Chapter 3: Tributaries
Tributary: n. a stream that flows to a larger stream or other body of water.
adj. furnishing subsidiary aid; contributory.
Standing in the grand audience chamber where Rhea and Seteth were already waiting, Byleth wondered not for the first time whether he would eventually grow older than the three remaining Children of the Goddess. If the historical accounts were correct, the massacre at Zanado should have been just over a thousand years ago, although he had no idea how old they had been prior to Nemesis' arrival.
Considering the diminishing progress he'd been having with each new life, that was looking like a real possibility. He was looking forward to the day when he'd be able to tell Rhea just how old he really was, even after factoring the high likelihood of her turning on him the way she had lifetimes ago when confronted about the truth of Crest Stones and the nature of the Church. Entertainment was extremely rare in his life, nowadays.
"Alois, Jeralt. It's a pleasure to welcome you back to the monastery," Rhea greeted. "And who might you be?"
Byleth stepped forward, giving a slight nod in respect. It would help win some respect from Seteth, if nothing else. "Byleth Eisner, Lady Rhea. Jeralt Eisner is my father."
As always, he noted the slightest widening of her eyes at the implication of that statement. The only successful experiment in reviving her dear mother had returned to the monastery.
Unfortunately for her, Sothis hadn't been around for a long time.
Byleth watched as she smoothened her expression quickly. "Welcome to Garreg Mach Monastery, child. I believe this is your first time here? I am Rhea, Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, as you have noted. This is Seteth, my second-in-command."
Byleth nodded. "It's an honour to meet you."
There was a moment of silence, then Alois took the chance to speak. "Lady Rhea, if I may begin my report?"
She gestured for him to continue. He cleared his throat. "As you know, my knights were made aware of the unexpected situation in the training exercise by several students in the late hours of last night. We immediately took action and tracked the bandits down to Remire Village."
He smiled widely, then turned to gesture at Byleth and his father. "When we arrived, the bandits had already been dealt with. Captain Jeralt and Byleth had rendered their assistance to our students. My men have chased down most of the remaining mercenaries, but unfortunately their leader and several others have successfully escaped. We will be continuing our search in the meantime."
Who knew that Alois had a serious side to him? Then again, his respect for Rhea had always eclipsed those for Jeralt and himself.
Rhea waited a few seconds longer. "Is there anything else you wish to add, Alois?"
"If I may be so bold?" he asked, waiting for her affirmation. She waved her hand regally. "I would like to recommend my former captain, Jeralt, to the position of professor in the monastery. I'm sure that everyone present in this room is aware of his deeds."
"Hmm… it is true that our previous professor fled at the sight of bandits," Seteth hummed in consideration. "And the Blade Breaker was indeed a Knight of known repute."
"Would you be willing to accept the position, Jeralt?" Rhea asked after a moment of consideration. "You left in quite a hurry before. I had thought you wanted nothing to do with me and the Church."
Jeralt shook his head. "That was a long time ago. Besides, there's more."
"More?" Seteth asked.
Alois nodded. "Byleth has requested to serve as my squire. If there is no trouble, I would like to accept."
"Truly?" Seteth mused. "You wish to become one of the Knights of Seiros?"
"I am uncertain, to tell you the truth," he said, knowing that Seteth valued his honesty. "Still, it is an avenue I wish to consider. Besides, my father will be in the monastery for the foreseeable future."
Rhea would accept the request, anyway. There was no way that she wouldn't. Having the vessel of her mother close at hand was far too enticing an offer to pass up.
"Lady Rhea?" Seteth deferred to her authority.
"I will allow it," she said. "Alois, I trust you will make the necessarily arrangements?"
He nodded. "It will take some time, but there shouldn't be any problems. I would also like to request to be attached on missions with our younger students to give Byleth some experience."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Seteth considered. "Do you have the necessary skills, however? I do not doubt your abilities, but missions with the Knights of Seiros deal with threats far more serious than bandits."
More than you'd believe. "I think so, yes," Byleth said instead.
"Perhaps a test would put your mind at ease?" Rhea suggested. "The students will be taking part in mock battles shortly. I would like you to participate in them in place of your father for the House that he chooses to teach."
So… not much different from every other life. "That won't be a problem," he agreed.
"On that matter, have you chosen which House you will be teaching?" Seteth moved the conversation forward. "There haven't been many changes since you were last in Garreg Mach, Captain."
"Giving me the chance, huh? I suppose I'll talk to the kids and see which of them wants a fossil like me," Jeralt said. "I'm guessing old Hanneman and Manuela are still teaching here?"
"Don't ever let Manuela hear you call her that," Alois shivered as he said that. "I didn't think that you knew them? You left the Knights before they began teaching."
"I wouldn't call us friends, but we've crossed paths before," he said. "Mercenary work brings us around Fódlan, and I've kept up with news about the Church."
That was something that Byleth hadn't known. New information already, so soon into his new life! It was certainly shaping up to be a productive one.
"If that's everything settled?" Seteth asked. "In that case, please do take the opportunity to meet with our students. I do hope that you will enjoy your time here, Professor."
Seteth was being far more respectful in his dealings with Jeralt than he'd been with him. Byleth supposed that the Blade Breaker was much more renowned than the lesser-known Ashen Demon, not to mention his own unknown status within the Church. Seteth wasn't as suspicious or hostile of Byleth's intentions as he used to be in past lives either, probably because a simple squire had far less influence than a professor.
Jeralt gave a final nod. "If we may be excused?"
"Take care, my child. May the Goddess guide you."
Jeralt turned, gesturing for him to follow. Alois did likewise after a final goodbye to the Archbishop and her attendant.
"Byleth," Alois addressed him after they'd left the audience chamber. "I'll handle the arrangements in the coming days. For now, I'm afraid I'll have other matters to attend to."
"That will be fine. Thank you, Alois."
Alois turned to his father. "Captain Jeralt, once again it's good to have you back. I'd love to catch up with you soon."
"If you promise to tone down your jokes, sure," Jeralt agreed. "Assuming the kids don't drive me crazy by then."
"Hah! Who knew you could tell jokes as well!" Alois laughed boisterously. "I'm afraid I really have to go, though. Take care, captain."
With that, he left, rushing toward one of the knights under his command at his usual frantic pace.
"He's still the same as ever, after all these years," Jeralt muttered. "Well, I suppose I should meet those kids. Do you want to follow?"
Byleth shook his head. He didn't have much of a desire to make the usual introductions. "I'll explore on my own. We'll meet here at sundown?"
"Alright. Take care." His father nodded, then moved to walk down the stairs.
Byleth continued standing there for a moment. If his predictions were right, his father would probably teach the Golden Deer House. Dimitri and Edelgard came with far too many responsibilities, and Jeralt hadn't necessarily given the impression that he wanted to deal with future monarchs like them. Besides, Leonie probably wouldn't give up the chance to have his father teach her, given her self-proclaimed status as his apprentice. She could be very persistent in matters like these.
There wasn't much else to do. Better get back into shape, then. The third floor tended to be empty at this time of day, and he wasn't too keen on showing up at the training grounds just yet. No doubt the usual training addicts like Felix, Caspar and Raphael would be there at this time. Some time to decompress after the course of his previous life and to make some plans going forward would be welcome.
With that, he moved up the stairs, going over the usual drills and training points that had worked in previous lives. Efficient methods to bring himself back to a reasonable standard were something he devised early on. It was particularly important to someone who used both magic and martial prowess simultaneously in battle, after all.
-o-o-o-
"Damn it, Ferdinand, just surrender!" Byleth yelled, as he ducked to avoid yet another thrust of his former student's lance from atop the horse he was riding. He readied his own counterattack, but his foe read his telegraphed attack easily. They had trained together in the monastery; their chosen methods of fighting were no big secret.
"Sorry, Professor, but I can't let you win today," he said grimly, tugging on his horse. Its armoured body retreated, creating space between the two generals. All around them, battalions of soldiers bearing the colours of black and gold fought against one another.
Despite the din of battle amid thundering roars and gushing blood, none dared intrude upon the two figures now carefully evaluating each other's guard. There was a lull in the battle, but the tension only peaked. A moment of weakness or distraction was all it would take for the tide to shift.
"Edelgard imprisoned your father!" he argued. "She started this war! Even if you think her cause is noble – and I know you don't – there has to be a better way!"
"More than ever, she needs me to guide her," Ferdinand snapped. "The Empire needs me. Surrendering now would be the same as spitting on the von Aegir name."
"Who cares about a damned name?!" Byleth gripped the Sword of the Creator tightly. His knuckles were probably blanching, but he wasn't about to be distracted enough to look away from his opponent. "People are dying, Ferdie! You know she can't win! You know you can't win! Why fight for her?"
His student's eyes hardened. "Dorothea's dead."
Byleth felt a familiar sinking sensation in his chest. For a moment, his guard lowered, but Ferninand made no effort to press the attack. After a moment's silence, Byleth finally spoke, voice cracking. "I – I'm sorry. I didn't know."
A second later, he dared ask. "How?"
"Kingdom ambush, two years ago. She –" he choked on his words. "She was injured. Poisoned arrows. She died in pain. If you saw what it was like – if you saw her, feverish, screaming in pain, pale as a corpse, you'd know why I fight. Professor."
He understood. Oh, Goddess, how he knew. He had lived it in his previous life.
He remembered how he'd descended upon the group of Imperial knights, fighting with no grace or finesse. He remembered the bizarre furious calm that overwhelmed all else. Nothing mattered except for his enemies to pay. He recalled the screams that only strengthened his blows, as his sword hacked through tempered steel into flesh again and again.
When he finally let go of his blade from an arm that had long-since turned numb, the only things he could hear were the thumping of his heart and the crackling flames all across Derdriu. Blood pooled all around him.
He remembered holding Marianne's body that had since turned cold, the barest visage of a smile plastered onto her face in her last moments, knowing that she'd saved the lives of civilians. It was the only smile Byleth had ever seen on his student's face. He had made the mistake of growing to care for her, foolishly thinking that perhaps one day, when all was over, they might just be able to have a life together.
Her face would come to haunt him for the rest of that life. It still haunted him now, in his second.
"I understand," he told Ferdinand resolutely. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too, Professor."
No further words were necessary. Each understood the other's resolve.
Two generals moved. Two flashes of steel. One instant; one mistake.
One victor.
Byleth retracted his blade to its original configuration, as the Empire noble's body fell from his horse, lance still tightly held in his hand. Blood oozed from the wound in his chest, staining the stones of the Great Bridge of Myrddin a bright red. There was no spurting of the crimson fluid; his heart couldn't continue beating with a puncture wound of that magnitude.
"THE AEGIR BASTARD'S DEAD!" one of his troops shouted. "KILL THE REST OF THESE SCUM!"
Byleth didn't advance. He knelt by his fallen student, closing the eyes of his still-warm body. His soldiers could handle the rest.
The Alliance had as good as won, even before he killed Ferdinand. Claude and the rest were already finishing up with Empire forces. It was so similar to his previous life, but so different.
Ferdinand had been on their side in that life. Byleth had recruited him to the Golden Deer House. He didn't die here.
What was the point of Sothis' power? Why had he been brought back? Why had she kept him away from his departed students?
What was the point to any of this?!
Then there was the more troubling thought: Would he have yet another rebirth? Would this happen again?
No. Never again, he told himself. He couldn't keep doing this, couldn't live with that guilt.
There were two possibilities here. His second chance at life was either a fluke, or Sothis wanted something of him. If so, he'd have already failed.
He raised the Sword of the Creator high.
"Good work, General." His aide trotted up to his side on his horse. Already, the Empire forces were routing.
He didn't reply, steeling his nerves. This was it.
"General?"
He took a deep breath…
- and plunged the Sword of the Creator into his own chest.
Images flashed by, some of obscure significance and some that he'd seen before. There was that song that he'd heard twice in his previous life.
He awoke in his bed, just as he'd done before.
So, this was it. He would fight to save them all, or he would die. So long as Sothis saw fit to send him back into the past, he'd continue to fight. He owed it to Ferdie, to Dorothea and Marianne, to all who had died in this pointless war and the last, and all future wars to come.
No matter the cost.
-o-o-o-
Damn. He hadn't had that dream in a long time.
His second life was such a distant memory. Most details had since faded into the sands of time, but Ferdinand's death wasn't something he forgot easily. The memories felt strangely detached, the feelings and significance of its events not having the same impact on him today as it did back then. He hadn't developed the same emotional attachment to his students in many lives since. He couldn't afford to.
He'd began his journey fighting for the sake of his students, but something had changed over the long years. It was selfish, but somewhere along the way it had become more along the lines of destroying the loop entirely rather than working to protect his students. He hated himself for that, but things were bound to change after watching his students die in every one of his many lives.
Byleth knew that he wasn't going to get back to sleep. He never managed to in the past.
He quickly got dressed, then made his way to the training ground. There wouldn't be anyone there this early in the morning.
Yesterday had gone almost entirely as expected. Jeralt had opted to take charge of the Golden Deer House. They had a quiet dinner, with his father not questioning the reasons behind his overnight changes. The details were fuzzy, but he didn't think that they had a close relationship prior to the start of all of this, when life was so much simpler as a group of mercenaries.
He was focused as he went through his forms. Working with swords, gauntlets, daggers and magic were his priority. Axes and lances weren't the most practical ways of fighting for him. They were far too conspicuous weapons, made more for a grand battlefield than the skirmishes that filled the majority of his lives. Wyvern Lords and Great Knights worked best in units as organised charges, while his chosen forms of combat were more versatile when fighting alone.
After all, he could hardly protect his students if he was asking them to risk their lives for him by his side. No; he'd more often than not taken a leaf from Felix's book and fought alone, without a battalion of troops by his side.
There was something relaxing in the way his strikes landed against training dummies. The stakes were absent, completely unlike the countless battles he'd fought in. Here, he could strike uncaring of the man that stood behind the point of his blade. Even though he no longer hesitated during war, he still appreciated the value of human life. Someone who had seen as much as him couldn't afford not to do so without becoming the very thing he fought against.
Punches and grapples turned to slashes and thrusts. Stone chunks bore singe-marks from Fire and Thunder. Holes were drilled into straw targets from concentrated beams of Thoron.
On and on it went. He'd only stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. He concentrated on the pattern of their steps.
tap. Tap. tap. Tap.
The second step subtly louder than the first with each gait cycle. A focused rhythm, with just a very slightly displaced centre of mass. There weren't very many possibilities as to who it was. Felix always did enjoy starting his training early in the morning. Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed.
If Felix was surprised by the fact that someone had beaten him to the training ground, he let none of it show. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, followed a second later by a glint of recognition.
"You're the new Professor's son," he stated.
Byleth nodded, then introduced himself. "Byleth."
"Felix," he returned. A sign of respect, knowing the way Felix worked. More than likely he was evaluating the state of the nearby training dummies against his Jeralt's reputation as a mercenary.
Then he sneered. "The boar prince seems to think highly of you."
That was surprising. "Dimitri? I can't say I've talked to him much."
"He says you want to become a Knight."
Ah. So that was where the vitriol was coming from.
"He's not wrong," Byleth said simply. Felix continued frowning, then ignored his presence entirely. He drew his blade and began to train.
Strange. Their first introduction normally involved a friendly spar. Then again, Byleth would usually have proven his worth by that time, either through lessons with his House or in his showing in the mock battle. Along his false declaration of intending to squire under Alois, he could see why Felix was pointedly refusing to acknowledge his presence.
Byleth shrugged, then went back to his training. He didn't come here with any intention of sparring, anyway.
They worked on opposite sides of the training ground, not exchanging a word. Finally, after several tens of minutes, he heard Felix approaching him.
"You're skilled."
Byleth paused from his practice of the drills that he'd created many lives before to hone his technique as a Swordmaster, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he turned to face Felix.
"Debatable." He could do so much more when his body was back to its peak condition.
"You don't practice like a knight," Felix continued, ignoring what he'd said.
"I'm not a knight."
"You fight like a warrior," he said. "You don't just rely on your sword. You train your hands and feet."
Always the observant one, Felix. "If knights don't already, then they should."
"You're not like the rest," he nodded in approval. "Those fools limit themselves to the tools in their hands."
Byleth nodded. This was a familiar conversation. Might as well bring back some old memories. "Spar?" he asked.
Felix considered his request, then agreed, drawing his blade as he settled into a familiar stance. Byleth had copied that at some point, then adapted and refined it into one that suited himself, among many other sword forms through the long years. Funnily enough, in past lives Felix had asked for Byleth to teach him what was essentially his plagiarised techniques.
The two fighters looked at each other across the training ground. Like it had been back on the Bridge of Myrddin with Ferdinand, no words were necessary. The only difference was that this was no battle to the death.
The pair dodged and parried; slashed and punched. Swords met with ringing clangs as he matched Felix's tempo. There wasn't a need to overpower his former student immediately. They continued at the same pace for some time.
Byleth absently noted some of the training ground regulars beginning to stream in one by one during their spar, alternating between watching their spar and working on their own drills.
"You're holding back," Felix noted as the informal spar reached a natural lull.
"I am," he agreed. "There's no need to go all out. You'll still have classes later."
"Hmph." Felix restarted the fight, moving faster than he did previously. Against any one of his peers, he'd probably easily emerge the victor, but Byleth had faced many versions of Felix with far more experience and won.
Several clashes of their weapons later, he saw an opening. Felix always shifted his balance just a little too much when attempting that sort of attack, something that he'd only come to correct over the coming months. Byleth abused that weakness, deflecting the incoming blow aside, destabilising Felix in the instant that he overcompensated for his change in balance.
Felix tried to regain control of his footing, but Byleth continued his assault. A hard shove sent his opponent sprawling onto the floor, followed swiftly by a kick that sent his sword clattering across the floor. An instant later, the point of his blade rested an inch from Felix's throat.
"Yield?"
He could see Felix trying to find a way out of his predicament. Finally, he gave up. "Yield."
Byleth pulled him up to his feet. "Good spar."
"I still lost," Felix grumbled, but there was no animosity in it. Byleth knew about his singular focus on getting stronger. "You fought like a mercenary. From the start, I aimed to win, but I couldn't defeat you."
He picked up his blade where it landed, carefully inspecting Byleth with narrowed eyes. "But there's something bothering me. You aren't fighting for victory."
That observation was different. "How so?" Byleth asked curiously.
"You didn't come at me with your full strength. You were distracted during the fight. You're not fighting to win, you fought not to lose."
Fair point. "I suppose you're right," he conceded.
"Not a knight, but not a mercenary," Felix mused. "You're different."
Byleth considered his point. He wasn't expecting to be psychoanalysed by Felix this early into the term, but now that he thought about it, the conclusion of his analysis might as well have defined the way he lived all his lives. He wasn't fighting for any grand victory, all he wanted was to put an end to the damned war to come. Nothing else really mattered.
He might as well try winning some influence over those present. Ultimately, one purpose of this life was to try and see if he could influence all three houses without commitment to one. Dimitri, Dedue, Raphael and Caspar weren't exactly being subtle in the way they observed their spar.
"Why do you fight?" he asked instead, despite already knowing the answer. This was more for the theatrics of it.
"Why? Hmm…" Felix said thoughtfully. "I never really thought about that. I learned to thrust a sword before I learned to write my name. You're of no use if you can't swing a blade, however mighty your Crest might be. Grow strong so you may live, and live to grow stronger. That's what I was taught."
"I'm different," Byleth said. "I don't even like fighting. Given a chance, I'd rather avoid a battle."
"And you want to become a knight?" Felix scoffed. "That's hardly –"
"Let me finish," he interrupted. "I'd avoid a battle, because some fights are pointless. Senseless. People kill each other for no reason. Ask why they fight, and you'll realise just how flimsy their reasoning is. When you die, you die. There's no second-chances, no take-backs. I don't know about you, but I'd rather be a living coward than a dead fool."
Not like I could really die, anyway.
Felix stiffened. He could hear someone inhale sharply, probably Dimitri. No doubt that was a little too close to home. Still, he pressed on.
Ferdie, on the Bridge of Myrddin. All the lives claimed in the entire damned pointless war. "Some fights are unavoidable. Perhaps the two parties have differing opinions that they refuse to yield. In that case, at least attempt to de-escalate. If that doesn't work, then fight."
"I didn't expect you to be so naïve."
"Perhaps I am," Byleth acquiesced. He supposed it took a special kind of ignorance to continue doing what he did after hundreds of years of failure. "But I'm not that stupid either, which brings me to my next point. If you commit to a fight, you better be damned sure that you have a way to end it. It doesn't matter what your method is. Lie, cheat, abuse every advantage you have. War is selfish, and it doesn't give a damn about chivalry or fair play. Run, if it comes down to it. There's nothing worse than a drawn-out battle."
Edelgard certainly hadn't thought about what that would mean when she started the war. Fódlan had been locked in a stalemate for years, each side throwing bodies against the other with minimal territory changing hands, paying dozens of bodies for meagre amounts of land. He didn't mean to brag, but his influence was somehow the key factor in changing the course of the war in almost all his many lives.
"That sounds almost contradictory," Felix scoffed sarcastically. "Is that really the way a knight should be thinking?"
"What do you think makes a knight?" he directed the question back at Felix.
"I'm sure these fools have some thoughts," Felix waved around himself. "Boar prince! What do you think!"
"Don't insult His Highness –"
"It's alright, Dedue," Dimitri halted the impending confrontation. He turned to face Byleth. "I would say that strength, loyalty and courage are important values."
"I fight only for His Highness," Dedue said stoically as Byleth looked at him.
"Hmm," Byleth hummed. He turned to Raphael. "And you?"
The large man scratched his head. "I don't really think of it much, but a knight's strong, right? I have to be strong to be a proper knight. And I want to protect my little sis! Oh, and I heard that proper knights always help those in need. Isn't that right?"
Raphael's eyes lit up at the mention of his sister. In a way, it was what Byleth fought for. That, and just trying to escape from the damned time loop in general.
He nodded. He asked the same question of the final onlooker, making sure to remember that he didn't know their names yet. It wouldn't do good for them to grow suspicious. "You?"
Caspar looked startled at being addressed. "I just train to make it on my own, you know? I don't really know what a knight should be like."
"Fine. So, a knight is strong, loyal, protective and helpful. Is that right?" He waited a moment before continuing. "Let me ask you this instead: would you serve a king unwaveringly, even if you know his cause is unjust? Would you fight a war that would kill uncountable innocent lives?"
"If His Highness demands it, without question," Dedue replied immediately. Dimitri snapped to look at him.
"Dedue –"
"That kind of thinking is how wars begin," Byleth cut in. There was no room for a soft approach here. These kids needed to understand. "More than anything, I believe that a knight needs to have a conviction tempered by wisdom. How many wars do you think could have been averted if soldiers had the courage to disobey orders for what they believed was right? If generals disagreed with their kings? And if a war does begin, how many of them could have been stopped if people dared to follow their hearts rather than absolute orders?"
Ferdinand could have surrendered, damn it. He and so many others after him gave their lives for nothing.
Byleth had certainly seen his fair share of knights that simply surrendered or fled in battles. Together, they could easily form a sizable fighting force, but none dared go against their rulers, regardless of whether they served under the banners of Edelgard, Dimitri or Claude. The war would be so much simpler if they'd dared to defy their leaders.
Hell, there was even one lifetime where he'd convinced Kronya to turn against the Agarthans after botching up Solon's planned betrayal. If she could do that, just about everyone else probably could.
"I respect your opinion, Byleth, but I think that's also a dangerous way of thinking," Dimitri argued. "A knight shouldn't defy his liege simply because of his own beliefs. He may not have the full picture."
Byleth frowned. "Maybe so. I'm not asking you to change your mindset entirely, or to take what I say as fact," he clarified. "All I'm asking is that you consider my words and think. Sometimes, blindly serving a lord is the worst thing you can do, both for yourself and for your liege."
Dedue's blind loyalty certainly hadn't helped changed Dimitri's mindset during the war, even when the first hints of it started appearing before the war began. If anything, Dedue's and later Rodrigue's loyalties only served to further feed his inner demons. At times, the king's vengeful nature and obsession over killing and revenge seemed worse than Edelgard's own determination to unify Fódlan and topple the Church, whatever the cost.
The bell rang from the top of the monastery's massive tower. "You should get to class," he said. "Just think about it."
One by one, they departed, after quick (re)introductions by Raphael and Caspar. Felix seemed to view Byleth with a little more respect than he'd started with, coupled with a new thoughtful look in his eyes. Was he thinking about Glenn and the Tragedy of Duscur?
The training ground fell quiet. As he prepared to work on training his magic once more, now that the students had left, he thought about what had transpired.
That impromptu teaching session hadn't been planned for, but hopefully it would put some things into perspective. He'd tried such things before, but his words hadn't ever really sunk in enough to have a lasting impact on the war. Maybe with his position now more similar to one of their peers than a professor, they would be more willing to listen to his words.
It was a step in the right direction. A very small one, but a step nonetheless.
-o-o-o-
There was something wrong with his son, and Jeralt was determined to find out what it was.
Far too many things didn't add up. His son couldn't have ever been considered 'normal', but the way he acted in the previous few days was too different in comparison to how he was like before. Since that night when he'd waken up – without Jeralt's prompting, he would add – it was like he had changed almost completely.
He was far more expressive and charismatic than he'd used to be. He'd seen the way that Byleth had talked to Alois and the three royal brats. He'd convinced Alois to take him on as a squire, despite knowing that Byleth never had the intention of joining the Knights of Seiros before.
Goddess be damned, Jeralt didn't think that Byleth had even so much as heard of the Church before. With all that had happened with Rhea, he'd distanced himself and his son from the Church as much as possible.
Then there was the way he fought. Byleth had always been skilled, having been taught personally by the former Captain since he was a child, but it was as though he'd picked up years of experience overnight.
The way he took on the bandits was virtually flawless. Sure, they were just common bandits, but there were no wasted movements in the way he'd fought. Byleth had been in constant motion, dodging and countering strikes in a way that Jeralt could honestly say he'd have some difficulty replicating. He cut them down with strikes aimed precisely to kill, and he made it seem like nothing. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he'd let their leader go.
Of course, there was also the matter of him being capable of casting Sagittae. Jeralt was no mage, but he'd seen enough Black Magic at work to know that it was a fairly complex magical spell. Younger mages than he could learn the spell, certainly – that Lysithea girl was probably going to be close to that stage soon – but to have such experience with swordplay and magic? To cast those spells with the casual ease Byleth had displayed?
That kind of mastery took months of constant training, if not years. He'd relied on instinct, doing what felt right, the same way that Jeralt fought after honing his skills over decades spent as a knight and a mercenary.
On the first day of classes, the large boy (Raphael?) had hurriedly stumbled in well after he'd begun his first lesson, explaining that he'd been at the training ground to catch some early morning training. Jeralt had been ready to accept that, but then he'd continued to describe in vivid detail how his son had sparred against another student. If that wasn't enough, they'd apparently entered some philosophical debate on the morality and psychology of knights for some incomprehensible reason.
At least that was how he understood it from Raphael's account. He doubted that 'Uh… he said that knights are smart' was all that Byleth had said.
He sighed. Just his luck that he'd elected to teach this House. In that class alone, the ways in which the two kids Lorenz and Raphael talked were equally difficult to understand sometimes, although for completely opposite reasons.
Then that other brat Leonie who seemed to have an obsession over him had viewed Byleth's presence in the monastery as a personal challenge. He vaguely recalled her and the job he'd taken in that village, of course, but her zeal and the sheer intensity of her gaze as he spoke in class were far disproportionate in comparison to what he'd done for her village.
She came back after their lunch break, stating that Byleth 'was the real deal', whatever that meant. It took only some probing before she described meticulously just how she'd been completely dominated in their spar. With lances, no less. Had Byleth even wielded a lance before?
There were too many mysteries here. He'd wager a good amount of gold that Rhea might have some idea about what was going on, but he wasn't just about to ask her any time soon. She had her own share of mysteries that he never uncovered in the two decades since he'd left his service of the Church.
It was why he was now approaching the training grounds after the second day of classes to see for himself just what his students were talking about. At this hour, the students should be gathered in the dining hall.
His first sight upon turning the corner that led to the grounds proper was the manifestation of a glyph with many rotating sigils that defined the spellwork. He was no mage, but he would reckon that was a sign of its complexity.
Then Byleth let his spell loose, and fired an Ailell-damned Agnea's Arrow that obliterated the training dummy he'd directed it at.
Jeralt didn't know much about magic, but he was very certain that it took a master mage to cast that spell without getting one's head blown off. It didn't have the same destructive power he'd seen from other mages in the rare occasion where they could cast the spell, but it was a complex feat nonetheless.
"Father," Byleth greeted calmly as he turned around. Jeralt studied his face. After all the other signs that something wasn't quite right with his son, he wasn't surprised to see that the spell hadn't given him even a single drop of sweat.
"Byleth," he returned the greeting. "You're training hard."
Ah, he was never good with words. Just how should he ask what was on his mind?
"I suppose. How are your students?"
"Brats, all of them," Jeralt snorted. "One noble thinks he's funnier than he really is, another overestimates his importance. There's one girl that does nothing but laze around, and another that's obsessed with trying to impress me. You too, after your spar. Just what kind of impression did you make on her, anyway?"
Jeralt waved his hands in exasperation. The corners of his son's lips turned upward just ever so slightly. "I just showed her some things she could work on."
Cryptic. Jeralt continued. "The big one only shows interest in training and eating. The kid with spectacles is too timid to give his own opinions. The blue-haired girl straight-up doesn't dare look into my eyes, never mind she speak. And the last girl somehow distorts every question that I ask her into a personal affront to her age."
Damned kids were going to be the death of him. How was he going to continue teaching here?
"They've got more potential than you think," Byleth said. Jeralt tilted his head in curiosity. Why did he sound so certain about that?
"I've only met Raphael and Leonie," he began. "But I think there's more to them than what you described. He trains hard to protect his sister and friends. Leonie's dedicated. They'll go far."
It seemed like there was more to it than just that, but Jeralt let it slide. There were enough mysteries at present; he certainly didn't need more. He just wanted one answered.
"Why are you acting so different?" Jeralt asked suddenly.
Byleth stilled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Jeralt said, gesturing around the training grounds. Target dummies bore deep gouge marks in critical areas, wounds that would kill any human. Pillars and floor tiles were singed from errant spells. Chunks of rocks were straight up blasted into oblivion. "This. All of this."
Strange. The pattern in which the sword strikes had cut into the practice dummies looked so strikingly familiar. Where had he had seen before?
His son's posture relaxed slightly, head tilted down. For a moment, he didn't speak.
"It just happened," he said in a soft tone, a rare emotion breaking through; sorrowful and wistful, but it sounded honest. "I can't explain it either."
"There has to be more than that," Jeralt argued. "If there's something bothering you –"
"It's not that," he interrupted. "I just can't say. Please."
He looked into the depths of his son's eyes. There was something there that hadn't been present before. They seemed to carry a weight that Jeralt couldn't fully comprehend.
He'd seen those eyes before, in his time as both a knight and a mercenary.
He saw people deal with grief in two ways. They either accepted it, rose and triumphed over it, or they couldn't handle it and fell apart. Those that broke when faced with their crucibles fell into two groups.
One had a look about them. They bore a heavy burden deep within. Their soul burned with a terrible hatred, and one day that flame would come to consume them. He'd seen fine mercenaries and knights fall prey to their grief, turning into people that were even less than thugs and bandits, ones that killed their victims in dark alleyways for the sole purpose of killing. Gold mattered not to them.
The other group appeared normal. Far too normal. They would laugh at everything, even when others would remain sombre. They saw themselves as the subject of some cosmic joke, their lives a plaything for the Goddess' amusement. When the time came that they finally snapped, the aftermath was always worse than the first group.
The troubling thing was that Byleth's eyes conveyed both. There was simultaneously a disease in his soul, and madness in his eye.
Why? What could possibly have caused this?
What sort of things had he seen? How did the Church and Rhea factor into all of this? Why now? There was no way that Byleth would suggest joining up with Alois if there wasn't a reason to it.
The sheer intensity of his look told Jeralt all he needed to know. Something wasn't right, but Byleth wouldn't open up immediately. His men certainly hadn't, in the past.
At least he had some experience in dealing with the matter. All it took was time to break down the walls. He would have plenty of it in the monastery, assuming the brats didn't test his patience first.
"You'll be taking part in the mock battle tomorrow," Jeralt said, changing the subject. Then he raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the carnage of straw and stone all around himself. "If this is what you're capable of, I'd say you wouldn't have any trouble."
"Perhaps," he agreed, but didn't elaborate any further.
The silence stretched on for longer than should be comfortable.
"Shall we get some dinner?" Jeralt asked. "We can talk more."
"I'd love that."
There was no mistaking the honesty in that smile. There was something so familiar about it, bringing back memories of a time when things were simpler, when it was just the pair of them. A time from before he'd started his band of mercenaries, before he'd become known as the Blade Breaker.
He returned the smile, then led his son to the dining hall. He would let Byleth keep his secrets, for now. That smile told him everything he needed to know.
This was undoubtedly his son, his precious Byleth, and Jeralt would do anything to protect him. Just as his wife had done, all those years ago. He owed it to her.
He hoped that she was proud of them both. Soon, he told himself, he would tell Byleth all about her.
Little hesitant about uploading this, but meh. I've written up to chapter 6 so far, but I'm not very satisfied with how I've paced the story. Hopefully it wasn't too bad.
