I'm not going to make it. Anguish in the realization, at the knowledge that she really has failed them this time. She'd failed them by falling off the cliff. In being gone for five years. In not telling Seteth and Rhea about what she had learned in confidence and doing something about it. She hadn't told her father about it either, maybe if she had, he'd still be there and they would have made a difference in all their lives.
The Sword of the Creator is in her hands.
Dimitri and Edelgard separate again. Their Relics glow brighter than before.
She sees the tell-tale flash of blue-white light that comes from the Crest of Blaiddyd activating. Pale green-white light flares to life in response from Edelgard- the Crest of Seiros. They're about to use their Relic weapons' full attack. Byleth understands this in the same way she too has used her Relic's unique skill at several points throughout the duration of the blade being in her custody. She uses it now in hopes it will reach them in time. Her wrist snaps forward as the blade breaks apart and launches at the two combatants.
Aymr and Areadbhar slam home before her strike connects.
As Byleth feared: she's too late.