Work Text:
Derdriu, the new capital of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, was falling.
There just weren't enough men. Weren't enough supplies. Not enough time to round up the reinforcements, to call on the other houses for help—barely even time to arm the battalions they had and to warn the outlying villages. The rebels attacked during the middle of the night. The fighting was lit by the fires they set to the fields and now, the city itself.
Queen Byleth sprinted straight through the chaos, sword swinging at an unholy speed. She would not let those who slithered in the dark win—not after all she'd gone through to drive them back to the shadows.
Leonie led a battalion through the northeast. Hilda flew overhead on her wyvern, rallying a small battalion of pegasus riders around the south, away from archers. Byleth was lucky to have them in the capital, but they wouldn't be enough. The rebel army stretched on for an endless horizon, a black wall against the red dawn as more soldiers arrived. How had the rebels amassed the numbers so soon after the empress fell? She knew they joined up with those who slithered in the dark... but she thought the result would be scattered and sparse—groups she could suss out and eradicate over a number of years.
Not organized. How had they had the time?
An arrow whistled by her ear, and she returned the archer's attack with a swift cut across their chest. But ten archers took the fallen man's place and cavalry galloped behind them. She was flagging. Her own battalion was thin. Byleth could laugh if she could spare the breath. Would this be how the tender newborn kingdom be remembered? For its brevity? The Alliance topples the Empire only to fall in the aftermath—Nemesis would have the last laugh after all. Fódlan was strong in its bones and the hearts of its people—but even the strongest bones and the toughest hearts needed a moment to heal. That was all she needed. That was all she lacked.
"Your Majesty—we can't hold," a battalion leader cried, running up to her. "They're fighting like beasts out there. It's their last stand. Nothing more dangerous than people with nothing to lose."
"Yes, there is," Byleth said. "Those who have everything to lose." Words were just words, hardly truth—but she was queen now and she couldn't falter. Hope was dwindling, and when that was all gone…
A bird cry pierced overhead. She looked up, squinting into the smoke and darkness and caught the glint of a golden falcon. The same one who carried so many letters between Almyra and Derdriu over the past six months—
She blinked, rubbing dust from her eyes, breath shallow as she looked toward the horizon again.
Those armies arriving—weren't rebel armies. They were Almyran armies.
I'll be back before you know it.
"Professor—your Majesty—" Leonie came galloping in from the north with her retreating battalion, her lance broken. "I think that's—"
"Claude." A sweet feeling more welcome than any vulnerary billowed in her stomach; she might even be smiling. Let him be here. Let it be him, not some general he sent in his stead. "The Almyran army is breaking through the rebels' middle ranks. Meet the retreat from this side. I'll be right behind you."
"On it."
Hope renewed, Byleth charged back into the fray with a rallying cry.
Allies rose up around her as news spread of the Almyrans. Many of her soldiers had fought alongside Almyrans during the Battle of Fort Merceus; they trusted them, and even if they didn't, they had no other choice.
Slowly but surely, the rebel forces began to dwindle. Those on the edges started their retreats.
And then Byleth saw it—a wyvern overhead, its rider shooting arrows and doing backflips to avoid enemy fire. It was Claude. Who else could it be? Still, as her heart fluttered, the pulse of her blood overcome with a different kind of adrenaline, she fought. There were rebels left; she couldn't get more distracted. Against all temptation, she fought.
The battlefield was fully lit by the dawn when the dust settled. The burned villages and fields smoked and there were dead in the streets—but it was over. The Empire's last stand had failed. Byleth had time to look to the skies again, half-expecting Claude to swoop down behind her for some grinning-faced prank. It'd be just like him to play a trick in lieu of a regular greeting.
But she couldn't find him. Had she imagined him?
The next wyvern she saw was Hilda's. She was waving her axe exasperatedly, pink hair shiny despite hours of combat. "Your Majesty, what are you waiting for?"
Byleth looked toward where she was gesturing. There across the field, in the most expected of places—at the head of the Almyran armies—Claude emerged. He had a little extra scruff under his chin, a little more in line with Almyran fashions, but that lick of hair that never obeyed still dangled over his right eye. He wore new regalia—he was king now. The realization nearly took her breath away.
Of course. Things were different. He was king. She was queen. There were no time for tricks anymore; there were formalities about this. It wasn't like back in Garreg Mach, when her highest title was Teach. As the new leaders of their respective lands, every motion counted. They had an image to project. There were handshakes and titles and declarations—
She found herself already moving.
Running.
Sprinting to him. What did she know about formalities when she grew up a mercenary? It was his fault she was queen, and if this was inappropriate, it would be on him; he'd gladly take credit anyway.
Claude dismounted his wyvern, his smile brighter than any sun—a smile that could tear down walls, that could return the beat to her heart—and dropping her sword, Byleth leapt into his arms. She could hear a cloud of gasps, then nothing but Claude's breathing, shaky, despite his outward calm. Even through the armor, she felt him tremble with the loosing of a long-held ache like the whisper of a secret—that he too had moments of doubt, however shrouded. Did he wonder if he came too late? If she still loved him despite his quick parting? If she trusted him enough to return after knowing every long-planned scheme of his?
None of those worries mattered anymore, if they existed. He swept back her hair and pressed his lips to her ear, the battle and everything else forgotten, and greeted her with the only title Byleth cared for.
"My love."