Archive of Our Own ^beta

A/N: First fic of 2026! I always wanted to do a body snatcher horror type story regarding all the Black Eagles dying in 'Azure Moon'~! Get to practice writing psychological horror, yay :D!

A/N(2): So I think it is implied that the original person has to be alive to be replaced (and they are killed in the process) but for the sake of this story the Agarthan needs access to the body to replace the person!

The war is not going well.

Only a fool would think otherwise. True some progress has been made in Adrestia, such as ousting corrupt nobles and elevating people into high positions irrespective of their birth, but morale is dropping at an alarming rate. Five years of endless fighting and very little territory has been gained; those that have been captured have recently been retaken by the former occupants. Spirits from the troops grow weary from the constant skirmishes, long marches, and staying up for days to protect fortresses and towns. Citizens cry for lost friends, family, and lovers, demanding why their sacrifices amounted to nothing.

From atop her throne Edelgard rests an elbow against the armrest so she can lean her forehead against her palm. The weight of the crown has never felt this literal before. Even her cape feels heavy, wishing to drag her down into a river of blood made by her own hands. Whilst she is forever determined to see her goal to fruition her eyes have the glaze of one haunted by her failures and shortcomings. Even a human weapon can be strained to their limits.

Fortunately Hubert does not chime in that she correct her posture to evoke strength, lest someone comes to her and sees their unwavering beacon cracking under pressure. No, he stands stock-still, trying to appear imposing as always, yet his visible eye lacks its usual sharpness. He too is exhausted, even if he would never, ever admit that.

The sound of the doors opening has her immediately jolt up straight and muster an expression of undeterred moxie. A guard rushes in, then stands to attention.

“Your Majesty, Lord Aegir has returned.”

She cannot school her expression as it softens in utmost relief. Even the weight of her cape disappears as she ever-so-slightly sags forward. That is wonderous news…! For some time Hubert’s spies were unable to ascertain what has been brewing in Myrddin, besides the fact that Faerghus intends to capture it. In her peripheral vision she notes the blink-and-you-miss sign of Hubert breathing out through his nose in relief. They have prepared themselves for the worst for their friends. No, no one is ever prepared for the potential news that someone close to you has died because of your actions.

The Black Eagles have been having far too many close encounters with death, enough to have her trepidatious about them when they are not right by her side. Their morale has also plummeted beyond rock bottom… or perhaps their moods affect her more because they are her friends.

“Send him in.”

The guard leaves. She drums her fingers against the armrests in a vain attempt to ease her woes. The guard did not say or imply through hesitation of words or body language that Ferdinand is maimed or that his spirit is broken. Then again Ferdinand has been one of the most adamant of the Black Eagles in keeping one’s spirits high. It is no façade; he is a terrible liar around his friends, so it can only be genuine. His stubbornness too can be equal to hers. Perhaps that may be why, despite her initial grievances of his one-sided rivalry against her, she was always drawn to him. Two birds of a feather flock together, as the saying goes.

Orange hair catches her eye.

A relieved smile crosses her… only for it to falter into a puzzled frown. The way he walks oozes a confidence that seems far too smug for Ferdinand, even in his youth. There is an exaggerated peppiness in how he swings his arms back and forth, a man seemingly oblivious to the horrors going and revolving around him. The closer he gets the more peculiar details she spots. That smirk is so mis-matched on his face that one may think it painted onto him. His eyes glint with the condescension of one thinking they have the upper hand over everyone, for the others are completely oblivious.  

Every fibre of her being is on high alert. It just dawns on her that the hand closest to the axe resting against the chair toys with its handle. In her peripheral vision she notes how Hubert is wound up in a manner of a snake poised to strike something that isn’t backing away. Something is off about Ferdinand, she knows this, but what, she can’t put her finger on it, and it’s eating at her from the inside—

Ferdinand comes to a halt before the dais. He pouts in disapproval. “I expected a warmer welcome, emperor.”

He has never spoken to her in such a manner. The chirpiness in his tone sounds like someone dressing up and making a mockery out of him.

Dressing up… making a mockery…

…!

No.

No, no, please, let this be paranoia…!

“Why is the colour draining from your face?” Ferdinand inquires with faux-concern, that smirk of his somehow widening more. It is reminiscent of how Arundel— “You should be delighted that the prime minister is safe and sound.”

Something clogs inside her throat. She has to bite the insides of her cheeks, hard enough to draw blood, to suppress any choked splutters echoing out from her. Then she has to grind her teeth to keep her lips from quivering. It becomes harder to breathe; she’s drowning, being pulled down into the darkest depths, unable to swim to safety. An unbearable din rings in her ears. Her chest feels as if it is cracking from the inside with the aggressive and fast thuds of her panicky heart.

A trenchant glare sharper than any blade known to man darkens her face. “What have you done with Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand is dead.

That was always a possibility in wartimes. Yet somehow it never, ever crossed her that one of those vermin would replace someone in her close circle. Maybe some semblance of naivety she thought has long perished believed that none of her friends would die, and so why think about doppelgängers taking their places. It should have been something in the back of her mind. It should have been, it should have been—!

A snarl crosses Hubert upon her confirming his worst fears. She notes how he digs his hands against his sides so to not draw out a knife or fire dark magic upon this impostor. Oh how she wishes they can lash out and eliminate this mockery. But they can’t. Eliminating the prime minister in cold blood will be a fatal blow to her rule and on morale. She would be ousted for having gone mad, and Hubert along with her.

There is nothing they can do. Just like Arundel they cannot get rid of this impostor. All of her rage saps right out of her at this damning fact. Despite being the emperor, the most powerful person in Fódlan, she is powerless. ‘Blessed’ by the Crest of Flames, said to belong to the Goddess herself, yet she is mortal, unable to reverse death, or even strike down her enemies. Useless, still that little girl back in the dungeons. Useless.

“The man died at the Great Bridge of Myrddin, so I simply filled in his place,” ‘Ferdinand’ answers with a shrug. “Need a prime minister to help run the country, army, and all that.”

“So you can have enough pawns at your disposal,” Edelgard corrects with a coolness to rival the coldest winters in Faerghus.

‘Ferdinand’ claps his hands together. “But of course~!” That sing-along tone has her shiver; it is most fortunate her cape hides this. “I must thank you for giving me one of your pawns—”

“—He was no pawn,” she interrupts with the fury of a Demonic Beast ripping into someone’s guts. “His name is Ferdinand von Aegir, and he was a dear friend.”

‘Ferdinand’ blows a lock of his hair out of his face and lifts his hands up and down in a ‘option a or option b’ manner. “Friend, pawn, is there such a difference?”

“You make for a pathetic imitation,” Hubert speaks for the first time, venom oozing from each and every word.

“Well you and your birds can give me some pointers on how to best play the part,” ‘Ferdinand’ decrees with such ridiculous optimism that she just wants to wrangle his throat to see fear cross his eyes.

It is shocking that she never thought about how her friends will quickly pick up that something is off about Ferdinand. They will quickly ascertain that this person is a doppelgänger like Monica. Will she even be allowed to tell them? Probably only when they come to the conclusion that the person before them is not Ferdinand. All will be revealed with the sadistic glee of one seeing people’s wills slowly chipping away with each blow they make.

What of the people of Aegir? Will they wish to follow someone they deem has changed for the worst? Surely Those Who Slither in the Dark are not foolish enough to send a doppelgänger to sow dissidence when they need all the pawns they can get to eliminate the Church and conquer Fódlan. Yet their disdain for Fódlanders has been shown to cloud their judgement. It is all on her to ensure this impostor plays the part and ensures that Aegir does not collapse.

“If I suspect for one moment that you are neglecting the duties of a prime minister—”

“—you’ll eliminate me, discreetly I presume?” ‘Ferdinand’ interrupts without a shred of terror, just amusement. He wags his finger at her. “Careful, emperor: you eliminate me and nobody else can impersonate this person again.”

“Then I will find someone to replace ‘Ferdinand’s’ role.”

She is absolutely confident that, that should shake up the impostor… only to deflate upon seeing him bark a laugh. “Then that person can be replaced by another of my kind.” Does he not value his own life? As if he read her mind, he answers, “I am willing to die for my cause, so your threats mean nothing to me.”

She’s been checkmated.

No matter what move she makes those vermin always capture her pieces. In the end of the day she won’t be able to rid ‘Ferdinand’. Finding an adequate replacement, one that the people of Aegir approve of, would take up too much time and resources during war times. Then to protect that replacement from being replaced will be a greater challenge.

She can’t even give Ferdinand a funeral…

She has to pretend that he’s alive. She will have to lie to his family that he survived the Great Bridge of Myrddin. She can only grieve for him in private. She has to live with the reality that he died in her war and has been replaced by those she works alongside with.

The impostor smirks upon seeing everything come crushing down on her.

All her friends have returned from their missions. They stand before the war room, with a plethora of emotions. Petra and Caspar stand strong, appearing unbreakable, though one gets a sense that it is only bravado on Caspar’s end, whereas Petra has no choice but to be a beacon of strength—she is a leader like her, after all. Bernadetta is relieved to be among company she has grown to cherish over the years, judging by her soft features and un-fidgety posture. Linhardt and Dorothea appear mentally drained, absolutely desperate for this war to end, with their jaded looks of those who can no longer feel any joy.

Usually relief would overwhelm Edelgard enough for her to let out a tired yet grateful smile, her posture to grow lax, and to comment that it is good to see them. Now she observes them with the intensity of the eagle she is associated with, looking for any signs, no matter how subtle, if the people before her are real. She listens to their words carefully as they exchange brief updates with each other, for their usual quirks, their annunciation of words, everything that makes them, them.

…What if there is an impostor that is strikingly like them?

Her throat hitches and she has to inhale a sharp breath to not draw attention to herself. Such an impostor would never disclose their identity, for those vermin wish to toy with her, to remind her to know her place. Every moment spent with or thinking about them will have her constantly second-guessing if they are who they claim to be. She can’t even teach them secret phrases or gestures, for what if she teaches it to an impostor? Then that impostor can teach it to another replacement. The only one she can ever know to be real is Hubert, for he is the only other person beside her who has such a code.

She can never truly trust her friends.

(That shouldn’t be difficult for you: you never fully trusted them. You were always afraid that they’d use you. You should be fine with this. Seems this weapon forgets herself).

Hubert observes too, though nothing about him must appear unusually intense: his role has always been to be intimidating, even among friends. Unfortunately he does not make any fleeting glances or hand signals to her to assuage or confirm her fears. Without a doubt the conclusions she has come to are ones Hubert has figured out too. There is a sense of melancholia, the likes most think typical of him, that lingers upon him. Sharing the burden of paranoia does not assuage their woes in the slightest.

‘Ferdinand’ is practically peacocking around the others. His lackadaisical attitude is putting off all the Black Eagles, with none of them disguising their bafflement over it. The once at ease Bernadetta starts to pick at her nails and sidestep away from ‘Ferdinand’ as the impostor practically gets into her personal space. Linhardt, though sleepy per usual, cocks his brows in confusion over ‘Ferdinand’ not telling him for the umpteenth time to straighten up.   

“Losing the Great Bridge of Myrddin haunts you, I see,” Petra says, trying to make sense of ‘Ferdinand’s’ behaviour.  

“It was a great loss,” ‘Ferdinand’ decrees with a nod, failing to appear pensive. He further breaks that image with a shrug. “But we can’t dwell on the negatives.”

“‘Negatives’?” Caspar scoffs and stomps his foot down before the impostor. Dorothea matches his disgust by the way she grimaces. “People died and they’re just ‘negatives’ to you?”

“Well their deaths are not ‘positives’, right?”

Linhardt has to grab Caspar by the shoulder to hold him back from completely decking ‘Ferdinand’ in the face. Edelgard wants nothing more than to let him go off, but once again she is powerless to fight against these vermin. Instead she shoots to a stand, the sound of her chair screeching back attracting the impostor’s attention. Her trenchant glare demands him that he play the part well, unless he wants his people to lose in this war. Thankfully he listens by going quiet.

She has everybody’s attention. Who else is an impostor; is there just one—Bernadetta has been quiet—Caspar seems to be real, or is the doppelgänger a far better actor than ‘Ferdinand’; what about Dorothea: the real one is a marvellous actor already, so how can she know if she’s—stop spiralling, stop it, to do so will prevent you from achieving your goals, you can’t show weakness, you mustn’t, you must stay strong—

There are concerned gazes across the group. It quickly dawns on her that she has been absolutely silent since getting their attentions. It takes all her willpower to not wet her lips or let out a mighty exhale.

“We’re all feeling jumpy,” she starts, eyeing each and every Black Eagle… and ‘Ferdinand’. “We will regroup in an hour.”

Nobody refutes her order. ‘Ferdinand’ claps his hands in a ‘splendid!’ manner and makes his merry leave. Caspar storms off, likely to overtrain himself: he always does so whenever the army takes heavy losses. Linhardt leaves to conduct his research on how to best improve healing spells; he’ll pretend he’s going to sleep for the whole hour, but she knows he always dedicates his time to such matters. Petra heads off to correspond with the Brigidan messenger that frequently moves to and fro from Brigid. Bernadetta leaves for the untouched parts of the royal gardens to be left alone, and maybe paint while there.

(At least she assumes this is what everyone is doing. The real ones would).

Dorothea stays put, her eyes lingering on the door since the moment ‘Ferdinand’ made his exit. If she’s the real one then Edelgard knows that she’s not one to keep her suspicions to herself. Dorothea comes to her and Hubert with her unfortunately-as-of-many-years haunted gaze taking on an alarmed look. The way she darts her head back to the open door with the suspicion of a certain person coming back further proves Edelgard’s hunch as to why Dorothea stays. (If it is an impostor than it is to fool her and Hubert into thinking she’s the real one).

“That’s not Ferdie.”

Bernadetta should be dead.

Edelgard saw her burning atop the hill, wailing at a volume that everyone present at Gronder Fields could hear over the sizzling of magic and clash of blades. She smelt and tasted burnt fat in the air when she rounded the hill. Everyone that was present knows that no one could have survived.

Yet here she is, alive.

At the base camp, set a good distance away from Gronder Fields, where all are recuperating their losses, lamenting how the biggest production of food in Adrestia has been captured and so how many people will grow hungry, Edelgard sharpens her axe and observes ‘Bernadetta’ fidgeting over the attention she is receiving from those who swear they saw her burn to death. Those giggles to ring across the area is so disturbingly spot-on that Edelgard freezes and halts sharpening her axe. Shaky breaths scratch inside her throat as if she swallowed buckets of sand. Calm yourself. Calm down. Deep breaths. In. And out. Repeat. Yes, calm yourself. Having regained composure she pathetically diverts her attention away from ‘Bernadetta’ to stare at the trampled grass before her.

It is… absolutely unnerving how accurate the impostor is.

‘Ferdinand’ is still unconvincing, though he knows when to hold himself back so to not make enemies in the army. Everyone who knows him well have or will come to the conclusion that he is not the real one or the man they once knew. It is no secret among the Black Eagles that they do not trust ‘Ferdinand’ (or perhaps there are other impostors who play their parts so convincingly).

But ‘Bernadetta’ is so convincing that she is making those who claim to have seen her burn on the hill doubt what they saw. Those who did not see it chalk it up to mistaking her for another archer. Edelgard wonders what conclusions her friends will come to. If they suspect ‘Bernadetta’ to be who she claims then… then it will be excruciating to pretend that nothing has changed and that Bernadetta is alive.

She doesn’t know what is worse: an impostor who can’t act, or an impostor that is spot on.

Grass being trampled attracts her attention.

Upon looking up her heart stops. Before her is ‘Bernadetta’, hands fidgeting at her chest in that usual manner of hers whenever she is ashamed to ask for he—do not let this doppelgänger break you. Grey eyes blink with such believable concern that a lump appears inside Edelgard’s throat. To onlookers the two must appear normal, an army friend consulting her emperor friend. Nobody would think that anything sinister is going on between them. But the very presence of ‘Bernadetta’ is those vermin’s way of mocking her failure to save her friend.

“Leave me,” Edelgard growls out.

‘Bernadetta’ cocks her head to the side like she’s genuinely confused by her attitude. “I thought you would be happy to see Bernadetta alive, considering you were the one who got her killed.”

Hearing that claim with Bernadetta’s own voice has her breath hitch to the point she needs to swallow to prevent herself from spluttering. The hand on her axe grips it with such intensity that she can hear wood splintering. The temptation to lop this impostor’s head off, to forgo her reputation and be seen as a merciless emperor who punishes failure, is intoxicating.

“You’re just an impostor,” she speaks through gritted teeth.

“A pretty good one, from the looks of it!” ‘Bernadetta’ chirps as she brightens up in pride. Then her head darts about, all enamoured. “Never been to the surface before: it’s so exciting!”

‘Bernadetta’ looks back at her with a friendly smile that is more damning than any of the sneers and smirks ‘Ferdinand’ throws at her. “So thank you for setting her on fire and allowing me to take her place!”

Edelgard shoots up to a stand with her snarling mouth open for a screa—the impostor walks off to interact with the Black Eagles. Rage courses through her body, burning it in a way that can only be subsided if she douses it. To treat it she must kill that impostor; actually, kill her and ‘Ferdinand’, for why just settle with one; her reputation will be in shambles, this war is not going well anyway so why bother holding back—

Something seemingly saps the energy out of her legs. She collapses back onto the stump. She huffs and puffs, a vain attempt to dampen her fury and mortification. She stares and stares at the two—or are there more, how can she ever know—impostors with what can only be described as a defeated gaze. But she will pick herself back up. That’s always been a strength of hers. She will. She must.

She must, for her sanity.

News of Fort Merceus’ capture spreads to Enbarr with the speed of an uncontained wildfire. The people stock-up for the Faerghuan army marching towards their doorsteps, with some barricading their windows with loose wood they have found in the forest outside the city walls. Some do not take their chances, and risk their lives by heading towards the Morgaine Ravine to hide out until the war ends. The mood accumulates into a cloud of doubt that hangs heavy in the capital, hovering over every person, no matter where they are.  

Edelgard is aware. It haunts her too.

In the war room she hovers over the map that has become her ticking timebomb. There are fewer red pieces on the board, and the remainers are being cornered towards Enbarr. A mighty tidal wave approaches, and there is no means to avoid it. A chunk of her army prepares to make one last stand in Hresvelg. Dorothea and Petra will lead the charge. It is the last line of defence until Enbarr.

She looks up from the map and takes in the emptiness of the room. Usually she would have the rest of the Black Eagles present with her. But now she only has Hubert hovering by her side. Morale amongst the group has been at its worst. There have been accusations thrown at every Black Eagle for being an impostor, with equally fierce denials that has led to fights. This paranoia has created a vicious cycle where nobody trusts anyone anymore. They refuse to work alongside each other without the company of a non-Black Eagles, fearing that an impostor will replace them.

Not that she is any better. She refuses to speak with any of her Black Eagles unless they only have crucial news to share, be that reforms and the war. No matter how some, mainly Dorothea, try so hard to connect with her, she shoves them aside. When she breaks up fights she loses more and more of her drive to intervene, for what if the accusations are correct or this is a cruel game the impostors play with her? There have been accusations thrown at her as well, where all she can do is inform the accuser to leave then or not waste her time with baseless accusations.

It is no surprise that she avoids the Black Eagles. No more tea times or picnic gatherings, be that one-on-one or as a group. No more training with each other. No more moments where they try to lift each other’s spirits, where they can be vulnerable with one another, and tell everyone that they love them. All she has left is Hubert.

The Black Eagles… have more-or-less disbanded…

(She didn’t even bid Dorothea or Petra goodbye…)

The sound of a door slamming open startles her out of her melancholic thoughts. Linhardt marches in arms outstretched to indicate it was he who slammed open the door and a toothy grin that has her immediately realise that, that is an impostor. Caspar follows suit and… she has no idea if he is one of them too. He seems exasperated by ‘Linhardt’, face contorted to showcase his dismay over his boisterous entrance, but Caspar could be an impostor annoyed with his colleague not taking his job seriously. She and Hubert exchange glances: they have come to the same conclusion with ‘Linhardt’, but can’t say about Caspar.

(She should have spent more time with the real Linhardt. Had she known he was legitimate she would have… have… she doesn’t know what she would have done. The war and her people take precedence over everything. Does that mean you never truly cared about your friends? That you simply used them to your ends? No, of course not—but they were never important—that’s not true; then why didn’t you make some time, no matter how small—you know the answer: it’s because they weren’t as important as your goal. And even if you could go back in time you wouldn’t change all that much, and you know it).

“Your architecture is sooo confusing!” ‘Linhardt’ remarks with an exaggerated scoff as he flings himself onto the table so he is sitting atop the map. He picks up a red piece. “Oh these pieces are adorable!”

Hubert moves in and shoves ‘Linhardt’ off the table. “Know your place, vermin,” he spits with a ferocity that would make even the famed Nemesis quiver.

“Rude,” ‘Linhardt’ remarks. He then looks to Caspar. “Are you going to let them treat me like this?”

“You’re the one being rude, Linhardt…” Caspar remarks quietly like he is accepting the fact that ‘Linhardt’ isn’t real—is this a trick to mess with her?

“You’re meant to back me up, dear colleague.”

Caspar does a double-take, going all bug-eyed up at ‘Linhardt’. Then anger consumes him to the point he gets right into ‘Linhardt’s’ space. “W-we’re not—you’re not… you’re not the real Linhardt!”

The impostor grins and clasps Caspar’s shoulders with pride. “Yes, you’re playing the part well~!”

All Edelgard can do is watch helplessly on as her eyes dart back and forth, trying, needing, desperate to figure out if Caspar is real or if he’s playing a cruel game. A heart said to have been hardened over the years cracks more and more until nothing but sheer desperation keeps it welded together. She—she doesn’t know what to believe. Is ‘Linhardt’ simply trying to get under her skin and break her by turning her against the ‘real’ Caspar? Are they both impostors toying with her mental state, reminding her once more that she’s gotten her friends killed, that she is nothing more than a fancy pawn to them? W-what can she do—nothing, absolutely nothing, once again—

Hubert comes to her rescue by shutting the two down: “Need I remind you that you are losing the war?”

‘Linhardt’ backs away from Caspar and crosses his arms in a manner that screams that he is very much aware of this, but does not wish to acknowledge it. Blue eyes, usually so at ease, take on an uncharacteristic harshness as he looks to her. “I’m not the one in charge of throwing lives away.”

Edelgard opens her mouth to lambast him, only for him to interrupt with a finger wag and ‘uh-uh-uh’: “But even if we do lose this war we’ll always be around.” He then chuckles so heartily at that good news that it seems more fitting for Caspar. He even pats his chest like him. “Can’t say the same for this country though~.”

Damn them! She slams her fist against the table, toppling all the pieces in the process, unable to fully contain her building rage. They’re absolutely right: even if she loses this war those vermin will continue to exist. Just like rats you may kill one, two, maybe many, but far more will take over and rise to the surface. Even if she loses this war it stands to only benefit them, for the entire continent will take too much time to recover. They will take advantage of the chaos. Her people, those across Fódlan, future generations—they’ll all suffer… because she failed to eliminate their organisation…

“Why so cross, dear?” ‘Linhardt’ ho-hums. He then nods at a thought. “Ah, my appearance bothers you.”

She can’t help but scoff at how he says it like it is a revelation. Then he smiles upon coming up with some ‘surefire’ way to cheer her up. He spreads out his arms to emphasise his appearance.

“Surely you must like this ‘Linhardt’ better? I’m not lazy, I’m not argumentative, I’m not inconsiderate: I’m the better Linhardt!”

Something dies inside her.

The dam that is the remaining restraint of her anger threatens to crumble. Even Hubert, ever the picture definition of keeping his composure, appears to crack alongside her. His fingers tap against his sides with the intention to conjure dark magic. The hand of hers that did not slam the table dances around where her hidden dagger is. She will tackle that disgusting impostor to the ground and stab him over and over until she can no longer recognise ‘Linhardt’s’ features—

“Ah—! That’s my cue to leave!” ‘Linhardt’ jumps and makes his unceremonious leave.

Lilac eyes bore onto Caspar with the intensity of a caged animal trying to pry through the bars to reach its target. Is he real, is he a doppelgänger: answer her, answer her. Terrified for his life—that’s unlike Caspar, but every person can fear for their life—he rushes out. The last thing she saw on his face will haunt her forever. Was it mortification of the real Caspar coming to the dreaded conclusion that she doesn’t trust him and would kill him if she could? Was it just brilliant acting?

She’ll never know. She’ll never know…

It is a miracle that she isn’t going on a bloody rampage after ‘Linhardt’ and the rest of the ones she knows are impostors. The only reason she doesn’t is because everyone believes them to be real, the people fighting for a better world, the ones who have already done so much good for Adrestia. They’re all untouchable. They know this all too well. It’s… she can’t lie to herself… it’s getting harder to keep herself strong.

She feels Hubert move to her side. Then to her utmost surprise she feels a hand awkwardly grasp her shoulder and attempt to soothe it. It is extremely clear to her that he is unsure how best to cheer her up. But his feelings are clear. She places her own hand atop his and looks to him without the mask of an unbreakable emperor. Even he forgoes his own imposing mask to showcase that he too feels helpless and guilty over never trusting their real friends earlier.

Regret won’t bring back the dead.

All they can do is move forward.

It’s all they can do.

Hresvelg fell.

The Faerghuan army nears Enbarr.

From the balcony she observes troops clog the streets and the remaining citizens move to the Mittlefrank Opera House or make their leave. If she stares hard enough at the far horizon she can swear she sees a thin bobbing black line that is the encroaching army. Survivors from the Hresvelg stand arrive by wyvern and Pegasus knights; to her shock the majority still wish to fight for her and her dream. Hubert is seen moving back and forth with the survivors into the castle barracks to see that they get treatment, food, and time to recuperate, allow them to leave their post without consequence, and allow them all to make some (last) wishes to friends, family, or lovers.

The known impostors can be seen interacting with the soldiers across the entire city. Her heart aches at seeing her troops, her people, putting their trust into beings who could care less if they perish. She hopes that they will be killed in the crossfire, oh how she hopes.

Someone knocks on her door. “Your Majesty: General Arnault and Queen Petra have returned.”

…Did they survive, or have they been replaced?

Her hands grip the rails. Regardless she needs all the assistance she can muster for this last stand. Despite those vermin insisting they will survive without Adrestia they wish to sow as much chaos as possible. To do that is to prolong a war. She inhales through her nose as she does her best to compose herself. Then she moves off the balcony and back into her room. She squares her shoulders, musters a stony mask, and stands her ground.

“They may enter.”

Dorothea and Petra come inside. Tension anchors her to the floor. Neither of them appears harmed—so that must mean they are impostors; no, not necessarily: they could have been healed earlier. Petra power-walks to her with the urgency of a ruler needing to see what is happening with her people. Is she in such a hurry that she forgets her usual Brigidi greeting or is she an impostor unaware of such customs?

“I will be leaving for Brigid,” Petra decrees without missing a beat. “They will be needing their queen to maintain peace and order… and to form new deals with new conquerors.”

…Is this the real Petra growing concerned about her people’s future in world without her promise to return Brigid’s independence, or a vermin’s attempt to gather more pawns and resources?

She decides to test her: “Pō tongu ire, Petra-ka.”

Petra smiles. “Thank you for your wishes.”

“You’re not the real Petra.”

‘Petra’s’ façade drops immediately to that of mortification. What Edelgard said in purposely broken Brigid was‘enjoyed this game, me did, friend Petra’, knowing very well that an impostor may respond by believing she said something about good wishes or condemning her for leaving. Still… she wished she was wrong…

‘Petra’ tsks to herself over her blunder. She lifts her chin up in a childish way to appear tough. “I will still be leaving for Brigid.”

“I can have you executed for breaching the agreement that Adrestia and Brigid have: to militaristically support one another until the war ends.”

To her utmost humiliation ‘Petra’ just laughs. That condescending noise is a far-cry from her initial panic; it screams of authentic confidence, not misguided cockiness.

“I heard that in Brigid people fight to secure the throne. Even if you kill me there’ll be others that will gladly replace someone to inherit the throne to Brigid.”

She bites her lip so hard that she tastes blood. Her brows furrow so tightly that she’ll develop a headache. Damn it—what is worse? Allowing ‘Petra’ to return with large approval of the masses or kill her knowing someone else will secure the throne (be that an impostor, or a real person that will then later be replaced when their position is secured)? And even if this impostor cannot speak or understand Brigidi they can learn the language on a one month boat journey to Brigid or have an impostor more well versed in the language replace a promising Brigidan. No matter what she does Brigid will be infiltrated by these vermin.

Her sharp glare somehow grows more piercing than what was thought humanly possible. “I will not let your lot ruin another country.”

The threat is pathetic, for she knows she can’t do anything, and ‘Petra’ knows this, with the way she barks a laugh. “You have no power over the matter.”

Without even waiting for her to say anything ‘Petra’ turns away and makes her leave. Adrenaline pumps through Edelgard, goading her to tackle ‘Petra’ to the floor and kill her. Petra always wanted a free Brigid, one that is no longer manipulated by other powers, so damn it, fight, fight back, for your friend’s dream and Brigid’s sake—! 

But Petra leaves before she had a chance.

(You never had a chance in the first place).

A scream threatens to tear from her throat. It boils and boils, the lid struggling to stay on. You failed your friend, you failed so many friends, your own people, the people of Fódlan—! Yet she shoves that lid down, scalding her hands in the process, for there is another person in the room.

The sultry smile to cross Dorothea is too sinister for her usual act of the flirtatious woman. Dorothea saunters to her with exaggerated strides, an encroaching predator. Edelgard swallows hard and glares in a pitiful attempt to halt this impostor in place.

“You look like you could use company, dear,” ‘Dorothea’ purrs.

“You misread my needs.”

‘Dorothea’ giggles; they do not sound sinister, and somehow that is worse. “We all know that you and this ‘Dorothea’ were a thing.”

Her entire posture sags in utmost dismay: her arms go lax at her sides, her face morphs into anguished anger, and her teeth grit before this impostor. Is there nothing about her life that is private to them? Even with the war at the empire’s doorstep they still like to toy with her? Are they really incapable of leaving the dead be?

‘Dorothea’ lifts her hand to cup her chee—Edelgard grabs her wrist, eyes blazing with the desire to burn this disgusting doppelgänger to a crisp.

‘Dorothea’ simply puckers her lips and coos, “Is that how you treat your beloved?”

“You are no beloved of mine,” Edelgard spits with a disgust that has no equal.

“But I look like her and am willing to sleep with you,” ‘Dorothea’ insists, as if that is all Dorothea ever was to her: looks and an obedient concubine. She bats her lashes and gets in close enough that their lips are but a breath away. “Isn’t that enough?”

Edelgard swipes her arm aside and takes a few steps back. “Guards, Miss Arnault is not herself!”

The guards come rushing in, all looking to ‘Dorothea’ with worry over what they perceive is her going mad from the toll of war. ‘Dorothea’ whines in disappointment and allows the guards to escort her out. But just as she is leaving she looks over her shoulder, heavy-lidded eyes, red lips smiling to her ears in that familiar dimpled smile of the real one, and blows her a kiss. The grimace to cross Edelgard is the last thing that impostor sees upon the door closing.

Alone.

Feeling the energy leaving her legs she leans against a wall to support herself. Her head pounds over and over, desperate to break free from her skull. She turns her head to press her mouth against the wall. The scream she lets out would be heard across Enbarr if she did not suppress it. When she clamps her mouth shut she bites her tongue hard to the point she yelps and grasps her mouth. Ragged breaths heave out from her. Regardless if she keeps her eyes open or not she sees the images of her fellow Black Eagles. Are these images of her friends or of the impostors? She can’t even trust her imagination anymore…!

She tries using the horns of her crown to scrape at the walls to vanquish those images from her head. It’s doesn’t matter if she damages her crown in the process—it’s just an ornament. Yet the images persist. Growing increasingly frustrated she growls in tune to her scraping. Leave her alone, leave, leave, please, please—! Then she stops, mortified over the way she’s behaving like some dying animal yearning to join the pack that chose to abandon it.

You mustn’t give into agony, you mustn’t.

Don’t let them beat you down.

The Faerghuan army has breached Enbarr.

With no choice left she has given into the temptation to activate the full power of the Crest of Flames. In this beastly form she has the power to turn the tides to her favour. She will not win her war, but she can eliminate a chunk of the Faerghuan army and go after those vermin to find their base and ensure they never, ever interfere with Fódlan again.

(And there is no one left who will lament her transformation. No one left to tie her to her human form. All she can do is drag her enemies down with her).

She cannot see beyond the throne room, but she can sense those within the castle. A few of those vermin plan to retreat—oh how she wants to strike them down, but she mustn’t: they and the Faerghuans can dwindle down their numbers against each other. With magic beyond her comprehension she strikes back against Faerghuan troops and high officials. She manages to kill the unsuspecting Felix; he didn’t even realise he was hit.

She senses all the impostors rush into the castle to make their final stand. ‘Ferdinand’s’ maniacal laughs manage to pierce her mind as he rushes to skewer some targets. But in his arrogance he is brought down by Dedue cleaving his head off his shoulders. The sense of peace to briefly consume Edelgard is… she has not felt this at ease in years. Who would ever think that killing someone that looks like a person you cherish is the equivalent to letting their soul lay to rest?

‘Petra’ tries to hightail out the castle to regroup in Brigid. Edelgard senses her mercilessly using Adrestian soldiers as cannon fodder and shields as she makes her escape. Her fingers dance with the need to strike her down. This time though she is willing to follow her emotions. She would not be seen in a negative light for striking down a ‘traitor’. So she fires her long-range magic—it pierces through ‘Petra’ with ease. The gurgles to come out from the impostor haunt her min—it is not the real Petra, she knows this, and yet her spirit is on the verge of completely collapsing.

A rumble rocks through the castle. It quickly dawns on her that ‘Dorothea’ casted Meteor upon her foes. Soon after Edelgard senses a number of Faerghuan soldiers, Ashe, and Ingrid’s lives fade away. Even though she senses that an arrow is lodged through the impostor’s shoulder she feels nothing for the doppelgänger. This is not the real ‘Dorothea’; if she was, Edelgard would never, ever wish for her to suffer and die. So when she feels Dark Spikes T skewer ‘Dorothea’ she isn’t dismayed beyond belief. But when that doppelgänger cries out ‘Edie’ she lets out a hoarse noise of that little girl left to watch her siblings be picked off one by one.

Someone is banging at her door with the desperation of someone trying to escape death. “Let me in, please—!”

‘Bernadetta’… playing the role until the very end.

“You want me to die at your hands again!?”

A rumble courses through her entire figure as she lets out a growl. Such disgusting tactics will not tempt her. No matter how many times that impostor raves about being killed by her again Edelgard does not budge.

“Stop being such a coward and join us!” ‘Linhardt’ shouts, acting in a manner that is unbefitting for the real one. A yelp escapes ‘Bernadetta’—she is being dragged away.

‘Bernadetta’ seeks cover and does nothing to support ‘Linhardt’ as he is burnt alive by fire magic from Sylvain. Edelgard cannot cut his bloodcurdling screams from her head; not even trying to cover it with her flytraps does anything. Not long after ‘Bernadetta’ is struck down by fire magic and left to burn into a charcoal marionette. How ironic that the impostor of ‘Bernadetta’ died the same way...

‘Caspar’ foolhardily dares to challenge Dimitri head-on. It is… something that the real Caspar would—it is cruel to compare him to a disgusting doppelgänger. Alas she cannot help it; when she senses how the two trade blows she remembers her training sessions with Caspar. His toothy grin that makes everyone feel a tad bit more confident, his twinkling eyes… the way he always got back up… The impostor does not get back up.

Alone. Although this time she relishes in that position.

The door is ope—did a Faerghuan steal some keys—

—her heart stops.

Hubert!

He takes a few tentative steps towards her, his usually impassive face taking on a sadness of one who feared that she would not listen to his warnings. Her entire figure slumps, the flytraps faltering like dying petals, and her eclipsed eyes flicker. It is absolutely appalling that she has forgotten about him. She has not seen him since he began preparing Enbarr for the last stand. She has no idea if he is an—no, wait, she has a way to test him.

“Prove you are the real one.”

Hubert lifts up his arms. Eclipsed eyes brighten to match the intensity of the sun. Yes, yes, he will do the secret gesture! It’s the real one! Then he lowers his arms to his sides. No, wait, surely he will—

“There is no way I can, Your Majesty.”

…

…Impostor.

Of course Hubert died too.

All the Black Eagles are dead.

All have been replaced.

Something rumbles in her chest. It repeats in patterns. Her whole body heaves alongside these noises. Even when she ducks her head and uses the flytraps to hide it the strangled noises ring in the throne room. It then dawns on her that she is laughing. No, that is not quite accurate. The splutters in between laughs, the hoarse noises to slip through, the salty water rushing down her eyes and nose into her spluttering mouth—she is sobbing and laughing uncontrollably.

It becomes harder to breathe as tears and snot drool into her quivering mouth. Some strands of her loosened hair fall into her mouth; unfortunately, it does not silence her. Soon her chest starts to hurt from all the laughter and wails, yet she can’t stop. She tries digging her elongated claws against her sinewy sides, but they simply add to her hysteria with winces.

Images of the Black Eagles—real or impostors—haunt her. Their voices ring aloud as if they are here, calling to her name, ghosts waiting for her to join them. Their images burn into her, searing her for life, a reminder that she failed those who trusted her and loved her. Then those images shift to people from all walks of life: the soldiers she fought alongside of, the enemy troops she killed or managed to force into surrender, her citizens thanking her efforts to make an equal world, enemy villagers being shocked at her sparing their towns—too many people to process. Finally they all burn to ashes—because she is a walking flame that ruins everything it touches.

All the sacrifices made by her, her friends, her people… all the people who died in this war from all sides… were for nothing!

All that for nothing, those reforms for nothing, keeping strong for nothing; nothing, nothing, for absolutely nothing—!

(When Dimitri enters and kills ‘Hubert’ she almost thanks him. When she throws the dagger and forces him to kill her the last thing she thinks is that those vermin won… because of her…)

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! (It is never too late to comment :D).