#war phase

[sitriatz]

Sitri’s war phase reference sheet! She has allies! And gifts to receive! So much has happened in five short years…

[ryukussy]

never drawn post ts edie but, i got a few copies on feh and realized how much i loved her fit :3

[shan-nanigans]

Done sometime in 2022 as an art trade with @g0ddamnb0x ! Soft Dimidue with flower crowns <3 The flowers are gardenias, representing secret love.

[byebaicai]

Her outfit seems pretty simple, but there’s actually a LOT more ruffles and embroidery detail than I expected....

[argent-vulpine]

It’s Only a Little Bit

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Claude/F!Byleth

Read it on AO3

Their new professor was very difficult to read. Her apparent lack of expression, somewhat monotonous way of speaking, and overall mannerisms led many to believe that she didn’t really feel… anything. That this must be related to her moniker of ‘Ashen Demon’. But after several weeks of watching his new professor, Claude could say at least one thing for certain: Teach did not like to share her food.

She would take her meals in the dining hall, often sharing space with students from all the houses, and while she didn’t turn down meals with Edelgard and Dimitri, she took meals with them less than she did any with Claude, though he attributed that to being the house leader under her direct supervision. Not one for small talk, she often sat and ate in silence while her dining companions chatted around her.

He wondered if she was simply gathering information on everyone the same sort of way that he did.

Claude discovered his new favorite fact about the professor quite accidentally. He’d been sitting with Hilda and Lysithea, discussing their latest skirmish and how things could have gone differently, when he saw Jeralt join his daughter at the table, Leonie in tow.

He couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was easy enough to guess. Leonie had gestured at the food, her head tilted in that way that typically indicated inquisitive confusion. Jeralt’s laugh was loud enough to be heard several tables over; he’d reached out with a fork to his daughter’s plate, clearly intending to spear a piece of fish on it, when the professor had blocked him with her own fork.

This went on for a few bouts, the Blade Breaker himself trying to steal a piece of food from the professor, before she gave the most annoyed look Claude had ever seen on her face. “Get your own, dad,” she’d said, loudly enough to be distinct, before picking up her plate and moving to another table, settling down beside Yuri, who gave her a bemused expression before resuming his own meal.

It took a few more weeks of watching – and testing – for Claude to learn that the professor only minded sharing meals when they were things she really liked. Daphnel Stew? No one could touch it. That vegetable pasta salad monstrosity? If someone wanted a bite of that, Byleth had no issues sharing it. She’d gone so far as to push the whole plate at people who asked, before, such seemed to be her dislike of it.

Over time, he figured he had a solid idea of her general food preferences, what she liked the most, what she disliked.

He hadn’t learned a whole lot else about his professor, but at least he had that.

“Heya Teach,” he said, plopping himself down beside her, a plate full of skewered meat in hand. It was a dish he knew that she liked; it was one he liked, as well, so he couldn’t fault her there. “I had some questions about your last assignment, if you don’t mind me picking your brain about them over dinner?”

“I don’t mind,” she said, taking a bite of the pickled rabbit.

This close to her, he could see the way her face softened – just the tiniest bit – with enjoyment. It was… oddly cute, in a way.

He tried a bite of his own, giving a soft hum of approval, before he launched into his questions. He knew she probably was aware it was more information gathering on his part, since some of his questions were about if she’d ever used these tactics before herself, but he was genuinely interested in the battle formations she’d brought up during their lesson, wanting to know the finer details as to why certain ones did better than others.

She would answer him between bites of food, at one point even using a now-empty skewer to sketch out a formation, the movement of the sharp tip drawing his eye and helping him to better visualize what she was talking about.

“Oh, I see now!” He was about to ask another question when he saw Hilda hovering at the edge of the dining hall, looking at him and waving him over urgently. “Looks like duty calls.” Claude glanced down at his plate, a lone skewer remaining untouched. “Say, Teach, do you want this? I don’t think I’m going to have a chance to finish it.”

He didn’t miss the way her eyes honed in on the skewer, or the hesitation when she almost reached out to grab it. “Are you sure? I can watch it until you can get back.”

“Nah, I have a feeling this is gonna take a while. Go for it,” he replied, nudging the plate over her way. Just a smidge.

As he was leaving, he glanced back and saw her pause over the skewer before taking it and adding it to her plate. He was pretty sure it didn’t last much longer.

It was a sure sign of her grief when, after Jeralt’s death, she shoved her bowl of stew at him and left the dining hall, not having had a single bite.

Claude couldn’t bring himself to eat it, instead passing it off to Raphael, who had no problems inhaling what was probably his third serving that evening.

He tried not to think about what it might mean, that she’d given it to him instead of just walking away.

After five years, he’d almost forgotten about the way Byleth treated her food, the fact that she didn’t share her favorite dishes with, well… anyone. They sat across from each other, each with a bowl of Daphnel Stew, and discussed their next move. Claude was nearly done with his, pushing the spoon around to find another piece of onion, when a spoon appeared in his field of vision, dumping a few into his bowl.

He looked up in time to see Byleth giving him a soft smile, one that quickly disappeared as she scooped up another bite of her stew, happily chewing away at the minced meat.

As the war progressed, little instances like that became more common. An extra forkful of pike when he’d devoured all of his, a bit of spiced pheasant and egg, extra cheese from the Gautier gratin.

After a while, he started returning the favor. An extra bit of meat from a Gronder skewer, a spoonful of minced poultry from his stew, egg scrambles and whatever else he knew she liked but had never said outright was her favorite part of the dishes.

It became a habit, after a while, getting the same meal from the dining hall and exchanging for favorite bits from each other’s dishes. He hadn’t even really noticed it had become a thing until Hilda commented on it.

“Sooooo…” she began, drawing the word out in a way that made him cringe. “What’s going on between you and the professor?” Her tone was all sugary-sweet innocence.

He didn’t believe that tone for even a second. “What do you mean?”

“You’re sharing meals, Leader Man.”

“We always share meals, Hilda. Teach and I do some of our best strategizing over dinner.”

“That’s not what I mean! The food itself. The professor never shares dishes she likes, not with anyone! We all know that.”

He paused, looking up from the papers on the desk, and frowned. “She doesn’t like to share her favorite bits,” he finally muttered, so quiet Hilda almost didn’t hear him.

Almost.

She gave a shrill, excited shriek, making him wince. “That’s not true! She would never share any of it with anyone but you!” The grin on her face was so big and bright he almost wondered if he could use it as an offensive tactic. “Are you two dating finally? Is that what’s going on? Ooh, I have gotto tell Marianne, she’ll never believe you finally did it!”

“Wha-… that’s not… no! We’re not… there’s nothing going on…” Claude spluttered, half-standing, cheeks blazing with heat.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…” Hilda crossed her arms in front of her, tapping her fingers in thought. “So you aren’t dating? You should. She clearly likes you, too.”

And without giving him a chance to say anything to the contrary, she left the room, bouncing on her feet and clearly ready to share what she thought was a juicy bit of gossip.

He fell back into his seat with a thump and buried his head in his hands, groaning softly. Was he really that obvious?

Was Byleth really that obvious? How had he missed that sign?

Claude straightened up, one hand curling into a fist as he resolved to figure it out.

He waited to see what dish she chose that evening; he knew that the night’s menu held more than one that they both liked. When she walked off with a plate of the pickled rabbit skewers, he opted for the pike, and then joined her at the table, as usual.

She glanced down at his plate, a momentary look of confusion gracing her features before it vanished as quickly as all her expressions seemed to.

“Hey Teach. Oh, man, those skewers look good,” he said, settling comfortably into his seat. “But the pike just smelled too good to pass up. Shame they won’t let us get two plates at a time… though if they did, I’m sure Raph would eat us all out of the monastery.” He paused, considering. “Well, I don’t think I could eat that much in one sitting anyway, honestly.”

“It was a difficult decision,” she finally settled on saying, picking up one of her skewers and nibbling thoughtfully on the meat. “Maybe…”

“Hm? Maybe what?” he asked around a bite of fish.

“Oh, uh… I was just thinking maybe we could swap. Midway through. If you wanted?”

Claude tried his best to hide his smirk behind the rim of his glass as he took a drink, for all the world looking like he was taking his time considering the offer. “Sure. Then we’d get the best of both worlds, right?”

She gave him a small smile. “Something like that.”

The topic turned to their usual, plans for the next battle, and what was after that, assuming they won. When each of their plates were half-eaten, they exchanged them, not breaking their conversation. Deep down, Claude felt a rush of surprise and… optimism. A cautious sprig of hope began to bloom.

Whatever had happened, whatever was between them, that one moment led to a change to their routine that he’d never in a million years could have expected. They began to coordinate dinners, each choosing a dish that they would swap halfway through.

He could almost feel Hilda’s gloating. She was never going to let him live this down, but…

If everything worked out in the end, it was so worth it.

Many, many months later, at the wedding of Queen Byleth of Fódlan to King Khalid of Almyra, their closest friends shared knowing grins when the happy couple chose their favorite bits of the wedding feast and fed each other.

[fireemblem3h-incorrectquotes]

Claude: You can say "have a nice day" No problem

Claude: But you can't say "Enjoy the next 24 hours" without sounding vaguely threatening.

Beres: ... Claude it's 3 AM.

[clemlet]

Constance in White Clouds: My dearest Edelgard... I cannot fathom how you'd betray us like this. I weep for all of humanity.

Constance in Crimson Flower: EDELGARD DID NOTHING WRONG #sorrynotsorry

[hotheadhero]

Living on a Prayer || Caspar & Linhardt

@linhcrdt, CF war phase, transferred from here:

just his luck to be assigned night watch.  one would think that his narcoleptic streak would render linhardt’s credentials for such tasks null but, alas, everyone must play their part. it wasn’t as if the healer could sleep at night anyhow, the pleasantries of a perfect slumber cast itself away with whatever remains of peace fodlan had once known. 

they’re at a stalemate in the war. the professor is missing, and the fact that they’ve been able to stride with minimal casualties was nothing short of a miracle. in trying times, hope was nothing but a concept– and a fictional one if to be more precise. the war has waged on for years and, frankly, linhardt doesn’t see a glimpse of a conclusion near the horizon. everything is so grim and so bothersome– and yet, odd as it is, linhardt finds it worthwhile to be amongst the strike force than to be peacefully tucked at home, ignorant. 

war has its benefits and it’s reaped through his crest research. they may not have gained any monumental victory towards their cause yet, but at least linhardt’s managed to harvest some of his own. it’s the bursts of knowledge that keeps the healer stable despite it all, as selfish at it is. the magnificence of crests shine through turmoil, in instances where their power pushes an individual past human constraints. linhardt’s managed to delude himself– as long as his research benefits from the strife, he has no qualms being on the battlefield. 

but then, there’s caspar. that’s where it gets complicated.

in order to evade devastation before its dues, linhardt’s crafted a makeshift comfort within the grim realities of war. he’s evaluated and came to terms that, whilst all his classmates-turned-comrades happen to be alive now, there’s no logical proof that declares that even half of them would remain by the end of it– himself included. if dorothea were to perish, that would be unfortunate. had it been petra? it’d be pitiful, for she would have been exhausted upon foreign soils. ferdinand? to be expected. bernadetta would be a shame. hubert and her majesty? well, frankly, that was deserved. 

only speculation of caspar’s impending misfortune that caused linhardt’s stomach to twist, to cause for his blood to run cold. the effects of his hemophobia had lost its charm long ago, yet the mere thought of caspar battered, shattered, and very much lifeless never failed to spike nausea. even now, it gives him goosebumps. it makes his chest race, throat quivering— he hates it. he despises it because, logistically, caspar’s survival rate isn’t exactly high, either. the cursed fool jumps into battles just as impetuously as he did at sixteen, as if he still had something to prove to himself, as if the war was going to end if he’s just hit a certain body count and constantly gave it his all. how someone could see death in the eye and still be so half-witted despite it all– honestly, it pisses linhardt off.

(and, of course, it’s just his luck to be so smitten by the said moron. of anyone he could have pinned for, of course he’d have to fall for the one who seems so stupidly eager to die on the battlefield. the one who never gives a second thought to any battle he’s roused himself within, the one who is stupid enough to break his weapon and continue fighting bare fist and all.)

think of a demonic beast, it’ll rise to exist. a swat to his bun announces a certain person’s presence (– and when had he been face first against the dirt?), linhardt gives a groan and stirs himself up. bleary eyes wander until they catch a glimpse of boyish looks against diffused moonlight. he stares, calm despite the outburst, and contemplates whether or not to sink back to the ground. if only death could be half as peaceful, he thinks, words dipped in fine cynicism, an art that linhardt’s found that he’s mastered over the times. he dares not to speak it, however, as he’s come to notice the begrudged state his companion is in. it’s odd– caspar’s rarely been anything but an optimistic bundle of energy.

“you look terrible,” linhardt opts to quip instead, rising, before he takes a seat next to caspar. he leans forward, shifting his weight on caspar’s side, and an arm lazily drapes around the other’s waist as aegean searches for baby blues. “something wrong?”

He didn’t expect otherwise (didn’t want to expect it either), but still, he is gratified to see Linhardt shift into an upright position and scoot closer to him. Five years ago from anyone else, he might have scooted away from the arm the mage wraps around his waist; but they’ve been fighting this war for four years now, amid fire and screams and demonic roars. He’ll take any reminder he can get that his friends are still alive and well, do anything to ensure they stay that way… even give his life for theirs if need be to save them. Caspar is the second son of Bergliez: his brother Julian, not he, will inherit the title their father currently holds (still holds, despite his age, for Gilead von Bergliez is nigh impossible to defeat in battle). The only purpose left to him is battle, and he’s dedicated all his strength to ensuring Edelgard’s vision becomes reality. Death is not unexpected for the men of his house (indeed, it is far more unusual to have representatives from three consecutive generations still alive), and he’s long since come to terms with the idea that the last thing he sees may well be the head of an enemy pike, even as the seeming indomitability of his forebears lets him delude himself into thinking he’ll survive this just as they did before him. No, it’s the others’ deaths that concern him more… Linhardt’s in particular.

This war came upon them so suddenly (even as he knows the flames of it are largely of Edelgard’s making), swept them up in its ultimatum of join or die. He knows Linhardt would much rather not be a part of it at all—even up to their graduation, he still blanched at the sight of blood—but it’s far too late for any of them to back out now. The mage has, predictably, taken up positions at the rear while he, predictably, threw himself right into the face of it all—but none of them had expected enemy reinforcements from behind until the screams fell upon them from within the infernal brush. Caspar had been part of the van, too far away to support the rear. The knot that lodged in his gut when the fighting broke out, when Linhardt’s scream of all people’s pierced the din— It was like a lightning bolt through the chest. The thought that he might not make it in time to save his friend was cause for him to move faster, even as his cramping limbs screamed at him no more. Thankfully Linhardt had escaped permanent injury resulting from the ambush (thank the goddess), but it was a harsh reminder that any one of them could die at any moment; and however much Caspar thinks he’s accepted that possible fate as his own, accepting it in others is far from easy. The mere thought of Linhardt dying near tears him in half. For fifteen years, they’ve never strayed far from each other. When they fight together, it is with the fluidity of two souls made one. Could he go on, should the other fall? Caspar isn’t sure… yet those demons still plague him even as he tries to sleep. Even worse, it’s Linhardt’s turn at night watch, and he’s out there alone. Anything could happen, and he’d never know about it. And so with a frustrated noise, he threw back his blankets and stood upright, strapped on his armor as he headed out. One could never be too careful in these dangerous times.

(The sight of Linhardt sprawled flat on the ground when he reached the outpost sent a second shock of terror through him. It hewed far too close to the repetitious image in his nightmares that drove him out of bed tonight.)

But all that is behind him now. Linhardt responded to the swipe to his hair-bun; he is here, awake, and more importantly alive. The weight of the mage’s body on his, the rise and fall of his shoulders beneath Caspar’s easy grip, the hand around his waist as if by inviting himself here, he’s become the biggest pillow in Linhardt’s collection (never mind that his heavy pauldrons can’t possibly make for a comfortable headrest)—only the familiarity of it all can still his breathing into something normal… though it would seem that not all signs of his distress could escape his friend’s watchful eye.

“You look terrible,” he observes, oceanic eyes searching his. “Something wrong?”

Caspar doesn’t answer for a moment. He can’t bring himself to answer, even though (or perhaps because) the one asking is the reason for his disquiet. To talk about it, he fears, is to invite its occurrence in reality, and Caspar would give anything to ensure that this particular event does not come to pass. Still… he has never been one to hide or lie. That he is debating doing it right now is writ as obviously on his face as his mind. Perhaps Linhardt did not even need the firelight to see it. Yet even so—!

“I couldn’t sleep,” is all he can bring himself to say. “I was just thinking…” He trails off reluctantly, then with an effort continues. “That last battle was pretty rough. Not even Hubert expected we’d be assaulted from behind. … We all got out okay this time, but it’s only going to get tougher from here on out, isn’t it.” He knows the answer already: It’s not even a question of if anymore; rather, it’s when. The young man shoots a sidelong glance towards the mage, and the knot in his stomach twists tighter. Nope. Still can’t say it.

“I wish the professor were here!” he bursts out instead. “He always knew how best to solve our problems back in the academy. Surely he’d know how to put a stop to all this without so much death and fighting! I wish—!”

His hand on Linhardt’s shoulder tightens with words left unsaid. I wish you didn’t have to be here to protect me. That should be my job, not yours.