Only reason why I began writing this story is to unironically use this as a chapter title.

Very very very (you get the point) uncertain about uploading this chapter, but writing it has been too frustrating. Most of it is just… well… bad. I felt like banging my head against the keyboard so many times while writing it, and even then I'm sure what comes out would be better than the travesty of words strung together that is this chapter. Just uploading it before I delete it all again and give up on trying to fix it. Might try and rework it again in the coming days.


Chapter 8: Crest

Crest: n. Highest level above a certain reference point that a river will reach in an amount of time;
n. distinctive device representing a family or corporate body, borne above the shield of a coat of arms;
n. blessings bestowed by the Goddess, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them (lol)


It was the day for the Goddess' Rite of Rebirth, and Byleth knew that the Death Knight would make his move. Even with the changes to how events normally played out that he'd already come across in this life, the fact that the Agarthans had planted the fake assassination plan on Lonato's person indicated that the attack would carry on as planned.

They always struck in the evening, when Rhea and Sothis were fully concentrated on the Rite of Rebirth. The students were distributed around the school, reinforcing locations where they didn't have enough knights to cover for their defence. He and Alois would patrol the grounds, checking up on where his knights were stationed around the school.

Privately, he was a little concerned. Jeritza was normally in place within the school, allowing him easy access to the Mausoleum. With him out of play, how would things change? Would they target somewhere else? The school held more than its fair share of Crest Stones, after all. He wouldn't put it past the Agarthans to use the opportunity to strike at the Holy Tomb instead. It was why he had suggested for frequent patrols to Alois. If anyone took out their knights, they would know as soon as possible.

Over his past lives, he still didn't know exactly how their group had entered the monastery. He highly suspected that the obscure method of teleportation utilised by the Agarthans was what allowed their infiltration, but there was no way of being certain. When he'd already been inside the Mausoleum guarding the coffin, the Agarthans entered through the main entrance to the Mausoleum. On the occasions where he'd purposely delayed his House's entry, they would already be in place, working at unravelling the magical seals placed upon the coffin.

If things happened on schedule, the Agarthans should be just about to begin their infiltration. If they assaulted the Mausoleum, Byleth knew that Jeralt and his students were more than capable of handling the defence of the Holy Mausoleum. If he'd been able to do it in his first life, his father was certainly able to do so as well.

"Notice anything, Byleth?"

They'd been at the marketplace for some time now, keeping an eye on the merchants and other civilians going about their business. It was fairly crowded, with stalls set up selling food items or other souvenirs to commemorate the day of the holy festival. Anna, ever the opportunistic merchant, was busy cajoling her customers to buy whatever items she was selling.

"There doesn't appear to be anyone suspicious."

Then again, if the Agarthans were changing their plans attempting to find them would be difficult. With how they'd been able to disguise themselves, he doubted that even he could pick them out in a busy crowd like this. There was a reason why Monica had been able to successfully infiltrate the Monastery.

Alois gave a final sweep of the marketplace. Satisfied that there was nothing out of place, he turned around, beckoning for him to follow. "Alright, Byleth. Let's move to the next location."

He nodded toward Alois, and they moved toward the main reception hall. Along the way, they passed by the lone gatekeeper keeping watch of the entrance. He gave a quick salute alongside an enthusiastic 'Nothing to report, sir!'

After the many years of hearing the gatekeeper give the exact same greeting, a change in the way he was addressed was honestly jarring. Alois thanked the man on duty, and the pair continued onward.

Again, they gave a quick inspection of those that remained in the repeption hall. There weren't many; most had already left toward the main courtyard and the base of the Goddess Tower where the devout members of the Church would partake in the festival in their own capacities. After another quick report from the pair of knights stationed in the area, they continued onward toward the long hallway that led toward the rest of the Monastery.

"You're quiet today, Byleth," Alois commented. "Even after considering your usual dour mood."

"I'm trying to concentrate," he half-lied. He was attempting to keep his guard up and search for anything suspicious, but thus far everything seemed to be in place.

It was a testament to how seriously Alois took his duties that he refrained from giving too much commentary as they went about their tasks. The only times he spoke were when they reached their checkpoints where knights were stationed.

Byleth was always on the lookout, looking searchingly at individuals who loitered just a little too long around corners, but ultimately decided that they weren't a threat. He figured that any Agarthan infiltrators would have better ways of going about their tasks than studying the many religious statues and carvings that adorned the grand hallways, or as he'd seen on one occasion thus far, sharing an intimate moment between themselves.

He wasn't one to judge. Maybe they were just exceptionally pious members of the Church soaking in the atmosphere. Goddess knows how easily Fódlan's woes could have been resolved if everyone shared their ideology.

"You worry too much." Alois shook his head, allowing himself a brief respite. "We'll know if anything happens."

He made a non-committal sound. That kind of thinking had cost him so much in the past, more so in this life. There were so many things he should have seen coming but hadn't. Lonato's death and Dimitri's relapse to his inner demons were things he could have easily avoided.

"Perhaps a little joke will help?" Alois suggested. Byleth groaned. If this was going to be one of his usual rehashed jokes…

"So, there was once when Jeralt and I were at a village on a mission. There, we met the ugliest mercenary –"

Ah. That one. "Bandit; dying to give it to you," he rushed to the punchline. The comical widening of Alois' eyes and the spluttering he made was funnier than the actual joke, Byleth noted with amusement.

"But that – how – no matter!" Alois recovered, a strange enthusiasm in his eyes. Byleth had the feeling he just made a terrible decision. Alois began to think hard, then looked at Byleth challengingly. "So, the other day, I tried to make a sword with two handles –"

"It was pointless."

"Which side of a Wyvern –"

"The outside."

"A Warlock walks into an inn and says to –"

"For no Reason."

Alois staggered backward, clutching at his chest theatrically, but the grin on his face gave away his true emotions. Byleth sighed.

"Enough. This is serious. We're supposed to be –"

There was the sound of rapid footfalls moving toward them. Alois straightened up immediately, all trace of his amusement gone. They didn't even need to share a look before they reacted. Together, they rushed toward where the sounds were coming from.

The bridge leading to the the cathedral.

The Holy Mausoleum was below the cathedral.

It couldn't be, though. Jeralt and his students should have been able to easily fend off any assault from them. Did they have a change in their plans? Why –

They ran as fast as they could toward the long bridge that linked the entrance hall to the cathedral wing. In the distance, he could see Leonie running toward them from the other side, her short hair unkempt and windswept, sticking to the sides of her face.

"Alois! Byleth!" she shouted amidst rapid breaths, not at all letting up until they met near the end of the bridge. "Thank the Goddess! You need to help, there's an armoured man on a horse –"

What?

The Death Knight never attacked, not once in his many lives. He claimed that he didn't take orders from those of the Western Church, but the grim truth of it was that he simply didn't see any of them as a threat worth his effort.

"…Jeralt's fighting him off, but there's too many of them –"

But that was for any of them.

Jeralt was a Knight of Seiros. A famed mercenary. The legendary Blade Breaker. He had more titles and accolades than his students and himself had put together in past lives.

Byleth was an utter fool.

Once again, he fucked up.

"Leonie, was it? Head to the courtyard, call for reinforcements –"

Alois in his heavy armour would slow him down. Leonie was exhausted. Reinforcements would take too long. There was only him.

"…Ignatz is injured, we need to –"

He moved.

"BYLETH!" He ignored the shouts at his back.

Byleth ran. He left the pair behind where they were on the bridge, clearing it as fast as he could. He brought every trick he had learnt as an Assassin to the fore so long as it meant he could move faster. He vaulted over church pews, transitioning seamlessly into a rapid sprint without any loss of momentum. He held a blade in his hand, the beginnings of a spell already carved into his mind.

He didn't think he could win against the Death Knight, not with the equipment and meagre few months of training that he had thus far. His scythe was simply too unnaturally powerful, crafted by Agarthan magic and technology. His armour was equally tough, virtually impossible to penetrate with blades. The only times he managed to kill the Death Knight were with backup by his side, by subterfuge and underhanded means, or by equally arming himself with Relics of legendary power.

It didn't matter. His mistake, his hubris had caused all of this to happen. He couldn't let Jeralt die, not here, earlier than when he would meet his end had Byleth never interfered. He could not fail his students.

He would fight anyway. The Death Knight was no scarier than Death itself, and he was well acquainted with the concept.

-o-o-o-

Emile von Bartels. Jeritza von Hrym. The Death Knight.

Those names meant nothing to him. Names had never been part of his existence.

He had been valued for his Crest by his false father, and for his prodigious skill in combat by those that had opened his eyes to the truth. Between those two, he would willingly choose to fight, kill and die for the latter. They had given his existence a purpose. If it provided a challenge along the way, that was all the better for him.

Those Beasts that dared call themselves gods were responsible for the curse that had plagued him for all his life. It was only fitting that it was by his Crest that he would destroy them utterly. If this mission helped Thales advance those goals, then he would gladly see it through.

Of course, he wouldn't cooperate with the filth of the Western Church. They were equally blinded by their false goddess, the Beast that had gifted Fódlan its greatest curse. When the mission was over, he would kill them himself. He was certain that Thales would not object.

He moved quietly through the grounds of the Monastery, holding his cloak tightly over his form. He wasn't here as Jeritza von Hrym, but it mattered not. If foregoing the Mask meant that the Church would fall, he could reveal the Face of Emile von Bartels for a few more hours.

How unfortunate it was that he'd been forced out of the grounds. This could have gone far more smoothly had he still remained in his guise as a fencing instructor. So conceited were the Beast and her blind dogs that no one had suspected him capable of treachery.

At least he'd been allowed to silence the foolish man that had thought he could join forces with the Church. Thales would not suffer such betrayal. Ah, how delightful it had been, slaughtering those pathetic knights as they fell one by one to his scythe. He hoped that Rhea – Seiros – could have heard their screams from the tower she resided in.

Then there was their prisoner. He had tried attacking – attacking! – him with but his own arms and legs. It had been pathetically easy forcing him aside, binding him using the manacles he'd found within the cell. He had thrown curses at him, and intriguingly revealed that he knew just how the Tragedy was orchestrated. It was at that point, of course, that he saw fit to alter the mission. Just a little, of course.

He saw the despair in the man's eyes when he realised just what he had unknowingly revealed, and he relished in it. To the man's credit, he withstood the cuts of his scythe admirably. Thales had claimed that its edge was forged and enchanted to be unmatched in battle, but clearly something was lacking if the man still refused to yield.

Ultimately, he saw the futility in attempting to break the man. He had certainly been similar as a child, before Thales had lifted the veil from his eyes. It was unfortunate that he had become blinded by the Beast's false promises.

He had swung his scythe across the man's abdomen, a single strike aimed carefully to transect fully across. He left him bleeding there, still shackled against the wall, repeating only two names as life drained beyond the point of mundane and magical healing.

'Ashe' and 'Christophe', was it? Or had it been 'Asher' and 'Christopher'? They meant nothing to him.

Names meant nothing to him.

(Mercedes. Thales. Solon. Flame –) He suppressed those thoughts. They meant nothing.

…what was the man even called again? Monato? Lorato? Lorenzo?

No matter. The mission would soon begin. He made his way to an isolated area of the cathedral, known only to him. Jeritza von Hrym had always sought solitude. There, he took out the magical device gifted by Thales, one whose operation was known only to the rightful owners of Fódlan that had been forced deep beneath their own homes by the Beasts. He activated it, bringing one of Thales' underlings to the Monastery.

"Death Knight." He greeted, handing over the equipment that marked that Name. He turned around respectfully.

A wise choice. None who saw the Face of Emile von Bartels would live. (Mercedes. Thales. Would they live or die?)

He put on the Armour and Helmet. He took hold of the Scythe. He activated the device once more and brought forth his Steed.

He became the Death Knight. Emile von Bartels was no more.

"Come." He rode atop his horse, moving out from the obscure corner of the cathedral wing towards the entrance that would lead them into the cathedral. He didn't know how Thales could have known about this entrance, but his people and Garreg Mach had existed for millennia, diligently plotting to slay the Beast. Secrets such as this would have been unravelled over time.

The cathedral was quiet. The congregation for the festival that the blind flock celebrated had been over for hours, having proceeded into the main courtyard and the Goddess Tower itself. If the Beasts had planted the seeds of their own demise, he would willingly make use of their arrogance. The mage followed him silently.

Good. Silence was preferable. They made their way down the long, winding stairwell that would bring them to the Holy Mausoleum, halting just outside the door.

"Call them."

The mage brought forth a device of his own, and then withdrew a vial of blood. He infused the device with archaic magics that drew from both himself and the sacrifice he offered, summoning the pawns that would fight for them.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. They materialised one by one, staggering as they appeared, looking around wildly.

"WHA –" one of them shouted wildly as he attempted to re-orientate himself. "Where are –"

He was silenced with a swing of his scythe. Nothing would compromise this mission.

That seemed to sober up the remaining members of the Western Church, for all sounds ceased. Weak and untrained fools. Had the veil of the Beast truly rid them of common sense?

"We move."

With that, he pushed open the door to the Holy Mausoleum, his horse trotting along past the streak of blood left behind from severed carotids, the separated head only now stopping as it rolled against the wall.

"Professor!" a voice shouted from past the door. He heard the sounds of swords being drawn, of spells being loosed, of arrows in flight.

A wave of flames impacted against his armour, dispersing immediately. Dark energies collided with his person, but not even a scratch was left. Arrows bounced off his thick armour plates.

He scanned their faces. Nervous students. Pathetic. They were supposed to be of his age, but still they trembled in their boots. They would not prove to be a challenge. His assistance would not be required in dealing with them.

(No Mercedes, then. He felt something strangely warm –) No.

The fodder that he brought advanced past him, engaging in combat with the students. The way they fought was like watching children at play. Both groups' movements were clumsy, unrefined; their instincts dull, hesitating in the midst of combat.

But among those that followed the Beast, there was one that stood out. A grizzled man wielding a lance, a long scar on the edge of his zygoma. He carried a shortsword by his side – steel, he could tell – leading the students against his minions from the Western Church.

He knew the man well. Jeralt the Blade Breaker, former Knight of Seiros and famed mercenary, and now a mere pawn of the Beast. His name had weight. He had so longed to fight against the legendary warrior himself in his guise of Jeritza von Hrym, but the mission took precedence. At last, he could have a true challenge.

"Death Knight!" the mage shouted. "Clear a path to the coffin!"

He bid his steed to gallop toward Jeralt, scythe held out to the side, ready to sweep. The warrior reacted well, not even hesitating as he threw his lance toward his mount. With the speed that it was moving, his mount could not dodge. The tip of the lance shattered as it struck one of the legs of his mount, but it managed to crack the armour plating where it was struck, the shaft burying into the leg. His charge was halted, his mount crippled. It seemed that the Blade Breaker's name held up to its reputation.

He leapt off his mount. It would be of no use to him here, immobilised as it was. With a single swipe, he ended its life.

"Jeralt the Blade Breaker," he said. He could feel his heart pounding, as it did whenever he faced a true challenge worthy of his attention. "We will fight. You will die."

-o-o-o-

This foe was dangerous. Death Knight, the mage had called him. His visage certainly suited the name.

He was clad in an impressive set of armour that left almost no part of his body exposed, made of a material Jeralt couldn't identity. He wielded a scythe, a notoriously difficult weapon to master. If that wasn't enough, his scythe was sharpened at the tip, capable of functioning as a lance as well. The way he carried himself spoke of true experience, entirely comfortable with his weapon, studying Jeralt with a deadly calm.

The challenge he issued wasn't even phrased as such. He spoke with certainty, as though the outcome was never in question. Only arrogant fools or those who could back up their words with experience spoke that way, and he doubted it was the former. This was clearly their leader.

He was down a lance. It was made of reinforced Silver, for the Goddess' sake! Just what kind of armour did he and his mount wear?

He withdrew his blade, wary of the opponent in front of him. The battle hadn't even started yet, but he was already at a disadvantage. He would need to call for help. Closest to the door was –

"LEONIE!" he shouted. "Run! Get help!"

"But Professor –"

"THAT'S AN ORDER!"

He couldn't spare a second glance to see whether or not she had left. The Death Knight moved, a high-pitched whine ringing as his scythe cut through the air in a horizontal arc. Jeralt leapt backward, sword still held before him, looking for any opportunity to attack. He wasn't foolish enough to attempt parrying the strike, after what happened to his lance as it struck the armoured horse.

"IGNATZ!" He heard Raphael shout, but he couldn't spare a moment to look. He couldn't even spare the time to worry about his students. He was in enough trouble as it was.

His opponent didn't let up. He stepped forward, readying another swing, and Jeralt had to spring over a coffin behind him to avoid the strike. Stone shattered from the force of his swing. The Death Knight's arm recoiled from the force of his attack, and Jeralt attempted to use this window of opportunity to attack.

Striking at the exposed areas between the armour pieces was the only option that would be of use against someone with armour the likes of his. He thrust his sword out in a penetrating lunge aimed between the chest-plate and pauldron.

The Death Knight reacted quickly, catching the point of his sword precisely in the middle of his scythe-blade, a gauntlet-clad hand gripping the small portion of the shaft just above the crescentic edge of his weapon, the other hand just below. The Death Knight shoved his weapon forward, and Jeralt's arm shook as he was forced backward. He rode on the momentum, creating some distance from his opponent.

This Death Knight wasn't just experienced. He had the power to back it up, and Jeralt didn't know whether he could win even if he had his lance.

He stole a quick glance at a group of his students. Raphael was furiously grappling at two opponents, using his large form to protect an Ignatz that was kneeling on one leg, a long gash cut across his tunic. He so dearly wanted to check on the rest, but his foe just wasn't letting up.

Damn it. They really needed help, fast. Where was Leonie now?

He leapt backward once more, dodging yet another sweep of the scythe. With the distance he'd moved so far, he'd be up against another coffin in another bound; and then there would be only a few more rows left before he couldn't retreat further. He stole another look at the students.

Lorenz was assisting Raphael, sending out waves of spells against enemies while the larger boy held the line. Hilda, Claude and Lysithea were another group of their own. Ignatz had been evacuated, Marianne kneeling over his body, casting healing magics. Good.

They had been forced to give up ground. While most of their assailants were locked in combat with his students, some had managed to slip past, heading toward Seiros' coffin on the altar furthest from the entrance. Was that their true goal?

He couldn't dwell on it. The Death Knight was attacking once again. A second leap backward, and he could feel the stone coffin behind him.

"Disappointing."

The Death Knight prepared to swing his weapon again, and Jeralt took the chance to strike, this time aiming for his eyes where it was unprotected. Another thrust, but one that was blocked yet again. In the time that the Death Knight moved to guard, he retreated over the next row of coffins once more.

Only two more rows. Once again, the Death Knight simply shattered the stone coffin with a single strike, then continued advancing toward Jeralt. He simply couldn't fight back. If he had a throwing lance or javelin, he might have had a chance to use its penetrative power to break his opponent's armour, but the steel sword in his hand simply wouldn't suffice.

Another repeat of this one-sided battle, and he was cornered against the wall. He attempted to reposition himself, but his foe was fast. He thrust his scythe outward, and Jeralt was forced to dodge to one side.

Too slow. He was caught on the shoulder of his sword-arm by the point of his scythe, piercing through flesh and bone alike as pain spiked through the joint. His arm fell to one side, and he was forced to transfer his sword to his off-hand.

He couldn't win, not disabled as he was. On a fair fight, using identical equipment, he might have a chance, but using a simple steel sword as he was, he wouldn't even be able to penetrate through his armour.

Damn it. They would all be slaughtered at this rate. All he could do was buy time and hope that the students could escape.

"RUN!" he shouted, charging right at his opponent, releasing the sword from his arm.

"Teach!"

His sudden change in intention must have caught the Death Knight off guard, because Jeralt was able to bodily tackle him. He barely staggered, weighed down by his armour as he was, but Jeralt was already bearing the entire weight of his body down on his enemy's dominant arm in an attempt to catch him off balance, gripping tightly with his sole functioning arm.

It didn't work. The Death Knight flung his arm outward. Jeralt been positioned with his back directly against the wall, and his head collided against the hard stone from that simple act. For an instant, his vision blurred, but Jeralt attempted to move to stand anyway.

"Foolish."

His scythe was raised high. Jeralt barely managed to roll out of the way to avoid being eviscerated. He attempted to stand, but an armoured boot caught him in the side. The air was forced out of his lungs. An instant later, the tip of his scythe caught him in the knee with another burst of pain, and he knew that it was over.

He wouldn't be able to move freely, and he couldn't even swing his sword. He knelt, forcing all the weight on his good knee. He looked at the Death Knight, still approaching slowly, his menacing visage a mask of indifference.

He'd made Byleth a promise. He wasn't going to be able to live up to that promise.

"Farewell."

The lance stabbed into his abdomen. Another flare of pain and moisture. His vision darkened. If he was going to die, he would hold the memory of his son in his final moments.

He remembered how they'd fished just days prior. He remembered his son's smile, how he had seemed to be at peace for the first time in a long while.

"FATHER!"

And now he was hearing his son's voice as well. The Goddess must truly hate him, to torment him so in his final moments.

There was a burst of light and heat, the sound of rapid footsteps and a frenzied yell, and then darkness overtook his world.

-o-o-o-

He burst into the Holy Mausoleum, eyes searching only for the Death Knight. He found him immediately, his imposing form hardly inconspicuous. He was at the far end of the room, and in front of him was –

For an instant, cold dread gripped him, and then his heart that was kept alive only by Sothis' own burned with rage.

"FATHER!"

Too far away. The Death Knight was about to lower his scythe. He only had one option.

A glyph formed in the air between the Death Knight and Jeralt. An instant later, a Meteor materialised into being, flying to impact against the Death Knight and launched him away from his father.

All the while, he hadn't stopped moving. His sword had been in his hand the entire time since Leonie's cry, and he wasn't even the least bit slowed as he cut through the few underlings of the Western Church that dared to stand in his way. Some landed a few strikes of their own, but they were but scratches to him. He didn't even process what he was doing, simply allowing experience to be his guide.

He ignored the students as they fought other misled priests from the Western Church. They could handle things by themselves. Right now, Jeralt was the one in danger.

He leapt over ruined coffins, conserved his momentum and then leapt again, all the way until he reached Jeralt's form. The Death Knight had recovered, moving toward his downed form as well.

They met at the same time.

Scythe descended from above –

A hand thrust out –

The scythe bit down deep into the stone floor, small chunks flying from where stone had shattered, as the magics of Warp dematerialised Jeralt just the barest of instants before scythe could meet flesh.

"MARIANNE! Heal him!" He didn't waste a single moment, seamlessly moving right into his next plan of action.

He raised his sword, aiming it at the small unarmoured area of his neck between helmet and chest-plate while the Death Knight was still attempting to recover his weapon from where it had been lodged into the stone. He let go of his scythe, moving off to one side.

Rage fuelled his strength, bringing every bit of power he had to the fore, swinging against the armour of the Death Knight. He knew that his simple sword was no Hero's Relic, unable to do any damage against his armour, but the burning in his chest was overpowering all rational thought.

He unleashed everything.

The Crest of Flames manifested in the air.

The sword shattered.

To his surprise, the armour cracked where it had been struck. The shining Crest dimmed and dissipated.

"You bear the Crest of Flames." The Death Knight was alert now, on-guard.

With the many years he had of practicing to use it, he had a small degree of mastery over his Crest, but it was always a double-edged sword. It could mildly boost his prowess in combat, but it was unpredictable and using it always immediately made the Agarthans aware of Sothis' power that dwelled within.

He'd been killed before by the Death Knight in this very Mausoleum for possessing a power that should have been long dead. Normally, he tried as hard as possible to avoid it until later in each life when he was finally ready to face the Agarthans, but in his mad rush to save Jeralt he simply acted.

He couldn't linger on the thought of whether he'd made a mistake. What's done was done. He had no sword, but he'd been a War Master in a past life. The Death Knight was equally disarmed.

He punched forcefully where the armour had been cracked, widening the fissure as the smallest of chips of the broken armour fell to the ground. A gauntleted hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and he attempted to twist in an effort to pivot and throw his foe, but his armour was far too heavy. Byleth was sent sprawling off onto the ground, standing up as quickly as he could, but the Death Knight was already able to recover his weapon.

"Death Knight! It's done!"

"I'm not finished." He continued advancing toward Byleth.

There was a sound of heavy stone shifting, and then a loud thud.

"What – a sword?" he heard the mage say. He ignored him. Focus on the battle.

He only had his fists and the hidden iron dagger in his boot, while the Death Knight wielded a scythe and wore armour on par with the legendary Heroes Relics. His only weakness was the smallest of areas on his left flank where his armour had chipped and the barest of gaps where his armour pieces met.

Magic wasn't an option. While in past lives the Death Knight had been felled by spells from Lysithea and Annette during the war, he simply didn't have the same amount of talent for Magic that they would have in their prime. The only option that might be able to work here would be an Agnea's Arrow, but even experienced as he was he would still need a minimum of a few seconds to cast it. That was more than enough time for the Death Knight to capitalise on and launch his own pre-emptive strike.

He needed the Sword of the Creator, but –

"We're leaving!"

"I said: I'm not finished."

He couldn't see him, but he heard the mage swear, before there was a sound of a rush of air.

The Sword of the Creator was gone. Oddly enough, he registered the fact, but didn't feel despair at that thought. He couldn't afford to. All that mattered was the Death Knight. Dealing with the fallout could come later.

The Death Knight was still moving toward him. There was only one remaining option. He had already revealed the secret of the Crest of Flames, so what was one more?

He rushed toward the Death Knight, the dagger in his hand. There would only be one shot at this. It was risky, and he would most likely die, but it had the chance to work.

"Foolish." The Death Knight held his scythe out, ready to cut Byleth once he entered his effective range. Against a weapon with a long reach like a scythe, wielded by a master like the Death Knight, Byleth's plan would be virtually suicide in a fair battle. He would have died before he'd even reached his enemy.

Byleth didn't fight fair.

An instant before the Death Knight would have swung, he put his plan into action.

"Emile von Bartels."

The Death Knight flinched for the barest of moments, while Byleth continued onward, dagger sailing through the air toward where the armour had been chipped off.

He saw the scythe swinging down from the corner of his vision, and the long years of experience in combat betrayed him. His body reacted instinctively, unheeding of the goal in his mind, reflexively twisting his body just fractionally from the movement in his peripheral vision, his arm twitching just marginally.

What would have been a mortal injury from where a dagger angled up from flank toward his heart turned only into a grievous one. The scythe blade bit deep between the sides of his ribs rather than piercing through his back, barely avoiding having his own heart being cleaved apart through the few degrees of axial rotation of his torso.

Byleth had just barely avoided death, but it cost him victory in return. There was a stabbing agony on the left side of his chest with each rapid breath he took. The scythe must have sliced through his ribs and left lung instead. He tried his best to ignore the pain. So long as he was still alive, he had to fight.

He tried desperately to withdraw the dagger in an attempt to strike once more, but by then the Death Knight had recovered from his ruse. He pushed against Byleth, hard, sending him against the ground again, sending another lance of agony where his scythe had pierced deep into flesh.

The dagger was still lodged in position. No good, he wouldn't bleed out quickly enough.

"You know that name." The Death Knight was clutching at his side, scythe in hand, staggering toward Byleth.

"JERALT! BYLETH!"

Right on time, Alois. Byleth tried to take what should have been a momentary distraction to lunge once more at the Death Knight and grab at the dagger, but he was ready, catching Byleth's wrist with bloodied gauntlets and threw him aside.

"When next we meet, you shall die."

His body was numb, but still he moved, fighting down the pain that had only been growing. He shot his arm forward, but with a flash of purple light and a rush of air, the Death Knight was gone. His hand grasped at empty air, his momentum sending him yet again onto the stone floor of the Mausoleum.

He had revealed the Crest of Flames. The Sword of the Creator was stolen. The Death Knight was gone.

He knew those were important, but none of that meant a thing right now. He needed to check on Jeralt.

He tried to stand, stumbling to his feet. Strange, he was now feeling so tired, and his vision was blurry. He took another clumsy step. He fell on the third.

-o-o-o-

There wasn't a battlefield. There wasn't a throne. There wasn't a song.

This wasn't Remire Village.

The world was far too bright when he opened his eyes. He felt tired, more spent than he'd been in a long time. What had –

The Sword. The Death Knight.

Jeralt.

He sat up hurriedly, but the action was arrested by the sudden agony that it brought. He flinched, and aching muscles let up, sending him to collapse hard on his back once more.

"Woah!" he heard Claude's voice. He turned to the sound, but again his world was filled with pain. "Easy, Teach, easy!"

"Where –" Byleth croaked, his voice harsh. "Where is father?"

"Teach is alive, little Teach," Claude said, his face coming into view as he knelt by his bedside, an expression equally worried and relieved etched onto it. "Marianne was able to save him just in time."

Alive.

He only now realised just how tense his body was. He relaxed, coming to lie on the bed.

"Where is he?"

He heard coughing. "R- right here, kid."

He forced his head to turn, despite the pain that the simple action brought him, staring at the face of his father in the adjacent bed.

He was pale, bandages were wrapped tightly around his mid-section and limbs, but he was alive. He hadn't just killed his own father from his meddling with time. From his experiment.

More faces came into view. There were the members of the Golden Deer and Alois, but also Ashe and surprisingly Felix, who was standing apart from the rest.

"How –" he rasped out. He forced his burning throat to work. "How bad is it?"

"I'll be fine. Marianne was able to patch me up fast enough. Manuela says I'll be back to fighting form in a few days." His father's eyes narrowed, glaring hard at Byleth. Were he not bedbound, he had no doubt that he would be marching right over to Byleth. "You, on the other hand, will not."

"It was –" He coughed once more. "- was only a punctured lung and fractured ribs."

"Only a punctured lung?" Felix repeated sarcastically, a hint of anger in his voice. "The scythe nicked your heart. You've broken a wrist and your knuckles. You've got burns and cuts everywhere. Your kneecap was shattered. You've been in the infirmary for three days. Tell me, how is that 'only a punctured lung and fractured ribs'?"

So the Death Knight's scythe had managed to reach his heart, after all. Beating though it may not be, blood still flowed through it. He knew that well enough from past experiences of exsanguination. That explained why he'd blacked out so soon after the battle. Someone must have healed him up shortly thereafter. Marianne, perhaps?

As for the other injuries… a broken wrist, perhaps from where the Death Knight had gripped and thrown him aside. Broken phalanges from where he punched against the armour. Fighting with his bare fists just wasn't the same as using gauntlets, after all. A broken patella, perhaps from when he'd been sent crashing down against the floor. Goddess knows how many times that had happened. But the burns and cuts he couldn't recall at all.

"I don't remember burns and cuts."

He belatedly realised that wasn't the reply he should be giving, but his head was feeling far too muddled at the moment to think things through. There was far too much he had to deal with before he even had the chance to re-orientate to his present surroundings.

"That's what you take away from this?!" Felix looked at him incredulously, anger in his eyes. He scoffed. "And here I thought you were different."

He stepped away from his bedside, then turned and stomped out of the infirmary.

"Felix –" he tried to say, turning toward the door, but his student didn't so much as pause.

"I'll talk to him," Ashe said, his face far too calm. He knew that Ashe was maintaining his composure for his sake. He used to do that all the time during the war, whenever one of his comrades were injured. "He – he's just worried."

"Thanks, Ashe." He probably wouldn't need to. Felix always had difficulty seeing his friends injured while he himself wasn't. Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid each held survivor's guilt in the aftermath of the Tragedy, only expressed in different ways. "Sorry. I don't think I'll be able to help with your training for a few days."

"Don't –" Ashe's expression of calm broke, lips trembling. "Don't worry, Byleth. I can work on my own."

He moved away from the bed. "I… I'll go find Felix now."

Byleth sighed. Goddess, this entire day had been a disaster.

"You really don't remember what happened?" Lysithea asked, her normally level voice shaking slightly.

He tried as best he could to recall the fight. It had been so utterly one-sided, without the Sword of the Creator, any of the Heroes Relics or an entire group of trained knights and mages by his side. He'd only barely managed to force the smallest of cracks in his armour through the power of his Crest, but had in turn revealed the secret he so needed to keep.

"I don't."

"You protected us," she said slowly. "You took their attention. They sent so many spells at you, I – do you really not remember?"

Did they? He'd been so preoccupied with the Death Knight, he couldn't afford to pay much attention to anything else. Their minions from the Western Church might be able to injure him, but the Death Knight came with a certainty of death.

They took his silence as affirmation. "Byleth, you…" Raphael's voice trailed off, his normally chatty student not knowing what to say. If he had no words, the rest hardly fared any better.

"I'm sorry," Marianne finally said, looking at him. "I should have been able to help. I should have –"

And here she was blaming herself again. Jeralt and himself both lived thanks to her efforts.

"You saved father," he said. "And you saved me. Thank you."

"I…" She didn't say anything else, and the expression of guilt remained, but she nodded nonetheless.

Claude snorted. "And you saved us, little Teach. If you hadn't showed up, we'd all be dead. Take some credit for yourself. We should be the ones thanking you."

They shouldn't. They wouldn't have died, after all. The Death Knight wouldn't have attacked them. He wouldn't even have participated in what unfolded in the Mausoleum at all, had he not interfered with events. Jeralt shouldn't have been in the Mausoleum. Byleth shouldn't have been patrolling out on the grounds while his students and his father were fighting for their lives. That was how things had gone in every other life.

He should have known that the Death Knight wouldn't see his father the same way he did him. He had fought the Death Knight and Jeritza so many times in the past, it was so damned obvious that Jeralt would be a challenge worthy of his skills. He'd taken the protection of the Holy Mausoleum as a given in so many lives, only thinking about how the Agarthan's plans could have changed in the lead-up to today, that he hadn't even stopped to consider that events could change even when they went with their original plan.

Now the Sword was gone. They knew of his Crest, and they would no doubt know of the Fell Star, and of the power of the Goddess that dwelled within him. He had revealed his knowledge of things he shouldn't have known about.

The Sword of the Creator in and of itself wasn't important. It was powerful, certainly, but it was only strictly necessary if he wanted to go up against the likes of the Death Knight or powerful demonic beasts in a fair fight. He could fight just as well with any other weapon. Once his students reached the peak of their prowess during the war, fighting with the Heroes Relics of their families, they could work together and bring down those threats.

What was more important was what it represented. It was a symbol, one that could unify Fódlan through what it represented. The false history of Nemesis that had been propagated through eons by Seiros' teachings had made it an emblematic banner for the people of Fódlan to rally behind. How would the war change without the Sword by his side?

Then there was still the matter of what the Agarthans could do with it. Would they reunite Nemesis with the original version of his long-lost weapon when the time came for his revival rather than the replica they had recreated? Or would they use the final remains of Sothis' bones and organs for some other nefarious purpose?

The Agarthans had won this battle. He clenched his fists tight, ignoring the fire burning in his chest. This wasn't the time for anger. He needed to rationalise, to think and plan. Anger had been what clouded his vision when up against the Death Knight. Anger had been his own downfall so many times over.

There was far too much that he didn't know of. This was uncharted territory for him. What he did know was that he couldn't afford to see this life as an experiment any longer. He had thought that attempting to get the Houses to mingle together and improve their relations was a harmless endeavour, but it had already almost cost him his father and the lives of his students. He couldn't sit idle any longer.

They must have taken his deep thought as a sign of tiredness, because Claude was now not-so-subtly gesturing toward the rest. They shared a nod, and he spoke for the group.

"We'll let you two get some rest," he said, rising to stand from where he knelt, displaying none of his usual mischief. He pat Byleth once on the shoulder, carefully avoiding where the bandages were wrapped around him. "Take care."

With that, the Golden Deer students left together with their leader, Raphael almost close to giving him a bone-breaking hug before Lysithea hurriedly dissuaded him from that idea.

Honestly, they were treating him as though he were close to dying.

"Captain," Alois finally spoke. "Byleth. I'm sorry I arrived too late."

"You brought reinforcements, Alois," he said tiredly. He couldn't deal with so many people piling their apologies unto him when he hardly deserved them. He was feeling angry enough both at himself and the Agarthans, he didn't need more guilt alongside that. "You chased the Death Knight away. If anything, I should be thanking you. The Death Knight had me dead to rights."

"That's not your responsibility," he argued fiercely. "You're my squire. I should have been looking after you."

There was an undertone of guilt in his voice. Byleth could understand why. Alois certainly looked out for the knights under his charge, and now more so for Byleth given his position both as a squire and as Jeralt's son.

"It's alright, Alois," Jeralt spoke, pushing himself up to sit against the head of the bed. He grimaced slightly, a sign of the pain that the simple movement brought. Again, a wave of guilt coursed through Byleth at the injury that his actions had caused. "We're alive. That's all that matters."

"Jeralt…"

"You should get some rest. You've been here for almost the entirety of the past few days."

"I…" Alois sighed. Now, Byleth could see just how tired the man looked. There were dark rings around his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead, his clothes creased and slightly dirty. He didn't look at all like the jovial man that Byleth had come to know. "We'll talk later."

"We will," his father affirmed.

"You did good work, Byleth," Alois gave some final parting words. "I'm sorry I couldn't arrive earlier."

Soon, it was just Jeralt and him once more. As things tended to happen between them, there was an uncomfortable silence.

"We need to talk," his father finally said, looking at him from where he sat against the head of the bed. His voice was stern, but his expression was anything but. His face was laced with worry, and again Byleth felt a spike of guilt.

"We do," he said quietly, pushing against the bed to mirror his father's position. His aching muscles still protested, and he could feel a stabbing pain from where scythe had carved through flesh, but he did so anyway.

Perhaps were he of a clearer mind, he wouldn't have been willing to reveal anything to his father, but at the moment he just felt tired, annoyed and bitter about everything that had happened this life. It had been shaping up to be so promising – the Houses workedtogether in a way they hadn't previously at this time-point – but his efforts only seemed to make things worse. Ashe had been more devastated by Lonato's death after what had seemed to be a peaceful resolution, Jeralt had almost been killed five months earlier than he had in his first life, and the Agarthans had won a battle they previously never had.

How could it be, that the one thing that Byleth had been fighting for all these years had only made matters worse? Had all his previous lives been for nothing?

"I heard from the students," his father said, studying Byleth's face carefully. He didn't bother schooling his expression. It would take far too much effort. "You possess the Crest of Flames."

"I do," he admitted. There was no sense lying about that.

"How?"

This was it. He could reveal the truth, or he could lie. He knew his father wouldn't accept silence as an answer, and that spinning a web of lies was harder than it seemed.

His father wouldn't believe a grandiose tale of time-travel-by-death. It was a far-fetched notion, even to himself after all these years. The full truth couldn't be disclosed, but maybe…

"What do you know about Crests?" he asked instead, probing at just what he could reveal.

"Hmm?" His father must not have been expecting the question, because his worried expression morphed into one of slight surprise. "They are blessings bestowed by the Goddess, that grant special powers to those who hold them," he recited. "That's the stance of the Church, at least. My own major Crest of Seiros came after receiving some of Rhea's blood."

"The Goddess, huh?" He sighed. This was it. Still a far-fetched idea, but one that was more believable and partially the truth. "The young girl from my dreams? She called herself Sothis."

Jeralt started, inhaling sharply. No doubt he knew the Goddess' true name from his time in the Knights. "You dream of the Goddess?!"

"I've not seen her since that night in Remire Village," he half-lied. "Since then, things have been different. I know how to fight with different sorts of weapons, and I know magic."

"Why haven't you told me about any of this?" Jeralt sat up, alert, looking at him with both worry and anger. "I could have helped you, I could have –"

"What could you have done?" Byleth sighed. No one in his many years had been able to resolve the time loop. "Why would anyone believe that I possess a gift from the Goddess?"

"I would." He looked at his father quizzically. He usually was far more doubtful when Byleth tried to reveal even a portion of his circumstances. "I've seen you in the training grounds. Your technique wasn't learnt from a manual. It takes decades of work to reach your current level of mastery."

Decades was putting it mildly. He'd spent years with Thunder Catherine, then Felix, Jeralt and many more Swordmasters from all around Fódlan, and then many more lives working out something versatile enough for his use.

"That's not all," his father continued slowly. He hesitated for a moment, but Byleth saw how he steeled himself, tensing up slightly. "You've seen things."

His heart didn't beat, but still he felt a thrill of something rush through him. "What do you mean?" he asked levelly.

"I've been a knight captain and a leader of a mercenary band for a long time, kid." He sighed, but continued looking at Byleth unwaveringly. "I don't know what you've seen, but I know that there's something going on with you."

What he'd seen? Byleth could have laughed. He'd probably have seen more devastation than anyone alive in Fódlan, Rhea included. She may have witnessed the massacre of her people, but Byleth had seen his students and friends die over and over.

"I don't know how it relates to what's going on with you, and I won't pry," his father assured him, holding a palm in the air. "But I've seen my men fall apart because of guilt, loss and grief. Whatever you're feeling, you can't bear this burden alone. Let me help you."

His voice adopted a pleading and earnest tone, and again Byleth felt that rush of emotion once more. He wished he could share the burden, but this had only been about him since the very start. Only he had been brought back through time itself at the end of each of his lives. What help could he possibly deliver?

He couldn't tell his father just what would happen in time to come. He couldn't describe how he'd seen the bodies of his students and friends many times over, how he'd killed them with his own two hands. He couldn't tell his father how he had seen him die.

Just how could he help?!

He didn't know what to do. He was feeling so bitter, angry and confused. He had aimed to use this life to test how he could establish a degree of control over the war to come, but for all the successes he had the recent failures far outweighed them. Fail to intervene with the war, and fate would always find a way for him to die and reawaken in Remire Village. Foster relations between the Houses, as he did in this life, and the Agarthans were stronger than ever.

Each action he took merely led to the same final outcome. Was this to be his fate? To experience only failure?

He refused to accept that. He wouldn't let all the time he'd spent so far amount to nothing. He couldn't simply resign to watching everyone he had grown to love and care for die for the rest of eternity.

His father still seemed to want to ask more questions of his own, but was visibly restraining from doing so. He was grateful; he doubted he could come up with decent answers with his thoughts as jumbled up as they currently were.

"What would you do," he began asking slowly. "If you were up against an enemy so powerful that nothing works against it? If every plan you create only hastens your own demise?"

His father didn't offer any false reassurances or probe further into his question. He simply considered his question seriously, and Byleth was thankful for it.

"No one is infallible," he said imploringly. He stood up very slowly, walking on shaky legs toward Byleth. He ignored Byleth's hurried gestures for his father to remain seated, instead moving to kneel by his bedside. "If nothing works, approach from a different angle. Bring allies to help you. Think out of the box. Find their weaknesses, because everyone has a flaw. Use every advantage you have."

It wasn't particularly useful advice. He knew all of that. He knew that he couldn't take on the Agarthans alone, but his students were hardly able to help him out as they were right now. When they were finally ready, the war would have long since begun, and there wouldn't be any hope of cooperation between the talented students from all three Houses.

His father continued speaking. "The Death Knight was a formidable opponent, but you did well. You cracked armour that shattered reinforced silver. We know about him now, and we can prepare. The next time you fight him, we will work together to bring him down."

Funny. His father thought that he was talking about the Death Knight? It was so close, and yet simultaneously so far off from the truth.

Still, there was some advice there he could use. He couldn't rely on his students just yet, and so his sole advantage was foreknowledge. He knew their identities, and he knew their plans. The Agarthans may have won the first battle, but they would come to see just what Byleth was capable of. He would level the playing field.

It was the final few days of the Blue Sea Moon. The Verdant Rain Moon would soon come. The situation with Miklan would be resolved, having already anonymously sent off the letter to House Gautier detailing the upcoming theft. Just in case, he had added some details of House Gautier's estate that Sylvain had previously told him in a past life, which should ensure that they take his warning seriously. He couldn't think of a conceivable way that matter could change from past lives, even after accounting for what had already changed in this life. Miklan simply didn't factor in the Agarthans' plans.

He would have a free month to make his move. The sense of defeat, anger and irritation he had been feeling was now focused, sharpened into a singular goal. He would cripple the Agarthans. He would need to strike back just as hard.

He would kill Cornelia, and then he would kill Solon.

-o-o-o-

It still stung where the dagger had penetrated deep into his flesh. Thales' mages had worked fast to heal it, but even then the wound had been severe.

"It is done." He handed the Sword over. Thales inspected it.

"The Sword of the Creator… the final remains of the Goddess. The weapon wielded by Nemesis himself. The Crest Stone may be gone, but still there is power in the Sword. How long have we waited for this moment?" he said reverently, then looked over at him. "You have done well, Death Knight."

He nodded. "There is more."

"Oh?" Thales looked at him inquisitively.

"There is one who possesses the Crest of Flames."

"Truly?" Thales looked at him, alert. "You are certain?"

A pointless question. He could recognise any Crest. Thales had made sure of it. "He cracked my armour."

"The Crest of Flames… but Nemesis had never sired children. What could Seiros have done…?" Thales mused. "Your injuries were caused by him."

He nodded.

"A formidable foe, then." Thales paused, considering what he had been told. "Who is he?"

"Byleth Eisner, son of the Blade Breaker." It was a name that he would remember.

"What is your assessment of him?"

"He knew of Emile von Bartels."

For the first time, Thales appeared startled. "Impossible. No one should know."

"He did."

"Impossible," he repeated, deep in thought. "He possesses knowledge he shouldn't. Perhaps…" Thales looked toward him. "Tell me. Was he the one that had captured Lonato?"

Ah, Lonato. That was his name. "Yes."

"So, we have to assume he knows of us as well. What else could he possibly know?" Thales mused. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is invaluable information. We will need to hasten our plans going forward."

The plan. How could he carry it out when Jeritza could no longer enter the Monastery? "The Beast in the guise of a girl?"

"Indeed," Thales confirmed. "We have to assume that Solon's identity has been compromised. He will need to make his move soon. I will be arranging the details with him. You have done well."

He took that as a sign of dismissal, leaving Thales alone to his thoughts. As he walked away, he thought of the latest name worth remembering.

Byleth Eisner. A man of formidable skill and talent, in possession of the Crest of Flames itself. He knew they would meet in battle once again.

He remembered how his blood roared and sang as they fought. He had every advantage with his Scythe and Armour, and still he had proven a challenge. Byleth Eisner had exploited his weakness, almost killing him in the process, and he would not allow such weakness to fester.

Out of sight, he held the talisman bearing the Rafail Gem that had been gifted unto him by Thales. It was one of the Heroes Relics, part of the greater whole of any who bore the Crest of Lamine.

It was also the reason why he still lived. Byleth Eisner's dagger should have found his heart, but the Relic bestowed unnatural protective power to any with his Crest.

(He was saved by a Crest. The same Crest had ruined his life.)

Emile von Bartels was dead. That name meant nothing. When next they fought, Byleth Eisner would die.

None who knew the name of Emile von Bartels could be allowed to live.

(Mercedes. Mercie. He knew her Name. She knew his Face. And yet she lives.)


So... yeah. I might rewrite this again if I find the motivation, but even just re-reading it now is an exercise in frustration. Sorry for the disappointment. I have no actual clue how to characterise the Death Knight, and just came up with something. (hides away)