Chapter Text
“Crests are both a curse and a blessing, Byleth. Even though they give us extraordinary power, it is also what binds us to our soulmate. When you turn 19, you may see the crest of another. Keep it safely guarded to your heart; there are many people in the world who will try to manipulate those with crests to obtain more power.”
“Did mother have a crest as well?”
Despite it being over a decade since his late wife passed away, Jeralt sucked in a breath as his young daughter gazed up at him with curious eyes. The same color eyes as his wife’s.
She didn’t. And it didn’t stop me from loving her, do you understand?” Byleth nodded eagerly, always happy to hear stories of her mother and how her parents met and fell in love.
“Soulmates have an inevitable attraction to one another, but that doesn’t always mean it’s romantic. Don’t be afraid to love whomever you want.”
Byleth knew the stories--of crests and soulmates. Ballads were written of lords travelling all throughout Fodlan to find the loves of their lives. Consequently, wars were also started when someone’s soulmate was already with another. To make matters more complicated, sometimes the age difference between soulmates were scandalous, but there was no doubting the obvious attraction that two soulmates had for one another.
Commoners were envious of nobility since they were usually the only people that possessed crests, but every so often, a commoner would claim that they had the crest of a noble appear on their 19th birthday despite not having a crest of their own. Most of the time, it was left unnoticed, but one of Byleth’s favorite stories as a child was the tale of a prince who held a ball to find his soulmate since the crest that appeared on his 19th birthday was an unknown crest. Men and women, commoners and nobles alike, from all across Fodlan went to the ball. And lo and behold, the person who held the crest was a commoner from a small merchant family who turned out to be a descendant of nobility, eons ago.
"All right kiddo, it’s time for bed,” Jeralt said, tucking young Byleth into the bedroll. He kissed her chastely on the forehead and turned down the oil lamp.
"Papa, I think I’m going to have a grand love story, just like you and mama.”
Jeralt smiled, albeit ruefully as the weight of his wedding ring sat heavy around his neck. “I’m sure you will, kid.”
Byleth hummed happily as she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of princes and princesses, and herself, wielding a sword to save her soulmate from bandits. It was a dream she often had as she grew older, but it became less romantic and more troublesome the day she turned 19.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“Happy birthday, kid!” Jeralt boomed, hoisting his tankard into the air, and clinking it with Byleth’s. Byleth smiled sheepishly as another member of their mercenary crew noogied her head.
“I remember when you first started walking--How old was she, Jeralt? She was an early bloomer, and wanted to be just like her old man! I think you started swinging a sword not too long after that,” George, a long time member and friend of their crew slung his arm over her neck and clanked his tankard with hers. His laugh echoed throughout the tavern as the other mercenaries began to fill in and fill their glasses.
“She was certainly an early bloomer, but it paid off. I bet she could take down old Rowan easily, even if he doesn’t want to admit it!” Another voice entered, and winked at Byleth. Ulric, another old friend of Jeralt’s joined their table.
“Listen lass, despite what your old man says, if you wanna go have some fun, say the word and we’ll get out of here and load up that rusty crossbow. Nothing like a good hunt on your birthday!”
Jeralt rolled his eyes. “Ulric, my kid’s not the type to hunt to celebrate, you know that. And besides, there are way too many bandits and monsters out, which is why we’re here to begin with.”
Byleth just smiled as George refilled her glass and clapped her on the back. She sometimes wondered if they ever saw her as more than Jeralt’s kid, though she supposed she was their collective child from all the years they’ve travelled and lived together. They sang her stories of heroes, and boasted their kills and conquests without censorship.
A warm tingling shot up her back, and she nearly hissed from the sensation. Glancing at the window from the tavern, she noticed that the sun began to set, and a startling realization hit her from the stories her father would tell her about her birth. They rarely spoke of it now, such things seemed trivial when they were battling monsters and bandits, but Byleth savored the times when her father spoke freely of her mother. You were born during sunset. As the world closed, you arrived. 19 years ago to the dot.
Byleth excused herself to washroom, hoping to find a mirror, knowing that the burning sensation on her back could only mean one thing--she had a soulmate.
She pulled down her cape, revealing her own crest on her shoulder. It was different than her father’s, she was able to confirm that, but no one else besides him knew what it looked like. It only appeared during battle or on her birthday, and despite not knowing its origin since Jeralt swore up and down her mother didn’t have a crest, she could only surmise it was a relatively ordinary crest since she only felt the effects during battle. Sometimes when she landed a hit on an opponent, she could physically feel her energy restored, which is what gave her her seemingly limitless stamina, and the nickname “Ashen Demon.”
The crest that appeared right beside her own was much more jagged, it looked like a star burst, and Byleth felt her stomach sink as she examined it closer. She couldn’t identify what crest it was, she had only seen a few in passing through her travels, and barely met any significant nobles. She gently touched the new crest, the heat of it began to wear off and it began to fade. Trying to commit to memory, she closed her eyes. This didn’t mean anything, she told herself. She was a mercenary. She was happy. What more to life did she need? Certainly not the wife of some stuffy noble who would surely be disgusted with someone as common as she.
She left the stories of soulmates behind after she grew into adulthood, and their travels rarely gave them time to read or be too invested in noble gossip. Sure, she heard the occasional whisper, such as House Gautier disowning their eldest son in favor of the younger due to not bearing a crest, which was nothing but barbaric in her opinion. That’s all crests were, tools to be used for power, and to gain more power. She would not be a tool in this sick game the goddess had bestowed upon her people. Even though neither her father nor herself were particularly religious, she knew the stories of Fodlan, and that the crests were the goddess’ way of making sure noble bloodlines stayed that way. It was forced classism.
Byleth sighed, noticing that the second crest and her own had vanished, as if they were never there. Done feeling sorry for herself, she exited the washroom after splashing some water onto her face and returned to Jeralt, who examined her carefully.
“Soulmate?” He asked, not above a whisper, and she nodded slowly.
Jeralt shook his head, wishing his daughter wasn’t cursed with this gift and merely shrugged as her demeanor grew more grim. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I bet it’s some noble prick who you’ll never meet.”
And to that, Byleth raised her glass and hummed in agreement. They never interacted with nobles anyway, at least not directly. No one knew what her crest was, save for her father, and she intended on keeping it that way, until the day she met Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.