#setleth week

To admit that she mourned one would cause her to loose favor with the opposing side, and as the newly crowned Queen Byleth had to work to make sure she stayed firmly in the realm of neutrality. On the outside, all she cared for was the restoration and the continuing peace of Fodlan. It seemed somewhat hypocritical, lying to the masses in order to avoid negative pushback. It also seemed hopelessly pointless, since Edelgard’sstaunchest supporters seemed like they would never accept Byleth as their Queen. Ferdinand despaired over his inability to use any status to try and sway the public opinion. The words of the son of a disgraced and deposed Prime Minister meant little to the Imperial supporters who still had lands and titles to their name.

Only a small amount of Imperial-supporting nobles attended Byleth’s coronation, to the surprise of no one.

“They are all disingenuous,” Ferdinand whispered disgustedly into Byleth’s ear. “Do not be fooled; they are only acting cordial so they can keep their status.  I can almost guarantee you they are slandering you behind your back.” His face twisted into a scowl, and he spat upon the ground.

Byleth pat his arm soothingly. “I know, and I don’t care. They can slander all they want, but I’m going to do my best for them, too.” She gave Ferdinand a coy smirk, “It is best to kill them with kindness, so the saying goes.”

Ferdinand balked, and then hid a laugh politely behind his hand. “I see my lessons finally sunk in. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were born into Imperial nobility; passive aggressiveness is like a second language in the court.”

“Oh? Is that why you were sometimes so impossible to teach?”

“Why must you wound me so, Your Majesty?” Ferdinand placed a hand on his chest and sighed melodramatically. Byleth laughed and waved him off.

“Bernadetta has been glancing your way for the past half an hour, trying to gather up the nerve to ask you for a dance. It isn’t very noble-like to keep your lovely fiancée waiting so anxiously. Off you go.”

Ferdinand floundered, but quickly regained his composure. He bowed before rushing over to Bernadetta and, after a brief exchange of words (and her chugging an entire flute of sparkling wine for courage), swept her into a graceful waltz.

The next hours were a haze of tense conversations and formality. Byleth eventually had to excuse herself, claiming that the ballroom was becoming frightfully stuffy and that she needed some air. She fanned herself delicately, curtseyed, and swiftly took her leave.  Finally away from judgmental eyes, she took off her high heels and sighed heavily in relief. In a perfect world, she would have ripped the lilies from her hair and undone the fishtail braid, but she knew that sooner or later she would have to rejoin the crowd. And as much as diving into the pond and sitting at the bottom until she smelled like herself again sounded like paradise, she would have to abstain.

Byleth padded across the cobblestone and wiggled her toes on the cool, damp grass as she walked into the courtyard. When she got to one of the benches, she fell down onto it in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a new Queen. Just for added defiance she spread her knees, thankful that she had chosen to wear a dress that didn’t restrain her legs.  Briefly she humored the idea of throwing her shoes into a bush and returning to the ballroom barefoot. With the length of her dress no one would notice, and she would probably be a much better dancer without her feet in constant agony.  Alas, she decided to be a responsible adult and just set the shoes next to her.

Byleth leaned back, draping her arms over the bench, and sighed up at the sky. Now that she no longer had to put on the act of a composed and regal Queen, she was suddenly hit with the weight of everything. It was like someone had cut the rope holding a large sandbag that had been precariously hanging over Byleth’s head since it was decided she would take the throne after the war.  She knew how to bark orders through pain, devise strategies, negotiate with merchants, and ration supplies because Jeralt had taught her all those skills. She knew how to be a warrior and a solider; not the Queen of an entire continent.   She felt horrible for thinking it, but she missed the wartime. She knew how to navigate a battlefield, but she didn’t know how to heal the hurt of such a long and bloody war.  Her expertise was in commanding troops, not leading an entire country.

Not for the first time, Byleth wished Jeralt was still alive to impart some wisdom onto her. He would be just as clueless about governance as she was, but he had always found a way to make things click that no one else had.

“Your Majesty,” Seteth’s voice was as clear as it ever was. Byleth yelped in surprise and quickly composed herself, closing her legs and smoothing out her skirt as she looked towards him.  Seeing him in blue and white regalia made of cotton and silk, rather than blood-stained silver plate, was almost foreign.  He crossed the courtyard in long stride before coming to stand before her. His expression softened, “you came out here for some peace, I take it? I cannot say I blame you. The ballroom has become,” he paused to inhale through his nose, “suffocating, for lack of a better word.”

“You caught me,” Byleth admitted with a small smile. She looked around Seteth, blinking in surprise at the noticeable lack of Flayn, and looked up at him. “You’re leaving Flaynunguarded?” She teased lightly.

“Fighting alongside the students has shown me that most of them can be trusted. For a night, at the very least.  Likewise, she has proven time and again that she doesn’t constantly need me in her shadow,” His expression turned somber for a moment, but he shook his head lightly.

“My, my, I never thought I’d see the day.” Byleth laughed. She scooted over and patted the empty spot next to her. “Come and sit. You’ve been on your feet all night, I know you need it.”

Seteth looked torn because what he wanted and what was proper, his shoulders tense. Byleth clicked her tongue and reached out to pull him down. He gasped in surprise, and actually needed a moment to right himself.  “There, see? Don’t you feel better?”

“You didn’t even give me time to respond.”

“The only way you would have sat down is if I ordered you to.”

Seteth scoffed, “Being so presumptuous doesn’t flatter you at all.”

“It isn’t presumptuous if I know it as fact.”

“If you insist.”

Byleth pouted and nudged him with her elbow, but said nothing else to continue the argument.  Seteth lightly smirked triumphantly.

They sat in a comfortable, familiar silence for a long time. It wasn’t unlike the rare and cherished times when it was just them, a pot of tea, and a book of myths between them, or  times spent at the fishing pond (although Byleth burst out laughing when Seteth admitted he didn’t even know how to bait a hook). It was peaceful and grounding, almost liberating in the wake of having to put on the façade of a composed and regal Queen. But even still, Byleth’s uncertainty gnawed at the back of her mind, and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Do you think I’ll be a good Queen?” She could have slapped herself. But why stop there? “I don’t want to hear ‘You’ve been chosen by Rhea and the Goddess; of course you will’. I’ve heard that all night. I want to know your honest opinion.”

Seteth looked at her in the eye, expression contemplative. After a long pause he replied, “As a man of faith that poses some difficulty.” He began evenly, “I’ve made it no secret that I believe the Goddess always intended this to be your fate. You are a brilliant tactician and a charismatic military commander. In an ideal world, that would translate to being an unparalleled monarch. But this world is anything but idealistic, and you are brash, reckless, and quick to jump to conclusions. Your first reaction is to strike first, and ask questions later.  Do I think that makes you unfit to rule? No.  But I do think those hot-headed tendencies of yours need to be tempered by time and experience. There is no such thing as a ruler who is perfect immediately after taking the throne.”

Byleth mulled over Seteth’s response, chewing on her bottom lip. “That’s… reassuring. Thank you.” She said quietly. Boldly, she reached up to cup Seteth’s cheek. “So, can I trust you to be there if I need help?”

“Always,” Seteth breathed, slowly placing a hand atop hers. “I will remain by your side until the day I die.”

“I’m so glad.”

Byleth’s heart didn’t beat. It never did, and it probably never would. But as if to compensate for that, warmth blossomed from her chest and radiated all throughout her body as her and Seteth’s lips met. The first kiss was awkward, because she had never been kissed in her life. The second was less so, and the third… Goddess the third was everything she’d ever hoped for. Poets described kisses like fireworks. Brilliant, shocking, spectacular things that sparkled and sizzled. Kissing Seteth was soft and tender and warm, like being wrapped in a thick blanket in front of the fire on a freezing winter night.  

The love ballads Dorothea sang Petra suddenly made all the sense in the world, and Byleth felt like her head had been stuffed with feathers when she and Seteth finally pulled away. She felt warm and dizzy and weightless like she had too much mulled wine. “That was-” She began dazedly.

“Inappropriate.” Seteth cut in. He stood up abruptly. “Forgive me; I shouldn’t have let my emotions cloud my judgement.”

“I was going to say amazing.” Byleth said sternly, catching his hand. “If what I feel for you right now -what I’ve been feeling for the longest time- is inappropriate, then so be it. I don’t want to stop feeling this way. Ever.” She gazed in the direction of the ballroom, where the orchestra had just begun playing another suite. “I know I have to go back soon, but let’s enjoy this moment just a little longer.” Byleth laced her fingers through Seteth’s ,  keeping them loose enough so he could pull away if he wanted to. “If you feel the same, that is.” She finished lamely.