Disclaimer: Fire Emblem Three Houses is owned and trademarked by Nintendo. I do not own nor did I create the characters in or world of this work of fiction.

This chapter is rated K - I will provide ratings for each chapter as future content may be less suitable for younger audiences.

The spell hit her chest and burned like acid upon impact, forcing her back and dulling the responsiveness of her limbs. She gritted her teeth, muscles locked as she pushed back against the speed and force of the dark energy that threatened to send her hurtling through the air. With a grunt, she pushed hard enough to break the spell which dissipated into the air. Byleth tried to find her balance but where there should have been solid ground beneath her feet there was only air. One hand tightened on the Sword of the Creator and the other clawed helplessly at the sky as she fell backwards into the abyss.

Air rushed around her and she screamed just as she hit the ground. Bright light exploded across her vision before blackness that rivaled the dark-dimension diffused across her consciousness.

She tried to scream again but only a strangled gasp erupted from her throat as she sprang upright. Sweat beaded on her forehead and neck, dampening the fabric of her night gown. Wild eyes darted about in darkness before adjusting to the soft moonlight dappling the chamber with silver and shadows. Raising a shaking hand to her face, Byleth assured herself that she was whole and alive. Pressing her palms to her forehead she muttered soft reassurances to herself. "It was a dream. It was a dream?"

Eventually, her breath slowed and her eyes adjusted to the night as she worked to gather her bearings. She was in a bed; the room was large with a high vaulted ceiling. Stone walls were softened by hanging tapestries with details obscured by shadows and animal pelts from various species. The colored glass panes in the windows flanking her bed were opaque so she could not see through the geometric pattern.

A fireplace dominated the wall opposite the foot of her bed, so large that three men could stand abreast within the hearth. The mantle was made of wood, grand and carved ornately to depict a crest of some sort. All that remained of a fire in the hearth were embers glowing faintly beneath mounds of ash. It must be very early in the morning she surmised.

As though reminded by the remnants of fire, Byleth took note of her breath thickening into a faint mist before her eyes. It was bitingly cold wherever she was. Shivering, she drew the blankets up to her chin. Multiple layers of blankets in a variety of thicknesses lay across the bed, topped by a soft, plush fur. Wherever she was, hunting was of great importance, she thought as she ran her fingers through the fur.

Furniture was scattered about the room in small groupings, chairs and a set of tables in front of the fireplace, a vanity with a large mirror framed in gilded gold was placed along the wall nearest her and opposite her were tables and bookcases housing decorative items as well as an imposing wardrobe. These pieces cast shadows along carpets and layered furs atop the tiled floor and it was difficult to estimate their true sizes. The pieces along the wall loomed in shadows that exaggerated their size.

Her gaze circled back to the dressing table and mirror atop it. Squinting, she studied herself and the bed she occupied. It was a grand piece of furniture, built of four posts the width of her thighs and carved in coiled rings rising to support dark fabric between them. She supposed that the fabric atop the posts was meant to trap heat as it rose from the fireplace. The headboard was massive and it too was decoratively carved to depict what appeared to be a forest scene and figures on horseback.

"Where am I?" she wondered. It was as though this place was familiar to her even though she could not name it. Furrowing her brows, Byleth tried to recall but, try as she might she could not grasp the answer.

The sound of footsteps in the hall behind the thick wooden door reached her, forcing her attention to the here and now. She did not know who was approaching or what they wanted. This made her stomach churn. Where were her clothes? Where were her shoes? Where was the Sword of the Creator? Each question sparked a new one and sent her stomach into twists and knots, stirring this sudden fear into near panic as the footsteps grew louder.

Springing up from the bed, she bolted toward the wardrobe. Flinging the doors open, she realized that it was too dark to see what it contained but it was evident that her weapon and boots were not here. These articles of clothing were meticulously hung and folded and the fabric she touched was fine and likely expensive. Nothing she felt as she groped blindly resembled her clothing or cloak.

Next, she bent to look under the bed. Perhaps her clothing had been stored elsewhere. Her stomach sank to find nothing at all under the bed. How could she have been so careless to allow her clothing and weapons to be misplaced? Or, perhaps they had been taken from her.

She could see light growing brighter under the door accompanying the footsteps in the hall and she pursed her lips. The best option, she decided, was to hide and hope that she could overpower whoever was about to enter the room. But if she hid under the bed, she would have no advantage upon being discovered. A sweep of the room determined that the mantle jutted out just enough from the wall to obscure the sightline from the door. It would suffice.

Thankful for the plush carpeting that muted her foot falls, she darted across the room with hardly a moment to spare. She pressed herself against the wall, ignoring the bite of cold stone seeping through the fabric of her nightgown waiting for the sound of the opening door.

With no weapon to grasp and no inkling as to who this might be, Byleth resorted to magic even though it was not her area of expertise. Verse painstakingly rehearsed played across her mind, calling together elements to mingle in her hand. The powerful currents shifted and split and came back together beneath the roll of her fingers as she prepared.

The latch clicked, the door slowly opened and Byleth began to close her fist, pushing the gathered elements together. With enough pressure, they would combust and she could finish the verse that would send the fireball flying at the figure stepping quietly into the room.

The door opened and dim candle light began to push the darkness back. A shadowy figure stepped slowly into the room carrying a single candlestick and candle to light their way. Byleth bounced lightly on her toes preparing to spring forth but biding her time. As the figure stepped further into the room, toward the bed, she weighed her options; attack or sneak out the door. She doubted that she could escape, barefoot and undressed as she was in such a cold climate which left her with only one alternative.

Magic crackled in her palm as she stepped forward out of her hiding place. "Stop where you stand," she growled menacingly but was immediately knocked off balance as the person shrieked and jumped a foot off the floor with arms flailing defensively. She dropped the candlestick she had been carrying and the flame snuffed out at it fell.

Staggering back, Byleth clenched her fist and the fireball blazed to life in her palm revealing a woman in blue and white servant's livery. Without the rest of the incantation for propulsion, the fireball rolled out of her hand to bounce along the floor. Flames rose along the ball's path which continued across the carpeted floor before it rolled to a stop and appeared to melt into the weave surrounded by a nest of flames.

"Holy goddess!" the woman shouted as Byleth issued another viler curse.

"Fire!" the woman screeched, jumping from foot to foot. "Look out!"

The flames spread fast devouring the fabric of the carpet faster than Byleth has anticipated. She jumped back off the carpet, her toes barely escaping a singeing. The fire would spread even further if she did not do something quickly. Acting instinctively, she grabbed a thick fur throw from the back of a chair and threw it over the fire intending to smother it.

"My lady, be careful!" the servant wailed, clutching at the high collar of her blouse. "Help! Help! Fire in my lady's chamber!"

"Quiet!" Byleth hissed at the woman as she continued to beat at the flames. "You'll bring the whole place down on us!" But it was no use. The woman continued her braying distracting her for too long from the flames which had crept from the carpet to the fur in her hands. "Ouch!" She sprang away from the throw, shaking her hand against the sting of a fresh burn.

Figures appeared in the doorway and then disappeared. Cries for water commenced and it finally dawned on her. "Water! Of course!" Spinning around to find the dressing table, she found exactly what she had hoped for, a basin with water.

"Out of the way!" she commanded, spinning with the dish in hand. Water sloshed out of the porcelain dish, wetting her hands as she hurled it at the fire, not seeing the figure charging the fire with a pitcher of their own opposite her. Water slapped them in the face just as the slippery basin flew out of her wet hands to strike them in face as well with a loud thunk.

"What in the name of Seiros!" spluttered the man stumbling back and dropping his pitcher to break on the floor. More men spilled through the door, coming between the first man and the fire with water to combat flames which hissed in response. Smoke began to fill chamber at a rapid pace as the heat subsided.

Coughing and fanning the air to clear her vision, Byleth noted the figures moving about in the smoke separating her from the door. She counted at least five men moving about but there could be more waiting just outside the door. There was no way that she could escape now.

"Is it out?"

"What happened?"

"Where is the mistress?"

"What in the blazes happened?" demanded the voice of the man she had assailed with her water basin.

"I'm so sorry your majesty!" She recognized the voice of the woman who had instigated this whole thing. "I came to wake my lady at your return and she sprang out at me, giving me such a fright that I dropped my candle. OH MY GODDESS LOOK AT THE STATE OF THIS ROOM!" she howled. Someone had opened a window and as the air began to clear the early morning light laid plain the state of the chamber.

Smoke damage marred many of the wall hangings and the furniture in front of the fireplace were ruined the paint bubbled and black in some places and the upholstery charred or black with soot. The carpet, once thick and opulent had a hole in it the size of a small horse cart with the edges of the hole melted crisp and black. The fur throw she had used was nothing more than a curled, smoking mass of hair on the floor. What remained of the carpeting was sopping wet. It produced a slopping, squishy noise beneath her feet as the servant strode this way and that, muttering softly to herself and clutching at her neck as she went.

A man, dressed in black riding clothes squatted with his back to her examining the damage. Shaggy blonde hair still partially tied back with a leather strip stuck to his neck and head, weighted down with water. Blinking, Byleth realized that this man was familiar. She knew him, in fact, but his presence here made no sense. She had to be mistaken but, who else could it be? Frowning, she stepped cautiously toward him.

"Dimitri?" she asked hesitantly.

At hearing her voice, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. Wet strands of hair were matted across his face but they did not obscure his crystalline eyes nor the warmth spreading across his face with his smile. "Quite a way to welcome me home, my love."

The stunned confusion she felt must have shown plainly because his smile slowly faded. "Byleth?"

As he rose, she stepped back. He looked different, altered in slight ways that individually might have been overlooked but, when combined gave him a different air. How could he have changed from the way he had looked just hours before? His hair was longer than she remembered and his shoulders broader. Had his jawline always been so defined and his cheek so lean?

"Are you alright? Have you been injured?" he asked, reaching for her.

Her head began to swim and her vision blurred as she raised a hand to fend him off. Her breath was coming in short bursts as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing and hearing. "My love? My lady? My mistress?" She stepped back again as he neared her, stumbling onto the bench in front of the dressing table.

"She swoons!" cried the woman who had been bustling about the ruined carpets.

"Peace, Margaret," Dimitri said soothingly as he kneeled slowly in front of Byleth. "Are you well?" he asked, peering up at her with concern evident on his face. He took her hand. The feel of it was warm and startlingly familiar. She recoiled, jerking her hand back.

"My lady burned her hand," the woman reported, obviously watching them from where she stood at the opposite side of the room. Luckily, the burn was beginning to blister on her hand and it provided the perfect excuse for flinching at his touch. She suddenly felt sheepish and unsure of herself.

"It's not bad," she reassured him, unable to tear her eyes away from his face. "I'm sorry about the…" her voice trailed off and she gestured to his face. A large pink mark hinted at the bruise that would soon form on his forehead.

"It will take a lot more than a wash basin to dampen my mood today!"

He laughed and she could not help but smile at the sound. She could not easily recall the sound of his uninhibited laughter before, it was glorious and infectious. She chuckled softly still unsure of what exactly was going on. "We did it," he said softly as though she should know what he was talking about.

"We did?" she asked cautiously, not yet willing to divulge her confusion.

He was nearly shaking with the joy of his news and, unable to contain it, he took hold of her by the waist to lift her effortlessly. Her squawk of surprise fell on deaf ears as he spun her around. "The treaty has been signed! Duscar has been restored and peace between us established!"

This was indeed marvelous news, but how had it come to pass? He lowered her and she slid against his solid frame to alight on the floor once more. Her arms settled naturally around his neck. His hands tightened on her hips as he lowered his face to hers. Byleth had hardly had the chance to catch her bearings before his lips pressed to hers.

Raising on her toes, she met him as though they had done this a thousand times, the movements familiar but still thrilling enough to make her stomach drop. Her head grew light again at the feel of his lips and she smiled despite herself against them. Then, he kissed her forehead before resting his own against it. She could feel color rushing to her cheeks as she peered up at him through her eyelashes.

"It is finally happening," he whispered as he shut his eyes with a soft sigh of relief.

She was brimming with questions but the tremendous wonder of this moment eclipsed her uncertainty. His hands on her hips were so familiar and the closeness of his face so intimate that she instinctually brushed her nose across his. He opened his eyes, and smiled warmly upon seeing her. She laughed softly, beaming up at him in return.

The clearing of a throat cut their time short and, upon looking, they found the dramatic servant from before shaking her head at them. Had he said her name was Margaret?

"May I remind your majesties that you are standing on ruined carpets and that my lady nearly frightened me to death?" The last she punctuated with an indignant sniff.

"Of course," Dimitri said straightening and clearing his throat. He released her waist as he turned to face the matronly woman but, as he did, he took hold of Byleth's hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. Her breath quickened at the feel of his fingers as they closed around her hand despite the curious feeling of routine suggesting that this action had been repeated often.

"You are quite right, Margaret. My apologies for getting swept away. I have not seen my queen since the Horsebow Moon and I am bringing her long awaited news."

Byleth looked from Dimitri to Margaret, feeling as though she should explain herself but unsure of the best way to do it. "My apologies for frightening you Margaret," she said, raising a hand to her chest and bending slightly at the waist. As she straightened, she beheld Margaret's face scarlet and horrified.

"My mistress! Do not bow to me! It is above your station and an insult to me in mine!" she exclaimed, clutching again at her high collar.

Byleth blinked in confusion and Dimitri laughed yet again. "Oh, my beloved! Always quick with a jest. Margaret, please stop holding your throat like that."

"It simply is not proper, your Majesty," Margaret insisted as she obeyed, lowering her hands from her throat, she busied herself with smoothing her skirts, still managing to look affronted. "Regardless, I must insist that my majesty leave so that I may dress your wife for breakfast. My goodness, she is still in her night clothes!"

Margaret made it sound as though she were scantily clothed. Why, the woman blushed as she turned to the serving men who had some to survey the fire damage! Byleth looked down at the thickly woven material covering her as completely as a full suit of armor.

"Shoo!" she shouted, waving them away as though they were chickens. "Shoo! My lady is indecent!"

"I'll see you shortly for breakfast," said Dimitri, all solemnity save for the twitching of a smirk at the corners of his lips. He moved to walk away from her but Byleth tightened her hand in his, widening her eyes as though begging him not to leave her alone with Margaret.

"Your majesty, please!" insisted Margaret, poised at the door.

Byleth gave him the slightest shake of her head, pleading silently not to leave her here. Paying her despair no mind, he drew her hand up to his lips. He even had the gall to wink at her before releasing her hand and walking out the door. Margaret who shut the door firmly behind Dimitri. Once again, she was alone with the woman. Byleth shuffled her feet, unsure of what was coming next.

"There," said Margaret and without a moment's pause, she sloshed across the ruined carpet, stopping just in front short of colliding with her. Byleth winced and braced herself, certain that an ear-boxing was unavoidable. However, rather than rounding on her, Margaret took a firm hold of her burned hand. Twisting it and raising it to the light, she examined the tender skin.

In the clear light of morning, Byleth could see the woman clearly for the first time and found her to be in her middle ages. Hair that had once been dark brown was mostly white now and was wound about her head in a thick braid, giving her an even sturdier appearance than without. Yes, sturdy was the best word to describe her or perhaps stout. Her fingers, though thick, were nimble as she turned Byleth's hand this way and that and her eyes, already small on her face, nearly vanished from sight as she squinted. Her long skirts were such a dark blue that they appeared black and she had somehow managed to keep them spotless even amidst a fire. The white of her sleeves and collar were crisp and clean as though they'd never seen a stain. Byleth knew immediately that this woman, this Margaret, was not to be crossed.

As she watched, the Margaret's hands began to glow and Byleth's hand grew cold. So, Margaret was a healer. The cold sharpened beyond soothing as the glow peaked into brilliant white light before winking out completely. The sting on her skin was gone and the cold dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared but the examination of her hand continued.

Finally, Margaret nodded with a harrumph, apparently satisfied with her work. "Now, we must get you cleaned up." Bustling away, she opened the door to briskly instruct a pair of serving women in the hall. They nearly jumped in their haste to fetch a wash tub, washcloths and soap.

"Can't have you in the state you're in," she continued, shutting the door behind her. Byleth wasn't sure if she was speaking to her or to herself as she crossed the room with an undeclared but specific purpose. "Barely married a year and parted for eight moons." She continued to mutter indistinctly as she gathered a mountain of clothing from the dresser and drawers, brushes and combs. By the time she'd finished assembling the tools needed to make her presentable, the maids had returned with a washtub, towels, washcloths and soap. She doubted that they needed the instruction that Margaret provided on setting up the items but they took it in stride with the occasional "Yes Ma'am," and "Of course, madam."

All of this should have come as a bigger surprise to her. Byleth did not remember being married to Dimitri nor did she remember becoming the Queen Consort of Faerghus but, the longer she considered it, the more comfortable the notion became. Somehow, she knew all this to be true but she simply could not recall any details of the events leading up to today. Looking to the ring finger on her left hand, she examined the golden band and deep hued emerald set there. He must have given this to her. But when and how?

"Margaret?" she asked abruptly, interrupting the woman as she provided further instructions to the other servants. "How long have I lived here in the palace?"

Margaret turned, eyeing her as though she suspected another trick. "My mistress has been with us in Fhirdiad since your marriage to his Majesty in Imperial Year 1183, Garland Moon." As she rattled off the date and the month, she marched across the room toward her and Byleth suspected that she and this woman did not get along.

"You've kept a careful count," she murmured allowing Margaret to pull her forward toward the wash tub.

"It is my job as the Royal Governess to know everything about everyone," she explained, her tone giving the impression that she explained this many times before. Then, without pause, she bent to lift the hem of Byleth's nightgown.

"What are you doing?" Byleth asked incredulously. Color had exploded on her cheeks as she took a step back, snatching the cloth from the woman's hands as she did.

"Must we do this every time, my lady? It is proper and expected that my mistress be disrobed, washed and dressed by her servants." Margaret took a stern step forward trying to take back the hem but she was easily evaded. "Come now mistress! Your water will chill!"

Ever tenacious, Margaret pursued and Byleth retreated, placing the bench of the dressing table between herself and her would be bather. "I can bathe myself. There is no reason to…"

"There is every reason to! It is a servant's duty to…"

"Duty be damned! I will not be…"

The pair danced back and forth with the bench between them. Each time Margaret made a move to one side, Byleth lunged to the other always staying out of arm's reach over the top of the furniture. This continued until Margaret could take no more.

"Hold still!" she bellowed and, with a sudden surge of strength, speed and agility, she dove over the top of the bench to catch hold Byleth's arm. "I have bathed noble children who have exhibited more decorum!"

With no shortage of protestations and great attempts at modesty from Byleth, Margaret finally succeeded in stripping and scrubbing her as she stood in the wash tub shivering from the cold. Humiliating as it was to be washed like livestock, she now knew how imprudent it was to challenge this woman. On the other hand, it gave her a chance to collect her thoughts once she became accustomed to the sound of her own teeth chattering.

She was in the capital city of Faerghus. Not just the capital but the palace. Somehow, they had triumphed in the battle against the Imperial army. Dimitri had been crowned, they had fallen in love and married all in the scope of four years. She thought back to that night before the battle, and the remembrance of Dimitri's hands and lips on her body and the feel of his skin beneath her fingers was almost enough to fend off the cold from her bath water. She shivered and wondered how they had mended the break between them when he'd uttered Edelgard's name while inside of her.

"Never mind, my queen, this will be over soon enough," chuckled Margaret, misreading her shiver as a reaction to the cold. "I told you that if you tarried your water would chill." The woman could hardly contain her satisfaction as she squeezed the water from the cloth to run in icy rivulets down Byleth's body, collecting fragrant suds in its path to the washbasin.

Ignoring her, Byleth shifted her attention to the disorienting dream she'd awoken from. It had felt so real and yet her chest showed no sign of whatever had hit her and burned with such intensity. Could it be a memory? No. They had vanquished the army and defeated Edelgard. However, she clearly remembered falling through rubble after being struck but if they had triumphed, why would she have been in the village below the monastery in the first place?

She shook her head at the memory of falling for an eternity into darkness, grasping for something to hold on to with nothing but the Sword of the Creator in her hand. The sword! She gasped audibly as her eyes darted about the room. "Where is the Sword of the Creator?"

The panic in her voice must have startled Margaret because she paused, one hand holding Byleth's arm erect with the other in mid-scrub along her ribcage. "The Sword of the Creator is enshrined at Garreg Mach monastery where it has been since the defeat of the Aldrestian emperor in the year 1180," she said slowly, eyeing Byleth suspiciously. "Do you not remember entrusting it to the archbishop prior to your journey here?"

Byleth held the woman's gaze for a moment. Could this be true? If she were to entrust the relic to anyone it would be Rhea. This answer was all together plausible. "I must have forgotten," she mumbled, lowering her eyes.

"Do not fret, my queen," Margaret said cheerfully as she began scrubbing with renewed fervor. "You've had quite a bit of excitement this morning with the fire and his majesty's return. It's no surprise that you'd forget something here and there. Why, just the other day I could have sworn I placed the silver tea set on the table in front of the hearth in the drawing room. In fact, I was so sure of it that I just knew Waldon had pilfered it! I even went so far as to box his ears before I realized that I had actually left it…"

Margaret continued to prattle on as she finished Byleth's bath who found that she envied Waldon his ear-boxing to this torture. With her skin sufficiently scrubbed red and her hair dripping frozen beads down her back, Margaret announced that she was clean and ready to be dried and dressed.

What followed was a bombardment of fabric pulled unceremoniously over her head and adjusted as though she were a bag of potatoes. No fewer than five layers of clothing had to be meticulously pulled, cinched and fine-tuned before a new layer required further repositioning of the previous. Byleth, thoroughly scrubbed into submission, accepted this with a minimal display of irritation.

The first layer was comprised of stifling undergarments which were followed by a sleeveless white sheath dress that fell to the floor as shapelessly as a curtain. The fabric of this garment was thickly woven cotton or wool but elegant just the same. Over that came an even heavier, quilted piece with long sleeves that covered her wrists and floor length skirts. It was grey or perhaps silver hued with complex embroidery about the cuffs.

The fourth layer was by far the most decorative and the material felt flimsy in comparison to previously garments. The neckline dipped low, meant to show a scandalous amount of bosom in those less concerned with virtue and modesty, according to Margaret. For the queen consort, it gave a regal layered effect when paired with her undergarments, again, according to Margaret. The fine fabric was silky to the touch and dyed a deep, royal blue with scroll work delicately stitched in silver and pearl along the sleeves which gathered at the elbow. The fabric about the shoulders and was slashed with silver.

Finally, a cloak was placed carefully on her shoulders. It was too thin for practical outdoors use but was lined in thick black fur. By the time she was dressed, the chill had left her bones and sweat threatened to drip down the curve of her back. But she wasn't free from this test of patience quite yet.

Her hair was then ruthlessly brushed, combed and wound into braids which were tucked behind her head. She was assured, yet again by Margaret, that this was the current fashion in Fhirdiad when Byleth dared to grunt in discomfort at the tugging and pulling against her scalp.

When the endeavor was complete, she hardly recognized herself blinking back owlishly from her reflection in the mirror. She looked delicate and regal, not at all like the Ashen Demon she'd been called in what felt like a previous life. Perhaps the only part of herself that seemed familiar were her large, pale green eyes which peered at her from the face in the mirror. Byleth raised a hand to her face, touching her cheek to make sure this was truly her. Margaret beamed proudly behind her shoulder.

Soon after, she was ushered out of the bedroom and whisked swiftly down several corridors and a grand sweeping staircase. Surprisingly, she moved effortlessly in the excessive clothing, thankful that soft soled leather boots were the footwear of choice rather than flimsy slippers. It was as though her body remembered how to move about in so many layers of clothing even if she did not recall doing so before.

When they finally stopped, she stood before a large arched doorway with the doors propped open to reveal the dining hall beyond. The dining table was substantial, made of wood with matching chairs. It seemed old and historic situated in the middle of the room surrounded by billowy drapes on the windows and topped with an elegant table setting. Fires roared in a pair of grand fireplaces along the wall opposite the windows. "And this was not the grandest room in the palace by far," she thought. With a shake of her head, she wondered how she knew this.

Abruptly, a booming voice called out beside her, "Her Majesty, the Queen Consort!" She jumped and stared openly affronted at the herald beside the door who pretended not to notice. She looked back to the dining hall with horror rising in her throat to find that the servants had stopped their work to bow or curtsey.

Her gaze darted about nervously, her mouth suddenly dry. Why didn't they move? It as if they were waiting for her to do or say something. Why could she remember useless things like the grandness of a room but not what to say to these poor people bent at the waist waiting for her?

Another jarring announcement caused her to nearly lose her balance. She let out a soft yelp, reeling about to glare at the herald. "His Majesty, the King!"

Before the curse that had formed in her mind could be uttered, Dimitri was beside her and had taken hold of her hand. She turned to look up at him and he smiled, lacing his fingers through hers. The sight of his smile and the feel of his palm against hers made her forget the fowl name she had planned to call the herald and she looked away at the feel of heat on her cheeks.

He nodded his head to address the room and the servants resumed their business as though some spell had been broken and nothing had occurred to disrupt them.

"That's what they were waiting on," she mumbled to herself, allowing him to lead her toward the table.

"They'd have waited all day for a dismissal," he muttered under his breath to her.

She hadn't realized that he could hear her and she looked up at him with surprise and annoyance. His lips twitched again, stifling a chuckle no doubt. How charmingly infuriating.

At the end of the table, he pulled a high-backed chair out for her and she sat before a decadent table setting. Upon pushing the chair back for her, he bent to subtly brush his lips across her cheek. "You look magnificent today," he said softly before leaving her to take his place at the other end of the table.

She ate in reflective silence, content to watch Dimitri work as couriers arrived with business of varying sorts. The food was delicious, the coffee rich and Dimitri was every inch a king, listening attentively or reading a missive thoroughly before providing a response or direction with unquestionable confidence.

The stream of news and requests was constant but, somehow he managed to eat and drink without seeming harried.

As it turned out, Viscount Kleiman was aging and his health fading. The strain of subjecting the people of Duscar was no longer an easy task for him and his waning military presence. Dimitri was able to leverage this to his advantage when retracting the land awarded the viscount for his role in the decimation of Duscar. It also helped that the viscount had no legitimate children to challenge the redistribution of land.

The division of territory and national boundaries had demanded the latter half of the past year and Dimitri had devoted his full attention and presence to the negotiations. Dedue was instrumental in the drafting and negotiations with what remained of Duscar's governing body. Had he not been present, Dimtiri would not have been able to begin the peace talks, much less complete them. Their ruling council was re-established, formally recognized by the Kingdom of Faerghus and their border was once again defined where it had been before the Tragedy. By royal decree, citizens who had moved to settle on Duscar's land must either be naturalized as citizens of Duscar or relocated within the boundaries of Kleiman's holdings. The foundations had been laid for peace and now it must be protected and nurtured.

For a man who had worked tirelessly since his coronation, Dimitri bore no signs of weariness. He had changed from his riding clothes into a regal, long, blue coat with intricate stitching and scroll-work at the wide cuffs. He had left the coat open and the lace of his undershirt untied, his collarbone displayed tantalizingly from the open neck-line and Byleth realized that he must feel completely at ease and comfortable to be so informal. She studied him from her seat across the table and found that very little had actually changed about him. His features were still angular and strong albeit a new leanness to his cheeks. His shoulders were still as broad though now his chest matched them.

His hair was longer now but still fine and thick, her wandering mind questioned if it would fall past his shoulders when untied. For all the small changes, the most striking and noticeable difference were his eyes. Clear and brilliant, untouched by grief or bereft of sleep, his eyes were striking. Simply watching him from across the table, she could see freedom in his eyes and liberation in his movements. He was no longer burdened by his duty or plagued by loss.

For a moment, she forgot herself and stared openly as he thanked a messenger and dismissed him. Her cup of coffee hovered inches away from her mouth when he caught her eye. He held her in his gaze, warmth radiating from the upward curl of his lips and again she blushed.

A pricking at her eyes signaled tears before she was fully aware of the knot of emotion rising from her chest to her throat. Confused, she lowered her gaze, blinking the first large tear onto her cheek. Her chest suddenly felt expansive and she chuckled as she wiped at her wet cheeks with her hands.

Dimitri was beside her before she heard him rise and was kneeling beside her to see her face fully. "Are you alright? Is something the matter?"

Her laughter built until she could restrain it no longer and it spilt from her lips as tears fell from her eyes. She felt happy, joyful even. This close, she could see his eyes all the more clearly and she found that her observations were true. He was happy and healthy and free!

Unable to contain her joy, she flung her arms around his neck, knocking him off balance to tumble backward. Unwilling to release him, she too fell in a cascade of fabric and fur. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs as he tried to keep her from falling despite her refusal to stop herself.

"Are you alright?" he repeated, fearful that she'd hurt herself.

"Stop worrying so much!" she cried, jubilant in her laughter and tears. Before he could reply, she kissed him fully and at length. She could feel his surprise melt as his arms wrapped around her to embrace her and return her affection in kind.

When she released him, he laughed and raised a hand to tuck an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. "I missed you too, Byleth," he whispered, cradling her cheek in the palm of his hand. His hand was so warm. Before she realized what she was doing, she had turned her face to press her lips to his palm.

A cloudy memory was nothing new to her. Her memory would return or it wouldn't and that would be okay. Her spirits soared so high that they could never come down and undoubtable happiness filled her so that she thought she might burst. "I've missed you too, Dimitri."