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The late springtime sun shimmers a bright orange on the water. If it weren't sunset, Byleth would try to make out Brigid on the horizon. She hopes Petra is doing well.
"Sitri! We're heading in for the night!"
"Okay!" She's used to answering to her late mother's name by now. Byleth pulls her fishing net out of the water, grabs her oars, and rows her boat back to shore.
"Are you sure there's a brain in that noggin of yours?" a fellow fisherman asks, knocking his fist against her head in a playful gesture. "I called ya three times before ya heard me!"
She shrugs in return. "Dunno."
"S'pose I can't complain with results like this." He struggles to lift a bucket full of flopping fish. One leaps out onto the land, attempting an escape, but Byleth is able to quickly catch it. "Take that one home with ya. Your other half needs to eat after all that woodworking he's doin'."
She nods.
The fisherman tries to read into her expression, but it's as blank as ever. He sighs. "Welp, night, Sitri. See ya in the morning."
She nods again, grabs a small bucket to store her dinner, and trudges past the stalls and huts into the forest. It's a good twenty minute hike, but her beloved wouldn't have it any other way. Tucked far away from the hustle and bustle of the coastal village, Byleth lives in a cozy cabin with the only one she ever loved.
At least, love is the word they decided best fit their bizarre relationship.
A saw slicing through wood is vastly different than a scythe tearing through flesh, Jeritza decides. Yet, it is similar enough to starve off the need to take up his weapon and kill. Back and forth, back and forth. Rhythmic and soothing.
Apparently, the Nuvelle team has developed a magic capable of rotating a saw. Byleth heard from a coworker, who heard it from his wife, who heard it from a traveler. She suggested getting it for him. He refused. The magic he used in the war was always to destroy, never to create.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The end of the beam finally falls to the sawdust-covered ground. The cutting is over. He sighs. Grabbing the scraping plane, he blows once to knock the rest of the sawdust to the floor, and begins to flatten out the wooden beam. It will be a bench, eventually.
The clank of metal alerts him that Byleth has returned home. Leaving his project behind in the shed, he brushes himself off (though wood shavings still remain embedded in his clothes) and runs to meet her.
There's a fish in her bucket today, an Airmid Pike. "Dinner," she says, tightly wrapping her arms around him. He feels her holding her breath. She probably doesn't want to inhale sawdust.
"I'll change," he says, but doesn't move to leave until he's squeezed her back just as tightly.
Watching the flames lick once-living fish is different from killing people, too. How long has it been since he partook in bloodshed? Time passes so slowly yet quickly. He does not know how long he and Byleth have resided here, how long since the final Agarthan breathed her last.
A cat curls up around his leg. He sighs, reaching down and picking up the furry creature. She doesn't have a name. Neither do their others, but he knows which one she is. He flakes off a piece of the fish and feeds it to her. Dinner is done.
Byleth dips her hands into the soapy water, washing off their dinner plates. Even at home, she cannot stay away from the sea too long. He dries each one and sets them in the cupboard.
"Do you wish there were more people around?"
Byleth's unprompted question catches Jeritza off-guard. "We have five cats."
"I know, and soon, we'll have a baby."
He drops the next plate.
Neither Byleth nor Jeritza sleep much the next night. Arms wound tightly around each other, Jeritza can feel every scar marring Byleth's back. He wonders how many of them he inflicted. When he closes his eyes, he can see her standing before him in Remire, surrounded by flames and the screams of rampaging villagers. His desire to kill her wells up in his throat, and it feels like his limbs move on his own when he swings his scythe.
A gentle kiss on his chest pulls him back to reality. He buries his nose in Byleth's hair and squeezes his eyes shut.
She smells like the salty sea. He can still smell the blood on his own hands.
The wooden training swords clack against each other and echo through the trees. Warriors at heart, both Byleth and Jeritza engage in regular sparring matches to keep their skills top-notch, and perhaps to quench their latent thirst for battle.
News of a coming child changes nothing in their routine. In his mind, Jeritza knows that this should disgust him, and yet he feels naught but elation at the rush of the fight. Though the blades are wooden, Jeritza treats them as real. His soul ignites when Byleth's sword crashes into his. She parries and dodges expertly, and he can barely land a hit. It is incredible; she is as unparalleled now as she was in the war.
This should disgust him, but it does not.
"Are we finally gonna get to talk to your husband, Sitri?" the fisherman asks, elbowing her in the shoulder, "what with the li'l one on the way and all?"
Byleth shrugs.
"He zips away lickedy split after sellin' his wares. Don't think I even know his name!"
"He doesn't have one," she says simply.
He laughs. "What kinda fella doesn't have a name? Ha, guess ya both are kinda strange."
She nods.
"Well, I'll stop yacking your ear off. Take some extra home. Fish is good for the li'l squirt."
She nods again, tossing three fish into her bucket, and beginning her trek home.
"He should build'ja a wagon so ya won't have to walk!" the fisherman yells. She doesn't hear him.
The pieces of the unfinished bench lean against the west wall of the shed. Jeritza's new project requires more precision and finesse. He scrapes at the wood, fashioning it into a smooth curve. He feels one side, then the other, assessing whether or not they are the same shape. Satisfied enough, he lifts the contraption into the air and turns it over, letting the two curved legs rest on the ground with the basket overtop. He pushes it, and it rocks in a gentle, even rhythm.
"It looks good," Byleth says. Jeritza did not hear her enter the shed. "They're going to sleep well in it."
He does not turn to her, but he feels her arms wrap around his middle. He lets his own arm drape over her shoulder.
Another sleepless night. Byleth is curled up beside him, holding his arm over her middle with her back pressed against his chest.
"Did you feel that?" Byleth asks, cradling Jeritza's hand against her swelling belly. "They just kicked."
He did, and the feeling that fills him is hard to describe. Apprehension is probably the closest word he finds. He is a monster meant to kill, and yet, he feels the unmistakable life within his wife.
"Letter for ya, Miss Sitri!" the postwoman waves an envelope with neat cursive handwriting on the front. "All the way from ol' Faerghus territory!"
Byleth snatches it out of her hands and rips it open, quickly scanning the contents and letting a small smile slip onto her face.
"That's the most emotion I've ever seen outta ya," the postwoman laughs. "Got family out there?"
"Something like that," Byleth says, folding up the letter under her arm and picking up her bucket, full of fish today. The cold air chills her to the bone. If the snow comes early, she doubts she will make it to town again. Their nook in the woods is too far out-of-the-way. She whips the letter out and reads it again. Hopefully someone lends the travelers a wagon.
Byleth rocks back and forth on the freshly-crafted chair near the fireplace. The padded cradle sits opposite, and Jeritza, hands folded against his chin, perches on the rickedy couch, one of his first pieces.
"I am not fit to be a father," he finally says out loud.
Byleth continues to rock.
"My own father... was a wretched man."
"But mine was good. And you have a good mother," she says.
"I am not my mother."
One of the nameless cats leaps up onto the couch and curls up in Jeritza's lap.
"They know you have the capacity for kindness," Byleth says.
Jeritza cannot answer. He also cannot help himself from stroking the cat's rough fur.
A horse-drawn wagon braves the snowed-in paths to the forest hovel. The driver helps her mother down, then rushes to greet Byleth at the door. "Oh, Professor, it's been so long!"
After fussing over the soon-coming child, she flies inside and throws her arms around her brother. "Emile!"
Jeritza closes his eyes and lets out a shaky exhale. "Hello, Mercedes." A warm, comforting feeling swells up inside, and he fails to quash it. He does not deserve the company of loved ones, not after what he has done.
"I'm so happy for you both!" Mercedes continues gleefully. "A new chapter of your life is about to begin!"
Mercedes was able to throw off the shackles of her past. Could he ever hope to do the same?
"She has your nose," Byleth says, but Jeritza does not register it. He is mesmerized by the baby's wide eyes that take in all her new surroundings. Jeritza has seen children before, but this? A child of his own? This is different.
His blood-stained hands are unworthy of cradling something so pure and innocent. He kills. He destroys.
And yet, in his own hands, is his creation. New life, brought forth because of him.
"She's so precious!" Mercedes coos, wiping a damp cloth over the little one's forehead. "Emile, for this day to come, I'm so thankful."
The baby closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and yawns.
For the first time since he was a very young boy, Jeritza allows himself to truly feel alive.