Once she’s caught her breath, Bernadetta sits quietly at the end of the corridor. Eventually, her bottom begins to grow numb as she steadfastly cowers in the corner beneath the window. She winces slightly as she adjusts her sitting position, then winces again when she remembers why she’s even here in the first place.

“Oh, Bernie,” she mutters, “you’ve gone and done it now… you’ve really gone and done it now…”

“What have you done?”

She shrieks, her high pitched voice echoing down the stone corridor. “Jer— Jeritza! Wha— how— I didn’t hear you!” She jerks up, her knee hitting the wall as she scrambles to her feet. “Ow! Owie, ow, ow!” Bernadetta hops on one foot while clutching the other, mortified. How is she ever going to live this down? By the goddess, she’s never going to live this one down, is she? Never. Never ever.

Despite the fact that she is no longer sitting hunched over, Jertiza still looms over her. With his unflappable, cold expression still in place, he looks down at her and asks in his carefully modulated tone, “Do you require assistance?”

“What? No, of course not,” she denies, then realizes that she has no idea what she’s denying. Focus, Bernie, she tries to remind herself, desperately trying to reset the conversation in her mind. Nevermind everything before this, this is just Jeritza. Jeritza likes her. They’re friends. This is going to be fine.

Watching her attempting to slowly compose herself, Jeritza tilts his head, waiting. His expression stays civil and cool. 

“... Sorry, Jeritza,” Bernadetta says finally. “I’m a bit out of it today.”

“I can see,” he replies slowly. “Your professor sent me after you.”

“Professor?” Bernadetta bites her lip anxiously. After she fled the scene, she must’ve left Professor Byleth on his own. “He’s not mad, is he?”

“I do not believe so,” is Jeritza’s dull reply. “He is rarely so.”

That is true. Bernadetta can probably count on one hand the times Professor Byleth was genuinely angry, and it’s never been directed towards her. Even so, that doesn’t mean he can’t be disappointed, or annoyed, or maybe he likes her less. Maybe he’ll finally just give up on her no-good hermit ways. He’s always trying to help her, but Bernadetta’s always resisting, and scared, and annoying. She can’t help it, she really can’t, but just because she tells him that doesn’t mean he believes her.

Unbidden, her vision blurs, and she quickly looks down, away from Jeritza’s smooth, harsh frown. She valiantly hides a sniff, and says, “I should go back. Professor probably sent you to take me to him, right? I’ll go now.”

Stupid Bernie. I thought you grew out of this already. You haven’t grown up at all!

She walks past him, still trying to hide her expression. Jeritza watches her a moment longer, then says blandly, “He said to take you to lunch, and then tea.”

Bernadetta doesn’t even register his statement until three seconds too late; she stops in her tracks and whirls around in shock, forgetting that she’s teary eyed. “What?” She asks blankly. “Really?”

Jeritza walks toward her, a single stride matching her three. He looks down at her again, as inscrutable as before. “Yes,” he says. “He said you might like a picnic.” He seems to think about his sentence once more, then adds more carefully, “I am also famished, and would like some dessert.”

It’s been so long, yet the idea of Jeritza, the Death Knight , enjoying sweets, still makes Bernadetta laugh weakly. “Ok,” she says, lightheaded, slightly choked up. “Sure, um, let’s go eat then.”

—

She ends up asking Jeritza about how he and the professor have been.

“Fine,” he says blandly, and bites into his cake.

Bernadetta shrinks down into herself again, fiddling with her cup, before finally setting it down on the table. The entire area is abandoned, scared off by Jeritza. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me, I was just curious— I mean,” she says hurriedly. “Professor Byleth was talking to me about some stuff this morning, but then I ran off and he didn’t get to finish. I haven’t seen you two in a few months.”

“There was nothing of import,” Jeritza says slowly. “Work in Shambhala is complete. There are no more issues.”

He speaks dismissively, and Bernadetta shivers a little, imagining having to go back to battle. The war is over, yet Jeritza and Professor Byleth willingly flew back into it. Sometimes, it still confounds her.

Thinking of the professor reminds her of this morning’s discussion topics with him, and she perks up a bit. “Oh! That’s right. Now that you two are in Enbarr for a while, what are you going to do about Professor Byleth’s suitors?”

“I know nothing of what you speak of,” Jeritza says. He has also perked up, however, at the mention of the professor’s name.

Bernadetta blanches. “He didn’t tell you?” Was it supposed to be a secret? Had she messed up? There was no way Professor Byleth would tell her and not Jeritza if he didn’t mind the other man also knowing, right? But what if she had messed up? No, but it was pretty common knowledge in Enbarr— wait, what if she only thought it was common knowledge? No, she was always the one out of the loop! If she knew, everyone knew. Or what if… 

“You are stuck in your head again,” Jeritza says. “There is no need to think so hard. Tell me about Byleth’s suitors.”

“... I mean, I don’t think it’s supposed to be a secret. He was complaining about those people who’ve been sending him gifts,” Bernadetta hesitantly makes a vague gesture and shakes her head. “He’s been harassed since he went to last year’s ball. He was telling me how he’d rather all of them just go away. Professor Byleth must really not like it.”

It had been almost funny, really. The professor’s normally blank expression had been replaced with a befuddled, nonplussed look. His frown grew greater the longer he spoke of it.

Jeritza looks vaguely thoughtful, then replies, “If it is bothering him greatly, then I will kill all his suitors.” He takes another sip of his tea, then proceeds to add another spoonful of sugar.

Bernadetta squeaks. “I don’t think he would like that,” she says. “Actually, I know he wouldn’t like that.”

A crease appears between Jeritza’s eyebrows. “I do not understand him at all,” he says, now sounding somewhat annoyed. The expression on his face is just moderately more terrifying than his usual sinister stare. “Though I suppose you are right. If he wished them dead, he would have killed them himself.”

“Right,” Bernadetta says, relieved. She’s beginning to think she knows why the professor had not told him.

“Then, what did you mean by, what ‘should I do’ about it?”

She opens her mouth, and closes it, then considers her reply. “I mean, you two are— together? So I figured you would have done something about it by now. But I guess you didn’t know.”

For the first time today, Jeritza pauses, his fork suspended in midair. “Together?” He asks slowly.

—

“How was Bernadetta?” Byleth asks him that night, when they are curled up beside each other in their quarters. “She fled this morning with an awful look on her face, I was worried.”

Jeritza replies, his hand clasped around Byleth’s, “She was… perturbed. Bothered by something. I do not know what.”

The candle by their bed flickers. Byleth’s face is half encased in shadow, how glowing in rosy light. Jeritza watches him, looks to his cotton nightclothes. Byleth is relaxed, unlike the way he was before— he has not seen him so still before. No longer tense, waiting for the next wave of violence.

Byleth frowns slightly. “She didn’t tell you?”

“No.” His answer is overly short.

Byleth, sensing that his thoughts were elsewhere, presses. “But she said something else.”

Bernadetta’s voice flickers in his mind, he blinks. Byleth’s slow pumping heart beats by his ear. “Yes. Should we get married?”

“There is no reason to,” he says, unflustered by the abrupt question. “Unless you want to.”

“Hmm.”

He says, mindlessly petting Jeritza, “Did Bernadetta ask?”

During tea, Bernadetta had blanched in mortification when she realized that Jeritza had no idea what she was talking about. After practically screaming out apologies for assuming, she stammered, “Well, you care about him, right? And even l-love him?”

He had replied naturally, “Yes.”

Byleth Eisner. Byleth— 

“Are you in love with him?” Bernadetta had asked, wringing her hands together.

“She asked if I am in love with you,” Jeritza says to Byleth.

He replies, “Are you?”

“Are you ?” Jeritza returns.

Byleth blinks. His gaze also turns thoughtful. “I do not know,” he admits. “After all, it does seem that loving someone and being in love is not quite the same.”

“I do not know the difference, either.” Jeritza admits.

“If you wished, we could elope,” Byleth suggests. “We could even claim a child as our own.”

Jeritza absorbs this, and at least that makes much more sense than marriages and suitors and proposals and love. Yes, marriage— he would not mind, precisely. Not if it were Byleth Eisner, sword and shield and hands. Still. “Those are all unnecessary things. I have no need for marriage, nor a child.” 

“I do not, either. Even without such proof of devotion, I would not leave you for any other,” Byleth says. “To be honest, I see no reason to confuse ourselves further on this matter.”

Jeritza replies, “Agreed. There is no one in my mind but you, and that is all. ” Until we are buried and turned to dust. There is no one who will match Byleth Eisner.

“Is there anything else?” Byleth asks patiently. “If not, perhaps it is time to rest.”

“No.” Jeritza pulls his hand away, turning to find a more ideal position to sleep in.  “I shall kill you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow, in the morning.” the other man agrees, and Jeritza rests his head gently against Byleth’s chest.

The candle is blown out. They sleep.

—

Jeritza has a dream. He often dreams, so this is not inherently surprising. Yet his quick, light naps from the war and beyond have been replaced with deep, long slumbers that leave him blinking and slow when the morning comes once again. 

He finds he does not particularly enjoy it— better to spend the night in blood and slaughter like before. The sickly stench of wartime and suffering no longer overwhelms him, the adrenaline and glee of running headfirst into the fray is no longer there. He will be the first to say he misses it. It was what he was made to be.

Yet still, Byleth enjoys this. They lay in quiet for hours, unlike anything they have ever done before. More so than fighting side by side, more so than cleaning their blades of the blood and dirt in the aftermath, it feels like a silent death. Quiet, quiet, quiet without mercy. It strangles him, and Byleth lets it consume Jeritza. Perhaps this is how Byleth will kill him— allowing something else to strangle him into silence, while he lays beside him.

In his dream, he is back in Shambhala. Byleth is there as well, naturally. Jeritza takes Byleth’s faith stained hands, and brings it to his neck. Byleth obediently follows his lead, smiling warmly. He understands. 

“I am going to kill you,” Byleth says. Jeritza nods. He swallows, and surely Byleth must feel it, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“You will kill me tomorrow,” he agrees. There is excitement in his voice. It is a promise they have always understood. Tomorrow, in the dark where we belong. To the gates of hell, and buried in the soil underneath. “If you die tonight to these pathetic rats, I shall be sorely disappointed.”

“Tomorrow,” Byleth promises. His expression grows more gentle. He releases him, then wipes the blood away from Jeritza’s red-stained face. The world around them, pitch black. There are no stars for them. “Tomorrow.”

—

Tomorrow, and it is morning. The sun slides in through the windows and Byleth says as they get ready, “It is a beautiful day. You and Bernadetta ought to take a walk.”

“And where shall you be?” Jeritza asks.

Byleth looks irritated, which is a strange look on him. Jeritza’s fingers curl when he sees his frown, the way his eyes narrow as he says, “Taking care of some unwelcome business. Again. I’ll join you for afternoon tea, however, so please do not stray too far.”

“I could join you today,” Jeritza points out, but he is already shaking his head.

“You won’t be able to threaten, or maim anyone while you are there,” Byleth says. “It isn’t that sort of unwelcome business. You will tire of the mindless small talk.”

Jeritza is silent for a moment. “Propriety,” he says finally, with distaste, “is very cumbersome.”

“Most definitely,” Byleth agrees. “I do not think staying in Enbarr longer than necessary is good for either of us. Let’s depart as soon as possible.”

“I look forward to that day.” Jeritza replies, almost eagerly.

“I am grateful, at least, that you enjoy Bernadetta’s company,” Byleth hands him his hair tie as Jeritza pulls on his boots. “I would hate to see you languish alone in this place. You are out of your element.”

“You, as well,” Jeritza replies. Byleth is unsuited for fineries, smooth words— surely they rankle him just as they make Jeritza wish to rip the mouths off of people around him.

Byleth pauses. His hair has grown longer, messily curling and tangled. He will likely brush it out before he leaves. Jeritza’s fingers twitch, willing to do something to change it— cut it into shreds, pull it into neatness.

“You’re right.” Just as he had thought, Byleth grabs his comb, begins to pull at it roughly. “I am ill suited to palace life. It’s why I went to Shambhala with you.”

His voice is calm and clear. Jeritza is… satisfied at this. Of course he has known it to be true, but hearing Byleth put it into words… how satisfying. He feels like killing him right now.

Byleth seems to notice, and says sincerely, “We should have a duel later this afternoon.” He smiles, matching Jeritza’s pleased expression. He sets down his brush. “For now, I shall be off.”

He reaches for Jeritza. His lips brush the corner of his mouth. Then the door is closing, and he is gone. And all of a sudden his mouth is dry, his voice disappears into the mist. 

A quiet death, he thinks. That feeling of a quiet death, the one only Byleth can give him. The way he aches for it. Surely, that will be his end.

—

Jeritza has not visited his sister in some time, since she is so far away. However, when he and Byleth had gone to visit her at the start of the new year, she had rushed to them in her wholehearted way. Her cheeks had been bright red in the cold, and she carefully took his hand and let him into her home.

The sight of Mercedes, beaming and shivering, is somehow etched into the deep confines of his darker thoughts. The Death Knight, he thinks, would perhaps love to kill her. She is powerful, and strong in ways it cannot comprehend. The sway she holds over both Jeritza and the Death Knight is dangerous.

Dangerous.

In this sense, he thinks, as Bernadetta von Varley may have some similar power.

She is unlike Mercedes. Mercedes is strange, light-haired, light mannered. A white flag. Bernadetta stumbles over her things and her words, she hides and she cowers, her aim is deadly and true.

Jeritza does not like that she is like him. He does not like that she is like him in a way not even Byleth is not.

Today, she drags him up a tall, woody hill right outside Enbarr— only a half hour walk from the imperial palace. She’s packed a set of paints, and she makes Jeritza carry two canvases. “Let’s paint together,” she says stubbornly, though Jeritza has no interest in such things. Nor does he know anything about the embroidery that she seems skilled in, or the various manuscripts of papers and used ink quills that litter her desk in her room.

“I’ve had to deal with all this stuff outside my comfort zone recently,” Bernadetta says, slightly huffily. It is difficult to tell whether this is out of irritation, or simply being out of breath as they climb upwards. “Talking to people all day, and not fainting in the ballrooms. It’s only fair that you do something you don’t like, too. And— and it’s not like— it’s hard. You’ll like it.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, Jeritza! At least sound a bit excited.”

When they finally reach the outlook Bernadetta has been looking for, she pulls out her oils and brushes, and hands one to him. “Here, just follow my lead.” 

And then she laughs weakly as she says, “I just remembered, back when I was still a student at the Officer’s Academy. Professor Byleth made me attend your sword seminar once. I guess now I’m the professor, huh?”

He recalls. “You are not skilled in the sword,” Jeritza notes, and Bernadetta flushes, even though he does not mean it as a criticism.

Yet, where he expects her to blush furiously and spit out a loud, shrieking rebuttal, Bernadetta simply shrinks. She pulls at the hairs of her brush. 

“I know,” she says miserably. “Um, Jeritza. Can we talk about— can I— can I talk to you about something?”

— 

Bernadetta says quietly, “Lady Edelgard sent you and Professor Byleth to Shambhala to— tie up some loose ends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Hubert’s the Minister of the Imperial Household, Ferdinand’s the Prime Minister,” she lists, “Dorothea went with Petra to Brigid, Caspar went to Derdriu to help his father manage the new territory, Linhardt’s being funded by the empire to continue his Crest research now.”

Jeritza, who clearly does not recognize half of the people she had named, nods.

“And then, um, there’s me. Lady Edelgard… asked me to go home. To Varley.”

“Your parents are… unpleasant,” Jeritza recalls. His fingers twitch. Always looking for something to hold and wield. Long, balanced, and sharp. Count Varley.

“They’ve both been exiled,” Bernadetta shakes her head. “That was one of the first things Lady Edelgard did after the war. I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

Jeritza’s gaze slides to her hands, and he notes that they are shaking. Bernadetta keeps looking down and away from him. It is unlike their time together during the war, both in battle and out. Not the determined, but unhappy warrior raising her bow as he readied his scythe, nor the strange, small creature that tailed him around Garreg Mach, yapping about whatever she wished. 

He finds that it is something he does not quite like.

“I said no, and Lady Edelgard let me stay here,” Bernadetta says. “But I don’t actually… like court life.”

“There are too many people,” Jeritza says in agreement.

She manages a weak nod. “I knew you’d get it. And I’m no good at politics like Hubert and Ferdinand, and I can’t go to the balls and meetings without scaring myself, and I don’t want to go home because I know the moment I do I’ll just hole up in my room again. I… really hate that place. I don’t want to manage House Varley, I just… ”

Bernadetta seems to shrink into herself even further. She was already small, now she seems almost childlike, sinking into some unknown past nightmare. Children with earnest hopes, children with fragile happiness. Temporary. Battlelust prickles underneath his skin. He remembers.

Jeritza… has never liked that she is like him.

“Hey, Jeritza?” She is looking up at him now, cautious. “Are you alright?”

“You should not die in Enbarr,” he says. “You will suffocate from the niceties and people.”

“A quiet death, huh?” Bernadetta manages a quivering smile. “Maybe that isn’t so bad, though. Better than hiding in my room all day in Varley. Then I wouldn’t even be able to see you, or anyone.”

His finger taps incessantly on the empty canvas Bernadetta has given him. Tea with Byleth. The sharpness of the sword he wields. Hands that tie his hair, hands that suffocate him to death.

Jeritza is a creature that is meant to die. He is only made for such things— death has put its cloak around his shoulders for so long that he has made it his own. For all that they are similar, Bernadetta holds no such relation with her fragile mortality. Her cause of death should not be this dreadful city.

“Do you know why I ran away from Professor Byleth yesterday?” Bernadetta is saying. “It was because I saw someone I knew in the courtyard. She hadn’t seen me yet, but we were walking in her direction.

“It was this maid from Varley. She started working there when I was ten, and she was the one that’d deliver me food when I started to hole myself up in my room. I guess since my parents have been exiled and I never came back, she came to Enbarr looking for work.” Bernadetta is finally unstrung enough that she begins to paint. Jeritza watches.

“She was never mean to me,” she says as she works. “Not like— um— dad. But one time, when I was eleven— dad arranged my first engagement.

“Back then, I wasn’t— I wasn’t a complete hermit yet. I was reading this novel about swashbuckling men and women going on adventures, and I— I got into my head that I should. Run away. Before I had to get married.” Her voice wavers again. “I don’t really know why I thought I could get away with it. But Francine— I mean, the maid— she’s the one I asked to help me.

“The stupidest part was— later, I found out— the person I was going to get married to, it was Ferdinand, ” Bernadetta shifts. “Maybe if I knew then, what kind of person Ferdie was, then I wouldn’t have— and then dad wouldn’t have gotten mad when Francine told him about the whole thing. A lot of bad things happened after that. So anyways. I stopped talking to anyone after. And now I still can’t even look at her, or anyone else from Varley without wanting to run away.”

This is why Bernadetta is dangerous. Jeritza hears Baron Bartels now, his voice in his ear, his blood on his hands. He does not like remembering. The Death Knight delights in such things. Its birthplace and birthdate. Bernadetta has no Death Knight— but she has her room. Its confines give her borders to not cross. Bernadetta knows.

“My sister,” Jeritza says abruptly, “runs an orphanage in Fhirdiad.”

“I heard. Is she doing good?”

“Yes,” he says absently. He hears a dull ringing and shouting of a swordfight, and then it is gone. There are none near them at the moment. His hands itch to hold something— not this brush. Where is his scythe? Where is Byleth? He would surely entertain him now. “She would not mind if you went.”

“Went… to Fhirdiad? To visit Mercedes?” Bernadetta blinks, fidgets nervously. “We… um, aren’t very close.”

The sun blinks down on him. So far away from the dim, fading light of sunset, the rise of war cries and fires that burn bright as Fhirdiad burns. Her roar shakes his bones. “Enbarr will kill you,” he says. “Perhaps Varley will as well. You should go… somewhere else.”

“You… think I should go live with Mercedes?” Bernadetta now just looks confused. “I don’t get it.”

Jeritza exhales shortly. His ears are ringing. “She is… good with embroidery,” he says slowly. “She likes flowers, like you. She paints, and she likes to read.”

Mercedes’s orphanage is co-run with the former Baroness Bartels, now the Missus Martriz once more. Mercedes’s mother. Jeritza’s mother. He vaguely remembers now— children, and sewing. He is tracing the red that shapes the rose on the cloth, and Mercedes is trying to thread the needle. 

Emile, she is saying, Fair haired, fair-hearted, white flag Emile, would you like to try as well?

“Jeritza, you don’t look very well,” Bernadetta says. 

“Mercedes would… welcome the company,” Jeritza says. His voice is even slower than normal. “She is lonely.”

“Jeritza—”

He finally holds up a hand. “Quiet.”

—

No one has ever been able to control the Death Knight, much less Jeritza himself. Even Byleth, who makes it quiet and hiss in the recesses of Jeritza’s heart, cannot control it. It will always be there. Taunting him. Wanting everything in its gluttonous manner, even if it deserves nothing.

The beginning of the new year, and he and Byleth are in Fhirdiad, the fallen capital of the Kingdom. Standing behind Mercedes, with a table of steaming food and nostalgic desserts, is his mother. 

“... Hello, Emile,” she says kindly, and Emile does not remember what comes next.

The next thing he knows, he is laying in Byleth’s lap. His fingers are running through Jeritza’s long hair. It is undone. He sits up and looks around. It is clearly a room in an inn.

“Are you alright?” Someone else asks. Mercedes is here as well. She is sitting beside Byleth. Her fingers glow with Heal. Outside, it is dark. The window rattles with the wind, snow pelts the glass without mercy.

Byleth’s callused hands stroke away his baby hairs. There is a cut on his nose, Jeritza notes. It was not there before.

Jeritza reaches out to… someone. Mercedes takes it. Her gaze is gentle. Even now, she does not waver. “Mother is just fine,” she is quick to assure. “It was you and Professor Byleth who I feared for.”

Jeritza looks down at his hands. There is no blood on them. “Did you best him?” He asks Byleth. There is not even a hint of the Death Knight’s whisper in that moment, not even a murmur. It has been beaten down into the pits of hell. It will not crawl back up for some time.

Byleth says, “I have already said. Whenever he comes, I will do what I do best. We have promised each other, after all.”

“Next time, I would prefer that you two not use our cutlery, Professor,” Mercedes says admonishingly. “I’m afraid we’re all out of usable butter knives. All the forks are bent out of shape as well.”

“I’ll be sure to buy more for you,” Byleth is quick to assure. “A new carving knife, as well.” Then he turns to Jeritza once more. His blue eyes are bright. 

The only thing he says is, “Perhaps it is best that you do not visit your mother for a little while longer.”

His mother, after all, is dangerous. Perhaps— even more dangerous than Byleth Eisner.

—

Bernadetta sits with him until he can hear the wind and rustle of the many trees once more, wringing her hands anxiously as he glares sightlessly down at the city of Enbarr down below. This is no place for him here after all, he thinks with distaste. Even it, the Death Knight, knows. It must find this place distasteful, to simply come and go. There are no worthy opponents here. Only unnecessary fineries and needless relations. Even if it is Edelgard herself who asks him, the one who carried him out of the hell of his past, he would not ever stay here.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Bernadetta mutters. 

“You did not upset me,” Jeritza replies. “I simply dislike Varley. If you like, I could go and—”

“No, thank you!” She yells desperately and loudly. She changes the subject. “It’s just. Your face. You really look different when, uh, he’s about to come out.”

Jeritza tilts his head. Her voice, though distinctly worried and anxious, holds no fear. “You are no longer scared of him?”

“Oh, no, I am,” Bernadetta is quick to squeak out. She shivers and does not seem to notice. After all, she has been opposing sides of the battle with it before. It would be both brave and foolish of her to not fear it. She says much more quietly, “but I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Me?”

She hesitantly reaches out to pat his shoulder. There is a faith in her that he does not understand. “Yeah, you. My friend. You’ve always looked out for me, and you’ve never let me die before.”

—

At three, Jeritza and Bernadetta rejoin Byleth in the imperial palace for tea. Bernadetta apologizes profusely for running away from him yesterday morning. Byleth waves her words away, and instead gestures towards a cup of tea.

He watches as Jeritza seats himself between the two of them, glowering without realizing, sinister without effort. It is still as faintly charming as it was the last time Byleth noticed it.

“I hope the two of you had a good day,” he says, “because mine was dull and filled with talking, and I’m quite ready to be done with Enbarr.”

All three of them, at least, seem to agree on this. Jeritza has simply never held an interest, Bernadetta is terrified of it, and Byleth has never enjoyed the administrative portions of any of his assignments. 

“When are you two leaving?” Bernadetta asks, suddenly anxious once more. She does a poor job of hiding her disappointment at the thought of two friends leaving.

“Whenever my affairs are in order.”

Jeritza interrupts suddenly, “Lady Varley, you should consider leaving, as well.”

Curious, Byleth turns to the young woman, who is bright red with the sudden interest in her affairs. “Um, Jeritza, it’s— it’s fine. I was just complaining, you don’t have to tell Professor Byleth.”

Jeritza stares at her. “I do not understand,” he says. “You dislike the capital. There is nothing for you here. So you should leave.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Bernadetta says, and ducks her head. “I mean, I’ve got responsibilities. I’m… I’m the head of House Varley now, I…”

“Edelgard means to disband nobility and disperse their wealth and land among the common folk,” Byleth points out. “It is a meaningless title— if not now, then in perhaps a decade. Bernadetta, you are free to go wherever you wish.”

“Oh, I hate it when you’re right, professor,” Bernadetta sighs glumly. She swirls her tea around with a spoon aimlessly. “I just… I just feel like everyone’s doing something to help Lady Edelgard, or coming into their own. I just want to help, too. I feel…”

Jeritza watches them, eyes narrowed as Byleth ignores him in favor of telling Bernadetta, “You have your talents beyond the bow. You like to write—”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You cook well, you excel in various forms of art, you can garden, and I heard you recently began to learn how to play the violin.”

“Just a bit,” Bernadetta says. “Ferdinand has been teaching me, whenever he’s free.”

“These talents are all yours,” he says kindly. “Just as someone like Lady Edelgard may have her talents and aspirations, you may have yours. It is not for anyone. If you lend them in service to another, it will be on your terms.”

“None of those things are useful, though,” Bernadetta says. “Even if I wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to help anyone at all.”

“They are useful to you. I think that is enough. It is not as if you must live the rest of your life devoted to this empire.”

Bernadetta opens her mouth, and then closes it, then opens it once more. “Professor…”

“I think it is enough to just have those talents, and to pursue one’s own happiness. You do not need more. It is certainly enough for Jeritza and I.”

She jerks, and her teacup rattles. Jeritza steadies it, and Bernadetta cries out, “Really?!”

“Now that we have finished Edelgard’s tasks, I returned to Enbarr to take care of business,” Byleth explains. “Then, Jeritza and I plan to travel, on our own terms. Perhaps, eventually, we will settle down.”

“Travel where,” Bernadetta asks shrilly.

“Wherever we wish.” Byleth is quick to assure her, “We will visit, of course.”

“Wow. That’s…” Her eyes are bright. Bernadetta reaches out to embrace him in a half hug. She says sincerely, “I’m so happy for you! Honestly, I was kind of wondering what you’d do, now that you were back from Shambhala. I guess I couldn’t imagine you two doing anything other than going out and doing whatever you wanted.”

He smiles back at her. It’s rare to see Bernadetta so exuberant. “If you don’t like Enbarr, I see no reason why you should stay,” he says, echoing Jeritza’s earlier words. “This is advice from your former professor; don’t languish away in the place. It is no place to die.”

Bernadetta actually laughs. “Jeritza said the same thing! And you’ll always be a professor to me, professor.”

With the mood lighter, they chat for a little while longer, until Bernadetta begins to look rather fatigued from the amount of extrovertism she has had to emit today. Comparably, Jeritza fingers have begun twitching more— a sign of his restlessness, Byleth has learned.

He sends Jeritza off to the imperial grounds. “I will join you shortly,” he promises him. The added bonus of Jeritza arriving early is that his presence inevitably scares off most. It would be nice, he thinks, to have the training grounds for themselves.

While Jeritza is sent off, he accompanies Bernadetta back to her quarters. Despite her tired countenance, she is still in a rather good mood. A far cry from yesterday, at least.

“Professor, may I ask you something?” Bernadetta asks, when they are still a while away from their destination. “I mean, I already asked Jeritza, but I don’t really think he understood my question.”

“Of course.”

He already has an idea, of course, of what Bernadetta will ask. So when she asks, “Are you and Jeritza courting?” He is not surprised.

“I… do not know,” he says, just as honestly as he did when Jeritza asked the night before. The answer still eludes him— and perhaps it will for eternity. “So I suppose that is a no.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell him about all of the marriage proposals you got?” When he blinks, Bernadetta winces. “Oh, sorry, I— um. I didn’t know Jeritza wasn’t supposed to know, so I… kind of let it slip. Sorry! I know, it was irresponsible of me, and you told me thinking I wasn’t going to tell anyone, and I—”

“Bernadetta,” he says, “it’s quite alright. It is not a secret. I didn’t tell him because I knew he would not care.”

“... Oh.” Bernadetta thinks about it. “I guess you’re right. He didn’t really seem that interested after he found out.”

“He knows I would not leave him, so why would he be concerned?” Byleth cannot help but feel a strange fondness at that— there is no one quite like Jeritza, after all, who is the strangest person he has ever met. It is oddly funny. Many people have told him that he is quite strange— yet Jeritza outpaces him in every way.

“How have they been going, anyway? Turning everyone down?” Bernadetta looks up at him as he opens the door for her. “I don’t see why you want to meet with so many in person. What’s the point? None of these nobles will see you again.”

“Refusals should always be done face to face, if possible.”

It seems, however, that few others think this is the case. Something about Byleth’s phrasing when inviting them may have been off. It seemed many had come to the palace with the expectation of agreement, and further negotiation of dowry and whatnot. 

People are— tiring. Despite how strange he is, it is much easier to speak to Jeritza. At the very least, his strangeness is consistent.

“Professor, you’re really too good for politics,” Bernadetta says. “I’m glad that you’re leaving. They don’t deserve you.”

“Perhaps not,” he replies, amused. “Jeritza would agree with you.”

A few moments later, Byleth speaks again. “Bernadetta. You should consider your future as well. Jeritza and I worry for you, but we’re not trying to make your decisions for you.”

Bernadetta says abruptly, “Did you know, Jeritza said I should live with Mercedes? He was saying something about us having similar hobbies. I really didn’t know what to think about that. I mean, what sort of person just invites Bernie to his sister's house without even asking her? But I guess if it was Mercedes, she wouldn’t mind— she’s just like Jeritza that way.”

Byleth considers it. Bernadetta with Mercedes? It’s true, Mercedes had been isolated in Fhirdiad since the war. With her former classmates from the Kingdom fallen, and the Black Eagle Strike Team members all scattered elsewhere, she has had no one her age to fall back on for friendship. He has no doubts the woman will manage just fine. Still, he imagines she would not object to Bernadetta’s companionship, even if they were not particularly close before.

Bernadetta is Jeritza’s friend, after all.

“That isn’t a bad idea,” he says. “I think the two of you could get along well.”

Bernadetta says, “You two are really too nice to me. I mean it. If you keep being nice, I don’t know how I’m going to pay you back.”

“But we like you,” Byleth says. “It’s only natural to be nice.”

She begins to sniffle a bit. He is not alarmed— it appears to be the good kind of tearing up. “Professor, you and Jeritza are just too weird. You’re perfect for each other. I know you said it wouldn’t happen, but you should hurry up and just elope before some nasty noble steals you away.”

Byleth pats her on the shoulder. The ring on his hand, the one that has been there the moment his father handed it to him seven years ago, is warm. “We shall see,” he says.

—

The truth is, Byleth is not the only one who has received such proposals. Jeritza has also been sent quite a few. The only matter is that Jeritza has not checked a single correspondence that was not sent by a name he could recognize since he donned the Hrym name. The last time they are at the Hrym estate, Byleth asks if he may check his papers. Jeritza easily agrees, that is when he finds them. The gifts. The letters. The subtle invitations to dine at another noble’s manor.

He decides not to bother Jeritza with the social niceties of having to respond. He, Byleth had thought wryly at the time, would likely only do so if it were demanded of him. 

The instinct to clearly and respectfully respond to such agreements, even if they are marriage proposals this time, had been trained into him by Jeralt, when they were nothing more than father and son, and mercenaries in their troupe. “You treat clients with respect, alright?” Jeralt had explained. “Even when you don’t want their job. Who knows, maybe they’ll sweeten the deal if you’re nice. You want them to remember you, so at least you’ll keep getting offers later on.”

Byleth does not want the job this time, even if they do sweeten the deal. Still, it’s too late now. He can’t help it— after Edelgard’s last invitation and the sweet words and gifts began to pour in, Byleth cannot help but see everyone he can, and reject their requests in person. It has been ingrained in him.

Marriage is, after all, nothing more than a financial and political deal for nobles. You find the sweetest looking one, then— jackpot, as his father would say. You’ve struck a bargain. It matters not that Jeritza is a wild and untamed weapon that is unsuited for domesticity and politicking, or that Byleth is wholly uninterested. It is the game the crowd will play with both of them until they finally disappear into the shadows.

There is so little that nobles can offer Byleth. He has no desire for their wealth, or powerful names. So when Jeritza asks, “Should we get married?” Byleth says no, not unless it becomes necessary. There is no reason to, even if it is Jeritza.

Still, if it were Jeritza…. at least he would not mind. Even if it wasn’t necessary.

—

He and Jeritza are both tired and loose-limbed by the time they have returned to their quarters. Byleth looks at the brand-new painting that is sitting at his desk. “This does not look like Bernadetta’s work.”

“It is mine,” Jeritza agrees dispassionately, and looks at it critically. “I find it… displeasing to look at, but Bernadetta insisted that I keep it.”

True, it is nothing but a muddle of colors, mixed to the point of looking brown and dark. Byleth has no idea what it was intended to be. He finds himself smiling fondly nonetheless. “Was it an enjoyable task, though?”

Jeritza shrugs, a hefty rise and fall of his shoulders. “There was no speaking required, at the very least.”

Then he reaches out. Byleth watches, ever more amused, as Jeritza finds the ends of his unruly hair and tugs, his lip curling. “Your hair, however,” he says, now almost fascinated, yet disgusted tone, “is truly intolerable. You must cut it.”

Byleth, who has noticed him glaring venomously at it on multiple occasions, can only say, “Is it truly so repulsive?”

“Like a rat’s nest.”

The assessment is not entirely false— Byleth has not bothered to fix it up in a long while, and now it is in the unruly stage between long, curling locks and a respectable, shorter cut. It is shaggy and twists in strange ways. He wakes with a ridiculous bedhead more often than not.

“I will cut it off myself if you do not,” Jeritza says. “It irritates me. The next time we spar, I will pull at it and rip from your head.”

“There is no need. I was not particularly fond of it, either. I will find a barber tomorrow,” Byleth assures. He pulls at the ends of his hair, still amused.

They take turns using the bath in relative silence. They leave again for supper. When they finally lay down onto the bed for the night and Byleth blows out the candle, Jeritza finally says, “You are good at speaking to Bernadetta.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do not know what she is thinking,” Jeritza says. He does not sound irritated, only confused. “She is always in her head.”

“That she is.” Byleth thinks carefully, and replies, “People have often said I am good at knowing what people need to hear.”

“It is true. You have understood me in a way no other has,” Jeritza says. 

“Perhaps,” he demurs, “but that does not mean much. There are probably many things she will not tell me, but will willingly speak to you about. After all, I am sure you understand her in ways I do not, and she understands you in ways I cannot.” 

“Perhaps,” Jeritza echoes. 

It is a habit, Byleth has noticed, for Jeritza to wait until night to speak to him on things that bother him, or confuse him. The rest of the day, he is quiet and banal— he speaks with taciturn directness. He speaks about routine. His subjects of interest. At night, he will ask about things he does not know.

“Is there anything else?” He asks. 

“No.” Jeritza shifts. “I shall kill you tomorrow,” he promises. He reaches for Byleth’s chest, his fingers outstretched, as if he intends to claw his beating heart right now.

“Of course,” Byleth agrees. 

— 

Bernadetta rises early, and sets out unhappily after a light meal. She’s still a bit groggy and tired, but early morning is when there are less people out and about, and the people who ARE awake in the palace are usually quite busy and holed away in their offices. Which is where she’d rather be right now, thank you much, instead of trudging along in the morning mist into town as the bakery opens.

Still, to the bakery she goes. It’s the best in Enbarr, and she’s going to need it today.

See, this afternoon, she has to go to a tea party.

A tea party. A tea party, with other women her age and they have to chat and eat and…. ugh, tea parties are only fun when you’re already friends with the other people. Not that she doesn’t know the two girls for today, but… well, they’re certainly not Professor Byleth and Jeritza.

When noon comes and passes, Bernadetta unenthusiastically dresses herself in this nice violet dress Dorothea gave to her specifically for occasions like this. Hrng. Hrrng. She begins vocalizing this noise, and doesn’t realize she continues doing it until she starts getting odd looks as she walks the familiar path to the garden.

Oh my goddess. Oh my. Goddess. She wants to go back inside already.

“Jeritza’s right,” she whispers in mortification, covering her face with her hands. “Enbarr is literally killing me.”

When she arrives, Lady Frederica and Henrietta are already seated, chattering about who-knows-what. Bernadetta meekly takes a seat, takes some tea and biscuits, and after they all greet each other, the two continue on their prattle.

“Father’s been trying so hard,” Lady Frederica sighs, fanning herself. Bernadetta resists the urge to stand up and leave. “He came home this morning in such a rage— a marriage engagement that he had planned for me fell through yesterday. And he was so sure — he was out all night, drinking at the bar in a rage after the whole thing!”

Lady Henrietta makes a sympathetic noise. Bernadetta squeaks out, “Er— to whom was your engagement to, Lady Frederica?”

“Some man who fought in the war, apparently,” is her response. Evidently forgetting that Bernadetta herself had also been on the front lines, she adds, “Soldiers are such a bore. And I’ve heard he doesn’t even have a Crest! To be honest, I have no idea what father was thinking.”

“I’ve heard he goes by Byleth,” Lady Henrietta informs her, and Bernadetta can’t help it, she makes an inelegant, strangled sound with her throat.

— Seeing as this is not too uncommon for her, Lady Henrietta and Frederica hardly blink, though Frederica does say distractedly, “Are you quite alright, Lady Bernadetta?”

“You were one of Professor Byleth’s….” Bernadetta blankly reaches for another pastry. Frederica and the professor… what a combination. She can’t imagine how their personalities would mesh.

“ Professor?” A bit more interested now, Henrietta leans in. “Tell me more.”

Henrietta is not an unkind person, but she is sheltered and of a minor noble status. Her family is new money, and they have no particular status of power or intelligence to uphold. Her parents let her grow up protected, and unaware of politics. The war, even though it consumed the entire continent, was nothing more than a convenience for her. With her family’s small portion of land in the heart of imperial territory and general lack of troops under their command, the most she had to worry about was sugar rationing and the like. The concept of the war is merely that to her— a concept. 

The fact that she doesn’t even know who Byleth Eisner is, two years after the end of the war; it says something, at least.

“Err,” Bernadetta says. “He was a professor from the Officer’s Academy, at Garreg Mach. He was also one of Her Majesty’s lead tacticians during the war.”

“Is he attractive?”

Bright red, she says, “... Yes?” Objectively, Professor Byleth is very nice to look at— but he’s… well, he’s Professor Byleth. It’s like someone asking her if she thinks Edelgard is a beauty— well, she is, but she’s also Emperor Edelgard.

Frederica rolls her eyes. It’s very unladylike of her. “Oh, please,” she sneers, “Lady Bernadetta, you have strange tastes. I can hardly trust your opinion on such things.”

Lady Frederica, Bernadetta is less fond of. She’s… mean, for lack of better words. Where Lady Henrietta might be unknowingly cruel out of naivety, Lady Frederica seems like she’s mean out of enjoyment. On an abstract level, Bernadetta is sort of fascinated by this. Lady Frederica feels like a villainess right out of a romance novel, the jealous second girl of a love triangle.

Of course, she doesn’t know anything about Lady Frederica’s life so she’s not saying she’s actually a one-dimensional villain, but she… kinda acts like one around Bernadetta sometimes? So it’s hard not to make the comparison sometimes.

“Professor Byleth’s actually in the castle right now,” she continues meekly. “I met with him yesterday. I’m told he doesn’t plan to accept any of the proposals he’s received.”

“None?” Henrietta raises a brow in surprise. “I heard he is a commoner? Doubtless in the Empress’ favor, but a commoner nonetheless. Marrying into a noble family will be of much benefit to him.”

“Professor…. really doesn’t care about status, and he isn’t ambitious either,” Bernadetta answers. “He grew up a mercenary I think, and he’s more used to that kind of life.”

Frederica says, “How… quaint.” She wrinkles her nose. “I suppose I must thank the Goddess; I can’t imagine myself shackled to such a boor of a man.”

If you think Professor Byleth’s a boor, wait until you meet Jeritza, Bernadetta thinks hysterically, still stuck on the thought of Frederica marrying her Professor. She suppresses her nervous laughter by stuffing another biscuit into her mouth.

Once she’s done chewing, she musters the nerve to say, “My professor’s a very noble and good person, Lady Frederica. I don’t appreciate this unnecessary slander.”

Frederica raises a brow, likely surprised that Bernadetta has bothered to speak up about anything, but she simply aborts a small roll of her eyes and lets the subject lie.

“Speaking of men, however, have you seen that positively dashing gentleman that has been about lately…” Henrietta says eagerly, and the conversation switches quickly to the newest target. “Lord Hrym cuts quite a figure, doesn’t he?”

This time, Bernadetta screams at the top of her lungs, and then promptly faints.

— 

Well, Jeritza definitely has a point. He absolutely, definitely, has a point about Enbarr and it not being good for poor Bernie. She’s going to die here, literally! No exaggeration!

“I heard you fainted earlier,” the man of the hour says blankly, as Bernadetta attempts to sink into her chair.

“Jeritza,” she sniffles, “just kill me. It’s over. That’s the last time I make an embarrassment of myself. I can’t take it anymore.”

“If I kill you, you will die,” Jeritza says, as if that isn’t the point.

“I hate it here!” Bernadetta wails. “You’re right, you’re right, I really have to leave. I can never show my face again. I’m going to move to Almyra, and you and Professor Byleth can come visit every decade to make sure I’m still alive.”

“Very well,” Jeritza says slowly, “though I did not take you for one who would enjoy foreign countries. And we will visit more often than that.”

“Hrnnnng,” Bernadetta says to that. “Jeritza.”

“Yes?”

Bernadetta says, “I know— I know that I’m not supposed to think badly on myself, and that it’s a bit defeatist, and a bit useless.”

“Yes.”

“I— I really don’t like it here. And no one here really likes me, either— past a few people— and, and I really don’t like it here.”

“Yes.”

“It’d be— lonely, though. To live by myself.”

Bernadetta slowly makes her sunken form back into one of a sitting person, and says meekly, “Did you really mean it? That you think Mercie would want me around? And we could, I don’t know, write a book together or paint together, or plan a meal together?”

The thing is, Mercedes isn’t really her friend.

The worst thing in the world, Bernadetta has decided, is trying to make friends with strangers. It was easier in Garreg Mach, because you make one friend and then they forced you to meet all their friends, and then the chain reaction gave you no choice to then have multiple new friends. 

But here, Jeritza is her friend. That means Mercedes will like her. Mercedes did like her during the war, even if they didn’t talk much. So maybe— it wouldn’t be too bad. To impose on her.

“Yes,” Jeritza says, as if he doesn’t know why Bernadetta is asking. “I do not say things I don’t mean.”

Then he cocks his head thoughtfully. “I do not think she will move to Almyra for you,” he informs her gravely. “She is settled in Faerghus.”

“That’s fine,” Bernadetta says. “Completely fine.”

Goddess, what is she even doing? What’s she been doing in Enbarr anyway? Making an embarrassment of herself, pretending that she’s helping Edelgard here when all she’s really doing is muddling about, flailing in her own awkwardness. It’s not that she wants to impose on Mercedes. It might just be because she’s not sure what to do now.

Bernadetta, past the titles and her crest that put her in an advantage during the wartime— now she doesn’t really have anything. Her friends moved on without her. She can’t go home.

“It’s really fine if I ask her? If I— if I send her a letter?” She asks again.

“I shall give you her address.” 

Jeritza offers her a biscuit. He is kind enough to not say anything as Bernadetta tearfully bites into it.

—

“Ah,” Byleth says that night, pleased. “I’m glad for her. Bernadetta really wasn’t doing well here.”

“... I don’t know why she stayed in the first place,” Jeritza confesses, yet again at that time of day where he feels that it is alright to confess his confusions.

“Well,” Byleth says consideringly, “sometimes people don’t know what is best for them.”

Jeritza looks at him. This is not a problem he ever encounters. Byleth, he has long decided, is what he wants, and what is best for him. The best for both of them.

“My business here is almost done,” Byleth says, as they settle into bed once again. Routine, night after night; Jeritza rests his head on Byleth’s chest, listens to his heartbeat. Still beating. Still alive, it seems. Byleth grabs his hand, encloses it in his. It is a threat, a promise.

“Then we leave soon.” Jeritza looks up at him, his cheek rubbing on the other man’s skin. “Where to?”

“May we go to Garreg Mach first?” Byleth asks. “Just for a day or two. I would like to visit my parents’ graves.”

“Yes.” Jeritza kisses his hand languidly. Byleth sighs into Jeritza’s hair.

“My father once gave me a ring,” he says. “It was intended for someone I wished to marry. If you do not object, I would like to give it to you.”

“We are not married,” Jeritza points out. Had they not established this just several days earlier?

“We are not,” Byleth agrees, “but since I will never marry, you are the closest I will ever have to a spouse. I know you do not need it, but I would like to give it to you nevertheless. Think of it as a gift from me.”

A gift? Byleth has, admittedly, given him many gifts since they first met. Anything from flowers, to food, to company. Rings, however, are new. 

“Then I accept,” he replies. Naturally, he will take anything Byleth has to offer him.

He feels Byleth smile. It burns his forehead slightly, where the lips brush. Heat. A brand. “I’m glad.”

—

And that night, Byleth has a dream. 

It is a memory, which is not uncommon for him. His entire life, he has been plagued with memories, half forgotten. As they faded when Sothis first appeared to him, they were replaced by his own memories— some lovely, some not.

Today, it is about the Tailtean Plains, several months before the former King Dimitri’s fall. It is raining. Byleth’s sword glows in the dimness, outstretched into the night.

Beside him is the Death Knight, mounted and silent. The mask he wears hides any sort of expression that could possibly grace Jeritza’s face— pleasure, fear, satisfaction, or otherwise. It is difficult, nigh impossible to tell who it is whenever that mask is on.

Still, even the Death Knight can follow his commands in battle. It seems that, though he hungers for Byleth’s blade, he will not attack Byleth— not now.

Edelgard has often referred to Jeritza as a wild card during the war. “A wild card that listens to you, professor,” she notes. “He has always had an interest in you. Feel free to use it to your advantage, but do not underestimate him.”

Byleth could not underestimate the Death Knight if he tried. Yet, the fact that the Death Knight, who so hungers to strike him down, would obediently listen to him on the battlefield… It confuses him. It does not make any sense.

Yet, that day is like any other— Byleth commands, and the Death Knight will silently follow. His looming presence has become common on the battlefield. He is immeasurably strong, and if Byleth knows that he will listen, then there is no reason not to lead him into the fray.

Today, the Black Eagles Strike Force has an agressive, dangerous battle formation. Edelgard and Caspar lead the frontlines. Behind them is Hubert and Bernadetta, with Linhardt and Dorothea supporting at the edge. Petra and Shamir’s pegasi can be seen circling above. Byleth and the Death Knight veer to the side, running off on their own to deal with the, admittedly plentiful in number, soldiers in the outskirts.

There are few things to fear when the Death Knight is at your beck and call, Byleth thinks, as their foes fall easily beneath their feet. As long as they are not caught off guard, all should go well.

This time, however, Byleth is unnecessarily reckless. Two against too many is still a bit too much, he thinks dryly. He ought to have brought Petra along. He breathes with difficulty. His face is bloodied. He takes another step forward. Almost over. The fight is almost won.

This is a fight, Byleth recalls, that he falls.

He has fallen in many battles prior, and he falls in many battles past this. What is special about this one is that unlike others, where a Divine Pulse spins the clock backwards, there is no such false heartbeat here. His chest is an silent and as unthumping as ever, and as the first arrow pierces his lung, he does not even time to consider anything at all—

Before he is toppled to the ground, and the remaining barrage of arrows fly over them.

Byleth distantly smells wet grass. Mud is in his mouth. The cloudy sky is obscured by blackness. A horse whinnies.

The Death Knight is wrapped around him in a way so that he is breathing harshly into Byleth’s ear, and his torso is crushing Byleth’s lungs. His arms are holding him in a vice grip, and if he did not know better, Byleth would think that he is attempting to kill him through the sheer weight of his armor alone. 

The mask of the Death Knight stares at him. Byleth breathes.

“Jeritza,” he manages. “Get me… to Dorothea.”

Jeritza, for it is without a doubt Jeritza, does not bother acknowledging he has heard. He holds Byleth like a limp ragdoll as he clambers onto his feet. He slings him onto his horse, pulls himself up as well, then charges, full force, to the backline of the imperial strike force.

In this dream, Byleth falls asleep.

In this dream, Byleth then wakes up. 

He is lying in the medic’s tent. The battle must be over, he thinks. 

By the makeshift infirmary bed, Jeritza is sitting on a wooden chair. Though he has removed his helmet, he is still in the Death Knight’s armor. When Byleth stirs, he looks up.

They stare at each other in silence, for a moment.

Finally, Jeritza says, “You are awake.”

“Yes,” Byleth agrees.

When he fails to reply to that, Byleth adds, “Thank you for carrying me here.”

“It was only natural that I do so,” Jeritza replies. His eyes are a pale blue, even in the rosy candlelight of the medic’s tent. “I shall be the one to kill you. No one else.”

Byleth sits up. There is very little pain now— his chest stings a bit, but all the wounds are superficial. Manuela and Dorothea are good at their job. “I see.”

“It was not poisoned, if you were wondering,” Jeritza says. 

“I see,” he repeats.

They sit in silence for a moment longer, until Byleth finally asks, “Has it always been you? The one that accompanies us to these campaigns?”

Has it always been Jeritza, just Jeritza, that obediently carries out any order Byleth gives him?

Jeritza answers, “Did you want it to be me?” His voice is sullen and careless, as careless as his somber timbre can be. 

Byleth returns, “Do you want me to want it to be you?”

Jeritza gazes at him. He is unfathomable as ever. What he wants has never been clear. Or maybe it has, and Byleth simply does not understand that he has always meant what he says.

Jeritza says, answering a question no one asks, “I would not let anyone else do what you do,  Byleth Eisner.”

No one else? No one else, it seems. Byleth feels his chest swell in a strange manner. This feeling— it is the same as when he watches Petra swoop down in a successful strike, or as Caspar’s axe hits its mark. The same emotion when he watches his own sword hits its intended target, and the skirmish is won. Pride? Bloodlust? His father had always called his obsessions over perfect battles, perfect tactics, a courtship with death. 

“You’re going to get killed one day, kiddo,” he says ruefully, “running after the perfect fight like that.”

As always, Jeralt is right.

— 

Byleth wakes up.

Jeritza, still asleep, is wrapped around him in a way so that he is breathing harshly into Byleth’s ear. His torso is crushing Byleth’s lungs. His arms are holding him in a vice grip. The dim light of almost-dawn only makes him look paler.

The night is almost over, he thinks, not for the first time. Edelgard’s dream is close to completion, and her vision of the glory of her empire is realized. When the sun rises, where shall they go? What shall they be?

“Let us disappear,” he mouths, so as to not rouse Jeritza. “As morning comes.” And in the morning, they will sit and wait for whatever comes next. Whatever Jeritza wants. Wherever the sun will take them.

—

And, before Byleh says these words, and before Byleth has this dream, before they let slumber take them:

“I will kill you tomorrow,” Jeritza sighs, as he always promises in the quiet, deep, blackness of the night. There is no blood, no war, no ringing shouts and no adrenaline. It is almost disquieting. It is unlike anything he has ever felt before— every night, it is like this now. He lays in the dark, wondering when this quiet will end. This feeling. 

It will end tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow, he will make it end. All of it. Forever tomorrow. This feeling will still not fade.

Byleth agrees, as he always does. “Tomorrow,” he promises. He pets Jeritza gently, and strokes his long hair. His expression cannot be seen, now that the candle has been blown out. His voice is tender, the way it surely will be when Jeritza breathes his last breath. “When the sun rises.”