Chapter Text
Byleth’s childhood was different from the other children. Memories of his infant and toddler age were naturally a blur, but Byleth couldn’t recall there being a day where there was no “Jeralt and Co.” His earliest memory was of an older woman, her wrinkled gentle hands on Byleth’s tiny little shoulders, teaching him how to wave and say “Bye bye daddy.” He vaguely recalled a man, dressed like Jeralt, but no face to match the body. “I’ll be back soon, Kid. I’ll get you a treat from town when I come back, okay? ‘Sides, it’s only a weekend trip.” Or something like that, he couldn’t remember. Byleth recalled the afternoon chasing a bee (and worrying the hell out of the clerics whom were taking care of him) more so than he could recall his father walking out to another multi-day job. Back then, the company consisted of only three people; Jeralt, Baron, and someone Byleth couldn’t put a name nor face too. Someone unimportant. Someone who probably died before Byleth could remember him well. Someone who was “just another ‘mercenary statistic.’”
As soon as he was capable of doing so, Byleth began his training. Fighting came before he could properly speak, though Byleth’s full sentences didn’t actually form until he was at least 4, and even then he rarely spoke.
It began small. “Tap the branch with your branch. Okay, now try to knock it out my hand. No! Don’t throw it! You better only ever throw your sword if you’re a legendary hero, kid! That’ll get you killed!”
Jeralt would often let Byleth tag along to town and have him carry the single (almost) largest grocery item home. It was usually the milk container. Two handed struggles soon became a confident waddle and quickly enough Byleth was carrying two containers, one on each arm.
“Catch” with a sack, the size of Byleth’s face, filled with leaves became a smaller bag of grains or rice, and then a larger pebble or stone. “Throw it Byleth. As far as you can.”
He’d often let Byleth wander around with his pocketknife. “Can you cut that little twig up? Just take all the little nubs with leaves off the branch.”
Branch taps were eventually replaced with heavy swings off a wooden sword. By the time Byleth finally started to show half a decent sign that he wasn’t going to be mute forever, Jeralt was already nodding signs of praise as his child easily knocked swords out his hand. Two handed swings became one as Byleth switched from blunt wood to cold steel. The pebbles were slowly replaced with branches and then to spears. The pocketknife was replaced with a wood chopping axe. Even if he wasn’t training, Byleth was the one who was often tasked with the chore of getting the fire wood for the camp. After all, mercenaries didn’t exactly get the luxury to call a single place, “Home.”
By the time Byleth was of school age, Jeralt was already on the move. The small company of 3 had become a small company of 8. By the time the company reached 10 members, Jeralt had already travelled well into his second country of Fodlan, the Kingdom of Faerghus. While the other children learned their ABCs in a classroom, Byleth practiced his while sitting on top of a small boulder, a quick rest after Jeralt had spent the afternoon teaching him how to dodge properly, “Shoulder roll, Kiddo! Not the jump!”
“Cat,” Byleth read from the slate his father kept around for their language lessons. “Dog,” the 6 year old read confidently, turning his head to look into his father’s eyes. A cool shade of teal stared back at the mercenary. The pair of gems seemed cold and emotionless, but there was a glimmer of fire somewhere in there mixed with a gentle summery glow, Jeralt swore it was there. It was something only he ever seemed to see, and perhaps he was just a tad bit biased because he loved his kid, but Jeralt swore that somewhere in that vast green sea in his child’s eyes held a burst of life, the flame of the world, “Papa, I want to be strong like you.” Ah. His first sentence.
The other mercenaries adored their little mercenary brother, though a few stayed clear of the “weird kid with a creepy blank stare.” Some of the villagers were often kind enough to provide a few tips on raising children. The other villagers simply stared on at the band of mercenaries staying at their local inn for the night, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues.
“Children should be having recess, not training.”
“What is that man thinking? He’s giving a child a real sword! Sharp as any meat cleaver I’ve ever seen.”
“Keep your kids away from that one. He’s young, but I betcha he’s a danger. Mercs. Young and old. They only kill for the coin. One wrong step and they’ll chop yer daughter’s head right off!” Glares. Those ones always glared.
While the other children learned their 1,2,3s Jeralt had Byleth recite his numbers forwards and backwards…while timing him on his runs from a boulder to a tree. “You could do better, Kiddo! Just a little more UMPH into it.”
While the other children played tag, Jeralt had Byleth catch prey. Not to kill. Not for food. Just to catch them, with his bare hands. To “play tag” with them. “Deer are skittish, rabbits are fast, the birds can fly. If you can catch one of them, tonight you get an extra serving of meat! Catch the meat and get the meat!” Byleth never did catch that damn rabbit (and the deer didn’t even show up! The birds were straight up cheating, so Byleth gave up on those winged critters real quick). (But years down the line, the mercenary found himself stealthy and quick even without much thought into it.)
While the other children played catch, Jeralt had Byleth toss spears (and fetch them back). Over and over they watched the stick fly further and further. “Good job Byleth! I’m proud of you son. Soon we could move from rubber tips to steel spearheads!”
Jeralt didn’t care about the words out the mouths of village women. He knew what he was doing (sort of). Byleth trained hard so he could protect himself. He rather a smart, resourceful, and trained child than a cold, lifeless, and dead one. Besides, his child enjoyed their training and enjoyed a good meal afterwards. Byleth still got all his ABCs and 123s in and had plenty of “recesses.” And not once in all of Byleth’s life was he ever forced to train. Jeralt was sure. He was sure he was doing the right thing…but even sometimes he found himself staring at his room ceilings, unable to sleep. He’s not like other kids. Even sometimes, Jeralt wondered if he was actually doing the right things.
It takes a village to raise a child. There were some mercenaries that stayed as far away from the creepy child as possible and then some that fawned over the “cute little brother” of theirs. Some even changed their opinion of Byleth once they got to know him. He was that kid. The one that always ran to hug their Captain as soon as he returned from missions. He was the one that, though he didn’t talk or smile or ask “Are you okay?”, held up the wooden salves and bandages box, “Need?” One word. All it took was one word to break down every wall any rumor has ever put up.
There were 8 people, pivotal to Byleth’s early childhood. 5 women, three of which had no experience with children (though they always stuck around anyways), a cleric, and woman who was “once a math teacher but that sure didn’t work out.” There were 3 men, one man who had left his wife and child back home, one who had no child experience either but was a natural big brother, and one that tagged along just because he was curious on what having a kid was like, “Learn now and be a pro later, right?”
And even then, there were others. Mercenaries that would help train Byleth for the afternoon, mercenaries that kept Byleth entertained for the weekend, mercenaries that read stories to him at night and tucked him into bed, mercenaries that watched, heartbroken, at the supposed emotionless child who stared at the doorway all night for many nights in a row until Jeralt would return, mercenaries that made sure Byleth would be okay. That he would be alright in the case that Jeralt would one day not walk through those doors. Mercenaries that vowed to take Byleth into their care if worse comes to worse. Mercenaries that were just there. Mercenaries that never got to have families of their own.
Because it takes a village to raise a child. Because mercenaries were humans too, not just some greedy people “just for the coin.”
There were pros and cons of being the child of a mercenary. One of the pros of course was the travel. By the time Byleth was old enough to participate in his very first job (a very simple “protect the cattle” job), he had already set foot in every one of the three nations of Fodlan. Every country was different in its own unique way. For some people, they might simply spend the rest of their lives in their small remote village, never leaving, not even for trade. But at the age of 7, Byleth was already experiencing all of it. It was a bragging point. One that a mercenary had once mentioned to the rest of his table (during a very drunken card game night at one of the taverns).
“Ya know. I bet that…we travel more than…those people who get to…eat and drink and…sleep all day in their…fluffy robes and fluffy socks…and frilly dresses and frilly socks! Even the rich don’t travel as much as we do.” [“FUCK OFF, ALFRED! YOU’VE ONLY BEEN A MERC FOR THREE MONTHS! WHERE’S MY SOCK??”]
The cuisine was different everywhere he went, even in the same country. When the company neared the seaports of the Adrestian empire, the seafood dishes were served packed with flavor. It didn’t matter if it was a traditional tavern, a street stall, a home cooked meal (on the rare chances that their clients provided rooms), or even in the high-class restaurants when the mercenaries had a few extra coins to spare. Something about their fish and the way the villagers and cooks prepared them just seemed to always bring out the best of the best flavors out. There was one dish a mercenary often cried on out about how he was “never gonna taste something like that again!” The Adrestian Empire was bountiful, thanks to the Goddess as the clerics would say, whether it was the food or the jobs.
The people of the Leicester Alliance were friendly. It was often a relief to be somewhere that wasn’t being ruled by some King or some Queen (not that Jeralt would ever take on a job from royalty. It called way too much attention to Rhea and he did NOT need that). Still, Leicester was a much commoner friendly place compared to the other two nations and everyone enjoyed that, both the commoners and the runaway nobles in the company.
Faerghus was different from the other two countries. It was harsh and some places barren. The people, though, were never unfriendly. In fact, they were often very chivalrous and were surprisingly nice people. Many often welcomed the company and Byleth always loved coming back for their food. In the coldest place, the warmest soups made the biggest of differences. No one here ever questioned a child amongst a band of mercenaries. True to the rumors that he heard growing up, there were plenty of children here just like him. Children who swung swords before they could even talk. Byleth didn’t often get to play with those children, but when he did, they always played the one and same game, “Want to play Knights and Robber? You be the robber!” There were always sour faces afterwards when the robber won one too many times.
He always had enough aunties and uncles to make any child jealous. That was another pro. Byleth swore he saw flashes of frowns from other children (and frankly a few adults too) whenever a company of 5 or 6 grown adults (with scary weapons) walked around town cooing at a little Byleth.“I’ll buy that for you! Are you sure? I promise I can afford it!” “Are you hungry? We can have lunch!” “Can it Jack! We JUST had lunch! Byleth dear what about that tailor? I would bet that brown coat would be nice and warm for our next trip into Faerghus!” Not one soul ever dared to mouth off about that “creepy child.” Even rude people grow some common sense when all you have on hand is a pitchfork going against a battle axe.
He was above his peers. At least, in terms of schoolwork and strategy. Byleth wasn’t just book smart, he was also street-smart. It helps to be out and about when trying to build the two skills equally. He didn’t lock himself in the library, but wasn’t all brawl no brain either. As a mercenary, you needed both skills. It was either learn to adapt or make a wrong step and feed the worms. You didn’t need a book to tell you that mushroom was ill-fitted to be part of the dinner pot when it lands everyone in the company at the local clinic with food poisoning, but you also needed to learn to count in order to know you’re about to be cheated a number of coins. Jeralt had raised Byleth right, even if he often questioned himself. Byleth got all the schooling and training he needed. And he had plenty of recess.
But where there were good things came the bad. Sometimes all Byleth wanted was a nice warm bed. He never ever complained or whined, but Jeralt saw. He saw in the way Byleth tossed and turned (and eventually wandering off at night for a quick walk) on the forest floors. They were often lucky enough to land themselves at an inn or tavern or even someone’s home, but without a true place to call “home” the nights simply didn’t come guaranteed with a bed and blanket and a warm toasty fireplace. Traveling meant that sometimes the distance between two civilizations just couldn’t be covered in a single day. Camping was fine and on the warmer days, it was easy to sleep outside in the much cooler air. Byleth counted stars while the rest of the children counted their sheeps. He was sure there were more stars than cattle anyways. The biggest number he was taught was “giga-million” but he was fairly certain that was a joke. He never reached more than a hundred stars to check.
But on the colder days, the company tried their best to huddle up. They were lucky to have never had the misfortune of spending too many of those days outside. If they were relatively close, Jeralt would simply insist on marching on until they found a city, “Any city. Split the damn company into several houses or taverns if we have to. Just meet up at dawn.”
Sometimes, even the aunties and uncles that loved Byleth with all their heart (and their wallets) would wonder what goes on inside that noggin on his. A few mercenaries, during the entire duration of their service to the company, would remain unfaltering in their opinion of the child; that he was cold, untrustworthy and empty husk; something of a ghost of sorts, someone whose true hearts was pledged to some demon. It was unnatural to be so unflinching.
It was unnatural to not cry.
Because the worst part about having the best aunties and uncles in the world, was that one day…they had to say goodbye. It was the first thing Jeralt taught his son. He didn’t even have to say it. The first time Jeralt took longer than he anticipated to come home, Byleth already knew. One day, one of those aunties, uncles, or his father wasn’t going to come home. If he, himself was careless, he wasn’t coming back either.
He could accompany them all he wanted, but if the group was wiped out, the chances of him running away quick enough was awfully low. Before Jeralt let him swing his first real blade, he had given his son a long and stern talk, “Know that this sword isn’t a branch. Know that this isn’t some stick we find in the forest or that blunt wooden sword I carved for you. Know that the minute you are old enough to join us, and you can choose to join or not, there’s no going back. Know that one of these days, I won’t be here, Kid.”
Byleth understood. He understood the first time he cut down a bandit. It was easy enough. It was his first kill. The bandit was slow and the fight had gone on long enough that everyone was getting tired, the bandits more so, they were losing after all. They were making more mistakes and one of them was caught off guard at…this child just standing and staring at them. One tired aimless swing was all Byleth needed for an opening as he reached up and aimed for the heart and frowned as he missed and hit to the left of his target, into the bandit’s lungs.
He didn’t flinch as the man screamed and fell, gasping. He didn’t flinch the remainder of the fight as he took a few more bandits down, those ones going easier and instantly. Yet, he went to bed that night hearing that sound over and over again. He’d missed the bandit’s heart and had struck the man’s lung, potentially collapsing it and giving him a slow and painful death. Jeralt didn’t prepare him for this. The sound of death. The gurgling, gasping, heaving, foaming, wide-eyed shocked look of the bandit. He didn’t sleep that night.
He didn’t sleep the night Amir died either. The man was about 20 years older than Byleth and was one of the younger mercenaries in the band (if you didn’t count the child amongst them). The natural big brother of the band (even if he was younger than the older members), who often showered Byleth with anything he could get his hands on in town. People joked about Amir’s shitty tastes of colors when it came to the trinkets, clothes, toys, and candies he brought. The subject of his reckless spending habits always came up.
“Whaaat? It’s MY money!” Apparently it wasn’t just “his money” once he began to beg the others for some extra coin when he finally came short during a inn stay. Byleth let him sleep in his bed with him that night. After all, Uncle Amir was only broke as shit because he spent it all on lil Byleth right?
It was a bad move. Even Byleth knew it was a bad move. Byleth was still young (and no matter how good he was, he was still technically inexperienced), but even he knew it was dumb, but what people did for love was strange. For someone who rarely smiled and never cried, love was a whole new topic. One of their members had fallen, a woman that Byleth never paid much attention too, though Amir often slipped her name here and there. Ina, a “runaway Pegasus Knight from Faerghus.” Her lance was easily cut in half by the axe and upon her retreat back into the sky, two arrows had hit her pegasus right in the abdomen. She didn’t even fall off her pegasusm 30 feet up in air, when she was hit with another arrow. She tumbled, already dead when her body slammed into the ground. Amir had rushed right to her as soon as she fell, and right into the fray of the brigands and archers.
Jeralt had called a retreat that day. Their first retreat in fact. Byleth couldn’t remember much, only that he was relieves. Neither Ina or Amir had made that horrifying sound of Byleth’s first kill. A piece of him was glad. A piece of him had held onto the hope that they both died quick, that they didn’t suffocate on their way out of this world.
Byleth learned what love was. Amir had apparently fallen for Ina, the reason Amir had started to really go broke. He was busy showering his “kid brother” and the love of his life. It didn’t matter if Jeralt was going to call retreat any earlier. Amir wasn’t going to let Ina go alone. The rest of the treak back to the inn was long and silent, “I would’ve done the same for you to, son.” Jeralt had whispered. His stare was at the road ahead and not at Byleth. Jeralt didn’t continue speaking, and didn’t speak the rest of the night, but the father and son didn’t let the other out of their sight for a while afterwards.
A few checked in on Byleth to see how he was. Byleth, in his own Byleth way, had been particularly close to Amir. But, there were no tears. There’d been a fight that evening about how “uncaring and cold” he was.
He heard none of it, only the image of Ina falling and hitting the ground and the sound of Amir screaming her name. He slipped into bed that night thinking about all the times Amir had tucked him into bed, reading him stories. That there would be no more of that. No more Dragon Tales, no more stories about the brave hero, Ike. There was still a piece of candy in his pouch; blue and purple with polka dots. A terrible design, and it tasted poorly.
As the fighting outside his doors ceased once Jeralt started screaming, Byleth popped the candy in his mouth and tucked the wrapper safe into his belt pouch and spent the night wondering what the tight feeling in his chest was. The tight feeling where his unbeating heart sat home in.