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Dorothea Arnault is vaguely aware that she's lucky to be alive.
The decisive moment returns to her in flashes, jumbled and warped: cyan lights, shimmering surfaces and strange symbols, miasma swooping past her left shoulder as she parries an assassin’s blade on her right. Thales on the backfoot, their objective so close…
She spots the bone-white scales of Claude’s wyvern soaring past. Failnaught’s Crest stone surges bright red as its wielder pulls back the string, dead-set on their target—and completely oblivious to the cloaked figure rushing to intercept. Dorothea moves on instinct, hissing the Thoron’s incantation, sparks crackling in her hand. Her magic is nearly depleted from a long, harrowing battle, her legs unsteady as exhaustion threatens to take over. It’s a risk, pushing herself like this.
But when she lets the spell fly and the recoil hits—when the pain is almost blinding, a shock to her system that leaves her paradoxically numb—she smiles as the would-be assassin goes down. Then she collapses to the ground and her perception shatters: into fragments of frantic voices, the scent of burnt flesh, a faint ethereal light she tries to resist barrelling towards.
Her eyes flutter open in an infirmary bed, a disoriented moan falling from her lips.
“Hey,” someone calls. Dorothea shifts ever so slightly beneath the covers, her head falling sideways towards the sound. Her vision is blurred for an uncomfortably long time, and the figure seated nearby is more impressionist painting than person: rich shades of brown and yellow, vibrant splashes of green and red.
“Claude…?” Her voice is raspy and slurred, like her tongue is too big for her mouth.
The painting laughs, slowly sharpening into a defined image. “You remember me! That’s good. We were worried you got shocked hard enough to knock a few screws loose.”
Was it really that bad? “It’s a bit early to assume I wasn’t,” she replies, beginning to push herself up to a seat only to wince at the pain shooting up her right arm. “Fuck—”
“Slow down,” Claude cuts in, springing out of his seat and sliding a hand behind her shoulder blade to guide her. Dorothea catches her first glimpse of the injury: she’s bandaged from her neck down to her discolored fingertips, an unsettling deep pink bordering on purple. Her heart skips a beat and her breath grows shallow, such a simple movement already enough to leave her winded.
“It’s bad,” she whispers, “isn’t it?”
Claude’s touch lingers, feather-light at her side. He isn’t wearing his usual gloves. “It was much worse the day of. The medics have been doing all they can to keep the scarring to a minimum.”
But there will definitely be scars. A few years ago, that might have upset Dorothea more—her value is in her looks, after all. Now she’s either too numb to process the damage, or she’s finally comfortable enough in her own skin not to care. The latter is probably wishful thinking. “Hopefully they aren't neglecting other people who need it,” she says, well aware that she tends to get special treatment—that’s what happens when you’re on a first-name basis with the emperor.
Claude smiles, perching himself on the edge of her bed. He smells like pine and cinnamon. “As it happens, most of the rotation is from the Gautier contingent. Someone promised them double pay.”
She groans. “Sylvain needs to stop throwing money around like it's nothing. I know he's been funding the majority of Fhirdiad's restoration, too.” Her voice drops low. “It’s crazy.” A little sweet, she has to admit, but mostly crazy.
“I’ve heard that’s how people act when they’re in love,” Claude says—half joking and half fascinated. “I’ve also heard him arguing with Hubert for days on end. Something about how he objected to having you on the frontline to begin with…”
“That sounds about right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wait—did you say days? How long have I been out?”
Claude frowns, pinching the back of his neck. “Um… Almost a week.”
Dorothea blinks, letting the words sink in. “I see.” A shiver runs down her spine—she’s had plenty of close calls, but this one takes the cake. “Well I’m glad you’re alright,” she manages, unsure what else to say. “That it wasn’t for nothing.”
Incredulity is an amusing look on him. “You’re glad I’m alright?” he asks with a scoff. “I should be saying that to you, Dorothea. You’re the one who—” He pauses, scrubbing a hand over his face. Has she ever seen him this upset? Certainly not towards her. It’s oddly endearing, strangely attractive. “Sorry,” he sighs out, “we’ve all been stressed. And I feel pretty responsible, since I’m the one who got careless enough that you had to jump in to save me, and…” He trails off, green eyes swirling with realization. “I haven’t even thanked you for it yet. I should’ve opened with that.”
She raises her eyebrows—this conversation gets more interesting by the minute. “Wow, Claude. I didn’t realize Sylvain had competition on the groveling front.” She lets out a melodic hum. “So you’re here because you feel guilty? And it’s been eating you up inside for days, souring what ought to be a momentous victory?”
“Glad you’re entertained,” he mumbles. “And yes, I feel guilty, but—”
“How many people have died for you already?” she interrupts, the words falling from her lips before she can think better of it. “You were the leader of the Alliance. You’re going to become the king of Almyra any day now.” Especially with this victory under his belt. “You’re so much more than just yourself—of course people will want to protect you. I know you’re practical enough to understand that.”
“But this time it was you, Dorothea.”
Her stomach drops. She expects this kind of thing from Sylvain, or even Hubert and Edelgard, but Claude? Claude von Riegan? They barely know each other. For all the times their paths have crossed, for all the playful words they’ve exchanged, she recognizes a facade when she sees one—Claude’s is just more difficult to crack compared to other similar offenders. If Sylvain is like a warped mirror, each flaw jarring and easy to spot, then Claude is a looking glass perfectly polished—so pristine that all Dorothea can see is her own image reflected back at her. Misdirection, flawlessly executed.
“You know,” Claude starts, breaking the awkward silence growing between them, “you could stand to have more faith in the idea that people care about you.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m well aware that my allies value me, Claude.”
“I didn’t say value. I said care.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
He sighs, the way one might when trying to explain some nuanced topic to a child. For some reason, she doesn’t immediately lose her temper. “You clearly fail to see a lot of things,” he murmurs, rising from his chair and beginning to pace. “I get it. When Hilda almost died to keep the imperial army away from me, I was baffled. I figured she was just protecting Derdriu, but no—she went out of her way to make it clear that I was the number one priority. Not her leader, Duke Riegan—just her friend, Claude.”
She watches him shuffle along the floor, never straying too far, gaze soft and thoughtful.
“It wasn’t just her,” he continues. “All of the Golden Deer had my back. They never questioned a single order—well, Lorenz did a couple times, but he was polite about it. Marianne always asked me how I was doing; Ignatz put up with me whenever I teased him, like he knew it was the only way I could find any semblance of normalcy with everything going on. And Lysithea—”
“Claude,” Dorothea interjects, and he stops in his tracks. “You’ve made your point.”
“Sorry,” he says, “I’m rambling.” After a beat, he adds: “I still feel bad for leaving them all.”
She shrugs. “You came back when we needed you.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, “and now I owe yet another person for keeping me alive.”
Her face warms. “I did it because I care about you,” she says pointedly. “But if you’re inclined to repay me, the Mittelfrank always appreciates donations.”
“I… Might have another idea,” he says, uncharacteristically hesitant. “But it’s going to sound ridiculous.”
Dorothea chews her lip. “Okay. I’m all ears.”
Claude nods and takes a step closer, visibly struggling to maintain eye contact. “When you had your big heroic moment—a lot of my men saw that. Almyran men, who tend to go a bit overboard on the whole ‘glory of battle’ thing. And as you so acutely pointed out, my becoming king is a foregone conclusion. There’s tons of ceremony that comes with that, and…” He lets out a long, belabored sigh. “Look, I think it’s too much, but Nader won’t stop hounding me about it. He’s so set on me starting my reign out right that he doesn’t see how inconvenient it would be for you.”
“How inconvenient what would be, Claude?” She doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but he’s making it sound a lot like it entails—
“Bringing you back to Almyra,” he blurts out as quickly as possible, all the words slurring together. “So my father can thank you personally—and give him an excuse to hold a week-long feast. As if he needs more of those.”
Dorothea cracks a smile. “I thought you enjoyed week-long feasts,” she teases, because she needs to distract herself from everything else Claude’s just said.
“Sure. But you’re focusing on the wrong detail here.”
So much for distracting herself. “I mean—I’m not immediately opposed to the idea.”
“You’ve had less than a minute to consider it.”
“Then stop looking at me like you need an answer right this second, would you?” Her heart thuds loudly in her chest as the proposal catches up to her. Almyra. The place she was always taught to be wary of, a land she only knows about through its portrayal on stage and the occasional encounter with a rebellious merchant hawking the exotic. And Claude, she supposes, but he’s always kept that secret locked tight. Now may be her best opportunity to wring some truth out of him. “Would you rather I not go?” she asks. Do you not want me to see that side of you, to slip behind that curtain?
“No,” he replies, “of course not. Why would I bother bringing it up if I’d already…” He trails off, his expression unreadable. “Well. I honestly expected you to shoot me down. You have so many reasons to.”
It’s unlike him to make so many assumptions. Does he think she’s that predictable? “By all means, enlighten me on these reasons.”
He narrows his eyes, picking up on her sardonic tone. “The distance, for one. And the slew of unknown factors. Fódlan and Almyra have been enemies for so long that there isn’t really a precedent for this kind of thing, and—I wouldn’t want you to feel out of place.”
Dorothea laughs. “I feel out of place pretty much everywhere I go, Claude.”
“You do a pretty good job convincing everyone otherwise.”
As any actress worth her salt should. But it’s not something she does consciously, not anymore. Her days having to practice smiles in the mirror are long gone; she has every rule of Fódlan etiquette memorized, each disguise etched carefully into her skin. She’s grown complacent, too comfortable with the idea that no place on earth will ever earn itself the title of home.
But then again, she isn’t done looking.
“Give it some thought,” Claude says. “There’s still plenty left to deal with before I can set off, anyway. And I’m sure we’re not the only ones with an opinion to voice.” He glances toward the entrance. “Speaking of… I ought to let the usual suspects know you’re awake.”
“I suppose there’s no sense avoiding it,” she says with a lamenting sigh. “I’ll be lucky if I get a single moment to myself after this.”
“Such is the curse of having people who care about you,” Claude muses with a mischievous smile. “You can include me in that list, by the way. In case it wasn’t obvious.”
She mirrors his teasing look back at him. “Don’t worry. It was.”