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It was not a memory.
There was no memory. Just the truth. An inescapable fact that haunted him. Something his soul would never let go despite every strand of his mind making futile clawings at its throat. A contradiction that left him shaking in his sleep until he slept no more. He did not know how it was true, but it was undeniably, horribly, cruelly true. He had died. And he had died again. And again, and again. And he was also still in the waking world, had fled from that failed raid with his blood still pumping, yet as if the steel sword never left his chest.
Crests were idolized by peasants without them, defining for the young nobility with them, and nothing but a curse to those poor bastards, the statistical improbabilities of the universe, who were both on the bottom of society but had a crest within them.
This crest, a crest of memory, was the cause of this undeniable truth within Elzebub. And with that truth was a face; The one with a dark cloak, green hair and green eyes that manipulated time to his will.
---
Byleth’s brow furrowed staring at the pieces in front of him. He and Ingrid had been sitting on opposite sides of the chess board for nearly half an hour, and had reached the game deciding climax of their match. The Monastery cats that had been napping on the sun bathed grass when the two started had woken and lazily strolled across the field, occasionally nuzzling their heads against one of their boots.
Byleth’s gloved hand moved from his chin to the knight piece, moving it one square to the left in hopes to progress his surroundings on Ingrid’s king. Just two turns later, Ingrid won.
Shaking hands, Byleth congratulated his student for her strategic method of victory. He wasn’t surprised, Ingrid always paid attention in class and asked questions. Truth be told, perfect strategy was much easier when Divine Pulse allowed him to see what plans did and did not work multiple times per battle. He couldn’t deny it was a clear advantage, his connection to the Goddess’s powers. And though he saw his mistake in hindsight, rewinding time to his will to win a game was beneath him.
“Mroow?” A stray cat purred, rubbing its cheek against Byleth’s calf. Happy to give the little thing the attention it was demanding, lest it began digging its fiendish claws into his cloak, Byleth scooped up the feline and rested it against his chest as he walked. He felt the purring against his clothes as he pet it. Though his face was blank of emotion, as always, this was soothing.
“Professor!”
Byleth turned at the sound of a guard calling towards him. The sun glinted off the silver helmet’s low visor that covered her eyes. “Seteth has a mission he needs you to handle,” she said, stopping in front of him. “There’s a disturbance in an abandoned village that could be dangerous.” Byleth gave a single nod. The guard grunted as the cat was handed to her, it’s previous holder walking off.
"Mrow?"
--
Metal armor clanked against the sheaved weapons strapped to each soldier's belt as they walked, leaving prints in the tan, sandy ground they were traversing. This, coupled with the casual chatter of his students behind him, was more noise than Byleth cared to handle. Thankfully he was walking in front leading the small troop through the desert like plains, where scanning coordinates could keep his brain occupied. Still, his breathing was more deliberate than usual.
There was no need for his sensitive ears to slow down a simple mission. An abandoned village was essential to cross to reach a neighboring town, yet multiple expected merchants or messengers had either disappeared or been found dead once they entered it. Find who or what it is, take care of it, and get out. It reminded Byleth of his days as a mercenary.
Though not everyone was as experienced as him.
Flayn walked next to him, running her hands through her long loops of hair. Byleth watched her out of the corner of his eye. While the two tended to stay close of their own accord, Seteth had only allowed Flayn to join this escapade under the condition Byleth kept a sword gripped between her and any danger. Her older brother would hardly let Flayn out of his sight without knowing someone would substitute his protectiveness.
"We cannot deploy all of your students," the green haired advisor authoritatively explained earlier within The Monastery's chamber. "The Empire could attack at any moment. There needs to be a strong defense present at all times. However, should things prove worse than anticipated, I suggest bringing half your class and a small battalion to investigate."
“I understand.”
“I trust you can choose who will accompany you. Be ready to leave by tomorrow.”
A little after he had informed Felix, Ingrid and Ashe of the mission, Flayn enthusiastically told Byleth she (after much convincing of her brother) would be joining. Byleth was not skilled at picking up how others feel, but he assumed Flayn had grown sick of the dread of the war, and needed to see something new. The four students gathered their weapons, gear and concoctions quickly and followed their teacher into the sandy plain to the south of the Monastery.
After nearly an hour of walking, the shadowy masses of wood and stone that had once been in the shapes of houses and fences was on the horizon. It looked as if it was a patch of land immune to sunlight, a metaphorical and perhaps literal eternal cloud blocking any rays. A river of black and blue in the middle of a sandy ocean. The chattering of his students had thankfully subsided. Looking back over to Flayn, Byleth felt a familiar sting of responsibility to keep her from harm in his chest.
The man placed his hand on the top of her head, fingers drumming her scalp like he did before asking if she'd like to see a fish he caught or when he approved of one of her harebrained schemes. She looked up, naturally not looking into his eyes, her hands still running through her hair curls.
“Yes?”
“We’ll be there soon.”
“I see. I do not believe I’ve ever seen a village so desomated. What do you suspect we’ll find there?”
Byleth retracted his hand from her head. “Could be bandits. While it’s unlikely, an Empire’s battalion may be waiting there.”
“Whatever it may be,” Flayn said, hands forming into energetic fists in front of her, “I’ll keep you safe, Professor!”
---
Elzebub’s throne was a cobbled mass of jagged wood, held together with spare
rope and tree sap. The shape of the structure was barely legible as a seat unless it’s owner was present, branches protruding randomly. He sat with his thousand yard stare. Whatever materials merchants carried with them were strewn across the shadowed ground, radishes and tea blends decaying into the stone roads as if they knew this was a place of death.
He had grown used to the silence. To him, the cruel, unprovable yet absolute truth was blaring noise that followed his every step. He had grown used to the dark. The looming houses peered down on every angle, swallowing. There was no color necessary. This man was nearly as alone in body as he was in soul.
Then he saw them.
A group of silhouettes on the horizon. Moving closer to this abandoned village were figures, some with swords and armor. More prepared than the others that have come to this place… he must retrieve his scythe. They must be here for him. At the thought, his hand gripped the armrest of his throne, snapping a few sticks within it.
---
A quick snap broke the silence surrounding the students as they walked through the dead village. Immediately heads were turned in the direction of the sound and reflexes sent their hands to their weapons.
“...Sorry, I stepped on a twig.” Ingrid apologetically motioned to keep walking.
Byleth was still leading in front as the group slowly walked through the roads, the ghost town’s torn apart houses bleeding their emptiness into every breath inhaled. The sky was blue, and the yellow moon offered bleak, groggy illumination. It felt as though the shadows were mocking them. Not even flies could be found.
“Maybe we should have brought a lantern.” Ashe whispered, keeping his steps light to stay quiet. “We’re vulnerable to a surprise attack.”
“If these are just bandits,” Felix added, still holding on his sword’s handle, “I don’t see the point in this secrecy. Surely I could rush them and finish this already.”
Byleth chose to ignore the pridefulness of that statement and instead pointed to a smashed apart water fountain they were walking by.
“That’s a good point.” said Ingrid. “Why would bandits stay in a ghost town with nothing to steal?”
“Perhaps they are just resting with the supplies they have?” Ashe suggested, his strong morality arriving to converse. “Bandits are still people, I’m sure they don’t live just to steal.”
“Hmm.” Flayn hummed in agreement.
“Everyone that’s entered this village has been killed. Not exactly ‘resting’, Ashe.” Felix’s monotone voice added power to his sarcasm.
As the speculation between his students went on, Byleth’s eyes fell on one of the many walls of a building and noticed a large piece of paper nailed on to it. There seemed to be writing on it. He signaled the others and moved to read it. This could be a sign of who is waiting here. He squinted to read it in the damp light.
“Once the commander fell the rest retreated,
But my soul was killed, ultimate treason.
The enemy, I knew he cheated,
How, I knew not the reason.
Sounds of broken glass secreted
On the sixth day of the third season.
Only green eyes know why.”
Silence grew denser between the group as they each read the mysterious poster, each now with more questions than answers. Glances were stolen to see if perhaps their classmates knew what this meant. Flayn was the first to say what was on all their minds.
“Is this… poetry?”
“I’m surprised to say, but it seems so.” Ingrid admitted.
The handwriting was jagged and unevenly spaced out, and the paper was rough and had small tears on its side before Byleth touched it.
“Well,” Felix glanced, “That’s goddamn bizarre.”
“Sixth day of the third season… wasn’t that when we took down a band of thieves?” Ashe placed his hand to his chin, thinking. “In a village near here?”
“Good memory. What does that have to do with this amateurish display of rhythmic prose?” Felix asked bluntly.
“It references a ‘commander’ of some kind, and an ‘enemy’.” His innocent voice was troubled by the connecting dots. “Maybe this is about our battle and victory over them? And those that got away came here?”
“That’s... kind of jumping to conclusions, Ashe. What do you think, Professor?” Ingrid asked.
Byleth looked down still at the paper in his hands. As his green eyes scanned over the lines again and again, the pit forming in his stomach grew wider and wider. There were too many coincidences to ignore, too many signs of only he could notice.
Broken glass.
Green eyes.
Cheated.
His cloak suddenly felt heavy on his shoulders. He looked to his side and saw Flayn was still there, her big, green eyes looking up at him, waiting for his explanation. He turned around, and his students were still there. The determined Ingrid. The sharp Felix. The loyal Ashe. Those he had taught, but also knew were capable without him. He gave them an answer.
“There is reason to believe this theory.”
Ashe was right about the sixth day of the third season, another day of fighting off thieves from townsfolk. So common, many considered it training. Byleth’s breath hitched for just one second. What was so innocuous, so unimportant… another way to perfect his battle strategies. Divine Pulse. Byleth’s stream of consciousness was filled with nothing but Divine Pulse and that day.
The way the enemy was spread out, he tried moving Sylvain that way, seeing if that worked, and it didn’t, so go back and try something different. Byleth didn’t have to move, now try Dimitri, send him this way, it did not work, go back, Byleth still did not move. He was staying and slicing down the same thief. It was like chess, moving pawns. Eventually, after half a dozen cycles, he did see the best strategy was for him to move twenty feet south, create an opening, and send Annette to kill the Commander. Done. Surviving bandits scattered, return to the Monastery.
Byleth swallowed his surplus saliva. That thief he killed every spin of time until he survived the final cycle. He was here. In this dark, abandoned village. And somehow he remembered. Byleth did not know what that meant.
But he did know that they had a war to get back to.
“Finding this paper means we’re walking in the right direction.” Byleth stated with faux confidence. “Let’s keep going until we find something, and then leave.”
His students nodded. Placing a hand on Flayn’s arm, Byleth led the walk towards the dark town’s center once more.
---
Elzebub himself had come back from the dead.
Well, he didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything about his deaths. Just that they were defied, despite a certain sword’s wishes. Yet there was no reason for it. There was no knowledge he had on how to resurrect, no special powers. Anyone could have ‘come back’ like he had. Perhaps many did, and they simply did not know.
His laboratory was loud and bright, electricity jumping out occasionally from contraptions. His daily routine of surveying progress here would not be stopped by incoming trouble. The corpses were beginning to rot. Pure stench. He made a mental note to perhaps increase voltage levels on his next experiment while crouching down and plucking makeshift cables out of the veins and foreheads of his subjects. The withering skin easily surrendered the cord with a pathetic pluck. Squirt. Zap. The body flopped back to the floor as soon as he released it.
If he had come back, why couldn’t others?
---
The sounds coming from inside the towering hut was a dead giveaway. There was nothing but silence throughout the rest of the street, the barren nature of this area made Byleth grateful for the rats in the walls of his room. Even without, it was the only shelter in the village capable of housing a living creature. The wood was a lighter brown, and despite how high up it was, he could tell the roof was whole. The person they had to get was in this hut.
Byleth wanted this to be over. Despite the lemon yellow dot of a moon barely moving, it had felt like hours since he read that poem. Moving quickly across the stone ground, he opened the front door- nearly removing it from its hinges. This hut was not a pinnacle of architecture either, it seemed.
His uneasy students gathered around him to peer inside. All that met them was a cylinder shaped room with two sets of stairs; One leading up and one leading down.
“We’ll split up to cover more ground.” Byleth ordered. “Ingrid, Felix and Ashe, investigate downstairs. Let me know if you find anything, but if you are attacked you have my permission to fight. Flayn and I will look for the target upstairs.”
Within a moment Ingrid awkwardly scratched her temple and Ashe glanced away, eyebrows uncertain. Knowing the two that wished to be knights would never question their professors instructions to his face, Felix spoke up.
“Are you certain?” Felix asked, his brow furrowed.
“Yes, splitting up is the most efficient way to search the hut.” Byleth answered, unfazed.
“Not that.” Ashe piped in. “The three of us are melee fighters, while you and Flayn are magic users. Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep the groups balanced, so we’re all prepared for more possibilities?” He raised the bow in his hands to be seen, as if to emphasize his point. There aren’t terribly many options for a bow and arrow in a small room.
Flayn kept quiet, watching this unfold while running her hands through her curly hair, shifting her weight between her feet.
“I know very rudimentary magic.” Byleth explained, crossing his arms. He had to be careful here; Regardless of what he knew about their mission and how it troubled him, he would not allow himself to come off as stubborn or impatient. His values of kindness and trust were well established with his class and he appreciated that. “Weak fireballs, small sparks of thunder. And that’s only because I attend Mercedes’s lectures. My basic, bare minimum ken of magic is not a priority as my own melee combat is.” He gestured to his sword.
“Even still-” Felix began, then stopped. “Wait- if magic’s not at all a priority, why do you even attend Mercedes’s lectures?” He asked suddenly and quickly, allowing his point to be sidetracked by genuine confusion.
“I, uh-” Eyes widening slightly, Byleth quietly stammered to find a response. If not for the dark, his students may have noticed a whisper of pink in his cheeks. “That’s off topic.” He recovered, returning to the monotone expression they knew him for but also now wanting this discussion to end. “You three have worked together many times, and Flayn and I always stay close in battle.”
“Professor,” Ingrid said, clearly gathering her courage to politely say her piece, “With all due respect, I agree with Ashe. We just aren’t sure this is the best…” she trailed off, slowly tapping her hands while looking for the right word. “...Strategy.” Is what left between her teeth.
Letting silence fill the air again, Byleth let out a breath. He looked down at Flayn through the corner of his green eyes, grateful he could expect to see her there. She was not looking back this time, looking down so as not to be involved, her face covered. Understandable. No matter how grown up she claimed to be, the tribal feeling of being the youngest while the elders bickered could not be escaped.
He taught his students well, he could say that. Their points were sound. Tactical. He knew for some of them it was hard to not blindly follow orders. He knew that in the middle of a war, with him as the class’s anchor, they had to know they could trust his every decision. Under the blanket of the blue night sky however, he also knew there was a small girl he would not care to let out of his sight in this abandoned village. Especially when he himself may be responsible for its danger.
But as he said his next sentence, he did not know if a tool he had come to rely on was as safe as he believed. There was no turning back.
“...Have I been wrong before?”
His students looked back at him and then between each other, relinquishing. To them, he had never sent them anywhere but where they should be. Byleth nodded his head as they moved through the door toward the downward stairwell, nodding back. Flayn did not meet their gaze. Once they disappeared from sight, he and Flayn began to walk up the upward stairwell, which as it turned out, was in a spiral coiling around a single white pillar. Byleth led in front.
Their ascent up the stairs was silent. Byleth had talked more in that discussion then he typically tended to prefer. Despite his long time of knowing his students and colleagues, his hand gestures or single phrase sentences would sometimes fail to communicate. When stressed, he chose to not take the risk and forced out sentences, hoping they came off as natural, to avoid confusion. Afterwards, such as now, he needed to refresh.
He did not know why he disliked speaking. He had never met someone else who managed to find difficulty in what came easily to every other person in the world.
Around them was a green, misty light. The stairs did not creak as much as he expected considering the poor quality of everything he had seen before. Byleth looked up. Whatever the spiraling stairs was leading them to, it was the very top of the hut. So tall, and yet only a basement and a top floor. How unique.
Byleth was tired. This was an in and out mission. Find this target, slice his neck with his sword, leave. Then this would be over. All he wanted was to go back to the Monastery and be the beloved professor of few words who returned lost items to students once again. No arguments. How things were before his friend transformed into a bloodthirsty madman speaking to ghosts. Before that friend’s step-sister started a war that plunged the world to chaos and poverty. When things were simple.
“Professor?”
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted. Flayn wanted to talk. Good, he thought. It was time to speak like a normal human being. No reason that should be a problem. He would answer any questions she had.
Did she notice how watchful he was of her? She complained at length over how overprotective her older brother Seteth was, how he watched after her when she explored the Monastery or interfered with her social life to protect her feelings. But he was family, her only family. Byleth was not her family. If she asked for the reason for his protectiveness, he would not have an answer himself.
He would talk, though.
“Yes, Flayn? Do you feel okay?” The effort of his words, blessedly, did not come through in his speech. Still, his head was aching.
“I’m fine! It was actually kind of nice, a long nighttime walk in the fresh air. A little creepy, but nice.” That was good to hear. She had asked to join this mission, and knowing Seteth, it likely wasn’t easy. She deserved even creepy breaks from the militant attitude of their home. This damn war.
“I was actually…” She continued, her steps up the stairs slightly slowing, “...hoping I could apologize.”
Byleth nearly whirled around to face her, but managed to just freeze mid step. Finding his footing and brushing a strand of hair from his face, his mind could barely grasp what he heard. Before he could ask what she could apologize for, Flayn continued.
“I realize I have not contributed much to the discussions of this mission. Deciphering the poem, splitting into groups… I’m sorry for my silence. I just… it’s difficult for me to join conversations. Or to talk to people.”
Byleth stopped climbing the steps once again, this time on purpose. This moment. His eyes closed, he allowed this moment for Flayn. If he could not intellectually forget what the poem indicated, he could pretend to in spirit. He turned around and sat on a step of the spiral staircase, and gestured for her to do the same. After a moment of surprise, she took a seat herself, resting her head on the white pillar within the staircase’s center. They had climbed quite high.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Byleth began, his voice low and soothing. “It does not reflect poorly on you to not speak when you wish not to.” The look of relief on her face helped block out the hypocrisy of his own advice. “Additions in conversation only done out of pressure to make one’s voice heard benefits no one. Secondly, I hope you know I deeply enjoy our conversations. I believe you’re good at talking to people.”
“I’m good at talking at people,” Flayn said bitterly, now looking down at her hands. “Usually about fish, and facts I found about them.” Her hands were folded together in her lap, firmly holding each other. “Because when other people talk to me, I don’t know how, or… what to say back. So I usually… I end up talking about fish for too long. I just...” Her voice nearly cracked on the final two words. She couldn’t hold this in anymore. “I feel like an alien sometimes. It’s lonely.” Her now teary eyes were staring down at her hands in her lap, so firmly, as if forcing them to stay still.
Byleth couldn’t think of anything to say. He trusted his instincts enveloped the girl in a hug, and he felt her head move into the crook of his shoulder, and the warmness of her tears on his neck. She was crying now. He heard her sniffles dilute as time passed, and he tried to make sense of what she had said.
What she described as talking to and at people… was there a difference? Byleth connected to his students through classes, speaking at length on his interests of swords and combat. Talking about things he really, really liked. During tea parties, the other wouldn’t mind his silent nature. Even with the mercenaries, as a young boy, that mutual understanding was there. That Byleth didn’t like conversing. It never came organically.
He always assumed it was because it took him years to say a word at all.
Byleth stroked Flayn’s back as she tried to start explaining again into his shoulder, which came out as gasping blubbering. She felt her hands rub against the fabric of his cloak, which seemed to calm her down. He wouldn’t let go of the hug until she did, and so they sat on the steps for a few minutes. As long as she needed.
After a final sniffle, Byleth heard a thankful whisper from the girl in his shoulder.
“You’re my favorite professor.”
---
Elzebub had been waiting for his prey to arrive for at least a dozen minutes when he heard the sounds outside his door.
The shortcut from his laboratory to his room was mundane to him after months of use. His almighty weapon, his scythe, was stored in his bedroom at the summit of the hut. Aside from it and a mattress, the room was bare. He had it now. However, he had seen the group arrive wielding weapons and armor. With any competency at all they were already at his doorstep.
So he waited patiently for them to walk into their own demise. His lips curled into an unholy grin, sitting down, his back hunched, eager to welcome the imminent corpses to his trusted, blood stained blade. His mighty body tingled with anticipation. Elzebub knew the long, spiraling stairs brought with them the wait. His ears twitched at the faint sound, of talking, and eventual steps up the stairs. A few minutes more.
The voltage that awaited them would be the dose that worked.
How he knew suffering, turmoil, pain. Enough to fill a life was the anguish of unknowingly defying eternal rest burning within him. He never made his prey suffer. Just a quick, permanent death.
---
“He wasn’t mad, right?”
The three young adults had been walking down stairs in the dark silently until Ingrid asked for her comrades' thoughts. If not for them being in single file due to the tightness of the corridor or the lack of light surrounding them, Felix would have shot his old friend a massive eye roll.
“The professor isn’t easy to read, but he rarely gets mad.” Ashe said, walking in front and keeping his hands firmly against the rails to his sides. “Especially not at students.”
“Of course,” Ingrid tried to assure herself. The blond haired girl deeply valued her good graces with her teacher, and the worry she had offended him by questioning his strategy was not pleasant. “Definitely not mad.”
They continued to walk in silence a few minutes more. Every inhale of breath became more filled with dust the further down they traveled. Bumps in the steps and rails were treated with caution, lest splinters arise.
“I expect a challenge, whatever awaits at the bottom of these damn stairs,” Felix muttered.
“What, has your ego not been stroked enough today, Mister. ‘amateurish display of rhythmic prose’?” Ingrid imitated his earlier remark behind him.
“Watch it, you little-”
A quick shushing sound from their front companion cut off that sentence. Ashe raised his arm to signal they stop walking.
“I see something,” Ashe whispered.
At the bottom of the stairs was a single door with a red light emanating from behind it, the only illumination the three had seen for a while. Determinedly finishing their descent, the three stood on the slab of flat ground in front of the unmarked door. Their faces were bathed in the ruby color radiating behind it. Hands to their weapons, stances ready, they steeled themselves to face a threat. Ingrid’s fierce hand forced the door open.
The pitch black stairwell instantly flooded with red light as the open door blasted the bright color through it’s expanded opening. Squinting, Ingrid held her spear in her hands as she walked in, followed by Felix and Ashe, their respective sword and bow in position.
It was larger than expected. There was one row of white tables, the red light stemming from three small beakers near the back of the room perched on one. The rest held large metal boxes, and a few metal working tools. The floor was littered with torn open backpacks, elixirs and packs of food shattered into pieces. Merchant items.
Then they smelled the stench to their left. Not the artificial scent of broken products, but rotting meat. Burnt, rotting meat.
Bodies. A small mountain of corpses piled onto each other, and all had been disturbed. Most were decomposed to nearly nothing but skin and bone. Some were laying on the floor by the pile, more filled but just as dead. The dried blood perversely mixing with fresh on the ground blended naturally with the aggressive cherry light of every corner.
Mouths open in terror; Eyes open, those that had eyes. Eyelids were held open with unknown contraptions, and the eyeballs that laid there were fried and shriveled like raisins at the bottom of the craters that used to be sockets.
Each corpse had wires and cords wrapped around their limbs, some of which contorting arms and legs against their typical directions. They were wrapped inhumanly tight, nearly infused with the dead tissue. Most had open wounds on their heads, scalp sliced in twain and skull smashed to reveal their pink brains. Pieces of jagged metal protruding from random spots of their bodies, stabbed both long ago and new. Within their chests, their wrists, tongues, pink brains.
Bodies hung up across the wall, contorted, the wires around and within their bodies connecting to the many metal boxes, matching the metal within their flesh. Rusty clamps on the floor clutching bloody ears that had no head attached. Every soulless husk had skin charred to hell, and had stayed there.
Felix could not suppress his vomit. With a pained heave, bile spilled onto the floor, mixing with the wet blood at their feet. The thicker liquid absorbed the sludge into its grip as the man's face formed lines of disgust around his mouth for the first time in years.
Ingrid’s brows were arched, her mouth agape and her eyes were empty, not wanting to process what was in front of her. To live in the moment before she entered this hut of horrors as long as her psychological fingertips could allow, until she fell into the reality of the present and screamed.
Ashe felt his hands cover his face before he knew he moved them, blocking the red light from his skin while his eyes drowned in the glow and, also before he realized, tears.
They could not place what this was the aftermath of. The dots felt cruelly far apart. Not a spark of realization was found. The room was silent as lightning, yet the terror as deafeningly loud as thunder. They had seen death, they had killed, but there was no war in this room. No sides, no virtues, just terror.
All they knew while they gripped their weapons was that this could not continue.
---
This was about to end.
The top floor had been reached, many feet above the ground. The previously thin green mist was now thicker surrounding them. After the final stairs was a balcony of wood and a wall with a single door. Byleth and Flayn stood in front of it, partly considering their next move and partly rebuilding endurance from their long climb. They kept as quiet as possible, not hearing any noises from the inside of the blank door. It was oddly well kept.
Byleth looked at his sword, then over to Flayn. The girl looked drained from her tears as well as the long climb up stairs. All Byleth had to do was go in and finish this quick, he thought. He had questions, his mind had not given him a moment’s rest from what this person’s memory meant about Divine Pulse. About him. About Sothis, for all he knew.
If he could, he would get answers directly. If his hand was prematurely forced, he’d investigate afterwards.
“Would you like to wait out here, Flayn?” he asked her in a hushed voice.
“Huh?” She hadn’t expected that. She kept her voice to a whisper as well. “No, I’d like to accompany you.”
Of course. “Let me explain,” Byleth began, cutting to the point. “I’m going to ask this person about the contents of the poem we found. I suspect it relates to something I’d rather keep you out of.” Vague, but true. Explaining the details of Divine Pulse to anyone would raise too many questions.
“Professor,” Flayn used a tone Byleth immediately recognized- when she was making a point to defend her capabilities. “Are my classmates and I not on this mission to utilize our abilities and successfully eliminate the threat of this village? I have successfully fought in vicious battles between armies in this war, whatever is behind this door can surely be handled.”
Looking aside, Byleth felt his respect for Seteth rise. The girl just deflected his point and made an argument he could not dispute within the same sentence. Being her sole guardian as she grew up must have been tiring, and that thought tied back to the reason Flayn was right to disagree.
Byleth was not Seteth. He was not her guardian. He was her teacher and, over time, her friend. He reminded himself had no reason to be so protective of a near expert of faith magic.
Regularly he was not. At the Monastery he spoke with her in their typical rapport, and in battle he gave no one exemption from danger. He obviously would never want his other students to get hurt either. But there was an underlying… togetherness between him and Flayn, like they were going through the same struggles. Byleth just had no idea what that was.
“You’re right,” He told her. She smiled proudly. They took one last second to fulfill their breath before opening the door in front of them.
---
Right outside. Right outside. Right outside.
Elzebub’s wait had become tortuous. He was ready to release his rage, his torment, every last ounce of his unending power into the souls of whoever walked through that door. He nearly felt pity for the unsuspecting foot soldier behind his door, then laughed at the foolishness of that thought. His scythe hungered.
He would destroy them in mere moments. His mere presence would wipe them from the world the second they entered. He who had come back, who knew death could not hurt him and had paid heavily for that knowledge. Surely it was because he was a god! A god that would make the saints themselves quiver in fear and the Goddess bow before him. He was an angry god... with mice turning the doorknob of his room.
---
Slowly opening the door, Byleth was almost taken aback at how bare it was. Flat wooden planks made up the floor he walked in on. The room was dead silent, and not very big. Standing in the middle of the room that had more in common with an empty box with Flayn behind him, Byleth hadn’t been sure what he was expecting. More paper, perhaps, like what he found in town. But the room was bare, nothing that could give him a hint of answers.
Within mere moments he heard whimpering from the room’s corner.
Both he and Flayn turned their heads to the source of the noise. Huddled in the corner of the room was an old man with a blanket tied around his neck, holding a dead branch in front of him.
The old man was weak and short. The wrinkles on his face moved slowly to the terrified expression across his face, and one could imagine them creaking from neglect. He backed himself further into the corner, trying to make himself as small as possible. The blanket draped around him had holes and the few white hairs on his scalp were filthy and disjointed. His clothes hadn’t been changed in months.
Low wails dripped from his toothless gums and barely filled the room. He was waving his branch, a stick clearly picked off the ground, in front of him. It looked as though he was desperately trying to ward them off.
Byleth turned to face him. He saw his eyes widen as he looked to his green hair, then into his green eyes, and to his sword. His wails quickened as he violently shook his own head. When he noticed Flayn, and beheld her hair and eyes, he screamed as loud as his old, dust filled lungs could muster. Not very loud. He buried his head into his arms in disbelief, muttering incoherent ramblings.
Byleth and Flayn exchanged a look of confusion, a practice not foreign between them. This was a weak old man that was inexplicably horrified by their presence. He was holding a stick. This made no sense at all. There was a killer in this village, and the only person here was shivering in fear. What were they even to do?
Reluctantly, Byleth kneeled down in front of him while Flayn watched from where she stood, twiddling her thumbs and thinking of possible explanations. Of all emotions, neither had expected awkwardness to be so prominent.
“Who are you?” Byleth asked in a monotone voice. The only response he received was more fear filled shakings of his head. Whoever this was could not, did not, or at least did not want to believe this was happening.
“Why are you in this abandoned village?” Flayn asked, trying to sound as neutral as she could. There was a hitch in his breath at that, but he continued his huddled whimpers. At least he could understand them, it seemed. Byleth stood, giving him more space.
“The paper nailed to the wall in town. Was that you?” Byleth asked. The ball of an old man dropped the stick out of his shaking hand, nearly convulsing. His breathing became more rapid.
His green eyes narrowed. His guard stayed up. He hoped Flayn understood that even breaking down, this could still be the killer. He had already proven he was unpredictable.
“...S...so I kn-knew… tha… th-th-thaaa....” The old man made his first attempt to speak. His voice was raspy like stone scraping against the hull of a ship, and when it trailed off on a single note it was like the stone tore the ship in two. The stutters had termites of tiny force that had a sound there one second, gone the next. It was as if he was relearning how to use his voice right those moments.
“Continue,” Byleth said.
“That it-t wa...was… real.”
Silence accompanied by the old man’s shaky breaths followed. Byleth and Flayn exchanged another look. The man raised his head from his shell in Byleth’s direction. His stormy eyes hardened like clouds forming into smoky voids glaring into him.
“Um,” Flayn tensed at the pressure, “Can you tell us your name?”
A pause.
“...Elzebub,” his expression softened. Not out of thought, but out of his single track mind being led another direction. “My name is Elzebub.”
“How did you get here, Elzebub?”
“I was a thief…” Elzebub’s ever shifting demeanor became frigid and feeble again, diverting all his attention to recount facts the best he could. His voice was nearly a whisper. “We were a group of bandits. Raiding a town. You…” He turned to Byleth. “You had a legion.”
If any of his features were still recognizable, Byleth could not make them out. He rarely studied the faces of his enemies.
He went on. “I died. I had expected that, expecting, I was prepared. That is part of the job. Expecting. And then you did something… and some unnamed truth tells me you killed me again. It was… undone. Redone. Undone. Redone.”
Flayn tilted her head in confusion.
The pit in Byleth’s stomach returned. His suspicions were as real as the man in front of him. All he could hope was this went down quietly, without too much explanation needed on his part. “How do you know this?”
Each statement was its own breath. “Unnamed truth. I do not know. Something inside me, maybe--”
A lurch of blood shot through the center of his head, succeeded by another out the opposite end, splattering the wall behind him. He slumped forward limp to the floor with a thud, the tip of the arrow erect through his brain pointing to the heavens.
Dead. Silence returned, the weak floor still vibrating from the corpse’s collapse. The body was completely still, blood staining the blanket over it like wine on a carpet.
Byleth had barely understood what happened when he recognized the wooden arrow protruding from the side of the man’s skull. Blood leaking from the fatal wound led his gaze, to his shock, to new shadows on the floor in front of him.
His three other students standing in the doorway. Felix had odd stains on his jacket. Ingrid stared at the body. Ashe holding his bow in one hand, the string still quivering. His lower lip trembled slightly and his throat swallowed something, but his eyes were filled with determination.
Well, Byleth thought, that wasn’t the wrong answer. He looked to Flayn and saw she was mostly unfazed, looking away from it but not upset. He had expected as much, it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. It still relieved him.
The problem was solved. His worries left him.
Looking at his feet, Byleth made a mental note to praise Ashe- his arrow came in one end and stuck out the other like a rotisserie holding a boar’s body. Such improvement his students had made over the years.
“How did you get here so fast?” Byleth asked, casually wiping a drop of spattered blood off his chin with his thumb.
There was a steeled silence between the young adults. Felix, as usual, spoke up.
“We found a shortcut.”
---
The sandy plain beneath their feet was blissfully more quiet the walk back. Light breeze methodically swung behind them as the sun settled into the evening, the sky a beautiful pink.
Ingrid, Felix and Ashe walked in front in silence and their heads down. They were all avoidant of discussing what their end of investigation had heralded, opting for returning to the Monastery as soon as possible. Since the mission was over, Byleth figured it didn’t really matter either way.
The green haired duo walked in back, exhausted. Byleth barely ever wavered from his default way of carrying himself, but he was still slower and slightly less sharp. The occasional yawn from Flayn beside him kept him grounded to the present when he began to drift. The girl’s eyes drooped, her energy spent.
Byleth was still uneasy. His mind would not let go of one question as easily it did another, and killing someone unsuspectingly wouldn’t work twice.
The view in front of him, the escapade behind him, his aching legs carrying to and from. If ever there was a moment to think.
There were many who were like family to him. Arriving at Garreg Mach brought to him people he would go to hell and back for. It had also taken from him people he would give the world to have back.
Flayn was like family. She and him were rather similar, he had deduced that. She must have too. From the first few times they spoke, years ago, they worked off each other with ease. They trusted each other. The current war, among other things, brought them closer.
Byleth wanted to ask her why she confided in him, why she would hold her feelings in when her brother gave her nothing but support, so much so to an overbearing level?
Byleth chewed his lip and drummed his fingers against the scabbard at his side. He may want to know, but she would not want him to ask. Frankly, he would not even know how; He didn’t like talking very much. He showed affection his own way, without words or specifics, but vulnerability and patience. His hand again moved to the familiar top of her head, his fingers gently petting her hair.
A moment later, Flayn smiled. She leaned herself against Byleth’s torso, slowing her pace as she valiantly fought the sleep claiming her. His arm wrapped around her, with the promise to not let go. Words could not find their place in the shared heart of this bond.
Their upbringings were immensely different, their roles in life separated by their paths and age. Yet they had come to walk side by side. They operated on a level that was uniquely theirs, between them. They were on different pages, but reading the same book.
He knew now why he wished to protect her. Others might say because she is a cute little girl, but he had seen her fight enemies much bigger than her. No, Byleth saw himself in her. The oddities separating her from her peers, the way she talked, the way she moved her hands. The comfort in quiet and pain in loudness. There was no word in their language for what it was, but they shared it. An unnamed solidarity of living in a world not built for them.
He smiled, feeling her fall asleep at his side.
They shared a special… differentness.