Chapter Text
Cichol’s life was torn asunder when his wife was taken from him. He buried Ceara in the sands of Rhodos Coast, watched the end of the war by Seiros’ hand, then hid from the world with his sleeping daughter for hundreds of years to come.
The breaking of his and his wife’s bond had been despairing, itchy, tormenting. He had scratched and rubbed his skin raw so many times that the bond mark he once had became clouded. Raising bumps and scars, then fading, in time.
The pain grew less, though, as the year anniversary of the battle turned to a century, and then two, and more. Cichol poured himself into writing to keep himself distracted and to stay afloat, moving when people got too suspicious of his unwrinkled skin.
He thought of his wife nearly every day—how could he not when his failures lay sleeping in bed in just the other room?—as days went on, though, Cichol found that the further from the event, and even farther away they went from the place she had died, he could almost forget about the tormenting and persisting irritation on his uncomfortable skin. Almost.
Every bit of the itch hit him worse when he was alone at night, mind too wired to fall asleep. Memories of a whispered touch, Ceara’s hands running through his hair, her laughter when Cethleann would tip over as she learned to stand, and everything else they shared in life would race through his thoughts. They had tears come unannounced to his lids, his stomach twisting in regret. His wife had wrapped herself into every recollection and feeling he held within that he often felt too sad to sleep, dreams and nightmares escaping him.
But sleep would find him eventually, even if for just an hour. Sometimes, when he’d wake up from those restless nights, there would be a new tear in his arm. The itch persisted even as he rested, hands unconsciously trying to relieve him of the memory of her. No matter how short and kept his nails were, it only made sense to have bandages close by. Cichol was unable to use faith magic to heal the new and irritated gashes, not since his life had been upturned in that battle, and Cethleann could not help him in such a task as she was now. So, the wounds would heal in raised bumps and lashes.
This went on and on until one day he realized the restless itching had stopped. The mark was still there, once the symbol of Ceara’s crest now stretching like smoke against his forearm. He remembered staying still for days turning to moons, waiting and watching, expecting the foul distraction to come back tenfold. It was a reminder that his other half wasn’t with him, he deserved the rawness of it all if only because of his guilt at her death.
So after nearly a thousand years of itching, and almost three months of waiting to see when it would come back, he concluded that the torment must be complete. And although he questioned why it stopped, he couldn’t help but to thank the Goddess who could not hear him for the reprieve. Eventually, Cichol started writing again.
He received a letter three years later. A summons from the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros. A promise to keep him and his daughter safe for as long as they wished.
Cichol became Seteth. He moved into Garreg Mach Monastery late into twilight with his daughter on his back.
“It has been too long, Cichol,” Seiros— Rhea had whispered once in the solitude of her chamber. It had been a long stretch of introductions done in a week before they had any time to talk in private. She was at her vanity brushing her long hair before she would set the elaborate crown upon her head and start her day.
Of course, Seteth knew the once vengeful Child had become the leader of the church, but there was something about her that seemed off. Like she was steeling herself against an ongoing attack, though he couldn’t name what. He had observed her this week, always holding back, never saying the whole truth even when it didn’t pertain to him and his circumstances.
Maybe she had lost something, maybe there was something he had missed in his long absence. It didn’t feel like the right moment to ask, nor did he feel like it was his place to. He had abandoned his kin for a millennia, he was lucky she even thought to find him. “It has,” he answered.
“Do you need anything else for Cethleann?”
“She sleeps in a tomb. There isn’t much else to do for her.” He wished it was a bed, it was what his daughter deserved. But how suspicious it would be to procure one and sneak it past any wandering stares to a place that was off limits, or to have her sleep in his rooms and risk having her be discovered accidentally. No, better she stay away from any curious people. “She will be alright,” he said softer this time. “You have my gratitude for accommodating us.”
Rhea turned and reached out to clasp his arm. He pressed his hand over hers.
She searched his eyes a moment before they traveled to where they touched. Without meaning to, she had landed on his mark. Though it didn’t bother him anymore, the thought of Rhea looking at it, her hand suddenly becoming gentle against his skin, made his heart race.
She frowned. “How is it? I can’t imagine this has been easy.”
All Nabateans knew what happened when one half left before the other did. As their lives stretched for an unknown amount of time, only a select few had ever experienced such pain of their partner dying.
Well, before the Goddess’ rest was upset and his people slaughtered. Seteth had watched his own brother gouge himself in unexpected confusion while he visited him and his family in Enbarr. They received the news of Zanado just after, and too suddenly, they all understood the reason behind Macuil’s sudden itch. His own wife and son among the thousands killed in the Red Canyon.
The old Saint could never trust a mortal after that, not really.
“The itch persisted for centuries,” he said sadly, trying to move away from clouded memories. “It stopped three years ago. 1158.”
“Three years ago was 1159.” Rhea smiled as Seteth frowned. “You’ve never been one for dates.”
“It’s hard to care when—” He paused. There was no need to bring such melancholy up. No need to make Rhea upset by reminders of all they lost to the hands of Nemesis and Agartha. Those they loved lay beneath them where all his negativity should go to rest as well. “I don’t count the years as much anymore,” he amended.
Her answering smile was still sad, but she nodded. “1159. How odd that it stopped,” she murmured, turning back to her mirror. Seteth watched as she continued to brush her hair.
Nothing more was said.
. . .
Seteth knew he disliked the new professor from the first conversation they had together. Byleth Eisner didn’t know a thing about the church, there was the mystery of her age, and also the way she held herself like she didn’t care about anything.
It rubbed him all the wrong ways.
Rhea would find him fuming some days in his office or when they shared their teas a few times a week. “I do not think she will benefit the church.”
The Archbishop had laughed at him, further gnawing at his annoyance. “You have not seen her do anything yet, Seteth. Give her time.”
Time was impatient, though it proved him wrong eventually. Byleth’s class, the Black Eagles, won their mock battle with striking ease. Of course, Seteth only heard the rumors of her ferocity in a fight, but when he did spy her training and practicing with her students, his mind rested a little easier. Her class could survive with her at the lead.
He could tolerate the stares she gave him when he knew she could actually do her job well. They even began to greet each other in the halls and other passing places. Eventually, the small greetings led to longer, albeit stiff, conversations.
Seteth realized that Byleth was a quiet kind of pleasant, a good rumor hunter, and all around hard worker. Maybe he could accept her after all.
.
Things changed when Flayn went missing. Changed again when she was returned.
Seteth knew he wouldn’t ever be able to thank the Professor enough, and she made him promise to share a little more of his time with her. A promise he could actually aspire to fulfill.
Byleth would bring him tea every Monday and Friday after securing his daughter’s rescue. She’d start and end her week with him in his office.
This routine became a normal part of his days, much to his thumping heart and secret delight. Byleth was even responding more, easing into snappish remarks and hints of quiet smiles and humor. Seteth wouldn’t call himself enraptured, but he certainly found her more fascinating day by day. Tea was never boring.
One afternoon, just before the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, she had brought papers with her. Essays on the basics of lancework. It would take her too much time to grade herself, and Seteth happened to be a master at the weapon, so he offered to help her and split the stack in two.
Seteth’s brow rose when he came across one elegantly scripted page that had a near perfect score. “I don’t understand how Linhardt von Hevring can sleep through your lectures and yet still receive such high marks.”
“Oh, I bring him the notes he misses,” she said matter of fact, unaware that this was not expected of her. In fact, he could almost frown upon it if he didn’t know Byleth’s giving nature.
Seteth sighed, placing the paper in the done pile. “You only encourage his bad habits.”
Byleth’s mouth hinted at a grin before she set her teacup to her lips. “And I can see it will not end,” he added with a small groan.
“I’m glad you’ve come to understand me, Seteth.”
.
Jeralt Eisner died.
Byleth’s world twisted. There was a stark difference in the way she carried herself, unsure, full of a sadness that Seteth truly understood. Just as she helped him through a hard time with his daughter, he was there for her when she stumbled with her father.
She thanked him whenever he caught her falling with tears flooding her eyes, wetting her cheeks. There was no cheering her up from this, not really, so he comforted her when she needed it. Nothing more could be done about her torment, not by him.
Seteth watched from seemingly afar as the professor grieved, then approached her quickly to beg her not to go to the Sealed Forest for vengeance a mere month later.
And though she didn’t follow his advice, Seteth was then able to quietly contemplate everything he thought he knew as Byleth came back to them anew. Green hair, green eyes. A new identity manifested, curiously Nabatean in nature.
The itch rounded once again.
“Brother?”
Seteth jerked when Flayn neared. He had been caught staring sightlessly ahead again. “Ah, Flayn.”
“You’re bleeding.” His daughter gently lay her hand over his arm, the scratches disappearing with the whispered prayer. Seteth sighed when her fingers left, both examining the area. “I thought this all stopped. Has nothing else changed?” she asked.
The faded mark of Caera’s crest was still there as well as the bumps and unevenness of his skin. Not anything different to report other than the sudden itch. Maybe it was a fluke. He kept that point to himself. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
But it didn’t stop. Seteth wore his long robes, thought about work until he couldn’t keep himself awake, and resisted the urge to scratch his arm.
Nightmares of a battle long won scared away his slumber, Ceara’s dying breath against his cheek. He wondered why after twenty odd years the distracting prickling would come back as if it never left, cursing at the lost desire of his life feeling normal again.
And then Edelgard declared war, further plunging all hope deep into the ground to lay with the skeletons of the past. Seteth sat up late in his office, leg bouncing as he wrote out his reports. It seemed like disaster after disaster came thundering their way without any signs of stopping.
No rest came for him either. He left his office at the new dawn of the next morning, a terrible inkling of misery at the impending fight motivating his feet to lead him to the pond outside the Dining Hall. He stared down at the fish living life as he unconsciously moved towards his arm. Chuckling when all he could think was how easy they had it in the water.
He was caught in the end, that curious monotone voice he had come to appreciate ringing in his ear. “Of all people to be laughing this early in the morning, I never thought it would be you.”
He was momentarily captivated by her appearance. Byleth’s hair screamed home. His arm burned raw.
“Seteth.” His eyes snapped back to her. She looked worried. He briefly wondered if this was the first time she had ever looked at him like that, but then he saw where her eyes had landed.
He was mid-scratch, flinching. “I…”
“A birthmark?” Byleth reached forward. He gasped when her touch buzzed through his skin, lighting him up inside his lungs.
“Y-yes,” he responded, inwardly yelling at himself to pull away. Telling his body to leave from her presence and escape the conflicting feelings that sprang with her fingers on him. Yet at her touch, it seemed the world calmed a moment. He could not get his feet to move. “By-Byleth, I’m sorry. I’ve been—I have—“
Though words failed him, the Professor didn’t seem to notice. She let her hand soothe into faith, the calming warmth causing Seteth to close his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Her glowing fingers danced up and down his arm, her curious gaze mapping out every sore scratch and centuries old scars.
Though her hold alone sent him to a warm place, a familiar feeling, almost bringing a tear to his eye.
Even with all the scratching, he was glad to note that he did not bleed this time. And though the itch squirmed against him after their moment was done, he did not hold his arm when she finally let him go. There was silence until he broke it. “I’ve been stressed lately,” he said lamely. Not quite having the courage to meet her eye.
“I get it. I get a little itchy sometimes too.” As if to make a point she lifted her hand to scratch a spot on her shoulder under her mint hair. She blinked with her head tilted, intense gaze fixed onto his. “Be sure to have Manuela check it out.”
No human would understand, he thought to himself. They did not have to worry about bonds or the physical manifestations of losing one's partner. He hummed and rolled his sleeve down to his wrist. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
His breath caught when she smiled fully in return.
. . .
When Byleth fell over the cliff, Seteth’s soundless sorrow turned his skin numb.
After so many years of the itch, to have no feeling at all, even as he pressed a finger to it, was oddly tormenting still. The mysteries would not end.
What did this mean? It kept him up at night, between thinking about the last time he saw his wife smile and, just so soon past, Byleth’s own gracing her expression before she too was severed from him. Seteth could feel himself becoming lost. Numb just like his body.
When after a year of feeling nothing at all he finally, quietly, mentioned this new predicament to his daughter, she poked his arm, trying different spells and remedies to fix the lack of sensations on his skin. He didn’t react to the prodding, healing, nor, another year after that, the surprising knife wound from an enemy ambush that cut into his arm.
With the numbness of his limb, he hadn’t noticed he was hurt until he started feeling light headed from the blood loss, losing his footing in the fight. Alois had rescued him in time, dragging him over to his daughter.
Flayn declared his broken bond a lost cause. “Perhaps your body is finally accepting mother’s absence,” she said forelonly. He eyed the newly knit scar above the smoke with a frown. Was that really all this was? A numb arm belatedly numbing up to a death that happened over a thousand years ago? Byleth flashed in his mind again, and he could feel the compounded grief of losing both of them swallowing him whole.
Flayn spoke again, pulling his attention away from his thoughts. “I am sorry, father. I do not think I will ever bear a mark of my own with only our family left in this world. I won’t ever understand it fully. I wish we had someone else to ask.”
Rhea was gone, the Empire made sure she was separated from their sight. Seteth unflinchingly pressed fingers into his arm until his daughter's light touch made him realize he had done so. To not feel any pain, touch, sensations seemed even worse than the itch. He would have to make a conscious effort to not hurt himself permanently.
Staring down at this arm, his mind began to wander. He thought about Flayn’s mentioning of family, how in this moment he truly missed how things used to be so long ago.
Family.
Suddenly, he remembered. “There is someone we can talk to.”
. . .
It was easy to get away from what remained of the church members. A little white lie that they wished to visit a family member’s grave on an anniversary had Alois promptly standing aside.
Not that there could be any reason to have him stop the two leaving. Seteth never appreciated his knightly friend more than that moment, though, as he bade him farewell for the time being.
He and Flayn were off, sharing one wyvern in the dark. With the night hiding their tracks in the sky, they made it across the mountains around the Alliance, into Sreng’s hot sands.
The Wind Caller moved into the moon glow from his cave when they landed. Flayn was the one to greet her uncle first as Seteth secured their mount. The great Nabatean beast lowered his head, a sort of pleased hum emitting between his beak as Flayn reached forward. “It has been too long, my niece.”
“The same to you, Uncle Macuil.” She smiled up at him as she pulled away. “Though it does not feel like too many years have passed.”
“When did you wake?”
Seteth approached, laying a hand on his brother’s face. Macuil bumped him away, though he could hear a rumbled laughter after. Seteth had almost forgotten just how strange it could be to see his family in this form. He hadn’t seen either of his brothers in their more human-like appearance since they both took off from the last battle in the war. They hadn’t spoken in nearly that long either. “She awoke almost four years ago.”
“And what brings you here to me now, of all times?”
“There’s another war stirring.”
Macuil grumbled, the sound echoing in the desert night. His large tail flicked as the one eye they could see narrowed. “If you’ve come to ask me to participate, you should know the answer, Cichol.”
Seteth’s sigh was short. “Only informing you of current events, brother. Don’t bite my head off.” Macuil’s responding click of his mouth had the younger shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I should have started differently. Our visit is of a different matter.”
He paused. Unsure of where to begin. His eyes met with his daughter, Flayn turning up to the old dragon. “Uncle, where is that Sword of Begalta? I would love to admire it since it’s been so long since we parted.”
Macuil hummed again, turning his great head. “It is hidden near the cave entrance. I’m sure you’ll be able to feel its location, dear Cethleann.”
“I’ll take my time.”
They watched as Flayn wandered away from them, the cave swallowing her in. “You’ve managed to raise a good one, brother.”
“You say it as if you never believed in me.” Seteth sighed at the answering laugh, imagining the old toothy grin on a once smooth face.
He cleared his throat, his gloved hand moving to where his forearm lay numb under all the traveling layers. “It is about my mark,” he murmured.
Macuil leaned down, nudging him with the tip of his mouth. Seteth carefully pulled off the glove, a suddenly shaking hand folding his sleeve to his elbow. He studied it, his feathered head moving this way and that. Seteth pushed the urge to prod at it to see if there was any response as his brother examined it. “It is like smoke.”
“It has been numb since…” Seteth swallowed. Byleth’s fall was still hard to speak of. Then he shook his head in astonishment that his thoughts would turn to Byleth first. When did that change happen?
“Numb?” Macuil asked. “Does it not itch?”
“For a time it did.” Seteth explained the centuries-long wait for his daughter to come back to him, how his skin had tormented him every day until one day it stopped. Then how recently that changed again.
“I can only think of one time I saw that happen, the ceasing of the itch, anyway.” Macuil stretched out into the sand, Seteth leaning down to sit next to one clawed foot. “You were in Enbarr with Ceara, but one of our elders had lost his partner unexpectedly.” Seteth could not think clearly of that time, his life so wrapped up into his own family and church.
Macuil leaned his head down, and Seteth could see the pain that seeped through when his brother’s mind went to the family he lost. A pain he shared. Such dolefulness buried in both of their crest stone hearts. “You know that when we lose our other half, it can drive a Child to death itself.” Macuil laughed bitterly, his one golden eye turning to his brother next to him. “Somehow we have lingered through it all, Cichol.”
“Yes, somehow.”
Macuil sighed, the wind from it lifting the sand into the air to blow about. “Back then that elder persevered like us. He kept himself busy day in and day out.” Macuil’s tail thumped. “Until one day his itching ceased as well.”
“What happened?”
“It was never determined why exactly it stopped when it did, and Sothis was in her rest and could not answer him. Many years passed when he had crossed paths with another Nabatean from somewhere in Dagda. There came another bond, he fell in love once more.”
Seteth was mid scoff when Byleth passed through his thoughts again. It didn’t make sense, not all the way. There could be no certainty that she had been Nabatean and no new mark had formed when they got closer in the almost year he had known her. And then he questioned, could he have fallen in love?
He did not feel the usual pull from gaining a bond, no tunnel-like vision when he first saw her or when he might have subconsciously realized his affections. And quite unlike Ceara, she had grated his nerves at first rather than intrigued, though he did admit to that changing over time.
Though it all circled back to the fact that no mark formed on his skin. There was no link between them.
And then, why when she died did his grief make his arm go numb instead of itch, even without the bond? It still left him with too many unanswered questions.
It was as if Macuil could sense his hesitation. “Did you fall in love with Seiros?” The responding cackle to Seteth’s outrage almost made the weary man smile. He still elbowed the feathered hide next to him. “I jest, dear brother. She is too much like family and would not be interested in someone like you.”
This time Seteth’s scoff rang out at the snide insult. Macuil seemed to smile. He sighed. “Perhaps, then, this will remain a mystery.”
“Yes. There have not been any new Children of the Goddess born under any moon in many lifetimes. There has been no other reason for you to be awash in sorrow and there can never be another mark to turn into smoke.”
There was quiet. Seteth looked up into the starlit skies, watching as one twinkled and fell into a streak. One last question bubbled up through his throat. “Has your mark ever gone numb?”
Macuil shook his head. “And in this form the itch is tolerable. Count yourself lucky your bond is numb and you do not feel it anymore.”
Somehow, the sentiment only made him feel worse.
. . .
Seteth woke with a gasp. In the dream he was having he had cast a fire spell and it had gone horribly wrong. This specific instance had been a reoccurring fear when he was young that turned him from reason altogether. As he slept, and in his vision, his arm had lit up in flames, the burn searing across his skin.
It did not stop when he woke. Seteth cried out again pulling his arm out of his sleeping shirt almost afraid of what he’d find.
“What is it?”
Flayn lifted her head up from where she lay a little bit away from him. It was near morning, the frigid cold of the Ethereal Moon causing both of their breaths to form as mist. Seteth sat still a moment before he could truly comprehend an answer, as he sucked in air to his lungs and shakily tried to rub the burning sensation away.
His arm itched, he scratched without thought, nails biting into skin with a piercing sting. “Father,” Flayn whispered as she shuffled over the blankets to be near to him. She set her hand over his, the magic soothing him and his racing thoughts for a second.
It was like the touch finally bumped him out of a trance. “I’m sorry. It was a bad dream,” he said, knowing that wasn’t the real reason behind his frantic behavior. All he could think about was how much it itched, the numbness falling away with each scratch his nails made. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, surprised as his voice cracked, his eyelashes suddenly wet.
The tears did not stop. And just as the tears wouldn’t listen to reason, so his thoughts were the same way. He couldn’t have saved Ceara nor Byleth, not then and certainly not now if either were here. He wasn’t strong enough to keep anyone he loved near enough to him. To simply exist without losing something seemed an impossible task, even though that is exactly as he has done for centuries. Seteth could feel his shoulders hunch, trying to curl in on himself, every muscle stiffened as the doubt settled into the depths of his person.
The itch had come and gone, stopped then started again. There was a deep hollowness in his chest and at the same time he wanted to scream. How did Macuil survive this? How could anyone live through a broken bond? The constant changes to his body, to his skin, was too much for his old heart. Why was any of this happening to him? What did this say about him, that he was ready to give in, to lay alone until life was gone from him?
He had endured this for so many years, and even though there was the refuge of a short two decades, the pain was unbearable right now. His mind tried to think of ways to make it end, all landing on just the wrong thoughts. The affliction shot up his arm in waves, matching the hurried staccato of his pulse, churning his insides, making him clench and grind his teeth.
And yet, deep down, he knew this was exactly what he deserved. Like a lantern finally lighting up the only available path, he knew there wouldn’t be any other way for him to live out however long he had left in his world. His pain, this calamity and ache would never abate. Living through tragedy wasn’t enough suffering, no, he needed to answer to his worthlessness.
He scratched his arm until Flayn pressed his hand under her own palm, pinning him to the newly sore and awakening despondency to his desolation.
Seteth looked into her eyes and saw the pity. She had told him once that she would never understand what he was going through, but he found so much relief that she would never have to feel this itch and longing. And yet at the same time, he didn’t want her to see him. Didn’t want her to spare any compassion for him. There was no reason for her to do so, he would refuse it.
He couldn’t stop the sob that wracked his chest. He tried to pull away, hide the shame he felt from his miserable line of thinking and the pain from his body’s ever changing reaction to his losses, but his daughter would not allow it. She held onto him, hand aglow from her faith, looking right into his eyes.
There reigned such determination and a twinkling of sadness herself. He hadn’t thought of that, how she too would be suffering in her own way. Flayn understood enough, probably knew he was ready, in that split second, to give into the end. He felt his body relaxing the longer they held eye contact, the clenching of his muscles smoothing away.
And though it was the very last thing he wanted to do, he accepted her solace and support. He no longer tried to run from this. Instead, Seteth quietly gasped and wiped away his tears the best he could.
This was a reminder that he was not alone with everything happening to him. Flayn’s presence gave him hope that these feelings, these grim moments, would eventually end. That he would need to survive and live another day for his daughter, maybe even for himself, just as he had for the last millennia at her side while she rested. He had to try.
Flayn kept the pressure of her glowing hand over him, her thumb tracing over his knuckles.
. . .
The monastery looked more or less the same on the outside in the dawn light as it had nearly five years before. The stone sat burning in orange, only the new moss and ivy clung to the brick making the largest difference from the once gated walls. Seteth, whether unconsciously or not, held his daughter’s hand in his, the pressure of knowing she was beside him allowing him to forget about the burning that lingered since that morning.
A few days before, he and Flayn decided to go on ahead of their party, separating from Alois and Manuela and the rest of the knights. It would have been the Millennium Festival, had the war not happened, leaving a lingering sense of sadness all around the overgrown grounds. It was a time for the Nabatean pair to reflect, prepare themselves to have their group search the place for anything they could use in the days to come.
“It’s too quiet,” Flayn whispered, pulling her hood closer to her face while simultaneously clutching Seteth’s hand even tighter. He almost laughed that they were holding onto each other as if they were each other’s lifeline. And maybe there was some truth to it, for him anyway. “Unnerving.”
“It is, quite.” Seteth reached around with his free hand to rub a stiff shoulder, watching as a small group of birds sprang away from the roof of the dormitories. The sound of their flight brushing against his ears like the metal of two swords scraping together. The eerie quiet afterwards made his pulse accelerate, but he pushed on. “You said you’ve forgotten something in the Mausoleum?”
“Yes. I think.” Flayn sighed. “I’ve been reminiscing about mother…about everyone we have lost recently. I think I left a memento of her down there.”
“Then I will meet you in the Saint’s Hall.”
Flayn paused, looking like she didn’t want to leave him alone, the hesitation in her stillness the indication. Seteth squeezed her hand in resolution, gave her the tiniest smile. He would be okay for a few moments away. His daughter searched him, relaxed her hand, before dipping into a small nod.
They split, Seteth walking the long way around to give her a little privacy. Everything lay bare around him without any clergy members or servants to upkeep the grounds. Things being ravished and broken into made his heart sink. Bandits had come through, laying waste to anything that could be sold.
He could only hope they never reached the monastery’s ancient vaults, that Rhea’s protective sigils held true even though she no longer graced this mountain.
All seemed calm now, though. For that he could be thankful. There was no one lurking in dark corners to take advantage of them, so he could breathe easier. It almost seemed like they could take Garreg Mach back, use this place as a meeting ground for the knights. But Edelgard and her Empire would only need to hear murmurs of the Church coming together. His little hope seeped away from him, disappearing into the cold air as he envisioned his home taken over again.
Better just to visit.
After making his way around the pond and passing the cemetery, he lumbered back towards the bridge that would lead him to the cathedral. He thought maybe he’d speak to Macuil’s statue a little, update him on the odd burning occurrence with his mark even if it never reached his brother’s ears.
Seteth climbed the stairs, boots clicking against stone. He passed a few pews before he thought to look up to see if Flayn was finished with her task early, when the sight in front of him stopped him in his tracks.
There was a hooded figure standing amongst the rubble of the ruined ceiling. Oh, how he wished he had a better weapon than the small sword strapped to his belt. His thoughts were flying to his daughter down below as he called out, “who is it?”
And the person turned. Time froze as his vision tunneled at the glow of her in the dawning light filtering through to the altar. Heartbeat in his ears, he gasped loudly into the otherwise silent cathedral. Byleth remained mostly unchanged, her hair was a little longer, but still an ashen ghost here to haunt the halls. He stepped forward, then took several more. She lifted up a hand to wave, a soft look in her eyes, a small grin to her lips.
The burning ceased.
. . .
After the dust had settled, and the Black Eagles' unceremonious reunion had died down, Seteth found himself alone in his living room. He was completely ecstatic to wipe a finger through the coating of grime lining his bookcases before walking over to check and light the fireplace.
It is time to get this place clean, he thought, relieved. They had Byleth and her students back with them. Their small group of knights now had a fighting chance to win and get life back in order. The returned Professor rallied hope in all who saw her. Hope that he thought died as she slept.
Byleth asleep for five years . It no longer seemed like he could believe she was only a mortal. No, she screamed everything more. It had him nearly giddy as he pulled off his layers and began rolling up his sleeves to get to work.
The smoke marked on his arm caught his eye, his mind musing on how he had suddenly felt more normal than he had since long before the King of Liberation ruined all of Fodlan. No more itch, no more numbness.
Hopefully, no other changes would appear.
Starting at his wrist he pressed a line down the old scar from that bandit knife and then through his late wife’s bond mark running down his forearm. The bumps and ridges told a story, one that had culminated after so many years of being on his skin. He stopped at the inside of his elbow, happy at being able to feel any sensation after five years of it being numb before he focused just above his finger.
He moved towards the fire again, leaning down to better peer at his limb. There just under the old mark was a new one, small. Just like Ceara’s before, it looked like a crest burned into his skin. A flame.
The Crest of Flames.
Seteth gasped into his empty apartment.