Chapter Text
Jeritza tried to live life the best way possible. He helped the merchants on the edge of town load and unload their stalls for food. He helped the blacksmiths gather materials for their trade. After two years of scrubbing tavern floors for money, he earned a place to stay in exchange for his service. He did surprisingly well for a young orphan, at least for a while.
He woke with a start, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cold of the room. His body shook, chest tight. Images flashed through his mind. A dark room. A crying girl. A belt coming toward his face. He tried to throw his up hands for protection, but they did little to help. He heard screaming, slashing. He tried to see where the noise came from, but found that he could not see. Where was the crying girl? What had just happened? He found he could not remember the vision after it had passed. “Stop it…” he heard a voice much like his own cry out in the distance. It echoed through the void, but fell dull in his ears. As if at the last second it was absorbed.
Another image flooded the black void. Jeritza found himself in the large house once again, watching from the doorway as three children played in the foyer. He heard laughter. It seemed the children were...dancing? They moved their feet up and down with ferocity, pounding to an unknown song. He tried to step closer, only to find his path obstructed by an invisible force.
Another scream, desperate and hoarse, echoed through the room. A black devil sprung up from the middle of the ring, his skeletal face sending shivers down Jeritza’s spine. He moved quickly, bringing his fist to one of the children’s faces. The child stumbled back. The devil jumped on top of him. One blow. Two. Three. A pale child of raven hair caught the devil’s ebony arm, twisting it backwards. The demon howled in agony.
The scene absorbed into the void. What had he just witnessed? The boy stumbled backward, gripping his head to steady his dizzy confusion. The world, though a void, began to spin. What kind of nightmare was this? What nightmare? He collapsed, panting. Why couldn’t he remember? He felt terror. Sheer terror. Yet he knew not why. He gripped his chest, wrinkling the white shirt fabric. His heart would not calm, yet he knew not why he felt this way, nor who the feeling originated from.
Who the feeling originated from? What a ridiculous thought that was. Yet he felt it linger, hanging in his mind amidst the panic. He shook his head, gasping for air. The intangible void gave way to the blackness of closed eyes. He had to open them. He had to find where he was. As he breathed, he felt his heart slow. As his heart slowed, the pressure in his brow lifted. As he opened his eyes, the memory faded. The panic, the terror, the trauma dissolved, melting into confusion. Jeritza ran a hand over his dresser, the smooth oak interrupted by shallow slashes. He furrowed his brow when he saw holes in his pillow and mattress. And as he changed out of his sweat soaked shirt, he wondered if he had somehow been attacked without his knowing.
This event repeated itself. Jeritza would lay down to sleep, be plagued by panic as something besides himself remembered, and wake to find his room in disarray with no memory of why it was in such a state. The innkeeper, a kindly woman with a round figure, would ask what bothered him so that he howled thus. Jeritza denied ever having done it, but did confess to finding damage to the room every morning. The woman’s face tensed, red eyebrows raised and pink lips pursed.
“Damage? Just what has been going on?” Jeritza’s blond locks swayed to hide his face as he sighed. He set down his rag and beckoned her upstairs. He instructed her to duck under string in the doorway, and the woman complied with a chuckle. However, her eyes widened at the marked door and bed frames. She whimpered at finding the old oak dresser scarred. Her lip quivered upon finding holes in her fine sheets. Jeritza flinched at the hurt in her green eyes, and averted his gaze upon the shock in her voice.
“What...happened?”
“I am,” he paused, exhaling, “I am unsure…”
The woman shook her head, “How do you not know? You sleep here!” She gestured with an open hand to the ruined bed.
“I… I can never remember,” His voice fell heavy, throat tightened, “I have..tried to find the culprit…” He gestured to the broken string in front of his bed, and the unbroken string they passed under. The innkeeper furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.
“It is apparent that...it is my body doing these things,” he clenched his fists and teeth, the innkeeper’s expression softened with concern as the boy continued, “but I don’t remember...doing it.” His voice cracked for the tightness in his throat. Though he would rather not allow himself to cry, it was becoming difficult to hold the tears back.
“How long has this been happening?” The woman motioned for the boy to sit on the bed as she took a seat in the wooden chair at the foot of it.
“Weeks… That’s not the worst of it...” he tried to speak, but his voice caught. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He inhaled sharply and screwed his eyes shut. He could not cry. He could not allow himself to cry. The innkeeper set a tender hand on his shoulder, and he held his head in his hands, covering his eyes. His body shook with a silent sob, “What’s happening? Why now?” his voice curled and cracked as the innkeeper rubbed his back.
He tried to breathe, tried to calm himself down, but the tears continued to flow. As they flowed, he began to feel disconnected. As he felt himself drift further away (from what, he did not know), he heard a growl.
“Stop crying, boy…” A gravelly voice commanded with a slow tone not unlike a wolf’s growl. Jeritza tried, but could not stop the flow of tears. The voice growled, and he felt his nails dig into the flesh around his eyes, “Stop crying.” The voice commanded again. Jeritza hiccupped and groaned, trying to make the tears stop. His hand slid downward, nails remaining in his skin. He winced. “Weakling.” the voice commented. It was at this time that the innkeeper snatched the teenager’s hands up by their wrists.
“Jeritza, that’s enough,” she snapped, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this needs to stop.”
“Unhand me.” The boy’s eyes lit with anger, and he snatched his hands away.
The two stared at each other a long time before the boy chuckled at the innkeeper’s disbelieving expression.
“Are you afraid of me…” The voice came out rough and low, much more a statement than a question.
The next morning, Jeritza was packing his things. Knowing that word would get around about the demon within him, he made his way to a different district of Enbarr. There were less opportunities there. Being deeper in the city, merchants weren’t as trusting of strangers offering their help. Inns wouldn’t accept service for shelter; they wanted gold. And while Jeritza had saved up a good amount, the funds ran out after a few weeks.
It was difficult to find a job, and so the boy turned to thievery. A pocket picked here, a house there. Just enough to get by, and always during the day when people were away. At night, when Jeritza had fallen asleep in some forgotten corner, the Death Knight would make his way deeper into the city. Into dark alleyways where victims were made. He would make use of his sword, always growing stronger. Initially, waking up with patched wounds and bloodied clothes unsettled Jeritza-even frightened him-but after some time, it became a normality.
He learned not to cry. Not to show fear. If you showed fear among urchins, you were punished. If you showed weakness, you were harmed. The Death Knight made sure Jeritza learned that well.
“Why do you...do this to me?” The boy looked to the dead cat that lay beside him. He had been forced to watch as the demon (who he had learned called himself the Death Knight) wrung the neck of a feline Jeritza had spent so long bonding with.
The Death Knight laughed within the body’s head, “You’re not crying! Well done…”
Jeritza’s lip pulled up in disgust, “Of course not,” he said, “will you now leave me be?” He stood, holding the cat close. He had to find a place to bury the poor creature.
“Drop it.”
Jeritza looked to the side, his grimace shifting from disgust to anger, “And why should I?”
“Your attachments make you weak. You must focus on battle.”
“Hmph…”
Jeritza grew tired as he settled into his new normal. It became more shocking to wake without evidence from the night before than the alternative. After a few close calls with the guard, he learned to avoid people. He ventured out of the city walls, preferring to battle the beasts surrounding Enbarr than risk growing...attached to something. He grew used to the voice within his head, and hid evidence of the demon’s nightly escapades. However, no one is perfect. It was only a matter of time before the pair were caught.
Suddenly, Jeritza had a new fate to come to terms with. He ignored the Death Knight’s plots of escape, instead focusing on the prospect of beheading. It wasn’t a terrible way to perish, though he would much rather die with his rapier in hand. One of the few attachments he was allowed the three years he had known of the Death Knight. He doubted he would see it again now, as well as anyone beside the city guard. That’s why he was surprised when a white haired girl walked to his cell accompanied by a dark haired man much older than she.
“Hello, Jeritza,” she greeted. Her voice carried an air of duty, though her clothes were ordinary. Perhaps she was a degenerate’s daughter, hoping for answers concerning her father’s death. Jeritza ignored her, choosing instead to scrape at a spot on the stone beneath him. The girl cleared her throat and tossed her head. It was understandable that this man didn’t recognize her. She would have to say something to catch his attention.
“Hello,” she paused, “Emile.” The man stopped playing at the floor a moment, though his eyes did not meet hers. She knew she had his attention, “Tell me, how did the heir to House Bartels come to be in an Enbarr prison?”
Jeritza knew that piece of the body’s history; the Death Knight had explained it in detail over the years. Still, he did not wish to speak of something he had no part in.
He sighed, filthy blond hair falling to hide his face, “Why?” His voice was airy and tired.
“I have heard of your battles with beasts. You’re a spectacular swordsman,” the girl gestured to the man with an open palm, “it makes no sense why someone of your skill would choose the kind of life you’ve led.”
“And what life is that?” Jeritza spoke slowly, eyes half closed. He wanted to know how much this girl knew of him.
“A life of thievery and poverty,” her tone was incredulous, “after all, you have a crest. You could have a territory and army by now.”
Jeritza shook his head, “My crest... has brought nothing but pain.”
The woman’s downcast eyes held sympathy, though she could not help but find this fortunate, “How so?”
He exhaled heavily. It seemed this girl would not leave until she knew his tale. “I was...the last of my family to bear a crest. They treated,” he paused as he tried to remember, “my sister and I terribly.”
The woman nodded, “Is that why you killed House Bartels?”
Jeritza shook his head again, “That was not...me,” he breathed, “it was the Death Knight. A demon...who lives within me.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she took a step back in surprised, “Oh? Why would he do that?”
“He craves bloodshed. That is that nature of his existence,” he turned his head away from the girl, “I have...tried to stop him. But there is nothing I can do…”
The woman hummed in thought, “I have an idea,” Jeritza lifted his head at her words, “if you were to lend me your strength, I could supply this Death Knight with battlefield after battlefield. His thirst for blood would be satiated, and I could make use of your skill.” The girl smiled, eyes determined. Though she was young, she was focused.
“And who might you be?” The young man asked, wary of allowing for hope.
“I am Edelgard von Hresvelg,” she bowed slightly upon stating her name, “Imperial princess and heir to the Adrestian empire.”