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Somewhere, sometime, as they say in Almyra, if one finds a trail of grass more verdant than the lands surrounding it to follow to its end; if the gods of fortune smile, one could find a goddess waiting at the end as everyone knew that green, green grass blooming with clover and chamomile buds was a blessing from she who came from the west. And there was nowhere more blessed in all Almyra than the capital city, being a paradise with whole trees sprouting up under the feet of this goddess in many of her days wandering that blessed place. So they say with mouths sticky from sugar and tea, or coated with sips of coffee and smoke from their long pipes, or stuffed full of thick fleshy fruits, all luxuries that had once been used as excuses to spill each other’s blood and jealously guarded but now plenty in that once nearly barren place.
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“Whoa.” Byleth stopped at the noise from her husband, a noise that was mixed with awe and delight; the latter was commonly heard in his voice, the former less so. “When did you start doing that?”
She turned with a frown, just wondering what kind of joke he was playing; but when her gaze followed his to her feet and she found her boots ringed in green grass, vibrant against the longer yellow grasses of the Almyran plains, Byleth understood his wonder. Curious, she took a step, watching little white flowers bloom before her eyes, all because of her touch. “I don’t know.”
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So tired.
But there is a place in the desert where you can still see the sands that once covered Almyra from the base of the Wyvern’s Teeth to the furthest shore, where the grass and blooms grow in patches. Why did the goddess not bless all of that place with her steps? One must know.
Ah, an old man says with a mouth full of smoke and prayers, that place is the most sacred, because that’s where the goddess played with her children, the ones who would become kings and queens. She leapt from place to place to make the grass grow, her children laughing as they followed her.
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“The Goddess was able to revitalize Fódlan after that terrible war, but I don’t think anyone knew how or why,” Seteth said, standing with his arms folded as he and Claude stared at her the next day. Or rather, the poppies that had just burst open at her feet. “Perhaps there’s something about Almyra that allows this to happen.”
Claude frowned. “We’ve been a nation at war with ourselves for generations, perhaps that’s what it is. Teach is healing Almyra the way she did Fódlan, and the world just responds to her presence.” He ignored Seteth’s grumbling about his use of her nickname, chasing away his frown to give her an encouraging smile. “Go on, test it out.”
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Not much longer now.
No, stupid, another old man replies, querulous as always and chomping on his own pipe. That’s where she and the king danced on their wedding night, and flowers bloomed at their feet because their love was true.
An argument, the first storyteller saying that was impossible as the king was just a man, the other arguing that he, too, must have been made of divinity, for what sort of man could hope to woo a goddess?
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Impulsively, Byleth reached for his hand and led him on a merry little dance without rhyme or much reason beyond she wanted him to be beside her as she skipped her way around, making grass grow and flowers bloom. His laughter caught in the wind, soaring high above them somewhere in the bluest sky she had ever known.
They were both breathless from giggling and the heat, leaning on each other. Then he kissed her, Seteth be damned, one of those deep kisses where she felt surrounded by his warmth and his love. Nothing else mattered but the comforting press of his body against hers. “Oh,” he said when they parted, and she knew to look down at her feet; jasmine bushes surrounded them, their delicate little flowers quivering in the breeze.
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I know you’ve waited for me.
But man he was, an old woman says, her mouth shiny with juice from the mango she eats, sucking away the flesh from the skin with relish. And he traveled with her all over, to make our homeland a paradise.
More protests, all from men. We don’t understand, they cry. A man is a man and a goddess a goddess. Why should only one man be blessed with the love of divinity, king or not?
Perhaps all women are goddesses, but we don’t bother telling you lot, another woman replies, this one younger but just as wise, and the old one cackles, offering a section of her fruit to her new friend.
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She Who Blooms, that was what they called her. Children followed her to pluck the fresh flowers from her footsteps. Towns full of earth upended by the constant warring between the Almyran nobility became fertile with a visit by the queen and her magic footsteps. Springs bubbled up under her fingers, turning deserts into grasslands, grasslands into forests, forests into jungle.
And he was there at her side, smoothing over the frowns and complaints; people could be too attached to their old ways, but such grumbling usually a from thunderstorm to the pitter patter of light rain as they years wore on, and by the time her husband’s hair was more silver than brown, Almyra was well on the way to becoming a central power for the continent.
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I’ve missed you so.
There’s a hidden tomb where the king who loved a goddess is buried. Sleeping, some say, their own eyelids drooping from the effects of the sweet smoke that laces every word with laziness. Waiting for the goddess to kiss his eyelids and awaken him to the new world he dreams of.
Dead, say others, feasting on rich meals to keep their own bodies alive in the hopes of as long and fruitful a life as him, their king of kings. But they all agree that if one finds the tomb of Khalid the Blessed, there are riches beyond imagining, and the body of a man, never decaying as he waits for his love to return.
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She watched them slide the heavy stone lid over his body; still handsome even as an old man with his irrepressible youthfulness animating his features until his soul was gone. A widow now, Byleth had spent the first days of her mourning wondering what to do. But now, standing beside the tomb as their children wept, she knew what she needed to do; finish the work.
Byleth kissed each of their children twice and wiped their faces clean of tears. Then she ran a hand down the length of his resting place, imparting a wish and a prayer on the man she who had cared for her body and soul for all these long years. And then, blinking in the bright desert sunlight, the goddess began to walk, determined to cover the whole of Almyra in her bounty and blessings.
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Soon.
The goddess still wanders is whispered as they sit around campfires eating roasted game, watching the turn of the stars overhead as they lay on the soft grass she has made. Prayers and tokens are offered at crossroads and shrines dotting the land; if one is lucky, you’ll find her at one taking her tributes. If you meet She Who Blooms, make sure to pay your respects, Almyran mothers tell their children. Houses that have allowed her to sleep under their roof find themselves especially marked for fortune with their harvests more bountiful, their families prosperous.
Or perhaps they are only old wives’ tales, silly little stories of a woman made divine. Who is to say why Almyra is so blessed with the gifts of culture and plenty compared to her neighbors? It seems improbable that even a goddess would be capable of placing her feet on the whole of the earth. Even goddesses need rest.
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Byleth stumbles into the crypt. The sandstone scrapes on her fingers as she drags them over the walls; just a little further, now. She remembers where she had laid him to rest, her body knowing its final destination despite the years between then and now. She has not been here since she’d laid him to rest in a funeral befitting the king and the man, but there would be no grand procession for her as queen and goddess; she lived on in myth and legend, forgotten in the now.
There it is, waiting for her; despite her exhaustion, she still has strength enough to push aside the stone lid. Not even goddess magic had been able to return him to life, but her last murmured words had preserved his body; now they would return to dust together. Byleth nearly sobs with relief as she lays in the recess, curling up around his still form. “I wish you could see the world as it is,” she whispers. “I know you would love it.”
His lips are waxy and cool on hers, but still a comfort. She closes her eyes.
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Rest.