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His mother laid dead twenty leagues underground and had her face turned towards him.
Mentally, Jeritza became so rattled by the momentary sight of platinum blond hair and pale, hearthshaped face, that he didn't really see the following four people that he cut down with his scythe, the image staying on his retinas like a veil. He more so felt them through the resistance that their bodies brought before his blade.
It wasn't the first time that his body was killing while his mind had lost its way somewhere, though it had been a while at this point. It never impacted the ability of the Death Knight if he wasn't truly present, and in the past he had occasionally remained away from his body for such long stretches of time that it appeared to him afterwards like a banishment. Since then he'd become more strong willed, or perhaps more attached, and by the time a whip made of blackened flame swept towards his face, he was back with himself again and had managed to push away the disquieting vision. Since he wore no mask on his face, he felt the scalding heat against his skin, as the fire, summoned by black magic, accosted him with the same hissing fury as a wildcat.
If anything the sting of pain helped him to refocus his mind, and he didn't flinch. The scythe parted the whip with ease, and the spell was torn apart, evaporating. Pathetic. Just a few weeks ago he had been facing mires and vast torrents of flames like these, magic that only the most ferocious warriors could survive. This in comparison made him feel insulted. He sprung toward the willowy spellcaster that stood pressed by a cave wall with his arms extended. The slitherer's life didn't last long past that.
What could possess a man to pick the scythe as his weapon to steal life with? It has an imposing appearance, invoking the reapers that harvesting lives the way it would wheat, but really it's a farming equipment foremost, a tool invented to help humans exist for longer, and it's awkward when you set it to perform the opposite, bloodier purpose. The fact that the edge of the blade turns inward, means the wielder can only hurt his opponent by bringing them within the radius of the swing, where he himself might be exposed to a retaliatory strike. Furthermore the thin chine is fragile and any clumsy impact with armour or bone may crack it. The distance and aim of the blow needs to be impeccable each time.
Even so, nobody who had ever seen the Death Knight brandish the scythe could call him anything but lethal. He knew how to meld with the sharpness, until it seemed to him that there wasn't much difference between the blade and his arms, and how to force the deadly potential out of even an unwilling weapon. Enemies, like those currently emerging from the blackness around him, may throw themselves at him with daggers and smoldering darkness at their fingertips, but would only ever end as harvest.
To the question posed earlier, a reasonable answer would be that he considered the scythe a challenge. By relinquishing the sword, the weapon which had been said to make him unbeatable, and instead mastering something more cumbersome, something that would be a death sentence for any mediocre warriors to bring, and being rewarded for his arrogance when enemies were still outmatched by his skill.
With scythe in hand he had beaten everyone standing in his way, throughout the numerous campaigns that had united Fódlan, and then the war against the slitherer's, decapitating their commanders and taking their capital for their own. Now only the hunting remained, through this land of metal clad tunnels and unholy cerulean lights, killing packs of stragglers that were the last remains of the forces in Shambhala.
had escaped being executed properly in the earlier battles. His scythe had tasted more blood than what could fit in a river.
Another self-gratifying answer was that fighting with farming equipment had been his way to curb the Death Knights destructive potential. That when the other had first appeared he had with the little influence he had, coerced the knight to opt for weaponry that was hardly suitable for killing. If he couldn't possibly stop the Death Knight's rampages, then at least he would make them less devastating. Had that truly been his plan from the beginning, then he would have been long past admitting that it was a futile one. The Death Knight always killed many, and eventually the number had been so large that a couple of survivors seemed a pointless difference.
The truth was that there hadn't been a choice. Like with the black colour of the Death Knights armour, and the skull shape of his helmet. Arundel, or Thales, had been the one deciding what an icon of fear on the battlefield ought to look like, one of the "wraiths that would create terrors in the minds of the arbiters of the current world-order", and he himself hadn't cared about what he would look like on the battlefield as long as there was a battlefield where his needs could be satiated. Since his liege lord Edelgard never opposed, and she had let Thales dress her up as well, creating the Flame Emperor, he wore whatever guise that the slitherers desired, wielded whatever weapon they thought fitting. They had probably never expected to be on the opposite end of it.
There had been early battles against the slitherer's, grand clashes that had made him feel rapture. That was when they still had intact war machines to put to use and were commanded by powerful spellcasters. Cleaving through these leftovers was not nearly as fulfilling a task. They had become too scattered, too micelike, milling around him, trying to find a toe to bite, and quickly making him lose patience. He could give this pack one thing though, that cornered as they were, without any paths to flee through, they let their desperation turn into reckless abandon and used their superior numbers to try and overwhelm their hunters. The stench of fear was thick, but it wasn't panic.
Maybe because only two warriors stood against them they dared to hope for a chance of victory even as more and more were added to the harvest.
In the corner of his eye he caught a flash of his partner, her grey visage nearly invisible in the gloom. The Ashen Demon was quicker than even he, and efficient. Her movements acts of beauty. People often talked about masterful sword wielding in terms of dancing, but adding unnecessary flourishes and twirls to one's movements was, he would say, a sign of an unserious warrior if anything. Her steps and swings were deliberate and without any excess movement. He never saw her twitch in any way that wasn't needed, as if she knew three seconds ahead of everybody else where a person would be standing when she struck with her sword. She could cleave flesh without nary a drop of blood landing on her, the wounds small and just enough to kill instantly. A single look replaced his dissatisfaction towards the battle with the awe of watching her. He wasn't thrifty with the blood spill; a red mist had appeared around him, covering the ground, armours and bodies.
Two people standing alone against the warring remnants of a whole civilisation would have been a doomed endeavour for most, but not them.
He rushed further into the thick of things, letting the scythe slash left and right, a limb or life lost at every hearth beat. The sounds the slitherers made, together with the smell of blood, made for a heady mixture that had his thoughts muddled, only focused on the people he was killing and simultaneously not focused at all.
Then among the screams there was Byleth's shout, and immediately he wanted to turn towards it, only to find too many bodies, living and dead in the way. While superior numbers could never intimidate him, they did manage to make him angry. He swept the scythe over his shoulder to build up even more momentum and let the magic force embedded in his blood quickened. The closest slitherer within the path of his blade would be first cleaved in two, then have the remains of his body ripped apart.
He never heard the footsteps behind him, until his cape was tugged with considerable force. He was never an easy man to budge, but because he had been in the middle of shifting his weight forward and had not been prepared for the yerk at his collar, he lost his balance, and as he stumbled the magic that he had willed forward, erupted in a crackling frenzy.
He wasn't a spellcaster so what he could unleash was never in the carefully crafted shape of a spell, but that didn't lessen the power. Perks of being born in a bloodline of accursed might. A glowing gust of wind raked against the figures surrounding him, throwing them to the ground and pushing him several meters backwards. He turned his head and saw Byleth, hands still clutching a torn-off rag from his cape. Seeing it in her hand was superfluous proof of what she had done, since there was none else who could have snuck up on him to sabotage, to help their enemies.
He could hear his blood in his veins, rushing, a torrent within him. A distant sounding part of him asked why, but since he had always in some form been prepared for this very moment, it also felt like questions were unnecessary. A roar tore itself out of him and at the same time he rushed towards her and aimed a slash. Holding back was impossible if he wanted the shred of a chance to harm the Ashen Demon.
She slipped away, as he thought she would. He let the scythe's snath fly to his other hand so that the whole weapon would turn instantly and could be aimed at her again. Quick and unrelenting attacks that wouldn't give her time to readjust or retaliate with her own blade.
The very foundation of their partnership had been formed under the agreement that when the time was right, they would have a true battle against each other. More than a sparring match. Sparring had been able to tantalise his appetite, but never quell it. At the worst of times it had awakened hunger in him without satisfying it.
That's when the daydreaming had started. He'd imagined the moment Byleth turned her sword towards him to show that they finally weren't battling on the same side anymore, not bound by the pragmatic loyalties to the empire both served. When it had been decided that she would have the initiative, he couldn't say. At some point he'd told her anywhere and at any time. You simply have to show me a sign. Was this it?
That "why" question sounded in his mind again. In the residue of a lackluster skirmish, within cramped tunnels.
Once he'd thought for sure that would happen, in the survivor's delirium that had grabbed the imperial army after they had assisted Edelgard in finally besting that vile Thales and his fortress. When he'd looked at Byleth in the glow from the nightly fires that had been lit for the celebration out on the fields of Hrym, he'd thought that surely now that they had overcome this overwhelming foe, the time couldn't be better. Two monsters who knew that they had served their purpose. Let it start with the understanding that both offered the life that they had just preserved as a gift to the other. In the very same lands where Death had been born. Hrym. Wasn't there a touch of fate in them being here?
However she had not done anything other than hugging him. First a smile, which still looked rare on her formerly impervious face, then she had been striding through the crowd of people that she had spotted him through, opened her arms and wrapped them around him. They had not been long enough to reach to his back, but had warmed him, as if she had sufficed the heat of the fires into herself.
If she'd let that one that perfect moment pass them by, why had this hunt-for-mice sparked the lust for battle in her? The timing felt haphazard, and their surroundings underwhelming. Perhaps that was the mistake of indulging in romanticised fantasies, spoiling himself with the set dressing he conjured around the event he looked forward to.
Had he told her? Sometimes he said things to her in spoken words and sometimes there were thoughts, and he could misremember which since either way it felt like she heard.
He swung for her legs, forcing her to jump into the air where she couldn't keep dodging. Using the momentum of his own swing he whirled right around at a speed that would have a most lose their bearings and trip,
Now, finally her sword was up, shielding her side from the blow. The sheer force of his blow sent her careening to the side, but she had curled up in preparation and let her body follow along with the moment, landing on her feet with the grace of a shadow cat. Her turn. Seemingly without the need for any recalibration, she sprang back toward him. He swung to meet her, but was blocked by the sword again and this time she took the opportunity to slip inside the radius of the scythe, that precise scenario that made the weapon risky for its own wielder. Now with nothing between her sword and him, she thrusted forward and caught him in the flank, the blade bouncing against his armour, buckling it and bruising the flesh behind it.
Frustration welled up inside. Yes, it was the weapon as well. Why was he fighting this battle he'd been dreaming about without a sword? For this he would not pretend that the scythe was sufficient; he wanted the swords which had been the first weapon he picked up as a boy and which should also be his last. Wielding anything else he couldn't be sure that he was truly showing her all that he was capable of.
Unfair, and not enjoyable for her either, surely. She longed to test herself against his full might as well, didn't she? The swords were another part of his fantasy, both of them holding on to one, when she pierced him through the chest, or excavated his throat. (Although he could have just as well have imagined her death by his hands, that was somehow never where his imagination went).
He roared again, and in that roar that encapsulated crest whirled to life, magic erupting raw from his body as blistering sparks that forced Byleth backwards to where he could swing at her again. The foul feeling kept spreading through him. Most warriors couldn't count on a crest letting them unleash waves of magic with a single scalding thought. Him tapping into that power was as clear an admission as any that he couldn't have pushed her back through skill alone.
The shame only made him fight more furiously and unleash more magic, walking forward he was a storm of both scythe-blade and lightning. The slashes were vicious enough to part stone and metal, the magic curling outward like hungry snakes extending. She would retaliate, not trying to shout at him anymore, her expression focused, and each time he felt another wound being added to his body, though he ignored them all. If there was any advantage he had over her it was his strength and relentless stamina. The rest of the slitherers could be all dead or have fled for all he cared. The important thing was that nobody was obstructing his path, nobody existed but him and Byleth.
His first victory was bringing her expert, beautiful swordplay down to his brutish level. He grabbed her by the hair when she whirled past him, and to get free she had to bash the pommel onto his nose, breaking it. When he pushed her towards a wall to crush her spine, her response was slamming her elbow into his windpipe. Still he didn't stop. He kept attacking. Even as he completely discarded the idea of hitting her with the scythe and resorted to fists; even as his flesh was sliced to ribbons. He only needed to get a good grip on her once, and there would be no coming back for her.
That was why she took him by surprise with the foot behind his leg, tripping him. If this turned into a wrestling match she had to know how terrible her disadvantage would be, even if she started out above him. He was simply too large for her to trap. So much heavier. The moment his body landed on the stone floor he threw himself around, prepared to catch the tip of the sword if she were to thrust it at him. She was, only the blade was aiming an inch beside his head instead of right at it. The sound of steel meeting stone rang in his head. She was pushing her knees into his arms, craning her head down to look straight down at his, steelblue hair hanging down as heavy as dregs of damp moss, the tips brushing his cheek.
Why, he asked, was she making herself this vulnerable? The weight of his armour wouldn't be enough to prevent him from rolling them around, and trapping her beneath him. He could keep her there in a cage made from his own body and hug her bones until they were crushed. It would be so easy. She could have aimed to kill, and now it would be so easy, but she was looking down on him. A scratch leapt right underneath her right eye.
While there was no way to count the days, they had been underground long enough for the lack of sunlight to make her face into a transparent pale, and now it was flushed by exertion. The eyes had the same hue as wetstones, a similar sharp light deep within them. They stared at him steadily, unaffected by the wound close to them
– Is this how you want it, she breathed.
Despite the weight from her knees, he slowly curled his right arm towards his head, and closed his gauntlet around the blade stuck beside his head. Now it would only take a second for him to rip it away and she would be defenseless when he smashed her skull with his other fist. Grabbing a hold of her throat and squeezing. Take her own blade and pierce her. Trap her. Part of him wanted this with a burning fervor, but he was left stuck by how much this diverged from his fantasies, both of them weaponless and crawling like two fighting hounds instead of dying on their feet.
Is this how you would have it, she asked again, hammering down the ugly realisation.
She could have aimed to kill, but didn't. She didn't want to fight.
A guttural sound came from him, something that might as well have come from a confused wolf.
Her hand, which had been clutched around the pommel of her sword, slid down to rest on his fingers, coaxing them to let go of the blade that was about to cut him with how hard he was clutching it.
– This was my fault, she said.
Despite her words, there was no regret in her tone. Whatever had possessed her to pull his cape in the middle of a battle, she would do it again, her voice said, but equally prevalent was the relief that they had stopped battling.
They had, hadn't they? This wasn't a battle anymore. Had never been the battle.
He pulled in a harsh breath that tasted bitter with the blood that had been spilled. The drumming beat that had been possessing him began to draw back, and in its absence the shapes of the world around him became less abstract, and he was back in the world once more.
The agathans' metal world had been cleaved through. A fissure split open the metalclad tunnels and humming strips of self-sustaining light, reaching upward through the bedrock hundreds of meters until it was possible to glimpse another level in the expansive cave system above them. No sky — it was still too far below for the fissure to have reached all the way to the surface — only a ceiling above another ceiling. It might have been a quake long ago that had caused the fissure — there were signs that a drawbridge had been constructed at some point to bridge the maw between the capped edge of the tunnel and its continuation, but bad luck or neglect had made it collapse at some point. Byleth, who stood at the edge and peered around at what the dim lighting allowed her sensitive eyes to see, guessed at the latter. This was far away from Shambhala and the center of the agarthan civilization. The homes she had seen around these parts were little more than hovels dug out straight from the rock, where the only sign of technology were glowing rods that had been fastened to the walls like torches. Those who slithered in the dark had rungs in their society, their rich and their poor; among all the things that made them seem alien and strange, seeing this division brought their society into the realms of the familiar. Every single derelict settlement had been abandoned, the people having fled with what little valuables they had owned. She hadn't even seen any old and infirm left behind.
More than looking around at this fissure, she was sniffing the air and listening to the distant sound of air circulating. Even if they were deep underground there were halls and chasms here that stretched imposingly large and had their own air current — maybe this too was something the agarthans had accomplished with high reason magic or their strange technology.
After determining for herself that in the tunnels above there likely contained a path back to the core of this underground kingdom, she crouched down and began to untie the knot on a small linen sack. It seemed an entirely unremarkable sack, except for a sigil, a magical rune, stamped in red ink on the front.
Hubert von Vestra, acting as both a minister of the Adrestian empire and a dear friend, had only allowed her to leave on a two-people mission in the uncharted maze of agarthan country after she had agreed to several conditions, one of which had been bringing this bag with her. There was a crow in it. She grabbed the curled up body mindfully, making sure that the wings were tucked neatly against the body as she did so. It was entirely unresponsive, looking dead to anyone who would see it. This wasn't the first time she had held a crow – when foraging for food in the wilderness they were a common source of meat, if you could outsmart them – and she had noted the unusually small size and dark coloring of Hubert's personal flock.
The minister, or spy-master in this case, had been tight-lipped about the exact origins of this bird, only divulging that it would be trapped in a magical state of sleep, for ease of transport, until she removed it from the sack, and then it would carry any message she needed to send back to him and Edelgard. The complications of managing to make a carrier bird fly and find its way underground was apparently a non-issue. Knowing how many innovations the imperial intelligence had extracted and reverse engineered from the agarthans, she suspected that the sleep spell wasn't the only magical thing about this crow, if it was a normal crow at all.
A twitching leg warned her that the creature in her hand was indeed about to be as lively as any bird tended to be, and from her sleeve she pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment, deftly putting it inside the cylinder container already strapped to the bird underside. A few seconds after she had safely secured the message, the crow started opening and shutting its beak then gave a hoarse caw.
She loosened her grip around its body, in case it would fly into a panic at being trapped, though whatever mind existed inside Hubert's special carrier bird, it was not frightened by humans. The bird came to consciousness calmly inside her palm, looking up at her with a gaze that nettled with intelligence.
– I've got a message for your master. Do you think you can find your way, she asked, not ruling out the fact that it would be able to parse human language.
The crow extended its wings and with some instinctive understanding she held out her other arm. With some flapping it skipped forward to perch on it, claws gripping around the metal of her wrist guard.
– Also, in case you were hungry.
She pinched a roach out of her pocket, one she had hunted down hours earlier, figuring she might as well have something to help her make a good first impression. While it happily snatched the meal from her fingers and scarfed it down, she wondered if it was taking notice of the tenseness in her arm, and if it could surmise that it was due to more than just the strain of holding up a relatively small bird. Crows could, like many animals, pick up on subtle emotions, so maybe it was able to tell that she was agitated, a part of her wanting to grab a hold of it again and retrieve the note. A good thing that, even if it understood human language, it likely couldn't speak it.
The message, written through shortly cut sentences to fit in the little parchment, contained as follows: a set of coordinates, corresponding to the closest passage onto the surface world that Jeriza and her had located. An estimation of time. A body count. After that came a request for medical assistance and extra provisions, and a sparse explanation of why. "Several encounters. Untrained soldiers. Was surprised by trap set by, likely, high level wizard. Jeritza injured. Myself unarmed. Wish to extend search area to confirm death or life of trap maker."
A delicate balance, managing to craft a scenario that would justify the emperor sending assistance, but not in the form of a squad of soldiers. Jeritza and her could travel with more ease and haste if it was just the two of them, and Edelgard knew that was how they preferred it, but under no circumstance would she sit idle if she got the impression that two of her dearest allies were under serious threat. In the little space that the note had offered, Byleth had tried her best to convey a sense of confidence and control over the situation.
A competently crafted lie it was, with just enough truth to hide the obfuscation of it, and the first of its kind that Byleth had written for them.
The feeling of traitorousness was there for good reason. Only through transparent and persevering honesty had she managed to gain the trust of Edelgard and her retainer, two people who had resigned themselves to battle the rest of the world on their lonesome. Their confidence in other people was a fragile thing, and what they had been able to extend to their teacher, later became something they could give to even more people. Their classmates.The black eagles. The new emperor of Fódlan had grown up into a woman who was able to place her confidence in other people, and heed their counsel because she dared to genuinely believe in their loyalties.
When the crow finished its meal and flapped away from her shoulders, Byleth wondered if she would have turned back time had she still had the power to. Pulled the dial back a few seconds, enough to grab the crow before it took off and retrieve the message. It felt foul to send away a lie, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she wouldn't choose differently if faced with this dilemma again. Breaking the trust of her former student was a cruel thing that would hurt Edelgard, perhaps to a degree that made her put back up old walls, but, at the same time, all that Byleth could say about what she was doing was that she thought was right.
She gazed after the carrier bird, long after the darkness made it impossible to see. The echo of flapping wings was the last trace she had of it.
A prickling stirred in her neck, and though she was too far away from the campsite for any noise to reach her, her instinct told her that Jeritza wasn't far from waking up. Without wasting time doubting this intuition, she turned her back to the fissure and walked down the tunnel at a brisk pace. When he came back to consciousness she did not want him to be unguarded. There was a risk that he would wake up confused, mind jumbled. If he attacked anyone in that state she wanted it to be her. One could claim she would even deserve it for what had happened.
Two days after the battle, a battle medic arrived. Long before then, Jeritza had been up and moving, despite being bothered by lacerations and pain in ribs, spine, neck and right arm. Byleth had made a single comment about rest being beneficial, but nothing more than that as she was also staunchly ignoring her own wounds. Laying idly while feeling your wounds itch and ache suited neither of them.
Then, by merely approximating the time that birds flew and horses ran, she had figured that it was time to head to the nearest passage to the surface world, and meet up the dispatch that she hoped would have been sent from the empire, and so went away. That had left him with an unease in his mind and body that he willed away by roaming, first in circles then all the way back to the hall where the recent battle had taken place.
For hours he tried to find the corpse that had caught his eyes in the middle of the battle, the one that had looked like his mother and made him believe that she really was down here. However, despite looking repeatedly where he remembered the body being, and later over where he didn't think he had been at all, he did not see anyone with that likeless. None of the gaunt, pale faces on the dead slitherers, generations of underground dwelling having made their skin transparent, could conceivably be mistaken for his mother, the sun-kissed way that hers had been the last time he saw her. All he accomplished was banishing his appetite by breathing in the fumes of the dead bodies that they were leaving to rot. That was one of many reasons why they had made camp away from the scene of the battle. Byleth had picked an abandoned habitation, which took the form of a high chamber that vaguely resembled the inside of a beehive where a metal walkway was spiraled upward along the sides like the thread on a screw, passing by the simple dwellings that were built into the stone. To substitute a campfire Byleth had ripped away some of the slitherer's unslakable lamps and gathered them in the center of the chamber. The marine light greeted him when he returned after hours of unsuccessful searching. Nothing else to do but mimic the circling of the walkway again. Waiting for Byleth.
It would have taken her about five hours to climb up from where they were in the underground, while escorting the medic back down again lasted a whole day. By the time he heard a dual pair of footsteps approaching, the first thing he did was draw his sword, then he heard the robin's whistle that was Byleth's way of messaging that "friends were coming", that was admittedly more subtle in environments where the sound of a bird call didn't stand out. He returned to the simple bedding, placed beside a pile of displaced lamps that they had ripped from the walls to create a substitute campfire, and studied the unfamiliar person that Byleth had brought with her, while avoiding giving the woman herself a direct look.
The medic was dressed in the uniform of the Adrestian empire, with an emblem sown on his chest that identified him as one of the rare wielders of faith magic in the army. A bearded man in his forties, large satchel bouncing on his back. Very twitchy hands for a doctor. Right as he understood that they had arrived at their end goal, he sank down to the ground and excused himself for needing a breather, wiping a copious amount of sweat off his brow.
Still, as a trusted imperial agent the man — he introduced his name at some point only Jeritza didn't care to remember it — he took pride in being effective and took merely a three minutes break before he stood up again and mindfully asked if "sir Hrym" would allow himself to be examined. When he came close enough to see the blood that covered his clothes, his mouth fell open.
– Dear me, all of … that is not yours, I wager?
Hopefully that was a joke meant to bring some levity into the situation, because Jeritza found it pretty obvious that if all of the blood had been coming from him then he wouldn't have had any left to still be alive, and it would speak badly of the medic's common sense otherwise.
– There is … little water here, he said as a way of explaining his unclean appearance.
Apart from this comment, he did not make conversation as the treatment began, letting the medic, a frightened respectfulness to his every movement, first felt his way to the wounds and then began to weave prayers over them. Instead it was Byleth sitting down next to them and asking questions. Had the rest of the imperial forces encountered aghartan forces as well? (The army had fought a couple of brief skirmishes with bands of slitherers, the numbers of vanquished foes likely looked very meager in comparison to what milady had faced in these mines.) How was the emperor and the Black Eagles faring? (All of them well, though now that the empire was experiencing a period of relative calm, lord von Aegir had reclaimed his habit of challenging the emperor to competitions). Hubert isn't annoyed about that? (Tremendously, lord von Vestra had a spat with Aegir as soon as three days ago.)
The medic didn't inhale properly between his sentences, and so he would stop in odd places to catch his breath, and only after this had occurred several times did Jeritza put together that he was afraid. It was the darkness, the thick air and the sensation of tons of rock pressing down over him. At this point he'd spent so many days in this subterranean land that he easily forgot how unnerving being underground was to most people. They had dubbed it cave-fright back when the war campaign against the slitherers started, and it became a prevalent issue that several soldiers couldn't march the entire way down to Shambala because they nearly suffocated in their panic.
With this in mind he understood why Byleth insisted on being chatty, because as the light conversation progressed the man was able to turn his thoughts to something else, and could retain his bearings. His hands became more steady as the healing light washed over scabs and bruises, mending them from within and out. The pain was muted and replaced with a thrumming warmth; he compared it to the sensation of Mercede's healing, and thought of his mother's face again.
The kept speaking to Byleth, taking his own initiative now.
– The emperor told me that she misses the presence of her advisor, he said. While you have her permission to continue this hunt for as long as you deem it necessary, she wishes you to not forget that there will be a position and purpose waiting when you return to the capital.
– You can tell her that I miss her as well, Byleth replied, and Jeritza temporarily forwent his rule of not looking directly at her, to study her expression as she said this.
– There are a few more tasks to see, Byleth continued after a brief pause. But after that I will return. Hopefully that day comes soon.
– I will relay that to your majesty. Now, sir Hrym, do your wounds feel properly healed?
He folded his hands into his robe and awaited Jeritza's verdict with a bowed head.
After flexing all of his limbs in order and tracing fingers over the previously sore spots on his body, Jeritza grunted and nodded.
– That's good then, the medic said and rose to his feet.
Unfortunately for the man, this was not the moment where he would be allowed to call his work done and begin his army back to the open surface world.
– If you could, Byleth said and grabbed his shoulder. There is one more thing we need your assistance for.
He gave her a surprised look, but followed dutifully when she walked towards the closet habitation. If you didn't know about them, then the doors were hard to spot and the medic made a gasp when Byleth pressed her hand against a smooth slate of the rock and a portion of the rock slid smoothly to the side revealing the interior of a small room, this one lit by another of the unslakable lamps. This surprised sound was modest in comparison to what he then uttered as he stepped after her into the space and saw what was inside there. A high, alarmed sound.
Jeritza had stood up, a task that was much easier now, and followed them at a few steps distance. Although he didn't have sight inside the room when the medic cried out, he knew what the other man had seen. A pair of red-rimmed rat-black eyes that caught his gaze with hateful sharpness; a head so white and gaunt you could be fooled to think it was a cranium without any skin on, and bluish lips that curled like on an angry jackal.
The sight could have made the medic stumble backward out of the habitation again, only at that point Heritza was blocking the entrance with his frame.
– That is a …, stammered the man.
Jeritza looked above his head. There were no substantial differences between the slitherer's homes. All of them were the same four, square rooms with sleeping quarters and a cupboard where they stored what could only be described as purses made of metal alloy, and barely anything else — he'd seen prisons with more furnishing.
In the middle of this bare-bones dwelling sat a boy with Byleth's bedroll beneath him as protection against the cold floor, bundled up beneath a tunic that had been remade into a blanket of sorts, only his scrawny legs sticking out of it, the left one bandaged up to the groin.
None within the emperor's circle of trusted imperial agents with functioning eyes, could have mistaken the child's lineage. After the shock of seeing a nonexecuted slitherer had subsided the next bewildered observation would likely be that he wasn't restrained up in any way, no signs of rope or chains. One closer look at the bandaged leg would have been explanation enough, as it quickly became clear that the boy wouldn't be able to walk with it no matter how vehemently he would have liked to escape from the "pigs" his people so despised. The air inside the room had gradually been suffused with the sour smell of sickness, but tethering on the edge of a fever didn't stop him from sending them all disdainful glares.
Byleth spoke carefully
– If my acts of loyalty for the Adrestian empire had earned me any goodwill at all from you, I hope you will be willing to hear me out about this.
At last the man was able to tear his gaze away from the boy — they had surmised him to be about thirteen years of age, but was malnourished enough that he looked two years less — and turn it instead toward Byleth, then over his shoulder at Jeritza. One could see him ascribe the words "treason" to the individuals he looked at in this moment, but even as the accusation came to him there was a struggle in his mind, and not only because it was a pair of famous war heroes he thought this of.
The boy spitted.
– Let the masters burrow spears through your mouths, pigs, he said in the lithing language that only barely resembled the common tongue in Fódlan.
– Goddess preserve us, the medic mumbled.