Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The steady beat of horse’s hooves, the jingle of armor and weapons. Side to side, swaying steadily. It’s cold, snow fluttering down out of the gray sky; tree branches like gnarled claws above.

A face--your father’s face--is fierce, stern, sun-kissed and scarred. His hands are rough, callused from long years of training, and so big against you.

But then, you’re small, and tiny, and can only stare up at the face of the person who will become the cornerstone of your world.

He holds you so gently, even as he flees in the cold.

So very gently.

This is your first memory.

...kind of.

---

Later, you take stock of everything: 

First, you’re not dead . 

Shocker, that one; after what you did, you had expected death. And, you think, maybe you got it--for a bit.

But then there had been green and purple and a voice whispering unintelligible words and suddenly you weren’t black and numb anymore. Weren’t surrounded by the quiet .

Second, you’re not home anymore, as much as any place feels like home. America, this is not . Horses and armor and weapons and magic kind of clued you in. You weren’t in Kansas anymore.

You briefly wonder how you’d have felt if you’d woken up in a hospital, aching wrists and gaping hollow in your chest--but you carefully pack that away in a box in your mind, lock it, and then throw away the key as you kick the box under a table. 

You don’t have time for that--never have. You’re here now, with barely enough coordination to move your hands and feet together, let alone walk. Let alone waste time crying .

Third, you’re not exactly alive either. Look, you know how a heartbeat feels in your chest; you know how blood flowing in--and out of--your veins feels.

You have a pulse.

You don’t have a heartbeat.

It’s caused him some worry, sometimes; waking you in a panic because he can’t tell if you’re alive or dead. You’re not sure how you feel about that. On the one hand, being woken suddenly by a panicking man is terrifying at first, until it becomes irritating--on the other, it feels vindicating. 

Look at me, a part of you says nastily, you brought me back. This is what you get.

Regardless, the man that you assume is your father is kind and terribly gentle. He takes care of you, hands that are more used to killing than kindness feeding you and changing your diapers and singing you to sleep every night.

For all of your bitter pettiness, the spite that makes up your bones, you have ever been someone who can’t help but love other people.

He loves you, treats you like you’re more precious than anything in the universe. 

And you love him back.

Chapter Text

And so it goes, just like that--your father and you, quiet and routine and camps and forests and snow. He keeps you warm, keeps you fed as he hunts--sometimes, the both of you wander into towns for other foods, but only ever briefly. “Young” as you are, you can still tell when someone’s running from something. Someone.

He’s running, running, running. 

Whatever it is, he took you with him. Protects you.

Somehow, you don’t think you would have liked what--or who --he’s running from.

---

Things change, though, when you start to walk. Father--and he really is Father , now--looks so proud when you take your first steps, wobbly and uncertain, but surer and surer as you keep going.

He bundles you up in his arms and smiles down at you, rugged face so proud it almost makes your teeth ache. 

“You did well, Byleth.”

Not long after that though, he takes you both into a town. Which, really, isn’t unusual--but he doesn’t go straight for the markets this time. Instead, he goes for the tavern, leading you carefully by the hand.

The tavernkeeper greets you both cheerfully, “Welcome, stranger! What brings you to these parts?”

You think that maybe she’s a little cheery for it being late autumn, with the icy chill of winter creeping closer every night. But then, you’ve never been very good with people.

Father nods in greeting. “Just looking for work,” he says simply, and the tavernkeeper’s eyes widen just a bit. 

“Oh!” she says. “Are you looking for farmwork? We could always use more help with the last of the harvest, and setting everything for the winter.”

“No,” Father replies. “I’m a mercenary,” he adds, glancing meaningfully to the board hung on the far wall, papers pinned to it.

The tavernkeeper’s face goes a bit grim. “Then you’ll have our thanks, if’n you can do anything--with the winter snows coming, those blasted Almyran bandits and thieves have been coming down from the passes, making right nuisances of themselves!” she slams a fist on the bartop. “We haven’t been able to get any of our usual trade from Whitvale or Millacre because of those barbarians.”

“I see.” Father turns, leads you to the board, inspects the papers briefly before picking out one and pulling it off the board. He walks back to the tavernkeeper, passing the paper over. “These the ones? Any idea where they’re holed up?”

“Those’d be them! Last we heard, they was hiding out somewhere along the southwest road--Old Alred and his boy went and tracked ‘em last Moon.” Her face twists into a snarl. “They near died to those heathens. You get’em, you hear me?”

Father remains perfectly impassive. 

“Of course. Come along,” he says to you, leading you away. 

“Wait!” the woman cries, looking aghast. “You’re truly going to lead a child along with you?”

Father’s eyes flash, finally looking something other than calm. But he doesn’t respond to her words--merely walks out of the tavern, leading you all the while. After a little bit, you gently tug on his hand. He glances down at you.

“Yes?”

You silently hold your arms up in a demand to be picked up.

“Ah, are your feet tired?” he asks, scooping you up, as gentle as ever. You nod. He laughs. “I see. Still no words?” You shake your head.

You can understand plenty--perhaps more than average for your age, but you still refuse to speak. 

Trying to form the words, to say what you want to say, and have it be mangled by the lack of coordination--it frustrates you. Better, easier, to wait until you can truly speak your mind.

It helps, of course, that Father can always tell what you’re thinking.

Chapter Text

Father, of course, doesn’t take you to kill the bandits. Instead, he leaves you with a woman that he says he knows, in that self-same little town.

Turns out that he’d been coming through to say hello anyway--only picking up work since you’re old enough to be left with a trusted stranger. For a little while, anyway. 

“Figures the Captain would dump a brat on me and go have fun by himself,” the woman mutters, staring down at you after he’s left, a sour look on her face. Then, she tries to smile--fails horribly--and squats down to look you in the eye. “Are you hungry, kiddo?”

You stare back at her blandly.

When her eyebrow twitches, you fight the urge to smirk, internally cackling.

As ever, fucking with people remains your favorite passtime.

---

Father returns the next day, tired and plodding, sore and weary. But his face lights up when he sees you, waiting anxiously by the door--waiting for your Father to return from a possibly deadly job, when just seeing someone you care about hurt is enough to send you near insane with worry.

Not that you show it very well.

(You have your own thoughts on why that is, but for now--)

He picks you up, hugs you close, cards gloved fingers through your hair--you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of rust and oil and sweat and cedar.

He smells like always--but the rust is stronger, now, with a tang that makes you think of blood. Which...is probably exactly what it is.

You very carefully don’t think about that.

“I see you’re still alive,” says the woman, leaning against the doorway. Father shifts his head, his scruffy beard tickling against your ear. 

“Of course I am, Solenne. Did you doubt me?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, almost slyly. “Your brat was worried, though.”

A heavy sigh. “I thought that might happen.”

“She did well, though. Kind of creepy, actually.”

“Oh?”

The woman--Solenne?--laughs. It sounds stiff and a bit strained to your ears. 

“Never seen a brat that age who doesn’t laugh or cry at the drop of a hat--not even a scream or temper tantrum.” Solenne pauses, and you turn your head to peer at her from the corner of your eye. “If I didn’t know you, Captain, I’d have thought she was possessed by some demon, or something.”

Father hugs you tighter, presses you closer to his chest. From here, you can hear his heartbeat, echoing like a drum in his chest. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.

“Believe me,” Father says, very quietly. “Byleth is not possessed, or anything else. If I catch you saying so again…”

Solenne’s face, what little of it you can see, pales impressively under the tan. 

“Understood, Captain.”

“Good.”

With that, he sets you down, pats your head. “Byleth, why don’t you go get your pack? I need to talk with Solenne for a moment.”

You tilt your head, eyeing him thoughtfully. Then you nod.

After all, it’s not as though he said you couldn’t listen to them talk.

Once you toddle off, you grab your pack--just like he told you too, so he can’t say you didn’t --and then you wait just behind the wall at the entrance of the hallway, listening intently.

“--something wrong with that child,” Solenne is saying, fierce and intent. “I have never seen a child that age worry so quietly, or without complaint.”

“Byleth is just calm, Solenne--” 

“No, Jeralt!” Solenne cuts him off. “She’s, what, almost two summers now? Children at that age should be laughing, crying, screaming--even if shy, they should be showing emotion, even if it’s fear!” Solenne stomps her feet, pacing now. “That quiet, like nothing’s even in that head--it’s not natural.”

There’s a long silence, before Father speaks again. And when he does, his voice is quiet, and thrumming with tension.

“I may no longer be your Captain, Solenne. But if you call my daughter “unnatural” again, I’ll make you wish you were just on punishment detail.”

Solenne swallows heavily. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, Byleth!” he calls, raising his voice. You come around the corner, still holding your pack. He raises an eyebrow at you. “Eavesdropping?”

You shake your head. He snorts, before standing up. 

“Be well, Solenne. We’re leaving.”

It isn’t until the two of you are putting your packs on the horse’s saddle that Solenne appears, carrying another pack and leading her own work pony by the reins.

“And where are you going?” Father asks dryly.

“With you, of course, captain,” Solenne says casually. 

“You are, are you?”

“Well,” she says, tying her pack to the pony’s saddle. “I can’t very well let you run into bandit camps without backup, knowing you have a brat to take care of.”

Father, setting you on the saddle, snorts. You watch the whole affair quietly, wondering just what this lady is doing--is she really just up and leaving the little village? Because Father showed up and “needs” her help?

But Father doesn’t say anything else, just swings up into the saddle behind you. 

You’ve unlocked a new Achievement: First Follower!

You resist the urge to snort at the thought. 

Chapter Text

From the start, Solenne is wary of you. Something about you has set alarm bells ringing in her head, and you...honestly can’t blame her. You’re weird. Unnatural even.

After all, you died and then came back.

...oh, and you have no heartbeat.

Maybe that’s what’s freaking her out?

You twist around to peer at her, following the two of you with a determined air. She meets your gaze, jerks in surprise to see you staring at her, and then whips her gaze away like she’s been burned.

Okay, maybe not.

Listening to the steady rhythm of horses hooves under you and Father’s heartbeat behind you--and the faint echo of Solenne’s--you frown to yourself. Just a bit.

At first, you thought that you were, while not normal, perhaps not unheard of for a child--to behave the way you do. Father certainly hadn’t minded, more focused on the, you know, lack of a heartbeat. But Solenne’s reaction seems to say differently; that you are abnormal, something wrong in your own skin. An imposter even here. 

The thought makes something dark and unpleasantly familiar slither around your bones. All of a sudden, your skin feels wrong , needles and ants under your skin biting and clawing, and you have the vicious urge to claw at your arms, rip away the skin there until blood and ants and dark slithery things in you come pouring out and away and you bleed clean.

You clench your tiny, tiny hands into tiny, tiny fists, digging your--ow , sharp-- nails into the tender skin. You bite your tongue hard, taking the sharp, needle-point pain.

Hands and tongue aching, those dark slithery things under your skin writhe away into your bones again, hiding but not forgotten. 

You take those thoughts, of imposters and replacements, inadequacy even in death , and lock them up neatly in a little box, and mentally kick that box off a cliff.

Then, carefully unclenching your tiny fists, you glare down at the tiny crescent nail marks in your palms. Little beads of blood gather at the edges, welling like rust and tears.

Damn.

You’d hoped you’d left that part of you behind.

---

Of course, Solenne tries to be nice. To take care of you, even if only for Father’s sake. It’s clear she respects him, trusts him enough not to try and drown you the first chance she gets.

You make it clear through the winter and early spring before you have another “incident.”

In her defense, she is trying to help you be more “normal”--by her definition, at least.

In your defense, you hadn’t really had the time to think about what exactly a medieval fantasy world would mean for so-called “proper dress.”

Father had always just let you wear what you had on hand--when you were a baby, that was swaddling cloths and diapers, keeping you in a sling against his warm chest. When you got a little bit older, that meant tiny, roughspun tunics with ratty trousers--not pants , because apparently you’re in a world where British-isms reign supreme--and cloth shoes with thick woolly socks.

Solenne, on the other hand, is now advancing on you, holding a dress . Well, you think it’s an underdress--like, a chemise, you think? Or no, maybe that’s just French, you’re not sure.

But still. A dress .

Father is off hunting for your breakfast for this morning, and Solenne seems to have taken this as the perfect opportunity.

Too bad for her, you have no intention of wearing it.

Your relationship with dresses and girly things has always been thorny--mostly since you’ve never really been a girl. Or a boy, for that matter. As you got older, in that past life, and you realized the connotations those things held, the weight of the expectations attached to them--you felt more and more uncomfortable interacting with those things. 

In particular, wearing dresses and skirts.

(It wasn’t until you were in college that you realized that the world for that intense, skin-crawling discomfort attached to those expectations was called dysphoria .)

“Alright, brat,” Solenne says, holding the dress. By now, she’s realized that while you still don’t speak--too many mangled words and meanings, leaving you frustrated and upset--you still understand just about every damn word she says. “You’re going to wear this today, understand?”

Silently, you shake your head. Solenne scowls at you, but instead of snapping at you, she crouches down to look you in the eye.

It’s progress, you think--she’s less treating you like an object and more like a person when she talks at you. But there’s still a difference between talking at someone and to them.

“Listen, kid--Byleth,” she corrects herself. Father’s been forcing her to acknowledge your name. “Brats like you? Girls? They’re expected to wear pretty things and dresses and skirts. You’re not old enough or strong enough to punch anyone who says different in the face, and more than that--it’s Saint Macuil Day, and we’re in Faerghus.”

You tilt your head, curious. You’re still not going to wear it, but you’re curious as to why that means anything. At least she’s not saying it’s only because you’re a “girl.”

Solenne sighs, runs a hand through her choppy brown hair. “Most people ‘round here, they’re pretty devout believers in the Church of Seiros. And Saint Macuil Day is a religious holiday, filled with everyone going around in their best clothes and singing their heads off in churches. And we’re about to hit Kildare, where there are people .”

So the Church of Seiros is like the Catholic Church? Wonderful. Not that you didn’t kind of know that already, but--not thinking about that, nope.

Either way, it doesn’t change your decision. You shake your head.

Solenne grits her teeth. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way then, brat.”

When she tries to grab you, you dodge, surprised you didn’t trip. She stops for a moment, honestly surprised you managed to dodge. When she gears up for another grab, like you’re a frightened animal, you look her in the eye.

She freezes, something like fear flickering in those amber eyes. She doesn’t look away.

And very quietly, very firmly, very clearly , you say your first word.

“No.”

Chapter Text

It is this scene that Father returns to:

You and Solenne, facing each other down, both absolutely unwilling to budge, but neither willing to make the first move. You’d heard him coming for a while now, the steady thump of his footsteps as familiar to your ears as his heartbeat.

Solenne, for her part, finally breaks your tense staring contest to look at Father as he returns to camp. 

“Your brat is stubborn, Captain,” she says quietly, something unnerved on her face. 

“What’d you do?” he asks, glancing between you two.

“Tried to get her in a dress--we’ll be at Kildare in a half mark or so of riding, and it’s Saint Macuil Day.” Father laughs, looking at you.

“That’d be it. She’s never worn a dress. Are you going to?” he asks, turning to you. You shake your head firmly. 

“No,” you say, for emphasis.

Father’s eyes widen, and then he chuckles, setting aside the two rabbits he’d caught in the traps from the night before as he crouches down in front of you. 

“Finally speaking, are we?” he ruffles your hair. “No matter. It’s not as though anyone will have reason to think her a girl,” he says to Solenne, “and she’ll be on Siani for most of it. Besides, we won’t be going near the church anyways.”

Solenne looks surprised. “I would have thought you’d want to pay your respects,” she says. “You were always devout when--”

“Times change,” Father says firmly. “And I’m not taking Byleth anywhere near there.” Solenne looks away. 

“As you say, Captain.”

---

It’s on the job from Kildare that you pick up another stray to your growing band of merry men. Women? People? Er.

Either way, Father comes back to you and Solenne with a rake-thin stick of a kid, tall and gangly in a way that makes you think he’s a teenager.

You and Solenne exchange a glance, for once in agreement--who the hell is this kid?

“This is Meilyr,” Father says bruskly. “He’s coming with us.”

And that, as they say, is that.

Chapter Text

Meilyr, as it turns out, is a rake-thin stick-like teenager. He’d been held hostage by the bandits that Father had taken the bounty on, and had begged to follow Father. Something about owing a debt, or something equally weird.

Father doesn’t do things for debts, at least not saving someone’s life. Meilyr is just peculiar, you’re sure.

With all of this being said, it’s no longer Solenne who takes care of you when Father is away taking care of a bounty. Solenne, in all of her inestimable grace, dumped that particular duty squarely on Meilyr’s shoulders, with all the warning of “Here’s the brat. Make sure nothing happens to her while we’re gone.”

Which leads to Meilyr clumsily taking care of you, trying to tell you half-remembered stories he’d told his little sister, burning food, and generally bumbling around like the awkward teenager he is.

But there’s something endearing about his awkwardness, even as he tries his best; he’s clumsy and gangly and trips over his feet more often than not, but you can’t help the sort of amused fondness. It reminds you, you think, of the kids you used to teach. The ones who were so certain they knew how to swim now, that they’d jump into the deep end, and then discover that for all they knew, they were still completely out of their depth.

It might be weird, you think, to think of someone who is older than you in body as a kid, but--well.

You’re in your twenties in soul.

It works.

---

Meilyr isn’t the last stray you all pick up. Far from it, actually--it seems like Father knows someone in almost every town and village you pass through, sellswords and mercenaries who all pick themselves up to follow after him. There’s also the fair few kids who can use a sword or lance or bow or axe who chase along after him too--confident and seeking adventure like the reckless teens they are, or seeking to repay a debt they think they owe.

It all creeps up on you though, and you don’t realize how many you’ve all picked up until one morning when Father carries you out of your shared tent and there are near a score of people all bustling through the camp, getting ready for the day.

Father notices your gaze, follows it around the camp. Solenne is arguing with an Adrestian mercenary--Liane? Liana? You’ve never been good with names--over a bowl of porridge made by Peric, one of the only people in the camp who can make anything better than a meager stew or roast, and who also lets you sit on his lap while he braids your hair and tells you stories of his own twin daughters, now grown and married with their own children.

Meanwhile, Meilyr is picking his way through the bustle, carrying two bowls with spoons, headed for the two of you. 

Father hikes you up on his hip, smiles at you in that soft, terribly kind way that is reserved for you and you alone. 

“A lot of people, huh? Must be weird for you.” 

You nod, leaning your head against his chest, letting his heartbeat echo through your head. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.

It’s weird, and loud, and sometimes it feels like everything is too much too much too much .

But, somehow, it feels like Father.

Like home.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, you wonder why you’re so--weird. Un-emotive.

You used to be so expressive--incredibly expressive, a product of having been raised performing on stage, dancing and acting and playing music, dramatic in body language and facial expression. Dynamic, even.

Sure, you’d been emotionally reserved, hunching in on yourself in front of unfamiliar people you could see, your energy reserved for when you felt comfortable; but you’d never quite hit this level of stonewalled cold.

Resting bitch face? Yes. Absolute stoicism? Never.

Sometimes, you still feel dynamic, theatrical, on the inside--your emotions and thoughts and inner monologue feel as dry and expressive as ever to you. But others, it feels like the quiet and dark still cling to you, like a cloak of shadows on your shoulders.

So, you wonder.

Did the quiet leave its marks on you, scars and tears for having dared come back in your incomplete, unsettling way?

Or--

Did you bring the quiet with you, inside, just a tiny piece?

...is that why you don’t have a heartbeat?

---

As you get older, as you sleep less and less, your brain starts clawing at you for something to do. Being in a toddler’s body is exhausting, and it feels like you sprout ever taller every day--and growing, you know from teenage growing pains leaving aches in your shoulders and arms, is work. 

But you’re sleeping less--there are still naps, still breaks, but no longer are you slipping into sleep before your brain can really get frustrated with the lack of anything to do.

But. 

You’ve never been a particularly inactive person. Lazy? Very much so--the fastest, most effective way to do something is something you’ve always been good at figuring out, so you could go back to lounging around, enjoying yourself. Inactive? Never.

Maybe it was the college schedule you condemned yourself to, after your first year; twelve or thirteen classes, a part-time job, writing fanfic and making animatics in your spare time--you ran yourself ragged, and always felt like you were doing something and engaged.

Even during the summer, you took classes and worked two jobs--or three--and kept yourself busy.

Now?

You’re doing nothing.

 You sit around with Father, listening to stories that tell morals that you already know, hearing people talk around you like you’re not even there, unable to run around the campsite without being told to sit down and be ladylike and get out from underfoot.

...not that that’s stopped you, sometimes.

What? You’re spiteful, and the best way to get you to do something is to tell you not to do it for a stupid reason.

For a moment, you wonder if you could convince Father to let you learn how to fight--a sword, or maybe a knife (you already know how to throw knives, use whips, use sabers; a sword can’t be too much different)--but nix that idea. You’re what, three? Maybe? You barely know what month--sorry, Moon--it is, even without worrying about when you were born in what Moon.

“If you keep thinking so hard your brain will melt,” Father sleepily mumbles, running his fingers through your hair. Your train of thought judders to a stop as you resist the urge to purr, tilting your head back into his hand. “What’s got you so riled up?”

The moon shines through the tent flap, brilliant silver light bathing Father’s face as you squirm around to look up at him through dark hair. 

“I want to learn,” you say, very firmly.

“And what do you want to learn?” he sounds amused.

“Everything.”

Chapter Text

This kickstarts the beginning of your schooling in this new world--instead of telling you fairy tales and fables at night, Father starts teaching you history, starting from the earliest remembered stories. The history of Fódlan.

At one point you tilt your head back, look at him in the flickering firelight, suddenly curious. You already know the answer, from ever fading memories of the time before, but you want Father’s answer.

“What about other places? Not Fódlan?” 

Father’s eyebrows go up. “What about them?”

“Why aren’t there stories from other places too?” you reach up and tug on his short, fuzzy beard, wanting an answer. 

Father winces, and pulls your hand away. “Don’t pull, Byleth,” he chides. “But to answer you, I don’t really know any. We don’t--” he pauses, thinks it over. “We don’t interact much with other countries, except to fight, like with Almyra. We have stories about Almyra and Brigid invading, do you want to hear those?”

“Why not any of their stories?” you insist, trying to communicate your frustration. 

World history has always fascinated you, because one thing in one part of the world could domino into affecting the rest of the world’s history in a weird game of telephone.

Father sighs. “Because we don’t talk to other countries to know their stories. We know some about them, but not like we know our own.”

“Why?”

“Insistent, aren’t you?” Father laughs. At your frown--which, you admit, is probably more of a pout--he sighs again, ruffling your hair fondly. “Part of it is because Fódlan is insular--we keep to ourselves, and look down on outsiders. Mostly?” he frowns at this, looking pensive, “It’s the Church’s ruling, that Fódlan focus on its own. And no one dares to argue.”

“That’s dumb,” you proclaim after a moment. “Stories are stories, and stories are good .”

“Keep thinking like that,” Father says, amused and fond and always so terribly gentle as he goes from ruffling your hair to carding his fingers through it. “And don’t let anyone ever make you stop asking questions.”

You lean back against his broad chest, tension melting out of your body. Your eyes start to slide shut against your will--you still want to listen to stories, to learn, but your body doesn’t want to listen, your eyelids heavy as lead.

“You’ll go so far, my love,” you hear him say, so softly and tenderly you almost think you dream it. “You’ll go so very far.”

---

In the end, things are not as happy as you’d like to believe. Father is teaching you histories at night, geography and math as you travel, and your letters during the mornings; but he is still a mercenary, and still has to leave to take bounties and make money.

This wouldn’t be so bad, if you weren’t you.

Weren’t--weird, creepy, an imposter in your own skin. Half-alive.

Solenne’s own wariness of you still lingers in her eyes, in her gaze, but she’s far from the only one. The mercenaries follow Father, follow him calling him Captain and Blade-Breaker and Sir, respect in every word. What they call you...is far less polite.

It’s strange, you think, to feel like this is home and to feel like a stranger in your own skin, posing as Father’s child, poison in your mind and blood and quiet in your soul.

But then, it’s also strange to have no heartbeat.

Regardless, there are some who tolerate you, some who eye you with open suspicion, and then there are those who are--vocal, about how much they dislike you.

Never when Father’s around, not even in his earshot, because they can see how much he loves you; his arm protects you, his eyes and ears a shield against them.

When he’s not though…

Well.

“I reckon it’s possessed,” says one, face dark as he watches you. “Bewitched the Captain too, with it’s magic.”

“Aye,” agrees another, “lookit how quiet it is, it ain’t natural.” 

“Should do e’ryone a favor and get rid of it,” murmurs the third, burly and blond, and also the ringleader of the three mutterers. You’ve been watching them, you know. “And the Captain’ll thank us, once he’s free of it’s curse.”

You don’t think Meilyr, who’s in charge of teaching you your letters when Father isn’t here, can hear them. They’re on the other side of camp, by one of the cookfires, malcontented and hungry and aching from injuries they were left behind to recover from. You do think their pride is hurt more than they themselves, though.

Meilyr looks up, seeing what distracted you for a long moment, before he sighs. 

“Come away, Bylie,” he says quietly, frustrated. He’s heard them muttering too, but--well. He’s reedy and thin, still not even sixteen, with noodle-arms and two left feet. “They’re just upset they were left behind on Sir Jeralt’s orders.”

As he guides you back to your letters, to practicing writing them and learning their sounds, you glance back over one more time.

Meilyr might not have been able to hear, but Solenne sits at a nearby fire, sharpening a knife. Solenne heard every word, you know.

Solenne heard every single word.

Chapter Text

The months keep going by--and as they do, the tension in the company rises. Never in Father’s sight, or earshot, or anywhere else he’s near, but it does. Quietly, darkly, like a cold being passed around the camp, you can feel it as more and more look at you carefully, suspiciously.

Demon , they say, possessed. Bewitcher, controller, unnatural.

You--can’t really argue, you suppose. You aren’t natural, even if you weren’t--well, you . Older in soul than in body as you are. 

Not for the first--or last--time, you remember the voice in the dark, the green and purple light.

Dark, venomous things curl around your bones, curl up in your throat, slither under your skin, leaving slime and ants and needles clawing aching biting chewing at your insides, hungry angry empty starving .

You’re being eaten alive, inside and out, in the place you call home, you feel at home.

Or, maybe, just like always, you’re lying to yourself.

This isn’t your home, never was.

Just like Father isn’t your father, isn’t yours, will hate you when he figures you out--

You bite your tongue. Taste the rust-iron tang of blood and the needle-pain that comes with it. Your teeth are ever sharp, cutting slicing--no. Not going there, not now.

You ball up those feelings, stuff them down and away into a box that you sit on and lock and throw away the key and burn.

You won’t let them win, won’t let them break you into pieces--you’ve won this fight before, for a while. Spite might not be the “appropriate” answer to “What motivates you,” but it’s certainly the correct one.

You’re five now, all big blue eyes and tiny hands and black hair, and tiny shards of quiet and dark and pain speckled in you, digging in like daggers.

You never do tell Father what they say, when they know you can hear.

---

It’s a cold, snowy day in the middle of winter--everything seems to be cast in a silvery-gray glow, from the clouds to the trees to the ground covered in snow. 

It reminds you of your first memory of this world: silver and snow and cold, warm hands and horse’s hooves. 

You’ve been left to your own devices today, Meilyr having been drafted into finally learning how to use a sword, Father away on another bounty--he’s been busy, so busy--and Solenne...well. She’s around, not that you see her much anymore anyway.

Since she dumped the responsibility of taking care of you squarely on Meilyr’s thin shoulders, she’s seemingly washed her hands of you and your peculiarity. Your strangeness.

It’s this day, though, that the tension begins to fray.

It begins like this:

Deòrsa, big and blond and burly, a ringleader for those who see into you and the black quiet you hold in your soul, walks up to you. Crouches down, tries for a gruff smile that comes off three shades too stiff to be real, and you both know it.

“I know what you are, you little demon,” he says, low and quiet and cold. “And I’ll free the Captain of you yet.”

Peric, the older, kindlier cook who takes you on his knee and waxes eloquent about his own daughters looks up from nearby, a sharp look in his eye.

“Leave the girl alone, Deòrsa,” he growls. 

Deòrsa turns his head, snorts at him. “And why should I listen to you, old man?”

“‘Cause I won’t just standby and let you all abuse a child , like the rest of those louts,” Peric snaps back, standing up and bristling. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I sure as I know the Goddess know I don’t like it.”

“Oh, you’re defending the demon ? Is that it?” Deòrsa laughs, a hollow, mad sound. “It’s not even a child, you fool.”

As Peric bristles, looking angry, Deòrsa snorts. Stands up, walks away. 

“Have fun being cursed by that thing , old man,” he says coldly. “I’d watch your step if I was you.”

---

It ends like this, with three facts:

First, you are snatched from your tent in the middle of the night, still wrapped in your bedroll. Meilyr sleeps on, undisturbed, having joined you to read you to sleep.

Second, there is a river nearby, and it is the middle of winter.

Third--

…

Third, Father is gone, still away on a bounty.

---

It ends like this:

You hit the water with a splash.

Chapter Text

Cold sinks into you like daggers, ice clawing its way into your tiny body--

You can’t breathe you can’t breathe you can’t breathe

You knew how to swim once.

But swimming in a pool is not like swimming in an ice-melt river in winter.

The current sweeps you away and away and away, tumbling and twisting and rolling.

You try to stay awake, to fight--

Your eyes slip closed.

---

[there is one thing you do not see: 

a shadow, hitting the water, reaching out for you.]

---

There is a girl on a throne. 

There is a girl on a throne, in a stone tomb, and she glows, and she has green hair and eyes.

There is a girl on a throne, and you are somehow both small and sharp-toothed and black-haired and tall and tired and blonde at the same time.

There is a girl on a throne, and she glows, and you can smell her, hear her breathing.

"̵̢̯̺̀̓̔̐̿̔O̸̭̙̥̙̦͂̉̾́͑͝ḩ̸̛̹̊̂͊̓ ̴̡̛̘̫̙͓̈́̃̂̇̃͌͠m̵̭̠̌̉̀͐͆̒̍͝͝y̸͖̪̼͉̱̣̥̱̣̓̊̎.̶͉̄͑̍"̷̣́̀̉̏̌̍̊̈́̔

There is a girl on a throne, you have no heartbeat but something feels warm in your chest, and she seems so familiar . You know her, but more than just one way--

"̵̩̐̓Ẅ̴̲͎͚́̐̕͠h̴͔̜͍̓a̶̜͗͑̒ẗ̶̡̝̖́͝͝ ̵̪̩̭̑͜͠c̴̨͕͚̳̈̈́̈̌ǫ̴̲̪͑u̸̧̫͎͒̉̕ͅľ̸̝̱̮͙̅̾͝d̴͖̓ ̷͎̅ḧ̴̡̙͖̝́̓͝ă̶̭͕̰̫v̶̡̨̯̼̓̐̔e̴͔̖̙̝͋̆̊ ̵̹̔b̵̡͈͖̾r̷͎͍͎͉̒ȍ̶̟͉̈́̆u̶̲̐̀͘ͅg̴̞̥̟̝̓h̵̳̀̎͝͠ṯ̵̎͐ ̷͎̦͇̙̾y̷̲̙̤̓ǫ̵͔̹̦̿̐̊͝ų̵̢̺͝ ̶̠̏̀̀̀ȟ̸̠̰̲͖͘e̵̢͚̹̔͌́͝r̵͚̥̺͎̐͆̆e̵̪̣͓̒?̶̢͎̜̝̔͐̽̕"̸͙̜̜̅

---

[there are many things you don’t know, but here’s just one:

being one and the same, two parts of a whole goes both ways .]

Chapter Text

You’re cold and wet and shivery, held against a small and equally cold and wet and shivery body.

You can barely keep your eyes open.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep kid,” comes a-- familiar ?--voice, sharp and angry. “You don’t get to die on me after I jumped in a river after your ass.”

Your head lolls to the side. You’re--so tired. It feels like the cold has curled into your bones, slipping into the marrow-centers, making itself a home.

It feels like daggers in your throat, needles in your chest--

You can’t feel your hands. Or legs.

You wonder if that’s a bad thing, really.

...You’re so very tired.

“-- Byleth!”

Oh. That’s--Meilyr. 

Brother-caretaker-your-person.

He’s worried. Scared.

Of you?

...that. Makes sense.

Your eyelids flutter.

You’re so cold.

“--happened?!”

“Out of my way, kid, we need to get her out of these clothes if we don’t want her dead.”

“I--right. Right. I’ll bank one of the fires!”

You can smell her. Cold shivery angry worry , doused in ice-wet.

He smells scared-worried-afraid-panicky . 

What did you do? You can’t remember.

Your eyelids feel like lead, inexorably sliding shut.

“Stay awake, brat! Do you hear me? Stay awake!”

--you slip into the dark.

---

[There is a girl on a throne, and a child on the steps.

No heartbeat, one soul.

This--

"̶̩̀Y̷̠͐ỏ̵̝ṷ̸̑ ̴̨̈ĥ̸͎a̵̯͘v̴̫̑ę̶́ ̷̫͑r̸̲̒ê̴͓ť̵͖u̸͠ͅr̵͖̔n̵͊ͅe̸̜͌d̸̳͗.̷̳̒ ̴̳̔W̸͔͗ȟ̸͎o̵͇͗ ̷̗͒ǎ̸̠r̸̡̀ẹ̴̛ ̵̈́͜ẙ̷͕o̶͕͝u̴̱͂?̷̍ͅ"

There is a girl on a throne, in a tomb.

You are her, she is you.

How--

"̵̖̑Į̶̑ ̵̧̈́r̴̩̎e̶̫͐q̵̙̊ȗ̴̹i̵̥̓r̸̤̔e̴̛̦ ̷̱̊ỷ̶͕o̴̞̔u̵͈͂r̷̞̿ ̴͖͊n̸̑͜a̵̩̒m̸̦̑ė̶͇,̸̹̍ ̶̳̄ć̷͉h̶̢̄ḯ̶̙ĺ̵͔ḑ̸͘.̷̲͐"̶̪  

There is a girl on a throne, green hair and eyes.

Something throbs in your chest.

I know you--

"̷̢́.̴̺͗.̴̞͆.̴̤̂h̷̦͂ỏ̶̙ẃ̷̬ ̵͙̓ṗ̶̦e̶̦̒c̸̡͊u̶̟̚l̵͍̉i̶̪̔á̴͚r̷̰͛.̷͈̑"̷̢̊

There is a girl on a throne, and she is divine.

You see yourself, through two sets of eyes.

Your name, it’s--

"̵̬͒W̶̝͘i̸̯̿l̷̞̿ľ̵͎ ̴̮̓y̶̢̕o̶͓͊ǘ̴̯ ̴̢̍ṋ̴̀o̴̲͘t̷̩̊ ̴͍̈a̴̹͑ń̴̤s̸͖̾ẇ̶̙e̷̬̅r̵̗̐ ̴̙̋m̶̥͋ĕ̵͎?̵̲̽"̵͎̔

There is a girl on a throne, and she is you.

You are the Beginning of it all.

Sothis. ]

---

The next you know, you feel fever-hot and unspeakably awful. 

You blink, feeling--confused. Where are you?

What--

Right.

Ice-wet, cold like creeping claws, and shiver-sour fear like snakes up your spine before the splash.

You fell into the river.

--no.

You didn’t fall.

But--

Who threw you?

You know.

The door creaks open, rusted hinges shrieking their displeasure and age.

Heavy footsteps, accompanied by heavy-electric worry and a familiar heartbeat.

“Father?” you rasp, tilting your head, slowly. Your head feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton and wool, smothering you in static.

“Byleth!” 

Heavy steps rush to the bedside, worry replaced by sweet-sharp relief and blue-concern. He is--still, so terribly, terribly gentle. His hands brush your sweat-grimed hair away from your face as he sits beside you.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, scarred face twisted in worry and relief. “Oh, you’re awake. Thank the Goddess.”

This is the first time he’s ever even mentioned the Goddess in front of you.

You are concerned.

“What--?”

Father gently, so gently, cards his fingers through your hair. “You were out with a fever, my love. We--” he shudders out a sigh. “We worried you wouldn’t wake, you were so still, like death--”

Something judders over his face, like grief and pain and loss.

“I’m so relieved,” he whispers.

But--you wonder. Who pulled you from the river? 

You remember a familiar voice, and shiver-angry worry tinged with pine-needles and frost.

You press your head into his hand. Your throat feels like a desert, and your mouth tastes like something crawled inside you and died and rots there, and you’re fever-hot and ice-cold in your bones. 

You’re sick. Very sick.

Father sits there with you, for a very long time.

Eventually, you sleep again.

This time, there are no dreams.

Chapter Text

You remember being sick from the time before . You’d do your best to avoid being sick, because it would make doing all you needed to do absolutely miserable, because far be it for you to allow something as small as a cold to put you out.

The only reason you ever stopped doing was because your Mom would order you to sit and sleep and recover, or she’d tie you to the bed. She was a nurse.

Besides, after being down with a cold for the entire first half of your first semester of college, you had developed a sincere hatred for being sick. You had too much to do to let yourself feel so goddamn awful.

Now, though, you’re small and sick and tired. Sick for the first time since you came to this world.

It sucks as much as it did before.

The medicine also tastes worse, which makes your stuffy nose--which feels weird , because now everything you smell is tinged by the rotting-sweet of sickness, which is gross --almost a blessing, because it damps your sense of taste.

The coughing you could do without though. Every breath rattles in your chest--if the Church’s so called Goddess gave this to you, thanks, you hate it.

Meilyr holds the cup of bitter tea to your lips, and you frown at him, feeling petulant. 

“Come on, Bylie,” he coaxes earnestly. “You’ve got to take it, or you won’t get better! And you don’t want to feel this awful forever, do you?”

You sigh. You know you need to take it, but it tastes so bitter it makes you gag. But you’re still technically the adult in the room, so you have to put on your big kid shorts.

You open your mouth, and let Meilyr guide you into taking the awful, bitter, nasty medicine.

When you’re done, you shudder, and make grabbing hands for the cup of boiled water that rests on the bedside table. You need this taste gone now . 

Meilyr huffs a laugh, before trading the mug for the cup of water, and holding it to your lips and letting you take sips.

“I want you to meet my other little sister,” he says suddenly, watching you with careful gray eyes. “Sir Jeralt says we’ll be passing near Kildare in the summer, and that--we could pass through. Resupply there, for a day or so.”

You stare at him. Other little sister?

“I want my family to know you,” he rushes, looking firmly out the window. “I want them--I want them to know my second little sister.” Meilyr swallows. “I want Aneira and Llassar to know you, and--” he chokes, cuts himself off.

You blink slowly, confused. You think of him as your person, your older-younger brother--you had one, before, you know how it feels--but that he...feels the same--

Your throat suddenly feels very tight.

“I love you, Bylie,” he whispers, finally. His gray eyes are very big, and he looks very young all of a sudden. “I love you, and honestly you and Sir Jeralt are the best things to ever happen to me, and--” he breathes in. Lets it out slowly. “And I want my family to know and love you too. Glowy eyes and all.”

You bite your tongue, because--because--

Damnit. 

You won’t, can’t cry.

Too much to do, to let yourself break down.

Instead, you lean forward, mindful of the stitches where a rock had gashed your head open. Plant your face firmly against his chest, breathe in Meilyr’s ink-and-oil smell.

“Love you too,” you say, very quiet. “I love you too, brother.”

---

“So you’re the reason Sir Jeralt’s been mad!”

You jolt, nearly jerking upright off your stiff pillows, to the sight of a tiny girl with ginger hair. You stare at her, and she stares right back at you, an adorable scowl planted right on her face.

“I don’t see why you’re so special,” the girl huffs, looking almost petulant. “He barely even talks to me .”

And all of a sudden, in your sick-addled tired brain, you realize who this is. A girl you’d promoted to Paladin and further in a game you remember like a fever dream.

“Are you listening?!” the girl snaps at you, stomping up to the bed and clambering up to glare at you. “You just lounge in this room all day, the whole village doting on you…” she sniffs. “You’re just a spoiled brat.”

And with that, she jumps down and leaves the room, seemingly having come to a conclusion.

You just sit there, feeling very confused.

What just happened?

Chapter Text

When you’re sick, you’ve always been the sort to sleep most of the time--as in, sixteen hours a day, like a goddamn log-- and you’re thankful for that this time. It means that it’s taken until now, the fifth day you’ve been bed-bound on healer’s orders, for you to be bored out of your skull.

You’ve never handled boredom well in this life, but at least before you could always move around and work out some of the energy that buzzes under your skin.

But even though the entire company is stuck in this little village until you’re well enough to travel, they’re all busy .

Father tries to visit for a few hours each night, telling you stories until you fall asleep again. Meilyr brings you your medicine every few hours, but he’s been yanked into a fast-tracked training regimen, which leaves him asleep on the bed beside you for the hour more often than not. Peric comes by with food, sometimes, and even a few sweets one day.

So.

There’s nothing to do.

You know how you deal with boredom. That is to say, badly .

It feels like something’s buzzing around in your head, itching under your skin like bees and wasps and hornets, leaving you with jittery hands and a desperate need to move, to do something .

And, you think, it’s obvious to anyone who sees you that you’re going stir-crazy. One night, Father cards his fingers through your hair, smiling wryly down at you. “Bored, huh?”

You wrinkle your nose and nod. “Very.”

“I have an idea,” he says, smile turning a bit sly. “Let me see what I can do. Now, where were we last night?”

“Imperial Year 91, the Battle of the Tailtean Plains,” you say promptly.

“Ah yes, let me see…”

---

Later, you’re turning it all over in  your head: where you are. This world. Father, and the Church, and the girl you know is Leonie. The girl you raised to a Paladin, who rose into your Father’s place after--after Kronya and Solon .

You still can’t admit what happened, what will happen--but no. You can’t imagine a world where you let that come to pass, where you let Father--leave you.

Even now, you’re still so heavily in denial.

And then you turn to the last thing, the thing that turns in your dreams and turns and twists you around and around until you’re not sure which way is up.

The girl on the throne.

Sothis .

You’re just--you remember, that in the game, that Sothis never became active until just before that Byleth arrived at Garreg Mach. The Divine Pulse had activated upon attempting to save Edelgard’s life, sending you precious moments back in time, just long enough to save her life without putting your own at risk.

So why--why can you hear her now? 

You can feel the sick, tight feeling that you were so familiar with before rising in your stomach. You’re upset and stressed and worried, and you take a deep breath.

One thing at a time. Trying to tackle two existential crises at once is a bit much, even for you.

So.

The world you’re in.

You guess it’s time for you to admit it: you’re not just in a weird fantasy world. You’re in a weird fantasy world that you knew of in a video game , a video game that you’d loved and poured forty-plus hours into and more, a video game that had metaphorically ripped your heart in two with its music and characters and kids that you were almost exactly the same age as but adored nonetheless because they were so young .

You’re in the world of Fire Emblem: Three Houses. With everything that implies.

You already know why you have no heartbeat, only a pulse; you know exactly why.

You are the “vessel” of the progenitor god. There is a Crest Stone of the Fire Emblem itself--the Crest of Flames--implanted in your chest. One part of the last of the remains of Sothis are in your chest, you bear her blood through Rhea--through Seiros. You were stillborn, your heart has never beat.

You were meant to be an empty vessel, to carry whatever remains of Sothis’s soul.

Except--

You are she, and she is you.

You don’t think that’s what happened.

You certainly don’t feel like an empty vessel, even if you feel hollow and dark and quiet, fragments of the quiet lodged in you like needles and daggers and knives pointing unerringly into your heart.

All of a sudden, you feel small and sad and scared, miniscule in the face of a future that suddenly seems to loom over you, war and death and heartbreak.

You think you’re justified in curling up tighter under the covers and hiding under them.

You don’t want to grow up again anymore.

Chapter Text

The next day, after Meilyr brings your breakfast and helps you with your medicine, Solenne walks through the door, carrying two books, parchment, and charcoal sticks. 

She settles herself down on the bed, sitting cross-legged, books and charcoal and parchment set between you. She looks you over, snorts.

“You look like shit, kid,” she says. You frown at her. Your breath rattles through your chest.

“Hypocrite,” you snipe back, and her eyebrows go up.

“You even know what that means, kid?”

“Yes,” you huff, before immediately regretting that course of action as it sets off a coughing fit.

The thing is, Solenne looks about as awful as you feel. Her short hair is unkempt and tangled, her eyes red-rimmed and dull with exhaustion. You wonder why.

“Captain asked me to give you something to do,” Solenne says after a moment. Taps the book covers, eyes you. “You know what these are?”

You have a guess.

You shake your head.

“These are magic tomes.” Solenne runs her fingers over the embossed letters of one cover, something wistful in her eyes. “They help focus and magnify your magic for specific spells.” She looks up at you, and something steely turns her gaze to green fire. “I’ll be teaching you Black Magic, kid. I know you’re not stupid, so you better listen up, because there are rules. Got me?”

You nod.

“First off: if I’m not in the room, you don’t fuck around with magic. Not until I tell you to.” Solenne scowls at you. “If I find out you have, I’ll kick your ass in rings around the camp, got me?”

You nod. Magic--seems like it would be dangerous in the hands of an apparent child, let alone an actual kid.

Solenne eyes you, nods to herself before continuing. “Good. Now, second: no Goddess be damned complaining. Magic isn’t a toy, and I’m not going to be teaching you like it is. That’s the sort of shit that gets people killed, and I didn’t save your damn life to have you get yourself killed that stupid. And third,” she pauses, chews on her lip for a moment. “Third, if I say jump, you jump, got me? You better listen--this is the kind of shit that can hurt people if you’re not careful. If it weren’t for Captain asking me to, I wouldn’t even be considering this until you were older.”

Solenne sighs. Runs a hand through tangled hair. “Now, any questions?”

You pause. Look at her.

You do, actually.

“Why did you save me?” you ask, voice hoarse. “I thought you hated me.”

Dark slithery things curl around your bones, in your teeth. They all hate you, suspect you, see something unnatural in you.

Solenne--looks surprised. “I don’t hate you, brat,” she says. “Never did, not really. You’re just--really damn weird, did you know that?”

Naw, you’d never have guessed.

“You hear things you shouldn’t be able to hear, you’re too quiet, you don’t act like a child--your teeth and nails are sharp, and your eyes fucking shine in the dark . I thought you were possessed or something, those first months. And now every other idiot in this company does too.” Solenne sighs, shakes her head. “I don’t think you’re possessed anymore, or any other fool theory those idiots have thought up. You’re Byleth, Captain’s kid. That’s all I need to know.”

Those dark slimy slithery things coil up in the back of your throat, under your skin like ants and worms and centipedes. You know she came to this on her own, by her own will, but there’s a voice in the back of your head screaming you’ve done it again, tricked another innocent person, they’ll find out, hate you--

“So, I got a question for you in return,” Solenne says quietly, looking you right in the eye. 

You get the sudden feeling you won’t like this, at all.

“Who threw you in?”

You were right. 

---

Here is your dilemma:

You know who threw you in. You know who that smell belongs to, who carries shiver-sour fear, acrid like old urine, with them like an old friend. Who fears you , hates you.

You could tell, and they’d be gone. Cast out, or killed--you know that Father doesn’t take kindly to people trying to hurt you.

Why else would he have been running for this long?

There’s one problem with that. 

You...aren’t exactly well liked by the company. Demon, possessor, bewitcher--they see you as an aberration at best and an evil monster at worst. You can’t blame them, but you do wonder what about you sets off that impression--

Either way.

If they see someone cast out, with no witnesses as to who did it, but the person cast out having been openly hateful of you--

At best, they’d leave en masse.

At worst?

A river in winter would be the least of your issues.

So here is your dilemma:

A crowd of people trying to kill you, or one person trying to kill you.

Many, or just one known opponent?

More than that, if these people, who trust and respect Father, kill you in the name of protecting him--

You don’t want to know how Father would react to that.

He loves you, you know this.

You love him back, more than anything.

That’s why you won’t-- can’t --tell. 

You won’t let him be hurt by this, not at all, not ever.

Besides, it’s not like you can’t handle dying again, really . With what you know is coming--it’s almost tempting. Returning to that quiet, letting the shards in you return to where they belong, and you can float along in the black, with everyone better off, forgetting you.

Being forgotten sounds nice, you think.

So you look Solenne in the eye, and you can see the moment she realizes what you’re about to say--the moment she realizes you’re about to lie to her face.

“I don’t know,” you say, breath rattling in your chest. The lie tastes sour on your tongue. “I only woke up when I hit the water.”

“Bullshit,” Solenne snarls, face twisting. “ Bull-fucking-shit , you brat. Don’t lie to me! There’s no way you didn’t see their face, smell them.”

You don’t even waver. “I don’t know who threw me in.”

Solenne growls, glares at you. But--there’s nothing she can do, and she knows it. She can’t make you tell the truth.

“If you’re lying because you don’t want anyone to get in trouble, brat, you’re wasting your time. Someone’s going to get punished eventually--Captain won’t allow this to go unanswered,” she warns you. “Don’t be stupid and try to be a martyr.”

You say nothing, simply keep your mouth shut.

She doesn’t seem to get why you’re doing this.

That’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

Chapter Text

Solenne, apparently frustrated, drills you in magical theory until it feels like your brain is dribbling out your ears. 

Magic, you find, is much more based in physics and math than you’d thought--or, at least, Reason is.

You’re not sure about Faith. 

Which poses an interesting question, you think--if Reason is based around a manipulation of the laws of the universe (as you know them, anyway), then what is Faith based on? The same thing?

The name suggests otherwise, but it’s an interesting thought.

Meilyr, who comes in with lunch the next day and your midday dose of medicine, laughs when he sees you pouring over the tome Solenne allowed you to keep and study and the short magical theory primer she’d written down.

“Having fun?” he asks, and you nod. As he sits beside you, you realize that his arms aren’t shaking, and he doesn’t stink of sweat and exhaustion. In fact, he’s almost vibrating with something that seems almost like excitement. His heartbeat thrums in his chest, and you eye him warily as he helps you take your medicine.

“What’s going on? You’re all...buzzy.” you ask once you rinse your mouth of the foul taste. Meilyr jumps, before looking rueful. 

“Figures you can tell, Bylie,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you--Missus Perrine said that you could leave your bed starting today, as long as you’re careful .” Meilyr grins down at you, sets the tray on your lap. “Apparently, you’ve recovered enough from the worst of the winter fever that she says you should be moving around, not wasting away in this room.”

For a moment, you chew that over, feeling mildly perplexed. Winter fever?

Meilyr must see the confusion on your face. “Winter fever is a sickness of the lungs, Bylie. After you came out of the river and we warmed you up, you were terribly sick and slept for several days with an awful fever. It wasn’t until a day or so after you woke the first time that your fever broke--and we were all terribly worried,” Meilyr explains. “You were delirious, mumbling very strange things in your sleep and distressed whenever you woke. Now, though, you have no fever, you’re spending more and more time awake, and Missus Perrine has told me that you’re having more ease breathing too.”

So--pneumonia.

Shit , you have pneumonia? In a fantasy medieval world? How the fuck are you not still out cold, let alone dead, given that you’re five years old?

What sort of magic did they pull out of their asses to make this work?

You eat mechanically, still mentally chewing that over. Because--it brings that question back up. How the fuck does Faith (White Magic) work? Is it really just praying to a god for miracles? To the Goddess? Which seems really weird, considering she’s dead and also here in your head and in your dreams and--

You want to bang your head on the wall. Or a desk.

Why does your brain always latch onto these dumb fucking questions and keep turning them over and over and over until you’re completely sick of it? But you can never let it go until you figure out the answer, and it drives you utterly batty.

You try to focus on the fact that they’re finally letting you out of bed.

Probably mostly to wash the sheets and replace the withered onion on the plate on the table, but still.

You’re being let free .

Finally.

---

It isn’t until Father, looking incredibly relieved to see you walking around again, ties your hair back with a red ribbon and loops a thin gold necklace around your neck, murmuring “Happy Birthday, Byleth,” that you realize how much time you’ve missed.

It’s been around two weeks since you were thrown in the river. Two weeks--god. That fucker.

He’d thrown you in the river the night before your birthday .

You’re six, now. Just barely.

...you’re six, and someone’s already tried to murder you.

Well. Six in body, twenty-six or so in soul. Give or take.

…

How many more will try to kill you now? 

The quiet still curls in you, shards in your soul, and now you have finally admitted that there are dark, terrible, awful things to come. War and death and fear and loss.

You think of the people you’ll eventually meet, kids with smiles and innocence in their eyes and laughter in hallowed halls.

Better you than them.

...better you than them.

Chapter Text

Walking around after two weeks of forced bedrest is... freeing. You have been told very clearly that you are still not allowed outside for very long, but you’re relishing the chance to stretch your shaky legs. 

Meilyr is hovering, making sure your shaky balance--since you’ve been cooped up in bed for two weeks --doesn’t leave you falling over like a newborn kitten.

You feel a bit like a newborn kitten.

You can still smell, but it’s still damped by the rot-sweet of sickness and your stuffy nose; you can still hear Meilyr’s heartbeat like a drum from a few steps away, can still see the porous surface of the stones of the walls and floor, but it feels like you’re stumbling around with cotton in your ears and wool in your head.

You realize, somewhat belatedly, that you’ve gotten very used to the sharp senses you have now. And now that you’re sick, having some of them taken away or dulled feels--wrong.

Huh.

It’s as Meilyr guides you out onto the stoop of the inn--where you’ve been staying, apparently--that you realize why you’ve been restricted from being outside.

It’s a sunny day, the sunshine reflecting off the snowdrifts, muddy paths tracked through the village--and also very cold .

The cold air feels wonderful on your face. It hits your lungs like a hammer.

You cough, choking as your lungs tighten in response to the flush of cold air, covering your mouth with your hands.

It fucking hurts .

“Bylie? What’s--oh shit. ” Meilyr sounds alarmed. “I forgot I forgot--where is it, where is it--!”

A soft, warm scarf is abruptly wrapped around your face. It smells--like sparks and metal and apples. Solenne’s hand roughly ruffles your hair, adjusting the scarf so that you can see, but your nose and mouth are covered.

“Next time,” she says to Meilyr, “don’t be an idiot and forget to cover her face. The cold will kill her faster than her Father will kill you for letting her get worse again.”

You take an experimental breath. The scarf works, keeping the cold away from your lungs at the cost of smelling musty and wet. 

Better than choking on your own breath, you think.

“Thank you,” you say, muffled. Solenne glances down at you, makes a face. 

“Don’t thank me, brat,” she says. “It’s too goddamn weird.”

---

You dream again that night.

"̷͓̹͎͛̀̄̈́̍̕C̶̲̯̺̹̺͑̌͌̄͛a̵͉͚͌n̷̥̻̉̽͝ ̵̧̛̱̪͆̽̔́͝y̷͓̺͎͔̠͆̆̏̈́͠o̷͎̝̺͐̉̌̀͒u̴̧̪̼̭̜͒̀́͂̚ ̸̧̙̤̺̽̏e̸̛̳̥̳̜͌͂̕v̷̬̮̤͔̎͒̆ȩ̶̩̻͖̺̥̽̏̋̆͊̽n̵̗̹̬͉̄̐̄̾͊͜͠ ̴̥̄̑̎͗h̷̛̭͈̋̽̄̇̀ę̴͕̤̲̪͓͒͂̃̚͝a̴͚͛̈́ŕ̷̖͈͇̻̯̀͌̚͝ ̸̭͖̤̭̺͖̿̑̄́̽m̴̖̤͛̀̚ȩ̴̛̤͎̣̟̕ͅ?̴̛͉̫̻̪̦̰̒̽"̴̱̻̔̈́̓̕

You’re starting to get really tired of this.

Both of you.

Waking, sleeping, sitting, kneeling.

You can see yourself through two sets of eyes.

Black-blonde hair, blue eyes; green hair, green eyes. 

"̸̹̈́Ḯ̵̛͚̗̥ ̸͖̲͗̈̑̚͜ą̷͂̅͠ṃ̸̻̭̆ ̶͓̈͝g̶̦̻͌̄̔͊ͅr̴͎͍͛̿o̴͇̾w̸͔̎͂̽͠i̸̘̖͒̽͊͛n̸͓͍͎͊͑͘͝g̶̞̐ ̴̜̤̳̈́̽͐v̶̧̓ͅė̸͇̰͙̇x̵͈̖̔è̶̜ḑ̵̭̞͊̉͘ ̸͎̥̆̎͘w̶̩͖̥̭̆ï̸̭ţ̴̘̬̣̈ḥ̴̳̊̍ ̶̫̗̙̈́̿y̶̤̞̬͓͊̈́̕õ̴̜̦͊̑u̸̙͇͑̆.̴̫̰̰̟̿̈́̓̈́"̵̠̚

“Same,” you say, before startling. You--have you been able to speak this whole time?

Of course you have.

You both have been able to speak the whole time.

Sothis--you--sputters, before sighing, frowning down at you. Your voice is staticky, sputtering in and out unintelligibly. Which is rude to say, you think.

"̴I̸t̶ ̷s̴e̶e̴m̴s̵ ̸w̵e̶ ̷a̸r̸e̷ ̵a̸t̵ ̶a̷n̷ ̷i̶m̶p̶a̴s̷s̵e̸.̸.̴.̷"̶

You glance up, meeting her-your gaze.

You’re beginning to fall into sync.

“Wait,” you say to her-yourself. “Try that again. I think--”

"̸Y̶o̶u̸ ̷a̴r̸e̴ ̶f̵i̶n̷a̴l̴l̶y̸ ̷b̶e̴g̸i̷n̴n̸i̵n̶g̸ ̶t̴o̴ ̷m̷a̷k̵e̴ ̸s̵e̴n̷s̷e̶.̸"̶

You frown.

Resonance does not mean perfection--not yet.

But it is enough.

Something hot flares in your chest, warm and thrumming. It feels right , you think.

It should.

You step away from the throne, and you stand.

"̸W̷h̴a̵t̵ ̴m̷a̶n̶n̵e̴r̶ ̴o̸f̸ ̷b̷e̴ing are you?”

“Human.”

“Do not lie.”

“I didn’t.”

Your eyes narrow.

“Then you spoke an untruth.”

You touch your cheek, thin fingers against soft skin.

Something--

Clicks.

You break apart, staring into your own eyes.

You are the sum of everything you are.

But there are still pieces missing.

Don’t you want to find them?

Chapter Text

You wake up feeling empty inside, like someone took a chisel and carved out something inside you.

Your chest aches, warm and painful and hollow, like something’s missing.

There are still pieces missing. You need to find them.

But you turn away from that thought as Peric brings you breakfast and your medicine, helping you eat and get dressed in clean clothes, making you take your medicine because you both absolutely know that you’d pour it out the window if he didn’t.

Mostly because you already did, once.

And then he has you sit on the bed, and gently undoes your braids from the night before, brushes out your hair, and begins braiding it back again.

“You’re going to be with me today,” he says, big hands surprisingly nimble as he pulls your hair into place. “Captain is busy and Meilyr is being put through his paces for the day.”

Once he ties the braid into place, you turn your head and look at him questioningly. “Solenne?”

Peric snorts. “Idiot needs to sleep. Been running herself ragged trying to figure out what damn fool threw you in the river, sweetheart.” His face pulls into a kind smile, blue eyes twinkling above a salt-and-pepper beard. “She damn near killed herself getting you out, sweetheart. The cold sank in too deep, and that sort of thing takes its toll.”

Something sick twists in your gut. You hadn’t realized she’s been so worried.

As he gently arranges Solenne’s scarf around your neck, still smelling of metal and sparks and apples, he gives you a long look.

“Now, what’s this I hear of you not telling Solenne who threw you in?”

You freeze. 

Peric just gives you this steady look, completely unimpressed by your impression of a deer in headlights. “We both know that you know, sweetheart. Ah,” he says, pressing his finger gently to your lips. “Don’t give me that tripe. If neither of my girls could fool me, neither can you. You may be quiet, but you’re more honest than you think.”

You look away, your face suddenly feeling hot, and you bite your cheek, tasting the tang of blood. 

“Now, since we both know that you know, why aren’t you telling?” Peric looks you in the eye, blue eyes warm and honest and concerned, and abruptly that sick feeling in your gut doubles. “Are you worried about what Captain’ll say? That he might not believe you?”

That’s not it.

You know he’ll believe you.

You’re just worried, that if he finds out--if he takes steps--

Father’s always seemed invincible. You know better than anyone else that he’s really not, know that he’ll sink into that quiet place one day just like you’ll one day return.

You just can’t shake the thought of him not being okay , if something happens.

You’d rather go first, than let him slip away into the quiet and dark in front of you.

Peric’s hand is warm as he ruffles your hair. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he says, kind and sweet and warm. “Now, I’m no expert, but near as I can tell, it’s the job of adults to worry about the future. Dear, it’s our job to worry about what’s to come--don’t worry so much. You’re young yet, so let us take care of these things. So,” he says, so terribly kind and warm that it wrenches at you, leaving you feeling sick and hollow and tired. “Think you can tell me the truth, sweetheart?”

Trembling, you lean your forehead on his shoulder. Your face feels hot, your throat tight.

“I know who did it,” you whisper, feeling terribly guilty and frustrated. “I know .”

“Will you tell me?”

“I--I don’t want Father to--”

“To what?” 

One big hand gently holds your head to his shoulder while the other soothingly rubs up and down your back.

“To get hurt,” you whisper, suddenly feeling very small. “They all hate me, and--and they think that I bewitched Father, that I’m wrong and evil--”

“Oh, my dear,” Peric breathes, suddenly sounding so very sad. “They don’t hate you, not truly. You’re very hard to hate.”

“But they do!” you insist, trembling harder. “They--you don’t hear them, whispering everywhere. But I do , and they’re right , and I don’t want Father to get hurt when I really should just--just--”

“Just what?” Peric suddenly sounds very cold, but you can’t stop now.

“Just die , and save everyone the trouble of dealing with me!” you gasp out, as the first tears begin to fall, hot and humiliating, eyes burning. You hate crying.

“Now, you listen to me,” Peric says, pulling away abruptly, looking you in the eye. You open your mouth, but he shushes you. “No, you listen, Byleth. Don’t you ever think that way, understand me? You are loved , and most certainly not a trouble.” He runs one thick finger over your cheek, brushing away tears. “If you died, your Father would be a wreck. Trust me--I knew the lad when your mother died. He’d work himself into the grave out of guilt, do you understand me? Don’t you dare think yourself a trouble. You’re the light of that boy’s life.”

You vaguely realize that there’s a keening noise in the room, high and pained. Then you realize, as Peric tugs you into his lap and begins to gently rock you and hold you, that the keening is coming from your own throat. 

It’s not a human sound.

Peric--doesn’t seem to mind though.

You hiccup, desperately trying to force the tears back into the box you’d locked them in. Swallowing them back feels like swallowing knives, sharp and painful and twice as cold.

As he rocks, though, he begins singing, rough and raspy and so terribly kind that you want to cry and scream and kick.

You don’t deserve this, any of this--one day, he’s going to wake up and realize how awful you are, how wrong and twisted you are, and hate you to your very core.

One day, they all will.

They’ll realize how horrible you are, and leave you, because that’s all you deserve.

“Oh my dear,” he says, terribly kind nonetheless. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

His hands are so warm, so kind--you feel wrung out and small and shaky. You want to believe that he means every word he said, that everything will be okay--

But you can’t help the dark little voices in your head that scream that one day, they’ll decide they’re tired of you, tired of tolerating your stupid ass, and send you away.

Can’t help the way you feel helpless and empty and tired.

So tired .

“Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

You wish you could believe that.

---

Later, after you’re wrung out and empty and cracked at the edges, Peric takes you down to the kitchen and makes you both a cup of tea and milk, and you sit there, watching the steam rise off the top of the cup.

“Now,” Peric says, “Do you think you’re ready to tell me?”

The tea sloshes, drips over your fingers.

You realize, after a long moment, that your hands are shaking. Your fingers feel cold and thin.

“Dear?”

You glance up at him, blink rapidly. Light stripes through your vision, like after-images after staring at something for too long. 

“I--I think--”

Peric shifts, something flickering across his face too fast for you to identify. “Byleth?”

You feel sick. The room feels like it’s spinning around you.

“It was Deòrsa,” you manage, choking on bile in your throat. “Deòrsa threw--threw me--”

You drop the cup.

It shatters on the floor.

Your arms are trembling, your fingers and toes are cold--

Your stomach hurts.

“Byleth?!”

You lean over, heave--bile spills from your lips, bitter and awful--

You stumble to your feet. Something is wrong.

Peric surges to his feet, alarm on his face.

You look at him blankly for a moment, confused--you--what’s going--

You don’t feel it when you hit the floor.

Chapter Text

The next thing you’re really aware of is gentle hands holding your hair back as you heave; you’re shaking, trembling, your muscles ache like you just ran a goddamn marathon. 

Bile spills from your lips, hot and bitter and sour, and you feel like you’re choking.

“Shhh,” says a voice, calm and soothing. “Just keep going, child.”

“Is this really necessary?” 

That’s--Peric, you think. You heave again, bile spattering on the floor alongside the remnants of your breakfast, of the medicine from this morning--

“It is,” says the voice, the kind-of-familiar voice. Past the sour-bitter smell, you can vaguely smell the sharp smell of antiseptic and flowers. “We need to get as much of the toxins out of her system before they spread any further--we’re already late as it is, but her symptoms were late onset, likely because of her physiology.”

Your arms go all noodly and limp as you finish heaving. You don’t think there’s anything left in your stomach--it’s all on the floor now.

You choke back another heave at the thought. 

Peric’s face is worried as he helps the other--Missus Perrine, you think, the village healer and the one who’s been making your medicine--settle you back onto his lap. 

“Now, child. I need you to answer some questions for me, alright?” Missus Perrine leans forward, looking you right in the eye. Her eyes are very blue. “I need you to answer as honestly as you can, and not leave out any details, even if you think they’re dumb. Understand?”

You nod--

The door slams open. 

“Byleth! What happened?!”

Meilyr. Worried-afraid-panicked. 

And then, smaller footsteps. 

“I got those packets from your house, Missus Perrine, just like you told me to!”

It’s--it’s Leonie.

Her face is almost comically wide-eyed and serious as she passes Missus Perrine a linen packet, which Missus Perrine opens almost immediately. 

“Very good, Leonie,” she praises, before looking to you. “Alright, Byleth. Before we do anything else, I need you to take some of this--it will help cleanse your body of any remaining toxins. Leonie,” she adds, looking to the girl, “fetch me a glass of water.”

“Yes ma’am!” Leonie scampers off, while Meilyr stumbles forward and kneels beside you, his trousers in the puddle of sick. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Bylie! Are you okay? What happened?” he demands, turning to Missus Perrine. She gives him a Look, firm and warning, and he hunches his shoulders, looking guilty. 

“Calm yourself, sirrah,” she says, unflappably calm. Meilyr flushes. “To answer your question--ah, thank you Leonie,” she says as the girl returns with the glass of water. She turns to you. “Now, I need you to use the water and swallow all of this packet, understand?” 

You nod.

You are very quickly grateful that she gives you the water, helps you swallow--the charcoal, or at least you think it’s charcoal, is sooty and smoky tasting, and dry as fucking salt. It sucks all the moisture out of your mouth, and you’re still shaky-trembling, your stomach still ready to leave you heaving on the floor.

As you’re swallowing the contents of the packet, Missus Perrine continues.

“As I was saying, sirrah, she was poisoned.”

“WHAT--”

“Sirrah, calm yourself or I will have you removed .”

Missus Perrine doesn’t fuck around.

“...Sorry.”

“Now, child,” she says, looking at you. “I will ask you some very important questions. I need you to answer with as much detail as you can--don’t leave anything out. Understand?”

You nod, again. You already went over this, why is she asking again?

But then, your hands are still trembling, your body feels like an aching noodle. Your fingers are cold.

Maybe she has a point.

“Good. Now, I want you to recount what happened this morning as clearly as possible, leave absolutely nothing out. Pay close attention to how you were feeling. Are you ready?”

You realize that Leonie is still standing off to the side, something close to worry on her face.

Your stomach twists, and you nod. 

Once you’ve finished recounting the morning’s events, shaky and raspy and trembling, with Meilyr’s horror and pain clear on his face as you try and gloss over your crying jag that had left you feeling wrung out, Missus Perrine sits back and sighs.

“Thank you, child. You’ve been very brave, this morning.” She tucks a stray blue lock of hair behind her ear. “You are very lucky, as well. Had we reacted any slower, I fear you might not be still among us, even despite your physiology.”

“What do you mean?” Peric asks, gently rubbing circles on your shoulder with one hand. 

“Trembling, stomach pains, nausea, paleness and cold in extremities--likely due to poor circulation--confusion, and seizures.”

Seizures ?

Oh. That would explain why you feel like you ran a marathon.

Missus Perrine continues, heedless of your private realization.

“It’s clearly poison, and while there are many possible culprits, the most likely in this case is oleander.”

“...Oleander?” Meilyr asks, looking faintly confused.

“You might know it as rose laurel, or rose bay,” she explains. “It’s highly toxic, in all parts of the plant--it’s also why you’re not allowed in my greenhouse, Leonie,” she adds looking at the girl very seriously. “It also means that someone broke into my greenhouse.”

She looks deeply upset. 

Or maybe more deeply pissed off.

You’re not sure which.

“Rose laurel?” Meilyr asks, looking a little less confused. “Doesn’t that usually grow in southern Adrestia and Brigid?”

Missus Perrine smiles wryly. “Yes. I grow a bush of it in my greenhouse for medicinal purposes.” The look on her face grows stormy. “It seems I shall have to improve my security, however.”

Peric’s hand moves from your shoulder to your head, gently carding his fingers through your hair. Your eyelids droop, and, unbidden, a raspy purr rumbles from deep in your chest. 

Leonie flinches, you see from the corner of your eye--it’s not a human sound.

Human vocal cords can’t make the deep, vibrating noise that’s rumbling in your chest right now.

But your eyelids are drooping, and Missus Perrine gives you a terribly kind smile.

“Sleep, Byleth. Everything is going to be fine.”

Your eyes slip shut.

---

When you next wake, it’s to Solenne at your bedside, looking utterly exhausted.

You shift, struggling to sit up--your muscles ache, and you feel a bit like a wet, overcooked noodle.

Solenne glances over at you, and something relieved flickers over her face before it smoothes away.

“You’re finally awake, brat,” she says, conversationally. “Heard you finally told what happened.” She makes an aggrieved noise. “To Peric .”

You shoot her an unimpressed look, before you manage to sit up--and ooooh , that was a bad idea. The room’s spinning around you, and you make a vaguely sick noise.

“Uh-uh,” Solenne shushes you, looking disgusted. “No more vomiting for you today. Lay back down kid.”

You start to shake your head, pause, rethink that course of action. Instead, you say, “No.”

Solenne sighs. “Still as stubborn as ever, huh?” she runs a hand through her choppy brown hair. “You were just poisoned , kid. Take it easy for once in your damned life.”

Naturally, you ignore her. Take it easy? Never heard of her.

“Father?” you ask instead, willing the room to stop spinning. You’re not very successful. 

“Out looking for the fool who decided to poison you. Apparently, whoever did it--” at this, Solenne gives you a wry look--”wasn’t smart about it. Used a whole rose bay leaf in the pot Caterina used to make your medicine this morning, and from the looks of it didn’t use shears to pull it off.”

You raise an eyebrow. You think.

“Caterina?”

Solenne flushes, just a bit. “Don’t even think about it, brat,” she says sharply, before sinking back a bit. “So. Deòrsa, huh?”

You look away.

“I don’t even want to know what goes on in that idiot head of yours,” Solenne says quietly. “But I’m glad you told someone, at least. Sometimes, you’re too old-souled for your own good, kid.”

You avoid her gaze, looking out the window. You realize, vaguely, that it’s snowing again. The thin, tiny sort of snowflakes that melt as soon as they hit the ground, but still.

“We’re going to find who did this, kid,” Solenne says after a long moment. “And we’re going to make sure it never happens again .”

There’s something almost frightening about the intensity in her voice, and you jerk around to meet her gaze, green eyes lit with vicious fire. 

“What?” you rasp, throat still hoarse from the burn of stomach acid.

“We’re going to make sure none of those damned fools thinks to touch you again,” Solenne repeats, fierce. “And if Captain doesn’t do it right, I will .”

There’s something altogether humbling, you think, about seeing that fire in someone’s eyes. About seeing it--and knowing that it’s in your name.

Knowing that someone you know is perfectly willing to ensure a permanent end to your problems.

It makes something warm curl in your belly.

Chapter Text

This time, you’re not confined to the bed, at least. The next day, you’re allowed to be up and about--after another dose of cold medicine, brought by Missus Perrine herself, and another packet of charcoal--with much the same restrictions. No exercise, take it easy, not too much time outside--

This time, though, you’re never left alone. Not that you were left on your own before, but--this is different. The sharp, wary way Meilyr eyes the rest of the mercenaries, the near-hostile way Solenne tilts her body--the way Peric eyes some of the ones who had murmured loudest, who had said awful things where no one but they and you could hear, with something like threat in his face.

There’s a wall being put up, between you and the rest of the mercenary company--not one of malice and fear and apathy, like before, but of protective threat and wariness.

You’re not sure you like it.

Deòrsa, you think, has found a way to make himself scarce--you can’t smell his acrid-sour-fear anywhere you go, not even on the breeze. Just the cold, sharp smell of snow and winter, and the earthy smells of mud and branches and, occasionally, petrichor.

It’s as you’re out on the stoop with Meilyr, having lunch, that you see Master and Missus Perrine moving among the company, accompanied by a scowling Solenne.

They’re--checking hands?

“What are they doing?” you ask Meilyr, watching the trio more closely. He follows your gaze, and huffs.

“Don’t worry about it Bylie. They’re just--taking care of some things that Sir Jeralt asked them to.”

You give him the look that reply deserves. Dry and disapproving. Meilyr laughs this time, and he smiles down at you, highlighting the stress that’s resided in his face this past week.

He’s been trying to not make you worry, you realize abruptly. But he’s been worried sick about you, about your recovery--and yesterday, the oleander poisoning...it could have only made things worse.

Meilyr’s just a kid, you think. Just a kid, and already so worried for someone else’s wellbeing.

Already nearly seeing you die.

Meilyr ruffles your hair, sending black fluff into your face, covering your eyes--you know that when he does this, your hair sticks straight up like a goddamn chocobo butt. Because of course it does. And Meilyr takes an inordinate amount of amusement in your irritation with him when he does it.

God, he really is your brother at this point, isn’t he?

“Stop thinking so hard, Bylie,” Meilyr scolds. “Your face will get stuck that way, and then what’ll we do? Though,” he makes a wry face, “I should have supposed I’d never get anything past you.”

Just to spite him, you pull a nastier face at him. He laughs at you.

“Master and Missus Perrine are checking the hands of the company,” Meilyr explains, something somber settling on his face. You--would much rather he smile. “Whoever poisoned you, Bylie--they didn’t use any gloves or shears, when they took that sprig of rose laurel from Missus Perrine’s greenhouse. And, from what Missus Perrine says, even the sap or leaves of rose laurel can cause a nasty allergic reaction if you touch them without gloves.”

Meilyr gives you a tight, unhappy smile. Something sick curls in your belly. So--you decide to stir up some shit. Just to make him laugh.

“And what about Solenne?” you ask, trying to portray perfect wide-eyed innocence. Meilyr raises an eyebrow at you.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s she with them?”

“We don’t want them getting hurt,” Meilyr replies, something slightly confused in his face. He knows you’re smart, knows you already know this--wonders why you even brought it up. “So Solenne’s accompanying them, to make sure they’re safe.”

Meilyr goes to take a drink of his water. You carefully time your next question.

“So it has nothing to do with the huge crush Solenne has on both of them?”

Meilyr chokes.

Internally, you begin to cackle. You still love fucking with people, even after all this time. And--well. You have to get your kicks somewhere , after all.

Too easy.

---

It’s later, after you’re comfortably full and leaning against Meilyr’s shoulder, that you notice it.

A little flash of ginger hair, amber eyes peering around the corner of the stoop to eye you warily. 

You huff, burying your face more snugly into Solenne’s red scarf, breathing in the sparks-metal-and-apples smell. It’s fading, but it’s still comforting. You’ve always had a penchant for stealing clothes from people you love--you remember, before, stealing your Dad’s coats, loving how you could curl up in them like a sleeved and hooded blanket. 

You turn your head, meet Leonie’s eyes. She flinches, and you raise an eyebrow. She shuffles, before puffing out her chest and stomping over.

Someone save you from overdramatic kids.

Like you’re not overdramatic, too.

Meilyr shifts, clearly eyeing Leonie’s huffy approach with something resembling amusement--you can actually tell now, your nose has gotten so much less stuffy. Funny, what vomiting does to clear the sinuses.

Ugh.

“What can I do for you, little lady?” Meilyr asks, and you realize with a jolt that there’s something fond in his voice. Now, you were fond of Leonie too--of the Leonie you knew in the game, of her fierce loyalty, her drive. 

But still. Something nasty and possessive twists in your chest, and you bite your tongue. Hard.

You are not going to be jealous of a five year old girl. Absolutely fucking not.

“I--” Leonie shuffles again, looks at you, and then firms her expression. Crosses her arms. “What are you to Captain Jeralt?” she demands. It takes you a moment to put together what she’s asking, but by then she’s charged on. “I’m his first apprentice, so you can’t be his, so--”

You squint at her. Somehow, you think, your expression conveys your overwhelming skepticism.

“You’re not his first apprentice,” you tell her matter-of-factly. “He’s had squires before, and they’re basically apprentices to a Knight. Solenne was one, for one.”

Leonie stops, mouth hanging open. You don’t stop. Why, when you’re on a roll?

“And while we’re at it,” you add, raising an eyebrow. “I’m his kid.”

By this point, Meilyr is shaking, choking back laughter. He’s almost snorting.

Idly, you wonder if you can get him to snort-laugh on accident. That would be something to hold over his head, you think.

“You--I-- what ?” Leonie manages, before she makes a face at you and stomps her foot. “No! I--it doesn’t matter! I’m still gonna be better than you, you--you--”

She stops, clearly trying to think of a good insult.

You tilt your head, feeling both very fond and very tired. Leonie, you remember, hero-worships your Father. And considers you a rival, as you’re close to him.

It’s utterly fucking ridiculous, you think.

“Why?” you ask. Better to head this shit off now. “Why do you wanna be better than me?”

“I--you’ve been with Captain Jeralt longer! I hafta prove myself, so I can be just like him!”

You snort. “I’d rather be me, than try and be someone else,” you say. You’re lying, just a bit.

Some days, you want nothing more than to vanish into nothing. To be anything other than what you are.

But that’s not what Leonie needs to hear.

Thankfully, it’s now that Meilyr interrupts. 

“What Bylie means, Leonie,” he interjects, “is that Captain Jeralt doesn’t want you to try and be just like him. He wants you to get strong for yourself, in your own way. Isn’t that right, Bylie?”

He gives you a meaningful look.

You nod.

Leonie opens and closes her mouth several times, looking nonplussed. 

“But--he’s Captain Jeralt! The best!” she argues, but even she can tell it’s a flimsy argument. Tears well in her eyes, and you realize abruptly that you’ve been sort-of arguing with a five year old. 

Great job, you.

Making a five year old cry.

“It’s okay Leonie,” Meilyr soothes, reaches over and ruffles her hair. “Why don’t you just think on it? Go on, I’m sure your mum’s looking for you.”

Leonie, with an upset look, bites her lip, looks at you.

Quietly, she nods, and takes off running.

You pretend you don’t see the frustrated tears in her eyes.

Chapter Text

Later, after dinner, is when Father returns. He’s tired, you can tell--stress and worry turn his face older, lined and raccoon-eyed. 

But his face is so relieved when he sees you, it makes something twist in your chest.

He’s been worried for you , because of you . It’s because you were hurt that he’s been so worried, so stressed, so concerned. 

If you didn’t exist--

You bite your cheek, taste the tang of blood. Those thoughts don’t have a place here, right now.

He scoops you up, terribly gentle as always, and settles you on his lap as he sits. You lean back, allow the steady drum of his heartbeat to echo in your ears. He smells like oil and rust and fire, under the stress and relief. 

He smells like home . You can’t help but take comfort in it, in the way he holds you like you’re something precious, to be protected and taken care of. You press yourself against him, feeling something aching and desperate and needy in you hum in satisfaction at the touch.

You’ve finished dinner, already, and Father doesn’t really seem bothered to eat either--he just tucks your head under his chin, wraps his arms around you, and watches the fire crackle in the fireplace. Breathes, steady and calm and warm around you.

You’re almost asleep, drowsy and warm and comfortable, when an unfamiliar voice breaks the quiet murmur of activity from Meilyr and Solenne. 

“Sir Jeralt?” 

It’s quiet, almost timid, and you feel the warm drowsiness that had been holding you snap away. Father’s arms tighten around you, likely feeling the tension that startles into you, and he briefly tucks his nose into your hair. Breathes in deeply. Hums a deep note in his throat that thrums against you, and you relax. You’re safe, here in my arms , the hum says. Nothing’s going to happen to you.

Then, he turns his head to the newcomer. 

“Liane,” he greets, not moving. Feet shuffle a bit, and you kind of want to look, but you’re also too comfortable.

“Sir,” she replies. A deep breath. “Sir--I have a question.”

“What is it?” Father asks, in that tone of voice that you know means a raised eyebrow. 

“Sir--” she hesitates. “You’ve been investigating everyone, and everyone’s been on edge. Deòrsa-- ” She stops. Swallows. “Deòrsa’s been acting awful strange.” “

Father shifts, turns to look at her more closely. “How so?”

“He--he was wandering a couple nights ago, came back with some leaves, which. That’s strange , Sir. And he’s had an awful rash, just like Missus Perrine’s been looking for.”

Father stiffens, arms tightening around you. The quiet murmur of Meilyr and Solenne’s conversation fades away. From where you are, you can tell they’re suddenly paying very close attention.

You don’t need to look around to feel the tension that’s suddenly thrumming in the room. Liane obviously feels it as well, because you can hear her shift uncomfortably. 

You’re all coming to the same conclusion, you think.

 “Sir, what did he do? ”

---

That night, you dream.

Not of a girl on a throne, not that--she’s haunted your dreams for weeks now, the girl that is you that you are.

Before you sleep, you chew over what happened--Solenne, shooting from her seat, with murder in her eyes; Father shushing her, sparing Deòrsa’s life for the night.

You think later, that maybe it’s this that causes the dreams you have that night.

Though, they’re not really dreams--they’re memories wrapped in horror and fear and possibility, a glimpse at the could-have-been rather than the what-was .

In them--you’re never pulled out.

The bedroll traps your legs, you’re tiny and small and cold numbs your limbs, leaves you heavy as stone--

You can’t breathe

Water fills your mouth, you try and hold your breath--

It surges up your nose, you splutter--

The surface taunts you, silver moonlight above refracted by a silver mirror.

This time, there is no splash.

No hand reaching for you.

You are hated, alone, dying. Your vision goes stuttery and black and cold--

The last thing you see is the moon shining above you, cold and silver and distant.

You don’t wake up, this time.

Except--you do.

---

[Here is the thing, about being two-halves and more linked with the progenitor god:

The Divine Pulse, to turn back time, is a useful ability.

But in order to turn back time, one must be able to perceive time itself.

And time, you know--is not so much a linear line of cause and effect, but a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff .

So, here’s the problem:

Time isn’t just one line. It’s every line, all of them , that have ever existed. And that--normally takes a god, to see them all entirely in all of their existence. To see the finite entirety of time, inextricably linked with the infinite expanse of space.

And you--well. You’re not a god, not yourself. Not entirely.

But you’re enough .]

Chapter Text

The next day, Father wakes you up and helps you get dressed--more just helping you keep your balance, at this point, and helping braid your hair back--before giving you your medicine.

As you gratefully gulp down the water he brought to wash away the bitter taste of the medicine, Father kneels down in front of you, eyes serious. You lower the cup, feeling a bit taken aback. He--rarely looks this serious, not with you.

Gentle, kind, warm, even a bit awkward--but never truly serious.

You know why, but--still. It’s jarring.

“Byleth,” he says, looking you right in the eye. “I need you to be very good for me today, and stay with Meilyr, okay?”

You pause, watching him closely as you ask, “What are you going to do to him?”

Father hesitates. “We’re going to make sure he can never hurt you again, love.”

“You’re going to kill him,” you say. Father jolts, but nods. “Good. He’ll--be in the quiet.”

Now, why did you go and say that?

Silly child.

Father swallows, looks at you very carefully. “What do you mean, ‘he’ll be in the quiet,’ Byleth?”

You swallow. Now you understand why you shouldn’t have said that, don’t you?

Father’s eyes soften. He’s always so terribly gentle with you.

“We’ll talk about it later, love. Stay with Meilyr, alright?” he ruffles your hair and stands up. “Ready?”

You nod, taking his hand.

He’s going to kill someone in your name, today. You wonder if it makes you a bad person for feeling relieved.

---

As it turns out, it’s not just you and Meilyr today. Leonie, for whatever reason, has decided to hang around the two of you as well. Or--hang around Meilyr .

Who’s decidedly fond of her.

And you hate it, hate the way it twists like sick and poison in your throat, but you can’t help the jealousy that aches in you. Meilyr is your older brother. 

It’s stupid, and you feel stupid for feeling this way.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You can’t own a person, it’s his choice, her choice, just swallow it down and lock it up and burn it away--

When Meilyr ruffles Leonie’s hair as he helps her with her letters, you feel the stupid fucking goddamn jealousy burn .

You’re a terrible person.

You’re jealous of a five year old , for having the fond attention of the person who thinks of you as another little sibling.

And--maybe, just maybe, it’s for the better that he’s focusing on her, helping her more. You’re just practicing after all, she needs more help--

Besides. You’re just a fake, something half-dead and hideous living in an empty shell of a body, with a dead goddess taking up residence in your dreams. When he finds out, he’s going to leave you. Going to hate you, and the thought aches .

You tuck your face deeper into Solenne’s red scarf, hating every thought going through your head.

You feel stupid, jealous, awful and horrible and hideous and achingly, creepingly upset.

Insidiously, the ache in your wrists, in your legs, under your skin like a gaping maw, whispers to you--

It’s an urge you haven’t had in a while.

Quietly, you dig your sharp little claws into your wrist, feeling the sting of them biting through the tender skin. Feeling the warmth of blood blooming on your wrist, humming under your fingertips. 

Leonie grins at Meilyr, before glancing over at you, something timid in her eyes. She’s unsure of you, you realize.

You hate yourself just a bit more in that moment.

You dig your tiny little claws deeper, feeling the hot wet of blood, the rust tang of it sharp-sour in your mouth and nose.

And when Meilyr turns to look at you, you hide the claw marks under your sleeve.

He doesn’t need to worry about your stupid ideas, thoughts, feelings.

Your stupidity is your own problem.

Chapter Text

The next week after Deòrsa’s execution--you assume, anyway--is spent alternately with Meilyr and Solenne, with Father monopolizing your time in the evenings.

And, strangely, Leonie.

Though, perhaps not so strangely, since she’s more hanging around Meilyr than she is you. And Meilyr is teaching her her letters, so you suppose it works out in the end.

Until Meilyr gets called away by another one of the company, for a reason you don’t care to hear. And he leaves you in charge of helping Leonie.

Who’s still technically illiterate, for all she’s been improving with a few days of work. Or maybe a couple weeks. 

You’ve been out for a while, is what you’re trying to say.

As he walks out the door, you stare after him, mouth slightly open in shock.

Keep an eye on her? I’m not even a year older than her!

Leonie looks at you, still with that timid, uncertain look in your eye.

It just makes you feel more like trash for the jealousy that still burns in your throat when you see her and Meilyr together.

So, you sit there.

And sit there.

And sit there .

My, you do like awkward silences, don’t you?

“I’m--”

You jerk, whipping around to stare at her. She eeps , pulling away from you, eyes going wide. You swallow, feeling your metaphorical hackles settle. She’d just about scared the shit out of you.

You look away again. You’re not exactly sure what to do.

What does one do with a five year old when you’re a twenty-six-some-odd year old in a six year old body?

A breath.

“ I’msorryIwasmeantoyouandIwasthinkingaboutwhatyousaid--”

You jerk your head up to stare at her again, eyes wide and pulse racing. This girl is clearly trying to give you a heart attack, what the hell--?

Wait.

Weren’t you paying attention to what she said, child? Oh, you weren’t. Right, ask again, won’t you?

“What?” you ask, still tense. And it’s stupid that you’re so tense around a five year old, so nervous and timid and anxious. You bite your tongue. “What did you say?”

“I said ,” Leonie said, taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry Iwasmeantoyouand--”

You hold up a hand. 

It feels weirdly like you’re back at your old job, with kids sitting in front of you, eager and excited to be there and swim--and generally being good kids, ready to learn, but still absolutely convinced they were invincible --

You swallow back the wave of homesickness that surges in you like nausea.

“Slow down,” you say instead of vomiting up your dumb, sad, useless thoughts. “Try that again.”

Leonie swallows. “I’m sorry I was mean to you,” she says carefully, as though tasting every syllable. “And I’ve been--thinking--about what you said.”

You blink.

This--was not what you expected.

“What I said?” you ask before you think better of it.

“About--about Sir Jeralt wanting me to be the...the best me that I can be,” Leonie says quietly. “And not him.”

You pause, hesitate--unsure what to say.

“I still wanna be like him!” she says, suddenly loud and upset. “But--but...maybe you’re right. Maybe !”

You tilt your head. You’re--still confused. What exactly is she trying to say?

“Okay…?” you ask, mystified. “If you say so.”

Leonie looks away for a long moment, pouting--or maybe frowning? You’re not sure. 

You’re really bad at this, you think. You’re not even doing what you were supposed to do, which was to help Leonie with her letters .

“You’re weird,” Leonie huffs finally, turning to look back at you. “Really super weird. ”

You wonder if that’s her attempt at an insult.

“I know,” you reply easily. After all, you really are really fucking weird.

Leonie looks at you for a long moment, something evaluating in her big eyes, before she nods, as if deciding something.

“This one makes an ee sound, right?” she asks abruptly, pointing to one of the letters on the page.

You glance down; it takes you a moment to identify the letter she’s pointing at. “No,” you correct. “That one’s oh , as in no , or go .”

“Oh! And then this one’s ee ?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Can you read the whole word?”

“Uh... luh , ee --so, lee -- oh, nuh-ee ,” she pauses. “Leonie?” she sounds it out carefully, before grinning. “That’s my name!”

You can’t help but smile at bit at her excitement.

It’s been a while since you taught anyone anything--taught any kids, really. It used to be your job, and you’ve gone six years without it.

It still feels as familiar as a pair of old, comfortable boots.

It’s...nice.

---

The next days are a bit of a muddled rush. Once your breath no longer rattles in your chest, and the harsh chill of midwinter has settled itself out somewhat in the damp--still bone-chillingly, deceivingly cold, but not as sharp as razor-wires against tender, numb skin--the company makes its preparations to leave the small village of Sauin.

Solenne, somewhat tellingly, hangs around Missus Perrine and her husband more those last days, something wistful in her eyes.

Not that she’d ever let it show willingly, oh perish the thought.

You’re absolutely going to hold her embarrassing crush over her head, though. You’ve never been one to give up blackmail material, particularly not when it drops conveniently in your lap.

Leonie, on the other hand, is distraught .

Which is to say, she’s upset that Meilyr and Father are leaving, and not taking her with them. And, naturally, that you’re going and she’s not.

The upset looks she keeps sending you are pretty telling.

It isn’t until the day before you’re all to leave that it comes to a head.

“Why are you leaving?” Leonie demands of you during one of the lessons--which, by this point, are more you teaching her and Meilyr supervising; he seems to find it amusing. 

You blink at her, nonplussed. 

“Because Father’s leaving,” you explain, trying not to sound as if you’re explaining to a particularly slow caterpillar. “I have to go with him.”

She makes a rude noise. “But why are all of you leaving?”

“Because we need to keep moving and take more jobs,” you say slowly. “We don’t have infinite money, and jobs are what the company does .”

“What’s infi--infini-- infininite ?” Leonie demands.

“Infinite,” you correct absently.

“ Infinite, then!” she spits. “What does it mean?”

“Never-ending; without end. It means that we’d never run out of money, if we had infinite money.”

Her face screws up, and she makes a nasty noise in the back of her throat. “You could stay for the winter,” she complains. “You could get better, and Mister Padin would let you stay--I could talk to him!” she brightens at the thought.

“No.”

She deflates, before something ugly crosses her face. 

“Fine then!” she snaps. “Bitch,” she adds after a moment of thought, and then snatches both her own lesson parchment and yours , and storms off.

You blink.

Did she just actually cuss you out?

Hold that thought, did she just call you bitch ?

...She’s five . Where did she learn that kind of language?

When you look up at Meilyr, his face seems torn between hilarity at what just happened, and vague horror at--you presume--Leonie’s use of the word bitch.

After a moment, he sighs, and buries his face in his hands.

“What just happened?” you ask him, still mildly confused. Leonie’s--not usually that volatile. Or at least, not volatile in that way .

Meilyr looks up at you with a wry look on his face. 

“Bylie,” he says, with something infinitely patient in his voice, “she wants you to stay.”

“No,” you correct, feeling very certain. Leonie doesn’t really like you . She likes Meilyr and Father, and you very carefully don’t feel jealous . “She likes you. And Father.”

Meilyr’s face twists into what you can only name as bewildered disbelief. 

“How--?” he says, strangling the word into a wordless noise of exasperation. “Bylie,” he says after a long, long moment. “Bylie, you’re friends . Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?”

You--

What.

“She’s been spending time with you, you help her--” Meilyr shakes his head. “We thought it’d be good for you to know someone your own age, instead of over a decade older,” he explains. “I thought you knew .”

Apparently, you think, feeling a bit poleaxed, you’re more oblivious than you thought.

But then again, why would she want to be friends with you ? You cut holes into her budding worldview and hero worship in the name of letting her be a better person, but you certainly weren’t kind about it. 

Does she just like you because of Father?

That seems--disconcertingly likely.

Somehow, that thought makes you feel sad.

Meilyr sees the look on your face and buries his face in his hands. He starts making a choked, squeaking noise, shoulders shaking, and you realize after an alarmed moment that he’s laughing .

“Oh, Bylie,” he says after a long moment, “I love you. I love you, but you’re so--so completely oblivious --!” 

He starts laughing so hard he can’t breath, face going helplessly red.

You hunch your shoulders, something sick and angry pooling in your gut.

You know he means it in good humor, with love and care and gentleness, but it doesn’t strike you that way.

It feels like the voice in the back of your head, whispering of how you’re stupid and worthless and so goddamn oblivious, so self-centered, wouldn’t even notice anyone else’s problems if they hit you over the head--

It feels like slick black oil and ants and needles, all curling and biting and slicked around your bones, heavy in the pit of your belly.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You’re just so fucking stupid. So oblivious. How do you even know he means it in good humor, when you’re so oblivious to what goes on in other people’s heads?

Meilyr gasps for air, trying to reign in his helpless laughter, and you dig your nails into the cloth of your trousers.

Feel the cloth fray, peel, cut under the sharp edges of your nails.

Feel the hot wetness of blood on your thighs, pinpricks of sharp, hot pain lighting up under your skin.

The pain feels like rainwater down a spicket, washing against the dark, slick, angry things curling in your gut, cutting through the oil slick in your head.

It cuts through the voice in your head, blanking it out with razor sharp clarity.

Meilyr finally manages to pull his laughter under control.

You tuck the claw marks under the fall of your tunic.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Everything you do feels like a failure.

Even just keeping yourself under control feels like you’re failing Meilyr, Solenne, Father--

They wouldn’t want you to hurt. You think. Maybe.

Even with the clarity of blood and pain prickling at your thighs, the noise in your head feels like static, blocking out everything else around you.

Meilyr smiles at you, ruffles your hair. 

“It’s okay, Bylie,” he says, seemingly mistaking the look on your face for dismay. Maybe it is. You certainly don’t know. “You just need to talk to her, alright? Everything’s going to be fine.”

Everything’s going to be fine.

Right.

Chapter Text

The next morning, you wake up long before Peric or Meilyr or Solenne or Father come to wake you.

You can still feel water rushing up your nose, choking you, strangling you--

Can still see the shimmering image of the moon through ice cold water, tree branches like claws.

You can hear the birds beginning to stir, welcoming the slowly rising sun.

Quietly, in the pre-dawn hush, you can admit to yourself that you haven’t been okay. You’ve been wallowing, sitting around while sadness and gloom whacked you with a fish to the head, so caught up in your own head that you missed the forest for the trees.

It doesn’t help that you--don’t really like the idea of leaving. It’s not that you’re particularly attached to Sauin Village, because you’re not. More, it’s that you don’t want to leave probably the first friend you’ve ever had in this world. Meilyr, for all of his older-younger brother-ness, isn’t really a friend in that sense. He’s family, which is a bit different.

He’s also over a decade older than you, which makes things a bit weird to try and be friends with him.

You roll over onto your side, looking out the window at the slowly pinkening horizon.

You’ve been a bit of a jerk to Leonie, you think.

Unintentionally, too caught up in the emotional shit that hit you over the head to really notice, but still.

You’re leaving today .

Ah, you’re really going to have to go find Leonie today, won’t you?

But, for now, you lay there, letting the rising birdsong and gentle sun peeking into the bedroom wash over you, simply taking in the calm. Trying to find something like a handhold to hook yourself onto mentally--or, better, a fish to hit back with.

Letting yourself enjoy the peace.

---

Later, dressed for travel, with the comforting weight of Solenne’s red scarf settled around your face and neck, you march off determinedly to find Leonie.

You’re a shitty friend, but at least you can apologize.

You can try , instead of letting everything pass by you in a gray haze.

 When you find her, determinedly waving a straight-ish stick around like a sword, something like form to her stance, she spots you--and immediately turns away and ignores you with a huff.

And you, being the anxious idiot you have been known to be, choke on the words you wanted to say.

What if you say it at the wrong time? What if she hurts herself from surprise, even if she already knows you’re there? What if she just ignores you?

What if she’s given up on you, because you’re a godawful friend?

And it’s that thought that has you clenching your hands into fists, ignoring the bite of your nails into your palms.

“Leonie,” you say quietly, but you know you’re heard. Her shoulders stiffen as she turns away, resolutely not looking at you. “Leonie--” you say again, a bit louder; she turns even more firmly away.

Okay then.

That’s okay, if she wants nothing to do with you.

Understandable, really. 

But you’re still going to apologize, because she didn’t deserve you being a jerk, even unintentionally.

“Leonie,” you say a third time, and her shoulders bunch up a little more, “I’m sorry.”

She comes to a dead stop. 

“I’m sorry,” you continue, forcing the words out, anxiety chewing at your throat and belly. “Because I’ve been a jerk the last few days.”

At this, Leonie stomps her foot, turns to glare at you.

“You weren’t a jerk!” she snaps. Then deflates. “Well, a little. I guess.” Then she looks away for a long moment, and you can already see the frustrated tears in her little five year old eyes. “Why do you have to leave?” she asks plaintively.

“Because money’s a thing,” you say wryly. “And even if I wasn’t a complete jerk, I still completely missed that you were upset, which made it worse, right?”

Leonie frowns. “I don’t want you to leave,” she admits quietly, tears beginning to overflow. She sniffles. 

You flounder. You’ve apologized, admitted that you fucked up, and now she’s going and being emotional and you have no idea how to handle this.

Again, Meilyr steps in to help you out. Thank god.

“I know, little lady,” he says kindly, crouching down to look her in the eye. “But we’re not leaving forever, you know. We’ll be back before you know it!”

...You will?

Meilyr glances back at you and his grin turns a little crooked. “It might be a while, but we’ll be back, little lady. And, if you keep practicing your letters and words, you can send messages to Bylie!”

At this, Leonie perks up. “Really?”

How?

“Yep! Now, come on,” he affirms, gently ruffling Leonie’s hair. “Stop those tears, there’s nothing to cry about.”

There’s still a prickle of jealousy in your belly--something hot and possessive griping about not having Meilyr’s attention, but you know it’s stupid and childish. You’re not going to let yourself be jealous, because you have no right to his attention anyway.

But, it’s not as bad as it was. Which is--better? You guess?

You’re really bad at emotions.

And then you have your arms full of teary ginger five year old, hugging you so tightly you swear your ribs creak. Your hands fly up reflexively, your heart rate jumps, something in your head thinking can’t breathe, what--

And then you realize that it’s just Leonie.

She’s. Hugging you.

You slowly, carefully, hug her back.

What’s going on, how do?!

Meilyr laughs at you both, something soft in his eyes. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Leonie says tearfully as she pulls back. “Promise you’re gonna be back?”

“Promise,” you say, because that seems like the thing to say. 

“Cross your heart?” 

“Cross my heart, hope to die,” you say solemnly. You leave out the bit about sticking a needle in your eye. Kid doesn’t need to hear that part.

“Okay,” she says, pulling away, wiping her eyes. “Okay.”

It’s only later, as you’re leaving the village on Sioni with Father, that you realize that it’s not just Leonie missing you.

You miss her .

Already.

You’re not sure how to handle this.

Instead of handling it, like the responsible adult you pretended to be, you turn your attention back to the long road ahead, snow and gnarled branches and mud. You’re going to Faerghus next, you think.

Idly, you wonder what Meilyr’s family is like.

You hope that they won’t hate you, at the least.

Chapter Text

When you set up camp for the night, Solenne grabs you, sits you down, and drills you on the magical theory she’d taught you until your head is spinning with calculations and the basics that, according to Solenne, were the first step to actually being able to cast a spell.

When Father finally comes to collect you, he finds Solenne quizzing you on the basic concepts, something fierce on her face and something strangely soft in her eyes.

“Never giving her a moment to rest, eh?” he says, amusement turning the tired lines on his face--the lines you put there, sick and weak and near-death altogether too often for his peace of mind, you think--into something softer, kinder.

Solenne snorts. “If you don’t distract her, she’ll drive everyone to distraction in turn,” she says acerbically. “Too clever by half.”

“What a sacrifice you’re making,” Father says wryly, “passing on the very thing you specialized in as a Knight.”

Solenne makes a face at him as you stand up, watching them like it’s a tennis match. Back and forth and back and forth. 

“As if you’re not going to begin her with weapons soon,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow at him. “The Blade Breaker, training his first apprentice.”

“Hey now,” Father says, raising his hands in a warding gesture. “You know she’s hardly the first. You and Alois came before, and others besides.”

Solenne outright laughs. “We were your squires, you liar. You’re stupid if you think that there’s not a difference.”

And with that, she--gently--pushes you to him, shooing you away. “Go,” she says to you, brusk and business like, but something still kind in her eyes. “Sleep, kid. We’ll be working on this more tomorrow.”

“Will I get to set something on fire?” you ask, daringly. You like the idea of setting something on fire. A weapon, in your hands, whenever you want it.

Plus, well. Fire .

Solenne snorts, before giving Father a pointed look. “Brat,” she says fondly. “You’re still years too early to be asking that. Go.”

And so, Father guides you away, swinging you up onto his shoulders, as gentle and loving as ever.

It’s as he sits you down in the tent, however, that you abruptly realize that he, despite what you had hoped, had in fact not forgotten about his intention to “talk” to you.

He plops down in front of you, something expectant in his face.

“So,” he says. You swallow. “It’s about time we had that little talk, Byleth.”

You resist the urge to fidget. Anxiety, like lemon juice and bile, burbles at the back of your throat. 

Well, if you hadn’t told him, this wouldn’t be happening, now would it? 

You really do only have yourself to blame for these problems, child.

You wait in expectant silence for a long few moments. You swallow. 

Father sighs.

“Byleth,” he says, stern and quiet. “What did you mean, when you said that Deòrsa would go to the ‘quiet’?” 

You give in and fidget, anxiety bubbling in the back of your throat. You don’t think you’ll be able to speak.

God, what do you say?

You’ve never been terribly good describing things verbally. Too many things in your head, going by too many adjectives and verbs and adverbs to really make sense to anyone else. You’re better at writing out your thoughts, even if they turn out completely nonsensical most of the time, because at least you can write out stupid strings of word vomit that’s mostly adjectives strung together with verbs as proverbial glue and not have it sit in your head like rocks or glass shards.

“ Byleth ,” Father says, turning sterner. Sharper.

You flinch. Look away, squeeze your eyes shut.

You don’t want to see how his face turns cold when you tell him, even if it’s nonsense.

“It’s where I was--where I was before ,” you blurt out, shoulders hunching up. You can still smell Father’s rust and oil and sweat and cedar, and you hold your breath, because you’re not sure if you can smell hate or disgust the same way you smell fear, but you really don’t want to find out.

Your heart’s pounding.

Father’s is--

Steady. Calm.

“Before?” his voice is surprisingly gentle. Or maybe not surprisingly, because he’s never been anything but with you.

“Before--all of this,” you say, waving a hand vaguely, before going straight back to holding your breath. It’s probably stupid, but--you just can’t smell it if he decides he hates you. 

You can’t .

“Before what ?” Father presses. “I need more, Byleth. Words.”

You bite your tongue, hard. Roll the sharp, rust tang of blood over your stinging tongue, let the pain shove away the buzzing in your head and the lump in your throat.

Why does this man’s opinion of you mean so much to you? 

Why are you letting someone else have so much power over you?

Why do you let him hold his hand around your heart, and love him all the same?

All at once, you remember why you once-and-still hated having emotions.

Unnecessary, clogging, muddying, buzzing nuisances that left you a hot mess at best and having a breakdown at worst.

So you do what you’ve always done, when everything’s too much.

You deny, you repress, you stamp down everything that’s bothering you and completely ignore it, because if it’s not real to you it can’t hurt you anymore.

When you open your eyes, you feel strangely steady for the first time in--you think--literal weeks. The sharp, absolute calm that sits sickly in your chest feels like a weight and freedom all at once, turning your thoughts from panic to clarity.

The anxiety is locked away, shoved away, locked in a box and burned alive.

This man, for all he is your Father, has no power over you. Not unless you let him wrap his hand around your heart.

You will kill for him.

You will not let him kill you.

“Before you started running,” you say, allowing that absolute calm to flow out your mouth, like water and ice and winter. Frost in your mouth, diamond ice in your mind. “I mean. My first memory after the quiet is of you riding a horse in the middle of winter,” you continue, ignoring the way his face twists in confusion. “It was cold and snowy, and the tree branches looked like claws against the sky. It was just you, and Sioni, and me in swaddling rags in the cold.”

Father stares at you. 

You stare back, sinking into the icy calm.

If he hates you, then so be it.

Another tally to your ever growing list of detractants.

No one will kill you but yourself, in the end.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly. Maybe, you think, he sees that you aren’t lying. Or, maybe, he can hear your steady, calm heartbeat the same way you can hear his. Then, “I’m going to kill that woman.”

You tilt your head.

“I was someone else, once,” you say, very quietly. “I don’t know if it was her fault, or just a quirk of fate meant to screw me over. But I’m here now. Sorry,” you add, feeling abruptly a little hesitant. 

“For what?” Father asks, jerking his head up to stare at you. “Bylie, you’ve done nothing wrong .”

“You’re not even mentioning that--” you break off, biting back tears that threaten to choke you. So maybe you’re not as calm as you want to pretend.

Shut up, okay?

“Listen,” Father says, his face turning fierce as he grabs your shoulders. “Because I’m going to say this once and only once , got me?”

You nod, startled by the sudden ferocity in his eyes.

The gentleness of his hands.

“I don’t care if this is your first life or your twentieth or your hundreth, Bylie. No,” he cuts you off, shaking you. “I don’t care . You have no blame in this--the only one who does is the one who decided to fuck around with human experimentation. I raised you, even if it was only in body. Did you ever lie to me?”

Dumbly, you shake your head.

“Then you’re still my daughter. End of story. Understand me?”

You nod.

You’re not sure you can do anything else.

What the fucking hell did you ever do to deserve this man caring for you?

“Now,” Father says, gentling his grip, which had tightened ever-so-slightly on your shoulders, “we will speak more of this. Don’t think we won’t, my love, and don’t think you can weasel out of it.” He gives you a meaningful look. “But--for now--”

You hold onto the icy calm, trying to drag it over the part of you that wants to burst into ugly, horrible, awful tears.

Then, he hugs you.

And it’s so warm, and kind, and gentle and familiar that you just can’t --

He, very kindly, says absolutely nothing about the growing wet spot on his shoulder as he rocks you back and forth, carding his fingers through your hair.

You wish, vaguely, that you could have been strong enough to keep it all to yourself, to hold the ugly truth behind your teeth. You don’t want this man to get mixed up in the awful fate you know awaits you--would burn cities to the ground to keep him safe.

Would cheerfully kill the kids that tore your heart in three pieces, once upon a time, to keep this man safe.

For now, though, you just let him hold you.

You’re a terribly selfish person, in the end.

---

That night, for the first time in weeks, you don’t dream of drowning for infinity. Don’t feel the water in your nose, the moon above, serene and quiet as you’re dragged under by the cold that swallows you whole.

Don’t dream of a Solenne who never comes to save you, in every dream--unlike the reality. 

You don’t dream of being eaten alive by the ice and cold, pulled back into the quiet, where a voice asks you if that’s really it, are you an idiot? Go fix it--

Neither do you dream of a girl on a throne who is also you and you are her, except not, and both of you are missing pieces of a whole that still isn’t complete, because something’s missing--

Neither do you dream of a girl on a throne, or of being one being in two bodies, with three versions of yourself, with three sets of memories.

In fact, for the first time since you woke after the river, sick and weak and exhausted--

You don’t dream at all.

Chapter Text

In the end, neither of you tell Solenne or Meilyr or Peric about what happened.

But, you think, they still know something happened.

Meilyr’s more touchy-feely than usual, which is saying something, considering he’s always touching you in some way or another. But it’s more now, as if he’s trying to make up for not knowing whatever shit went down.

Which is ridiculous, but you know.

You can understand feeling guilty for something that you really shouldn’t feel guilty for.

Solenne drills you even harder on magical theory, and you start to realize that magical theory is very much like a cross of physics and music theory. Kind of.

Physics that affect reality, forcing your will into existence--but with the flexibility of music theory. Rules that exist to give you guidelines, but once you know them, you can break them.

Mathematics, at the core of both.

Fucking math.

You’ve always had a knack for math, it’s logical structure working for your analytical brain, where you could follow it’s interesting logical suppositions and problems and honestly enjoy mathematical brainteasers.

The problem is, even if math is fun for you, and really sort of mental muscle memory, since the concepts are more or less constant, that nothing but math on math for hours on end leaves you bored and restless and burnt out on the subject.

You want to learn magic, enjoy the beginnings of the lessons, but gorging yourself on a particular subject like this has never helped you.

It doesn’t help that there’s no recorded music. You can work for hours at a time, if you can get music running in the background with the right beat and feel.

No recorded music.

You miss it--miss the songs, miss the variety. This country is more or less equivalent to early- to mid-medieval Britain, with some improvements--you vividly remember the long lecture Missus Perrine had given you on the nature of germ theory in relation to your winter fever--but those improvements don’t really include music.

Which, as was typical of the time period, is almost entirely the domain of either drinking songs--which you’re (still) not allowed to repeat, even if Father knows you’re older than your physical years now--and plainchant. Which belongs to the Church.

Where you’re not allowed to go.

Where you’re actually really tempted to go, if only because fuck Rhea and the horse she rode in on.

But, Father hasn’t spent six years running from Rhea to keep you safe only for you to throw that in his face and get found this early. So.

Instead of indulging the spiteful, petty, and contrary side of you that wants to throw everything you are in Rhea’s face because she isn’t the boss of you, and she’s certainly not family, no matter what she wants, you start humming.

Little bits and pieces, of tunes that you knew very well before. Amazing Grace , Come Along, The Sound of Silence, Havana, bits and pieces of Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen, nursery rhymes, even some of your more niche favorites like no children or deviltown . 

Really, you hum just about anything you remember, because once you start, you remember how much you needed to have music in your ears and your head and your heart, and you start hearing music in everyday things again, slowly. A tuneless song in footsteps and wind and breath, in tapping bark and rocks and fingers.

It surprises you to realize how much you missed this part of you.

You never really realized how much music was less a major part of your life, and was more your life . It’s kind of like realizing that you’ve been lugging along an extra limb that you’d forgotten was there.

When Solenne first hears you doing it, she raises an eyebrow at you, silently judging you.

You switch to humming Gives You Hell, because you’re petty like that .

She snorts, before tapping at an equation on the parchment. “That’s wrong. Rewrite it.”

Damn it.

---

You still dream of the river.

Cold, icy and gnawing and swallowing you whole in its gaping maw, fading in those times that never were.

Here’s the thing.

You don’t wake screaming from those.

It’s not that you don’t want to, but that the terror, the cold creeps into your bones, chokes your voice before you can say a word, leaves you breathless and trembling.

Father, being Father , notices right away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything. He just tucks you securely against his chest, your head under his chin, letting his heartbeat be a soothing drum to your ears.

It does, however, mean that sometimes when you wake, he doesn’t always notice immediately.

Tonight is one such night.

“...I wish you were here,” he breathes into the silver moonlit night. You try to master your trembling, the choked breaths. “You’d know how to handle this far better than I, my love.”

His hand presses to your hair, as if trying to pull you even closer. 

“What can I do? She--whatever she did, to you, to our daughter--what can I do?” he lets out a shuddering breath, and you resist the urge to bite your tongue. This pulls at something vicious in your heart, leaving you achingly, breathlessly protective of this man. “It was all I could do to run away, Deirdre. How can I protect our daughter if I can’t even face the one who hurt her? ”

He lays his head back, staring at the ceiling of the tent, without really seeing it. 

“Oh, I miss you, my love. You’d know what to do, just as you always did.”

You think that this is your cue.

“What was she like?” you ask, because you know who he’s talking to. Even if he’s never told you about her.

Your Mother. 

The one who begged Rhea to save your life, when it was her or you.

Who passed the Crest Stone in your chest to you.

Father takes a deep breath, tightens his fingers in your hair, still as terribly gentle as ever.

“Beautiful,” he says, something choked and trembling in his voice. “Beautiful, brave, fierce, and always knew exactly what she wanted. You’re so very much like her, Byleth.”

You press your head more firmly under his chin. You’re in a kid’s body, and Father isn’t stopping you, so--

He presses his chin onto your head, holding you tight.

“She loved you,” he whispers into the quiet. “She loved you so much , Byleth. I wish you could have known her.”

You swallow, feeling the trembling in your arms and hands and fingers, the choking cold in your chest loosen its grip. 

“I wish I could too,” you whisper.

Neither of you say anything more.

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Father says one night, with your head tucked under his chin and the moonshining above. “So you mean to say that you not only lived a life before this one, but also died? And that you were almost twenty summers before you died?”

You nod.

You don’t really like thinking about this.

About your death, really.

It makes the dark, slimy things in your bones, in your soul, with the shards of quiet like daggers in your soul, curl and twist, surging in your throat like bile.

Being like this, with Father holding you, listening to his heartbeat, knowing that even now that he knows that you’re not exactly what you seem that he still cares for you--it helps. Forces the sick, slimy tendrils in your throat and around your bones cringe away.

It’s harder to think about those thoughts when you’re like this.

“Alright,” he says, breathing out, tightening his fingers in your hair. “Anything else that you’d like to tell me?”

“...I’m not a girl?” you swallow back the anxiety that surges in your throat. 

You have reasons to be nervous about this, okay?

Father leans his head back, bangs it against the bedroll. 

“Alright,” he says, evenly. “That’s fine. We can talk about that tomorrow. Anything else?”

You think, turning it over in your head.

And, just a little bit, give into the prankster part of your personality once again.

“Do weird dreams about a girl on a throne count?”

Father sighs, very deeply.

“Yes, Byleth. They do.”

---

It’s mid-spring by the time you finally get close to Kildare. Not because the road was truly that long, but because money called the company along to other bounties along the way.

This all being said, you can tell that Meilyr is happy to finally be coming home again.

He’s bouncing in his saddle, excitement trembling in every line of his body, his usual smell of ink and oil turned electric with excitement.

You know, because you’re riding with him today, instead of with Father. 

And you--well. You’re nervous, even if you hate to admit it. 

Meilyr is, by your mutual admission, your older-younger-brother. But he has other siblings, other people important to him; a younger sister, and an older brother.

He grins down at you as he ruffles your hair.

“Don’t be nervous, Bylie,” he says cheerfully. “Aneira and Llassar are going to love you. And so are Mum and Dad!”

You tilt your head back, glowering at him.

You just know that your hair is now standing on end, just like a goddamn chocobo butt--or super saiyan hair.

You still don’t know how the fuck it does that, but it’s annoying.

Instead of complaining, since that will only encourage him, you say, “What are they like?”

The moment his face brightens again, you realize that you may have made a mistake.

A very large one.

 “Well, Mum and Dad are merchants, you see?” he says. “We’re a small merchant family--Dad’s side, anyway. The Teagues.”

You’ve never heard of them, but okay?

Meilyr continues excitedly. “Mum’s from a traditionalist family out west, so me an’ Aneira took her family’s names, but Llassar is Dad’s heir so--” he cuts himself off, laughing awkwardly. “Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Aneira is my other younger sister,” he says to you, deliberately slowing down. “She’s about nine, this summer, and she’s an absolute monster,” he winks at you. “Adorable, but she’s got Dad wrapped around her finger.”

You blink, processing the flood of info. So--spoiled little sister? That...doesn’t exactly ease your nerves.

“Llassar is Mom’s favorite,” Meilyr continues, looking a bit rueful now. “She likes to pretend he isn’t, but we all know--he’s a bit of a stick in the mud, but he always looked out for me whenever I got into a bit of trouble.” He sighs. “He got engaged not long before I left with Sir Jeralt--I do wonder how that turned out?” he adds, looking contemplative.

“Why did you leave?” you ask, curious. Father had just--sort of dropped him on you and Solenne. 

“Ah, well--” Meilyr laughs wryly. “I’m the spare, you see? Llassar is the eldest, so he’s going to inherit from Dad, and Aneira already has an arranged marriage to eldest boy of the Eldris’s, to marry our families together. And me? Mum and Dad wanted to try and send me to the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery, but we’ve never had the money for that. They wanted me to be a knight, really, and the connections you can make rubbing shoulders with nobles aren’t anything to laugh at.” 

You frown. You’re not sure you like what you’re hearing--Meilyr’s parents sound like...well. Like assholes, really.

He smiles down at you, smoothing your ruffled hair. “But since the Officer’s Academy was a pipedream, they weren’t really too sure what to do with me. So when I was kidnapped, and Sir Jeralt saved me--they offered to have me go along with him, as a sort of squire or servant, to help pay for the costs of the bounty.”

Meilyr looks away, out at the horizon. Past the shadow that is the bustling travel hub of Kildare, past the trees and clouds, out at empty sky and space.

“I’m glad they did it,” he says quietly. “You, Sir Jeralt, Solenne--you’re the best things to have ever happened to me, Bylie. I just hope Mum and Dad think so too.”

Something cold and sour and angry curls in your belly.

You know how it feels to be the second sibling, passed over for the elder’s wants, expected to know better and learn from their mistakes, even if you were younger.

Know how it feels to feel lesser than your siblings, to feel passed over and ignored.

The idea of that happening to Meilyr--worse, of him being viewed as a means to an end by his parents--

You choke back a hiss.

It pisses you off .

So you press back against Meilyr’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. 

“Love you,” you say, for lack of anything else substantial. You want to say more, but--what can you say? I know how that feels?

Meilyr smiles, looking back down at you, gray eyes warm.

“Love you too, Bylie.”

Chapter Text

That night, after everyone’s settled into bed, Father shifts the two of you around in your tent so that you’re sitting cross-legged across from each other.

“So,” he says, something terribly awkward in his voice. “So.”

You tilt your head. “So,” you reply, letting it lilt teasingly. Father huffs and smiles.

“So,” he says once more, and you smile. “‘Not a girl,’ Byleth?”

The smile falls away from your face.

Ah, shit. 

You’ve been dreading this conversation since you’d dropped that particular bomb without thinking about it. Hesitantly, you nod.

You hope to god he doesn’t try and tell you that you’re wrong, or deluded, or that it’s a “phase”--

You had enough of being shoved back in the proverbial closet in your last life, thank you very much.

But instead of opening with any of the lines that your mind conjures oh-so-helpfully for you, he just looks at you, long and careful, before he says, “Are you a boy, then?”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. He isn’t--isn’t--

This is new, from a parental figure in your life.

You can’t make the words come out of your mouth, choked up in your throat as they are, as you bite back the hope that curls like a candle flame in your chest.

Instead, you shake your head.

Father frowns, chewing that over. “So you’re not a boy or girl,” he states, almost as if he’s seeking your affirmation. You nod.

 “Alright,” he says, slowly. “Alright.” Then, he laughs a bit ruefully. “I should have asked Solenne to come talk to you.”

You tilt your head. “Why?” you manage, swallowing heavily.

“Ah, well. You remember your histories that I’ve been telling you, right?” Father gives you a look, as if to say you better remember, you have an exam in two days . You feel a bit offended.

As if you’d forget something so weird and interesting, even if you know it’s partly propaganda. 

He laughs at the look on your face, fond and warm and as terribly gentle as always. Something tight in your throat eases, anxiety loosening its grip.

“Well, what did the Church of Seiros decree about Crests?” he asks, and you feel almost offended that he’s turning this into history time, but also--it’s just so very him that you can’t help but smile a bit.

“That those who bear Crests are those suited to be the nobility, which is dumb , because just because somebody won a genetic lottery doesn’t mean they’re a good leader,” you rattle off dutifully, not at all salty about stupid historical decisions. Which is to say, as salty as you are about everything.

Father sighs, somewhat fondly, shaking his head. “And now I know where you got that outspoken tendency,” he says wryly. “At least in part. You’d be charged with heresy if you said that anywhere other than in private, you know.”

You shrug. Stupid people making stupid decisions has always been something that pissed you off. You weren’t going to be shy about it. “If they’re being stupid, I’m going to say so.”

Father snorts. “You’re too much like your mother,” he says fondly. “Now, back to the subject at hand. Since Crests have an important place in Fódlan politics, gender politics are affected as well. Most noble families place a large importance on producing a child with their Crest,” he gives you a Look as you open your mouth. You reluctantly close your mouth and sit back. “To the point where a child with their Crest automatically becomes the Heir of the family, and any prior children are removed from their status and often disowned.”

You make a discontented noise, because that’s--not okay , not at all, because fuck that--and Father gives you a tired smile. 

“I know,” he says quietly, before continuing. “Past that, arranged marriages are made for the highest chance of breeding a Crest into a family, or continuing the line of a Crest. Often, children have marriages arranged since birth.” You raise a hand, and Father raises an eyebrow back at you. “Yes?”

“Is that why Meilyr’s little sister has an arranged marriage?” you ask, hoping you’re wrong. Because that’s--perhaps it’s just your “modern sensibilities,” but this sort of thing rubs you the wrong way.

Father sighs. “Yes,” he confirms. “The politics of the greater noble families trickles down to the lesser noble families, all the way down to the merchants. Arranged marriages are considered the thing-to-do to gain political power, through lineage and bloodlines.”

You look away, swallowing back the bitter taste in your mouth. The idea of never having the choice, to have it decided for you --

It rankles.

“And all of the emphasis on bloodlines and lineage and Crests affects the Fódlan view on gender,” Father continues. “Which means, that while someone might not be disowned for not conforming to their birth gender, they certainly aren’t useful to the family anymore. It changes a bit between countries,” he adds, “but in Faerghus, for example, a noble child who doesn’t conform to their birth gender is automatically removed from the line of inheritance, regardless of whether they have a Crest or not. If they don’t have a Crest, the family usually won’t much care, but if they do…” he trails off, and you fight the urge to growl. “Well, it’s not pretty, and I’ll leave it at that, for now.”

You chew on that for a moment, before looking back up at him. “That doesn’t say anything about your thoughts,” you say, very quietly. “Or why you think Solenne would have been better to talk to.”

Father takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Looks up at the faint moonlight filtering through the tent canvas. 

“You’re still my kid, Byleth,” he says, carefully. “I don’t care if you’re a boy, or a girl, or anything in between, or even a dragon. You’re my kid. Now,” he adds, looking back at you, something painfully earnest and raw on his face. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m not confused about some of this--whole thing.” He waves a hand vaguely.

You swallow against the lump that’s suddenly in your throat. You’re not sure if you’re anxious or about to cry. Maybe both.

“It’s all a bit out of my depth,” he continues, leaning back. “But you’re my kid, and that’s never going to change. I’d go to war with the Archbishop for you, my dear,” he says, looking you in the eye. “I think I can manage a few revelations.”

The lump in your throat just about doubles, and you fight back the urge to sob, just a bit. You’re not sure if it’s from relief or anxiety or the overwhelming urge to cry because goddamn it he isn’t pushing you back in the closet , he’s listening to you --

You choke it down, because goddamn it you hate crying. You’re not going to break down again. You refuse .

“What about Solenne?” you manage, stubborn to the last. Father laughs wryly.

“Because Almyra is much more liberal in terms of gender politics,” he says, shrugging. “From what I gather, they don’t much care if you’re male, female, or an eldritch monstrosity, so long as you can fight, and follow their code of conduct.”

You blink. That’s--damn. That’s actually really cool.

“I’ll ask Solenne to talk to you about it tomorrow,” Father adds casually. “Now--are you still okay being called Byleth?”

You pause. Names had been thorny for you, before. The ones you were given at birth never seeming to quite fit, but never able to find one that did leaving you settling for names that everyone knew. 

But Byleth doesn’t chafe, doesn’t scrape your edges raw. It’s like a comfortable sweater that’s a bit too big, just doesn’t quite fit right. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and Father nods. “But--could you use they, instead of she?”

Father smiles, warm and fond and terribly gentle.

“Of course, my dear.”

---

That night, you dream.

Not of the river, for once--the river that has haunted your nightmares for Moons now, leaving you achingly, piteously thankful that Father hasn’t taken the company near any deep water since your accident.

Instead--

You dream that you are you are you.

Three sets of memories, three selves, two bodies, one soul.

“What are you?” you say.

“A human,” you reply, voice echoing in the surreal tomb.

“But you are more,” you insist, leaning forward. “There is a shadow over you, child.”

“No more than yours,” you dismiss, before pausing.

The words were not your own. But then, whose else could they be?

“Do not be disrespectful,” you chide. “And yet, despite your rudeness, I feel a kinship with you...What is your name, child?” 

Your name is Byleth. But it isn’t, either. It’s others, many and more and varied, picked and chosen and all leading back to one at the beginning that’s yours and not--

Sothis , you think.

You have no correct answer. So instead you compromise.

“Byleth,” you say, letting the streams of possible-was-has-been-would-be scream themselves hoarse in your head.

“Byleth,” you murmur, testing the sound. It’s familiar and not, like a room with all the furniture moved two inches to the left. You yawn. “Aaaaaah--I find myself growing tired. And yet--” you yawn again, more widely yet. “And yet, I find I cannot sleep just yet.”

You can feel the quiet of slumber creeping up your arms, stealing its way into  your mind.

You are strong to the slumber, used to its tricks and wiles; you are also weak, and tired, and desperate for more than four  hours of horrible sleep.

Before you can say another word, you find your eyes sliding shut.

You can’t quite tell which set, though.

Chapter Text

The next day sees the company riding into Kildare, ready for a few nights rest at an inn with soft beds and stables for the horses. A pretty penny, but one well earned from several Moons more or less on the road. 

Today, you’re riding with Solenne--who’s drilling you on magical theory.

“And Roehr’s Law?” she asks you, relentless. You can understand why--magical fire, in the hands of a six year old--but it’s still irritating.

You just want to be able to set things on fire, damn it!

“That nothing can be either created or destroyed, only changed,” you say. Solenne hums, and you sigh. “The Law itself specifically applies to the magical energy of all things, but can be applied more broadly.”

Solenne ruffles your hair. You glare up at her.

It seems like everyone around you takes inordinate pleasure in making your hair stand on end, regardless of its length. Or, perhaps, in encouraging the growing sentience of the unmanageable mess that your hair is.

Peric must use magic to wrangle your hair into a ponytail or braid every morning, is what you’re saying.

“When will you let me use one of the tomes?” you ask after a moment, before Solenne can ask you another leading question about magical theory and physics rolled into one. 

“Not for a while, kid,” Solenne says firmly, frowning down at you. “I’ve told you that before. Unless you want to be charbroiled, you need to have a handle on the basic theory before you even think about casting a spell.”

“I get it,” you say, frustrated. The deep, itching need to have something to defend yourself with, even if you don’t have a weapon burns you, however. “I know that theory is important, but don’t even novices in the School of Sorcery or being taught by tutors learn how to cast a simple spell with a tome, even if only for basic practical experience?”

Solenne sighs. “I forget how ambitious you are, sometimes,” she mutters, before giving you a sharp look. “Those novices are also at least eight or nine summers before they even begin learning, kid. You’re six . The fact is, you’re not ready to cast any spells for a while now--if you tried, either it would fail to cast entirely and nothing would happen, or it would backfire spectacularly,” she gives you a dry look. “And knowing you, I know which would happen.”

You look away, biting at your tongue to keep your frustration firmly on the inside. She has a point, and as the one who actually knows the system, you should listen. You will , even if it chafes and burns at you. 

But you’ve never dealt well with being afraid, and getting angry because you’re afraid doesn’t work well here. Getting frustrated doesn’t help you, but you can’t help it.

Solenne doesn’t deserve your frustration, because she’s just looking out for you.

You bite your tongue harder. 

You don’t deal particularly well with emotions in any capacity, really.

“Very well, I’ll bite,” Solenne huffs. “Why are you so hung up on learning to cast, kid?”

You chew your lip. “It’s magic,” you say, perfectly honestly. “Who wouldn’t ?”

Solenne gives you a Look, because she knows you entirely too well. You look away.

“Try pulling the other one,” she says, dry as desert sand. “It might get you somewhere. The truth , Byleth.”

You swallow. 

“What if it happens again?” you whisper, mouth dry, voice as steady as you can make it. Clinical.

Saying it aloud makes it real, acknowledges it in a way you’ve been avoiding.

So you’ll make it as dry and impersonal as you can. Distance yourself from the fear, the pain--make it about someone else in your head. An imaginary friend, so that it’s still not real to you. So that you don’t feel that aching fear in the real world and in dreams.

Solenne’s staring down at you. You continue.

“I couldn’t do anything , when I woke up right before he threw me. What if it happens again? If I can’t do anything--what can I do, with no weapon? No way to make them leave me alone?” You swallow, forcing back the burning in your eyes.

Clinical, dry, impersonal .

It’s practical, you think to yourself. It’s only practical.

“You, Father, Meilyr, Peric--you won’t always be around to protect me,” you note, and feel glad that your voice only wavers a bit at the very end. “And Deòrsa proved that even with you around, there will be people who will act .”

Solenne’s hands tighten around your middle. 

“Words may not be able to hurt me, but sticks and stones certainly can,” you continue. Pragmatic. “And you can’t shield me forever. Sooner or later, someone will get a shot in directly at me, and what then?” you look down, away from where you can feel Solenne’s gaze prickling at the back of your neck. “I won’t let myself be helpless.”

Solenne’s hands clench into your tunic, and her electric-metal-and-apples scent turns sharp with anger.

Then she slowly, carefully, unclenches her hands. Brings one hand up and runs her fingers through your hair, the other holding you closer.

“I get it,” she says finally, very quietly. “I don’t fucking like that you have to feel that way, but I get it.”

She breathes deeply, and her heartbeat thrums in your ears.

“You still can’t cast any spells--and you know why. But--I’ll talk to Captain. You won’t be helpless, Byleth.” Solenne pauses, sighs. “We will protect you, you know that, right? You have a right to be afraid, but--we won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You press your head back against her chest and breathe.

She’s warm, and her scent of electric-metal-and-apples, still sharp with fury, wraps around you.

She’s not angry at you, you know that. But--still. It’s nice to have the reassurance.

“Hey,” she says after a moment, poking you in the ribs. You flinch, startled and ticklish. “If anyone gives you shit, you tell me, got it?” she grins down at you, fierce and predatory. “If they want to give you shit, they’ll have to deal with me. And I can fuck anyone up.”

It shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

But something warm curls in your chest, and you hum low in your throat. You’re still--nervous, jumpy, feeling bare and afraid and unsafe, but--but.

Solenne is here, holding you; you’re in the sunshine, and Father is only yards away, and Meilyr a few paces further.

You can be safe, for now.

The fact that someone is willing to go to bat for you--not just kill for you, you already knew what Father is willing to do for you--but that Solenne is more than willing to protect you from words and actions--

It’s nice.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Meilyr is a bit of a hypocrite.

But then, everyone is--

It’s just that his is about writing to people . 

Apparently, when he spoke about writing to people, about keeping contact, he himself had forgotten to write his own damn parents.

You’re half torn between a sort of well, fair enough , given that his own parents have thus far sounded like neglectful asshats, and damn boy , because forgetting to write to your parents for over a year takes some skill.

And, given that Meilyr’s mother--a short, blonde woman who has the self-same gray eyes that Meilyr does--had dropped the vase she’d been holding when you’d all walked through the door to the shop--

Well.

And it’s this turn of events, with her having dragged Meilyr and Father into another room upstairs, pausing just long enough to tell Solenne that you could be put into this room here, Aneira’s just a sweetheart, they’ll get along for a bit, just you see, that sees you standing across from a little blonde girl with a gap-toothed smile and the gray eyes that you’re beginning to think the whole family shares.

“Who are you ?” she demands, frowning.

Who the fuck are you and what do you think you’re doing in my room, is what her tone says. Snidely, with a whole array of condescending sneers.

You stand there, looking at her, because--well. She has a right to be confused, but you’ve never liked being accused. And her tone says it all, really.

“Byleth,” you say, something hot and sour burning in your stomach. “Meilyr’s youngest sibling.”

Aneira--and you can guess it’s her, because who else would it be--abruptly looks angry. As much as she can when her face twists her scowl into what would, if you had ever been a kid person, be a frankly adorable pout.

“Liar,” she snaps. “ I’m Big Brother May’s littlest sibling. I bet you don’t even know him.”

May…?

Huh. It looks like you’re not the only one to have an embarrassing nickname. You carefully tuck the name away into a file in your head, because this is just too good not to.

His mother’s yelling reverberates through the walls, and Aneira flinches. You wince.

“I do,” you correct, feeling your shoulders tense. “And please don’t call me a liar.”

You’re--trying.

To be polite.

You suck at it.

You glance around the room, feeling awkward, resisting the urge to shuffle in place. 

Aneira, for her part, glowers at you.

You want to try and offer Meilyr’s family a reason to like you--you don’t want to disappoint him, because he’s just so excited to have you here--

So instead of hunching in on yourself and finding a quiet corner, you try to extend an olive branch.

“What do you like to play?” you ask. Aneira narrows her eyes at you.

“Nothing that little babies can play,” she says snidely.

You repress a sigh.

At least you tried.

...Meilyr owes you the gold star with comic sans and everything .

---

It takes over an hour for Meilyr’s mother to stop yelling in the other room and come check on you and Aneira.

For your part, you’re sitting in the corner, practicing tracing glyphs that Solenne’s been teaching you with your fingers. For Aneira’s part, she’s very pointedly ignoring you sitting in the corner, humming, and tracing invisible shapes.

This would all be well and good, if it weren’t for the fact that the moment Meilyr’s mother walks in she immediately starts cooing.

If it were only at Aneira, you could understand.

But no .

“Oh, aren’t you just the cutest thing!” 

Meilyr’s mother is cooing at you .

Aneira is scowling, Meilyr is standing in the doorway, looking awkward as his mother crouches in front of you, and Father is standing behind him, looking inordinately amused at your predicament.

She then pinches your goddamn cheek.

You resist the urge to bite the offending appendage.

She wouldn’t miss a few fingers, right? Maybe she’d learn not to put her fingers near very sharp teeth?

Maybe she’d get the message and get her fingers away from you?

But then again, your luck is pretty shit.

Solenne, the traitor , looks about three breaths away from bursting into hysterical laughter at your expense.

“Uh, Mum--” Meilyr says hesitantly, raising his hand as if to pull her back and away from you.

Saint, love you --you think, briefly, because that is the moment that Aneira catches sight of her older brother.

The shriek of delight is almost deafening.

“ May-may! ”

And the next thing you know, Aneira has latched onto Meilyr like a leech, hugging him fiercely.

And--you don’t begrudge her the action, because it’s been at least a year since she’s seen him--but. You swallow down the stupid jealousy, because you know he still cares.

Even if you’re keeping secrets.

“Now, Aneira,” his--their--mother says, brushing off her apron and standing. “Don’t crowd your brother! And--” she glances at Father-- “why don’t we head downstairs for a spot of tea? You and this little sweetheart can entertain each other while the adults talk some more, hm?”

“But Muuuuuum ,” Aneira whines. “I don’t want to play with a baby! ”

“Nira,” Meilyr says, half-scolding half-amused, “play nice with Bylie for me, okay? I know they’re little, but you were little once too.”

You’re--not that little. You’re six .

But apparently, to a nine year old, three years matters a lot .

“I want two whole pieces of treacle,” Aneira bargains, pouting. Meilyr glances over at his mother, who laughs indulgently.

“Of course, dear,” she says, before peering over at you. “And you’ll both play nice, of course, won’t you?”

It’s--very clear that she doesn’t expect Aneira to be the problem.

But then, even now, you’re very peculiar for a six year old.

Still.

You nod, quietly, solemnly, as if you wouldn’t dream of it .

Behind your back, you cross your fingers. I won’t, you think, if she doesn’t .

Aneira, for her part, just smirks at you, just a bit.

Oh yes. This is going to go just great.

Chapter Text

You’re right. It goes just swimmingly.

A jealous nine-year-old girl in the same room as the cause of that self-same jealousy—truly, a spark of brilliance and a show of tactical mastery.

Of course, the reality is that Aneira spends the majority of her time either hoarding her toys to herself—sharing is most definitely not this girl’s strong point—or ordering you around.

The first few times it was sort of amusing, in a condescending do you really expect me to do that? sort of way.

After the fourth, fifth, tenth, twentieth time of having a bratty nine year old order you to do something utterly inane? It’s incredibly less so.

The whole biting thing is feeling more and more appealing. But—you’d promised. Sort of. You weren’t going to be the first to escalate this, you just weren’t. The kid is nine , and while you’re in a six year old body you’re still the adult here!

So you grit your teeth and bear it.

“No, you’re not supposed to do it that way ,” Aneira says, all brat. “Princess Star’s maid doesn’t mess things up! If you can’t do it right, I won’t play with you!”

This is what you’ve been reduced to. Playing pretend with a bratty nine year old, who promptly told you to be her pretend-servant. God.

“Sorry,” you offer reluctantly, because even if you hate this you’re going to try . For Meilyr’s sake if nothing else. Even if not having them near is starting to make you anxious. Just a little.

“Ugh,” Aneira groans, crossing her arms. “You’re such a baby . I don’t wanna to play this anymore,” she decides, turning away and picking up one of the cloth dolls she’d so jealousy hoarded. “I don’t wanna play with a baby .”

You try to be upset by this, you really do. Really.

But Aneira is now ignoring you, and the door never got closed properly—you can hear the soft murmur of voices downstairs, the clink of teacups. The laughter from whom you can only assume is Meilyr’s mum, because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like Solenne.

You slip out the door before you can talk yourself out of it, gingerly tugging it closed. 

Everything in the house is huge to you, which—you’re used to it, sure, but it also means that the stairs are big too; too big for you to be going up and down without help, at least. You peer down the stairs, and then at the closed door.

You start down the stairs.

It takes you—what, maybe two minutes? To carefully make your way down, determined not to sit and scoot down the way you had when you were six the first time.

By the time you get down, you can hear Meilyr’s mum chattering loudly, talking to Father— oh, isn’t Meilyr just so handsome now, his brother’s been taking over the business, surely it’s time for his contract to be up, don’t you think?

And that makes you pause. You step softly to the corner of the—parlor? You think that’s the word—and peer around the edge carefully. You can hear so much clearer down here, without even really trying; but now you can sort of relax, because you can sort of sense Father again. Properly. 

And Solenne, and Meilyr. Being separated like that had been a test of patience, and frankly—you’re done.

“And why are you concerned with his contract?” Father asks, eyeing Meilyr’s mum. There’s a tone in his voice that makes you hesitate, holds your feet back. 

“Oh, well,” the woman fusses, taking another sip of steaming tea. You can sort of smell— taste —the plantiness from here. Floweriness. Whatever. “His brother is taking over the business from their father, you know, and now that Meilyr’s an adult—well. He has responsibilities to his family to consider.”

You...don’t like the sound of that.

Apparently, neither does Father. He leans back, and you can tell by the way the woman fidgets that he’s leveling her with the Look he reserves for particularly stupid antics. “Responsibilities?”

“Well, yes!” Meilyr’s mum blusters. “He has a duty to the family—oh, we’ve found such lovely candidates, you just have to meet them dear,” she adds to Meilyr, smiling warmly. “There’s this one young lady I think you’d just adore , the daughter of the Dougherty’s? You remember her, don’t you?”

The pit of your stomach sinks. She’s—talking about arranged marriages? For Meilyr ? Your brother, who rides around and helps you and teaches you, that Meilyr? 

Meilyr’s face has gone white, ears slowly turning red. He looks—deeply embarrassed. Ashamed, almost.

“Mum!” he exclaims, glancing at Father. “That’s—“

“It’s fine,” Father cuts him off, still watching the woman. “So. You want me to release one of my best mercenaries from his ten-year contract, because you’ve decided that now he’s valuable enough to be married off for your profit.”

That’s — blunt.

But it feels true. Like stones in a riverbed true. Unmoving. Certain.

Solenne makes a noise in the back of her throat as the woman starts to puff up, and you decide that maybe now is a good time to interrupt. Prevent the explosion, hopefully.

You slip around the corner, quiet as ever, and Solenne is the first one to notice you. She raises an eyebrow at you, and you shrug your shoulders a little as you reach Father’s chair. And—yep. He’s got the Look reserved for when some of the mercenaries get particularly stupid.

You tug on his sleeve, and he turns away from the woman to look at you, and you’d—never quite noticed so starkly how quickly his expression changes when he looks at you. He smiles down at you, something exasperated in his eyes.

“Got tired of playing nice?” he asks, lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You press your head to his shoulder, leaning against him.

“Yes,” you say quietly. “She was…” rude. Bratty. Horrible.You glance at Meilyr, still red and upset and embarrassed. Now that you’re closer, you can smell it too, all hot and prickly-sour shame. You want to spare his feelings, you really do. “...spoiled.”

You can hear the huff of the woman inflating with what you imagine is indignation, even as you shift to eye her. How on Earth is Meilyr related to these people? She was nice but overbearing, but now—

“I will not— !”

Father raises a hand, and the woman falters. 

“I’ve heard enough,” he says firmly. “If Meilyr wants to renegotiate his contract he can do so with me. Otherwise, it stands.” Father stands up, shifting to prop you on his hip. It feels safe. “Solenne, Meilyr—let’s go. We’re done here.”

As they gather their things, and Meilyr’s mother starts yelling again—you can’t really bring yourself to be guilty. Maybe you should feel bad for cutting it short, but. Meilyr.

Even as you all walk out, you can smell the clean-sweet smell of relief cutting through the scent of shame from earlier. He feels better, now that you’re all leaving. You decide, right then, that you’re not sorry at all.

Meilyr deserves a better family. 

You glance up at Father, only to find him watching you with a knowing look. You press your face into his chest, feeling your ears begin to burn, hot and somehow happy.

You’re glad that Meilyr’s staying. Maybe it’s selfish, but you’re glad. He’s just as much your brother, and right now—you’re not certain they deserve him.

You want him to be happy.

Surely, that’s allowed?

Chapter Text

You stay in Kildare for another few days, and while you never return to that house, you can tell that Meilyr—and Solenne—do. Sometimes, Meilyr comes back in the evenings, face drawn and tired, like something’s draining him dry.

Even then, he still spares a smile for you when you wriggle your way into his lap, letting that jealousy fester just a bit, because he’s your brother , damnit. It’s okay if you want to cuddle and hug him, because you’re six and childish, and you never really did stop being immature.

Yes, you are aware of how hypocritical you can be. You can’t quite find it in you to care though.

It’s still sort of okay, because Father’s already making noises about moving on—there’s something to do with bandits further north, with the winter snows beginning to melt again. You won’t be sad to see the back end of Kildare, that much is for certain.

Before you all finally leave, however, Meilyr takes you aside one morning. He smiles as you peer at him quizzically. 

“We’re going to the market,” he says conspiratorially, helping you tuck Solenne’s—now most definitely yours—scarf around your neck. “Peric’s going to be shopping for supplies, but we’re doing something special.”

Peric laughs, warm and jolly as he ties his boots. “Quite an adventure, I’m sure,” he says lightly, winking at you when Meilyr keeps fussing at your clothes. “A treat for little lasses, who’ve been so well behaved.”

You wince, because—you’re not. But. It’s—okay. Sort of. Peric doesn’t know, has no way of knowing the way those words can dig like needles into your skin. And you’re not ready to have that talk with him. Or Solenne, or Meilyr, really. 

At least Meilyr isn’t insisting on you wearing dresses, even if he’s tried to imply that you really should . 

Meilyr, meanwhile, laughs and ruffles your hair, and you just know it’s sticking up again. Huffily, you reach up to fix it as Meilyr jokes, “Behave? In what world does Bylie behave ?” Peric nods sagely, and you scowl up at them.

“You have a point,” Peric agrees. “Bylie’s a bundle of trouble.” He glances at you, smiling warmly, and you stubbornly want to resist the warmth that blooms in your chest at the look on his face. Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him laugh again. “ Our bundle of trouble, though!”

“Definitely,” Meilyr agrees, finally ceasing fussing over your clothes. You can’t fight the smile that pulls at your lips now, even as you try to keep scowling at them. “And adorable to boot,” he adds, going to ruffle your hair again, which you dodge. Huffily. You don’t like having your hair stick up like a chocobo butt, damnit!

“I’m still shocked the Captain managed to produce her,” Peric says lightly. “His ugly mug, producing such a lovely little lass--a miracle from the Goddess, it must be.” 

The Goddess.

That--well, you know about the Goddess. Meilyr and Solenne and Father have been in charge of your education, and they haven’t avoided mentioning the Goddess, or the Church of Seiros. But. It makes something itch in the back of your mind. Familiar, yet not; you-and-not at the same time. 

Like the you that you are in your dreams.

Meilyr laughs, and you look up, the spell those two words had cast over you broken. “Bylie’s a miracle, alright,” he agrees, holding out a hand for you to take. His eyes are warm, and--when you take it--his hand is too. “Let’s get going, before Sir Jeralt comes to scold us for taking all day.”

---

The marketplace, when you get there, is bustling. People every which way, talking, hawking wares, bartering. To your ears, it’s a wave of sound that slams into you with an almost physical force. You’re not used to things being this-- loud . 

Is this why Father has avoided taking you into markets a lot? And tries to keep you upstairs at night, when the company is at the tavern?

You’d hoped that what you’d heard from downstairs wasn’t as loud as it seemed, but apparently not. 

And don’t even get you started on the smells . Normally when you come into towns, you’re on a horse, or you’re being carried, and the warm strength of familiar scents drowns out the worst of it. This? Is so much worse. Your nose burns with it, and you bury your face deeper in Solenne’s-- your --scarf. The scent of electric metal and apples is barely there anymore--you’ll have to give it back soon to refresh it before stealing it again. You don’t think Solenne will mind. 

You grip Meilyr’s hand tighter, focusing on the sound of his footsteps, his breathing, his heartbeat. His scent of ink-and-oil, warm and familiar, even surrounded by the smells of mud and shit and people who haven’t properly bathed in ages . 

He tugs you out of the main, open air marketplace into a smaller street, and then into a shop that smells like feathers and leather and birdshit. And unwashed people. Can’t forget that. Ugh .

Meilyr’s talking to--somebody, but you’re too focused on getting your head back together from the distant, muted place you had to go when you focused down onto Meilyr only , in order to get through the marketplace. It feels almost like you’re slowly connecting yourself back to your body, pulling yourself back to the present, when Meilyr’s hand squeezes yours.

“Bylie?” 

You look up, not quite all back yet, but you can respond. You’re not gone inside your head. Meilyr looks a little worried, but also a little excited. There are bird cages in the storefront, and a scarred, tanned man wearing leather gloves behind a counter.

“We’re getting you a bird--to carry letters,” Meilyr explains. “And since it’s for you, I thought you’d like to pick one out, with help.” He casts a glance over at the shopkeep, who nods. 

A bird. Picking out a bird. With an effort, you pull yourself more fully together. More present. You nod, not quite certain of your own ability to word right now.

Meilyr smiles, and gently guides you forward, to a door to the side that the shopkeep unlocks, letting you two walk into the room beyond. Birds kept in cages, in a coop, rustling and cawing and whistling.

As you look around, pushing past the swell of noise, you can see hawks and falcons and eagles, pigeons, even a few crows and magpies in the back, cawing loudly. Those aren’t the one that catches your eye, however.

Your eyes lock with the raven’s own, it’s black eye strikingly intelligent. It eyes you, cocking its head curiously. The shopkeep, having caught where your attention went, chuckles.

“Gorgeous bird,” he says, reaching over to pull the cage down. “Come closer, let’s see how he likes you.”

You step closer, letting Meilyr’s hand fall from your grip for the first time since you entered the marketplace. The raven crows after a moment, peering at you closely. Maybe you’re just imagining it, but it feels like--approval. You reach out, sticking a finger through the wood of the cage, and the raven eyes it for a moment, hopping closer.

For a moment, you think it--he?--is going to bite you, but. He doesn’t. Instead, he ruffles his feathers, and lets you touch the soft, feathery top of his head. The shopkeep laughs.

“He likes you,” he tells you, hefting the cage back up. “You’ve got your heart set on this one, eh, lass?”

You look up at him blandly. 

“Bylie’s a stubborn one,” Meilyr says in lieu of your own verbal agreement. “She doesn’t like to change her mind.”

“I can tell!” The shopkeep sounds genuinely amused. “Let’s talk price then—for the bird, and supplies, eh?”

“Of course,” Meilyr agrees, placid and suddenly you can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the shopkeep. Meilyr learned how to barter from Solenne . 

Later, you return to the inn with all the leathers you could ever possibly need—both for you, and for Meilyr, who doesn’t have the needed gloves or padding to deal with the sharp talons of even a raven—and carrying two birds.

Your raven had hopped onto your shoulder the moment you’d opened the cage, almost smug as it rides there. 

The small falcon Meilyr had picked up still rides in a cage, eyeing everything around it suspiciously with pitch black eyes.

“For Sir Jeralt,” Meilyr had explained, when you’d looked at him quizzically. “Your raven is yours—and this way, we have two messenger birds, not one.”

As always with Father, practicality wins the day.

Chapter Text

When you finally leave Kildare, it’s with little regret. With every league put between him and that town, Meilyr seems to come back alive. Rake-thin and bony as ever, but an energy that you only now truly notice had been sapped from him.

You’d like to be riding with him, or Solenne, or Father. Even Peric, as on-the-edges of the tiny group that is your family inside the company as he is. But—because you got a bird, to send letters with—you’re not.

Instead, you’re riding with Liane, who’s eagerly lecturing you on the proper way to take care of a messenger bird. Though it does seem like she wants to talk about hawks or eagles more than ravens. She’s been talking an awful lot about talons, at least.

“—and you have to make sure to check their feathers when preening them, to make sure that—are you listening?” Liane sounds put-out. Not quite upset, but you’re not always the best judge of that. Maybe she is upset? “Little Miss?”

“I’m not a miss,” you say, shoulders bunching up. Grumbly. 

“...Little Sir?” Liane asks after a moment, tilting her head and eyeing you with those strange, sea-foam green eyes. “Like Sir Jeralt?”

You mull that over for a moment.

Like Father. 

Little Sir.

It sits easier on your shoulders, like Meilyr’s Bylie or Solenne’s fond brat . You don’t think you mind being Little Sir , if that’s how Liane means it.

You nod, glancing back over your shoulder to look at her more clearly. She gives you a crooked smile, something terribly pained glittering in her eyes behind it. 

Why?

“Well then, Little Sir, were you listening?” she asks after a second, narrowing her eyes good-humoredly. “Or were you just ignoring me?”

Ignoring, you resist the urge to quip. You don’t know her well enough for that yet—don’t know how to gauge what will make her angry and upset. So you bite the sarcastic comment down, and say instead, “Why do I need to know all of this?”

Liane pauses, looking faintly taken aback, before a rueful expression crosses her face. “...I never said, did I?”

 You shake your head mutely, and she groans, hanging her head. 

“I just started rambling on about birds to a six year old,” she bemoans, sounding deeply embarrassed. “Oh, Goddess, I’m never gonna fucking live this down, am I?”

“No,” you say bluntly. Liane whines, low in her throat. “But can you explain why , now?”

Liane flushes, but shakes herself. “Right, right! Goddess, scolded by a child , what would Ma say now?” 

You raise an eyebrow.

“Anyway,” she continues hurriedly, “that raven of yours is yours . Your responsibility, to take care of, to clean, to exercise—all of it. You’ll be getting help until you’re older, of course,” she explains, starting to slide back into that excited lecturing tone from before. “But the fact remains that he’s your bird. And if you ever want any kind of respect from a messenger bird, then you have to show respect for them.”

“Like the horses?” you ask after a second. Like cats? Like dogs? you want to say, but you’ve never owned any in this life. 

“Exactly!” Liane agrees, sounding relieved. “Messenger birds have their own strange sort of magic,” she adds, “that can quickly turn against their handlers if they’re treated poorly. But even without that, you don’t mistreat your messengers and couriers, Little Sir. Bad for business.”

“Magic?” you ask, quickly latching onto the tiny crumb of knowledge. Liane nods, dark hair bouncing.

“Have you ever heard of ‘don’t shoot the messenger?’” she asks. “It’s unlucky to shoot down messenger birds, and even the least faithful to the Church won’t harm them. Unless they’re a terminal case of stupid.”

You laugh, startled by the joke. Liane goes all weird and quiet, her scent turning startled-pleased sharp-sweet around you. “Unlucky? Like...curse magic?”

Curse magic, Solenne had taught you, doesn’t have to be immediately felt or work to exist. It can just...sit there. Waiting for the right actions or words to trigger it. A trap.

Liane laughs, stirring from that weird stillness. “Sort of,” she agrees. “I’ve never heard of it being proved by scholars, but it’s pretty widely known. Some say the Goddess cast a spell, so that all messengers should go unharmed.”

“Some?” You’re being pushy. But so long as Liane will answer— “what do you think?”

“Caught that, eh?” Liane looks faintly embarrassed, casting a look to where Father rides, just within earshot. You glance over.

Yep. Definitely amused .

“Well…” she hesitates. “I think the Goddess is a load of malarkey. The Goddess, the Church, Seiros—maybe Saint Seiros and the other four did exist, but for the rest of it…”

Huh. Interesting. An atheist in a land ruled by religion. But also not exactly what you’d asked.

“And the birds?” you prompt. 

“Oh! Oh, the birds,” Liane laughs awkwardly, with just that note of oh-god-I-really-just-said-that-oh-fuck. “I don’t think their magic is some sort of spell or blessing or curse from the Goddess. There’s plenty of things with magic that don’t have to come from the Goddess.”

“Like?”

“Ah—well, plants, animals, people. Just because we exist doesn’t mean—“ she cuts herself off, narrowing her eyes at you. “You clever little shit.”

You blink innocently up at her, from where you’ve tilted your head to look back. 

“You’re deliberately distracting me!” she accuses. “Getting me off topic and onto things you want to hear about.”

Who, me?

Well. She’s not wrong . You’d much rather ask about magic, and other related things, than about birds right now. Besides, it’s not like you’d fully remember her lecture about bird care without actually doing those things, so it doesn’t really matter. Not that you’re going to admit it though.

“Byleth.”

Oops .

Father sounds—amused. Disapproving.

“Stop messing with Liane,” he says, having ridden closer to be able to scold you. “And actually listen to what she’s been trying to teach you.”

You can feel your ears twitch back. Something like hot shame runs down your spine, even though you know Father isn’t really angry, just putting you back on track. 

“Mm,” you say, in lieu of any words. You don’t call Father “sir”, and just saying yes feels wrong in your mouth. His face softens, but he doesn’t say anymore as he puts distance between himself and Liane’s horse once again.

Liane clears her throat awkwardly. 

“So! Bird care and maintenance.”

Yay .

—-

You wake up the next morning, tired and groggy and reluctant to move. But when Father finishes braiding your hair, and you go to get properly dressed for the day—

You end up standing there, staring at where you could have sworn you left your socks and shoes the night before. And in your past life, this would’ve been normal. Easy enough to pass off, maybe it got pushed under the bedrolls, or lost in the laundry—but this is not then.

So then why are you missing a sock? Your left sock at that?

You stare at it for a second, before you hear the raspy, smug croak from above. And there, perched on the tree limb above the tent, is your raven.

Watching you.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You stole it.”

It’s not a question. No one else in the camp would steal your socks, they’re too small for anyone else—even if Meilyr’s been having to learn how to darn to mend the holes your toenails keep cutting in them. 

The raven croaks smugly, cocking his head to watch you.

What’re you going to do? he seems to be saying. You think.

You scowl, looking between your shoes and the raven. Then you notice a strange shadow—and look up. And there’s your sock. Hanging from the highest fucking branches of the tree.

You look back to the raven.

“Fucker,” you say bluntly, chewing on your lip. Climb, or tell Father? Or Meilyr?

You should tell someone. Ask for help. You’ve been trying to communicate better, and—well. You don’t want to let a damn bird taunt you into doing something stupid because you’re too proud to ask for help.

Father’s busy talking, getting everything packed up—Meilyr’s helping Peric. Liane, who’d probably know more about how to handle this, is nowhere to be seen.

Solenne’s leaning against a tree, watching you with a raised eyebrow.

You trot over, the ground cold and wet under your bare feet. Solenne blinks down at you as you reach her, red scarf tucked around your neck.

“What is it, brat?”

You point to where the raven is still perched smugly. “My sock.”

Solenne blinks, perplexed. “Come again?”

“He stole my sock. It’s in the tree.” You pause. “I’m supposed to talk about stuff more—so that’s what I’m doing. Before I try to climb for it.”

Solenne opens her mouth, pauses, closes it again. “The bird...stole your sock.”

“Mm.”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll help you,” she says, sounding exasperated and amused. “Gods know that Captain would kill me if I let you climb a tree on your own.” Solenne eyes you. “And you’d climb it on your own if I didn’t, wouldn’t you.”

Probably. But she doesn’t have to say it .

You pout.

Solenne rolls her eyes as you walk back across the clearing. You end up standing at the base of the tree trunk, peering up at the rugged bark that seems to stretch on forever above you. Solenne crosses her arms. 

“Well?” 

You stick your tongue out at her, before reaching out and testing the bark with your nails. They slice into it like soft butter, and you pull your hand away, an idea turning itself over in your head.

You’ve never climbed a tree before, in either life. But maybe—

You reach up with one hand, gripping the tree trunk and sinking your nails into the bark. And then you start pulling yourself up.

It sort of hurts, but not really. In short order, you find yourself scaling the tree, the branches getting thinner and thinner under you as you get higher and higher. There’s a fluttering of feathers and a shadow, and you turn your head to see the raven, watching you curiously.

Solenne’s small below you, her figure more a shadow against the ground than anything else. Your sock is still a bit higher, strung on those branches that you know won’t hold your weight, even as tiny as you are.

You pull yourself up a little higher, wincing as you feel the branches creak under you. 

The raven caws at you. You scowl, pointing at him accusingly. “You’re the reason I’m up here,” you say rudely. “Don’t act all smug.”

He fluffs his feathers, hopping closer. He’s expecting something , you think, but you don’t really care right now. He stuck your sock in a tree. Like an asshole.

The branches sway under you suddenly, and you grab on with a death grip, flattening yourself against the wood. Your heart is pounding in your throat. When it finally subsides, you look up.

The raven’s right there now, watching you closely. It feels almost like he’s laughing at you.

The sock’s swaying in the breeze.

“You’re not gonna grab it for me, are you,” you say, suddenly tired. “That’s not my luck.”

The raven croaks low in his throat, ruffling his feathers, before taking off in a flurry of movement. You scowl, before you see him swooping down, aiming for your sock.

You absolute dick!

He snatches it up, soaring away from the tree with smooth wingbeats. Your sock dangles from his beak.

You’re left alone in the tree, the barely there buds of new leaves crunching under your hands. 

The wind feels—lonely. Free.

Vast and wide as it blows around you, like the worries of your life are as small as Solenne below.

If you just let go—

(The fall isn’t what hurts, you know.)

You could let go.

It’d be so easy .

Sickening and exciting and you want to but not.

You take a deep breath—and slowly begin to make your way down. 

When you do, it’s to find the raven perched on Solenne’s shoulder and your sock in her hand. You gape, switching to glowering at the raven.

“You fucker .”

Solenne snorts with sudden laughter. “Pffft! Don’t let Captain hear you saying that,” she laughs. “Here, your sock.”

You take it, glaring at it. You’re not— really upset. But it’s affronting. You climbed so far, only to have that effort completely negates by the damn bird that caused it in the first place!

The raven lands on your shoulder, sinking talons into your skin through your thin shirt. You tilt your head to glower at him.

“This is your fault,” you growl. He cocks his head. He smells like the dry, dustiness of feathers and wind, and something deeply curious.

“Go get your shoes on,” Solenne says, ruffling your hair. You jerk your head up to glare—pout, really, you’re aware that you can’t really glare as you are—at her. No messing up Father’s hard work, braiding your hair is a miracle work! Solenne laughs. “Now, brat—we’ll be leaving soon. Don’t keep us waiting.”

As Solenne walks away, dirt crunching under her shoes, you turn your glare grumpily onto the raven again. 

“Your fault,” you repeat balefully. “Entirely your fault.”

The raven just caws, like he’s laughing at you.

Asshole .

Chapter Text

The chill of winter finally gives way to the bursting life of spring--and, far more quickly than you’d thought, to the warm heat of summer. It leaves the company sweaty and smelly, which is hell on your nose, until Father puts his foot down and enforces a bathing routine.

This, however, leads to something that you absolutely dread.

Water.

You’re terrified, and you hate that you’re terrified, because water--before the choking, terrifying grasp of the river--had been an old friend. A holdover from your life before, that you’d never truly feared. Been wary of the treacherous, cold waters of winter, of rivers that you couldn’t handle, yes. Terrified, to the point of raw, aching panic? No.

So when Father gently guides you into the surf of the cold ocean water, one hand holding yours, you really can’t help the way you freeze. Your chest is tight, pulse racing, and you think, vaguely, that if anyone else around could smell like you can, they’d smell the acrid stench of utter terror.

“Breathe, Byleth,” Father says, and you abruptly realize that he’s kneeling in front of you. You blink, focusing on him instead of the cold, frothing water in front of you, dark and--no. Father. Talking. Pay attention! “Breathe, love. I’m right here.”

There’s something sort of slick and wet on your fingers, and you squeeze his hand even tighter, taking a shuddering breath. You can breathe. You’re alive, it’s not winter--there’s no ice, no bitter, biting cold surrounding you completely and swallowing you whole.

It’s water. Salt water. Cold water.

It’s just water.

You kind of want to cry, but you can’t. You gulp the air down, forcing your breathing into some sort of even pattern, holding onto your Father’s hand for dear life. He puts his other hand on your shoulder, watching you with such gentle concern that it makes your heart ache. Or maybe that’s the terror.

“Better?” he asks, smiling warmly, and nope, it’s love. That’s why your heart aches , for this gentle man that can tear people apart with such ease, and hold you with those same hands. You nod, closing your eyes as the surf swells around your legs, lapping at your knees. 

The push and pull of the tide, swirling around your ankles.

The sun is hot against your pale skin, and vaguely--a bit adrenaline drunk, maybe--you hope you don’t burn like you did before. Maybe your weirdness, your weird teeth and ears and everything else has granted you safety from the scorching sun. Father nods.

“Can you kneel down for me?” he asks, and your pulse leaps into your throat. Kneel down. In cold water, pushing, pulling, tugging at you--swallowing you whole--

I will not be ruled by fear!

You swallow heavily. Slowly, painfully slowly, you bend your knees, feeling the water lapping higher and higher at your skin, soaking into the thin shift that Meilyr had insisted you wear. It’s cold, and flows around you, swelling and receding.  

Push and pull. 

The pattern of it is almost--almost--soothing. It’s enough to keep you from outright panicking, at least. Finally, you’re kneeling with Father, the water lapping at your belly. His hands are warm. The one holding yours most of all--though it’s getting slippery, too. Wet, but wet and warm.

Something about that--doesn’t sound right. Those hands haven’t even been in the water, so why--?

You look over. 

--!

You reflexively release his hand, even as the blood covering your fingers, covering the back of his hand, drips into the cold seat water. “I--!” 

Father shakes his head, forestalling you by raising that same bloody hand. You did that. “It’s fine,” he says easily. “It’ll take more than you to take me down.” You look at the blood on your fingers, covering your nails. You hadn’t even noticed. How selfish can you be, to not notice sinking claws into someone, drawing blood?

The water swells up from your belly, sloshing around Father’s back, and you shudder. Your hands are trembling--you’re trembling. 

“Do you trust me?” Father asks, quiet and calm and steady, and you’re so damn grateful that he’s here. That you’re not doing this alone. You nod. He raises an eyebrow. “Words, love.”

“--yes.” Your voice trembles. You fucking hate that it does.

“Good,” Father says, shoulders relaxing just a bit as he settles in front of you. “Do you want to try going deeper?”

The idea sends terror straight down your spine, like a shot of adrenaline dumped into your bloodstream. 

“No!”

Father nods. His expression is--steady, calm, soft. A little bit sad, now. You didn’t want to upset him, but--!

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll just stay like this. No deeper, just right here. Is that okay?”

That’s--easier. Less terrifying. “I--yes,” you nod. “Okay.”

Just you, him, and the tide.

---

Your skin, you discover, is not immune to the sun. After several days of spending several hours in the surf on the beach, while the company takes the leisure time Father’s clearly given them to laze in the hot, Adrestian sun, you stop and realize that while you haven’t burned you’re certainly no longer the pale-skinned ghost you’d been before.

Never before have you spent this much time in the sun, and while the glare of it off the water hurts your eyes, you have to admit it’s been nice. This also means that you’ve never had the chance to tan, in this life. Before--before, you’d burned , so easily. Any time in the sun warranted sunscreen, lest you fry in the heat; but now, you seem to have inherited Father’s own complexion and skin. You’ve both tanned, to a golden tone that leaves you poking at your hands curiously. 

Solenne has turned even darker, her hair gaining the beginnings of brassy highlights, and her freckles standing out over her shoulders. 

Meilyr, on the other hand--

His shoulders and arms are painfully red, but his back is worse, the sort of swollen aching red that speaks of the several hours he’d lounged in the sun without any sort of protection. He glowers at Solenne, which truthfully looks more like a pout, as she laughs at his misfortune.

“I told you not to fall asleep!” she says smugly, and Meilyr swipes sand at her.

“Shut up!” he grumbles, wincing as the skin on his back stretches. His nose and ears are peeling. “I did not fall asleep!”

“Uhuh,” Solenne says, crossing her arms. “And I’m the Captain.”

Meilyr sends her a narrow look, that absolutely does not look as intimidating as he thinks it does. It’s kind of horrible, but you’re honestly pretty amused by it. And so, without your permission, a laugh escapes you.

Solenne bites her lip, clearly holding back laughter. Meilyr freezes, turning to look at you with wide eyes, looking almost betrayed. “Bylie? ”

That’s--it. You can’t help it.

You dissolve into a giggling heap on the sand, while Meilyr makes a despairing noise, and Solenne looks on fondly, needling Meilyr and feeding your helpless laughter.

It’s warm, and surrounded by the salt-smell of seawater, and the sun-washed scents of Meilyr and Solenne and the rest of the company, on the hot sand--it’s something that feels like it should be forever. A moment that stretches into the sunset, that etches itself into your memory.

Home.