The doubt creeps into Byleth's mind when one student makes a rather offhanded comment as they march back to the Monastery.
"Oh, Professor," Marianne says as she looks at the sword on Byleth's hips. "You're so brave, fighting with that dreadful-looking thing. I wouldn't even want to touch it. It's almost as if… it's made of bones."
Byleth's hand instinctively goes to the hilt of her weapon, and she looks back at her student. As expected, Marianne's pale cheeks become pink. Still, this time she does hold her teacher's gaze, Byleth notes with pride.
"Yeah!" Leonie inches closer, frowning as she examines the Sword of the Creator. "What's it made of, anyway?"
"All Heroes' Relics are made of an unknown material," Lorenz says. He's a little smug as he adds, "I've had the privilege of training with House Gloucester's Relic several times since my youth, I'll have you know—"
"Who cares?" Leonie says, rolling her eyes. "That doesn't tell us how they were made!"
"Not a soul alive knows how they were forged," Ignatz says, sounding rather curious. "It's a secret lost to history."
"Well, the Goddess herself made them, didn't she?" Lysithea adds. "Or so the Church says."
Marianne shudders. "I don't understand… The Goddess is the source of all that is good in the world. Why would she make such horrible weapons?"
Byleth shrugs. "I wouldn't know."
Next to her, a certain green-haired ghost tilts her head, emerald eyes filled with curiosity. As always, the students remain unaware of Sothis' presence. She has a strange, unexplained interest in the Sword of the Creator. Byleth finds it unsettling, and she's never found the courage to ask Sothis about it.
"We could ask Rhea about it," Claude says, a bit too brightly. His classmates turn to gape at him. In response, he gives one of his charming, impish grins. "What? Maybe she knows!"
"Claude, you goof!" says Hilda. "The Archbishop's got better things to do than answering your stupid questions, you know!"
Claude ignores her rebuke, only eyeing Byleth's sword with a shrewish look. "It does look like someone just yanked a giant's spine and made a sword out of it. Freaky stuff, I tell you."
Lysithea makes a face, while Marianne grows even paler. In response, Hilda swats Claude behind the head. Raphael laughs at his leader's misfortune, while Lorenz huffs, no doubt infuriated by Claude's uncouth behaviour.
And so, for a long while, the topic stays buried and forgotten.
It takes more than half a decade to finally pierce that mystery.
While the war rages on, Byleth has little incentive to ponder the origin of the fabled weapon she wields. The Sword of the Creator is a tool to cut down her enemies, nothing more, nothing less.
Still, she is keen-eyed enough to realize that two members of her ragtag army are rather... uncomfortable with the weapon. No, not uncomfortable. Sickened. Seteth hides it better than his daughter, whose easy smile turns sour every time she lays eyes on the sword. Still, the more Byleth grows to know him (and yes, to love him, this man who eventually becomes her husband), the more she notices the little tells that give him away. How his eyes narrow when she raises it aloof to strike an enemy, how his shoulders grow tense when she messily pulls it out of said poor bastard.
How his hands tighten into fists when she cleans the blood off its ragged edges,
Yes, Seteth hates the Sword of the Creator, hates it with a fierceness that clearly shows how long he's been nurturing that hatred...
When she finally learns why, Byleth cannot even touch the blade without wanting to vomit. Yet, she has no choice but to use the Sword—use Sothis' bones—to kill Nemesis, the man responsible for all of this, the man who slaughtered a goddess and her children to steal their blood and make weapons out of their corpses. She uses it to protect her beloved students and avenge a people she never knew—a people, she believes, who would have called her family.
She uses it to end a war... and then vows to never lay a hand on it ever again. And so once again, the Sword of the Creator is put to rest in the Holy Tomb beneath Garreg Mach, among the empty caskets that should enshrine Sothis' children.
Among the empty caskets that should house, in Byleth's opinion, the only remains of Seteth and Flayn's kin.
When the students leave for their homes, Relics in hand, Byleth turns to Seteth, worry creasing her brow. Her then fiancé smiles wistfully, saying that his feelings matter very little on the subject. Think of the political upheaval, he tells her, if they were to steal precious heirlooms from their allies.
A year and a half passes, and Seteth does not broach the subject again; he is far too occupied by his duties as Prime Minister of Fódlan. Byleth herself should have little time to worry about such a matter. A continent torn by five years of war is not an easy thing to rebuild, after all.
Yet, she is often startled awake at night, dreaming of empty caskets and green-haired, green-eyed ghosts. She imagines Sothis and Rhea - mother and daughter, she is now aware - looking down at her in disapproval and sorrow as their brethren is once again denied the respite they should be owed.
Tonight is not any different, and Byleth finds herself once again unable to sleep. Sighing, she glances at the man who shares her bed. Seteth snores softly, lips parted in a rather endearing manner. His brow is free of the creases that gives him the severe look for which he is famed. Byleth smiles, tucking a strand of dark green hair behind one pointed ear. Warmth blooms in her chest as she is yet again struck by the depth of his trust and affection. Her husband has hidden the signs of his true nature from the world for more than a millennium. She caresses the tip of his ear, absentmindedly wondering if—
"Hm," Seteth mumbles, taking her out of her reverie. "My love… why are you awake?"
Byleth feels herself blushing. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up."
"No," he answers with a sleepy smile, "this is fine." He takes her hand, his thumb rubbing circles on her skin. "Is there something on your mind?"
For a moment, Byleth is unable to reply. Her current dilemma concerns him, yes, but… he seems so relaxed, so peaceful. Is it worth it to make that smile disappear just to set her mind at ease?
"Byleth?" Seteth asks. He presses a light kiss down her hand. "What's the matter?"
"The Heroes' Relics," she finally blurts out. "Your people, I mean. They should be given proper funeral rites."
Seteth freezes, his lips still brushing the back of her hand. Byleth winces, evading his startled gaze.
"What do you mean?" he says, after a little while.
"Well, the Relics are made of…" She gathers her breath, still not meeting his eyes. "You know…"
"I know," he says. "I was not in Zanado at the time, as Seiros was, but I've seen… the aftermath."
Byleth's stomach does painful somersaults at that word. Aftermath. As if it could properly describe the vision of horror that must have greeted his eyes that day. "She saw it all happen, didn't she? Rhea, I mean. By the Goddess, no wonder she ended up—"
"Ended up what?" Seteth says, sharply.
Byleth sighs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up. You should be resting and all I'm doing is giving you fodder for nightmares."
To her surprise, his expression actually softens. "No. I think you're right, actually. It's what I wanted, a thousand years ago. To allow my brethren some dignity in death." He holds her hand tighter, and Byleth realizes he's taking strength and comfort from that simple gesture. "By the end of the war, Nemesis and his Elites were all dead. And the Heroes' Relics were within our grasp."
Byleth cups his cheek with one hand. He sighs as he leans into her touch.
"Seiros wanted to buy the loyalty of the Elites' descendants," Seteth continues. "Indech and Macuil… disagreed, to put it mildly. It's why they went into exile, actually. As for me…" His eyes become a bit glazed over, and his voice is bitter as he adds, "My beloved was dead, and Flayn seemed poised to follow her mother into the grave. I was weary, so weary. I chose to let Seiros have her way. And we all saw what came of that folly, didn't we?"
"Oh, Seteth…" Byleth brings him closer, and he readily accepts her embrace. For a while, he says nothing, seemingly content to simply lay his head over her chest.
"There's no need for the Relics now that the war is over," Byleth says. "They deserve to rest."
And her husband deserves proper closure for a millennium of grief. Again, she shudders, trying to imagine how she would feel if someone were to desecrate her father's grave and make weapons out of his bones. No, she thinks. The horror is too great to even put into words.
Seteth scoffs. "Will the nobility even allow you to do such a thing?"
"Oh, they will," Byleth says. She smiles wryly. "I guess it's time to call in a few favours. Luckily, most of these pampered nobles also happen to be my ex-students."
She feels rather than hears him laugh.
From every corner of the continent, her former students come running at her call. It only takes a month to gather them—and not even a full minute to convince them to relinquish their families' ancestral weapons. Some of them seem to understand why she is doing this, even though she never voices the reason aloud, Claude chief among them. He is unusually sombre as he hands Failnaught over to her, and Byleth hears him mutter words of gratitude—not aimed at her, she realizes in surprise, but at the bow.
And so, they soon find themselves in the Holy Tomb—Byleth, her little family, and all the brave young men and women who fought at their side throughout the war. Byleth's students say nothing as Seteth lays each weapon in a casket—did they figure out the truth? Or do they simply trust in their old Teach that much? Byleth isn't sure.
Once the caskets are sealed, Seteth takes place at the base of the stairs leading to Sothis' empty throne. His green eyes sweep across the room, and his expression is stern, solemn. Still, Byleth is surprised to see his hands trembling.
"I thank you for coming here," he begins. "I... words can barely express how much this means to Flayn and I. For so long, we've lived in fear and secret. To think that we can now share that burden..." He shakes his head. "Perhaps if I had thought to put enough trust in people in the past, then much of our past troubles could have been averted..."
"Hey, don't sweat it," Claude says. "No use dwelling on what-ifs. What's done is done. At least you'll be stuck with us for the next part, yeah?"
"Hear, hear!" Raphael calls out, breaking tension enough to bring a few nervous laughs from his former classmates.
Seteth smiles. "Then, let's begin." He closes his eyes and raises his hands, intoning a prayer beseeching the goddess' mercy and forgiveness. The students' voices readily join his, and even Byleth mutters the words under her breath.
"Let's remember them," Seteth eventually says, "let's remember those who are now in the embrace of Sothis." He clears his throat and enunciates, voice never wavering, "Balor. Conand. Elatha. Bres. Ethniu. Tethra…"
The list of names goes on, and Byleth's heart grows heavier with each of them. Now she realizes that there had only been a handful of Nabateans—perhaps twenty at the most. Of them, only four remains. The realization is sobering, and Byleth finds herself patting her stomach, deep in thought.
It's been more than one thousand years, yet Seteth remembers all of their names. Byleth can tell that he is itching to say more about them, that he has a story or two to share about each of his kin. But it's not the time nor the place. Perhaps later Claude will ask Seteth over a pint, coaxing the stories out of him with one of his rare emotionally open smiles. Or perhaps it will be Marianne, inquiring about his wellbeing with that characteristic gentleness of hers. Perhaps Ignatz will want to capture the Nabateans' essence in a painting, perhaps Lysithea will want to sate her curiosity about the origin of the Crests.
For now, their former students simply remain silent as Seteth speaks. Some have their heads bowed, their hands clasped together in prayer. Byleth does not have the heart to tell them that their beloved goddess has been dead for a thousand years, that all that remains of her is a sword lying in a stone casket barely a few feet away.
The ceremony is short, but Seteth looks exhausted when he finishes speaking. Flayn is at Byleth's side, sobbing quietly. Thankfully, her classmates come to offer their sympathy, Hilda even drawing her into a hug. Then, they go to Seteth, who accepts their words of comfort with resigned lassitude.
Byleth sees it as her cue to act. "Thank you, everyone," she addresses her former students. "Perhaps we should be going. Seteth, Flayn, would you like some time alone?"
Seteth looks back at her with such gratitude that it tugs at her heartstrings. He walks up to Byleth and says, quietly so no one else can hear, "Would you, at least, stay?"
"Of course," Byleth answers. She meets eyes with Claude, who smiles and nods.
"Alright, everyone!" the leader of her Deer—no, the king of Almyra, she reminds herself—calls out. "You know what we do back home after a funeral? Have a big ol' feast to honour the fallen! Think we can cook up a good meal for Flayn and Teach's booty call?"
Seteth's characteristic scowl returns in full force as he says, "Teach's what?" while Flayn claps her hands, crying out, "Oh, that would be delightful!"
And so the others leave, but not without patting Flayn's head or giving her a hug before going. Byleth finds the vast emptiness of the Holy Tomb more difficult to bear without them around. Still, Seteth and Flayn appear content, and the latter has even stopped crying.
It feels like a good time as any. "Seteth," Byleth says. "I'm pregnant."
Flayn gasps, while Seteth goes still. He meets Byleth's gaze with wide eyes, mouth agape. Behind him, Flayn is squealing, hopping up and down on her feet.
"P-Pardon me?" Seteth says. "W-What did you say?"
Byleth shrugs. Well, she can't fault him for being surprised. "I'm pregnant," she repeats, matter-of-factly. "I wasn't sure before, so— "
Before she can finish, Seteth drops to his knees. With a choked sob, he reaches forward, grabbing her midsection in a shaky embrace. Byleth stands, dazed, as he starts crying in earnest. Not a second later, and Flayn is putting her arms around Byleth as well, tears of happiness streaking her face as she laughs.
Byleth's eyes soften. She should have realized. Their child—hers and Seteth's—would be the first Nabatean to be born in well over a millennium.
The first dragon-blooded child to be born since the horrific slaughter of the people whose bones had been laid to rest today.
Later that night, after hours of feasting in good company, the three of them share a peaceful moment in their quarters. Seteth had been uncharacteristically affectionate on the way back, earning himself looks and giggles from their former students with every kiss he had stolen from his wife. And Flayn, horrifyingly enough, is a bit tipsy; thankfully, her father is drunk enough on Byleth's good news that he doesn't notice.
Byleth's stepdaughter is barely able to stay in one spot; she babbles on about baby clothes and baby names and, oh, won't Byleth and Father let her babysit sometimes, pretty please?
At one point, her enthusiasm seems filled to burst, and she grabs Byleth's hands, saying, "I cannot wait to see how my sibling will look when they transform! Oh, perhaps they'll have those lovely bronze scales, just like Father used to have!"
Byleth blinks, very slowly. "Transform?" Memories of beasts with claws as big as a hand and fangs sharper than a knife fill her mind. "Oh. Oh." She swallows nervously, and Seteth gives her a sheepish grin, as if it was his fault—which is the case, more or less. "Giving birth to a baby that can turn into a dragon... well, I've done stranger things. I'll manage, I suppose."