Chapter Text
Log 1: A Curious Meeting in the Tavern
Narroway, Holy Kingdom of Faerghus
Lone Moon, 1785
“Papa, where are you going?”
It was a simple question back then.
“Out. Be a good kid and don’t give your uncle any trouble, alright?”
“How long are you going to be out?” she asked him, holding her plush doll close to her chest.
“A while. Maybe a few days.” He paused for a minute, then knelt down in front of her. “Will you do me a favor, By?”
She nodded.
Jeralt stared at her. Even when crouching, he was still so much bigger than her. He smiled slightly, a gentle hand on her head. “Promise me you’ll use your gut when you can’t make a decision. It’ll save you more than once. Make a life because you want it for yourself. Not because others ask you to. Can you promise me that?”
With a single nod, she made her father smile. He then kissed her forehead, “Love you, By,” before walking away.
“Love you too, Papa,” she replied.
The last thing she remembers of him is his slight smile as he half turned away from her to open the front door. Then he exited, in the middle of the night, leaving her to stare at the entrance until her uncle came downstairs to ask why she was still up.
She never saw her father again.
Later that year, her uncle told her Jeralt’s body was found. An autopsy was done, but the only explanation for his death was that he had been stabbed in the back by a blade. A part of it was still stuck in him. Chipped off. Black as the night sky, and slightly curved.
Her uncle didn’t allow her to see him. Said he didn’t want her last memory of Jeralt to be his dead corpse. Informed her that he was cremated, and the jar of his remains is buried in a plot of the cemetery in Fhirdiad.
But that was 13 years ago. She and her small family have since moved on. Both figuratively, and literally.
Still, on this day, the day she was told her father was dead, she likes to honor him with a drink. He spent a lot of time in the taverns. Maybe since he often got tired of just hammering away in his smithy. One of the best in Fhirdiad at the time.
Or maybe because he missed his wife. Her mother, Sitri. Died when Byleth was only five. She doesn’t have a lot of memories of her.
In recent times, she, her uncle, and her younger cousin have been living in the port town of Narroway for three years now. Enough of a while that it’s not odd for the barkeep to recognize her. Gives her the usual. Her father loved his rum, and while she’s not really all that into alcohol or spirits and the like, she drinks it to feel connected to him. The regulars in the tavern know all too well the nature of her visits since the first time she stepped foot in here.
But to passing travelers, or other people finding a new haunt, it’s strange for them to see a cleric enjoying a pint in a tavern. Especially a female one.
Byleth keeps to herself as she slowly drinks from the mug. Her uncle always disapproved of her doing this. Does it once on her father’s birthday. Again for her own. One for the new year. And finally, for his death. She’s not exactly sure when he died. Just that it was during winter. She feels like he’s still here with her when she’s in the tavern. That’s why sometimes, she even drinks on special holidays, as that’s what he used to do too. (And then there are days she just comes in here when her station becomes too much.)
The tavern is warm. Well-lit by the modest chandeliers. The fireplace is going and idle chatter makes thinking almost impossible. She’s not really one to eavesdrop, but having nothing else to do, her ears wander now and again. Or sometimes, people will notice her in the dark little corner. Looking warm in her thick habit worn by the clergy at the local church. Hair hidden and her face framed with the required coif all nuns and most priests wear. Top of her head kept warm with her round cap, a plain white veil behind her.
So, it’s hard not to stand out.
She’ll often get people trying to confess their sins to her, and she always tells them that’s not her duty in the church. She’s a healer utilizing white magic. Just because she knows the holy texts of Seiros doesn’t mean she’s equipped to bear the weight of the sins people wish to unload onto her. (And when they try to show her an infliction, like a laceration with pus or an oddly angled toe, she says she’s on her break. To come by the church later if they really want to be healed—which preferably won’t be by her.)
There aren’t many honest folk in taverns. Most of them are up to things that she has no business learning about. The barkeep said a couple of years ago, he used to get a few pirates now and again. But not anymore. Once or twice she’s met a couple, but they never made trouble for her.
They’re just like the rest, confessing their secrets that don’t involve treasure. Even though she tells them that’s not what she’s here for. Though, she has gotten some interesting stories memorized. Ones she’s not sure are real. They might’ve been pulling her leg, especially since half the time they were drunk. But the tales were entertaining, at least.
Hard to believe pirates still ponder on the word of Seiros, considering all the pillaging and plundering they do. But maybe they think being nice to the clergy will spare them of an ill fate at the last second.
She likes listening to their stories, despite all the times her Uncle Seteth has scolded her. Tells her to be smart, and not associate with such ruffians. But she’s pretty pragmatic for a nun, she supposes. If they want to talk, she’ll let them talk, regardless of their ilk. Maybe that’s why she exasperates him with her blunt, almost nonchalant attitude.
Not like she asked for this career. But it’s one she does well, and helping people with her healing magic does make her feel good.
“This seat taken, Sister?”
Byleth looks up from staring at her mug. Even before she says anything, the stranger already pulls out the chair across from her and sits down. He has his own cup, filled with what, she doesn’t care.
The benefits of frequenting a tavern is that she can put names to faces of the usual crowd. But this one’s new. Very handsome too in her objective opinion. Well-defined jaw where facial hair grows, not reaching his chin. A mild beard of sorts. Wide shoulders. Thick eyebrows and a pleasant slope to his nose. Nice lips and an equally charming smile to boot. Short, but fluffy dark brown hair slicked back with a stubborn lock almost fashionably sticking out from his hairline. Warm brown skin.
She wonders if he’s from Duscur, or maybe beyond the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. But it’s his green eyes that really get to her. Such a pretty hue.
Uncle Seteth’s reprimand is already echoing in her ears at letting her eyes wander. Not like nuns and priests aren’t allowed to marry, or court. Then again, he almost fainted after finding Flayn’s secret stash of erotic novels—and that wasn’t Byleth’s fault. She was just as surprised. Those were books even she hasn’t touched.
“You’ve already taken a seat,” she replies. “Me telling you to go ahead seems pointless now.”
He smiles at her. His teeth are white. Must have at least decent money to keep them looking like that. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. Not every day I see a cleric in establishments of drink. Isn’t that against your teachings?”
So, he must not be from the expanse of Fódlan. Everyone in the three countries knows of the Seiros faith, including Duscurians, regardless of whether or not they decide to practice it.
“We’re allowed to drink,” she informs. “Just not often. Wine allotted once a week, and specifically with dinner. Preferably only on special occasion. Any other kind of alcoholic beverage is limited to once every three months. And by once, I mean just one cup.”
But, that’s a rule she’s sort of skirted on. Only in remembrance of her father, of course.
“Huh, interesting.” He leans back against the chair, an arm draped over it. With his other hand, he brings the mug up to his lips. “So, what’s a lady of the cloth like yourself doing here?”
“Tradition. A sort of toast to my father who died—was murdered, thirteen years ago. That’s the only reason I come here. Four times a year. Once for his birthday, once for mine, once for the new year, and once for his death. Sometimes more, like on certain holidays or other special circumstances. Otherwise, I prefer not to drink.”
His frown looks genuine when he says, “My condolences.”
Byleth shrugs. “I’ve had my chance to grieve, and I did. But getting stuck on the past helps no one.”
Even so, if she’s left alone to her thoughts for too long, she stews on the images of slaying whoever it is that killed Jeralt. Maybe that’s why Uncle Seteth taught her the ways of a cleric. Showed her how to heal, instead of how to injure. A path of revenge isn’t a well-paved road.
“You have a point there,” her table companion says after he takes a drink. “I prefer for the past to motivate me rather than anchor me.”
“A good choice.”
It grows quiet between them, save for the usual ruckus of the tavern. Byleth takes another drink of rum. There’s only half of it left now. She’ll have to leave once it’s finished.
“Say, Sister,” he starts up again, “do people bother you when you come here?”
“Not really. Most of them know why I visit. Newcomers, like yourself, usually ask me about it though since I’m an odd sight.”
“But in the most intriguing of ways, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” she replies with another shrug. “Never thought of myself as particularly interesting.”
The stranger smiles again, taking another sip of his pint. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Byleth Eisner.” Her uncle always cautions her to not mention her name if she can. Though, he’s never said why. Just that it’s good practice. “Most people call me Sister Leth, though.”
Now the man’s smile falls, looking mildly surprised. It’s soon wiped away, replaced with a neutral expression. He glances over both his shoulders discreetly before he asks, “Eisner? Your mother’s surname, or your father’s?”
“My father’s. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, per se. Just that—every Eisner I’ve come across—no,” he rubs at his chin, “you don’t look much like… hmm, never mind.”
“Something made you react that way in surprise,” she says. “What is it?”
He regards her with a calculating gaze. When he stops rubbing at his chin, he asks, “Do you get a lot of pirates out here? This being a port town and all.”
“I’ve only lived in Narroway for three years. From what I’ve heard, pirates haven’t shown up for several winters now. Not since the Kingdom increased security in all the port towns and cities, fortifying them with more troops. But sometimes, it still does happen. Always on a small scale though. Never really been a panic.”
This town in particular got a good chunk of new soldiers stationed at the naval base. Most people just think it’s to better protect the average citizen from pirate attacks. But, there is a rumor going around among the upper echelons of Narroway, and even within the church. One she is choosing to vehemently disbelieve.
Apparently, there are whispers that Crown Prince Dimitri is more than a little smitten with her. She’s not sure why, since they hardly interacted when her family still lived in Fhirdiad. She’s only known him for a few years. He frequented the cathedral there out of royal duty where her Uncle Seteth used to preach.
She hopes gossip is all it is—is going to choose to regard them as rumors, nothing more. Byleth has no intention to become involved with anyone, let alone marry. Uncle Seteth would prefer she not be courted in general. Not after what almost happened to Flayn.
Kidnapped and nearly smuggled overseas under the guise of ‘marriage’. Since then, her father, Uncle Seteth, has been rightfully paranoid. No doubt he wants to spare his niece the risk of repeated history. Her poor cousin. At least she’s in much better spirits now.
Once whispers about the prince were known to him, Uncle Seteth had them move away from Fhirdiad to this modest port town of Narroway. Still within Blaiddyd territory, but at least too far that it’d be an inconvenience for the nobles living in the capital to try and sneak themselves into their lives. The excuse he used was, “Our talents in healing and prayer would be more consistently utilized in smaller and more humble communities.”
Even so, out of a concern for her—Flayn seems to believe—Dimitri had some of the best naval and infantry soldiers relocated here just to protect her. Byleth chooses to believe he’s just being smart about the division of his troops, to station them in places more at risk of pirate attacks. (She knows if she asks about the rumored other reason, he’ll deny it in that polite way of his.)
“I see,” the stranger says. “But don’t you think the pirates might’ve outsmarted the Kingdom soldiers by now? I wager some of them got crafty and are dressed as regular civilians to carry out their work.”
“Pirates have a particular way of looking. And smelling. I’d know if one was around here.”
He laughs. The stranger stares at her, that smile still on his face. Then he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table surface. “You know what I think?” He glances around subtly before continuing, “There’s probably a pirate or two in this tavern right now. Care to make a wager?” he asks with a wink.
Byleth eyes him, wondering if he’s speaking of himself. He doesn’t smell bad though. No rotted teeth or other poor personal hygiene. There are also plenty of people in here she doesn’t recognize, so it could be any one of them.
“Alright,” she starts, “I’ll play along,” even though some voice in the back of her head is calling her an idiot. “What’s the wager?”
The stranger lifts up his index finger. “One favor. If you win, I owe you. But if I win, then you owe me. Simple, right? So friend, what say you?”
Byleth isn’t a gambling woman. Never saw the need for such a thing. But maybe it’s in the spirit of her father that she’s being more risky, and agrees to this man’s wager. And she does like being owed favors (she gets a free meal out of them, usually, which is always welcome).
“Fine. How many chances do I get?”
Even if he tries to dupe her, she carries a dagger around for a reason. Jeralt taught her swordsmanship while he was alive. When he passed, Uncle Seteth took up the mantle of her combat tutor. For a priest, he’s surprisingly adept with weapons. He was more agreeable to continue her training too after Flayn was kidnapped.
Handsome Stranger ponders for a moment, rubbing at his jaw. Never takes his eyes off of her. “I’m not a man to give anyone an advantage over me under any circumstance. But I’ll admit I find you amusing, so, I’m willing to bend just a little.”
He holds up two fingers.
Byleth nods. “Okay.”
She glances around the tavern. Pays attention to body language. The folds in people’s clothes. Searching for an outline of a weapon or something. A scabbard. A pistol. Or even something round, like an explosive. Sees who looks unkempt. Skin damaged from the salty breeze of the sea.
There’s one man who looks like that, at the far edge of the bar. His hair is a little frizzled, and his clothes look more ragged than most. Frayed at the edges.
“That man there,” she says, discreetly pointing to him. “His coin purse is fat, sticking out of his shirt where he’s trying to hide it. No one who looks like that would stay looking like that here. They’d buy themselves and their family better clothing with that much money. But as far as I’ve heard, even with all the treasure in the world, pirates will usually spend it on food and drink—which is what he’s doing. Also on better weapons, maintenance supplies for the ship, and so on.”
She looks at her conversational companion, meeting his eyes. They really are such a pretty variant of green. More on the warmer side, like a peridot. Or the clear waters surrounding Brigid. A place she hasn’t actually been to, but she’s heard many details of its beautiful beaches.
His hisses between his teeth, closing one eye as if cringing. Damn.
“You’d think so right?” he asks. “Has all the tell-tale signs of a sea farer. Alas, he’s just a common merchant sailor. You’ve got one more chance, friend.”
Byleth pouts. For once, she’s stumped. How is she supposed to answer? A lot of people in here look like they’d be a pirate in disguise. But she shouldn’t assume either. Most Faerghus citizens are people of humble origins. And it’s not the richest one of the two countries in Fódlan’s Division either. That would be Adrestia, according to what Dimitri had once told her.
A thought comes to her then, and she sits up straighter.
“It’s a trick. There isn’t a pirate in sight, is there?”
The man grins, almost from ear to ear. Goddess, she sucks at this. But she did her best. Maybe he’ll be sympathetic, and his favor will be mild and not something completely out of the question.
“Ooh,” he sucks in air between his clenched teeth, “good guess, but no. Looks like you lose. Although I’ll give you kudos for assuming it could’ve also been a trick. Shrewd thinking. I like that.”
Byleth sighs. “What do you want? I hope it’s not money, because I don’t really have a lot. Us clerics have low pay since we’re here to serve the people, not the other way around.” Which is fine, honestly, because she’s not a material person to begin with.
He eyes the groceries in her basket. Oh, right. She originally came out to town first and foremost to do shopping for dinner tonight. Well, at least she always saves the fish and meats for last, just in case circumstances like this happen.
“Yeah, I figured,” he agrees. “My prize—or favor, actually, has nothing to do with money. Instead, I want you to meet me later tonight. When the town sleeps. Down the road, where the mill is.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Heeding her uncle’s concerns, this could very well be a trap. This man could try to kill her. Or worse. Better take comfortable clothing then so she can easily move around. And arm herself with hidden daggers. There’s also the option of just not meeting him. He doesn’t know her, or where she lives.
Ah, right though. She no longer has a house with her family. She lives within the grounds of the chapel. This man could still try to find her there. No point in giving Uncle Seteth a heart attack like that.
“Fine. I’ll meet you then.”
“Alright,” he says with a grin. “It’s a date. I’ll be expecting you, Sister Leth.”
He takes a long swig of his mug and then leaves it on the table. One last smirk at her before he’s out the door. She observes him as he walks. There’s no dagger, scabbard, or even a pistol on him. Is he just a shady merchant? They’ll sell to even the most seedy of people if they’re desperate enough. Including to the scourge of the seas.
Byleth takes her time in finishing her rum, carefully glancing around the tavern once more. Now there’s a higher number of people with the evening starting to fully roll around.
I wonder who the pirate was in here?
⟣ ⋯ ⟡ ⋯ ⟢
She lies about her day being uneventful as she cooks dinner for her family. They have a modest quarters within the chapel grounds since her uncle is one of the primary priests here: a small common room with a kitchen and reading area, two bedrooms (one for him, and one she shares with Flayn), and a bathing room with a latrine attached in a separate space.
“You make the most marvelous fish, Leth!” Flayn chirps. She hums as she takes another bite out of her trout.
“Thanks. I try to make meals edible.”
Uncle Seteth certainly can’t cook, and neither can Flayn. Jeralt was the best at it, but his food was always bland. She was told Sitri was wonderful at it though, as if she were a professional chef in a noble’s estate. And, well, after she passed, for everyone else in the family to be terrible in the kitchen just wouldn’t do.
Byleth taught herself, reading her mother’s cookbook of personal recipes. Especially after Jeralt died. Even if his food was under seasoned, at least it was edible. She can’t say the same of the cooking that comes from her remaining two relatives.
“You appear to be getting better at this every day,” Uncle Seteth tells her with a slight smile. “Although, I suppose I should be the one to prepare our meals. You are mere children after all.”
“Uncle, I’m twenty-one.”
“Well, I meant to me. Even if you happen to be a young lady, it is still my responsibility to look after you. I…,” he frowns, knife lightly clinking on the plate, “promised your father I would in the event something happened to him. And I do not take that promise lightly.”
“I know, Uncle,” she says softly, poking her fork through the greens she made alongside the fish.
The crackle from the fireplace is the only sound between them for a few moments after that.
Not much else is said at the dinner table. Uncle Seteth goes over what tomorrow’s duties will be. Byleth is to assist him in a baptism and Flayn is to be part of the choir. The rest of the day will be spent in the sick bay, tending to those who have colds or other inflictions.
Wintertime in Faerghus is the worst time of every year. It’s why Byleth tries to be smart with her spending. Only buying what her family will need, and not the possibilities. Food shortages are common, and one too many a time the church has had the duty of keeping it stored to properly ration it out to the commoners. The nobles almost never need their assistance, on the other hand.
If she can do her small part and only take what she needs, then maybe that will help feed others who need it more.
Once all lanterns are put out, and her uncle and cousin have gone to sleep, Byleth dresses in thick stockings and warm trousers. A long-sleeved shirt and a hooded coat. She keeps her hair down, tied back in a loose ponytail.
Quietly she takes out her dagger from a drawer and then lightly steps out of the room, careful to not let her boots clop on the floor. She closes the bedroom door softly, and then wraps a scarf around her neck as she heads outside.
Not bringing a lantern with her is probably a bad idea. But she doesn’t want to get caught, or alert anyone to her presence. And because of that, it’s also probably a bad idea to sneak Petunia out of the stables at this time of night. But the mare has always been true to Jeralt whenever he needed her to do something. Byleth has just as much faith in the ol’ gal as her father did.
A silver lining of tonight is that the skies are clear and the moon shines bright, reflecting off the still, white snow. It eases her trips through the backroads of the town. The ones with dirt. The ones paved with stone will surely draw attention from the soldiers doing their night patrols.
Byleth soon comes to the familiar path that takes her to the mill just outside of town. There’s nothing here except that, so not many people come this way. The owners are also asleep, if the dark windows of their house are anything to go by.
She’s not sure where to meet the mysterious individual from earlier though.
“Come on girl, let’s see if we can find him.”
Petunia is steered around the mill, but it’s not until she gets to a small clearing in the nearby forest that she sees the tavern stranger. He has a lantern lit, one that’s bright enough to illuminate the little glade.
Like earlier, he has that peculiar smile on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest. Much like her, he’s dressed for the cold winter night in thick clothes that almost look like they’re lined with… fur? How could he afford that? Definitely some kind of merchant.
“Alright, I’m here.” She hops off her horse, boots crunching in the snow. As she approaches, she’s suddenly aware of how much taller he is than her. She’s sad to admit she’s on the shorter side when it comes to height, even to some other women. “What do you want? I’m not giving you sex.”
He laughs, reminiscent of the one back at the tavern. His smile looks a bit more genuine now. “Oh no, that’s not what I want. I wouldn’t dare defile a lady of faith such as yourself. And while I’m all for being a little more adventurous when in the throughs of passion, I’d rather not freeze off the family jewels, you see.”
The handsome stranger walks closer. Sharp shadows are cast on his face from the lantern between them. “The favor that I want, however, still requires lively movement.” He tosses her a scabbard. “Duel me.”
She catches it in her hand. It’s pretty plain. Nothing notable about it. Just black with silver corners. Kind of thin, so the sword must be as well.
“What?” she says, staring at the thing before looking up at him.
“Exactly what you heard.” He unsheathes his sword—cutlass, actually. Like the kind that…
Oh goddess.
“You’re the pirate?”
He twirls the weapon by the hilt in his hand. “Guilty as charged,” comes his reply, complete with a charming smile and a wink. “I look pretty good for one, huh?” He spreads out his arms, as if presenting himself on a stage.
What have I gotten myself into?