Chapter Text
A morningstar crashed heavily down on the thin blade of Byleth’s sword, the impact racking through her wrists, down her arms in a cold wave, threatening to make her falter. A thin crack raced up the middle of her cheap blade, looking as if the steel would unfold at the seams and allow the spikes of the morningstar to sink deep into her skull. If she pushed back, the blade would surely break, and yet she couldn’t dally. Locked into the fight like this, it was only a matter of seconds before another enemy could notice and take full advantage. Her father’s horse neighed from the other side of the battlefield, signaling that no help would come from there – not on time, anyway.
But this was nothing new for her.
With the grace of a cat, Byleth hooked her leg behind the bandit’s and pulled. His armor surely weighed many times what she did, but she didn’t need to overpower, all she needed was for gravity to tug. The laws of nature were all you could really know and hope for in the heat of the battle – her opponent lost his balance, the morningstar slipped from the blade with a deafening sound of nails on a chalkboard. Byleth was on her opponent in seconds, ducking under the wide arch of the threatening weapon and throwing her body weight against plated chest. Already unstable on his legs, the bandit toppled as if inanimate, finding just enough time to curse before a thin blade was struck inside his visor. Death silenced him before he had the chance to scream, giving way to a stifled gasp from somewhere nearby.
Byleth tore around to face her next opponent – an archer – clearly young and inexperienced, trembling fingers desperately trying to fumble an arrow onto the frayed string of a bow. So, easy prey – she’d be at his throat before he could finish. Byleth pulled on the handle of her sword, but in a last act of defiance, the spasming body of the previous bandit refused to let go. The hairline crack left by his morningstar burst open at the contest of strength. Her sword almost crumpled, leaving only an oaken hilt resting in between her curled fingers.
This precious second was enough for the archer to finish notching the arrow and let it fly.
So what? Another fraction of a second lost, though she stared right at it. The rising young sunlight of spring reflected off the crude arrowhead. Does he deserve to die any more than I do? The opportunity to duck out of the way of the arrow passed and still, she stood rigid. He might take mine, but he will avenge so many others…
“Byleth!”
A thundering of horse hooves, the bay of a war steed covered her line of sight. The arrow found a target, Jeralt cried out and it was then that Byleth knew – this wasn’t right. A normal heart would surely be seized by fear, by grief and yet the only word that she could put to her emotions was defiance. Yes. She defied this, defied death, and defied time.
Behind closed eyelids, she saw a throne of jade.
My! But what have you gotten yourself into now!
A voice hers, but not at the same time, one she had heard echoing through dreams and fevers born from infected wounds.
I must say, I never thought you’d accept death so readily. Is guilt weighing your heart? For a moment, it sounded concerned. But only for a moment. Pfooey! You are a warrior! Warriors are known to fight, is that not so? Mourning for the lives of the fallen! Why, have you ever considered how many you’ve saved with your sword? How many innocents live on now because of you?
Byleth opened her mouth to respond. The air of the darkness around her tasted of stardust. She couldn’t find the words.
Even so, all that hardly matters. You’re putting our lives on the line, and I expect a bit more decency towards mine – if you cannot be as courteous towards yours – than throwing it in the way of the first passing arrow.
Byleth tilted her head in defeat. A pair of green eyes smiled at her from the darkness.
Very well, then. I’ll interfere this once! But next time you attempt this, there will be more in store than a light scolding, I assure you!
Now open your eyes, Byleth.
And fight.
Someone fumbled with a bowstring in the distance. Jeralt’s battle cries echoed downwind from her. Byleth’s eyes opened to see the young bandit, fingers on a frayed string. Her hand fell off the hilt to her sword and locked instead around the morningstar, feeling the heavy weapon resist for a second, before giving way. Mud stuck to the weapon as it was lifted. And then unceremoniously: thrown. Two revolutions in the air and then a sickening crunch as it connected with an unsuspecting skull. The archer fell into the mud, screaming from steel digging into his eyes, grasping for the weapon in a futile attempt to lift it. From what was left of his vision, he saw a shadow cover him, before Byleth rested her hands on the hilt of the morningstar and pushed.
The hoofbeats of her father’s horse once again raced towards her, but this time Jeralt wasn’t there to take an arrow. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t already done so. Blood trickled down his sleeve, dancing between his fingers for a moment, before continuing its race down his spear, mingling with the blood of their foes. Byleth watched it trickle down into a pool amid the muddy ground, as if entranced.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, raising her hands, palms up. Jeralt let his spear fall into them and Byleth clutched it tightly in her fists, she could feel the warmth of the blood-soaked oak even through her leather gauntlets. “I’ll take care of it,” she murmured, releasing the spear with one hand to take the horse’s reigns and lead her away from the battlefield, to where the bandits had made their camp. Jeralt dismounted heavily and with a grunt, falling almost immediately to one of the stumps the bandits had appropriated as seats. Joach, his horse, neighed in protest and shook her head, as if checking if her mane – which Jeralt had grabbed perhaps a bit too roughly on his way down – was still there.
Byleth stabbed his spear into the ground and crouched by the extinguished fireplace. A few strikes of the tinderbox and the fire was lit, soon to have a pot of water boiling over it, appropriated from one of the nearby tents. While Byleth worked on disinfecting bandages, Jeralt took the opportunity to shed his armor and inspect his wound – a shallow sting of an arrowhead. His daughter raised her disapproving gaze from her work.
“Keep pressure on it,” she reprimanded while fishing for the bandages with a wooden stick. From the corner of her eye, she could see Jeralt pressing his tattered shirt against his shoulder. This wound would be healed in no time, and yet… It was hard not to notice the litany of scars her father had amassed. Shoulders, arms, chest, even his face had seen the wounds of battle, now more prominent than ever against the pale skin of a man who takes too many night shifts. Such was the fate of a mercenary, sure, but Byleth couldn’t help but to feel like there was something she could do. A path she could take that would ensure that her father would never have to put his life on the line for just enough coin to get them through the week.
“Thoughts?” Jeralt spoke up, voice breaking through the wind that had picked up and now rustled the treetops of the nearby forest.
There were a lot of them, Byleth had to admit, and not all of them were ones she would had liked to discuss. Putting her worries into words was… difficult. She never felt that she said things right, her face too deadpan, voice too monotone, so she avoided those topics. Even with her father, conversation was curt and to the point.
Though perhaps Jeralt too had a hand to play in that. Whoever has heard of a talkative mercenary?
“I heard that voice again.” She chose the first thing that came to her mind that didn’t concern her father.
“In the middle of the battle? What did she say?”
“I think she helped me.”
She could almost feel Jeralt’s quizzical gaze on her back, though she did her best to ignore it as she hung the cooled bandages over her forearm. “Raise your arms up,” she ordered, but these short grumbles were nothing new between them. Jeralt obliged and Byleth crouched by him, steady hands wrapping warm bandages around the wound. She had, several times, pressed her share of the pay into her father’s hands and demanded he see a healer, but the money had always ended up back in her nightstand. They needed it… They really did, to feed their horses and sharpen their swords and patch their amor. But Byleth needed her father, alive. So, she gathered what little she had made and took it to a healer, begged her to teach her how to heal.
She had left with a few tomes on white magic and all her money still in her satchel.
Her name had been Marianne.
Byleth doubted they’d ever see each other again – staying in large cities had always been a rarity. The inns were expensive, the food more so, and she suspected that once the two of them left Derdriu behind them, she’d never again get the chance to walk on its intricate bridges that weaved and weaved over brilliantly blue waterways. Never again would she see a city light up in thousands of reflections of the setting sun, mirrored in hundreds of waterways, like a fire burning on the calm waters. She would no longer be able to accept Marianne’s invitation to tea in the wee hours of the morning when Jeralt was still asleep – and she loved the herbal brews that she was offered in those quiet church rooms where you never felt alone.
But the road leads only forward, and she’d have to forget Marianne, as she did every other fleeting companionship.
Byleth’s brow scrunched in concentration and a white glow surrounded the fingers that nimbly tied off the last bandage. A hum of divine magic awoke the air, but she could barely begin the spell when Jeralt’s hand had grabbed her own. Byleth’s gaze snapped up to meet her father’s, her own eyes uncharacteristically wild. The brown she was met with was no less so.
“Where did you learn this?” Byleth had never heard his voice like this – calm and composed on the surface, but she knew enough to hear the anger beneath it. The words came pressed from between his teeth, a growl threatening to rise from somewhere beneath them. Jeralt had never spoken like this before, and for just a moment, a spark of irrational fear surged through her. Her next words were almost a jumble.
“A healer. It was a healer in Derdriu.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to help. You keep… I want to help you, father.” Her voice shook just barely, but it was enough for Jeralt to let go of her hand. Byleth remained crouched in front of him and for a moment neither moved, treading in unfamiliar territory and unsure of what to say. Jeralt’s hand hovered still in the air, as if deciding a fitting punishment for his daughter’s perceived crime. Byleth’s chest felt tight with anxiety, her heart speeding up for the first time since the beginning of their battle. The air around them tasted of stardust.
“I’ll get Dorte,” Byleth croaked, voice breaking over the name of her horse. The air shimmered around her as she stood, the hum of magic subsided.
She had to force her legs to work properly, although she was certain the way she walked – swaying slightly from the tremble in her body – would give away the anxiety coursing through her veins. Her feet were moving quick towards the edge of the campsite, where a massive wall of forest stood between them and the main road to Derdriu, and she willed them to stop moving so fast, but her body had a mind of its own, propelling her forward and not stopping until she disappeared between a protective layer of trees and bushes. Her body slumped against the smooth bark of a birch, gaze trailing over her shoulder to confirm that she was alone. An arm wound around the lean trunk of the tree, fearing that her panic should once again take over her body.
From nearby, brown eyes, almost as wild and frightened as hers, were locked upon her slumping figure.
Dorte stood in the thicket, pulling nervously on his reigns that securely tied him to a tree. Unlike Jeralt’s pureblooded Arabian warhorse, Dorte was a simple Draft, sold for plowing fields, yet purchased as a mercenary’s steed. Where Joach was calm throughout any battle, her Dorte was often left to the sidelines even before, as not to risk the horse putting her into a dangerous situation. Even now, he had dug a deep indent into the forest floor with his hooves, trying to escape the nearby sounds of fighting.
Byleth regarded her steed for a moment, composing herself by letting her eyes follow the swirl of his coat on his forehead. “You and me both, buddy,” she confirmed to her steed and stood again to free him. “I’ll take you somewhere less scary, promise.”
Byleth’s hand rested on the stallion’s black nose, remaining there through several snorts of discontent, yet it seemed like the horse trusted the words told to him. He threw back his head one last time, but only to stick his nose into his rider’s hand, looking for any treats. Coarse hairs on the tip of his snout tickled Byleth’s palm, breaking from her a short-lived laugh. “There now, boy, I’ll give you all the treats I have once we make it back to Derdriu.” This seemed to settle things for the moment – reins were untangled from the poor, damaged bark of the birch tree and Byleth hauled herself into the roughly made saddle, turning Dorte onto the path to the former bandit camp.
Her heart still squeezed in anxiety when the two of them broke the treeline, but she pushed it down best she could, her knuckles around Dorte’s reins turning white.
Jeralt had already stomped out the fire Byleth had lit and was assessing a sword he had found in the remains of the camp. Seeing Byleth, he reached it out to her, hilt first. “Not the sharpest, but it’ll be fine until we find you a new one.”
Back to normal then? She bit back the sigh of relief that wished to break her lips and reached out a hand for the sword. It felt heavy in her hand, a sturdier material than her last one.
“Thanks, dad. I hope the next one doesn’t break.” The bandit sword was sheathed while Jeralt hauled himself onto Joach.
“We’ll get enough from this job to order a steel sword from a smith.”
“With our experience…” Byleth turned her eyes to Jeralt, feeling grateful for how easily they fell right back to their conversations.
“Yes, we could afford an entire armory,” Jeralt seemed to agree, nodding his head thoughtfully. It was intended to pull a reaction from Byleth, and in that it succeeded. The young mercenary sat straighter up on her horse and angled her eyes to her father, mouth opened in what was to be the beginning of a protest. It were these moment where life shone through her eyes for just a moment that Jeralt could feel even a little sense of reprieve – getting a little scolding from his daughter was worth it.
“… refuse to accept it,” Byleth had finished one of her rare tangents that almost even culminated in a huff.
Jeralt simply nodded along helpfully. “And I’ll promise to stop if you beat me to Derdriu.” He said it so casually too that Byleth almost missed the entire meaning of what had been spoken and the way Jeralt dug his heels into Joach’s sides. Her feet moved as if on their own, responding to the challenge and soon the two horses were kicking up a formidable cloud of dust as they raced towards the far-towering Derdriu.
Dorte was gaining steadily on Joach, easily stepping over obstacles that the smaller steed had to maneuver around. His bulky frame carried Byleth and her supplies more easily and soon overtook Jeralt and his over-loaded horse.
Yet, it were the forest standing between them and the main road that proved to be the one enemy Byleth could not best. Where Joach weaved gracefully through the trees and leaped over bushes, Dorte was forced to stop and find a path through that would allow his hulking form to pass. Branches whipped against her face as she tore at Dorte’s reigns, stopping him from stepping into a rabbit’s den unnoticed by the large creature. Joach’s hoofprints disappeared into the distance and Byleth huffed, turning Dorte and pressing her heels petulantly into his sides. She really had no choice but to keep him at a steady walk – a race wasn’t worth breaking her horse’s legs over.
So, by the time Byleth stopped her out-of-breath mount by the looming gates to the city, Jeralt had found the time to restock his favorite flask from the inn just outside and was animatedly chatting with one of the guards.
“Cheater,” she threw his way in passing, but the half-hearted comment was met only by a chuckle. Jeralt heaved himself upon Joach, trailing behind Byleth down the cobblestone roads of Derdriu.
Even from the road leading into the city, the mercenaries had noticed the rare lack of people milling along the roads. Most of the establishments were closed and where fruit or book stands were usually erected, now tabby cats laid in the warmth of Derdriu’s sun. They exchanged quizzical glances but seeing the same puzzled look mirrored on the other’s expression realized neither of them had an answer. Jeralt’s hand shifted carefully to the hilt of his sword and Byleth let Dorte take over following Joach as she scanned their surroundings.
But the inn’s doors were open all the same and a local child watering the flowerbeds for some extra coin waved at them enthusiastically as they approached the building. A plaque in the shape of a deer’s head hung just above the door, announcing that they had made it back to the Golden Deer Inn.
It was certainly too high-brow of an establishment for them to stay at. The blooming rose bushes, paved roads and tables set into a beautiful back garden proved the nature of this place, as well as its price range. No – these sorts of places were only good for picking up contracts. For bed and breakfast, the two stayed outside of city bounds where prices were tolerable.
“I’ll go get our gold. Look after the horses.”
Byleth didn’t need to respond as she watched her father disappear between the open door. She could catch a glimpse of a number of patrons inside, the scent of alcohol overpowering, even from here. It was usually Jeralt who dealt with the customers. Inside cramped spaces with a sea of people… Byleth didn’t fare well there. She had explained it to her father once, how her chest cramped up as if everyone else was breathing the entire supply of oxygen around her, and how her palms started sweating and her whole body trembled as if from the onslaught of a massive fever. He didn’t have a name to put to what that was, but they had agreed that Byleth could stay away from crowds whenever possible.
So, she was left to guard the horses. Bored, she threw around a quizzical look, examining her surroundings. White-brick buildings announced (loudly) the wealth of what surrounded her. The people here… what were their lives like? Better than hers? But how can she think that? She was fairly sure that should she be forced into a lifetime of tea parties and politeness; she would be more miserable than living hand to mouth on the road.
But she… wouldn’t have to kill anymore. And perhaps a tea party now and again, a polite conversation exchanged would be a good tradeoff? One she definitely didn’t deserve…
Not this again!
It was almost easy to miss the petulant voice from her head.
A stupid notion, she had to agree. Byleth shook her head, as if to rid herself from the buzzing fly of a thought. The world turned a blur, but from the corner of her eye… paper? She stopped, throwing an inquisitive glance over her shoulder to a previously unseen noticeboard. Unlike those of the smaller villages, this one was covered by a roof from preventing the paper slips nailed to it from getting wet. Rightfully so, as even those stood out here – expensive paper filled with elegant handwriting and supplied with seals.
Curious, Byleth slid off her horse and walked the short distance to the board, her hand immediately drawn to the central notice. The paper under her fingers felt coarse, almost unpleasant to the touch, but she firmly affixed her fingers to its corner, holding it down for a better read. It was even difficult, what with the looping and twisting handwriting of who she presumed to be the Duchy’s scribe (did they employ scribes? Byleth had no idea).
To whom it may concern,
The esteemed Duke Riegan has graciously extended an invitation to every able-bodied warrior to test their mettle on the tournament grounds of Riegan Castle. The best of the best will be awarded with the illustrious title of the Duke’s personal bodyguard.
Glory to the Alliance!
Unbeknownst to herself, Byleth had caught her lower lip between her teeth and was now worrying it almost in time with her eyes which flicked back and forth along the curving letters of the notice. A bodyguard… The Duke’s bodyguard…
I could certainly afford a new sword.
The thought seemed to startle the mercenary out of her stupor, her body flinching away from the noticeboard, the piece of paper between her fingers. With this, neither her nor Jeralt would ever have to risk their lives again just to eat. The fights would stop, the scars would stop and perhaps there would also be … a purpose to her blade.
Off to castle. Meet at inn. – Byleth
“Hey!” the kid watering the flowers cried out in irritation as Byleth pulled her dagger from her belt and used it to affix the crude note to the inn’s wall, just above Dorte’s head. The outrage was left ignored when she pulled herself into Joach’s saddle, hands and feet working in a flowing sync to get the steed moving. After all, she would be given that little bit of credibility if she showed up on a war steed. Sorry Dorte.
The eyes of the golden deer plaque bore holes into her back as she disappeared down the roads of Derdriu.