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The woman behind the coffee shop counter frowned. “Er, sorry, what was that again?”
Cichol pursed his lips as his youngest daughter sucked in a breath, exhaustion plain on her face. “ Seer-sha. Spelled S-a-o-i-r-s-e.” Her voice trailed away as she rattled off the letters for the hundredth time in a year, the barista’s face growing slack with confusion.
“Got it, thank you!” she said with an unconvincing smile, scribbling something on the side of the plastic to-go cup with a Sharpie and walking away to fill the order.
Cichol’s daughter ran a hand through her silvery-green hair, so pale it was almost white. The pair of earrings on both ears twinkled in the fluorescent light of the lamps above. “I understand how important my name is, Father, but…”
“I know,” he murmured. “It’s a rare name in this age. Perhaps even unique.”
Saoirse smiled, taking out her phone when it pinged. “I guess I don’t have it as bad as Áine. People spell her name like ‘Anya’ every day.”
“So I am constantly reminded.” Cichol felt a twinge of sorrow deep in his chest. When their twins, Áine and Niall were born, he and Byleth had not hesitated for a moment to choose Nabatean names. Well, their first names. Somehow, no one seemed to struggle to spell their middle names, Rhea and Reus. Still, while his three youngest children understood the importance of preserving their heritage, there was no denying the inconvenience of their cultural names.
“I got a text from Cethleann,” Saoirse said, bringing him back to the present. “She and Niall are already at the house. So are Uncle Macuil and Uncle Indech.”
“And your mother?” Cichol asked, frowning. It wasn’t like Byleth to be late.
Saoirse tapped out a message, sending it in a matter of seconds. When her phone pinged again, she quirked her mouth to the side and shrugged. “I guess she and Áine went shopping and haven’t gotten back yet.”
“Here you are, miss!” The barista smiled, holding out the plastic cup with so much whipped cream and sugar, it was barely coffee. Although, that was probably for the best. Despite being barely two hundred years old, Saoirse could only pass as a girl barely starting adolescence.
“Thank you,” Saoirse said, taking her drink only to turn the cup around and petulantly stick her tongue out at the name “Sasha” scrawled on the side.
"And your ginger tea, sir."
Cichol took the cup with a nod of thanks. His name, as usual, was spelled correctly. He supposed he had pranking teenagers to thank for that, when they so often jokingly gave the baristas the names of the saints instead of their own. He had whirled around on the spot the first time he'd heard someone call out for "Seiros." No doubt the woman behind the counter assumed that Cichol was also using his name as a joke.
He started to turn away when he noticed the barista giving him a curious look. Now it was his turn for the exhaustion only a near-immortal could feel to creep up on him. “Is something the matter?”
The woman shook her head vaguely, but he could see her fingering the charm of a necklace at her throat. The Crest of Seiros.
“N-no,” she said, uncertainly. “I’m sorry, it must be my imagination.”
“Wait, you’re right!” Another employee behind the counter—a young man who looked no older than seventeen—came up next to her, staring with discomforting intensity. “You’re the spitting image of that one guy! That king! Aw shit, what was his name…”
Recognition sparked in the woman’s eyes and she let go of her necklace, snapping her fingers. “Not king, prince consort! Queen Byleth’s husband! Oh, what was his name…”
“Man, my history teacher would kill me if she saw me now…”
“Seteth?” Cichol offered with a tired smile, ignoring the way his daughter grinned into her drink as she took a deep sip.
“ Yes! ” they said in unison. The boy grinned. “You must get that a lot.”
“He does,” Saoirse snickered, licking frothy cream from her upper lip as she turned and headed for the door.
Cichol waved in a casual goodbye to the well-meaning man and woman and followed his daughter out the door.
As the door swung shut behind them, the wyvern waiting in the parking lot let out a low rumble of greeting when they approached. The windows of the cars on either side of it rattled lightly as the beast lowered itself to the ground to allow the two of them to mount.
“Thank you for waiting, friend,” Cichol murmured, stroking the scales of the beast’s neck with his free hand. There were few who still flew pegasi and wyverns in this age, but it was not unheard of. He was used to the curious looks and whispered astonishment behind hands as people passed by.
“I don’t know how you put up with it,” Saoirse said, still grinning, as she heaved herself up behind her father into the saddle. “I’ve only been dealing with people pointing out my weird name for a few hundred years. You’ve been famous for thousands.”
“I was a common man for the first thousand and a half years of my life and in hiding for the next thousand. It has only been five hundred years since the War of Unification,” Cichol argued as he collected the reins with one hand, balancing his to-go cup in the other.
“Sure, sure.”
It had been five hundred and eleven years, to be exact, since Byleth had arrived at Garreg Mach Monastery with her father. Five centuries to the day since he and Byleth had finally wed after their uncertain start when she began her tenure as a professor. That was the reason for the celebration today. While they saw each other often, whether for a purpose or on a whim, their family remained scattered about the continent. Today, however, they would gather for his and Byleth’s anniversary. Five centuries together, and he had only come to love her more with each passing year.
It was a significant milestone for his people. Half a millennium of marriage was to be lauded and celebrated. Cichol had barely passed three centuries with his first wife before she was killed in the War of Heroes. The exhilaration accompanying reaching five centuries with Byleth, with many more awaiting them, was beyond what he could have possibly imagined.
The flight from the small town near the coast to the very edge of the old Aegir territory, where they had spent so many summers on the beach of the warm Southern Sea, was short. It had been a few hundred years since Ferdinand had passed, his life prolonged with Cichol’s own blood to ensure Cethleann had as many years as possible with her husband. Still, the bleached stone house they had built stood strong and was always there when any member of their family chose to visit. There were few who remembered them in this age, but the ruling powers of Fódlan all officially recognized their existence, at least, and ensured their property was documented and protected.
Centuries ago, Cichol had kept their secret at all costs to protect themselves. Now, even though they were out in the open again, even using their true names and taking no measures to conceal their ears, no one believed them at first glance. People assumed their parents were only religious devotees to the Church of Seiros, naming them after the saints, and that their ears were fake prosthetics for some kind of fantasy hobby. He shuddered at the memory of the time Áine had experimented with calling him the modern-day name of “Daddy,” only for the people who heard it to drastically misunderstand their relationship. People simply explained away the age difference between Cichol and Byleth and their children as the result of teen pregnancy, or otherwise assumed they were lying and that they were really siblings. Man’s willful ignorance was turning out to be the most effective cloak they had ever possessed.
As the ocean came in sight through the clouds, their house waiting on the edge of the beach, Saoirse let out a cry in greeting. “Niall!”
Sure enough, there was his son, soaring over the waves in his dragon form, his foggy gray scales reflecting on the water. That explained the weather. His affinity with the clouds caused them to roll in wherever he was, even more so when he was transformed. Cichol sighed with a smile, knowing that the moment his and Byleth’s three children were brought together again, the weather would fluctuate seemingly without reason. Áine’s affinity with the sun and Saoirse’s with the rain was always an interesting combination.
A car beeping drew his attention to the ground, where a white sedan was driving smoothly along the curving road. His heart soared at the sight, knowing that Byleth would be behind the wheel. While she did fly with her own aging pegasus from time to time, she had taken to cars more readily than Cichol had. Whether she was beeping to get his or their son’s attention, he could not say.
With a boom, Niall landed on the edge of the surf, transforming back into his human form just as Cichol’s wyvern landed moments later on the gravel driveway. Niall had clearly already been spending time in the water today, wearing only his swim trunks.
The roll of wheels on gravel heralded the arrival of Byleth’s car stopping just beside his wyvern. Byleth emerged from the white sedan, a smile already beaming up at him. And she was…
“Mom, your hair!” Saoirse cried out as she jumped from the wyvern’s back with ease. “You cut it all off!”
“It’s a bob, Saoirse,” Byleth laughed, reaching up to brush the short locks behind her pointed ear. “More comfortable for the summer.”
Gravel crunched as Byleth walked over to stand mere feet away from where Cichol still sat, frozen, in the saddle. “What do you think, Cichol?”
That broke him out of his silence.
Cichol nearly fell out of the saddle in his haste to reach her. The second his feet touched the ground, he reached out for her, cradling her face as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Warm tea sloshed out of the lid of his cup onto his hand, but he didn’t care.
“You look beautiful,” he said emphatically, kissing her cheek again before capturing her lips. She tasted of laughter and her favorite chocolate candies.
Footsteps grew closer to them, accompanied by a deep sigh. “You have been married for five hundred years. How are you still this lovey-dovey?”
Cichol pulled away with a sigh, though he kept his free hand on Byleth’s shoulders, enjoying the way her newly cut hair barely brushed his fingers. There was Áine, closing the car door behind her with a bag of candy in her hand and an exasperated smile on her face. Having been born less than a decade after their marriage, Áine was only just now beginning to look like a human in her late teens. Rather than lamenting the slow aging of their people, she was quite content being able to pass as a high school student for the last hundred years, enrolling and re-enrolling in schools to take as many classes as she pleased.
“Do you object to how much I love your mother, dear daughter?”
Áine shrugged, amused. “Not at all. In all my years, I’ve never seen anyone be so affectionate with their partner. Not even Cethleann and Ferdinand. You have to understand that, as your daughter, it’s both embarrassing and inspiring.”
Byleth laughed, and it was as delightful now as it had always been. “If you’re embarrassed, you can go tell Cethleann and your uncles that we’ve returned. We’ll join you inside in a few minutes. I wouldn’t want to mortify you further with how much I’m about to kiss your father.”
Áine made a face of mock horror before taking Saoirse’s hand and walking back toward the beach where their brother awaited them. Cichol smiled as he watched them swap their treats, Saoirse digging her hand into the candy bag for more sweets while Áine drank deeply from her sister’s barely-a-coffee beverage.
A kiss on his cheek drew Cichol’s attention back to his wife. “How was your flight?” Byleth asked.
“Uneventful,” he responded with a kiss on her forehead. “How was your excursion with Áine? I was surprised to hear that you would be late.”
“It was quite fun, actually,” Byleth smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist and tugging him closer. Cichol reached out toward the car to set his cup on the roof, freeing his hand to brush through her shortened hair in wonder. “We spent nearly an hour in the bakery after I got my hair cut.” Her smile grew wider. “They even had some of your favorite super-spicy fish dango. They’re waiting in the car. But then I sent Áine to buy some champagne at the liquor store next door and…well…”
“Ah.” Cichol nodded knowingly. “That would explain it. They did not believe her to be older than sixteen?”
Byleth sighed, leaning her head against his chest and tugging him closer. “I believe the issue had more to do with the birthdate on her license being set a hundred years ago.”
“And she argued with them that she was indeed older than that, and that it was not her fault that the government does not issue IDs with earlier birthdates?” Cichol chuckled, pressing a kiss into Byleth’s hair as he held her to him. Áine’s exasperated expression at their displays of affection floated to the front of his mind. Let their family tease. Yes, he and Byleth had been married for centuries, but it was their anniversary. Let them express their love for one another in peace.
“Well, you know how she is about making sure facts are straight. She reminds me of Lysithea that way, sometimes.” Byleth sighed. “I smoothed it over by taking some selfies with the staff once I explained the situation. It’s always strange that people know we still exist, but when faced with us in person…they get so obstinate.”
“That was quite generous of you, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, you know, my prime minister may have taught me a few things about diplomacy,” Byleth teased, leaning her head back to look at him again, smiling. There were a few small wrinkles around her eyes that had not been there five hundred years ago, but the smile lines on her cheeks were a constant reminder that they had had much to be happy about for so many years, and that there were many more happy years to come. Cichol had a few more signs of age than she did, as he really was that much older, but he did not mind at all.
“Shall we join everyone inside then, my love?” Cichol asked. “We are the ones who arrived late. They’re getting impatient, no doubt.”
Byleth scoffed, standing up on her toes to press a kiss under his ear, then another behind it. The smile he could feel against his skin was evidence that she knew exactly what kisses there did to him. “They can be patient a little longer.”
Inhaling a shaky breath, Cichol slid his arms down her back. “I suppose they can.”
Kissing Byleth now was different than it had been when they had first begun courting. Back then, they had still been learning, still exploring. There had been a hunger behind every kiss and touch, an eagerness to express all the affection that simmered beneath their skin. They had hidden away in their respective offices more times than he could count and been caught in less private areas of the monastery more times than he would have liked.
Back then, they had known in theory that they would have centuries more to love one another. Now that they had lived a few together, everything was slower, less hurried. They did not need to worry about if someone would discover their secret engagement. They did not need to squeeze in as many kisses as possible before a crying green-haired child interrupted them.
So when Byleth hummed, stretching her arms up around his neck, and brushed her lips against his, it was without a hint of concern. When he stole her breath away by sucking on her bottom lip and tangling his fingers in her short hair, it was with the surety of someone who was not afraid of being caught. Who did he have to hide this from? Her light laughter against his lips as he dipped her backward was a song he had listened to for the past five hundred years, and it would remain his favorite for the next five hundred.
Cichol did not even mind as a sharp whistle from the house cut through the ocean breeze. Byleth did not seem to either as she bunched her hands in his shirt when he helped her stand up straight again.
With a final pair of kisses on the corner of his mouth and the tip of his nose, Byleth looked back toward the house to see their entire family waiting for them. “That was quite rude, Macuil!” she called. It was always his younger brother to be the impatient one.
“I would tell you to get a room, but there are none to be found outside!” he called back, crossing his arms. “We have been waiting on you for hours!”
“Are you not here to help us celebrate our marriage, Brother?” Cichol smiled. “Why would you object to me showing my wife the depth of my love for her?”
The long-haired man across the driveway waved an irritated hand in the air before turning around to walk back into the house. Indech followed shortly, but their children waited for them, waving and laughing. Cethleann, an adult and mother now, had her delicate arms around Saoirse’s shoulders—their youngest daughter had always admired her big sister—while their twins stood just inside the doorway. The four of them, more than anyone, understood how wonderful it was to have parents who loved one another so.
“Shall we then, my beloved?” Byleth asked, beaming.
“Yes,” Cichol agreed with one last kiss to her temple. He reached for the half-full cup of tea on top of the car while Byleth opened the door to pull the box of baked goods into her arms, the bottle of champagne tucked under her arm. “I am ready to toast to another five hundred years with you.”