Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A/N: Finally, after all these years: I am writing Claudoro/Doroclaude/Claudorothea~! I've had this fic in mind for years, but never had enough ideas to bring it together to form a concrete storyline! This was meant to be a two-shot (first chapter pre-timeskip, and second mid-timeskip) but has now become three and maybe even four chapters. I am EXTREMELY proud of how this story is turning out :D!

On the bridge leading to the monastery Dorothea gazes at the ravine below Garreg Mach where the forests lay, pondering the sort of freedom she could have if she decided to live in the woods away from any societies. It is quite the odd thought to have, and most would think it more unusual for someone as ‘successful’ as her to think such things, but it is one that has been pestering her since she arrived here. Of course she knows she would not be able to manage on her own, but one can fantasise what-ifs. What if she could live in the woods, or anywhere away from societal expectations? What sort of person would she be without the pressures to conform? Alas they are just what-ifs, and to fantasise too much is bound to make her despondent. Can’t look depressed; men don’t like sad girls after all.

“Quite the sight, huh?”

Snapping her attention away from the ravine she turns to see the House leader of the Golden Deer approach her. Hands behind his head, an easy-going smile, and taking his time to approach give the impression of a laid-back boy. To most Claude’s mannerisms seem organic, and for a brief second Dorothea is almost fooled by it. The only reason she believes it to be not authentic—but by no means sinister—is that upon him getting closer she notes how his smile doesn’t reach his eyes and how those eyes scrutinise her in a manner of one trying to predict how to respond to every one of her tells. But she must hand it to him: he is extremely good at acting. Takes a master to know one. (Hopefully that logic does not apply to him reading her… best to test the waters).

With her most lovely smile she comments breezily and honestly, “I’ve never been to any mountain so I can’t help but admire the view.”

When he comes to a halt he keeps a respectful distance from her. Nothing about his demeanour gives him the ‘I am just a nice guy, you can trust me’ vibe that makes her want to shiver. She rather a man be a jerk to her face than pretend he’s some saint when all his kindness is a ploy to win over a trophy. Of course she must remind herself that he is playing a part, so she can’t say who the real Claude is. Takes time to reel in a fish, so patience is key.

“Spent most of your life in Enbarr?” He asks with a cock of his head, oddly enough reminding her of an inquisitive deer.

“Travelled a bit around Adrestia, thanks to being a part of the Mittlefrank Opera Company.”

The way he nods is… extremely telling. The vast majority of people from across Fódlan appear excited, enchanted, or impressed by anyone being associated with that company. Yet Claude simply nods like someone who recognises that it must be a big deal but doesn’t exactly know why.

“You must have garnered a lot of admirers.”

For a split second she feels her brows furrow and her eyes take a hard glint, but fortunately she cleans that up with her classic practised chuckles. “Roses do have a way of enticing people, yes.”

He blinks at her, stupefied. His smile drops to that of a confused frown. Now she cannot help but blink back in mutual wonder. Did he seriously not get what she was alluding to with her remark? Actually it is quite clear now that he seems oblivious to her former moniker of the ‘Mystical Songstress’.

Then his emerald eyes light up in realisation. “Oh—no! I meant opera admirers!” he corrects with an apologetic grin that is shockingly dopey for one who acts carefree. It disappears the second she processes it. “Though I don’t fault anyone who is attracted to you.”

Such a comment would usually make her resist the urge to roll her eyes or to scoff at how ‘smooth’ it is, but all she can do is stare at him nonplussed. He said it like a fact, not a compliment or way to woo her. The way his smile appears strained of someone mentally cringing at how he is presenting himself or at how badly he worded something further adds to him being sincere. It is a subtle thing, but she notices. Perhaps he is not as masterful as she thought, or perhaps he has finally met his match.

“So I clearly made things awkward,” he remarks with a laugh that she cannot tell is practised or authentic or an odd mixture of both. “Admirers is clearly a sensitive topic for you.”

…He’s already pinpointed that from first impressions and such little conversation? It takes all her willpower to not grimace. With the way he emphasised and repeated ‘clearly’ she finds herself growing a tad paranoid that she’s more readable than she would like. Perhaps this is a tactic of his to make her paranoid so she can slip up.

Judging by his neutral gaze she doubts he will use this knowledge against her. He hasn’t brought up the prospect of going on a date, so that counts for something good. Maybe he truly isn’t interested in dating her. With the way he is scrutinising her it feels like he only came to say hello to gauge her, perhaps with the intention to invite her over to the Golden Deer. Such scrutiny makes her feel uncomfortable, some tool being inspected for faults, secrets on the cusp of being exposed to the world. 

“Bringing up what makes people uncomfortable tends to make them even more uncomfortable, Claudie,” she points out with a sweetness of honey containing bee stingers, internally proud of her perfect detraction and segue.

He does not appear offended at all about her nickname, further indicating that he doesn’t care about formalities. “I seem to be making a number of gaffes!” Claude remarks with a lit in his tone and twinkle in his eyes.

“How about we restart our conversation,” he places an arm by his chest and does a dramatic bow. “Hello, my name is Claude von Riegan; but Claude, or Claudie, will do.”

“Charmed,” she responds with a giggle—a disturbingly authentic giggle. “My name is Dorothea Arnault, but Dorothea will do.”

When he pulls up from his bow he has an exaggerated pout. “Don’t I get to give you a nickname?”

“Well that’s for you to figure out,” she answers with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Such casualness with another leaves her feeling trepidatious, for it means that she will likely slip up her guard and that she is shockingly desperate for some companion. Most of all she cannot be too friendly around him, for she must showcase to potential suitors that she is available. Due to his position as future duke Claude will marry only someone of political value, so there is no point in trying to bag him. That doesn’t mean she should be hostile to him; if she wishes to earn the eyes and approval of Leicesterian nobles then being on good terms with him is a must. Maybe she can make a few jealous enough through being cordial with him to make a move on her.

(Is she using him, just as how nobles use underlings to their bidding? Yes, but her circumstances mean she has to in order to survive. Nobles can live easy lives even if they don’t marry or have a Crest. Former songstress who can only rely on looks to win over someone to support her, in which that feature will eventually fade away and leave her to rot like all flowers do, means she doesn’t have the luxury to simply exist. So she is using Claude, but he is surely using her too: to showcase what an open-minded noble he is with commoners.).

“I’ll have to give it some thought, after we do a bit of bonding,” Claude decrees with a smile that still doesn’t quite reach his eyes but is a bit wider. Then he takes on a ‘but in all seriousness’ look, wishing to respect her boundaries. “Providing you’re fine with it…?”

“I am fine with it.”

“You’re quite an impressive fighter!”

Looking up from where she sits atop a log she notices Claude smiling at her with what she believes is sincere pride. He has his bow over his shoulder in a manner that usually would appear cocksure yet on him makes him look boyishly charming—which she doubts is what he was going for. Dirt mats his clothes from the first mock battle that the Three Houses had, yet he doesn’t care at all. That cannot be said about Lorenz and Hilda, who are practically having a meltdown over unclean clothes and pleading with their professor to get washed immediately.

“Nobles don’t tend to like people fighting dirty,” she comments without hiding her disdain for such ridiculous ideals.

“Well they won’t last in a real fight,” Claude says with a dismissive shrug. “Good thing such people do exist though; makes dealing with them easy.” He flicks his head towards a certain Ferdinand von Aegir to make a point.

She cannot help but grin—but she quickly drops it so none can see her dimples. “You also used underhanded tactics. Wishing to make an impression on everyone, huh?”

“When you’re the future duke of a country you are expected to impress others,” he affirms with a chirp, once again demonstrating that he sees no problem with it. “Alas I couldn’t poison the other Houses, for Little Miss Stoic and Goody Prince threatened to expose me to Seteth.”

She searches his expression and body language for any hints of him telling the truth or messing with her, yet he maintains that charming persona. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Glad to hear; means I can make for quite the politician!”

She cocks a brow at him. “You value my insight that much?”

“It’s important to hear everyone out,” Claude answers, though she is very much aware that he only values her opinion because he knows she’s a master of wearing facades like him.

“Especially from perceptive people.”

There—he falters for just a moment. His eyes shoot up to his forehead and his smile drops to a startled frown over her bluntly calling him out. Then he hides it by chuckling, though there is a glint in his eyes that showcases that he is now hyper-aware that she is onto him.

“Guilty as charged,” he says with a sly smile. “You must think I’m being nosy.”

She barks a dark laugh at such a naïve comment, and cannot backtrack from it. “Oh you don’t know what nosy is until you have suitors who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

His smile drops to a concerned frown that she is afraid to read as being genuine. “I…” What’s this? Claude von Riegan at a loss for words? He clears his throat and his eyes glaze in the kind of guilt of one realising—at least how he interprets—he was being insensitive. “…Well I hope I never remind you of such people.”

“You would not still be talking with me if that was the case.” Anyhow she is growing more uncomfortable putting the lamplight on her predicament—change the topic. With a smile that feels but fortunately doesn’t look strained she says in a chirpier tone, “Anyhow why add more gloom to yourself when your House lost to mine?”

Once again his cheeky façade is placed back as he reads between the lines and drops the topic: “Hey no need to rub in the salt!”

She leans her cheek against her knuckles to give a humoured impression as she plays this game: “I assume this is the part where you tell me that you would have won if you could have poisoned everyone in the other Houses.”

He nods and tilts his chin up oh-so dramatically, with hands on hips to further punctuate his image. “This is the part indeed: I would have won if I had gotten away with it.”

Neither of them wish to be read by the other. That is abundantly clear to her. But that doesn’t mean they cannot indulge in some silly game of acting their projected selves amongst each other.

She feels sick.

Being made to kill people who simply wanted the Church to make amends is—she needs to go somewhere private. Somewhere where she can let out her emotions without fear of being judged too emotional to date. Somewhere she can sink into despair over how commoners are forever discarded like trash by those in power. So she gravitates towards the greenhouse, for none, not even Dedue, frequent it at the hours of sunset. Upon opening the doors she freezes.

Tending to one of the garden beds is Claude.

His back is to her, crouched, engrossed with his watering. She sucks in her bottom lip. She can make her leave and he will have never suspected anyone having entered the greenhouse. There’ll be some place else to vent out her frustrations, where no one will ever find her.

Yet there is this naïve pitiful part of her that wants to go to him because she has this inkling that he won’t judge her. Goddess she must be more vulnerable than she realised to be indulging in the idea of opening up to someone, let alone that someone being master of masks Claude von Riegan. Are they even friends? They have chatted with one another numerous times, mostly laconic but sometimes longer, yet that hardly counts as them being friends. They likely can never be, not when they keep one another at arm’s length.

But she is still here.

Best to get this over and done with.

She walks on over to him. “I didn’t take you for a late-day gardener, Claudie.”    

He jumps as he whips around to her from his crouched position. His alarmed gaze relaxes to an easy smile. “Nor you, Dorothea.”

When he comes to a stand she tenses upon his eyes raking in her expression. Even with a smile on her face he still eyes her with a glint of one seeing through the cracks. Concern etches upon his features, crinkling them in ways that the most attentive person never see when he is smiling or laughing around others. It is authentic. She knows how to deal with pretenders, but with people who genuinely care…? It’s foreign territory to her.

“I heard about what happened with Lord Lonato and his people,” Claude begins, any trace of his easy-go-lucky tone gone. His brows furrow in anger, a sight she and likely no one here has seen before. “Sounded like a massacre.”

“That is exactly what it was,” Dorothea blurts out with a scathing scoff. She grits her teeth to hold back a shout. “Those people were fighting to better their lives, and the Church didn’t even try to hear them out.”

She plonks herself against a garden bed. Uncaring if it dirties her hand she smooths it against a patch of soil, gaze melancholic and furious as she traces meaningless patterns.

“Commoners are seen as dirt: to be trampled on, and only useful when they better the lives of those above them…”

Usually she would mentally slap herself for blurting out such unbecoming thoughts to another, especially to a noble. But oh how she wishes she could vent out these thoughts to every noble and Church member around, to make them uncomfortable with the reality of their spoiled positions. To see their reactions and their vain attempts to hide away from the truth would satisfy her, give her some semblance of power in her life that has nothing to do with enticing men with looks.

Isn’t the Goddess meant to love all her children equally? Clearly not; if anything she has a dark sense of humour, having her mother bestow her a name meaning ‘Goddess’ gift’… If the Goddess cared then there would be no suffering. Why would anyone wish to devote themselves to a being that does nothing to better the lives of everyone and who derives sick pleasure from those left behind?

She hears rather than sees Claude sit beside her. She can sense his uncertainty to speak his mind, a feeling she very well can relate to. “You’re right about how the world works,” he affirms, and she’s grateful to hear a noble acknowledge her feelings and not belittle her. “Yet it only works like that because a select group of people over time made it that way.”

When she looks over to him his expression is austere, openly critical about the very system that benefits him. She cannot help but snort in droll amusement and quirk her lips. “You sound a bit like Edie.”

The laugh to escape him screams of him being so unused to being caught off-guard and yet genuinely amused from another. Under other circumstances she’d congratulate herself on seeing him slip through the cracks.

“Not sure how to feel about being compared to Princess,” he confesses with a boyish grin. He grows austere once more, though no longer sullen. “But I guess it must be reassuring to you to know two nobles who share your frustrations.”

Indeed, for she never imagined any noble to be humble enough to see how others feel. Actually there are likely more than two. Caspar, Bernadetta, and Linhardt were mortified over the killing of civilians. Hubert, when he did not think anyone would overhear, murmured with disgust how those in power love to trample the weak. Petra not understanding why they couldn’t have tried diplomacy first, and even if someone had to be punished by death then why not simply target the leader and leave the rest. Ferdinand condemns the actions of Lord Lonato, despite how in his romanticised idea of nobility mind that Lord Lonato should fit the idea of the perfect noble—or maybe Lonato does, and challenges his very beliefs.

But she shan’t voice the others, for she does not know if they would ever challenge the status quo and put their coin where their mouth is. Only Edelgard and Claude give her the tiniest spark of hope—whether it is wistful projection or legitimate is to be seen—that they might do something.

“You’re right, actually,” she says with a nod. Her eyes take on a piercing gaze, of someone wishing to engrain this image into another’s head, to haunt them until they do as she asks. “But whether you two will enact changes to benefit commoners is to be seen.”

“I’ll try to live up to those expectations,” he decrees without any jocular hint; he is being serious.

Promises come to her like offerings to a statue of the Goddess. Save for Manuela all promises have been empty, for words are cheaper than anything known to man. But to be fair to Claude he only ‘claims’ that he shall try. If anything that means he is taking her seriously and does not wish to make promises he cannot keep. For that her respect for him has grown. Hopefully that respect is not ill-placed.

(But she’s been disappointed all her life, so what can one more do to her?).

“Sooo your teacher can wield the long-lost Sword of the Creator?”

“Apparently so.”

“And the Archbishop was more than happy to give it to them…?”

“Practically forced it upon Professor Eisner.”

“And nobody asked how the supposed lost sword can be only wielded by your teacher?”

“Not directly in front of the Archbishop.”

Sitting behind the cathedral where nobody wanders she partakes in snacks with Claude. The news of the discovery of the Sword of the Creator and Professor Eisner’s ability to wield it has spread throughout Garreg Mach like an untamed wildfire. Like a deer rushing out from said fire Claude more-or-less came hurtling towards her to hear directly from her, her experiences in the Holy Tomb. He was extremely lucky that she finished her private discussions with Edie on the matter, for he’d likely just wait for her to finish at the chagrin of Edie and the not-so-subtly hidden Hubie.

It's a good thing he is leaning his back against the wall of the chapel, for his wide eyes and gawking mouth give her the impression that he’d lose his balance over the shock and incredulousness of this situation.

He places a hand on his head, his signature gesture of displaying puzzlement. “I… honestly have no idea what to say.”    

“That makes two of us,” she affirms with a nod.

Silence. It’s oddly relieving to know that someone as intelligent and perceptive as Claude is equally as baffled as her and everyone else. They look away from one another to stare at the sky to… to do something.

“It’s like the Archbishop wants to use your professor for…” he waves a hand in frustration. “…something.”

She nods again, though has nothing else to add on the matter. Neither of them know or even have an inkling as to why the Archbishop is obsessed with Professor Eisner and what she has in store for them.

He turns back to her, and she looks to him. “Apparently the Archbishop’s ‘investigation’ into the grave robbers simply amounted to condemning them to an execution,” he comments with an honest harshness that he seems to only display around her.

“Correct,” she admits without hesitation. Her brows furrow ever-so slightly. “For an institution supposedly about promoting peace, forgiveness, and understanding it sure loves to execute people who dare to disagree with it.”

Such blasphemous talk could land her in grave danger. Yet Claude has been shockingly open—or rather he is not as slick about his views—so she figures that to keep their… whatever this bond is afloat that she shares equally juicy ideals. All relationships should be built on mutuality after all. Besides this isn’t the first time they have dropped hints of their disapproval of Church practices.

He leans a bit closer so they are bumping shoulders, his look, though appearing playful, containing a warning in his strained smile. “Careful Dorothea; wouldn’t want the likes of Catherine to hear you talk like that.”

She shoots him a droll look. “I never took you for a dobber, Claudie.”

“The only time I may fantasise the idea of blackmailing someone is a noble proving to be a thorn in my side,” he answers in his usual easy-going tone, yet she feels certain that he could very well consider such a ploy in the future.

“I will just have to make sure I marry a noble that won’t get on your bad side then.”

He cocks his brows, curious about something. “Does it have to be a noble?”

Damn it; she slipped up.

A hardened smile glazes her features, one that he must be able to read despite her maintaining an eased expression. It is technically no secret that she goes on dates with nobles, yet some think she only gravitates to them as there is a disproportionate number of them in comparison to commoners. Of course there are some hushed whispers as to her intentions for seeking rich suitors, though very few come from the students. Surely Claude must have heard some rumours about her, ever the prier about everyone.  

Fortunately, despite his reputation to be a bit nosy, he graciously drops the topic. Instead he offers her an assuring gaze. “Don’t worry about your views of the Church; your secret is safe with me.”

“As are your views.”

Sitting at the gazebo Claude notices her, smiles, and waves her over just as she is passing by. “Hey Dorothea—would you like to play a game of chess?”

She comes to a halt and cocks a brow at him. It is certainly not every day that someone approaches her and offers an outing that requires the use of one’s brain. Despite how much it takes to enrol in Garreg Mach there are still plenty of students—and even faculty members—that assume she is brainless and a mere object to admire. She is still unused to the Black Eagles inviting her out beyond dangling her around to show her off in front of others.

“Alright then,” she decrees and comes over to pull up a chair and sit opposite him. Surely she has other things to do… but her curiosity is piqued. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I have played chess before?”

“I assume you do, considering you don’t appear lost,” Claude answers.

“Most assume I am too ditzy for games of intellect,” she says with a huff as she eyes which piece to move first.

“It can be good to be underestimated,” Claude comments as he watches her every move.

“Not on an everyday basis, not when I am constantly painted as incapable of doing anything,” she says tersely as she moves a piece.

“I get that…”

She looks up and eyes him curiously. How can he understand that? He is a noble, one who was born with everything he’s ever wanted. He doesn’t have any siblings vying for power, so he is content with familyhood. He hasn’t been exiled from his House, and even if he were he certainly would be scooped up for his intellect.

“…that it must be frustrating to be looked on as some object. You’re a person, capable of so much!”

That was a terrible save, though she cannot fathom what he is hiding. Perhaps he had an abusive upbringing, where his parents kept insisting he is something when he isn’t? From what she has gathered from the Black Eagles, and from eavesdropping or hearing gossip from other Houses, there are a number of nobles’ parents who are abusive. Not much is known about the current duke’s son-in-law, so one can only guess. He doesn’t talk about his parents or his mysterious arrival, making him quite a subject of interest. Perhaps she can learn a few things here and there to piece together his story.

“Even slipping your guard,” she comments sweetly as she takes his pawn with hers.

“Oh how you wound me,” he remarks with faux horror, accentuated by him dramatically placing the back of his hand against his forehead. Then a sly smirk crosses him as he moves a piece and takes her knight, “But you forget I can slip your guard too.”

It’s extremely fascinating that neither decide to end whatever is going on between them at this very instance. They have vocalised that they are both onto one another. Yet she is still here, as is he. Their similar mannerisms draw them together. Whether that is a good thing or not is hard to say.

It brings up the question once again as to what is their relationship. They spend some time together, be that sharing gossip and comparing notes, more often than simple classmates or acquaintances. Neither can ever be their truest selves, yet they seem disturbingly content to trip over here and there when it is just between them. (Do they even know what it means to be their ‘truest’ selves? Somehow she doubts it.). As oxymoronic as it sounds she is simultaneously somehow the most comfortable and uncomfortable around him. Friendship usually means being at ease around another, but once again neither can ever truly be at ease amongst others and most of all themselves.

Their bond is… unusual yet cordial to say the least.

“How do you feel about Almyra?”

Claude looks like prey realising that a hunter is stalking him, with how her perks up from his book to look up at her leaning against a bookstand. Such conversation is not usually discussed in the open, but in this secluded and untouched part of the library that only he—and now she—frequents such talks no longer need to be hidden. She does not hide her smug satisfaction in her smile and eyes upon catching him off-guard.

He searches her with a scrutiny that seems more intense than his usual prying. She can infer his answer just from how he is observing her, yet she rather hear it straight from his lips.

“They’re people,” he starts, stating it like it is a simple fact with almost child-like innocence. “I think having discussions with them is a better alternative than constantly butting heads with each other.”

So she is correct: he sees them as people. Whilst she hasn’t interacted with any Almyrans due to Enbarr’s distance from the border she understands being seen as not even a person simply due to background. Her interactions with Petra and the occasional laconic ones with Dedue and Cyril showcase that despite coming from different people they are grouped together as lesser, meaning that Almyrans certainly fit into that camp. Thus she sympathises with them, and would just like them craves a world where they are not seen lesser for merely existing.

With how more open-minded Claude appears, with how cordial he is with the commoners and with Dedue, Petra, & Cyril, she is extremely interested to hear what he wishes to do with Almyra in the future. After all if he is truly serious about seeing Almyrans as people then that stands to benefit those not in positions of power. Not benefitting nobles tends to not make a noble popular, especially when that one is to be the future ruler—who is already controversial, before rising to power.

“I take it you will try to open such talks when you’re duke?”

“Won’t be easy, but change never is,” he responds with an award-winning smile that unlike his others is authentic.

She crosses her arms and gives him a harsh judgemental look. He maintains his expression, even if he must be fazed by her shift to a chilly mood. Talk is cheap, even scandalous views, made cheaper by how his lifestyle reflects the reality.

“For someone adamant about forging bonds with Almyra you sure are buddy-buddy with someone whose family is known to have them as slaves.”

His entire expression and posture drops. This is the sullenest she has ever seen of him. Not his usual ‘ah oops’ or ‘oh darn’ looks whenever her fumbles something, but poignant sorrow and… dare she read into it: disgust. She spots his fingers digging against his book, and the subtle dip at the bridge of his hooked nose. He shows no desire to quickly put his mask back on; his anger keeps him still, open in a way that would frighten him under other circumstances.

“…You speak of House Goneril,” he begins, not to see if he is right but to control himself. His eyes darken to that of a schemer dirtying his hands in the name of politics. “I am only ‘buddy-buddy’ with Hilda so that I can one day get her to free all of Goneril’s slaves and allow diplomatic talks with the Almyrans at Fódlan’s Locket. Being on friendly terms with someone gets them to be more open to doing what you ask, after all.”

With anyone else she’d bark a sardonic remark about how yes she will absolutely take the noble at their word of being open-minded enough to enact changes. Yet she… ‘knows’ may not be quite accurate, but in the sense she knows when Claude von Riegan is being an actor and when he is being his true—or closest to true—self. Right here, with the anger blazing in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw implying how he’d wish he could scream out his frustrations to get something done, and how he bristles upon a sensitive subject being prodded, she knows he is telling the truth.

Most would probably look down on him on how he is using Hilda for future gains, and usually she is disgusted by anyone wishing to use others to their bidding. But this is an exception, one where her respect for Claude has grown exponentially to the point that she almost believes that maybe, just like Edie, he is serious about bettering the lives of others. The only way he can enact such decisions is to make as many friends or allies as he can and to fool those whom he dislikes that he’s on good terms with them. Just like Edie he’s being realistic, not just a dreamer.

“That’s the best approach,” she says with a bow to show she is being sincere.

His posture eases and the frustration in his eyes softens to that of someone who is exhausted with needing to constantly play such charades every waking moment. Feeling sympathetic towards the tiredness to always be someone else she sits beside him without word. After a while she feels him relaxing more with how his shoulder grows lax. A grateful smile blossoms on his face and she matches it with an understanding one. They just sit like that, neither saying anything, simply content to just relax, something the majority take for granted, something they never have the luxury in indulging. There likely will come the time that they both overanalyse the situation they find themselves in, but for now? Dorothea likes simply being present.

A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts (be that a multi paragraph analysis, a keyboard smash, or even if it is an emoji) and if possible some feedback!

Chapter Text

A/N: Thank you all so much for kudos'ing, bookmarking, commenting, and even giving this story (and Doroclaude/Claudoro) a go!

'Nattan3': I'm thrilled to hear that you're enjoying the direction of the story and beginning to see the vision of Doroclaude/Claudoro!

'laminecuisine': I am pleased to hear that my Dorothea POV is great! Writing the dialogue between Dorothea and Claude has been extremely fun. I always thought it weird that Hilda's family's history of owning Almyran slaves was brushed off by Claude of all people, so I am happy that it makes sense that he would try to use her by getting close to her.

'weebwitched': Hell yeah this rarepair is in the year 2025! I absolutely love them, and that feeling isn't going to fade over time >:D!

“You spend quite some time with Claude.”

Looking up from her cup of tea she blinks as Edie stares at her with that piercing gaze of hers. There is no judgement in them; she is merely stating a fact. And she isn’t wrong.

How does she feel about hanging out with Claude? Does he interfere with her chances to bag a rich suitor? Thinking on all the times she spends with him… yes, unfortunately—or fortunately?—he does take up too much of her time. But even with that acknowledged she cannot find it in herself to see him less. Despite how he keeps his cards close to him he is good company. Likely it is precisely because she’s like him that she finds comfort in the familiar.

Best to undersell just how much she enjoys his company. With some giggles and a grin she says, “Don’t worry, Edie; I’m quite comfortable being a part of the Black Eagles.”

Edie nods, though nothing in her posture indicates that, that was a serious concern of hers. “Deflecting, I see.”

…Is she really so readable? When did she start becoming sloppy with her guard? She licks her bottom lip, hoping that Edie believes she merely burnt it. Yet she no longer feels confident in her act, not when Edie read her without a tinge of effort. Lying will only make things worse with her. Perhaps she can just sit put and Edie will read that she doesn’t wish to elaborate. Best to just do that.

“I am not here to tell you who you should be spending time with,” Edie assures with a shake of her head, believing her silence to mean she is worried over that. “I am simply… curious of what you make of him.”

Thankfully the topic is more to do with Edie trying to gauge what to make of Claude as a political ally, rather than her personal feelings about him. Most would take offense to Edie showing clinical interest, but Dorothea sees this as a blessing. Not having to talk about herself in a way that leaves her at the mercy of another is always a relief.

She leans forward with a playful smile that showcases her dimples; she will be honest with what she has to tell Edie. “Secretive, though you already knew that,” she starts with a giggle.

Edie just stares, ever intense. She debates what exactly to share, and how to do so in a way that doesn’t compromise the bond she’s made with Claude. “He’s quite open-minded. I think if you approached him you’d be surprised how much you two have in common.”

Lilac eyes widen, having not suspected such a claim. Then that familiar austere gaze of a princess that lacks the luxury to make close friends appears upon her. “Opening up to the wrong people can spell one’s doom.”

Oh Dorothea knows all too well how opening up to the wrong people can ruin her. Her expression hardens into something cold enough to send shivers down even a Knight of Seiros’ spine. The amount of times she thought she could be vulnerable with suitors in her early days seeking them out in the opera is utterly pitiful. No one likes to hear that the operatic star comes from a poor background; how utterly embarrassing for the suitor, or patron, or any person thinking to affiliate with her. No one wants to touch dirt if they can avoid it.

Then there are the folks who’ll try to manipulate your vulnerabilities to their bidding. A young naïve Dorothea thought a few times that she found someone who respected her, only to be used for their gratification or as some charity project. She blinks upon realising that she is gripping her cup’s handle hard enough to ache her knuckles. Compose yourself; worrying someone means they’ll start asking personal questions until they chip away your defences.

“Being the future emperor means you need to be even more vigilant with the people you hang out with,” she acknowledges with a nod that feels heavier than her neck can handle. Then she shrugs. “But it may be worth getting a feel for Claude.”

Edie doesn’t appear too convinced, but the dip of her bridge implies she is truly taking her words to heart. Dorothea truly hopes that she and Claude can one day connect on some level, for she does believe they could do a lot for their people and the whole of Fódlan by working together.

“Well so long as you’re comfortable around him then I am happy for you,” Edie settles on, and Dorothea has to bite the inside of her cheeks to prevent a droll smile crossing her. Now who is deflecting? But then something knowing crosses those lilac eyes, a sort of trust that is placed onto her that startles her. “You do have a good eye for people.”

Ah. So Edie may be convinced to get to know Claude more so long as she continues to spend time with him. She’s been given the role of a spy for her. She… she understands why Edie would do this, but she isn’t happy to be thrusted with such a role. Her bond with Claude came forth from mutual interest in someone with a masterful façade such as hers, a morbid curiosity so to speak. They dance around one another, and yet despite the second-guessing over their interactions and if they have slipped up too much they still spend time together. If she has to be honest with herself, which she rarely is, she must say she has grown to like Claude. So the idea of spying on him, on getting to know him to simply benefit herself, so to speak, is… it makes her feel like she is no different from every person that simply got to know her to just use her for their gain.

Her disapproval of her role is clearly written on her face with how Edie deflates before her. She clears her throat as her eyes soften in guilt. “Forgive me for insinuating something that distresses you.”

(Dorothea likes to believe that Edie is being genuine… but she cannot say for sure. Regardless she refuses to be a spy. End of story.)

Having finished sky watch with Petra the two unsaddle their wyverns. Usually women are given Pegasi, yet both insisted on riding wyverns. For Dorothea she finds wyverns more appealing due to their ferocious appearance; most tend to go to Pegasi due to believing them gentle and beautiful creatures incapable of doing wrong. As someone who has been compared to beautiful docile beings throughout her life she prefers to gravitate to those on the opposite side.

In her peripheral vision she notes a peculiar wyvern.

White as snow with the pinkest eyes: an albino? Then she catches sight of Claude murmuring to the wyvern while having the biggest boyish grin to adorn him. With the way he is chuckling and patting the wyvern’s side, eyes closing into two delighted crescents, this is the authentic Claude: a dork. It is such an endearing sight, one that manages to slowly take brick by brick of her fortified wal—those bricks will return in due course.

“That is quite the wyvern you have, Claude,” Petra calls out to him.

His mannerism shifts to warm neutrality as he looks over at the two. For a split-second Dorothea swears his eyes light up just a bit upon noting her, but she may be projecting… why, she doesn’t know.

“Basima is quite something,” he remarks with utmost affection and pride. Such adoration can only belong to someone who has owned that wyvern since it was a hatchling.

“That’s not a Fódlani name,” Dorothea comments, intrigued. She doesn’t know too much about lands beyond Fódlan—which is not surprising, considering the continent’s weird obsession of being in love with itself and not wishing to mingle with others.

“As a token of opening tentative trade relations between Leicester and Almyra I was gifted a wyvern egg, under the pretext it would have an Almyran name,” he answers with a smile. Such a reply seems too scripted to be true. “I got a book about the Almyran language, so upon finding out my wyvern is a girl I named her Basima—‘smiling’.”

Dorothea observes how Basima smirks at her; most would interpret it a snarl, but she’s been using wyverns on sky patrol for months to know it is a friendly sign. She cannot help but smile in amusement.  

“She certainly has the toothy grin to match yours, Claudie.”

His grin widens as he slings an arm around Basima’s neck to bring her closer so they are leaning their heads against each other. “We’re quite the match.”

Doesn’t he know just how open he is being? No, it is a mix of his usual charming easy-going façade and his authentic self. Half-truths tend to be the best way to lower people’s guards. (Is she being cynical in how she is viewing the way he is acting in front of her and Petra? None can blame her if they were in her predicament.).  

His eyes gaze upon the two girls’ wyverns. “Do you both enjoy flying?”

“I am preferring the ground,” Petra admits. She frowns upon struggling to find the words, but Dorothea and Claude give her all the time she needs. “I have more… how to say… ‘control’ when I am walking…?” 

“You depend only on yourself,” Dorothea says with certainty; Petra became a fast friend of hers, so she’s come to understand her mannerisms. Petra nods.

Claude then looks to her. “So what about you, Dorothea?”

“I love the freedom of it,” she utters, startled over how dreamy she sounds. “Away from everyone, away from all the expectations…”

What has gotten her to sound so wishy-washy and open? Perhaps she is more exhausted from the flight patrol than she thought. Or maybe there is something about Claude that gets her to dismantle the barricade that is herself. He is extremely dangerous, someone he should start to avoid to save what little mask she has left around him. By himself he may not pose too much of a threat, yet when the two are around others she risks exposing too much of herself to potential suitors. But she doesn’t invite him on dates, so perhaps she is being too paranoid.

His expression softens, and she hates how her heart feels this pleasant warmth with how he is looking at her. “It’s quite something indeed.”

“Perhaps you two will go on the next sky patrol together,” Petra chimes in and looks between them with a look that Dorothea is too afraid to read into.

She shoots her a playful look. “Playing the matchmaker, huh Petra?”

(She absolutely says this in jest. There is no part of her, not even a tiny one, that made the remark with a spark of hope that Claude would consider. Not at all. After all she knows she cannot pursue anything with him, and that it wouldn’t be wise to be in a relationship with a future leader of a country. Too much baggage and complications. So why is there this stupid part of her ignoring that rational and correct way of thinking…?).

“I’m not opposed to it,” Claude responds with his usual whimsy, though there is something in his eyes that says he’s more excited by this than even he thinks appropriate.

“Alright then,” she is equally as surprised as him that she is genuinely considering the offer. With how they both have their brows raised it must look comical to Petra. “I’ll talk with my professor to arrange it.”

“I-I’ll talk with mine then…!” Did he, Claude von Riegan, boy of a golden tongue, stutter? “Cross Houses interactions are encouraged after all.”

With nothing else needing to be said she and Petra make their leave. She ignores the way Petra appears pleased with the outcome, wishing once again to not read too much into it.

“Okay… so… I have a question that will definitely come across as intrusive—”

“—and yet you’re dying to ask me.”

“Not enough to make you uncomfortable! As shocking as it sounds I can respect people’s privacy.

The trip to Gronder Fields will take a number of days, so naturally to kill the time Claude spends it by walking with her around the perimeter of their tents. She was planning on spending time with the Black Eagles, but she can spend a bit of it with Claude—especially with the way he is dying to ask her something. It’s not every day that Claude von Riegan asks upfront for or about something; he usually tries to fish it out of someone.

When they’re somewhere away from everyone, loitering around some trees and shrubs that’ll muffle their voices, he looks to her with what she assumes is a sympathetic smile to try and lessen the blow of whatever he wishes to ask. She flicks her wrist to implore him to just say what’s on his mind.

“Have you ever considered asking a Black Eagle if you could marry them for financial security?”

Well.

That is quite the gut-punch question.

Not even she is able to school her expression into something mildly surprised. No, her brows shoot up to the brim of her cap and she stares at him all bug-eyed. He winces, believing to have overstepped her boundaries, yet she simply blinks at him all stupefied. Then she begins to compose herself, brows softening into that of someone who is intimately familiar with musing over such a topic. A heavy sigh heaves out of her, and she grips her arm to reel herself in.

“I have, actually,” she admits, and she doesn’t know why she blurted that out. Trust is neither’s forte, yet it isn’t like he’ll use this knowledge against her. A rueful smile blossoms upon her dryly barking a laugh. “Not sure how to approach them with such a topic though.”

The twinkle in his eyes showcases that he, just like anyone else, understandably, is dying to know whom she has considered. But he does not ask, respecting her enough if she doesn’t want to share names. Instead he leans against a tree and observes her with nothing but care for her. Once again she is so unused to being viewed as a person, as someone that is cared about.

“If they’re aware of your situation then I think simply asking them if you can marry them is enough,” he assures with one of his rare authentic smiles. Then he lifts a finger upon thinking she’ll rebuttal him with some fact: “And even if certain folks turn you down for political reasons, little ‘ol Princess will become emperor one day so she’ll be able to have some consorts.”

Damn it she cannot help but soften her expression and posture, for she’s only human: wanting to be seen, wanting to be acknowledged, wanting, wanting. Why would anyone wish to give her this much thought? What does anyone see in her? Why does she feel so conflicted over it when she’s been desperate all her life to be cared about? It’s because she’s gone most of her life thinking that she’s only valuable due to her looks and voice. Besides that she is absolutely nothing.

“Shouldn’t you be focused on the futures of your people?” she remarks with a couple chuckles that sound drier than any cough she’s ever wheezed out.

She hates how he cocks his brow all surprised by such a claim. Then he rubs the back of his head, unsure of what to say. “…Can’t I focus on my people’s futures and others too?”

Such sincerity does more harm to her heart than curried words and lies of respecting others being spouted from suitors. It’s because she’s used to those blows, able to take them on without so much as flinching. Yet sincerity, from anyone, is enough for her to freeze up, to wait for the jaws of a predator to devour her.

“Nothing’s stopping you,” she says, for what else is there for her to say? Not wanting to be even more vulnerable she figures something to use her for her last line of defence: “Though all that worrying is going to overwhelm you.”

He lowers the hand behind his head and really looks at her, his mask long discarded. His gaze becomes solemn yet kind, a look that has her throat hitch. “Even if it overwhelms me that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop caring about you.”

With the precision he displays using a bow he shoots an arrow right through her heart, killing her in an instant. Cutting through her deflection with soft words means he has cracked through her fortress to see more of her. In the back of her mind she is desperate to flee, to have nothing more to do with him. And yet… and yet avoiding him will not change the reality that he knows her. (She also believes that he would not wish to let her go so easily for she knows him too, and that terrifies him just as much as it frightens her).

With nothing left to say she simply observes him to see if there is anything else he wishes to address. Seeing that he has made her uncomfortable his expression softens into something apologetic, and then it shifts into one expressing that he does not take back his remark on caring about her irrespective if she doesn’t believe she ‘deserves it’. She does what she does best: she runs away from her problems, though in this case she simply walks back to where the Black Eagles are tented.

“Those nobles were extremely rude to you.”

Outside the tents scattered across Gronder Fields where Claude is in a crouched position to polish Basima’s scales he looks up to see her looking at him with crossed arms and a deep frown. She hates how he shrugs with the dismissiveness of someone being all ‘such is life’. The only reason she doesn’t bristle is due to having caught the sullen frown of someone painfully used to being treated badly for merely existing.

He returns to polishing his wyvern, a terrible attempt of his to hide his face from her. “They put me in the same basket as any Almyran,” he affirms, displeased, not because he is lumped in with Almyrans, but over how others are treated as lesser for simply being alive. “It’s not the first or last time they’ve done so.”

“That doesn’t make it any less wrong,” she scoffs. Fury glisten in her eyes with the intensity of a wyvern diving upon its prey. “They bemoaned your tactics for being ‘barbaric’, even though there were plenty of other students doing the same thing.”

“You can’t let double-standards get to you,” he responds, his back still to her. Nonchalant as he tries to sound she sees the way his posture tenses and how forced his arm movements become with the polishing. “Lashing out isn’t going to help me.”

All she can do is suck in a sharp breath through her nose and dig her heels into the earth. Unfortunately, despite his position of power, she knows he is right. If he is to prove himself and his dream worthy he needs to be on a number of people’s good terms, even if that means bowing to their whims and sucking it up. Still to be doing that on a constant basis is utterly exhausting. She can speak from experience how difficult it is to keep up such an act whenever she goes out with suitors, but she cannot imagine how Claude’s experience must be ten times worse when all eyes, the nobles across Fódlan, the Church, and his people, are on him.

(Hah, to think she would ever sympathise with a noble. But there is something about him that makes him an odd duck. It dawns on her that it is precisely because of his skin colour making him seem Almyran. And since he wishes to make a more open and cosmopolitan Fódlan with Almyra, and beyond, it only makes him seem more of an outsider, a ‘Almyran wishing to destroy Fódlan from within’. It is beyond ludicrous that people are judged for their skin colour and then generalised into one homogenised entity).

She moves to lean her back against Basima’s side, grateful to the wyvern allowing her to do so. From her angle Claude is looking right up at her. Even when he tries to look away Basima nudges his face until he is forced to look back at her.

“Well if you ever wish to vent out your frustrations you can do so with me,” Dorothea offers with a formal nod. She balls a fist to her chest as her brows furrow in determination. “And if you’re ever picked on I’ll step in. If you can’t lash out due to needing a perfect image then I’ll do it for you. It’s expected of commoners to be ‘uncivilised’ after all.”

Never has Claude appeared so shocked. His brows reach his forehead and his wide eyes appear to encompass most of his face. His mouth hangs agape, dislocated, incapable of closing. He blinks like he expects himself to wake from a dream. Before her is a boy that is so unused to being cared about by others, so much so he doesn’t know how to respond or if it’s too good to be true. She maintains her determined gaze, wishing to engrain into his head that she is being sincere and that she wants to help him because she likes him. No ulterior motives, not to make a mockery of him—because she cares.

Then the loveliest smile she’s ever seen appears upon him. It reaches his ears, a glimpse of teeth appearing, unapologetically boyish, and crinkles his cheeks. Emerald eyes twinkle with such delight that she finally understands the saying of ‘getting lost in another’s eyes’. (There are many times that Dorothea wonders if Claude sometimes cannot tell who is his authentic self and what is the façade, just like her, but now she knows. Oh, now she knows the answers).

“Thanks, Dot.”

Oh…!

They both flounder, struck by the simple utterance of a nickname. His cheeks darken as he looks down at the ground with quivering brows and a sheepish and apologetic grin. Her own cheeks tint pink as she blinks stupidly at him. They act no different from any bashful crushing students in the academy. It is something she would have laughed off as being ridiculous of her or Claude to be in such a camp, and yet here they are.

“Sorry for my forwardness; you did say I should figure out if I can give you a nickname or not!” Claude apologises, and she cannot help but chortle like it’s the funniest joke because of course he’d apologise over giving her a nickname of all things!

He appears unsure if he should be enamoured or puzzled by her reaction, so he settles for an odd mixture of the two. She waves her hand to assure him he has done her no wrong; how can giving her an endearing nickname be so wrong? (It means they feel comfortable and at ease with one another, that they’re two people to each other, and that is frightening, yet exciting, and she doesn’t know what she should feel).

“It’s all good, Claudie.”

He perks up, then grins a toothy grin that never fails to endear her. It’s great to see that he is feeling better. He comes to a stand, his smile still intact. Something mischievous twinkles in his eyes, yet unlike his image of a charming boy this is authentic in how completely lax he is. With a dramatic flair he bows to usher her on the saddle of Basima.

“Want to go for a ride and gossip about snooty nobles, Dot?”

She snorts in droll amusement, and a dimpled smile adorns her as she shoots him a playful look. “Need you ever ask, Claudie?”

Perhaps he only made the offer to overcome the awkward spell that befell them, but she is happy to oblige all the same. Even if it is a means to not address whatever is going on between them she is more than happy to join this flight. Thinking on how much she adores the nickname he has given her, and how she loves the way he says it, is terrifying, so this is a welcome distraction.

She tries not to dwell on how much she enjoys taking his outstretched hand to board Basima. When Claude mounts in front of her she wraps her arms around him. He informs her that she can rest her head against his back. Then he remarks that she may lose her hat and it won’t be his fault. She simply tells him that they’ll have to search for it together if it plummets to the earth. Maybe if it falls it’ll startle a snooty noble off his high horse. They snort at their shared joke.

Then with further ado they take off. All their worries and uncertainties disappear into the sky.

“Hey.”

Sitting against a wall she lightly bangs the back of her head upon it. Of course Claude would find her hiding away at the back of the cathedral, considering they tend to come here when discussing blasphemous topics. It is as if she wanted to be found by him. Maybe that was always her intention, for seeking out someone to talk of her problems is too much for her.

Looking up through the brim of her hat she notes the solicitous gaze to cross him, a far-cry from his usual devil-may-care façade he exhibits around everyone. His eyes searches her with the familiarity of one unused to being vulnerable and wanting to be helped but never knowing how to ask. They are attuned to each other, disturbingly so, but like a drug, despite knowing the risks, they keep returning to it.

She wonders why she should voice her woes, considering it is obvious to everyone in Garreg Mach. But she realises why, for unlike the majority of people here the issue affects her on a deeply personal level. She stares and stares up at him with glum eyes, by no means the picture definition of a charming beauty. Yet he stays put, never once put off with the real her.

“…I’m thinking about the people of Remire...”

He nods, having suspected that. He glances next to her, wondering if he may sit. She nods, and keeps her gaze towards the sky as he comes to sit by her left.

“Once again commoners are used to the whims of someone in a higher position of power,” she remarks, the anger present in every syllable of every word. When she turns to him she thinks her scathing expression is enough to scare him off. But he is still here. “They were victims, and how does the Church help them? They burned them, like they’re… like they’re weeds that need to be eradicated…!”

Shivers rock her body, making her fingers twitch here and there with the ferocity to conjure little jolts of electricity against the tips. The temptation to lash out at something, anything, is greater than anything she has felt. Then she feels a hand gently rest atop one of her knuckles. Claude looks at her as his thumb soothes her hand. He says nothing, for he does not wish to diminish her feelings. With how his brows are furrowed he too shares in her fury over how Remire was treated, despite being from a noble background.

She is grateful to not have her feelings dismissed. Too many times have people ignored her. Being able to just broil over in non-judgemental company is a blessing she will not take for granted. So she does that without her usual fear of being seen and known. Now it is no longer a surprise to see Claude still staying put.

“So, Dot, who are you going to dance with at the ball?”

From inside her room she rolls her eyes so hard that she musters a snicker from Claude. He’s lounging about on her bed, reading a book titled ‘Can Almyra and Fódlan Ever Become Allies?’, completely at home with her room and company. Leaning against her chair she crosses her arms and shoots him a deadpan look.

“Who am I not going to dance with?”

“Lorenz, I’m guessing,” Claude responds with an authentic charming grin; she can tell with how his eyes creak and how his smile reaches his ears. “Surely you can turn down anyone.”

“Depending on the person I will. But if I am to fish for suitors then I’ll need to dance with as much people as I can.” It startles her how blunt she is with her admission of seeking suitors. Claude is dangerous for her, and yet she’s the fool keeping him around.

His smile drops into a solemn frown as he pivots on the bed to come across as not lounging about. “Yeah, for you only have a few months left till graduation.”

Her fingers dig against her crossed arms with such intensity that it creates dents on her skin. If she were alone she’d dip her head until her face is obscured from sight. Every reminder of that nearing deadline fills her with a dread that keeps her up at night. Once she graduates her chances of finding a suitor and marrying into a stable life disappears. She can’t go back to the opera to rebuild her career. She’s no noble that all try to marry. Sure she still has her voice and looks, but there’s always another opera star that’s better than her and who maintains a title of power. And, yes ,Edie offered her a place in the palace after graduation, but when she dies then where will she live? Not on the streets, oh Goddess not on the streets, never again—!

“But if there is one person you want to dance with because you enjoy their company who would it be?”

Blinking out of her spiralling her brows widen at the way Claude cocks his head to the side and observes her with genuine puerile interest. It is impossible to say if he asked that question to break through her upcoming breakdown, though she appreciates it all the same. (His keenness gives her the impression that he’s been meaning to ask her this question anyway.).

“There are a couple of people,” she starts with, honest. A dimpled smile crosses her, lifting her once despondent features. “But if I have to choose one it would be you.”

Claude flounders with the grace of a child being given a sword too big for him. The splutter to escape his gaping mouth makes him look shockingly adorable. Bug-eyed he blinks at her as if he’s expecting her to deliver the punchline or ‘just kidding~’ comment. Then his mouth shifts between a crooked grin then a smile, screaming of his uncertainty if there is an appropriate way to react. That toothy grin means he’s thrilled by the prospect; she can overthink a lot of things regarding Claude, but she knows that that’s what his grin means. 

“Really?” He asks with poorly disguised hope that conjures a lovely warmth inside her.

She nods, then smirks when the temptation to tease him overpowers her giddy joy over him being thrilled: “And who would your choice of partner be?”

“You,” he admits with a nervous chuckle that only the real Claude ever emits. He lifts his hand to brush the back of his head, only to lower it upon realising how dorkish he looks. “And not because you said me first.”

Now the question that neither of them dare ask aloud: if they do go to the ball together then as what? What is their relationship? It is something that they have both been trying to label for a number of months now, and they still have no answer. No, they do have an answer, but they’re too frightened to acknowledge and pursue it. To do so is to have them at their most vulnerable, pried open for the other to tinker around with to figure out what makes them, them.

(Maybe she’s projecting her feelings onto him, in a pitiful attempt to find someone that would want to spend their life with the real Dorothea Arnault. It is morbidly fascinating how she is so terrified to pursue anything with him that many times she’s thought of ending whatever they have, and yet, oxymoronically, at the same time, liking the prospect of being with him that she continues to cling to him).

There is no point dwelling on such matters, for neither of them ask the other out to the ball. They simply smile politely at each other, like they’re just acquaintances passing each other by. Their green eyes seemingly dare the other to be completely honest, for once, and just ask the other out. But of course nothing comes out of it. They value their safety more than their own happiness.

She leaves the hustle and bustle of the ball by heading outside towards the chapel. There, away from prying eyes, eager would-be suitors, excited students (namely Caspar and Ferdinand), she leans against the wall and basks in the moonlight. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that dancing with multiple people is easy; she feels more exhausted than any combat drill she’s done all year.

Someone rounds the chapel.

Both people’s eyes widen, having not suspected another to be here. Then, upon seeing who it is, they both soften out of the camaraderie of being intimately familiar that this is their place of hiding and being their true selves. Claude smiles ear to ear, always delighted to see her over every other person he spends time with.

“Fancy meeting you here, stranger,” Claude remarks with a mock bow of his head, acting as someone respectfully clinking his glass with hers.

She decides to play his game, because somehow he can bring out a playful side of her she never knew she had. With a charming smile she says, “Here to sweep me off my feet, oh would-be suitor?”

His faux-gasp of being caught in the act makes her snort. “Oh, dear me; am I so obvious?”

“Painfully so.”

They then burst into a fit of giggles that is ill-suited for the façades they don every waking minute of the day. Upon recovering they smile fondly at each other. She ushers him to lean against the wall with her, and so he moves to her left. She’s extremely hyper-aware of his shoulder gently brushing hers, and that she is completely at ease with the touch of another. They gaze up at the stars, able to simply enjoy the other’s company without needing to say anything. Her fingers twitch against the one closest to hers, yet she fortunately resists the temptation to take his hand. Nothing good will come out of pursing this… this.

“What will you do after graduation?” Claude asks.

What indeed? She’s always been so focused on finding a suitor that she’s neglected what she would personally do with her life. It’s doubtful a suitor would enable her to do as she pleases; all she exists for is to make him look good, or in the case of a woman suitor be a dirty little secret of hers. But if she has the choice? Even now as she tries to think on it she doesn’t know.

She looks to him, and it just dawns on her that he’s been looking at her. When were his eyelashes this pretty? “I don’t know.” Her voice sounds so quiet, afraid of where her life is going.

His expression softens; he seems like some prince charming wishing to help his beloved, no matter what, from the plays she’s stared in. “I’m sure Princess will ensure you have a roof over your head.”

“She has already offered me a place to stay,” she affirms, her gratitude towards Edie incomprehensible in any language, affection oozing from her. Then she grows sombre, her head drooping in shame. “…Is it wrong that I am given that opportunity simply because I know her?”

“You’re trying to survive,” he says, and she can tell he is not just saying that for her sake. Oddly enough it sounds like he speaks from experience—how one will do anything to survive a world that wants them dead. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed about relying on a friend.”

Hah, and he is one to talk. When she looks up she sees him grow lax upon realising that yes he is being hypocritical, but he is also correct.

“Try and think about the things you enjoy doing,” Claude suggests, wishing to divert away from calling out his bad habits. “That may give you some ideas on what you want to do upon graduating.”

“I doubt that,” she says with a dry laugh that appears to pain Claude just as much as her. A rueful smile appears on her. “I’ll just overthink whether I’ll be qualified enough to be hired, or if I can even run my own business.”

“You undersell yourself,” Claude says with such firmness that it startles her into almost believing him. His furrowed brows further sell the image of someone who cannot be convinced otherwise. “And besides: you won’t know unless you try.”

That is true, though easier said than done. Being a commoner means she doesn’t have the luxury of making many mistakes and being able to get away with it unscathed. Fortunately Claude seems to understand this, for he does not press her further or offer ridiculous advice like ‘you just need to try harder!’. He knows her, and thus he knows that she works harder than most, for commoners have to work twice as hard to prove just a fraction of a noble’s worth. (He’ll never understand her predicament, being a noble, but his skin tone and… something else she can’t quite put her finger on, means he disturbingly and curiously relates to her experience of being seen lesser).

But she doesn’t wish to turn their encounter into something bitter. After all graduation is coming very soon, so she wishes to spend her finite time with him in a positive light.

“Think we’ll meet again after graduation?” She asks, for once not hiding how hopeful she is at the prospect of being around him.

The smile to appear on him is sad, of someone wishing the circumstances were kinder on him, and she is unsure if she should be happy that he is being honest with her or dismayed that he cannot just give her one white lie. Any semblance of happiness flushes away, leaving her feeling just as hollow as Claude’s dulled eyes and pained smile.

“I would like to…” he speaks so quietly that she almost doesn’t hear him, despite them being shoulder to shoulder.

With both being extremely aware of just how finite their time is they try to bask in one another’s presence to the best of their abilities. For just a while longer they can be Dot and Claudie, for the time will come when they’ll no longer be that. Usually knowing something is coming to an end would push people to be more honest with one another. Yet once again she and Claude do not make any move, for they are too used to being guarded around others to ever break that stronghold. Being comfortable in something negative beats being thrown in the deep end that may lead to something positive.

Even though she has her reservations she joins Edie’s cause. It is precisely because of her reservations that she will fight by her side, for someone must ensure she keeps her humanity intact. Dorothea is no stranger to how violence is the only way to attract attention and to change the world; words are easily spouted, emptiest thing around. Not everyone has the stomach to commit violent acts, and since she does have one, albeit one still capable of being nauseous, she has to fight. To cower in safety damns all the people like her: the commoners left to the whims of powerful people. She may lack title and land, but she has power by being a part of Edie’s army—and she will use that very influence to better the world.

…So she hopes that Claude will see Edie’s reasons through her manifesto and work alongside each other to create a fairer Fódlan. Claude and Edie have similar goals, so surely, surely, he will join, providing they are on equal footing. And yet… and yet she would understand why he wouldn’t wish to join. Edie’s goal involves forcing the entirety of Fódlan to change, whether they wish to or not. That means every country will ‘disappear’ to be amalgamated into a unified Fódlan.

(She wants him to join for a plethora of reasons. He would make for a ridiculously valuable ally: from his intellect, to uncaring about using dirty tactics, and to having the backing of a large portion of his country. He is someone she has grown to deeply care about, and even if they never end up together in a… she doesn’t wish to use the term; anyway, having him joining ensures he will not be killed. Is it horrifically selfish of her to fixate on wanting him to live over everyone else she’s got along with at the academy?).

Regardless how their lives have diverted… if she must face him then so be it. If it means creating a better world for the entirety of Fódlan then that is a choice she must make. Knowing Claude, if he were in her shoes, he’d feel the same and do the same. The idea that he would accept that reality does not upset her, for to be upset would be disgustingly hypocritical of her. If anything it makes her morbidly happy. It means they really are truly alike. It means they could have been something.

This is not the farewell she imagined, but when has life ever been kind?

A/N: A part of me feels like I maybe should of had Hilda interactions, but this story would go on forever with every idea to showcase Dorothea and Claude socialising with every Black Eagles and Golden Deer. This story is a series of chronological snippets after all! BUT it does give me an excellent excuse to write another Claudoro/Doroclaude one-shot that may incorporate more interactions from others :)!

A/N(2): I read that basima means 'smiling' in Arabic, but if I got that wrong do let me know! (Or if there is a better name in, say, Farsi, do let me know too!).

A/N(3): I'd love to hear your thoughts (be that a multi paragraph analysis, a keyboard smash, or even if it is an emoji) and if possible some feedback! (It is never too late to comment :D).

Chapter Text

A/N: The final chapter! I am so god-dang proud of this fic: one of my favourites I have written! 

'blue_analytic': They make for a fascinating duo indeed! I am so thrilled to hear you enjoy my fic and that it has made you want to find out more of this ship!

'premise29': Thank you for your kinds words about me depicting these two so well.

Observing the calm waters of Derdriu appears, to any would-be onlooker, to assuage Duke Riegan’s fears regarding the future of his country. Claude has become a master at hiding his woes, has had to become one since his time in Almyra, yet internally he frets. What sort of leader would he be to not feel trepidatious over the war that has consumed Fódlan?

Although Leicester is neutral in that conflict civil war brews from within. Correction: it has been brewing for over two years since the emperor spread her manifesto to all of Fódlan. There are a number of nobles wishing to curry favour from the most powerful person; how silly of them, considering the emperor is going to do away with nobility altogether. There are commoners that understandably want a better life; seeing someone of great influence promise that, and who has delivered in some fronts already (like that general, Ladislava), it is only natural for them to side with the emperor.

Truthfully, though he will never admit this to anyone, he is… perhaps ‘glad’ is not the right word, but for lack of better glad that Edelgard made the first move. It means he won’t be number one enemy of the Church—which equates to number one enemy of Fódlan. It means someone else is doing the dirty work, leaving him to plant the crops in its place. That is not to say he is glad that innocents are involved and that the emperor is planning to conquer the entire continent. If he was fine with it he would have joined her. After all a lot of his beliefs do align with hers.

…Just like what Dorothea told him.

He shakes his head in a vain attempt to rid a face that once made his heart feel soft. Sentimentality isn’t going to help him prevent a civil war or achieve his dreams. He should be above reminiscing on a crush, but conflict does that to you: makes you think on the good you lost, the things you should have cherished more, the people you wished you thanked for being in your life.

He hears someone approaching him, footsteps loud on the cobblestone so to showcase the individual is an ally. Turning to the source he sees Lorenz appearing somewhat troubled, and not in the old pompous sense of being around riff-raff. No, he seems legitimately uncertain about what to make of some issue: the furrow in his brows, the lowered chin, and the razor-thin line of his lips tells him so.

If they were younger he’d beat him to speaking his mind by asking what is obviously troubling him. But doing so would ruffle Lorenz’s feathers to the point he’d squawk over such brusque manners or lament over his lack of art in schooling one’s feelings. Instead Claude simply blinks at him to express his curiosity.

“The Adrestian envoy has arrived.”

Ah, yes! The emperor and him have agreed in secret to have her send an envoy to hear her out. He wishes to gauge the political climate going in Adrestia, for his spies have been unable to penetrate deep into Adrestian territories. He isn’t naïve to think he can convince Edelgard to leave Leicester be by simply asking, but if he is forced to choose a side in the war when his back is to the wall… well, he needs to know everyone’s wares before he can decide what to buy.

“Thank you for informing me,” he expresses, knowing that Lorenz was initially reluctant about the secrecy of such a plan—only to see why it must be the case.

He eyes Lorenz, hoping that he will speak what is troubling him. Just on cue: “I should warn you that the envoy is… Dorothea.”

Claude grows immediately lethargic.

Alas he cannot hide his sudden nausea, with the way his polite smile drops entirely and how slack his appearance becomes. Wide-eyed he somehow resists the urge to blink, to instead allow them to dry to the verge of tears. When he inhales through his nose it sounds like he is cherishing his very last breath. It startles him to his core how he is responding to just the mere idea of seeing someone on the opposing side of the war. Because it isn’t ‘just someone’. If only it was ‘just someone’.  

Dorothea Arnault… it is certainly not the reunion he has envisioned.

He’s imagined her defecting to Leicester, despite knowing she will never abandon the elevated position she has been given to support commoners across all of Fódlan. He’s indulged in the idea of the war coming to a peaceful end, where they can then meet up over tea and chess. He’s come to accept the reality that the next time they meet it will be as enemies on the field, and only one of them will leave alive. Yet she continues to be full of surprises, even two years on.

In hindsight he shouldn’t be surprised to hear that she’s an envoy. With how phenomenal of an actor she is, and how masterful she is in deciphering others, the role was practically made for her.

With a smile that is clearly strained even to the most oblivious people he walks pass Lorenz and gratefully pats his shoulder, “Thanks for the warning, Lorenz.”

Regardless about his prior feelings towards Dorothea he will treat her first and foremost as an envoy here to speak on behalf of her emperor. He’s viewed and spoken to his friends as mere politicians or good samaritans wishing to prevent a civil war from brewing. Thus he’s very much capable of separating people as individuals from their roles; he has to be, otherwise he would have become overwhelmed with the responsibilities of being the duke years ago. Surely Dorothea will be no different.

(Except she’s the only person you’ve met that openly sympathises with Almyrans and other outcasts. Except she’s the only person that encouraged you to be just a boy… Except she’s the only person that allowed you to be your authentic self…)

Just beyond this door lies Dorothea.

It takes all his willpower to not inhale a sharp breath, considering he can never appear weak around anyone. Somehow the smile on his face seems real enough, but it is one that Dorothea will immediately see for being unauthentic. The journey to his castle had him mentally go through all the ways he will speak with her. The questions to ask and receive, the answers to give and hold onto, the way Dorothea will speak to him, how to ensure she doesn’t read him too well while he does to her, so on so forth. In some droll way he finds it amusing how worked up he is getting over seeing an envoy, considering he is never this uneasy around politicians.

Best to get this over and done with.

He opens the door and enters.

The first thing he hones on is how Dorothea looks in non-Officers Academy clothing. The burgundy dress kept together by the silver corset seems expensive, but it does not appear jarring on her. She holds herself in a manner of one used to wearing such riches, yet will forever be uncomfortable to be donned in such clothing—to be ‘lucky’ whereas others like her are not. Even now she still thinks if it is cruel for her to be happy or comfortable.

Something twinkles in her forest green eyes when they hone on him. Of course he wishes to interpret it as her being thrilled to see him alive and well. But he believes it to be her feeling melancholic over the predicament they find themselves in. They’re fond of each other, there is no denying that, yet their priorities mean they can only long for what could have been.

A smile crosses her; it is such a sad thing that he wished she has just maintained an unreadable expression. “Should I call you Duke Riegan?”

He does what he does best: play the charming man: “Please, call me Claude when it’s just the two of us.”

“Does that include the battlefield?”

…She did not come here to reminisce on old times. Alright; he will be upfront. With a disarming smile he responds all blasé, “That depends what the future has in store for us.”

He takes a few steps forward to showcase he simply wishes to kindly address the topic at hand (and certainly not because he wishes to engrain her matured face). Her eyes rake in his features; not to find hidden weapons, but because she too wishes to engrain his matured features. Try as they must to bury their feelings for each other they cannot supress them. Actors are humans after all.

He cocks his head to the side. “Was it the emperor’s idea to make you the envoy or yours?”

“We both came to the same conclusion,” Dorothea confesses. “But our reasons for sending me over differ in some ways.”

“Enlighten me.”

“She sent me knowing how close we were to each other, in hopes of better convincing you to join her,” she starts, cutting to the chase. When she gazes at him she seems reluctant to be this vulnerable towards someone who should be her enemy or at best a tentative ally. “I did volunteer to try and convince you, but I also came to see you again.”

And just like her he cannot show just how pleased and dismayed he is to see her again, so he must instead act the part of a politician doing business. “Well you’re seeing me in the flesh.”

Her brows furrow. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Dorothea?”

She reels herself in before she pours her heart to him. Her shoulder square themselves as she composes herself befitting an envoy detached from the noble before her. (He hates that she’s so incredible in shifting from her true self to that of an actor with such ease. The immature part of him wants her to breakdown before him, to confess her feelings, to look at him as Claudie and not Duke Riegan).

“Joining Adrestia means putting more lives on the line,” he warns her with brevity rumbling in his tone. His eyes pierce through all he sees with the finesse of an arrow shot by him. “I thought you of all people would do all you can to ensure innocent lives are not swept up in another’s conflict.”

She does not bristle, to his surprise. Likely she has had similar conversations before with the people she has fought against. “I also know that actions alone can create change, and that the more people are involved the better chance we have.”

His brows rise for a second. “That is quite a methodical outlook.”

“One that you have too, from what I have ascertained from how you conduct yourself as duke.”

She is not wrong, but he never expected her to develop such an outlook. And she is not wrong about actions being the only way to change things, and that having more people on your side will ensure it is achieved. Unfortunately he has no retort to her claim, so all he can do is not comment on it.

Fortunately she does not dwell on the topic. Instead she comes closer until her lips are near his ear. (Does she feel tempted to nuzzle his jawline to feel the first signs of a beard forming? Does she plead to herself that he turns to her so they can kiss one another?)

“You are critical of the Church and nobility,” she whispers with a sharpness of one feeling slightly infuriated that the other does not see reason. “Surely you see the benefits of joining Edelgard’s cause.”

He twists his head so he can speak into the nearest ear. “Not at the expanse of colonising an entire continent.”

When she pulls away her expression becomes reminiscent of the times she felt disgusted about the way commoners, women, and others are so easily chucked aside by nobles and the Church. “Do you think diplomacy is enough to change traditions? To make those in power give up their positions to create an equal world? You think words alone will suddenly make them care about others?”

No, he does not think dialogue is enough. Action is needed, but not through warfare. Reforms and integrating better ideas into the culture(s) are enough, even if it will take a long, long time. 

“Changing the Church from within is the best starting point, and that involves elevating those who are open-minded into clerical positions.”

It is the first time since forever that he has heard her laugh, though the sound is more a derogatory bark than one. “Sounds like you wish to make the Church a puppet to your whims.”

…She is right. Before he can school an expression to fool her into thinking she is reading too much into it he notes the way her gaze hardens in a ‘I thought so’ manner. No point denying her claims, yet that also means he doesn’t need to confess. After all her word means nothing to the religiously devoted Leicesterians; they’ll decry her as regurgitating the emperor’s propaganda. His position won’t be jeopardised by her. (It pains him to know that if push comes to shove, if she had to do it for what she deems the greater good, she would jeopardise his position).

“Edelgard wishes to completely abolish the Church, while you wish to keep it to make it your puppet,” Dorothea remarks with such nonchalance that this is practically an indisputable fact to her. “I can see why you wouldn’t wish to side with her.”

Curses she is extremely good at reading what his actual intentions are for the future of Fódlan. Best to change the topic once more and twist some words around. “Surely Leicester not getting itself involved means we have chosen to side with the emperor.”

“Not aligning yourself with anyone means none will come to your aid, for why should anyone trust you and your country?” Dorothea says. A rueful smile crosses her. “Not counting those in Leicester who have already pledged their allegiance to Edelgard, of course.”

He matches her rueful smile with his own. “Maybe I’m too busy preventing a civil war from erupting to join yours,” he says, though expectedly she does not respond. Then he clicks his tongue to exaggerate him recalling something. “Also has the emperor forgotten that Leicester is the only one safeguarding Fódlan from Almyra?”

“So you have not made ties with Almyra, then,” she muses, and he hates himself for feeling just for a second a great sense of warmth over her recalling his dream to open up Fódlan to Almyra. “Adrestia has the largest army in all of Fódlan. If it needs to be stationed at Fódlan’s Throat to protect it then that can be easily arranged.”

Damn, that is something he has not taken into consideration. No point beating himself up over it, considering he has been preoccupied with the inner workings of Fódlan. “Seems you have an answer for everything, Dot.”

There—he has finally gotten through her impeccable mask. Her face softens and she seem incapable of quickly fixing her façade as the unflappable envoy. This is a victory he should feel rapturous over, but instead it feels unbearably hollow in the way one wins a skirmish yet knows they are losing the war. At this moment he feels saddened over calling her by that nickname without the overwhelming endearment from years long gone.

Love, or maybe it is just affection now, reflects in her eyes as she really looks at him. Unlike the fleeting fantasies he’s had over such looks towards him this one carves out his insides to leave him an empty shell. It would have been easy if she hated him, or if he hated her.   

“How funny; I was going to say something similar about you, Claude.”

Not by his nickname, for it makes detaching herself from him all the easier. They take a step away, realising that they have remained close to one another despite their secrets being shared. Is it so terrible that they both do it with such ease? Does that mean their relationship was never strong? No, Claude does not doubt that they hold strong feelings for the other. But there is something more important to each of them than pursing a relationship.

(Does he regret falling for her? A part of him says yes, while the other says no. Some days it teeters to one side more than the other. When he looks at Dorothea he believes she regrets it).

“If you ever change your mind do let Edelgard know,” she reminds him. She looks like the picture definition of melancholia, with the way her eyes become sunken and her frown a deep crevice. “Otherwise it will not end well for you.”

That he does not doubt. A droll yet sullen smile crosses him. “Can’t you convince her to spare me?”

“You think I haven’t already?”

His smile drops. The days of their banter are long gone. It is something he misses greatly, but seeing how much Dorothea has changed only makes him realise that he did not cherish those times enough. Regardless if they can never recreate such days or be together in any capacity he can still wish for her to live and to not harm herself in the name of another.

He looks to her pleadingly, like the love interest taking the hand of their beloved to halt them from doing something stupid. “Leave the battlefield, Dorothea. There are plenty of other ways you can help people.”

She snorts. “Very few people can stomach violence. I happen to be one of them.” She stares and stares at him with the intensity of someone truly knowing the other and thus themselves. “Would you abandon your people, friends, and your dreams if I asked you to?”

…No, he wouldn’t. He won’t.

And if he must kill her to protect those close to him and to achieve his dreams?

So be it.

So be it…

There is nothing left to be said between them. No, that is not true, but neither will confess their feelings for one another. To do so means there is no going back for either of them. To do so is to forsake everything they hold dear.

“I shall make my leave.” Dorothea bows her head to a politician. “I hope we meet again as allies.”

No tears slip out of her eyes. Her lips do not tremble. He does not cry out in dismay. He does not beg her to stay. Instead he lets her go without word. She walks by, not even sparing him a glance. He does not look over his shoulder, even after she closes the door. Seconds pass, but he does not breakdown. A minute passes, and yet he remains stock still. He chose his people and goal.

It was the best decision.

It was the only decision.

And she chose her goal over him and her wellbeing.

(It only makes him love her more…)

A/N: I want to thank everyone who kudos, commented, bookmarked, and even giving this story a go! I never expected it to get much love, being based on a rare rarepair, but it has been a pleasant surprise. I hope to write more Claudoro/Doroclaude, if any idea comes to mind :D!

A/N(2): One last time I'd love to hear your thoughts (be that a multi paragraph analysis, a keyboard smash, or even if it is an emoji) and if possible some feedback! (It is never too late to comment :D).