Chapter Text
Cichol was tired.
He had been exhausted for so very long, now. Whenever he cast his mind back, trying to remember the last time he hadn't felt so exhausted, the realisation that he had long-since forgotten what it even meant to be well-rested only caused his fatigue to seemingly double.
His routine was much the same as it ever was: Wake with the rising dawn, check on his daughter's health, perform essential maintenance, go to work, keep social interactions with humans to a minimum whilst keeping his eyes and ears sharp for any potential threats to his daughter, return home, go to sleep long after the sun had set.
Sometimes, he even remembered to take his meals without his daughter's insistent encouragement.
He had been like this for... how long exactly, now?
Since the War of Reunification, certainly. Taking up the old, half-forgotten role of general in a war for survival had been unpleasant, to say the least. And yet, the position still fit him well, like an old, familiar coat draped across his shoulders. Dealing with the logistical nightmares in the Kingdom's army, not to mention attempting to negotiate and direct Seiros and Dimitri's honed rage, had made him long for his old role of administrator at the monastery.
Though, in truth, his time at Garreg Mach was not much less stressful, all things considered. Still, what he would not give up now to return to those days where his deepest fears were keeping sweet Flayn safe from the nefarious influence of hormonal teenagers, and his most vicious enemy was the endless sheets of parchment that seemed to accumulate on his desk faster than he could ever hope to address them.
The days when, in spite of all he had lost, he could hold on to the last dregs of Nabatean community and family with his daughter and Seiros, even knowing all of her flaws...
Before that, his days had been one long, never-ending stream of monotony. Days stretched into years into centuries, as time's axis marched on, heedless of the wretched widower whose sole purpose was to stand vigil over the wounded, fragile shell of his daughter. His penance for his negligence, his failure to keep his wife and daughter safe. Until that wondrous day when Cethleann was finally able to maintain consciousness for long enough for them to re-assimilate back into society, and they had joined their wayward sister in her fortress, hoping, praying that they had found their bastion of safety...
And still before even that, his days had been filled with the chaos of warfare. A perpetual, bloody, brutal struggle in a war for survival and vengeance against a foe determined to finish the conquest and genocide that he'd begun. Where failure and defeat meant not only death, but a fate so vicious, so disgusting, so outright sadistic that even a thousand years had not dulled the edge of outrage in his frayed, tired mind. A war that, in addition to the vast majority of his kin, had robbed his wife from him, and very nearly his daughter as well...
It had been a long, long time, since Cichol had known any semblance of 'rest'.
He was startled out of his fugue contemplations by the emergence of his daughter, bursting into the main room of their shared cottage like a ray of sunshine piercing through the ever-present gloom of an overcast sky.
“Good morning, Morgana.” he offered her his warmest smile. Unfortunately, the weight that hung from his shoulders prevented him from raising his mouth beyond a shallow grin.
He hoped that the bags under his eyes were not as pronounced as they had been the previous evening; far from it for him to rob his sweet child of the glee that buoyed her.
Truly, he did not know how she managed it. Admittedly, she was notably less... 'effervescent' than she had been whilst living at Garreg Mach, especially in that final, hated year. And yet, despite all they had lost, despite being forced back into hiding, into semi-isolation, she had not lost her lust for life.
He prayed to whatever remained of Sothis' spirit, to his wife, to his siblings, to Seiros herself, that she would never lose it. Would never end up as broken as he himself had become...
“Ah... Good morning, Vortigern.” her response was slightly stilted, still not fully comfortable with the new identities that they had crafted for themselves even after years of practice.
Cichol allowed himself a small smile at her effort. It had taken her so long to naturally refer to him as 'Seteth', after all. Still, the practice would help; one could never know just who or what might be listening in. It would only take one small mistake, one slip up, and their entire world might be upended yet again. Cethleann, of course, knew this, knew the magnitude of what rested upon her ability to lie convincingly.
Even then, he did not require her telling him to know how much she detested not being allowed to call him 'father'.
“I am going to check on the nets we cast.” declared Cethleann, looking towards him for approval, and a small amount of trepidation. Cichol supposed that he deserved the spike of grief that pierced his chest; he knew that he'd long since had a tendency towards... over-protectiveness. It had only become worse since their abandoning Rhea's army. For a long time, he had been unwilling to even let Cethleann out of his sight. Still, after so nearly losing her once again, after having his trust betrayed by that man, he wondered if anyone could truly blame him?
Cethleann, of course, did not. But then, she was too good, too pure, too forgiving for this cruel, unjust world.
A piece of him died every time he realised just how badly he had been suffocating her, preventing her from spreading her wings, and living her own life...
And yet, he knew all too well that the alternative was to risk losing her again. The only thing that he had left. The only thing he still lived for.
Cichol was a selfish man.
“...very well.” He sighed, eventually conceding, and tried to bask in the warm glow of his daughter's radiant smile. As she made towards the front door, his voice called out once more, halting her in her tracks.
“Morgana?” he offered, hesitantly, and Cethleann turned to face him, face inquisitive.
“...Take care.” Cichol finally relented, glancing away from her face. Still, he did not need to look upon her to know that her face had softened.
“You as well... Vortigern” she replied, and Cichol thought that if he strained his ears hard enough, he could delude himself into hearing her whisper 'father' in place of that false name, beyond the whistling of the wind around the door.
Cichol sighed, running a hand through his hair, as he contemplated on the latest identities they had assumed. A loose strand landed in his lap, causing Cichol to frown: His natural green was threatening to shine through the dark dye again; he'd have to remedy that soon...
After surviving their failed attempt to retake Garreg Mach from the vile and treacherous Adrestian Empire, they had fled from the war, from their identities, from anything that could be used by their enemies to track them down.
They had needed new names, of course; most of the continent knew of Seteth, Advisor to the Archbishop, and his little sister Flayn, even as much as they, too, were false identities.
And so, Cichol had looked towards some terribly old folklore for inspiration. Stories that far pre-dated the Adrestian Empire, that had long been forgotten by the minds of man.
Cethleann had jumped at the idea of being called 'Morgana', after he had informed her of its meaning and connection to the sea. For a moment, Cichol's ubiquitous paranoia had flared up, wary of a connection back to Saint Cethleann's well-documented love of the sea. Yet, in a moment of weakness, he could not find it within himself to veto the idea, and rob her of her happiness.
For himself, he had been decidedly less lenient.
Vortigern: A man who was ostensibly some great ruler of ancient men, who had made the foolish and damnable mistake of inviting unscrupulous outsiders into his homelands, who had then risen up and eventually conquered his kingdom. Depending on the retelling, he was remembered as a fool, or a traitor, or both, and his character was ridden with countless accusations of unforgivable sins, including breaking oaths, and committing incest with his own daughter.
Not that Cichol would ever commit such an atrocity against his own kin. By Sothis' star, never.
Still, in attempting to craft a new life for themselves, safe from the Empire's ominous gaze, there had been no lie they were unwilling to weave:
Seteth and Flayn were known to supposedly be siblings. In a letter, that man had nearly given Cichol a heart attack when he revealed that he had ascertained their true identities, and Cichol had revealed his true relationship with Cethleann to him regardless, which meant that their enemies would also know...
It had been Cethleann's suggestion to instead masquerade as husband and wife. Whilst Cichol had fumbled with the logic, much less the morality of the idea, she had explained, with a remarkable maturity and alacrity, that whomever might come looking for them would never expect them to create such a facade. As such, the taboo nature of their deception, anathema to Seteth and Flayn's public image as prominent figures within the Church, would be their greatest ally in their anonymity.
Cichol had, after much consternation, finally acceded to her suggestion, as much as the notion left a sickening taste in his mouth.
There were only so many believable reasons as to why a man and woman would live together. This lie gave them their excuse for their closeness, and desire for privacy, and deflected from the truth that they needed to keep hidden.
His daughter was wickedly clever, and willing to do what was necessary to survive. In that regard, he could not be prouder of her.
After that, the name Vortigern had come to him quickly. He held it tightly to his chest, the shame and disgust it caused him, and how fitting it was to describe his own life, and failures. After all, as Garreg Mach's administrator, he had been responsible for screening the students and staff for nefarious or harmful intentions, and he had failed so dramatically, so utterly, on no less than six occasions, that he could only lay the fall of the monastery at his own damnable feet. Moreover, his abandoning of Seiros in her hour of greatest need could be construed as nothing less than a betrayal...
Even though there were no others besides his daughter that knew the meaning behind his chosen identity, he would not allow himself to forget what the name meant; that shame was to be his penance for failing once again.
Cethleann had been less than thrilled by his self-flagellation, but knew when to disengage from a losing battle.
After much travel, they had eventually arrived on the outskirts of a frigid and remote village on Faerghus' northern coast. Far away from any major trade routes or population centres, they hoped that isolation would be their shield from the empire's persecution.
Despite not attracting any unwanted attention that threatened their constructed alibi of refugees fleeing the war, their remote location had not insulated them against the knowledge that Fhirdiad had fallen, and King Dimitri and Archbishop Rhea had been slain in battle, and that Faerghus had been annexed back into the Adrestian Empire.
Poor Cethleann had cried for weeks.
Still, for the people of this village, not a great deal had changed. The people here were too far removed, too blissfully insulated from the horrors of war, to care that the lord they paid tribute to had changed the colours of their banner. And so, with perhaps some minor grumbling, the villagers went back to their fields, their boats, and life carried on, with the addition of the quiet couple at the edge of the village with haunted eyes.
Still, the new additions were inoffensive enough; they did not stick their noses into anyone's business, nor did they offer their own drama for others' perusal. They worked and bartered their own way in life, so most were happy to leave them be, in the knowledge that they themselves would be left in turn.
To Cichol, the life of a fisherman was a simple one. Spending time with his daughter, splashing around on the coast brought back memories of happier, simpler times. Turning what was previously a nostalgic, and unskilled, hobby into his primary source of sustenance was an ironic twist of fate, he supposed. Indeed, he would never be able to thank the young Miss Pinelli enough for her advice and instruction in the art.
A sad sigh washed over him as he recalled her grim fate; she had been slaughtered by the Death Knight during the Empire's conquest of Leicester. Truly, a most tragic and undeserved end for one so bright, and brimming with potential. One of so many victims of Edelgard's conquest.
May her soul find peace in Sothis' embrace.
Cethleann had adapted well to their new lifestyle, which was likely spurred on by her adoration of all things fishy. Though, every now and then, whilst helping him fish, her shoulders would sag and her face would drop. In those times, Cichol had learned better than to pry, for lack of a want to remind himself about the conspicuous absence of Cethleann's mother, or worse, the other person in their life who had possessed a love of fishing.
And so, the years had passed. First slowly, then more rapidly, until Seteth and Flayn were well and truly buried, along with the rest of the Church of Seiros.
Just as the news of Rhea's death and Faerghus' capitulation had reached them, so too did news of Adrestia's affairs in the aftermath. Cichol had gritted his teeth and bit his tongue at all of the slander and misunderstandings that were circulated about the Church and their kin, denouncing them as evil shadowy overlords that hindered humanity's progress. Though, learning about Serios' final actions had filled him with a sense of dreaded condemnation. In her madness and anguish, he would not have put it past her to order Fhirdiad torched, if only to spite those that had betrayed her so utterly. He could not help but wonder if his continued presence could have turned her away from such a rash and cruel act...
Still, he had washed his hands of it. Of her anguish, her obsession, and her mania. Ultimately, Seiros was responsible for her own decisions. Furthermore, with her legendary obstinacy, it was unlikely that anyone could have dissuaded her at that stage of her madness.
That did not stop Cichol from wondering, however. Perhaps all she had needed was someone to warn her against becoming like the very monsters that she had loathed, and vowed to put to the sword... It certainly did not stop him from blaming himself.
Alas, he would forever mourn the sweet, generous, and kind girl that he had watched grow up, before her innocence was so brutally robbed from her. In spite of all of her mistakes, all of her flaws, he did not wish to remember bright, innocent Seiros as a monster.
She had made very difficult decisions in situations where there was no clear answer. She had also suffered more greatly than most people would ever be unfortunate enough to comprehend. This did not absolve her of her sins, or mistakes... but it did give context to her tragedy. Context that was woefully lacking in her posthumous depictions.
Then, he had battled with both bewilderment and fury when the Empire had circulated news about the destruction of his people's ancient enemy, citing them as an even greater plague upon the world than the Church itself. More baffling still was when news circulated about the Empire's retractions of previously published falsehoods about the Church. The newly-provided explanation was still rather far from the full truth, but at least it was not as egregiously false and unsympathetic as it was before.
As the decades had rolled by, and more and more sympathetic news regarding the Church had reached them, Cichol and Cethleann had engaged in many a discussion regarding its validity. Ultimately, they had both concluded that they must remain in exile, at least long until Emperor Edelgard's reign of terror was banished from living memory, before even attempting to rejoin the political landscape. The risk was still far too great.
They were also not immune to stories of burgeoning unrest in the former lands of the Kingdom and Alliance. The increased threat of bandits, and the failures of the Empire to police its conquered lands, especially as time marched on from Edelgard's conquest, and from the announcement of her abdication, and later her death. Fortunately, their chosen village was simply too remote for bandits to really consider menacing. Although, Cichol's preventative measures in ensuring that the village militia was sufficiently armed and trained likely contributed to that safety.
Of course, staying in the village for decades had invited some uncomfortable scrutiny towards them. On more than one occasion in the earlier years, a villager had asked when they would be expecting to have children. As time passed, there had been a period where Cethleann had been the source of gossip for supposedly bearing the curse of the goddess and being infertile. Cichol, naturally, had not reacted well to learning of such rumours, nor the connotations regarding them, however Cethleann's level head had somehow prevailed, and he'd been prevented from making a scene, and compromising their identities.
Between Cichol's obvious martial prowess, and Cethleann's reputation as the village's unofficial healer/apothecary/witch doctor, rumours about their history spread around the community like wildfire. Still, as long as they never gave any further fuel to those rumours, Cichol prayed that they would never morph into something dangerous to either of them.
Still, in Cichol's estimation, they had lingered for long enough in this village for people to begin to question their lack of ageing. Indeed, they would have to leave soon, preferably before another five winters passed, if they were to avoid some truly unanswerable questions. Their usual excuses were beginning to run a bit thin...
However, those were still tomorrow's problems, for tomorrow's Cichol. For now, he only had to focus on the maintenance of their fishing equipment, and the maintenance of his disguise.
His sensitive hearing alerted him to Cethleann's departure for the village centre, the damaged nets bundled in her arms. He imagined that she intended to barter some of their latest catch to procure threads with which to repair the broken threads.
Once upon a time, Cichol would have demanded to escort her. Now, however, after uneventful decades in the sleepy village had worn away the roughest edges of his paranoia, he was mostly content to allow her the free reign of the village, provided she kept to a strict curfew at least.
She had made no secret of her joy at this small freedom, much to his chagrin.
Cichol supposed that he should make use of himself until her return. After all, he was well aware that there were few things more dangerous to himself than an idle mind, which allowed his idle thoughts to wander. Performing tasks, even menial ones, granted him blissful reprieve from the churning maelstrom of his grief and darker regrets.
With another heaved sigh, he rose from his seat to perform his housekeeping chores.
With any luck, he'd be well distracted until his daughter's return.
As far as days go, this one could certainly stand to be much better, in Cethleann's mind.
Although, of course, this day could not come close to being considered as terrible, as traumatic, as many other days she'd endured in her long life, so too was it immeasurably far away from possibly being able to be considered 'good'.
Alas, it had been a very, very long time since a single day had passed which Cethleann would classify as 'good'.
Even the announcement of former Emperor Edelgard's passing had not done anything to lighten her burden; it had merely left her with the muted acknowledgement of yet one more enemy she had managed to outlive. Along with perhaps the smallest spike of grief for her former class leader, that she stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
Her grief was not for the one who had wrought so much destruction and devastation, and driven her aunt to madness and death, she told herself. It was merely for the memory of happier days, of which Edelgard had been a (likely unwilling) part.
Despite her repeated reassurances, her denial still rang hollow.
Cethleann had known many enemies in her life, and it was likely that she would know many more before her eventual death. She was not foolish enough to presume that with Edelgard's passing, the threats to herself and her father had dissipated.
Still, she would continue to persist: The Last Child of Nabatea refused to simply roll over and die, and allow her culture, her people's memory, to be extinguished for good.
And so, that meant surviving. It meant learning how to fish, to cook, to barter, and many other skills that she had been forced to develop.
As she returned towards her shared cottage, repaired nets bundled in her arms as the fruit of her successful negotiation, she allowed the smallest spring in her step to buoy her gait. In a way, being trusted by her father to accomplish such tasks, to navigate such delicate bartering situations alone, was irrefutable evidence of her flourishing maturity. Being trusted to complete such assignments alone, and succeeding in them, brought back a sense of accomplishment that she had not felt since...
Cethleann clamped down on the memory before it could overtake her.
Those days were behind her. No matter what she may have felt, have wanted from that man, it would never come to pass, now. Her family would never be anything more than herself and her father.
Getting caught up in memories would do her no good.
It was, then, perhaps ironic that instead of getting tangled up in her memories, she became tangled up in her fishing nets in their place.
With a small shriek of surprise, she was sent tumbling to the floor, her legs bound together in the netting.
She cursed herself for her momentary lapse in awareness; indeed, allowing her concentration to slip like that did not behove her desire to project maturity...
She counted herself fortunate that in addition to not reopening the rips that she'd just had repaired, there were few people around to have witnessed her blunder.
One polite man casually approached her, before extending a hand down towards her.
“Do you require any assistance, my lady?” his tone was warm, and unthreatening. Perhaps a hint of amusement bled through his tone at her misfortune, and Cethleann willed her blush away from her cheeks, before looking up at him, preparing to accept his chivalrous assistance.
She locked eyes with the man looming over her, and her heart and lungs froze in her chest.
This... it couldn't be...
Staring down at her, with a placid smile on his face, was the man that had plagued her nightmares for more than three decades. Cethleann blinked, and instead of offering a warm hand, he was brandishing a sick sword crafted from bone. It's ominous red glow pulsed, as Cethleann's life flashed before her eyes, certain that she was about to meet her doom like so many of her kin upon the desecrated bones of their progenitor.
Cethleann blinked again, and the Sword of the Creator vanished. He was still offering his hand, though a small furrow appeared in his brow, likely confused at her sudden reaction.
Cethleann's throat tightened, as if constricted by an invisible hand. Black rings encroached on her vision, as her pulse thundered in her ears, her crest stone threatening to burst free of her ribcage.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked guilelessly, and Cethleann forcibly reminded herself to breathe, her breath coming in a gasp. The darkness in her vision receded at the realisation that he somehow did not recognise her through her disguise.
She had never been more thankful than she was at that moment for her decision to bleach her hair blonde, and style it differently.
Reflexively, she ran a hand through her hair, as if seeking to convince herself that her disguise would hold, that she would not gaze upon the green locks that she had so adored, and been forced to abandon. The sign of divine blessing that they had both once shared, and had cast aside...
It had been some time since she'd last dyed her hair, and she obsessively checked to see that no green roots were showing through that could give her away.
“You seem to have had quite the-” he continued speaking genially, as if Cethleann's entire world was not poised to come crashing down around her at any moment, before stopping, mid-sentence, just as Cethleann's obsessive adjustment of her hair reached her temples, sudden panic choking her like a Dark Mage's Miasma.
Her ears! Her ears were on show!
The face she looked upon gaped in shock, as if he, too, had been doused in icy water. His eyes widened as the mutual recognition passed between them.
“...Flayn?” he whispered hoarsely, his voice weak. Cethleann did not want to even consider analysing the myriad of emotions in his voice, the way his posture recoiled as if burned, the way he now looked at her as if a slight breeze might shatter him.
Frantically adjusting her hair, Cethleann rose to her feet. She gave a hasty, aborted bow, before speaking far more quickly than her usual composure would allow:
“I'm very sorry,” she began, “You appear to have mistaken me for someone else. I bid you good day.”
With that, she turned and all but sprinted away from him. In her haste, she abandoned the nets that she had been carrying in favour of fleeing towards her sanctuary, and the safety of her father.
Byleth watched, dumbstruck, as Flayn fled from him like he was the most heinous of monsters.
The pang of grief that lanced through his thundering heart threatened to send him sprawling to the floor.
Still, he supposed that he deserved that treatment from her. He had torn down her entire world, wounded and killed what little remained of her family, and watched as his allies had figuratively salted the earth of the establishment that they had built.
As he'd once confessed to them both, they had every reason to hate him.
And yet, he had so foolishly hoped, prayed, that they would not resent him. That they could come to understand why he had made the choices that he had...
Alas, perhaps that was far too cowardly of him. He had made his choices; he could not absolve himself of their consequences.
Regardless... he had sought them out for a reason. Fortuitous as this encounter was, he was not about to let it go to waste...
Not when it held the only hope that he had left.
With a resigned sigh, he gathered up Flayn's belongings, and began approaching the lonely house he had watched her retreat to. He prayed to Sothis to grant him strength.
Sothis responded with a sharp kick up his backside.
He supposed that he deserved that, too.