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i. greenhouse
They corner her in the greenhouse first, as they always do.
Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and there’s potting soil in her unkempt hair, but the future leader of the Leicester Alliance ignores all that and leans in so close to Annette’s startled face that she can see the flecks of gold in his mischievous green eyes.
“So,” Claude drawls, his arm coming up to casually lean on the wall of the greenhouse by her shoulder. “I learned something today.”
“Um?” Annette’s breath catches audibly and she scoots backwards a little, just so the scent of bowstring wax and herbs isn’t clouding her judgement. “I’m sorry, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Creepity creep,” Claude singsongs in a falsetto voice, a smile spreading across his strikingly attractive face. It spreads wider when her own face pales. “It’s a special song, isn’t it? No one else has heard it before but yours truly. Isn’t that right?”
Before Annette has the time to turn redder than the apple-colored watering can she’s clutching, a calloused hand grabs Claude by the shoulder and reels him backwards with vindictive force. “Back off.”
Claude stumbles backwards, his arms flailing a little as he nearly topples over, but he’s laughing when he recovers his balance. “Felix! What a strong arm you’ve got there! I guess the rumors about you taking up Brawling are true!”
Felix has planted himself in front of Annette with all the grace and subtlety of a snorting bull. “We agreed to talk to her, not to cage her.”
Claude puts a hand on his chest dramatically. “A songbird will fly far and free if left unattended! I thought we had the same goal in mind, my friend!”
“I’m standing right here!” Annette sputters, indignant. “And I’m not a songbird! What on Fódlan has gotten into you guys?”
Both of their gazes immediately whip to her, pinning her with amber fire and emerald roguery, but Annette’s hackles are raised and she’s all but vibrating with vexation. She jabs a finger at their faces.
“If this is about my singing, you two can shove it! You only heard my songs because you were eavesdropping! And right now, I’m very busy—” Annette shakes the half-full watering can for emphasis, but only splashes water on her boots for her efforts, “—so I don’t have time to do something like sing some stupid song—”
Claude interrupts. “Hey hey hey, who said anything about them being stupid?” At the exact same time, Felix snaps, “I didn’t say that they were stupid.”
Annette drops the watering can with a surprised thunk.
An awkward silence falls over the trio. Claude is looking at Felix with a funny expression on his face. Felix is turning a very odd color of magenta. Annette wants to crawl into a hole and never come out.
At this very inopportune time, the professor walks into the greenhouse with her liquid-smooth stride, her arms full of seed packets. Her eyes brighten when she catches sight of them. “Oh, good, Annette, you’re still here. I forgot to give you the root vegetable seeds.”
The professor blinks as Felix suddenly grabs Claude by the collar and hauls him past her and out of the greenhouse, his ears burning bright red as Claude grins apologetically at her. Annette picks up the watering can and begins dousing the violets with a little too much enthusiasm, her little jaw set tight and her cheeks burning a furious shade of pink.
The professor narrows her eyes at the young girl, and then looks back outside, to where Felix has tossed the future leader of the Alliance against a wall and is now railing at him loudly as Claude smiles serenely back, like a cat who has just got the cream and knows exactly how it’s going to taste.
Byleth rubs her temples, sighing, and kneels down to begin harvesting last week’s crops. Jeralt was right; these brats really are something else.
ii. library
This time, it’s Felix that approaches her first.
“The library song,” he states more than asks, looking at her.
Annette squints at him suspiciously, balancing on the stepping ladder to where the second story books are stored. “What about it?”
“How come I’ve never heard of it?” Claude complains petulantly behind him. “I feel like I’ve missed out on something marvelous and soul-searching.”
He peers up at her, his lips pulled down in a droll pout. “Are you playing favorites, Miss Dominic?”
Annette is tempted to drop her Advanced Reason II: Arcane Formulas and their Usage textbook, all five hundred pages of it, onto his head.
“Claude,” Felix says.
Claude smiles back with disarming charm. “Felix.”
Annette huffs and descends the ladder, cradling her pile of textbooks with care and being so focused on not letting the teetering pile fall that she misses the last step and hits the ground hard. Felix steadies her with a single hand on her hip, light and proprietary, and Annette lets out a startled “Thanks” as she spreads her booted feet more carefully on the floor.
Claude opens his mouth, obviously thinks better of it, and snaps it back shut. But his eyes are asking a thousand questions, and the look on Felix’s face is answering them all.
Unawares, Annette tosses her hair and hefts the books in her arms. “Since you’re so pushy; yes, I do have a library song, and yes, Felix got to hear it, and no, I’m not singing it for you too. Happy?”
“Happy?!” Claude echoes incredulously, looking so genuinely hurt that Annette almost feels bad. Almost. “Why does Felix get preferential treatment? Why all the special songs? Was creepity creep only meant to slake my burning curiosity in a show of pity?”
“‘Creepity creep’?” Felix repeats, sounding lost.
Annette feels panic building in her. People are beginning to stare and she really doesn’t want to explain why the future leader of the Alliance is looking at her like she'd just crushed all his hopes and dreams and why she's okay with letting Duke Fraldarius’s infamously sharp-tongued heir's hand remain on her waist.
Finally, one of the saints must’ve taken pity on her, for Seteth bursts through the doors of the library with his eyes blazing with barely constrained ire. He takes one look at their group and storms towards them, startling Annette into dropping her books.
“CLAUDE VON RIEGAN!” Seteth thunders. “Can you explain to me why Ferdinand and Hubert are both in the infirmary complaining of stomach issues for the fourth time this month? It’s only a few days until the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion!”
Felix lets go of Annette’s waist like she’s made of fire. Annette hurriedly scoops up her books, stammering something about kitchen duty, and flees the library.
Claude glances at them briefly, and then returns his gaze to the glowering advisor with a wide-eyed expression. “Oh, sir, didn’t you hear? There’s a nasty bug going around. I heard it’s quite contagious.”
"A bug?" Seteth frowns, his eyes narrowing. “What kind of bug?”
Felix picks up a stray textbook from the floor, Advanced Reason II: Arcane Formulas and their Usage, and leaves the library without another word.
Claude grins. “The debilitating kind.”
iii. training ground
The axe head sinks into the ground, and Annette slumps to the ground, heaving for breath.
“Again.”
She wheezes. “What?”
The professor steps forward, and puts her hand on Annette’s arms, adjusting the training axe in her hands. “You’re letting your limbs grow loose. Focus on tightening your stance, otherwise you’re going to fold like a paper boat in rain with one hit.”
Annette blinks at the analogy. The professor raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow as if to say Well?
“Okay.” Annette plants her feet into the ground and hefts her axe determinedly, getting to her feet. “I’m ready.”
Opposite her, Hilda groans and wipes her brow dramatically, leaning on her axe like it’s the arm of a dashing gentleman. “Annette, you’re killing me here! A fragile flower can only take so much sunlight, you know!”
“You didn’t look so fragile a few minutes ago.” Annette points out gaily.
Hilda sniffs. “I was blooming.”
“Whoo!” Claude cheers from the sidelines amidst a teeming pile of Golden Deer. “Win this one for us, Hilda!”
“You can do this, Annette,” Dimitri says encouragingly. The rest of the Blue Lions cheer assent, except for Dedue, who simply nods with all the gravitas of a judge, and Felix, who just watches her with an intensity that makes her heart pound.
“Ready,” The professor interrupts dryly, stepping back. “Fight!”
Annette charges forward, axe upraised. Hilda sighs delicately, twirls on her foot like a dancer, and swings her massive axe around in such a blindingly powerful arc that it nearly catches Annette right in the stomach. The onlookers gasp.
Fortunately, Annette dodges with a swiftness that surprises even herself, her feet nearly slipping into the soft soil, and she manages to use the momentum to dash behind an off-balance Hilda. She brings down her axe with a shout.
Grunting, Hilda twists around to block the blow with her own axe, and the clang of dull steel shrieks through the training room. Ashe jumps at the sound.
“Nice try, Annette!” Hilda coos, her arms shaking as Annette strains to push the blade closer to her body. Their blades tremble, interlocked with each other. Their feet push deeper into the soft earth of the training ground. “You’re really making me work here!”
Annette scowls, sweat beading on her brow. “That’s not good enough!”
Hilda smiles, surgery sweet, and wrenches her axe free with supple ease. Annette stumbles and falls onto the ground.
The other girl looks down at her, grinning. “Going loose limbed on me?”
As in in slow motion, Annette watches Hilda pull her arms back, the muscles bunching underneath her uniform, her feet spreading to strengthen her stance and for a moment, sunlight glints off the dulled edge of the axe and all looks lost.
You have nice footwork.
Annette’s mind clears.
She angles herself. She watches Hilda’s axe above her head begin its deadly arc downwards. Annette’s toes curl in her boots, and she coils her body, waiting, waiting…!
Hilda’s axe shrieks. Somewhere, Mercedes is also shrieking.
And Annette swings her legs around her body like a whip and strike Hilda’s locked knees right in the center of her nerve point. Hilda yelps as her legs buckle, and the axe veers wildly off center as Annette springs to her feet, snatching up her weighty two-headed axe with one hand and throws it with such force it knocks Hilda’s weapon clean from her hands.
For a shocked, perfect moment, every eye in the room is on that spinning axe, arching through the air in slow, lazy circles, until its head sinks into the ground of the training room with a final, definitive THUD.
It’s dead quiet.
And then Sylvain explodes to his feet and screams, “SEIROS’ TITS! THAT WAS UNBELIEVABLE! HURRAH FOR ANNETTE!”
The Blue Lions burst into riotous cheers and thunder onto the training grounds as the Golden Deer groan good-naturedly. Dimitri lifts Annette like she weighs nothing and sets her on his shoulders, and Annette can see the professor’s grin even from here as Ashe and Ingrid and Mercedes dance in a delighted circle around her and Dedue’s eyes are sparkling and Felix, oh saints, that smile…
Claude finds her after the romping dies down in the abandoned training room, his grin only a little woeful.
“That was quite the win, Annette.” He congratulates her gamely. “Hilda will be nursing a few bruises after that match.”
“Oh!” Annette says in alarm, setting down her cleaning rag so fast her wrist pops. “Is she alright? I didn’t get to talk to her after the duel and—”
“Ah, she’ll be fine.” Claude waves away her concern with a dismissiveness that would’ve scandalized his pink-haired friend had she seen it. “Hilda acts weak, but she’s got a backbone of steel. She’ll be back in action soon. Well, lack thereof, actually.”
Annette wrings her hands. “Are you sure?”
“Look at you, so concerned for someone not even in your class.” Claude chuckles, not unkindly. “You’ve got a good heart, Annette. And a good voice too,” he adds just when she’s warming up to him. “You should sing a little victory song after that magnificent triumph.”
Annette swats at him half-heartedly. “Oh, go on.”
He laughs his shiny quicksilver laugh, leaning away from her. “Alright, alright.”
Claude’s just in the middle of striding away, arms behind his head, when he suddenly pauses and leans down so that his mouth is by her ear.
“By the way,” he whispers, as soft and as casual as a sedative in wine, “you should know that Felix hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you after the match. I do believe the poor guy is besotted with you, Annette.”
The cleaning rag falls from her fingers as he, whistling, strolls out of the training room.
And then she remembers, right after the match, when Dimitri had just lifted her onto his shoulders and everyone was cheering and she was laughing with sheer delight as the Blue Lions cheered all around her. Felix was there, amidst all the bustle, and she had called to him.
“Did you see me, Felix?” She had cried to him delightedly, riding the high of her victory from atop Dimitri’s shoulders, waving her arms as the royal prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus romps around the training ring like a child. “Did you see me?”
Felix had looked at her and smiled, not that sardonic smirk that she sees him wear so wryly; this one, so soft and so wide, made him look positively boyish.
“I saw you, Annette.” He had told her, his voice carrying through the room. It sounded like validation, like approval, like joy. “I saw you.”
iv. graveyard
It’s still raining.
Annette wrinkles her nose and draws her hand back in through the window. A crack of thunder echoes through the sky, and from somewhere down the hall in the Black Eagle classroom, Caspar yelps.
“We should probably get to the dining hall before it closes,” Mercedes says mournfully as she looks out to the thick sheets of rain. “Oh, we’ll be utterly soaked.”
Annette peers out, propping her chin on her hands gloomily. No one is feeling very hungry, or motivated for that matter. How could they be, when the professor had just dragged herself out of the classroom as if all her energy had left along with Jeralt?
Ashe fidgets with the binding of his leather book. “Maybe we should cook something for her. A hot dish would be really good for her right now.”
Ingrid sighs, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Maybe she wants to be left alone. Grieve in private.”
Sylvain saunters to the door. “She’ll snap out of her funk soon. Watch; she’ll be whipping out assignments like nobody’s business tomorrow.”
“Sylvain!” Dimitri reproves. The redhead doesn’t bother to stay for the lecture and disappears into the blinding rain.
Dedue sighs. “I will put some flowers on Jeralt’s grave when the rain ceases.”
“What good will that do him?” Felix bursts out suddenly. “He’s dead.”
The man from Duscur looks back out into the rain. From where Annette is sitting, she can see the weary sag of his shoulders.
“I know,” Dedue says softly. “But she isn’t.”
They look at to where Dedue is gazing. Their professor is walking under the rain, her arms filled with white flowers. Her wet hair clings to her pale cheeks and shadows her dark eyes.
And for a moment, the Blue Lions don’t see her as the professor. They don’t see the former mercenary who had earned herself the chilling name of the Ashen Demon. They don’t see the friend and beloved mentor that she had slowly but surely become.
They see a daughter in mourning.
Annette, however, sees something more. There’s a flash of gold behind a pillar, close behind the professor. It trails her, surreptitiously, silently.
Sneakily.
Annoyance flares in her gut. Really, Claude? Out of all the times in the world, you pick this time to spy on her?
She stands abruptly, papers scattering in her wake. “I gotta go.”
“Annie?” Mercie says in confusion. “Aren’t we going to get din—”
“I’ll catch up with you in a moment!” Annette dashes outside and promptly squeals as cold water drips into her collar. Hiking up her jacket over her head, she plunges back into the rain.
Despite her dragging feet, the professor still walks like a woman possessed. Annette is panting when the professor finally pauses at a flight of stairs, her arms clutching those brilliantly white flowers. The older woman hesitates. Then, her shoulders square and she slowly, deliberately walks down the stairs, one step at a time.
Annette stands still, watching helplessly as the professor kneels in front of her father’s grave.
Suddenly, a cold hand grabs her own and drags her out of the rain. She nearly screams, nearly slices her assailant’s body in twain with the edge of a gale, but Claude lets go just as quickly as he had grabbed her.
By the time she’s caught her breath, he’s looking at her, amused. “You’re really not good at this sneaking thing, are you? The whole point of this is not to get caught, you know.”
Annette glares at him. “I wasn’t following you.”
“Ah, yes.” Claude looks over at the graveyard, the amusement on his face sliding off with the rain. “Not wanting to miss the infamous Ashen Demon finally pay her respects to the Blade Breaker.”
She takes a step back at the bitterness in his voice. Without that veneer of charming mischief, Claude’s face is colder, harsher. He looks like poison unfurling in a wine cup, like a dagger tipping from its sheath. He looks like Sylvain when he talks about Crests, like Ingrid when she’s talking about Duscur, like Ashe talking about the Western Church.
He looks like Felix when he’s talking about the dead.
“She’s mourning her father,” Annette says with far more bite than she intended.
“Of course,” Claude says, his voice careless. “Look at her, crying like she’s lost everything. What a devoted child.”
With a start, she realizes that he is right. The professor’s shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. Annette swallows the lump in her throat.
“Tears….” Claude mutters, as if to himself. “A luxury that many indulge in, but fail to appreciate.”
Annette gawks at him. He continues, as if he doesn’t notice her. “Did you know that some people consider crying to be a sign of weakness? Even if they were beaten within an inch of their lives…even if their loved ones were beaten before their very eyes, they wouldn’t so much as sob. ”
His voice arches into a high falsetto. “‘If you were really strong, you wouldn’t shed a single tear.’”
Claude laughs. It’s not his usual laugh. “That’s so stupid. That sort of thinking is so stupid.”
Annette edges away from him. He’s tenser than a drawn bowstring, and the blaze in his green eyes reminds her of sorcery.
The rain pours ever on. Together, the two students stand in silence, watching the tiny figure of the professor kneeling by Jeralt’s grave. She’s arranging…a circle, no, a wreath, out of the flowers. It’s lopsided and droopy from the rain, but she drapes it over the headstone like it’s the most sacred relic of the Church.
Annette breaks the silence. “I don’t think it’s weak to cry.”
Claude shifts beside her. “Oh?”
She nods firmly. “I think faking that you’re strong makes you weak. I think crying…acknowledges whatever fears you have inside you.”
Claude looks at her with an indescribable expression. Annette babbles on, nervous. “Squashing it away…it’s just going to build and build inside of you until you explode. And you’ll hurt those beside you when you do.”
The rain roars. Lightning glimmers in the distance. Thunder murmurs. Somewhere, Caspar is surely having a meltdown.
Finally, finally, Claude smiles at her. It’s a rather faded version of his usual golden grin, but it’s there, and it’s genuine. “I like that mindset, Annette.”
She gives him a firm little nod. They turn back to look at the professor. She’s praying now, her hands clasped and her eyes shut tight.
“You know, in some countries like Almyra, they don’t say prayers at funerals.” Claude remarks quietly.
“What do they do?” Annette asks after the silence stretches on for too long.
“They sing,” Claude answers, almost wistfully. “They sing these…these dirges that echo as they set the bodies of the dead alight. Their voices would rise with the smoke of the deceased, and it would appease the spirits so that they may carry the dead to a happy afterlife.”
Annette shuts her eyes and she can almost picture it in her head. The wild strains of grieving song, the ashes flicking into the star-studded sky. A shiver slides down her spine. “That’s…oh, that’s haunting.”
Claude is looking at her with a sad smile when she reopens her eyes again. “I don’t supposed that you can sing a dirge for our dear Jeralt the Blade Breaker? Of course, he’s buried, not burned, but I don’t think the Goddess would mind.”
Annette looks to where the professor is still kneeling. The wet flowers are now clinging to the headstone, and the professor’s head is bowed.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s my song to sing.”
(Five years later, Annette will remember this rainy day with aching clarity as she watches another parentless child kneel in front of another dead father’s grave.)
v. gronder field
Five years ago, they were carrying blunted weapons, and the Archbishop Rhea had watched them serenely from above with a cluster of Church soldiers and stern-eyed Seteth by her side.
Today, they’re clutching twitching Relics, whisper-sharp blades and humming tomes, and only the vultures watch them from above now.
“Know that I will tear the heads off your shoulders,” Dimitri growls, hefting Areadbhar onto his shoulder. “The dead must have their tribute.”
Annette bounces on the balls of her feet anxiously. Mercedes stands calmly at her side, her hands clasped and her gaze fixed forward. Felix mutters something as his two swords slide quietly from their sheaths.
“I don’t like this,” Sylvain confides to them from atop his snorting stallion. Right beside them, three soldiers from his battalion lie dead as Imperial fire eats their flesh. “We’re walking into a trap.”
“Look.” Ashe points, his soft eyes clouded with pain. “There’s Caspar by the south…and look, that’s Petra, over there. They’ve…oh…” His words trail off as his grip tightens on his longbow.
The professor—no, Byleth—shatters them out of their trance with a single crack—snap! of the Sword of the Creator. Her starlit eyes are fierce with resolve. Dimitri roars and charges forward.
And like good subjects, the army follows him with echoing cries. Gilbert and Rodrigue lead its head.
Every battle that Annette experiences is different, and yet the same. There’s the initial rush, that swift forward charge where there’s only allies beside you and friendly magic at your backside. You only look forward, because that’s where the enemy is, and you only focus on them. Only them.
This is the magnificent moment that all the storybooks enthuse about, because there’s no blood, no messy sights or sounds yet. Your body is whole, and your spirit flares with determination for a swift victory.
And then, when the two sides crash into each other like tidal waves, it quickly devolves into a hideous mess that no storybook would ever talk about. The allies around you drop or fall behind, and soon there’s only your adjutant at your side, panting harshly as his blades whirl around you.
You get hurt. An arrow nicks your neck, drawing enough blood to stain your uniform. A hostile Nosferatu saps all your strength and you can barely stand. A lance sinks itself into the shoulder of your adjutant and you nearly fall at the sound of his guttural snarl.
But Annette never had to fight friends.
She reels to a stop in front of a pale, pretty face, Crusher’s head inches from her skull, and Hilda cracks a sad, soft smile at her from behind the twitching blade of a huge, spiked Relic that buzzes with the Crest of Goneril.
“Hi, Annette,” she chirps. Or tries to. “Take it easy on a poor, fragile flower?”
Annette tries not to throw up. Her fingers tighten on Crusher’s handle. Beside her, one of Felix’s swords slide back into its sheath.
Hilda frowns. “I’m sorry, I truly am, Annette.”
And then she pivots and swings Freikugel with all her might, and one of the spikes catches Annette across her stomach. Annette shrieks and stumbles back.
Felix shouts something in a terrible voice and dashes forward, his sword raised. Hilda deflects the blow and pounds the blunt side of her weapon into Felix’s temple. He folds like a paper boat in rain.
Annette screams his name but blood is falling from her stomach and her knees are buckling and she can’t muster the damn strength to lift Crusher any more...!
Hilda charges forward again, something like agony in her beautiful rose eyes, and as if in slow motion, Annette watches her pull her arms back, her feet spreading to strengthen her stance and for a moment, sunlight glints off the Relic’s blade and all looks lost—
And without thinking, Annette raises her free hand and fires off a wildly powerful blast of Cutting Gale that catches Hilda straight in the chest.
She looks away from the blood, from the burbling. It’s not going to kill her, but it damn near will. The Leicester general collapses, coughing and groaning, and Annette wants to burst into tears right there on the battlefield.
But Annette doesn’t cry. She will later, in the privacy of her own room. For now, she will sling Crusher over her back and heave Felix’s shoulder over her tiny frame. She will drag this infuriating, self-sacrificial bastard back to the rest of the Kingdom army, where there are healers, who can heal the hurt in his shoulder and the wound in her abdomen but not the one in her heart—
A sudden shadow falls over her. Wingbeats thunder above her head as incoming Imperial troops flee from the rapidly encroaching silhouette, beastly and infamous.
A huge, bone-white wyvern smashes into the ground before her, and it bares its teeth at her with a resolve-shattering growl. Her courage flies from her like the ties from her hair.
“Hello, Annette,” Claude says calmly from atop his mount. He’s gotten broader, his hair longer, and he’s pointing a huge, curved Relic bow radiating with raw energy directly at her heart. “Long time no see, huh?”
“Yeah,” Annette stammers, her heart sinking deep into her stomach. “Long time no see.”
“You really did a number on Hilda back there.” Claude jerks his chin at where a battalion of axe men are carrying a limp figure away. “And man, I was really trying to minimize casualties today.”
Around her shoulders, Felix stirs, mumbling incoherence. Annette’s feet slide in the blood-slicked grass and desperation swells in her chest.
“Claude, please,” Annette says in a trembling voice. “Let us go.”
“Oh, I can’t kill you,” Claude says with shock, lowering his bow. “Do you know how much of a political mess that would get me in?”
He slaps his wyvern firmly on the neck. “Calm thy bloodlust, Mor. They’re not for eating.”
“I can’t kill you,” He repeats once his wyvern has stopped breathing straight into Annette’s face. “Because if I do, then your noble-hearted prince—” Claude gestures delicately over to where Dimitri is tearing an Imperial warlock’s clean arm off, “—will start to target me, along with the majority of your Kingdom. Imagine, me killing the Dominic’s only heir and the Fraldarius’ scion? It could start a vendetta! That’s not a scenario that I want to happen.”
Annette’s head is beginning to swim. “So you won’t kill us?”
“I’m not killing you, Annette,” Claude says simply. “I just have a flair for the dramatic. Now run along and get yourself and your dashing lover to safety. I’ll be sure to keep any Imperials off your tails.”
He turns his wyvern’s head around, and then looks back at where she’s still gawking at him. “Well? Go, before you pass out from blood loss!”
Annette feels relief sweep through her like a verdant wind. “Thank you, Claude!”
He winks at her. “You owe me a song now, do you hear? I don’t do this for nothing!”
His wyvern screams, and hurls itself back into the air with a triumphant trumpeting. Annette watches the creature soar away, like white smoke curling into the sky as fires rage all around her.
Felix creaks open one eye beside her. “Please tell me the bastard is gone.”
She nearly drops him. “Felix! I thought you were unconscious!”
"I wish I was when Claude and his squalling mount showed up. The last thing I want to do is to banter with that silver-tongued idiot." He grimaces, lifting a hand to gingerly prod at the swelling bump on his forehead. “ Ugh, my head feels like it’s splitting apart.”
“Come on, let’s get you back to Mercedes.” Annette clutches his arm and readjusts his grip on her. “And don’t squeeze too hard!”
“How couldn’t I,” Felix mumbles grouchily, “when just a few seconds ago another man was making eyes at my fiancee?”
“He was not ‘making eyes’.” Annette scolds him. “It’s just Claude being Claude. And you know he won’t be hearing any of your songs anyway.”
Felix raises an eyebrow, a small smile lifting his lips. “My songs? I have my own category?”
Annette starts and pouts furiously, wondering how on Fódlan she still had enough blood to blush. “Shut up! Let’s just get off this battlefield and find Mercedes.” She slings his arm around her with a huff. “You know, you’re such a bully, even when bleeding out.”
“Only with you, Annette.” Felix chuckles as they limp off the battlefield, blood and mirth dripping in their wake. “Only ever with you.”
+1 chapel
“It was such a beautiful ceremony,” Dimitri enthuses earnestly, his eyes sparkling. “You two looked lovely up there. I really was quite moved.”
“Oh, please.” Felix waves a gloved hand dismissively. “You’re only saying that since your wife officiated the damn thing.”
“She was beautiful too!” Annette hurries to say, pinching Felix’s arm so hard he visibly flinches. “And thank you so much for gracing us with your presence, Your Majesty.”
Dimitri pulls himself up to his full height, and practically looms over them as a result. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me—” He stops as he sees Annette all but falling into a fit of giggles. “Oh. You are teasing me.”
“I’m sorry for my wife’s behavior, Your Beastliness.” Felix says dryly, his voice warming on the word ‘wife’, “but she and the others seem to still find this beaten horse of a joke amusing. Please don’t ask me why.”
“Well, as long as you are enjoying yourselves,” Dimitri says with a long-suffering sigh. He smiles and grasps their hands one more time. “And I truly mean it. Congratulations to the two of you.”
“We thank and honor you,” Annette manages to pronounce the formal reply solemnly before she all but dissolves into laughter again as Dimitri bids a hasty retreat.
Felix holds her upright. “You really are a lightweight,” he marvels, stroking her flushed cheeks.
“Oh, it’s not the wine.” Annette giggles, leaning into his touch like a needy cat. “I’m drunk on you~”
“The Lady Fraldarius will not be partaking in any more alcohol for tonight,” Felix informs a startled servant in white livery even as his hand creeps around the swell of her waist. “Anyone who gives her any more will answer to me.”
“Lord Fraldarius?” A soft, amused voice interrupts them. “Some friends of your father would like to congratulate you personally.”
Felix looks up with annoyance, softening his features when the Archbishop smiles at them apologetically, her son balancing happily on her shoulders. “Alright, I’ll be right there.”
He stands up, pressing a lingering kiss to his wife’s temple. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“Oh, I will.” Annette grins back, her eyes dancing. “But I’ll try to keep it on the down low.”
Felix rolls his eyes fondly at her and disappears into the crowd.
Annette barely has enough time to take another bite of wedding cake when Claude materializes beside her seeming out of nowhere. “Boo!”
“BAH!” Annette shrieks, spitting out her cake. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Where on Fódlan did you come from?!”
“Almyra, actually.” Claude, dressed in quiet colors of grey and gold, grins at her and sets down an intimidatingly large tankard of some golden liquid on the table. “Here, I brought you some of my country’s finest liqueur; it’s said to bring gods to their feet and lovers to their knees.” He cackles at her instant blush.
“If we had known you were coming, we would’ve prepared you a special seat or something.” Annette says almost accusingly as Claude sits down. “I mean, aren’t you Almyra’s long lost prince or king or something?”
“Technically I’m the royal heir as of right now.” Claude tips an imaginary hat at her. “But really, that’s exactly the point. If people knew I was going to be here, everything would’ve been so stuffy and uncomfortable…I would much rather sneak in through a window and just give you some foreign alcohol.”
“That’s not very polite at all,” Annette scolds.
“I wasn’t born with a polite bone in my body, Lady Duchess.” Claude winks at her, and she laughs. He really hasn’t changed a bit.
There’s a burst of laughter and good-natured shouting at the other side of the hall, and Claude looks over to where Felix greets a group of laughing guests.
“You really suit each other well,” he says approvingly, and Annette beams, melting like butter. “Yeah, we do.”
Claude smiles. It’s soft and genuine. “I guess you sang the right song after all.”
“What do you mean by that?” Annette asks, startled.
Claude heaves himself to his feet. “Well, it’s just that ever since we were but young students at Garreg Mach, Felix kept describing to me the sort of songs that you sang to me. They were ‘unlike anything he’s ever heard’. Honestly, I thought he was deaf or something. Your songs were certainly unique, but not the most ground-breaking in the world—”
“Thanks,” Annette says dryly.
“Don’t get me wrong, your songs were charming!” Claude defends himself anxiously. “It’s just…Felix and you, you and Felix? You must’ve sang one hell of a song because soon it’s all he could talk about.” He grins at her open-mouthed expression and continues. “I was determined to find out exactly what you did to the poor guy, but then the war happened and I soon had a plethora of other things to occupy my mind.”
Annette sits there, stunned. “I…had no idea. Is that why you kept nagging me all those years?”
“Nagging is a bit of a strong word—” Claude winces at her expression. “—fine, yes, that was why I was nagging you. But then I got it. It was embarrassingly clear from the start. Felix was head over heels in love with you and I was just too delighted watching him squirm.” He waves his arms around at the somber-faced servants. “You have to make your own fun in this place, y’know?”
Annette stares. For a good long moment, she can do nothing but gape.
And then suddenly she’s laughing; clear, bright-bell peals of mirth that carry all the way over to the teeming guests at the end of the reception hall, who all turn to look, bewildered, at the newly-made bride of Fraldarius who is literally gasping for breath in her white-silk gown as a suspicious figure in gold snickers beside her.
Later, people still talk of the laughter of Lady Annette Dominic Fraldarius. Some say that her joy was so strong it swept the entire guest hall into equally delighted peals of laughter. Some say that her laugh was that of a madwoman. Others denied that she laughed at all.
But only a few know that later, in the private quarters of the Fraldarius estate, Lady Fraldarius was seen speaking to her husband in rushed but delighted tones, and though he wore a frown like a thunderstorm the entire while, her laughter eased the clouds off his face until he too, was laughing quietly beside her.
And if no one knew about the figure in gold sneaking out through the high windows of the holy chapel of Estate Fraldarius, then so much the better.
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fin