"We aren't allowed to leave the monastery," Byleth has said with a little hint of teeth, a near grimace on her face.
She poked at Bylead's chest with a little map of Gaspard. It's rolled up and there are markers all over but Bylead hadn't seen it beyond what Ashe had shown them. Hadn't been involved in their last plans.
Byleth whacked him lightly on the shoulder with the paper, "She probably needs to keep one of us at the monastery at all times."
Her words are shaped like a warning but the way she turns away from him feels like a dismissal. Jeralt had huffed a little as he ruffled Bylead's head.
"We'll be back soon."
Stay behind.
Wait.
"Of course, Professor," Rhea agrees to send the Blue Lions to the Kingdom with the simple ease of someone taking a breath. She touches her fingers to her mouth as she giggles, "My, you siblings are so alike. Professor Byleth came to find a mission when you were sent to Zanado."
Bylead does not smile back, only inclines his head in a little nod, the tips of his fingers itching. An odd discomfort prickling at his skin.
"The villagers are our priority," Bylead says, leaving the students with only simple orders.
He was taught by his sister after all and she was a simplistic fighter when it came down to it. Someone who bore straight ahead on her own terms and left others to fend for themselves. Someone who worked off easy logic and –
"If I should fall, then it is your job to run over me."
Bylead turns his thoughts firmly away, putting himself at Felix's back as they move for the village center. There's an obvious similarity to Byleth in Felix's new sword form and from the self-conscious way Felix twitches his shoulders and glares, it is a purposeful change.
"Tch, does the idea of taking on bandits bore you so much you can hardly keep your attention on your task?" Felix asks and then, as if realizing how defensive he'd sounded, utters a little snarl and runs ahead.
His footwork has improved since Zanado. Faster and lighter. He doesn't make as much noise and doesn't land as heavily. It makes his blade sharper. More deadly. Each swing is precise to the point of artful. Finding weak points. Angling at major organs. Felix is steady and meticulous as he cuts through the bandits.
So strikingly similar to Byleth yet so lacking it resounds hollowly in Bylead's chest.
Blyead has to adjust, still. Has to warp spells and daggers around Felix. Has to correct blind spots and defend whenever Felix is unable to move fast enough to cover himself. Has to step out ahead, and take point with Thunder around his forearms and a dagger in his hand.
Magic is a new tool. So deceptively light it makes his movements effortless.
Lightning twists over and under Bylead's skin, crackling like embers as they twist and spark in the air, throwing offshoots that dance about him, appearing harmless. As if the spell were nothing more than mere fireflies seeking kisses on his cheeks.
He throws bolts of lightning with the same simple ease he throws daggers only with three times the strength. Lightning shatters training swords. Rips through bandits. Tosses his assailants aside as if they were nothing more than smoke and wind.
Bylead runs ahead with lightning on his heels, scorching out a path for himself. Throwing himself into the thick of battle first in Byleth's place. Lets himself engage and be finished with his targets before they even see him.
In Byleth's place where –
"If I should fall then your job is to run over me," Byleth says without a care in the world, looking at him but also straight ahead of him.
Bylead breathes in a crackle. The spell rattles against his teeth, working on his tongue like salted candies, twisting into shape, warping the air before him. With a boom that rattles his skin, he sends another bandit to the ground, barely hearing the scream.
Bylead only steps around her, the grip on his unused dagger tight enough to hurt. Something unfamiliar and painful stinging in his chest. Something oddly shaped and unrecognizable.
"Your students," Sothis reminds him and he feels her pull at his senses.
Summoning the battlefield about him and like a bucket taking in water, the fight rises up around him. He can hear distant hoofbeats and the pound of feet. Sees civilians ducking into smaller alleys and hiding in their homes. Registers fires and smoke alongside errant green gusts blazing over rooftops. The sound of Dimitri's orders echoes nearby, followed by Dedue's thudding footsteps and the heavy clatter of his enormous shield.
Beside him, the bandit he has felled is still screaming as she cradles her arm, her hands trembling as the metal of her disfigured blade warps into her skin.
Felix's blade rings out behind him, metal on metal clashing from far behind. Bylead had run out further than he'd expected.
The world around them is a small chaos, teetering at the very edge of control.
The next Thunder twists above Bylead's head, coiling in an unsteady imitation of Byleth's new blade, the spell pale and ephemeral while hers had been solid and unforgiving.
He snaps it down.
Carves at the air with his magic as if he wielded a blade instead, ripping through a group of bandits surrounding a man on horseback, scoring lightning over their backs, the current throwing them to the ground, leaving them breathless and twitching.
Lord Rodrigue looks over at him from horseback with the calm appraisal of a general. Someone incapable of losing control.
"You have my thanks," Lord Rodrigue says.
Sothis is uncharacteristically silent in Bylead's head but her thoughts rumble like oncoming storm clouds. Muted because he does not insistently pry but he can hear her thoughts like a neighbor on the other side of a wall. He can feel her gaze, something cast in concern and it rubs at him too strongly. Makes him want to turn and hide.
"You are –?" Rodrigue asks.
"From the Officer's Academy."
A pause and then recognition lights Rodrigue's eyes. A little smile twitches the corners of his mouth but he does not let it come fully to form, letting his caution ebb away in slow increments. He bows, still on his horse.
"The new Professor," Rodrigue says, "I have you to thank for the reinforcements."
"No – that was Felix."
A little rueful smile Bylead does not understand ghosts Rodrigue's lips.
"I see. My son has returned," Rodrigue says and it lacks the general warmth of Jeralt's hellos whenever he returned from a mission.
After Gaspard, Bylead will be the sole person to greet him – to greet them both. Byleth, after all, had gone with. Bylead's fingers twitch a little around his dagger and Sothis' thoughts rumble a little louder, a conclusion rising to the surface.
"Pardon my rudeness," Rodrigue says, "I have much to say but – well, perhaps we should –"
Bylead glimpses a blade's wicked edge in his periphery but does not bother to flinch from it, recognizing the shape and movement, knowing well that the blade was not meant for him.
Felix strikes with ruthless precision, steady and well-practiced. Swings with such strength, Bylead feels the press of wind at his back.
Rougher and far crueler than he'd been in Zanado, Felix shakes a dead man from his blade and turns to address them both with a surly glower.
"Is fighting bandits so dull you would distract yourself with idle conversation?" Felix asks Bylead, his voice low and reprimanding. He casts his father only the barest glance and his lips curl in a little snarl of hatred. As if that little glimpse were too much to bear.
"Felix –," Rodrigue says, his voice low and cautious. Tenuously inviting.
"Pathetic," Felix snaps out in response. He straightens, entire body ringing with tension, a stray animal cornered and poised to move, "Struggling to defeat some ragtag bandits? You've grown weak."
"Felix … you may know this already, but no matter how many you kill, more always appear," Rodrigue says. The warmth extinguishing within him. The scorn of his son's judgment makes him solemn and unwavering. The statue of a general on his horse, "Anywhere in the Kingdom these days you find these scenes. His Majesty –"
And Felix's criticism coalesces into something resembling hatred.
"The late king would despair to see it."
"A dead man doesn't despair," Felix says, the words flying from his mouth before Rodrigue's finished speaking.
The words feel worn around the edges and well used. Lifted from an old argument.
Rodrigue stiffens, the corners of his mouth going flat. A little crease forms between his brows and it marks out a deeper similarity between them and an even deeper rift.
Father and son, standing on opposing sides.
Bylead shifts, uncomfortable and wrong-footed. Uncertain as to what to do.
"When was the last time you had a fight with your father?"
He couldn't recall.
"Never," Sothis answers for him, "It's not in you."
"Lord Rodrig –" Bylead says, thinking to step between them but his voice, as always, is too quiet. Too soft. In a way Byleth's never was.
"I am the king's shield, devoted to protecting the Kingdom," Rodrigue says. The slow precise manner in which he articulates his words makes Bylead want to flinch away. Every syllable a reprimand. Each pause a condemnation, "In time you, too, will learn that you cannot turn away from your duty forever. Your brother –"
"If you finish that sentence, I will cut your head from your shoulders myself," Felix snarls with vitriolic heat, his eyes ablaze.
"Glenn would have wished for you to carry out your duty," Rodrigue finishes, his words full of scorn.
Felix's anger is a thick roil of heat, the bellowing breath of a blacksmith's oven. So great and so terrible it's impossible to look into and even more impossible to bear. Felix's body trembles as if his physical form cannot hold the sheer magnitude of his fury. His knuckles are a bone white over the hilt of his sword, his nails digging into the palms of his hand. He's lost all of his composure but none of his fight, shifting slowly into a stance as if he is thinking to lunge.
"Felix –"
"Then you should have done yours that day in Duscar along with the rest of those pitiful –"
Bylead does not stay to see the rest.
"Mercie, I need some bandages," Annette calls out, the magic of her fingertips growing weaker as she tends to a villager with a bloody gash on his leg.
Obligingly, Mercedes provides her a roll, humming a little cheerful tune as she goes back to her own patients, drawing magic from the air as if she were picking flowers.
Ingrid and Sylvain bring over more injured civilians on the backs of their horses, aided by the knights of Rodrigue's guard. Every now and again, Annette glances to a man sharing the same orange hair, her expression twisted in a little glare each time she did, twitching a little in her seat as if trying to force eye contact.
"Lord Rodrigue," Ingrid greets with a low bow, a rigid tension settling in her shoulders. Similar to Felix but her expression clear of any of the emotions. There's something subdued about her mannerisms and they share a small smile, full of something like understanding.
At Ingrid's side, Sylvain mocks out a sloppy bow as if needing to make up for her formality. His eyes, once off Rodrigue, seek out Felix immediately, offering an exaggerated smirk meant to annoy.
Will you not say anything? Bylead asks.
"What is there to say?" Sothis answers with a question.
Fool. Brat. Stupid ignorant child –
"You want me to berate you? Here I thought you veered on the side of sadism," Sothis says, playing at ignorance. She twists a strand of her hair between her fingers as if in deep thought, "Well. I suppose experimentation is natural while you're young but you should certainly find someone else to satisfy your masochistic urges –"
Sothis.
She turns to look at him and for a moment he thinks he's looking at someone else. Someone older carrying weight and understanding that could only come from age.
"I don't think you were a fool," she says, "I granted you my power to save your life but I do not recall barring you from it when you needed it."
Needed?
He's not sure how to interpret that and Sothis offers no answers on her own.
"Lord Rodrigue!"
"Your Highness," Rodrigue greets Dimitri with unfiltered joy, his voice going warm and delighted. All sternness and gravitas wiping clean from his face as he dismounts his horse. He grasps at Dimitri's shoulders, squeezing once, full of affection.
If they were not surrounded by eyes, Bylead is certain he would have taken the prince in with a hug.
"I'm glad you are well. It has been a long time, your Highness. You've grown. Someday, I imagine you will stand taller than his Majesty."
The juxtaposition between Dimitri and Felix is startling. Rodrigue holds none of his former tension. No disappointment. No anger. No deep-seated anger. Only fondness as he looks at Dimitri. Only joy.
A welcome meant for a son.
"Felix."
Felix brushes up against Bylead as he steps forward and makes no move to approach his father beyond that as if needing the distance between them.
"Oi, Professor!" Sylvain calls with a smile that does not reach his eyes, "What're you doing hiding back there. That's Lord Rodrigue! This silver fox doesn't bite unless you ask politely~"
"Sylvain …"
"Oh – sorry, was too spot on? Why Lord Rodrigue – I would never have guessed –"
"Sylvain!" Dimitri shouts, his cheeks pink as he steps towards his friend, expression twisting as he was wont to do before he launched into one of his many speeches regarding propriety.
"Yikes, never mind," Sylvain leaping over the back of his horse, headed for the village outskirts once more.
"I apologize, for Sylvain. Truly."
"No need, your Highness. His antics are not unusual," Rodrigue says laughing. His eyes are clear as he looks at Bylead, bowing deep. "So, this is the new Professor. We are grateful for your help. Though I doubt the bandits will stop any time soon, at least this village is safe. It was important to the late king. If we hadn't saved it, I wouldn't have been able to face his Majesty."
Felix sucks at his teeth, a sharp angry sound that cuts the air like an arrow.
"We were protecting your subjects, not your ego," Felix says, crossing his arms, "I don't give a damn whether or not you can face a dead king."
The words are sharp, pointed only at Rodrigue but Dimitri flinches, something dark but also guilty in his expression, "Felix –"
"I will not tolerate such language from you," Rodrigue snaps, iron lancing through his words. He steps in front of Dimitri as if attempting to shield him. There's a low rumble of anger in his voice, rising fast to the surface. The swell of heat from a volcano threatening to erupt.
Felix scoffs, "Next time do us all the favor of dying instead of struggling about in vain. Perhaps his Majesty will praise you for 'dying like a true knight.'"
Rodrigue's lips thin. His grey eyes narrowed as if aiming for a weakness. A swordsman gauging for a weak point and –
"Perhaps. But –"
Bylead goes back.
"So easily turned away from duty. Glenn would have despaired to see you as you are –"
And back.
"– walking around chaining yourself to gravestones. You should have taken Glenn's place, then. Go where your duty takes you and follow your corpse king to the eternal –"
And back.
"You were never meant to carry the Shield of Fraldarius. But it saddens me to see just how unworthy you are –"
"I suppose if I'd died, you would say the same thing you did after Glenn's death."
"…"
"Again?" Sothis asks but there is no judgment in her voice. Only a patient sort of understanding, "I have more to spare."
Bylead's fingers twitch. The Divine Pulse itches at the tips of his fingers, time – hours and seconds – ghosts against him, at the very edge of his touch.
"I have nothing more to say to you," Felix says, turning on his heels to storm from the forest. He glares at Bylead as he passes, leaving Professor and father behind.
"He's been that way for four years now," Rodrigue says after a long moment of silence, "Of course, I understand his sentiment. To some extent. It all comes down to … well, a difference of opinion."
Does it?
"For someone like you … who has never quarreled with your family. I imagine this is difficult," Sothis says mildly and again she is looking through him.
Seeing him fully, down to the very core of him, just as she had done the day she'd awoken. Bleary-eyed and shrill, she'd strode down her throne and gazed right into his very soul. Into his thoughts. And desires. And –
"Glenn died like a true knight."
"If I should fall then your job is to run over me," Byleth says.
Eleven again.
Byleth's arm is broken but there's no pain on her face. She looks at him from a distance, her gaze pinning him down, making herself unreachable.
"Don't cry over something like this," she says as a command.
On their first mission.
Byleth striding up to him as if she is not holding her wound together. She glances at him with concern, making sure he's unharmed and then walks away. As if her wounds do not matter.
In the Mausoleum.
Byleth pinned to the wall, her jacket sleeves like the wings of a butterfly. Her eyes unseeing as she looks off into the distance.
Before mother's grave.
Byleth and Jeralt pressed together. Her new blade high in the skies above them. A shared resolution between the two of them.
The two of them leaving for Gaspard. Byleth glimpsing back once. Making sure he is still in place. Unmoving from where they left him.
Stay back, her eyes say.
Stay here.
Wai –
"Well, a difference of opinion," Rodrigue says for the second third time.
"I suppose … I understand."
"Hm," Rodrigue hums, considering for a moment before offering a little smile, "It's fortunate Felix met someone like you. He is an odd boy. Thick-headed in some ways. But he is my son all the same. I'm glad he has you to look out for him. Ah – is that his Highness? He has grown in these years –"
"Make your choice kid," father tells him looking at dangers and concerns and troubles beyond them all.
"Stay behind me," Byleth says with her back to him.
Wait here.
Don't follow –
The Divine Pulse thrums beneath his fingers.
"Again?" Sothis asks and once more that patient understanding.