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It is Spring.
Fhirdiad is colder than Enbarr. Even now, with the shoots of new growth pushing through the hoarfrost in the royal gardens and the world waking up again, the morning breeze bites hard. Shivering, you draw your cloak around yourself, trying your best to not let your discomfort show. You’re still not sure why Uncle Volkhard dragged you all the way out here, but he says it’s important, so you only complain enough for him to make sure he gets you extra peach sorbet at dinner. He knows your game by now, you can tell from the twitch of his mouth as he tries his best to not smile at your pouting. The routine is both a comfort and an anchor, a pleasant reminder of a home that’s waiting for your return.
You’ve never been away from your brothers and sisters this long, and you miss that feeling of belonging that being surrounded by family gives you. You miss Alexander’s bear hugs, Adeline’s open-eyed wonder at your mother’s bedtime stories, Nelke’s singing… Hopefully you’ll see them again soon. With mother and Uncle Volkhard always busy, it gets a bit lonely. Thank the Goddess, then, for Dimitri.
Dimitri barrelled into your life a few months ago, accompanying his father as he made a business call. Lambert is an absolute giant of a man, with a mane of golden hair and sharp blue eyes that make him look like a kindly lion, and his son is him in perfect miniature. You recall fondly the first time you saw them together, their movements matching in perfect symmetry as they made formal introductions. You got talking soon after that, and you’ve been hard to separate ever since. It’s nice to have someone that understands you. You’ve never pried, but you can hear in his overly-formal and serious tone that he’s destined to grow up important, and you know that feeling all too well. There’s something between you that you don’t know how to put a name on yet, but you want to, and you hope that he does too.
The dance lessons then, as far as you’re concerned, are nothing short of a tactical masterstroke. Dimitri needs to learn how to dance if he wants to be a noble, and you need time to figure out what that spark of connection means. The fact that he’s terrible at it was an unexpected wrinkle at the start, but you admit that being able to boss him around a little is rather satisfying in a strange way.
And so you find yourself, wrapped in your cloak on a cold spring afternoon in the gardens, waiting for your semi-reluctant dance partner. He arrives, as always, with a torrent of mumbled apologies and a stiff bow, and you push the smile you’re trying to hide down so he doesn’t see it, well aware that you’re failing miserably.
The dance begins, and you watch his eyebrows contract as he concentrates. He’s clumsy and he’s awkward, but his eyes are kind, and his smile makes your stomach squirm in a way that makes you want to chase the sensation. You lead him through another step, and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up when he steps on your toes.
You could get used to this.
You are El, and your hair is brown
-
It is Summer.
The sun beats down on Remire village, mingling with the heat of dying embers. A haze drifts from the floor, and through it you see a warning. This is a reminder that they are in charge of this chess board, and you are just another pawn. Just another weapon in their arsenal.
A weapon, forged in the funeral pyre of your childhood.
You know exactly why Solon chose Remire. A place important to the Professor, and the place where you met her. He needs you friendless so you have no choice but to turn to them. He’s taunting you with a silent message.
She will never forgive you.
You hate that you know how he thinks. You hate the fact that you know that he’s right even more.
She stands across from you now, her eyes alight with fury. This isn’t the woman you know, the stoic professor with the inscrutable gaze, nor is it even the Ashen Demon, the legendary mercenary bereft of emotion. The woman you see is one with raw pain and rage in her heart, that seeps through her body and radiates outwards like a wave. You are seeing Byleth, unfiltered, and she hates you.
Weapons are not allowed a choice, but they are allowed a purpose, and you have given yourself one that is yours and yours alone to bear. This madness ends with you. Rhea will fall, and when she does, you will turn their own weapon upon them and finish this once and for all. Purpose surrounds you like a vast ocean, and in the face of Byleth’s wrath you struggle to keep afloat. But she could change this. She could walk with you. If you face them together, you would no longer be drowning alone in overwhelming purpose. You cling to that notion like a sailor clinging to flotsam as her anger washes over you, and force calm into your voice as you reach out a hand, and beg her to pull you out.
She refuses.
You cannot falter. There’s too much at stake for that. You try not to let the crack in your heart show in your response.
In the confusion of Hubert’s sudden appearance, you seize your opportunity to go. The lurch of Agarthan magic rips through you, leaving you on your knees in your room with the stench of sulphur hanging around you. You tear off the mask and throw it to the floor, suddenly painfully aware of just how alone you are.
You have to do this. You know that.
It doesn’t make it any easier.
You are the Flame Emperor, and your hair is white.
-
It is Autumn.
Sunlight from your window spills over your face in the mid-morning, and you groan as you finally give up on getting any more sleep. Instinctively, you reach over to the other side of the bed, but find only smooth satin under your fingertips. You crack your eyes open and blink a few times, before the details of your bedroom come into focus.
The fact that two very different people share this room is immediately obvious, you think to yourself. Small islands of calm—a carefully catalogued bookshelf on one wall, a well-organised vanity by the window—break up the haphazard mess of belongings that are scattered throughout the space, a nebulous filing system that you’ve never quite wrapped your head around.
Your eyes flick to the door, to find Byleth’s fishing rod propped up next to it. She told you once that she likes to keep it handy in case she needs to think. The fish of Enbarr quake in fear when your wife has a particularly knotty problem on her hands. Content that its presence means she hasn’t run off on another impromptu fishing expedition, you stretch out on the bed and roll your shoulders, enjoying the catharsis the small pop of muscle brings. As the tingle of the day’s first movement settles into your fingers and toes, you take a second to reflect in the comfort of the moment.
Waking up to a peaceful Enbarr is still a strange experience to you. When The Immaculate One was defeated in Fhirdiad four years ago, even though the Strike Force were welcomed back to the imperial capital with open arms and a grand parade—you initially refused to hold one, but Ferdinand insisted it was ‘good for morale’ and he’s gotten far too good at pulling the kicked puppy act and getting his way—the war had been far from over. You were, after all, still a weapon with a purpose. Two silent but bloody years later, you fulfilled it.
And so, for the last couple of years, you’ve been trying to learn how to live in a world without war. Some days you wake up clutching a dagger, and some nights are filled with visions of a vengeful scowl surrounded by a blanket of fire, but you take them as they come. You’re eternally glad that you don’t need to face them alone, anymore.
As if in response, you hear a voice coming from the adjoining washroom. Byleth is singing in the bath again. Your wife may be many things; a master swordswoman, a genius tactician and an unparalleled fisherwoman, but she’s a terrible singer. She’s off-key, discordant and woefully out of time, and it’s probably the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.
You rise from the bed, your fond chuckle turning into a hiss as a jolt of pain stabs through your chest. Linhardt had warned you that the Crest removal surgery was painful and would take time to heal, but you know that it’s worth it. Apparently, when you came to after the procedure, you mumbled to him through a fog of anaesthesia that it was much more unpleasant the other way around. Lysithea found it hilarious. You doubt Linhardt did. Shaking off your discomfort, you pick your way through the debris caused by the whirlwind that is your wife and make your way to the vanity to start your daily routine.
Even with, or despite because of, the world changing around you, there are parts of your morning ritual that maintain a special significance to you. Still listening to Byleth’s warbling, you pick up your favourite brush and begin tending to your hair, smiling contentedly to yourself. You work out the knots and tangles, mind half focused on the meeting with the ambassador from Morfis later that day.
That’s when you see it. A small streak of chestnut in your roots. Your breath catches in your throat, and the brush drops from your hand to clatter against the surface of the vanity.
“El? What’s wrong?”
You look over to see Byleth clad in a bathrobe and frowning concernedly at you, water dripping from her still-damp mess of teal hair. A strange numbness passes over you as something massive seems to be struggling inside you, bursting to get out. A thousand warring thoughts and emotions clash in your mind, and you can’t find words for any of them. Instead you gesture to the top of your head, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Byleth’s frown deepens as she picks her way through the room, only to be replaced by a wide smile when she reaches you. She laughs—something which only a few years ago was a rare and precious thing, but which is so frequent now that it’s like she’s making up for lost time—and sweeps you into a hug, holding you tight to her chest.
“It worked! It actually worked! I mean, I know that Linhardt said it would but you know what he’s like and…”
Byleth’s rambling becomes more and more incoherent as it mingles with her happy tears, and you bury yourself further into her embrace, surrounding yourself with her heartbeat.
She is no longer a vessel, and you are no longer a weapon.
A weight that has been there for so long you’ve barely been aware of its presence lifts from your shoulders, and you realise that for the first time in forever, you are exactly who you want to be.
You are El, and your hair is brown.
-
It is Winter.
The fire in the hearth crackles away merrily, pushing away the cold threatening to creep into the cabin. Snow lines the frames of the windows, and through them you can see the storm starting to clear, the grey skies yielding to a vibrant blue.
The bundle in your arms stirs, and a tiny, pudgy hand grabs at your fingers. Smiling, you splay them out and relax your hand, allowing the miniscule fist to clamp around your index finger with a surprisingly strong grip. Mia, evidently thrilled with this development, immediately drags it into her mouth, gumming on it with considerable gusto.
“I think this means you’re friends for life.” Alexander muses, reaching down to rub Mia’s fuzzy head.
“I should hope so, although if she takes after you, I’ll need to start bribing her with sweets soon to make sure.”
Alexander grins fondly, and leans over to stage whisper in your ear. “There’s a reason why you’re my favourite mother.”
“Alexander Eisner, I heard that.” Byleth growls, although the effect is totally ruined by the upward curl at the corner of her mouth.
“Now now, I won’t have you fighting over me.” You chuckle, still watching Mia burble away contentedly.
The four of you settle into conversation—or three of you do at least, Mia only contributing with the occasional warble or hiccup—as the storm dies down outside. It’s been a while since you’ve seen Alexander, but as the time passes and the conversation flows, it feels like he never left. You talk about Brigid (“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the heat, honestly this snow feels glorious.”), about how Dorothea and Petra are doing (“Please visit soon, I think Aunt Thea is going to implode if she doesn’t get a chance to vent at you.”) and all of the wonderfully, gloriously mundane details of a peaceful life. It’s a shame that Eike couldn’t make it, but Alexander assures you they’re doing well and they’ll visit as soon as they can. It’s almost strange not seeing the two of them together but a small, jealous part of you is a little happy you get your son all to yourself for a while. He’s got that tired, but happy look in his eyes that comes with being a new parent, and his smile is infectious as ever.
Eventually, the skies finally clear and the fire burns low. You reluctantly hand Mia, now fast asleep, back to Alexander and try to wipe baby spit off your hands as subtly as you can. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your wife send you an amused grin, one that you can’t help but mirror. Alexander stands and makes you promise to meet him in Enbarr in the morning. It’s a few hours ride from the cabin—it used to be less, but the cold plays havoc with your knee these days—but it makes far more sense for him to stay there than in your tiny spare room.
You say goodbye to him on the front porch, carefully hugging him around the precious bundle in his arms, and he heads off to fetch his horse. There’s a bench out here that you often sit at and sketch in the warmer months, so you wipe the snow from the surface and lower yourself onto it, patting the space beside you and smiling up at Byleth. Her eyes crinkle as she returns it, laughter lines creasing, and you allow yourself a brief moment to marvel over the fact that you got the opportunity to help contribute to them.
The pair of you watch and wave as Alexander’s horse fades into the distance, Mia still asleep in the pouch at his chest. When he finally disappears over the horizon, Byleth sighs and leans into you. Her head slots into the curve of your shoulder and neck like a perfectly cut puzzle piece, and you lean your head against hers.
The younger you would be fidgeting right now, unable to cope with simply watching the world go by. You used to yearn for action, used to hate the quiet moments. That was the old you, however. The version of yourself still burdened with the task of being Emperor, the unenviable job of trying to hold a nation together. You left that all behind a long time ago. Now, you find beauty in the silence, and perfection in the calm. Your work is done, now all that’s left is to let go and let time take its course.
You could get used to this.
You are happy, and your hair is grey.