A/N: Hello everyone! I'm so excited to be writing this story, and I hope you'll enjoy it. After playing the game about four times, Seteth x F! Byleth has been my favorite S-Support I've had so far, maybe second only to Claude. This story will switch between Byleth and Seteth's POV and maybe I'll do a Flayn POV which would also be super fun :) Reviews are appreciated!
Cross-posted on AO3 under the same name.
The first time Seteth sees her in the graveyard, it's the middle of the night.
The moon has cast the courtyards and corridors of Garreg Mach in a deep silver light, cloaking it in an aura that's halfway between ominous and beautiful, and Seteth can't help but leave his room, something about the night beckoning him outside.
He hasn't slept in ages. He's never really needed to, not since he and Flayn first arrived at Garreg Mach, and he spends most of his nights wandering the halls or reading or trying to keep himself from drowning in his endless sea of memories.
On this particular night, the sky seems lighter than usual, a little less menacing, maybe. Seteth pulls a cloak over his uniform in a weak attempt to keep out the usual evening chill, but it's hopeless. The wind is sharper than usual, biting into his skin, and he hopes that this little stroll won't end in chills the next morning. He wanders aimlessly through the halls, pacing the cathedral, staring into dark windows, practicing his footwork at the training grounds. There's still too much time. There's always too much time.
Somehow, inexplicably, he finds himself descending the steps to the graveyard, wondering if maybe being in a place filled with spirits will make him feel a little less alone. It doesn't work. He sits there, in the middle of all the graves, and dreams of a face that he hasn't seen in centuries. A face that he'll never see again.
"Who's there?"
The words jolt Seteth from his thoughts, and he turns quickly, stumbling to his feet and realizing that he really has no weapon to defend himself against a potential intruder.
"Seteth?" A figure comes into his view, holding a lantern, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness after looking straight into the bright light.
"Byleth?" He squints, wondering if he's seeing correctly, and sure enough, there stands the elusive professor, dressed in what looks like a cape, and under that, a lacy white nightgown that looks strange on the body of someone who he knows to be a ruthless killer. "What are you doing out here?"
"I couldn't sleep." Byleth steps closer to Seteth, and he can see dark circles under her violet eyes. Her gaze is faraway, trained on something behind Seteth's shoulder, and he turns to follow it. Sitri Eisner, reads the gravestone. 1139-1159.
"Ah. I see." Seteth steps out of her path, unsure of what to do with himself. He hadn't really put much thought into the fact that Byleth might miss her mother, despite the fact that she'd never known the woman. "Well, I should go, then." He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to read Byleth's expression and failing miserably.
"Oh, you don't have to." Byleth's mouth quirks as if she wants to smile kindly but doesn't, and she walks over to Sitri's grave, staring mournfully at the stone. "I've never seen anyone out here before. Not at this time."
"Neither have I." He folds his arms, watching her. What is she up to?
"I try to come here once a week, but sometimes I forget." To Seteth's surprise, Byleth's tone is full of melancholy, as if this is something she doesn't usually admit. He doesn't know what to do with this information. "Sometimes I forget her."
"I see." Seteth wonders if he should go. He should probably leave her to her thoughts, to mourn, to grieve, to do whatever it is she's planning on doing, but something about her presence halts him. What's wrong with him? He doesn't even like Byleth. Most of the time, he avoids her at all costs, and yet now he wants to pursue some kind of midnight rendezvous? He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
"I'm sorry that I intruded. You were here first." Byleth turns away from the gravestone, and Seteth realizes she hasn't brought flowers or any sort of token at all. She really is strange.
"No, it's fine." Seteth sighs, resigning himself to his fate. "I see no reason why we shouldn't be able to coexist peacefully."
"Who are you here for?" Byleth folds her arms, staring at him as if she can see right through him. Seteth wonders if she really can.
"No one in particular," Seteth lies. Byleth doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push the subject further.
"I'm sorry that I intruded upon Garreg Mach. I know that seeing me appear without any warning from Lady Rhea must have been… a shock." Byleth stares at him, unblinking, and Seteth sighs, the words undoubtedly referencing his past behavior.
"I won't hide the fact that I firmly believe you should be fully investigated. You are skilled in war and strategy, that I know, but aside from that? Well, you are, to say the least, a mystery." Seteth folds his arms, wondering if he seems intimidating out here, in the dark of the graveyard. Byleth does not seem threatened. To be honest, she doesn't seem very much of anything at all.
"You don't trust me. I can understand that." Her eyes glitter in the moonlight, a hint of some unrecognizable emotion hiding behind them. "Trust is a hard thing to earn, much less to give freely."
"Indeed," Seteth says. "Forgive me if this is an intrusion, but I can't help but wonder how much you really know about yourself."
"You want an honest answer?" This time, something like a slight smile crosses Byleth's face, and the sight of it is so jarring that Seteth has to keep himself from frowning.
"Yes," he says, nodding firmly.
"In that case, not much." Byleth's sort of half-smile deepens slightly. "My father is Jeralt. I was a mercenary. And now, I live here."
"Do you not even know your own age?" Seteth doesn't even try to hide his shock. To raise a child this way is unthinkable. How has Byleth lived in the dark for so long?
"I do not." This time, her smile disappears, replaced with something more somber. "You must think me a liar."
"No," he says, and it's true. He would be able to tell had she lied. No, Byleth Eisner is just as confused about herself as he is. "I think that your past has been deeply shrouded in shadow. To both of us."
Byleth doesn't respond for a moment and merely stares at him calculatingly. Finally, she sighs, turning back to Sitri's grave and bowing her head slightly, before turning back around and walking softly over to the stairway.
"Goodnight, Seteth. I hope that sleep finds you." Byleth turns just as she is about to leave the graveyard and gives him a slight nod. Seteth stands there, frozen. She truly is a mystery.
"Goodnight, Miss Eisner," is all he can say, and before he can move Byleth turns and disappears into the darkness, and Seteth is once again alone in the graveyard of Garreg Mach, his thoughts filled with a pair of mysterious violet eyes.
The next morning is charged with buzz and chatter as the students begin to flood the monastery, and Seteth retreats to his office as soon as he can, the chill of the previous night having cursed him with a nasty cold that keeps making him sneeze uncontrollably.
"Oh, Father, what is wrong?"
He has only twenty minutes to himself before Flayn comes barging in, throwing the door open as if she owns the place. Seteth stiffens at the affectionate name, and he quickly gets up from his desk to shut the door, checking the corridor to make sure no one has heard Flayn's declaration.
"What have I told you, Flayn? It's not safe to say such things." Seteth sighs, putting a hand to his forehead, and then promptly sneezes.
"Forgive me, brother," Flayn says, giggling, and Seteth gives her a look. "Oh, don't worry, there was nobody listening! I know how to protect myself, you know. I'm in the Professor's class, remember?"
"Oh, I remember," Seteth says. "You are being careful like I've told you, yes?" Against his will, he sneezes again, and this time, Flayn's joyful expression shifts to one of concern.
"What is wrong? You weren't wandering around the monastery last night, were you?" Flayn sighs at Seteth's silence, shaking her head as if she's the parent. "I've told you, Father, you must try to sleep! It does no good to be out in the cold, and now you've gone and gotten sick!"
"Do not worry for me, Flayn, I will be perfectly fine." Seteth turns away from his daughter and back to his paperwork, wondering for the fiftieth time why Garreg Mach seems to be completely devoid of coffee. "Now, don't you have a class to attend?"
"You are behind on the times, Father. The Professor is ill, haven't you heard? She's called off all lessons for the day, and we are to train independently." Flayn skips over to Seteth's desk and picks up a little wooden carving of a fish off its surface absent-mindedly, twirling it around in between her fingers.
"What do you mean?" Seteth looks up from his paper. Byleth, ill, the same exact time as himself? He sends quick prayer up to the Goddess that no one comes to any unfortunate conclusions from this prospect.
"She has a cold and a horrible headache. I went to visit her this morning!" Flayn smiles knowingly at Seteth. "Do you think she likes to wander out at night, too?"
"That's none of my business." Seteth stands and ushers Flayn to the door, practically pushing her out into the hallway. "Well, you'd best be getting to your training. See you for lunch, shall I?"
"Maybe you should drop by the professor's later, brother! The two of you can commiserate over your shared illness!" Before Seteth can say anything, Flayn grins and skips off down the hallway, humming a tune under her breath.
"That girl will be the death of me," he mutters, and he's just sat back down when he's overtaken by a coughing fit. How fitting.
Seteth's cold only worsens as the day goes on, and soon, he's retreated to his room with an old, leather-bound book, his head throbbing and a dull sort of aching chill sending shudders through his body.
Flayn tries to bring him soup, and even Lady Rhea comes by with ethereal words of concern, but Seteth waves them away, turning back to his book and his paperwork and looking as normal as he possibly can. After they leave, however, he throws an old, worn-out blanket over his shoulders. He wasn't aware Saints could even get sick.
Finally, as the day draws to a close and afternoon begins to fade into evening, Seteth gets up and abandons his book and his blankets. He walks down the hall into his office and heats an old silver kettle that he's set up in the corner, watching the metal shine in the lantern-light. His head feels like it's been plunged underwater, and he curses himself for taking so long in that frigid graveyard last night.
He's not sure what possesses him to do so, but instead of pouring one cup of Ginger Tea, he pours two, thin swirls of smoke rising from the two china teacups. Goodnight, Seteth. I hope that sleep finds you. Her words still ring in his head, her cool voice unwavering, like a single held note, and he finds himself picking up the teacups with a gentleness that he finds unnerving.
By now, all the students are immersed in the last hours of their training, and the familiar sounds of chatter and sparring fill the air as Seteth walks through the grounds, trying to maintain an air of importance as best he can. This is just a friendly visit, he tells himself, trying to clear his mind. Why shouldn't he bring the Professor some tea as a gesture of good-will, after all she's done for Flayn? It has nothing to do with their conversation the night before. Why would it?
Byleth's door is shut when he reaches it, and he's tempted to just walk away and pretend he never even thought of coming here at all. No, Seteth. Stop being a coward. This is what anyone would do, if they had an- an acquaintance who was sick. Tentatively, he knocks once, twice, and waits for a response.
"Hello?" The door opens just a crack and two violet eyes peek outside. "Oh, Seteth. Come in." Gingerly, Byleth opens the door all the way and Seteth steps inside, feeling too big for the small space and severely out of place. Byleth pulls a wooden chair from the corner of the room and sits down on the edge of her bed, gesturing to the empty seat. "Please, sit down."
"Thank you." Seteth takes a seat and awkwardly holds out one of the teacups, wondering what proper gift-giving etiquette is. "I- I made Ginger tea. For your cold. I'm feeling rather under the weather myself as it is, and I thought that, perhaps, you might like some."
"That's very thoughtful." Byleth reaches out and takes the cup, sipping it gingerly. She's dressed in her usual teaching attire, but her hair is loose and long, and she's wrapped a red throw over her shoulders. The whole situation feels oddly personal, and Seteth is sure that he must look awful. "It seems the night wind got to us."
"Indeed." Seteth takes a sip of his own cup of tea, letting the warm liquid calm his nerves. "This illness has truly prevented me from doing anything useful with my day."
"I know what you mean. I hate not being able to teach," Byleth says, glancing out one of the windows behind Seteth, "but I'm sure my students are doing fine without me. Flayn came to visit me this morning, actually. It was very sweet of her."
"Well, she's certainly very fond of you," Seteth says, and it's true. Both he and Flayn owe Byleth, whether he likes it or not. "I suppose it's a very busy time of year for you and your students, what with the White Heron Cup and the Annual Ball approaching at the end of the month."
"Yes, that's true," Byleth muses. "To be honest, I don't have much experience with balls, but the students seem very excited."
"Flayn has been talking of nothing else. She has always loved to dance." Seteth laughs slightly, remembering a little green-eyed girl twirling around the beach and getting sand in her hair. "But I feel that I must apologize for my behavior last night. It is true that the archbishop places her trust in you, and for that, you must have some worth."
At this, Byleth suddenly puts a hand over her mouth and stifles a sort of laugh, her eyes lighting up. Seteth just stares at her blankly, until he runs over his last sentence and realizes how incredibly rude he sounds.
"Forgive me, Professor, I did not mean- That came out much… differently than I had intended." Seteth looks at the floor, wondering when in the world it was that he became so inept at conversation.
"You don't need to apologize," Byleth says, smiling slightly. "I'm not easily offended. Growing up with mercenaries made sure of that. Jeralt used to say the thicker your skin, the harder it is for a blade to pierce it." The words are such a rare snippet of Byleth's cloudy past that it shakes something in Seteth, and all of a sudden, he feels a tremor of something that he hasn't felt in what feels like a hundred years.
"I- Well, I hope you feel better," Seteth says hurriedly, rising to his feet, and Byleth stares at him questioningly. "I have- enjoyed this visit."
"Thank you for the tea," Byleth says, following him to the door, and Seteth can tell she's confused, but he has to get out of here, he has to breathe, so he quickly gives her a small wave and darts outside, closing the door behind him and most likely shutting it in Byleth's face.
He stands there for a moment, taking several deep breaths, before he turns and starts walking furiously back to his office, not even caring that he's left behind one of his teacups in Byleth's room.
"You idiot," Seteth hisses, wanting to punch himself in the face. What is wrong with him? Has he lost all sense of dignity and decorum? To think that that mercenary, that stranger, had more sense of etiquette than he did makes him feel even sicker than he already is.
He doesn't like Byleth. He can't trust her. So why did talking to her feel so comforting, so- so much like home?
Seteth hasn't let anyone into his life since- well, for a long time. He is not going to start now, and certainly not with this mysterious mercenary who threatens everything he knows to be true.