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Chapter Text

When he finally retires to his tent for the night, Jeralt finds his daughter seated on a stool by his makeshift desk, hunched over something and with a half-burned candle dangerously close to her shoddy bangs. Byleth only spares him a short look, her eyes shaded by her messy hair, before returning to whatever it is she’s been doing, paying no more attention to the commotion her father makes as he sheds his armour.

It used to sting, this apparent lack of care on the part of his child. Most kids her age would await their parents with bated breath, or at least offer them hugs or greetings when they return home at the end of the day. Most kids her age also have actual homes instead of tents, beds instead of bedrolls.

Most kids her age also have a beating heart.

At five years old, the girl only continues to add to her many peculiarities; never smiling, never crying, never laughing, or showing any emotion at all, really. Oh, that is not to say his daughter lacks the capacity for emotions. There are ways to tell if one looks long enough, and after five years of taking care of her, Jeralt has become the foremost expert on the oddity that is Byleth. At her five years old, he knows that the few seconds his daughter’s eyes remain set upon him is a few more seconds than anybody else could hope to get. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

The last piece of his armour removed, the man steps behind his daughter to find little bottles of paint that he got Byleth for her third birthday strewn about the now paint-covered desk. He bites his lip, holding back a reprimand for the splotchy state of his correspondence, a worry for it warring with a sense of gladness that his girl has shown an interest in something as mundane as painting. He wouldn’t want to potentially discourage Byleth from doing it again, not right after she first opened the bottles.

“What’ cha doing there kid?” he asks as he carefully nudges the candlestick away from the all too flammable mop of blue hair.

Byleth, as is usual, doesn’t reply with words, deigning instead to pick up the sheet of paper she’s been working on and present it to her father with a blankly expectant expression.

It’s… a person, Jeralt thinks, that Byleth has tried to paint. It’s crude, and terribly messy, with water not yet having dried off the paper and soaking through the sheet, mixing the colours in places he’s sure they’re not supposed to mix. Still, he can see the basic outline of a human being hidden within it, with long green hair gathered in two pigtails, face, legs and what must be meant to represent hands. To give his daughter justice, he probably wouldn’t do a much better job.

“Who’s that?” It might not be the most realistic depiction Jeralt has ever seen, but the wildly overgrown hair, at least, is distinct enough he would remember it if he’d seen it.

“A friend,” Byleth replies in monotone, and though the words are dispassionate, they stir something warm in the father’s chest.

Byleth has never had a friend. The mercenary lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to allowing them to stay in one place for long, and Jeralt knows well of the troubles his daughter has with connecting with other kids, both around her age, younger, and older, or even the adults. People find her unblinking, dead eyes unsettling, or, to not beat around the bush, creepy. The worst part is that Jeralt can’t even really blame them. It’s a simple truth that Byleth isn’t like other kids. Not that the girl had ever shown a burning interest in other people to have particularly suffered loneliness, so for her to make a friend…

Or - now that he looks at the painting again - for her to have made up a friend, because he’s sure he’d have remembered his daughter running around with someone like that, or one of his men would, and then reported it to him. Still, for her to have made up an imaginary friend brings joy to Jeralt’s weathered heart all the same. From what he remembers having picked off of the parents he’d asked for clues about raising Byleth, it’s apparently normal for children to think up friends, even should they already have those of less imaginary kind.

That was years ago, before it became apparent such advice simply isn’t worth much with his daughter. And though he has not given up hope that she would develop interests more akin to those of other children, in his heart of hearts, the mercenary has started to wonder if he’d ever see the day his child would show interest in such ordinary, childish things.

A smile stretches his lips. If only her mother could see it...

“A friend, huh?” he asks, reaching out to ruffle Byleth’s hair. “I see, I see.”

The look his daughter shoots him, while not baleful by anyone else’s standards, tells him all he needs to know about her thoughts on the gesture. The girl has never been one for physical affection, or verbal affection, or any affection at all, but she doesn’t pull back, and that is all the encouragement Jeralt needs.

He draws his hand back, before handing his child back her drawing.

“Introduce me to her one day, will you?”

The girl nods, the traces of ire vanishing from her eyes, doubtless mollified to be free of her father’s ministrations, and to get her friend’s picture back.

“Now put your stuff away and go to sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow and I don’t want want to hear you yawnin, you hear me? Good.”

Minutes later, as Jeralt lays on his bedroll, eyes closed and already drifting off to sleep, he hears the faintest whisper of  a breath blowing out the candle, and shortly thereafter, feels a small weight crawling her way underneath his blanket to rest against his chest.

Chapter Text

The life of a mercenary does not often allow Jeralt to have a quality bonding time with his daughter - an unfortunate reality that the man has resentfully come to accept. There simply isn’t much he can do about it short of changing his line of work. Sure, he could’ve settled down, become a farmhand or apprentice a craft back when he left the service of the Church with his infant child in tow. That, or he could’ve done the only thing he already knew how, and knew how to do well to boot. He supposes the clutches of familiarity were simply too strong for him when he left all else of his life behind in that damn monastery. They needed the money, and simply put, killing pays much better than working the fields. Better than leading a band of men to do the killing, actually, but it’s also less safe, and he does have a kid to take care of. His bounty hunting days were only ever a stop-gap until he could assemble a proper band.

Back then, he had often found himself having to leave Byleth in care of strangers. It was that, or to bring her straight into the danger of a swordfight. He hated having to entrust her safety to others. He was keenly aware that if he were one day to not return form a job, there was no guarantee that his girl would be taken care of any longer than the money he gave to the people he’d left her with allowed. But what other choice was there? The most he could do was make sure she’d be handed over to an orphanage if that ever happened, rather than be left to fend off for herself, even if that meant her falling back into Church’s clutches.

It got easier when he finally assembled his band, but by then Byleth was grown enough for him to leave her to her own devices for more than a few moments and be reasonably sure she wouldn’t somehow hurt herself, as younglings tend to. So he did. He could also leave her with one of his men and be sure they would sooner swallow burning coals than let any harm come his kid’s way. Having Byleth awakened in him a streak of imagination; particularly of all the dangers lurking around every corner, but also of the many ways his men would regret failing to safekeep his child.

The thing is, with the amount of work there always is with the company, it’s just convenient that Byleth is independent enough to not usually need him, as is having someone else to care for her. Because here’s the thing about leading a bunch of sellswords; there’s always more work. Even when everything seems to be going well, it’s all but guaranteed something will go to shit in a matter of days, at most. Equipment falling apart because some dipshit didn’t oil it properly. The tents catching mold. An outbreak of some or other sickness. Food stocks going bad. The animals breaking free from the pens. Men stirring up trouble with the locals, or among themselves. An employer trying to fuck them over. Always something.

It all amounts to him not having nearly enough time as he’d like for his daughter. They’re not distant, but Jeralt can’t in good conscience call them close. Not as close as he wishes they were, certainly. The fact Byleth is… as she is, doesn’t help matters.

It’s for these reasons that the man makes sure to arrange the company to have time off around the time of festivities. It’s good for morale, regardless, to let his boys and girls off the leash for festivals and celebrations when they chance upon them. The camp, he’s decided, will not burn if he leaves it for a day, and he’s glad for the opportunity to spend time with his daughter away from it.

It is how Jeralt finds himself walking the bustling market of Edmund, Byleth’s small frame seated upon his shoulders as to give her a better view of the going-ons around them. She didn’t ask, nor comment on this development, but Jeralt can tell from the minute swinging of her tiny legs that she’s enjoying the chance to be so tall.

A small pat on his head draws the man’s attention to the small person who gave it. He twists his head to find his daughter’s numb eyes expectantly trained on him.

“Yeah?”

“Can we get a bear?”

Jeralt blinks, his first reaction to look around in search of the beast, before haltingly realising what Byleth obviously means. The stall with stuffies draws eyes all around for all the bustle of excited children crowded by their indulgent parents. Indeed, from his position a head above the rest of the crowd he can easily spot the bear stuffy which has caught his kid’s fancy. Curious, that. Among the toys Jeralt has gifted her throughout her life, Byleth has expressed the greatest fondness for sticks and stones to bludgeon those with. That and knives, though she only asks for those on the first day every new moon, apparently in hopes she’ll be old enough to get one, then.

“Oh? Do you like bears now?”

“Sothis wants it.”

The words have Jeralt choke on his breath, and his blood run icy.

“Where did you hear that name?”

Byleth’s eyes betray nothing, though the second it takes her to respond shows clearly her confusion.

“She’s my friend.”

It’s Jeralt’s turn to blink and stare, what parent would name their child Sothis? The Church wouldn’t have the name of the goddess be tarnished on a mere mortal; it’d be blasphemy, pure and simple. He’s also not heard of Byleth having made a friend since they came near the town, it’s only been two days, regardless. Unless...

“The one from your painting?”

The girl nods, satisfied with his understanding, and it’s all Jeralt can do to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the coming headache.

It seems a more exhaustive explanation about what his men can and can not mention around his daughter is in order. In the five years since he’s left the service of the Church, Jeralt has made sure to avoid crossing paths with it with zealotry usually reserved for Seiros’ own knights. This has been in part as an effort to slip beneath Rhea’s ever watchful eye, but also to have Byleth grow free of the Church’s teachings and influence. He’s made it as clear that he wants no talk of the faith in his company as he could’ve while avoiding being overt about it. It seems someone didn’t get the memo. Probably one of the Faerghasians, damn fanatics.

He carefully schools his expression past the scowl threatening to break out on his face. Byleth still awaits his response, and he would hate to give her the impression she’s done something wrong. She’s five. She’s heard a name she likes, and gave it to her imaginary friend. It’s not even that problematic, really. If someone were to hear her call her make-believe friend Sothis. They might even find it endearing to see a child manifest her faith so. That is, as long as there were no questions to follow. Jeralt doesn’t particularly wish for a priest to get a wind of apostasy.

“Can you, maybe, call her something else?” he asks, not entirely successful in masking his discomfort. It slips right beneath Byleth’s notice, the girl firmly immersed in the depths of her confusion at the request.

“But it’s her name.”

Right. Of course it is.

“Can you ask her if she’d like a different name, then?”

Disturbingly, Byleth looks off to the side, where as far as Jeralt can say, there’s nothing to be seen, before turning back to him, only for her eyes to stray again for a second and once more return to him. Are children supposed to visualise their imaginary friends? He doesn’t know, he can’t remember if he had one himself. Should he be worried?

“She says no.”

“Can you at least promise me not to tell people her name?”

“Can we get a bear?”

A bark of laughter escapes the mercenary. Hah! A little wrangler he’s brought up, hasn’t he? Fair enough, though it’s not like he wasn’t going to get his daughter the toy she’s asked for. She already asks for things so sparingly, he wonders who between them enjoys the occasion more. Her, for getting something she wants, or him, for seeing his daughter want something.

“Sure thing, kid.”

Chapter Text

“No, no, like this, see? Hmm, perhaps try showing your teeth?” Sothis tries again, pulling up the corners of her mouth into a smile with her fingers.

Byleth, to her credit, does try to do as she’s told, only it’s as if the child has discovered a lack of skill in replicating the full range of human expressions previously unrecorded in history. After five years of watching over the girl to the best of her ability, Sothis knows for a fact this is not due to the lack of emotions to express. What the cause may be, however, the diminutive woman can’t say.

She does her best to hold in the sigh threatening to spill past her lips upon seeing her host commit a smile. One could scare children with that one, Sothis knows from experience. Something of her thoughts must slip through on her face, for the child seated across the tree stump ceases in her attempts, to look down to her cup - a wooden mug.

“Nevermind that. Do you suppose Mister Bear wants another cup? Your tea really is quite exquisite!” The girl looks up from her feet, whence her eyes eventually rested, raising to meet Sothis’ own. Soulless things; belying the wit behind them, and causing them both no small amount of grief over the years. For each person there are things simply beside their control. For herself it is this prison of flesh in the form of a child, yet to hate the girl for it would be as deplorable as it would be pointless. For Byleth, it is her listless appearance, and the girl is no puppet for it even though she may seem.

“Do you want another?” the girl asks her stuffed toy, bless children’s small minds with their equally impressive capacity for holding attention.

Sothis clears her throat, trying for as low a tone as is her ability. Mister Bear, as Byleth has taken to calling the… bear, seems to her like the sort to sport such.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she supplies in the effigy’s stead.

Like the gracious host that she is, Byleth lifts the kettle - a tin pitcher - from the middle of their table - a tree trunk, to pour the air within it inside Mister Bear’s cup - an empty paint bottle, as they’ve failed to procure another tankard from the mercenaries.

She’s glad to see her charge taking to the activity. When she saw the stuffy stall the idea swept her over to have Byleth involve a third, of sorts, in their somewhat lonely, daily escapades. Normally those entail them exploring the area around the camp, just the two of them; climbing trees, finding rocks to throw at what targets they deign fit (other rocks usually, they got yelled at quite severely for denting a helmet they procured on one occasion), fighting great battles with their magnificent sticks and branches, finding berries (and getting sick from eating those), hunting for lizards and frogs and snails, and finally - when caught - helping in what manner is needed around the camp.

Watching Father’s men do merriment by the fires on evenings and after bountiful contracts supplied her this idea. The mercenaries’ beverages are for some reason denied them, but just as not having a demonic beast to fell never stopped them from achieving the deed, so has a lack of proper celebratory drink failed to bring a pause to this - a tea party. Curious thing, she knows not where she learned of it, yet the steps and ceremony of it are so clear in her mind. Tea, they have not, but as they also haven’t a fire to brew it, that is hardly an issue.

“Do you want some, too?” her only companion asks her as she sets down Mister Bear’s cup.

She smiles, thinly, and curls her fingers around her own cup - a brass can emptied of sewing supplies.

“I would love it.”

Patiently, she waits for Byleth to get around their table, the trunk too thick for the child’s short arms to reach Sothis on the other side, and lift the cup to her lips. A brief moment of warmth blossoms in her hands as her host’s own pass through them, before she obediently sips at the air within, gently blowing the steam away prior.

A more genuine smile spreads across her lips this time as her eyes again meet the smaller girl’s, and find a question thereign.

“It’s delicious.”

The corners of Byleth’s mouth twitch, teeth flashing in an earnest attempt only for her numb eyes to, as always, fail to follow through. A fist clenches around Sothis’ heart, and, she discovers upon trying to speak, around her throat. Instead, she opens her arms, throwing them around the one source of warmth in her world.

Chapter Text

As Byleth hooks the worm writhing in her fingers right through its middle, she can’t help but wonder if the thing feels pain. It writhes just like people do in the aftermath of a battle, there on the ground. But then, it also writhed before she hooked it. And if this is the silent version of a cry for mercy, does it make her more like Father that she intends to condemn the thing to be eaten by a (hopefully) big, (hopefully) tasty fish, anyway? Father doesn’t care for the crying when he walks the field after battle. People definitely do feel pain, and she’s hooked her own fingertips enough to know that the hooks hurt. Not terribly, not like falling from a tree, or dropping a rock on her feet, or burning hands on a pot over fire, but still. But she’s a big girl and the worm is so very small. For her, it would be like getting a spear lodged through her side. She thinks it would hurt lots. Maybe as much as when she hit her fingers with a hammer.

Satisfied with finding her answer, the girl casts her line as far out into the lake as her meager strength allows, that is to say, not very far. There are no grown-ups with her today to do the casting, as the camp needs to be made, but she’s big now and she can do it on her own, because Father said he wouldn’t mind a fish.

She sits down on the grassy shore, all she has to do now is wait, and pull the fish out when it takes the bait. That can take long, or not so long; sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. Though she’s been told being quiet and not moving helps in fishing. She’s good at that, and being here alone means nobody will be loud and moving, as other people always do.

Nobody the fish can see, anyway.

“Won’t you be cold sitting like that?”

A bit. Nothing she’s not used to.

She shakes her head. It wouldn’t do to scare the fish by speaking out loud.

A pair of arms loop around Byleth’s shoulders, a feeling of lingering touch where they would meet her skin under her clothes.

“You should’ve at least taken a blanket. Father will worry if you fall ill. So will I, for that matter.”

She won’t get sick. She hadn’t in winter, why would she now? Besides, if she’d tried to take a blanket with her, she’d never have managed to sneak off to do fishing. Blankets are big.

She shrugs, drawing a sigh from Sothis.

“Honestly. To be saddled with a mortal such as you.”

Byleth looks down to her hands, twiddling with the stick to which she’s attached the fishing line. She never knows what to do when her friend brings up the reason for her continued presence. It makes her feel bad that the other girl can’t just do what she wants, it’d be like never being able to leave the camp. It makes her feel bad that she’s glad Sothis can’t go away, like all the other friends she’s tried making.

“I’m sorry,” her companion says at length. “I did not mean that to sadden you. To tell you the truth, if I’m to be stuck with a human, then I could do much worse than you.”

A ghostly hand makes to ruffle her hair. She doesn’t mind. When Sothis does it, there’s no need to fix it up again, and her hands are nicer than Father’s, too. She turns the slightest bit to catch the green eyes peering at her with a smile. She likes Sothis’ smile. It’s pretty. She wonders if she would be as pretty as Sothis if she could smile.

A tug at her stick snatches her attention whole, making Byleth shoot up to her legs before running further inland to drag the fish out of the water. How fortuitous. There must be lots of fish in the lake that she caught one in just a few minutes. She can’t wait to bring it back and show Father and cook it. And Mister Bear too, she is such a good fisherman.

When she returns ashore, she finds Sothis marking the spot where her catch lies, her expression beyond Byleth’s ability to discern. There, also, awaits the fish, no bigger than half her palm, flopping around in the grass with a hook sticking out its mouth.

A few beats pass of the two girls observing as it does so, before Byleth takes the line in her hand to hold up her fish. With some difficulty, stemming from the slippery nature of her catch, she takes the hook out and deposits the fish back on the ground, covering it with the wicker bowl she brought to carry the fish she caught back.

“We need another worm,” she announces to her friend after a moment of thought.

Chapter Text

It was early in Byleth’s life that Sothis came to the conclusion that Father’s mercenaries don’t seem to overtly enjoy following them around. Which is terrible news for them, seeing as the girl in whose head she took residence has grown into quite the adventurous child - always out and about whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Truthfully, she might have been the one to nudge her companion towards such a mindset. - the happenings of their camp ceased to be of interest to Sothis years ago. It was quite the torture, being bound to an infant not allowed to venture into the outside world. The woman quickly figured out that no matter where their home moved, its layout and general proceedings always stay the same. While this is no doubt convenient for the camp’s other inhabitants, it has given Sothis precious little to occupy her attention with in those early years.

Unfortunately for them both, Byleth is but five years of age, and does, in fact need to be minded by someone of a more corporeal disposition than Sothis. In a perfect world, that would mean Father - she’s grown to like the man, it’s difficult not to when he’s been taking care of Byleth, and by extension, herself, for the whole of their lives. As matters stand, however, the man is often preoccupied with whatever it is that a leader of a mercenary company is preoccupied with. Therefore, it’s usually his men that take care of his daughter.

At times, this isn’t much of an impediment to their day, as some of the mercenaries take to their duty with the stalwart dedication worthy of a professional nanny.

Most of the time though, the men simply play cards or dice, or otherwise treat their duty as a form of free time, and expect them to sit still throughout. If only they were still allowed to join in on the games as well. Alas! They were quickly disallowed from participation due to always winning. A mistake, that. She and Byleth ought to have sometimes given up on victory for the sake of appearances of not somehow cheating. At least they can still watch.

Sometimes, however, it is worse than simply having to sit in place. Sometimes, by a trick of fate, the minding duty falls on the hands of someone already assigned their chores. Sothis used to think this an egregious mismanagement of labour division, until she learned the mercenaries trade their daily tasks, and sometimes even bet them in their games. At times, this means they end up with conflicting duties for the day.

Today, such a conflict brought them to the kitchen pavilion to peel potatoes. Lots, and lots of potatoes. They tried sneaking off upon seeing the amount, but to little effect, and so Byleth was promptly sat down across the small mountain of vegetables waiting to be peeled by their day’s caretaker, and handed a knife to help. That was an hour ago. An hour spent mostly in silence, as Byleth followed the lead of her minder and began working through the mound of potatoes.

Sothis often resents her lack of physical form. Sometimes, it is for her inability to undertake grand and daunting tasks, such as finding out who she is and where she came from. Mostly, the impotency of her circumstances strikes her when faced with much more mundane matters, such as when five minutes into reading them a bedtime story, Jeralt’s rumbling baritone becomes a thunderous snoring. Which, in turn, and against all odds, somehow lulls Byleth into slumber, leaving Sothis’ burning need to turn the page unfulfilled. Likewise, it grates terribly when they sit by a fire of which warmth she can’t feel. Or, like now, when her lack of hands denies her the choice of helping the listless girl with her chores. What wouldn’t she give for the ability to peel vegetables. What a thought.

There are few things she can think of more boring than watching someone perform the activity, and given they’re not alone, not even a conversation can be made. Curiously enough, although other humans have accepted Byleth playing with what to them seems thin air as natural, her holding a conversation in the same vein is apparently cause for concern. Such capricious beings, humans.

Sothis lazily floats in a circle around the girl and her minder, both seated on stools with a massive pot between them - one Byleth has to stretch her hands out to throw her potatoes into. She’s sure the girl could bathe in the thing, maybe she could as well, such is the enormity of the vessel, which, as of now, remains only half-filled. The repetitive nature of the task, she can see, is starting to wear down even this strange child. Any other, she’s sure, would long have complained about having been given such a dull task. But even with Byleth’s demure disposition, it is clear to Sothis the girl is bored.

Usually, whatever task her soulmate undertakes is given nothing short of her full attention; be it chasing a rat, polishing Father’s armour, or even, as now, helping in the kitchen. It was no different today, not for the first hour. Although slower overall, the girl has been handling the task with a degree of focus the man who roped them into this has not shown at any point throughout. Still, a child is only a child, and the small glances that Byleth has been giving everything around them for the last few minutes tell Sothis this one’s patience has finally worn thin.

What to do… what to do…

The woman wills herself to stop when she circles behind her charge, to then loop her hands around her shoulders, as is her right. Byleth pauses for a moment, minutely leaning back into the intangible warmth of Sothis’ embrace, before setting back to her task with what seems a renewed vigor. How very diligent of her.

"Do you wish me to sing for you?" she asks the girl.

It's a rhetorical question. Sothis knows full well how Byleth enjoys listening to her sing. After all, she’s the one who sang the girl to sleep almost since the day of her birth. Hummed, mostly. Few words came with her recollection of melodies, and no memories of whence they came from at all. She’s learned more now that she’s heard them from the occasional sitter they’ve been left with over the years. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but she likes to believe Byleth has always been most fond of her own, half-forgotten lullabies.

Before long, Sothis makes her choice, and a soft hum sounds in her throat for all of one person to hear. A private concert among the crowd of mercenaries passing them by, with none the wiser to an ancient melody filling the air.

“ In time’s flow… see the glow of flames ever burning bright… ”

Chapter Text

It used to be that Jeralt could wake up fully alert and energised, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. For the last few years, however, even with his crest, that has become something of a rarity for the man. It’s probably the lack of a proper bed, as this wasn’t a problem when he lived in the monastery. That, coupled with the fact he is ever so slowly getting on in age, means a bedroll just doesn’t cut it for him like it used to when he last lived on the road.

The mercenary grunts at the soreness of his back, then groans at the needles of light prickling his eyes, before carefully untangling himself from beneath the layers of blankets as to not rouse his daughter. It’s no easy task. At times Byleth will wake at the slightest of noises, only to sleep right through thunderstorms that keep even him awake. No rhyme or reason to this child.

He mindfully tucks the girl in again - the mornings of Faerghus can be bitterly cold even in spring - and lets his eyes rest on the child’s serene features. With each year’s passing, he’s starting to see more and more of his wife in her. He wonders what his love would think of his choices. Of him running away from Garreg Mach. Of what their daughter is becoming.

An unnerving thought has taken root in Jeralt’s mind, lately, as he was making another notch in the stick which Byleth has taken to measuring her height against every other week. Namely - his daughter is growing up. That in itself is certainly no cause for concern. What troubles him is that in those few years he’s had her she’s grown every bit as fast as children do, whereas he has not aged a day. It struck him, as his girl celebrated the sliver of an inch she’s grown with that impassive intensity of hers, that he could well outlive his child.

When he got his crest from Rhea, he didn’t give the archbishop’s gift a second thought. What luck, after all, for a nobody commoner to receive a crest! When he got married, it raised a blimp of concern about how they would handle his lifespan, but he was happy, and such concerns seemed so far, far away on the horizon. When Byleth was born, he frankly had more pressing matters on his mind, as he continued to have for a long time after. Now, with his child fast approaching her sixth year, it occurs to him that he might one day need to care for his daughter just as he did for his parents in their old, decrepit age. The thought of seeing Byleth get her crow’s feet before his first grey hairs show, of burying her while he would go on living… it fills his heart with dread such as he has not felt since learning of his wife’s demise.

Not only that; watching Byleth run around the camp, helping with the chores, polishing splatters of blood off his armour, and playing pretend battles, he can’t help but wonder if the path he set her on is the right one. The man prefers to think his reasoning for going through with being a sellsword are sound: the money, the anonymity, and the security of always being surrounded by capable fighters at his own command are all substantial. More than that, over the course of his violent life, Jeralt has seen the dangers ever lurking in the shadows. It’s always the same, always too late for the poor sods unlucky enough to first stumble across danger, before the cavalry arrives, and he wouldn’t see his daughter become one of them - weak and defenseless.

Surely it is best that Byleth grows into a capable fighter, rather than a maiden at the mercy of fate? Or is the truth that he only chose this because it’s easiest to do the same as he always has? Would she be better off if they settled somewhere, allowing her to make friends without the looming prospect of inevitably moving on when the job’s done?

Is it that he simply has nothing else he could teach her?

With a sigh, Jeralt rises up from the bedroll. Thinking on such matters will bring him as much benefit as staying under the covers all day would. He’d made the choice years ago, and his doubts are hardly a recent development. He could try to be someone he’s not; maybe he’d succeed, and maybe he’d fail. The fact he chose to do what he does best does not discredit the reasons behind it.

With that in mind, as to ward off the unproductive thoughts, the man sets out to prepare for the day in as quiet a fashion as he can. It doesn’t amount to much, as by the time he’s finished putting on his armour, there’s a pair of teal eyes sleepily following his routine from behind Byleth’s messy bangs.

“Good morning kid.”

The responding murmur of- something, puts a smile on Jeralt’s face. For all the difficulty that his child has with expressing herself, her morning mannerism is no different from that of any other child, and quite a few adults that the mercenary could name.

“I’m heading out for the roll-call. Catch you at breakfast?”

Even as Byleth wraps herself tighter in their blanket, she makes a noise Jeralt can recognise as an affirmative. Ah, to be able to just turn to the other side and go back to sleep. Alas, someone needs to assign the duties for the day so that others can start it some three hours later. Better him than her. He’s been told kids need more sleep, apparently. With all the running around, climbing, playing, and hiding from his men, it’s a wonder she only spends half the day in their bedroll.

With a last, lingering look at the bundle of blankets his daughter cocooned herself in, the man leaves their tent to properly begin his day.

Chapter Text

There are times in their life, that one will wake without the other, or fall asleep while one of them stays awake - the first usually being Byleth, and the second obviously Sothis. The older girl’s naps can last hours, or they can last days, and there is never a sign as to which is which.

Today, as yesterday, belongs to the latter category of Byleth having to spend entire days on her lonesome. No. That is not true. Always are there people all around: mercenaries, peasants, townsfolk, or Father. To find herself alone, Byleth needs to go to great lengths and distances, like out of the camp, or town, or village and into forest. Not that she does. Do these things to be alone, that is. She and Sothis just prefer it to be them two, else people look at her weird when they speak.

Not that they look at her much different when it’s just herself. The children she’s been playing with today haven’t outright protested her sitting among them in the circle they made, but Byleth knows the signs well enough to not try and be part of it, even if she doesn’t understand the reasons behind them. Sothis says people can’t see past her smile, but that’s silly because she doesn’t smile, so that can’t be it.

“What do we do next? Tag?” the oldest among the village children, who also appears to be their leader, asks his group.

“I don’t wanna. You always win.”

“Not my fault I’m better than y’all.”

“Not mine you’s legs are longer, I don’t wanna!”

“Maybe we can play marbles?” Byleth perks up in her spot at the suggestion. She’s good at marbles. They play it all the time with Sothis, even if she’s the one doing all the shooting.

“We’d gotta go look for stones. Hey! What about hide-and-seek?”

“I don’t know…”

“No. No, look.” The boy leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper, all the other children following suit and huddling in their circle, leaving Byleth with little to do but etching the symbols she sees in her dreams - on weapons and armours and stones - into the ground. They’re pretty. And strange. They almost look like letters, but Father can’t read them so they can’t be. Sothis, for her part, says they look familiar, but can’t ever say why.

“Hey! You!” Byleth raises her head to find the other kids have stood up and are all looking down at her. “We’re playing hide-and-seek. I’m seeking.”

The girl simply nods, drops her stick and scatters with the others. Before long, she finds a perfect hiding spot - a thicket of heathers small enough it shouldn’t stick out as an obvious hideout. Father showed her how one can almost disappear in plain sight using just grass, and with heather, when she lies down, she will be invisible.

By the time the shout of “Ready or not, here I come!” sounds, Byleth is already hiding for almost forever and proud of herself for finding her spot so quickly. She’s sure the others have taken much longer and she’ll either be among the last to be found, or the winner because if there were better spots, she’d have seen them. So, hers must be best.

Time proves her correct. When minutes after minutes pass without her spot being found, the girl goes back to drawing her symbols again, this time with her finger, for the lack of a good stick. She’s not sure how long she does this, but it’s enough for her to run out of the patterns, remember a few more, spend a while trying to recall more, succeed, and then count to thirty five times in her head, so it has to be a long time. Surely it’s enough for most others, if not everyone, to have been caught by now. Still, since the seeker hasn’t called out her win yet, she will wait still.

By the time she finishes singing the fifth song in her head, she begins to wonder if she somehow missed the call. It’s possible. Her hiding spot is far enough away from the home base that she could not hear it over the wind. So, when she counts to the full fifty this time, of which she is proud, and still doesn’t hear anyone calling for her, the girl carefully peeks out from under the bushes.

Nothing.

Maybe they’re waiting for her at the base, or maybe she’s about to be caught and will have to cede her claim to being the best there is at hide-and-seek. Oh well.

She stands up fully, up to the tips of her toes, but she sees nobody. She makes her way to the rock where the seeker boy was counting, and still she finds no-one. It can’t be that none of the others were found in all that time, can it? It seems unlikely that someone could be that terrible of a seeker, and Byleth knows she is more patient than most children are; if she’s here, at least some of the others would also have been here by now. Why, then, is no-one...

...Ah.

The girl’s eyes fall to her feet. It’s fine. It’s not the first time, and unlikely to be the last that other children don’t want to spend time with her. Playing with others isn’t that fun anyway, not without Sothis to keep her company and act as her partner in crime. And- and this still counts as winning their hide-and-seek game, because she was never found and she’s the last to have left her hiding spot. Besides, when Sothis wakes up she’ll have the bestest friend to play with anyway, so it doesn’t matter if the others have left.

Byleth’s hands make to play with the hem of her tunic, unsure what to do with herself now that she’s completely alone in the chilly moor. She’s not used to this. To being alone. Sothis is almost always with her, and when the older girl is sleeping, it’s Father or his men, or someone from the village or town they’re visiting. Even when she goes to play with other kids, even when they want her to go away, there will usually be one older boy or girl who takes her back home.

Home. Yes. Home sounds good right about now. She can go to her tent and wait until Sothis comes back and then the two of them can play and have fun of their own.

...She wonders which way the camp is.

Chapter Text

The first few moments of wakefulness pass, as they always do, with Byleth blearily staring at the ceiling of her tent. Far from customary is the way the girl throws off her blanket once her first conscious thoughts start trickling into her head, paving way for unbound excitement. After all, today is the day she’s been waiting for since the last time it came around.

It’s somewhat disappointing to not find Father in the tent on her look-around, but not unexpected. The company waits for no man, and special day or not, duties need to be handed out and any problems that somehow arise between the nightfall and dawn seen to. Depending on how long she’s slept, Father may already be overseeing the training of his men, or maybe, hopefully, is still somewhere around the kitchens.

“Sothis?” she asks upon not seeing her friend in the tent. A vague sense of acknowledgment stirs from deep within Byleth’s mind, lifting the stone weighing down on the girl’s heart. It’s always a worry whether her friend will be awake on those special days. It would feel wrong to not have her company today. “Sothis, wake up.”

“Nngh, five more minutes.”

Five more minutes is fine. After all, they have a whole day to celebrate their birthday together.

Content with the knowledge she will have her friend’s company later, Byleth sets about to readying for the day; putting on her woolen socks, shoes, and coat to ward off the chill of the northern winds. And the hat. Both Father and Sothis keep reminding her to wear the hat, and Byleth is proud to say she forgets it less and less. It’s just she’s unused to it after spending most of her life in the south where it isn’t a necessity. It’s a bit hard to run in all of it, but it also makes it hurt less when she trips and falls. That’s nice.

Adequately prepared to face the cold, Byleth emerges from her tent. The camp is as lively as ever, but unlike as ever, her first steps after visiting the latrines are not towards the kitchens. Instead, she makes her way to the drill square, where she can hear Father’s booming shouts berating at his men for not keeping formation on a left turn. It’s impressive how many new words she can learn from just watching the drills from afar, as well as the various ways to combine them that seem to encourage the men to do their best. Father won’t teach her. Sothis says someone her age shouldn’t speak them anyway, and she’s probably right. Father only uses them when training his company and she’s not even half his size.

She stops at the edge of the square in the middle of the encampment, where a group of lots of mercenaries is marching to and fro, making a good impression of chickens in the pens when Byleth runs in to take some eggs. Father spots her almost immediately.

“Halt!” he bellows like only he can. “Left turn!”

The entire group comes to a swaying stop to follow Father’s command and turn in the girl’s direction (minus two who at first somehow turn right, instead).

“Present weapons to the birthday girl!” Father once more commands.

Haltingly, and not at all like Byleth knows they’re being taught, the mercenaries tighten their square and hold their swords and spears up in a salute. A parade of her own. She doesn’t usually get to interact with the drills any, and the mercenaries ignore her most of the other time when they’re not the ones minding her. How very exciting to be in the centre of everyone’s attention, and how strange.

“Hip hip!” Father starts.

“Hurrah!” the men shout back.

“Hip hip!”

"Hurrah!”

“Hip hip!”

“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!”

“Wha- What’s- oh.” A look to the side finds Sothis hovering in air, sleepily rubbing at her eyes.

“We’re having a parade,” she mouths to her friend, who opens her mouth to answer, but stays silent as her eyes shift to her other side, where Father’s approached them in the meantime.

“Happy birthday, Byleth. Here.” He kneels, pulling something from the depths of his giant coat. “I figure you’re old enough now.”

Old enough? Her eyes snap away from his to the object in his hand - a skin sheath with a knife, almost as big as her forearm. Byleth takes her present off the man’s hands. and with a little bit of struggle, pulls the blade out. She thinks it’s even bigger than the one she wanted when they last visited a smithy together. With such a weapon, she will become the best knifer in the world for sure. What an amazing present.

The girl sheathes her knife and looks back to Father’s eyes, unsure how to express her sentiment. She briefly considers smiling before eventually settling on opening her arms to hug him. Or to hug his arm. Father is a lot bigger than she, so it would take two or even three of her to do it properly. She would ask Sothis for help, but Father can’t see her so it wouldn’t really help either. This will have to do.

Without warning, she feels ground give way under her feet as Father’s strong arms lift her up to be seated upon his shoulders - one of her favourite places. Being tall is fun - it’s why she climbs trees.

“What do you say you help me with the drills today?” Father asks.

Byleth would say that she is having the best birthday of her life. She gives the man a nod to communicate just that.

“Alright then, why don’t you do the honours?”

Beyond excited, Byleth glances at Sothis who is smiling in her stead.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” The older girl prompts.

Without further delay, she raises her sheathed knife into the air to swing it down with a command:

“Forward march, you strungfuck-shits!”

Chapter Text

“What was my mother like?”

Were anybody but Byleth to witness Sothis when the question is asked, they would surely have likened her visage to that of a deer. As is, the as-of-recent six year-old isn’t quite so verbose.

“I… wouldn't know. I had seen her, but I would hesitate to say we ever truly met.”

In the space of but a few seconds, Byleth blinks not twice, but thrice! Sothis wonders if she’s ever seen a more extreme display of confusion from the girl.

“...But you're older than me,” she finally states like it explains everything. Sothis supposes it would, had she possessed a pulse.

“That is true, yes. However, I came into this world alongside you. I was... elseplace, before. Where, I cannot say. Those memories are shrouded in mist to me.”

“Oh.” The girl looks down to her painting. “Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Somewhat.” The woman crosses her arms, exerting her memory as far back as it has ever gone. There are bits and pieces, flashes and smoke. Given Byleth’s painting skills, it should serve her purposes well enough. “She looked much like you, with the same eyes and hair.”

Satisfied with the answer, the child focuses on her painting to add the listed details, leaning slightly to the side, so that Sothis may better see it. The woman can’t help but smile at the sight. Were it not for the blot of yellow upon one of the stick figures on the paper, she would never stand even a chance of recognising the thing as the person she knows it is. Next to Father, a much smaller (and much taller than in reality) blue-haired stick person stands, and another, green-haired one to the side - with flat and upward-curved lines for their mouths, respectively. On Father’s other side stands the figure of a grown woman, her face blank but for two blots of blue.

The black-dipped brush stills in Byleth's hand, resting above the oval of her mother’s face.

“Something wrong?” Sothis ventures.

The girl looks to the side, catching her eyes with her own blank stare, before turning back to the picture.

“Should I paint her smiling?”

Something about the question pinpricks at the ghost of Sothis’ heart.

“Why do you ask?”

“Father says I take after my mother. He can smile.” So, the conclusion she came to is her stoicism is something she must’ve gotten from her mother. It’s not completely unsensible, were Byleth anyone else. After six years of keeping vigil over the girl, Sothis is inclined to say her strangeness is her very own.

Not that it helps in answering the question. Whether a woman long dead did or did not smile is of little consequence. What’s of import is which of should Byleth chose to believe. Would she be comforted if her mother shared her lack of a smile with her daughter, or would she wish otherwise? She still tries, sometimes, to perfect her own when nobody is looking.

“I think you should give her one, regardless”

The only outward sign the girl has heard her is the curved line she strikes across her mother's face. She puts down the brush before turning fully towards Sothis, the painting in hands.

"It's very pretty," the woman assures her charge. "Mind that it won't smudge."

With a solemn nod, the girl puts the wet sheet down, to then simply stare at it with such intensity as if she could coerce it into drying faster.

A silence falls between them, as it often does. Being inseparable, there is often not much to speak of other than when Sothis falls victim to the haze that will sometimes overcome her mind. This one, however, has nothing to do with the silent companionship they will share on such occasions. It bothers her, something about their conversation. It bothers her that she is bothered, and knows not why.

Is it that Byleth wonders who her mother was? It’s only natural that she would be curious about the woman who birthed her, that she’d ask the only person who wouldn’t dismiss her question with a " one day" , whenever that’s decided to be. It shouldn’t bother her. What business has she feeling this way over a woman six years dead, whose only attachment to her daughter is blood? Who has never watched over her at night, hadn't taught her to speak, wasn’t there when the girl made her first steps? Sothis herself has a better claim to motherhood over Byleth than her long dead parent. And yet, still does the girl asks after the woman.

It's unfair of her to think those things. Unkind, too. Byleth's mother did not willingly abandon her child, she died. All the same, she finds a piece of herself resenting the woman for not being there for her offspring, as she should. It's ridiculous.

Her stewing is interrupted by her soulmate picking up the brush again. Eager for a distraction, she floats behind Byleth to loop her arms round the girl's shoulders as she puts the brush to paper, right next to Sothis, with a question on her lips:

“What was you mother like?”

Chapter Text

“The first, and foremost lesson about using any weapon, is to know when to use it.” Such are the words with which Jeralt begins his daughter’s education in combat. He’s only slightly exaggerating in that it is not the first lesson most swordsmen teach, even though it should be. “Even more important is knowing when not to use it. For example, if you were attacked by a grown man, let’s say he were unarmed, what would you do?”

Judging by the quick glance to her side, as is Byleth’s habit whenever she knows not what to say, she has clearly come here expecting a more practical sort of lesson.

“Stab him,” she announces in a tone that in another’s mouth Jeralt would not find so uncertain.

“Then you would be killed. Or be beaten up. Or captured.”

“...But I have a knife,” Byleth helpfully points out.

“Yes, and it’d  be worth nothing because any grown person can easily beat you no matter what weapon you may have. Stretch your hand out.” As ever, Byleth follows his order without a question to its purpose or a moment of hesitation. He moves closer, so that the girl’s fingertips rest against his thigh. “This is how far you can reach. Now look.”

The man shifts a little to the side and lifts his leg forward, so that his foot hovers well behind Byleth’s head. He waits a few seconds for the image to sink before putting his leg down again.

“See? If I wanted to attack you, I could easily kick you and you couldn’t do anything about it with our height difference. Superior reach is an enormous advantage, and at the moment that's something everyone who’s older than you has.”

“What if I cut you?”

“In the leg?” he asks, to be answered with a nod “Assuming you could, and that’s a big if, you’re not strong enough to cut deeply, or stab someone much larger than yourself. We’ll go to the pens later and you’ll try slaughtering a pig so you’ll get a feel for what it’s like. For now let's do a demonstration, come at me with your knife sheathed.”

A brief moment to reposition themselves later, Byleth does come at him. She’s not quite flailing her weapon, but her movements are- well. They’re exactly what one could expect from a child wielding a knife with her only experience coming from playing with sticks. With their height difference, Jeralt easily keeps out of his daughter’s reach without any effort at all. His legs are as long as Byleth is tall, and for each of his steps the girl needs three of her own. He doesn’t allow her to get close even once. It’s a lesson, not a game, and he needs her to understand well how utterly outclassed she is in every possible way in every confrontation, baring maybe one against a particularly clumsy squirrel.

Eventually, after her breath grows heavy and her face red with exertion, Jeralt does let his girl get close, only to lazily slap the knife out of her hand with a strike to her forearm quicker than the tired child can react to. Byleth hisses in pain, clutching at her arm, her features twisting for a split second before smoothing back into the expressionless mask that is her face.

Jeralt grits his teeth at the sight. There’d been times in her life that Byleth had been hurting in some way, but just as right now, her appearance wouldn’t betray it. She didn’t cry even when she burnt her hands on a pot with boiling soup - something that had taken weeks to heal even with magical assistance.

Still. A little bit of pain now will go a long way to prevent it in the future, when the stakes are much higher than a bruise.

Being six years old, the girl is old enough to avoid any fatal injury when she inevitably starts playing with her weapon. Jeralt remembers his first blade still, and can still trace the now faded scar he inflicted upon himself while playing Knights and Beasts with it. While he can’t say he’d like his daughter to learn knives aren’t a toy the same way he did, he also can’t argue it was a valuable lesson indeed.

It will do Byleth good to have a blade of her own.

“It would cut you.” The girl points to his forearm, where her sheathed knife indeed lightly struck him when he disarmed her. Jeralt doubts it would actually cut him - it was too light - certainly not in even the flimsiest of armours.

“Maybe. But that wouldn’t matter much to you after you died because you lost your weapon, would it?”

A few seconds of silence stretch between them as the girl thinks on his answer, before shaking her head.

“Exactly. Even assuming you dealt me a fatal wound, I would still have plenty of time to finish you off before I bled out. Killing someone in a fight isn’t the difficult part, it’s staying alive through it that’s hard. For you, your best chance is to run away and scream for help, just like when you didn’t have a knife, got it?”

His daughter doesn’t pout, never did, but Jeralt still knows the stare she directs at the ground for what it is.

“Cheer up kid. In a few years, you’ll be running laps around this old man. For now you just focus on growing big and strong, yeah? And how do you do that?”

“Eat and run lots?”

With a grin, Jeralt rewards the girl’s answer by messing up her hair.

“That’s right!” His smile only grows wider as he looks at Byleth patting her hair back down with the slightest crease to her eyebrows. “On that note, let’s go to the pens to get some pork for dinner. Tell you what, if you manage to slaughter a pig, you can eat as much of it as you like today, deal?”

The offer seems to mollify his daughter well enough, what with her still messy hair entirely forgotten as her dull eyes snap to his own with a look even someone unfamiliar with her wouldn’t call blank.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

A light stirs behind Sothis’ eyelids as she tries to reconcile the silence of her surroundings with the noise of battle in her ears. With a mighty yawn, the woman rises from the ground, blearily taking in the surroundings for which the strange tent makes. Curious. She can’t recall coming here after battle, nor, for that matter, the end to said battle. Have they won? They? Who are they , and who were they, she, fighting? Was she struck down and brought here to-

A rustle of shifting covers to her side breaks her chain of thought, bringing it to a familiar sight of a bundled-up child making her best impression of a cocoon.

It’s enough to jolt her memory into wakefulness, and recognise Father’s tent- their tent, for part of the waking world. What a strange dream. Already the details of it are slipping between her fingers like sand. Even so, after six years of so often dreaming the same thing, the battling itself is hard to forget. She’s done research, through Byleth’s eager hands, into the ways one can better recall their dreams, and found the best way is to write them down in as much detail as possible. This presents a problem. Though her charge can write, after a fashion, it’s a slow and arduous process of stringing words letter by letter. By the time the girl would finish scribbling down the first sentence, Sothis would likely forget the next two she had in mind.

The woman lazily floats over the sleeping child, reaching out as if she could move the unruly curls from her eyes. As always, her fingers pass through Byleth’s hair without any disturbance, but Sothis smiles nonetheless. Oh, her heart aches to know how it’d feel like to run her hand through her charge’s hair, but she finds comfort in those vain gestures all the same.

A wisp of heat brushes against her fingers when they dip into the child’s temple, and the smile slips from her lips. She lays her palm flat against Byleth’s forehead to confirm, and the touch feels almost searing to her warmth-deprived skin. Now that she pays closer attention, what she first believed skin oil glistening on the girl’s face must in truth be sweat.

She looks around, noting for the first the cloth discarded by the side of Byleth’s head, and the wooden bowl an arm’s reach away. The child must’ve thrown the cloth off in her sleep.

Instinctively, she reaches out for the thing to dip it in the water and put back where it’s meant to be, only for her fingers to pass through it an instant before she remembers.

Face taut, Sothis draws back and to the side. Where is Father? Or the men? She understands running a company isn’t something easily put aside, but he would at least assign his sick daughter someone to care for her, to call for him should her state worsen.

The thought sends a spike of dread down her throat. Has it worsened? Is it why nobody is here, having left to bring Father?

She straightens up to her full, diminutive height, before making her way to the tent flaps and floating straight through the material into the bright rays of an early afternoon sun. There’s one mercenary posted at the entrance, seeming bored of his lot in the way guards so often do with Father not looking. Other than his presence, Sothis can’t tell any difference to the usual bustle of their camp. The men go about their business as they always do, never sparing a thought to the fundamental wrong in the world that her charge’s sickness is. Maybe not even aware of it.

With a frustrated grunt, Sothis retreats into the dim innards of the tent. A few steps out further and the chain around her soul would yank her back regardless, not that she’s had any intention of going away. In service of what? Even if she could find Father, what would that achieve? The only person whose voice she can use to speak is fast asleep, and she’s led to believe that is for the best in illness.

The woman sits down by the side of her charge with legs drawn up and hands looped under her knees, so that she won’t wring them in agitation. Useless things. What use has she of hands that can’t pick a thing up? What use of legs when it’s not her own that she treads the world with? What of her eyes that only stir her longing by showing her all she may not have? What use is she, truly, to the one person who knows of her, that she can do nothing when she needs her most?

A noise pierces her thoughts, an unintelligible groan from the child before her. Sothis scurries closer, restless for any sign of the girl’s well-being. It soon becomes apparent the child is dreaming, and of nothing pleasant at that, when another, and then more such distressed sounds slip past her lips.

She could wake her out of the nightmare. That much she can do. But dreams will pass, and sleep once dashed can become alike smoke to catch again. No. If waking the girl up is all she can do, it’s best she do nothing.

All the same, the woman shifts to sit over the crown of her soulmate’s head, so that she may easier caress it with her fingertips. Whether Byleth can feel it or not, Sothis can only hope, but the girl does settle down once a few more minutes pass.

She remains that way when one of the mercenaries comes in to wet and replace the cloth upon her charge’s forehead, only raising her eyes to shoot him a dirty look when he leaves right after.

She remains that way when Father enters the tent hours later, a few more mercenaries having come and gone but never stayed. Neither does he, only spending a few minutes watching his daughter with a hard set to his eyes.

She remains that way until Byleth’s tired eyes crack open, so that she may meet them with a smile.

Chapter Text

Byleth drops her armful of branches onto the pile before running back towards the forest where a lot of the company is still busy logging and gathering wood. It’s not something she usually helps with because she’s so small, but they’ll be needing lots of wood today, so Father said she could help. It’s not something she likes very much, either, but if the company needs her help then she’s going to help. It’s a busy day for everyone, so it’s fair that she has to work some too. It’s not all bad, there are birds and sometimes even deer in forests. At least it’s not peeling vegetables.

Oh. Maybe if they go to where the others aren’t yet she’ll find more sticks. It was raining yesterday so most branches she finds are wet, and won’t burn good. Father’s men get most of the dry ones because they got long legs and can walk faster, so she only gets to find the ones they miss, and there’s few. Yes. She’ll find more when it’s just her and Sothis.

“Where are we going?” Her friend perks up in her position above her head when she veers off in a different direction, to which Byleth responds by pointing at the forest. “So I see, yes. But why?”

“More wood.”

A cascade of green locks blocks her view when Sothis leans forward, frowning at her from upside-down.

“Father said to remain with the men, did he not?” The older girl reminds her.

Byleth stops. He did. She picks a spot closer to the mercenaries, so they can still see her but not steal her sticks, before she starts running again.

“Honestly. You’d next forget your head were I not to remind you of it.”

She doesn’t say anything back, but privately thinks that’s not true. She didn’t forget her hat even once since she got sick, and she always does her chores, and only sometimes gets lost when they run off to explore on their own. But that doesn’t count because Sothis is there too, and she doesn’t always remember the way either.

Once they cross the treeline, Byleth makes sure to keep in sight of the adults before she starts gathering sticks onto a pile. The men just keep their stacks on one arm and pick more with the other, but when she tried doing that, her branches just kept falling out to the ground. And they’re heavy too. Sothis said on their first round back that if she stacks them somewhere, she can just pick them all at once later, so that she can use both hands for it, and she was right. Only one twig falls out from the smaller piles she carries to her pile. Byleth wonders why Father’s men don’t do it that way. Sothis is so smart, none of Father’s men thought it up.

It turns out she was right, too. When it’s just her, there’s lots of wood to pick that’s dry enough for a fire, and they’ll need a whole lot to light up the big logs. She even finds a squirrel, but despite her efforts it runs up a tree as soon as she tries sneaking up on it. Probably because the adults are making so much noise with their axes and loud talking and felling trees.

By the time she gets all the good wood around on her pile, the others get close enough they walk the edges of where she already picked from. Which she tells them. Because she’s a good girl, and helpful, and they don’t need to waste time even if they say they can help her carry her pile back (and make it look like they found it all themselves). Which just won’t do. She wants Father to see how good she did.

Getting all the wood from her heap back to the camp takes her three whole trips. She needs to pick all her sticks back up again after she trips and falls once, because she can’t see the ground from behind her haul, with Sothis fussing over her all the while. She sets her wood just to the side of the main pile, so that when Father comes around she can point and show how much she helped. It’s lot smaller than the other pile, but that’s only because everyone else just dumps theirs together. Byleth may be smaller but she’s working twice as hard as anyone else. So there.

Only, Father isn’t there when they comes back the first time. Or the second. By the time she’s carrying the last of her stack back, Byleth worries he won’t be there at all before her wood is used up. Thankfully, he is there to see which pile is hers when they return. She runs up to him, waiting a few moments before tugging at his sleeve and pointing to her pile.

He spares the result of her work only a passing glance, before half-heartedly tousling her hair with a smile not that much better than the one she sees in ponds, and moving on to help his men prepare the gathered wood for the fires. It leaves something twisting in Byleth’s stomach, but that’s okay. Father has a lot to do after battles, most of anyone in the camp, and she still has to clean his sword and lance and armour from all the blood he got it dirty with.

A strange, and familiar kind of warmth sneaks its way into and around her hand. The questioning look she gives Sothis is answered with one of her pretty smiles.

“Do you wish to go back to the tent?”

She does. The burning bodies always smell awful, and she should probably get to cleaning Father’s things if she doesn’t want to stay up into the cold night. Father would clean them himself, she knows, he says it’s important to prevent rusting, but then he would have to stay up at night instead, and that wouldn’t be fair.

She nods to her friend’s question, taking one more look at Father before making her way to their tent.

Chapter Text

Being a parent, Jeralt has found, is a tiring existence. One he wouldn’t change for any other, but a tiring one all the same. Running a mercenary company is a work of constant effort, leaving him little time for other pursuits. Mostly, said pursuits revolve in one way or another around his daughter, which, although rewarding, is often no less exhausting. But such is what he signed up for when he left Garreg Mach. Some days it means he can’t simply take a much coveted and deserved nap, but has instead to entertain or teach his daughter - something he’s long learned to live with.

“Alright,” he begins, mostly for his own benefit as to dispel the intrusive tendrils of sleep from his mind. He hoisters Byleth up onto his knee, then pulls over a previously prepared sheet of paper onto the desk before them. “We’ll be starting with letters so you can practice on your own before we move to reading. Here. Do you know any of these?” He points to the column of letters stretching from the top of the page to the bottom.

“Alpha, beta, gamma, delta… xi?” the girl pauses, looking to her left as if searching for answers before haltingly correcting herself to the stunned astonishment of her father. “Epsilon, zeta, eta, theta… iota, kappa, lambda, nu, m-. Mu, then nu. Xi, omikron, pi, rho, sigma, tau…” she trails off, this time not to pick up again as her gaze ventures downwards in what Jeralt has come to recognise means shame.

What her reason for such emotion is, the man can’t fathom. He’s never before tried teaching his girl letters. For her to pick up so much of her own accord is reason for pride, and pride only, never mind the few forgotten letters.

“That’s very good!” He reassures the girl while ruffling her hair - knowing full well the depth of irritability Byleth feels towards the gesture. It never fails to take her mind off anything else she might be thinking at the moment to give him her best sad attempt at a glare. “The others are upsilon… repeat after me, upsilon.”

“Upsilon.”

“Phi.

“Phi?”

“Chi, psi, and omega.” He waits until his daughter finishes speaking before continuing. “Now say them all again.” Once more, he waits for the girl to finish, taking about a minute with her glancing off to the side near the end, as is her habit, clearly struggling to remember the last few letters, but eventually managing. “Now last to first.”

At this, his daughter twists around on his knee to fully face him with a look so full of betrayal not even a total stranger could mistake it for a vacancy of emotion.

 He can’t help his facade cracking, giving off a bark of laughter and prompting his kid’s expression to shift ever so slightly towards long-suffering ire.

“Kidding, kidding.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll be honest, even I have trouble with that. I’m proud of you, kid. I didn’t know my letters well into my teens. How did you learn all that?”

“Sothis taught me.”

As ever, Jeralt’s whole body freezes for the fraction of a second it takes for his mind to remember his daughter doesn’t mean the Goddess. That the long-reaching claws of the Church have not reached his girl. That it’s simply what she calls this imaginary friend of hers that she hasn’t, like he’d thought she would’ve by now, given up on.

Jeralt worries, sometimes, when he sees his daughter running around and playing with a person not there. More so when he spots her speaking to herself in the distance where she thinks none can see, or hears her speak when she thinks none will hear. Is it right? Normal? For a child to appear so sure there is someone there with her. An imaginary friend is all well and good, especially for a child so lonely as his, but whenever he sees Byleth’s honest focus upon thin air, he can’t help the chill crawling up his spine; the image far too akin to the less… tangible cases he’d seen in the Church carehouses.

Jeralt wonders, sometimes, whether it’s his concerns that should worry him.

“How long has she been teaching you? And how?”

Byleth’s brow twitches in contemplation as she brings her hands upwards, fists closed, to uncurl four fingers, then put one back down. Yet another from the plethora of skills she’s picked up on her own without any input of his own. Still less surprising when it first happened than the many new words she picked up from his men; especially the fancier ones, the ones he never suspected his men capable of. She doesn’t use most of them anymore. Not since she stopped simply repeating everything she’d heard.

“Three and half. The story book.”

Ah. Makes sense. Jeralt will often see her resting in the shade of one tent or another, finger trailing across the page of the book in her lap. He’d always assumed she was simply trying to recall his reading her from memory, but it seems she must’ve found someone in the camp who knows letters to teach her.

...He should’ve done this long ago. A year, perhaps even two in the past. He knows she learns so fast - faster than what the villagers he’s asked prepared him for. Words, numbers, now letters. At least her skill with the stick progresses at a rate he’d expect of a child.

“Alright. Well. How about I get the book then, and we see about stringing those letters together, hmm?”

The way her eyelids widen a fraction is, he thinks, the most enthusiastic he’s seen his daughter since her first combat lesson.

Chapter Text

There are fewer tents put up than last Byleth counted. It isn’t the first time, or even unusual that the camp has grown smaller like this. It ebbs and flows, bloating whenever they are hired for a big job, then shrinks soon after it’s finished, and all the way throughout as emptied tents are taken down.

There’s been no fighting this time. Just the opposite, in fact. As always, lots of men left after their last job was over, and then more when they didn’t find another, and more, and more as they’ve traveled from town to town in search of work.

Food, too, has dwindled as the snow fell. Father had the last pig slaughtered two weeks ago, and has since ordered the kitchen to only serve two meals a day instead of three. That’s two weeks of potatoes with cabbage and sometimes fish, or more rarely a bite of game that the men bring back from foraging. She wants porridge. The company likes to grumble about it the rest of the year when it’s served all the time, but Byleth likes it. Porridge with honey is the best, though she probably won’t have any till summer when the beekeepers start selling again, so she’d settle for apples to bite it down with. Or grapes. Or have it with butter or with meat. Or just on its own. Not that there is any, what with almost no village or town willing to sell their own, so all she can actually settle for is just more potatoes.

Father says it’s only until winter breaks, but winter is only halfway through and she saw yesterday in the kitchen when she was chopping up the last of the cabbage that there are only three sacks left and nothing else. The last of what Father bartered a horse for a week ago, since the farmer wouldn’t accept coin.

But. When Father had gone to the village they’re camping nearby, he said he’d get more food this time for sure, so today they’ll finally eat something different. Unless all he brings back is more potatoes and cabbage, which she won’t complain about though it’d still be nice to have something else. If they’re lucky, maybe they’ll even get work, so the camp stops melting away.

“Do you think we’ll have porridge?” she asks Sothis, who’s lazily floating in circles around Byleth’s own perch between two of the palisade’s piles.

“I think we can ill afford much else. I doubt the village has much to be given also,” the older girl replies without opening her eyes, ever uninterested in the topic of food she can’t so much as smell.

Byleth looks away from her friend and back the way Father had gone hours ago. She wonders how Sothis can stand never eating. She says she doesn’t get hungry, and that she can’t eat besides, and that’s good because it’d be terrible if she couldn’t eat yet still be hungry. Then again, Byleth isn’t usually always hungry either when she eats, and mealtime is still among her favourite time of the day, even if it’s just potatoes and cabbage, but especially in summer when there’s lots of fruits everywhere, even in the forest. Sometimes, she and Sothis will sneak into orchards with the older girl acting as a lookout, so she’s not caught like that time when Sothis was sleeping. She couldn’t sit for the rest of that day after Father’s punishment.

A silence settles between them, much like it has over the rest of the camp in their wait for Father’s return. There are few enough people she even managed to count everyone during the muster this morning - less than two fifties. She can even recognise most of them by face now, though only a few by name - those that have been here since she can remember, and a couple others from before the last big recruitment. It’s amazing that Father can remember them all, and more.

“Was the camp ever so small?” She breaks the silence again. She doesn’t think that it was. She never could count everyone in it before, but she also couldn’t count very far before.

Sothis twists her body around to face her and the tents behind her, eyes open.

“When you were a babe, it was. Father only just decided on this path of life, and willing fighting men were few and far between. A year it took to grow to something like this.”

Byleth’s eyebrows draw minutely.

“Near to your second year.” Sothis clarifies.

Ah. She remembers only bits and pieces from so far back. Father carrying her on his shoulders in full sun, where and why she can’t say. Sothis singing to her at night, the tune and words buried in her memory. Her first fall from a tree she remembers like she remembers yesterday.

Once again, Sothis goes back to circling around, this time humming one of her many melodies, and Byleth tugs her hat on tighter before she settles in more comfortably to listen, tucking her chin in to ward off the cold. They stay like that a good while, enough for the sun to dim, which is when three mounted figures finally emerge from the woods in the distance.

Byleth makes a small sound in her throat to alert Sothis and slides off the palisade, careful not to tear up her clothes on the jagged edges of the piles, as has happened before. She runs to the gate, where the watcher has already lowered the drawbridge at the sight of the returning party, and the camp begun to gather at the commotion. Soon enough everyone is present, and the three riders cross the gate, Father at the front.

The first thing Byleth takes note of is Father’s grim expression. The one he’ll wear after a bad battle, or when sickness strikes the camp.The second she spots the sacks, only two of them full and slung over the back of Father’s horse, the rest just as empty as they were hours ago when Father rode out.

She hopes it’s oats. If it’s potatoes again they won’t last them two days.

“Listen up!” Father bellows after hopping off the horse, the other two following. “We pack camp come morning and keep moving north! The locals have no trouble for us to solve.”

A murmur spreads at the words, loud enough Byleth can barely pick up the men nearest to her say some of the words Father had her promise not to say.

“And our pay?” someone, Byleth can’t tell who, speaks over the noise from deeper in the crowd.

“You get the pay when there is pay. Now, all of you, as you were! Unless you want me to find you something to do.”

The murmur goes away as the mercenaries do, breaking off into groups and each continuing to grumble among themselves as they return to whatever they were doing before coming to hear the news. Byleth looks to her side, where Sothis sits in the air, her expression much like Father’s, softening when they lock eyes.

“Well? Don’t tell me we’ve waited this long for nothing.” She tilts her head towards Father, reminding Byleth what she meant to do.

Father’s eyes, too, grow less stormy once she approaches him to put her hand in his. He sighs, running his free hand through his hair.

“Let’s go,” he says, before grasping the horse by its reins and leading the way to the near-empty stable tent, the other two riders following with theirs.

Once the horses are each in their boxes, Father grabs the feeding buckets, and to Byleth’s alarm, pours the barley inside the two sacks he brought into them, until there’s nothing left, before hanging the nine buckets inside the boxes. They watch in silence as within moments, the buckets are emptied.

A faint warmth touches her back through all the layers she’s dressed in as Sothis loops her arms around her shoulders. She looks at Father, whose warring expression finally settles into a smile much more like her own that his.

“Sorry kid. Promise I’ll get more the next time. Can’t let the horses starve, can we?”

Byleth supposes not. It would be a shame if all that meat wasted away into skin and bones.