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Everything is the same but he is different, now. Byleth knows this. When he opens his eyes, a flood of memories come back to him—of gods, of death, of the students he taught growing up and changing because of a war. He hasn’t met any of them yet, of course. They don’t know who he is but they will in a few hours.
Everything is the same, now.
“Have you been having that dream again?” Jeralt asks, and Byleth almost says, yes, yes I know who she is, Dad there is so much I need to tell you. But that is not the script he has been given, and he can only imagine how crazy he’ll sound.
He nods instead.
Everything goes exactly as he remembers—Dimitri, Edelgard, and Claude come up, begging for help. Kostas lodges an axe in Byleth's back and Byleth doesn’t move, because he needs to meet Sothis, needs to give her the satisfaction that he would be nothing without her, of course, the voice in his head. You should’ve dodged that! Sothis scolds, and Byleth knows, but he just wears his blank expression and pretends to be as stupid as she thinks he is. She sends him back, of course, and things start ticking again.
When Alois comes, he asks, “Are you truly his son?”
In the past, Byleth had said, he is a stranger and Jeralt’s face had fallen, hurt flashing over his face. But Byleth—now Byleth knows how much time he has left, knows his father only has a few months left to live.
So Byleth says, “I am his son,” and when he sees a twitch of a touched smile on Jeralt’s lips, he has to turn away.
+
Claude and Edelgard and Dimitri talk to him on the way to the monastery, but it is all words he has already heard. I watched you die rings through his head as he takes them in. Edelgard is going to start a war, and this friendship will twist into sharp angles and blades, wilt like a flower under the sun.
That does not exist here. For now, Claude just jabs Dimitri in the ribs, Edelgard rolls her eyes at their jokes, and Byleth tries to hide his own shaking hands. If he squints hard enough, he can see them, five years from now—Edelgard with her head tilted high, Dimitri with grief draped over his shoulders, Claude with a solemn air of mischief in his gaze.
Byleth blinks, and they’re gone.
I watched you die, he thinks, his gaze flickering between the three students. Indistinctly, his gaze draws back to his own father, chatting with Alois, grunting at Alois’ stupid jokes.
I watched you die.
His chest has never felt heavier.
+
He chooses a different class this time. Last time, he’d chosen Dimitri, and he’d watched grief poison Dimitri from the inside out, send him spiraling before Byleth reached his hand out. It wasn’t enough, but it was just enough, and that’s what matters.
He chooses Claude instead.
Byleth wonders if things will be different this time around. A new house, a new group of students—the paths laid out for them must be different this time around. But not now. Five years from now, yes, but not now. Byleth still has to chase away bandits, still has to kill Lonato, still has to do all the same things he did with Dimitri. Nothing has changed except the class, and Byleth feels frustrated—trapped. Fate has locked him in some kind of cage, and so he relives everything he has done before.
(He wonders, briefly, if Edelgard is any different. After all, he has some knowledge on her that he cannot share yet.)
Jeralt gives him what he thinks is good advice—“Don’t let any of these noble brats die on your watch. That would weigh heavy on your conscience.”
But I already have, Byleth wants to tell him. Passing the students in the monastery is like seeing ghosts—he remembers how they screamed, remembers their blood on his hands. If he looks hard enough, he can see Edelgard wearing her crown of horns, see Dimitri’s right eye blurred out, see Claude with his hair slicked back. It’s not limited to just them—he gazes upon all the Golden Deer and sees how tall they grow, how long or short their hair grows, see their war outfits over their shoddy school uniforms.
This time, at least, he will not have to kill any of them. But it feels like he signed a death warrant to the other houses.
“Byleth.”
Byleth looks back at his father, and sees Jeralt’s face is laced with concern. His throat constricts; he had thought before that Jeralt looked so—old. Now Byleth understands this is the oldest this father will ever be.
“Listen to me,” Jeralt says, eyeing him closely. “Don’t let those brats die, you hear?”
Byleth nods. In his head, Gronder Field is splattered with blood.
+
“This is weird,” Sothis says. She sits primly on Byleth’s bed. “I can sense…you know something.”
Byleth raises an eyebrow at her. He’s not going to argue with her—that has proved futile in the past. If he’s honest, though, he’s surprised that Sothis doesn’t seem to know that he knows everything. Sothis is the goddess; he thought she would know all. But her memory is still drifting in the wind, so maybe she can’t recall anything else.
“Do you know the future?” Sothis asks. She sits up, floating in the air. “Could that be it? You have foreseen the future?”
Byleth shrugs. Sothis leans forward, squinting at him. She has always been able to read him like a book.
“You did not seem surprised about any of the missions Rhea has given you,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “You only seem to care about your students on the battlefield. You have an air of solemnity around you…yes, I think you do know the future! Or something that will transpire from it.”
Byleth shrugs again. He feels exhausted—it weighs heavy in his bones. He just wants to rest. For once, he is jealous of Sothis.
“That is strange, though. If you do know the future…how come you have not attempted to change it?” Sothis sounds genuinely curious, and Byleth pauses. It’s a question he’s asked himself, over and over—you know what happens, why don’t you change it? Why don’t you prevent it?
But Byleth remembers—nobody knows. Nobody even knows Edelgard is planning something. Every time he talks to Edelgard, she brushes him off just as she did last time. He can’t grow close with her. Byleth wonders, not for the first time, if he should’ve chosen her. He doesn’t know what that holds in store, but maybe he could convince her otherwise.
Maybe it is easier to go along with the motions. Byleth has always been carried by the flow of time, and resisting last time made no difference. Perhaps he’s given up.
But he also remembers words of comfort from Sothis, given moments after Jeralt had died—if turning back the hands of time did not save him, perhaps this was fate. Much as he loathes it, maybe the war is also fate. Byleth cannot picture a peaceful five years, as much as he wants to. There is so much boiling under the surface that he doesn’t think it’s possible. Sooner or later, someone is going to crack.
All Byleth says is, “Some things are irreversible.”
Sothis does not ask what he means. Byleth flops on his bed, and closes his eyes.
+
Because his father has less time, Byleth spends free moments with Jeralt. His father is surprised, but he offers no complaints, and Byleth knows that Jeralt secretly enjoys it. He teaches Byleth combat skills and praises him when he does well. Byleth wishes he had done this more often.
Sometimes he wants to ask his father about his mother, but he can never bring himself to do so. He thinks he can manage with the knowledge his father has written in his journal (his gaze strays to the hidden spot in Jeralt’s room), but the truth is that Byleth is scared. He doesn’t know what any of it means. Last time, he had been so concerned with Dimitri that he had never thought of himself. Claude will not lose himself like Dimitri will, so Byleth is left with questions that he’s not sure he wants answered.
Jeralt is not always in his room, but Byleth knows where he could be. On his way there, Byleth passes the training grounds and sees Monica talk to Edelgard, and for a moment his blood boils; his hand unconsciously reaches for his sword. He could save his father; he could end this.
But that would disrupt the path he is supposed to be following, and he knows how that would paint him—he would be no better than Jeritza, who has all but vanished. So Byleth grinds his teeth and keeps walking.
He peers over the balcony and sees Jeralt standing at the grave, staring down at the gravestone. A wave of sadness overcomes Byleth; this is the last time he'll see Jeralt stand in front of the grave. Jeralt must have visited his wife many times, of course, but probably when Byleth was asleep. He probably didn’t want Byleth to see him so—vulnerable. He has been apart from his wife for a very long time now. Byleth lets him have this moment.
He lowers his head, closes his eyes. When he looks back at the grave, Jeralt is gone.
+
The dreaded month arrives, and Byleth can’t stop the grief seizing his chest. He takes in his father, trying to etch his last moments alive in his mind. Claude nudges Byleth and asks if he’s okay, says, you’re looking kind of pale, Teach, but Byleth waves him off. I’ll be fine, he says, and Claude merely shrugs and makes a lame joke about poison in the food, something like that. Byleth isn’t really listening.
It’s the same thing. Jeralt grumbles about he wants to tell Byleth something, and then he turns around and stalks off. Byleth knows he needs to collect his students, but he can’t think—this is the last time he’ll talk to his father. He didn’t say anything last time.
“Dad,” he calls out, a little hesitantly, and Jeralt freezes. His shoulders are stiff when he turns around, curiosity in his face.
“You need something? C’mon, kid, we have to go.”
Byleth’s hands are shaking. He could say something—watch out or don’t turn your back on anyone or don’t trust Monica. He could stop this death, and there’s a longing in his heart that wants to—needs to. His father will be dead in a few hours and he has the chance to stop it right here.
But Sothis’ voice comes whispering back to him: if the hands of time could not do anything, then perhaps it was fate. Byleth knows, better than anything, that it is better to leave fate on its own. Changing it could have even more dire consequences, and Byleth already sees a war in his vision.
He swallows down his warnings.
“I love you,” he says instead, and he watches Jeralt’s eyebrows knit together in shock. Then—he laughs. It’s tense, sure, but there’s no denying the affection in his tone.
“Yeah, yeah, kid. I love you too. Now c’mon, we’ve got no time to waste.”
He races out of the hall, and Byleth lets out a shaky breath. He did the right thing, but his chest still aches with grief, grief that will come at a much larger wave later; his father will be dead in a few hours. There is nothing to be done but go forward.
Byleth takes one breath, and hurries up the stairs.