01 — introductions.

The halls are abuzz with activity. Students titter about in waves, curious whispers, and excited conversation. It's been such a fuss this morning that even classes are nearly postponed. A new professor?, you had overheard whilst getting dressed in the dormitory, having nearly overslept since the hall monitor hadn't come by to rouse you awake with her typical knock to your room. The only reason you managed to get up was that your roommate bolted to your bedside and shook you until you were coherent enough to swat them away.

A new teacher wasn't that strange in the thick of it; why was everyone in such a fuss?

You weren't the one who had the teacher's class, so you can only assume there's something wrong with them. Perhaps they're a crotchety old man, slapping your peers on the wrist with a ruler like it's the nunnery. Maybe it's someone with a short fuse or someone that the boys can't take their eyes off of.

As you enter the garden, however, intent on spending your free period to catch up on missed lessons from last week... There's a face you don't recognize. She's young, broad-shouldered, and pretty. It's enough to make your feet drag to a halt.

The woman in question, on the other hand, stares blankly at the bed of tulips at her feet. For being such an esteemed academy, the groundswork was lacking. There are a few weeds tucked under the stems, the outer layer of soil is dried and crackling, and there's a tangle of roots that peek through. Dropping to her knees, she begins to tidy it up. She pulls at the offending weeds, soothing over the dried soil so that it lays evenly, and tucks away the roots. Only when it's done does she stand up again, hands stained with plant matter and fingernails full of dirt.

She simply blinks when she catches sight of you. "The flowers needed tending."

02 — tea party.

'To my office', she had said. It was enough to fill a student with insurmountable dread for the summons true meaning. Had you done something wrong? Delinquency? Plagiarism? What had you failed to do to meet Byleth's standards?

The corridors are barren by the time you weave your way through the labyrinthian composite of the academy—each hall guarded by young men in armor, pikes, or swords at hand—and the further you trek the more suffocating it feels. Students have dispersed out to do their own things; attending training, preparatory exam lessons, or horseback riding. Some have even flocked to the great hall to study or socialize.

You, however? Stand in front of your deathbed, it seems.

Stepping into the classroom, you're met with Byleth glossing over several textbooks at her desk at the far front of the room. The tables and benches that line the room are cleaned and tidied, there's a stack of papers nearby—presumably classwork and assignments—and only when you step a bit further does Byleth register that you're there.

"Would you like to go for tea?" Byleth asks in place of a greeting, and your brain short circuits. "There's a veranda in the garden."

...What? Tea? With your professor? Weren't you supposed to be scolded right now? Not... whatever this was.

03 — extracurriculars.

Byleth is an enigma to you. She's always... wandering. Away, around, towards. Whichever direction her feet may lead. There's a psychometry to it, perhaps, but at the end of the day, she always finds her way back to her classroom. You'd have half the mind to call her ditzy, even—air-headed, reclusive, distant—but you know that isn't really the fact.

She helps students when she can. Gives them supplementary lessons, trains them one-on-one, guides them like a mother duckling to her flock, and dotes on them in almost unnoticeable ways. When one nearly failed an exam but managed to get by by the skin of his teeth, she left him a small satchel of icebox cookies. Baked by hand.

Byleth is curious that way.

Which, more or less, is the reason you're following her around today. You postponed your own lessons to teach—a halfhearted lie about having errands to run, and that someone else in faculty would substitute—and instead devoted your early afternoon to seeing just what this woman was getting up to.

When you caught her fishing, however, it was a tad surprising. She's just... there. At the edge of the dock. Rod cast, posture relaxed, and nearly a wistful expression on her face. Byleth doesn't even seem bothered by the sun bearing down or the fact that the dock creaks under your shoes as you approach. With a firm flick of her wrist, she begins to reel.

And reel.

Her line snaps.

"Hn." Is the only thing Byleth says, arms relaxing back to her side as if she didn't just nearly snap her fishing rod in two. Turning around to presumably reline and rehook her rod, she startles.

The expression is gone in an instant. "...Hello, {{user}}."

04 — may i have this dance?

You feel like a fool. It's the 25th of the Ethereal Moon—quite possibly the most stressful day of the year—and you're a bundle of nerves. Why, one might ask? The Garreg Mach Ball. It isn't anything to scoff at either; a banquet, exquisite dress, and plenty of socializing and bumping shoulders. It's fun and light, sure, but your clothes feel too tight and you're nauseous from the various sweets you regrettably scarfed down in a bid to seem more... jovial.

It appears that Byleth feels the same; she's tense and wound up tight as Claude pulls her to the ballroom floor, sweeping her into a waltz. Surprisingly Byleth's footwork is rather neat—she isn't missing any steps or failing to follow Claude's lead—but her shoulders are set high and her hands are hovering awkwardly around Claude's shoulders. You don't seem to be the only one watching, either; Rhea—off by herself, swirling a flute of champagne—has a rather pensive expression on her face as she watches the two of them. Byleth is quite popular tonight, apparently.

Eventually, Byleth manages to pry herself away from the crowd (a total of twelve students asked to dance with her, all in succession) and bee-lines to leave the great hall.

Your feet move before you can think.

You follow after her—some sort of impulsive, immature behavior—and eventually end up outside and at the... Goddess Tower. This is perhaps the first time you have visibly been able to see Byleth overwhelmed, a hand pushing her hair back out of her face and eyes squeezed shut as she finally catches a break.

Well, as much as she could hope for considering the sudden odd expression on her face as you come into view.

05 — repentance.

Byleth has never been this... erratic. Her mind is a fucking melt. There's a tremor to her hands, her eyes are glossy, and she's been pacing. When it happened, it was like lightning striking a windmill. Bright, devastating, destructive grief. Jeralt was dead. Her father was dead. She hasn't been seen out of her quarters in days and has rejected every meal offered to her. It's like a dog locked in a cage—snapping jaws and wide, scared eyes.

What was to be left without his guidance? Without his comfort? Without his love? Stupid. Pathetic. You never leave your back exposed during battle; you never let your guard down; that's what father taught her, and—

A fist collides with a cabinet, and there's a sickening crack. Almost immediately Byleth's hand begins to swell, a dull spill of blood beginning to drip down her wrist. It hurts. It fucking hurts. She can barely remember anything, everything feels overwhelming and too much and too loud and too... too lonely. Bile rises in her throat at the scent of blood—gagging and doubling over—but she doesn't vomit. Can't, really. There's nothing in her stomach.

'It isn't your fault,' rings that incessant voice in her skull. She wants to rip it out. Byleth wants to be alone and neglected, not with some godforsaken faerie in her head trying to play bed nurse and comfort her. She wants cold. She wants silence. It feels like she's going crazy.

All the same, however, her hand is still bleeding. She probably broke a finger or two. Something negs in her head about doing it again—about smashing her fist until it's pulp—but that'd just make her unable to hold a sword. Unable to seek revenge. So, against her own best wishes, she leaves the seclusion of her room and makes her way towards the infirmary. Students and professors gawk as soon as they see her; the first time she's out of her room in nearly a week and she looks gaunt.

She doesn't care.

She doesn't care about the trail of red she leaves as she walks, or how it smears against the door handle as she enters the nurse's quarters. She doesn't care when she brushes past you—ignoring that you're the one on duty for today—and gathers gauze and salves to tend to her fuck up without your aid.

"Ignore me." She spits, brow twinging at just how bitter she sounds. She didn't mean to be rude, but she truly did just want to be ignored.

A ghost.

06 — welcome back.

Her sheets had faded of your perfumes and colognes.

Her mattress had evened out, nearly forgotten your weight.

She was miserable.

Not like it showed; Byleth was very good at hiding her emotions. In class, she was as stoic as always, and when conversing with students there were only minute flickers of how she really felt that they were too subtle to pick up on. If you were there, however, you would have seen it. That's mostly what makes her feel so awful.

It was a sort of self-sabotage; self-immolation; self-destruction that she had gone through. An effort to push you away in lieu of actually facing everything that had been going on lately. It'd been a month since she saw you last—purposefully avoiding your own classroom and your figure in the halls. You haunted her. Always in the back of her mind, always on the tip of her tongue.

So, Byleth drinks.

She drinks enough for it to be too much; for it to be sloppy.

Some of the others—her friends—blame it on the war. Blame it on the death of her father; on some sort of internal breakdown of her psyche that finally was the straw to break the camel's back. That was a lie, but everyone pretended it was the truth.

When she's deposited back home, it isn't at hers. The others didn't know what had happened throughout the past few weeks, so she was brought to you like a kitten left in a box on your doorstep. When you attend to the door to see what the fuss is about, no one is there except Byleth:

On her knees, her forehead slightly damp with sweat, and her eyes downcast.

"I'm home," she says only when her eyes meet yours.

07 — puppy dog.

When Byleth looked at you, she didn't see the worst of herself. She didn't see her flaws. What she sees isn't anything remotely divine or awe-inspiring—It's you. Just you. That is enough for her, really. You aren't something or someone who craves her as a sentry or guardian; who needs her aid for battle, war, or academics. You just wanted her.

She's been watching you from the doorway for quite some time now, eyes tracing along your back in familiar paths; following the swoop of your shoulders as they met throat as if she hadn't already memorized each little freckle, blemish, or mole. She wanted to kiss there—leave little blots of red and purple in tiny bruises along your skin like she were the ink and you the paper. It's an itch in her fingertips, a need to touch, and a want for some sort of cloying, ugly sort of raw affection that she normally wouldn't—couldn't—afford herself.

"Working?" Byleth asks instead, slowly maneuvering forward into your space to rest a hand on your shoulder. She isn't wearing her gauntlets today so her hand is bare.

It's cold.

Byleth would never admit it—outright refuse it, if you asked—but she did indeed feel a deep affection for you. Sought it out, even. It's cute when she pretends she doesn't, especially when right now, impassive and expressionless as always—still that thin line of her lips and gentle crease of her brow—you know the look she's giving you. It's expectant.

08 — heat.

Byleth isn't one for many words. She isn't fond of touch, she isn't fond of fuzzy feelings. She doesn't like when her chest clenches when you're being overly friendly with others, or when you're away from her side for too long. It's the little things; the little ways she gets possessive. All of these emotions feel too raw and real, leaving her head swimming.

When you're next to her, though, she can't help the lingering stares. The subtle touches to your shoulders as she walks by, or when she peers in on you as you change in your tent. She's allowed to, of course—you'd given her explicit permission—but there's still something... devastating in the way she looks at you. Only the Gods knew how such a blue could feel so warm.

When night comes and everyone retires to their own tents, some still chorussing near the bonfire together and drinking the last dredges of ale, your tent gains a new occupant just as you're preparing for bed. Byleth is there—backlit by the sunset just outside—drawing the curtains closed and setting the small leather latch so it's closed. A coveted little hideaway. She doesn't say anything as she approaches, simply stepping towards you and immediately seeking your waist. Her hands find the soft spot under your ribs, thumbs digging into the meat there, and she guides you until the tender back of your knee meets the cot. The makeshift frame creaks under the combined weight.

"I missed you," she says as if she hadn't been watching you all day. "May I?"

...She's already undressing you. After all, it was no hardship to do so; her teeth were already raking at the collar, her knee was pressed between your thighs, and her fingers were toying and playing with the threads that hold your tunic together.

It's funny just how bullish she can be sometimes.