A hundred years after the war, Byleth reminisces.

Byleth couldn't shut the screams out from his mind, his students' voices ringing in his ears with no end in sight.

It was just one of those days when he fell too far into his mind and dug up memories he had worked tirelessly to push down before.

The explosions of magic, blades clashing, blood spilling—all of it flashed in his eyes. In one life, Byleth would have stayed with Edelgard and rejected the Church of Seiros, maybe even support her ideals. In another, he would have chosen Dimitri and fought for Faerghus, or maybe Claude and his dreams which were not unlike to Edelgard's.

He wondered what his students would do all those years ago if they what they had become, tired of fighting for a war that seemed neverending and blood on their hands, killing former classmates, friends, and even lovers with indifference.

Would they seek to change that future or run away? Maybe they would take that to their advantage and gather intel, or submit to whoever they judged held the most power and favour?

Maybe Sylvain wouldn't force himself to kill Felix for betraying the Kingdom for the Empire, and Linhardt wouldn't be executed by Edelgard for refusing to fight Caspar, who kept accidentally missing with his axes and enormous strength. Maybe Mercedes and Annette would live together helping and teaching orphans, not blindly throwing spells at each other with tears in their eyes, and perhaps Marianne would have had her happy ending with Hilda instead of draping over her to protect her from a shower of arrows. Maybe Manuela would have found her perfect guy and Hanneman the cure to Lysithea's short-lived life.

And maybe, just maybe, Dimitri would have lived happily without revenge calling in his ears, Claude with his dreams of peace never far from reach, and Edelgard without her nightmares haunting her every night.

It didn't matter back then when they were battling for their lives and the future of Fodlan, but sometimes his thoughts wandered and he wished—for despite his blank face, lacking heartbeat and blunt words, he loved every single one of the students who surrounded him back in Garreg Mach no matter what side they chose. Even if they had long left him, they were still the group of inexperienced kids he had taught so long ago.

He still missed every single one of them.

"Archbishop," a voice called. "I believe it's time for you to retire to your room."

"There is still more work to do," he said, shaking straying thoughts from his head as he tapped the table with his pen. "We are preparing another meeting with the king of Almyra and Brigid's monarch next fortnight, and trade with Sreng is beginning to improve. If I sleep now, there will be more work for me tomorrow."

The man sighed, heavy yet understanding, and took half of the unfinished stack to Byleth's left into his possession. "There will always be more paperwork the next day," he said. "However, working with a fresh mind is always better than being half asleep."

"Seteth, I am not tired." He shoved the yawn down his throat. He was used to working long hours as a mercenary, then a professor, and then a soldier in the war. This wasn't remotely anything compared to the horrors he had faced before.

"You were nodding off when I came in and wouldn't respond to my calls, Lord Byleth."

"Just call me Byleth." Pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes, he held his hand out. "And give those back, Seteth. I do not need you handling so much and half my work too."

He gave Byleth a silent stare, and a few seconds later, he retracted his hand. The man sighed again.

"The entirety of Fodlan, even the Church of Seiros, is under your care," he said, and the look in his eyes bordered on fond exasperation as if he had this conversation once before. They had. "As our leader, many look up to you and would handle anything you ask without delay. Please, do not hesitate to ask us for assistance—Flayn worries for you."

Flayn. The girl who was hundreds of years old, who used to call him professor and had, once upon a time, pretended to be Seteth's sister. Though, that was more than a hundred years ago.

Byleth set his pen down and exhaled through his nose. He played with the end of the long braid hanging over his shoulder, fashioned after Rhea back when she was Seiros, before pushing his hair behind his pointed ears.

"How talented you are in manipulating me," he said, sitting back on his chair and stringing his fingers together. "Rather unfair, is it not?"

Seteth revealed a rare smile, glanced into the audience chamber with distant eyes, and said, "You are much more gifted than me in battle, even when I was in my prime."

"And Rhea? What about her?"

Rhea, the woman who had one of the greatest influences on him, other than his father, and who was technically his grandmother, which made him Sothis' great-grandchild. But, he pondered, he was also Sothis, so that made Rhea his (their?) daughter, and made him his great-grandchild. Seteth was something along the lines of a great-uncle and Flayn his aunt, but also his son and granddaughter all the same.

A twisted family tree, but it wasn't so bad.

"Rhea was strong," Seteth admitted and the mist in his eyes thickened, "but Seiros was stronger."

He hummed a response and the two fell into silence.

He didn't realise it back then, but his fusion with Sothis and inheritance of her powers had rendered him half a human, left to wander the lands with the last two remaining Nabateans by his side until they died much like Rhea had. Immortality sounded great but in reality, it was lonely—frighteningly so.

After they had spent long enough in Fodlan after the war, way past they estimated life spans, he, Seteth, and Flayn all faked their deaths several years after the other in staged events. The three of them had hidden away until society had forgotten their faces, then returned one by one to their previous stations to rule over the land once more.

"You were remembering the war, were you not?" he suddenly spoke, and Byleth frowned, leaning forward. "Rhea always had the same face whenever she remembered the events of the Red Canyon Tragedy."

Ah, so that was how he knew.

"Is that so ..." He pressed his lips together, willing the flashes of red from his thoughts. He returned the pen to its spot, shuffled the papers into the desk drawer, and stood. Joints popping and knuckles cracking, he stretched. "I shall retire to my room if you give those papers back."

Seteth barely hesitated, though he noted some reluctance when he handed the papers over. They also went inside the drawer.

The two left his office and passed several knights, who nodded respectfully at the two. When they reached the stairs to the third floor, Byleth paused at the bottom.

"Is something the matter?"

His head tilted at the ceiling, and his eyes traced the cracks in the stone. The joyous faces of his students followed his gaze.

"... If I manage to finish all my work and clear my schedule," he murmured, "would you allow me to teach at the Academy for a little?"

There was a knowing look in his eye and a sad expression on his face. Byleth guessed this was what he felt when Flayn used to call him Brother and not Father—like he was neglecting what they were at heart. He, a father, and Byleth, a professor.

"The students wouldn't be able to concentrate if the archbishop himself taught them the basics of reason and sword," Seteth chuckled. "Good night, Archbishop."

A smile riddled his lips, and his eyes curved gently upwards.

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.

Maybe, after he finds a successor, he would be a professor again full-time. Maybe. It would always be a maybe.

"Good night, Seteth."