"I heard about your mission."
Lysithea tilted her head up as Edelgard sat down across from her. With as late in the night as it was, the library was entirely empty. Curfew only applied to outside the monastery, so inside the grounds was fair game.
Though admittedly, no one came to the library as late as she did with the exception of Claude. Thankfully, he was checking on Marianne instead.
"What of it?" Lysithea said, barely glancing up. Her mind had been so distracted, rereading the same few lines over and over again.
"How are you feeling?"
Oh, that was a loaded question. What wasn't she feeling? Did Edelgard refer to the sheer panic of being pinned down by the sniper? To the man she'd seen flesh slough off of when she submerged him in a miasma? To the way her professor was incompetent?
The last was far easier to talk about.
"My professor leaves some things to be desired."
Edelgard raised an eyebrow. "I've heard you and her have been butting heads. Care to vent?"
Lysithea finally put the book down. "I want to learn everything. No, I need to learn every secret about magic that I can. There are reasons that put me on a time limit, I don't have time for this. I don't have time to learn when to punch an enemy instead of cast a spell."
"Because you're a caster," Edelgard observed.
She nodded. "The Deer are a physical house. Marianne is our healer and she wields a sword more than offensive magic. I have no one to guide me. I don't have time for my professor's style of teaching. I did not come to the officer's academy to have a professor who fears the most base magical spell."
Edelgard nodded, interested. "Hanneman, my teacher, seems to have more experience with that. Age begets wisdom, as they say. You might want to seek his personal instruction."
The young mage nodded absently. She hadn't the physicality to benefit from any of Byleth's teaching so far. A month of study, wasted.
The smile on Edelgard's face grew an inch. "If you like, I have a suggestion on how you could solve your problem."
"Oh?"
Edelgard leaned forward and told her.
Hilda lay in her bed that night after the battle. She'd bathed for an hour, letting the blood soak off her skin. It'd even gotten under her nails so far that she'd resorted to using a toothpick to get them out.
She was no stranger to battle. Holst was her brother. Hilda was a Goneril. She grew up on the Throat.
She expected some sort of squeamish feeling, a sort of disgust.
But there was nothing.
Hilda had smashed the leader of the bandit's head in. His skull had caved in, cracking audibly and squelching as she removed the axe. Leonie had taken one look and refused to again.
And all Hilda felt was dull accomplishment. No feeling of horror. Just the pride akin to finally landing a hammer atop the head of a nail (though she'd admit that was just a guess. Hitting nails, her? Please.).
So while the rest of her house grieved in their own ways, Hilda felt apathy.
It was like the professor said. They would have harmed more people. They deserved to die.
Maybe there was some truth to what Claude was seeing in her.
Hilda stretched out on the bed, sighing. So much work today. Maybe the professor would let them off with a free day since other students weren't doing as well.
Though come to think of it, the professor didn't seem to be doing so well either.
"Ugh," she groaned, the idea too far in her head now. Hilda jumped off the bed and left her room. She made her way to the professor's quarters.
Thankfully it was dark enough out that no one would be able to accuse her of caring.
When she arrived, lantern light flickered under the door. Voices, hushed, trickled out. Hilda put her ear up to the lock and heard the soft voice of a woman singing. But it wasn't Byleth.
What was Mercedes doing in Byleth's room?
She withdrew, walking back to her room. A tryst? No, unlikely. Had Mercedes thought to check on Byleth before a member of her own house thought to?
Hilda's stomach twisted at that thought, but she fought the feeling. Bad emotions, go away, she commanded.
She pranced back to her room, pushing aside burgeoning feelings of guilt.
"Thank you, Claude," Marianne whispered as she dried her tears.
"I'd be a poor house leader if I didn't care about my Deer," he said, taking his handkerchief back.
They sat in her room. Claude had stopped by half an hour ago to check on her. He'd said that he was looking in on everyone, but Marianne doubted that. She was the weakest person, so naturally he'd make sure she was okay.
Marianne appreciated the sentiment, though.
Raphael would have a scar on his chest, a big nasty red one. All because her healing wasn't good enough, because she hadn't the power to fully heal the wound. Now he'd have that for the rest of his life because she was inadequate.
And then there was the man she'd accidentally stabbed. He'd run at her and she lifted her sword reflexively. It'd saved her life as he'd run himself through.
Hilda had laughed. Marianne had prayed.
Monsters they were before the Goddess. That's what Byleth had said, and Marianne agreed. Just some of them more than others.
How horrible for her classmates to find out that she was just as bad as the thieves they'd put down. They'd never look her in the eye again if they could see how cursed she was.
"Marianne?" Claude said. He'd been saying her name for a while, she realized.
"Yes?" she asked.
He looked concerned. "You sure you're feeling better?"
"I'll be better in no time," Marianne lied.
Claude nodded. "You know…" he seemed to search for something. "I killed my first man when I was thirteen. It was up close, like yours. A dagger into the neck. He was on top of me at the time, strangling me. I pulled a dagger from his belt and kill him. Blood poured down me, it was disgusting."
"Why are you telling me this?" Marianne asked. She looked up at Claude and he seemed a decade far away.
"It doesn't get better. But it does get easier. It helped me to know that if I'd have died, my friends would have been sad," Claude said, aiming for comfort. His voice twisted when he said 'friends'.
But she didn't have any friends.
"Thank you, Claude."
He nodded again. "Don't hesitate to ask for help if you need it. Any of the Deer would be happy to. Even Hilda, if you could bribe her enough."
Marianne giggled a little. Claude's smile grew.
He kept painting with red.
The view out of his window didn't have any red, just greens of various shades. But his mind kept gravitating to crimson. Ignatz set down the brush, sighing. A canvas wouldn't solve his problems tonight.
He damn near spilled his paints when Raphael barged into his room.
"Raph! You scared me!" Ignatz yelped.
He laughed, but it fell just short of his eyes. "Hey, Ig, wanna go get a meal? I'm starving!"
Ignatz almost rolled his eyes and told Raphael that maybe a sixth trip to the dining hall that day was excessive, even if they had a battle that day. Surely no one had that appetite.
But Raphael's stance wasn't the eager one he always had around friends. It was antsy, jittery.
"Sure, Raph. Let me pack up my supplies."
His friend waited while the artist made sure each brush was properly clean before departing his room.
As they left, Leonie poked her head out of her room. "Hey, can I come with you guys to get food?"
"Woah, Leonie, you must be psychic or something, knowing we were going to the dining hall!" Raphael laughed.
"Something like that," Leonie said with a roll of her eyes. "It had nothing to do with how your voice can be heard through walls, Big Man."
"Hey, when food is involved, how could I not shout?"
Leonie chuckled. "Never change, Raphael."
"If I never change, then my muscles won't grow. So sorry, no can do." Raphael flexed and now it was Ignatz' turn to roll his eyes before joining in with their laughter.
It was late evening, so the dining hall was rather empty. Empty except for Lorenz sitting by his lonesome, looking lost in thought.
"Let's go sit by him," Raphael said once he had a heaping plate of food. The cooks were beginning to anticipate the blond giant's eating patterns.
Leonie squirmed. "Do we have to?"
Raphael frowned. "Lorenz is a good guy under all the pomp." And without waiting for a reply, he heading off to sit by their housemate.
Leonie huffed and looked at Ignatz for support. She found none as he already was following Raphael. They sat down on either side of Raphael with Lorenz across the table.
"Lorenz! Your plate's so empty, how're you supposed to grow muscles like me without a nice big piece of meat on there?"
Lorenz almost jumped out of his skin. "Oh, hello, you three. I did not expect to see you all here at this time of day."
"I think we could say the same as you," Ignatz said. "Usually I see you eat your meals with Ferdinand."
"Hmm, he left some time ago, I think," Lorenz said. There wasn't any of the usual 'pomp' to Lorenz, as Raphael put it. He looked like a flag without wind, crumpled.
"Here," Raphael sliced a hefty piece off his chunk of meat, "that'll have you raring in no time."
"Raphael, I hardly think a piece of meat will help me come to my senses." Lorenz sighed but did poke at it listlessly with his fork.
Ignatz opened his mouth to say something, but Raphael cut him off. "Well, they say food is nourishment of the body and talk is nourishment of the mind. So what's on your mind?"
Their noble companion nibbled at the meat. "Those bandits, I suppose I can't get them off my mind."
Raphael nodded. "Same. The whole thing was a shame."
That lit a fire in Lorenz's eyes. "Wasn't it? I will not condone banditry, but sometimes it is the most commoners can aspire to in times of strife."
"Excuse—"
Raphael gestured for Leonie to stop talking. "Back in my village, it was hard to make do some years. Whenever I hear tales about bandits, I wonder if they're like the folk in my village who turned bandit to feed their children."
"I cannot help but agree. When a commoner turns to such barbarity, I would hazard a guess that it is not really their fault, but the fault of the nobleman who serves them." Lorenz sighed, cutting into his meal with more gusto. "I guarantee you, Raphael, that I shall not be one of those nobles who fails his subjects."
"Oh?" Raphael asked.
"Certainly not. A nobleman has a duty to know what his commoners are up to. That is the way of the world, commoners producing food and the nobles managing them. A fault in one affects the other, it is a symbiotic relationship. To see bandits like those today, I cannot but wonder how they came to that place in their lives." Lorenz blinked and uncharacteristically blushed. "Forgive me, I became passionate."
Raphael laughed. "Passion is good! It keeps you warm on an empty stomach."
Lorenz actually smiled, to Ignatz's surprise. "Quite right, Raphael. Thank you, it seems you were right about talk being good for the mind."
He smiled. "Anytime, Lorenz."
The nobleman rose, holding an empty plate. "I'll bid you good night, Raphael. And you too, Leonie and Ignatz." They seemed to be an afterthought, like he'd forgotten they were there. "I do require some rest before class tomorrow. It would not do to arrive late."
"Good night!" Raphael waved.
Ignatz and Leonie stared at Raphael, who'd gone back to eating.
"Raph," Ignatz started.
"How did you do that?" Leonie finished.
"Hm? Do what?" Raphael said, confused.
Leonie looked at him in disbelief. "You got Lorenz not to be an ass."
"Oh, Lorenz isn't bad. He's a good guy." Raphael shrugged. "He seemed down and I got him talking about it. That was it."
Ignatz wasn't sure he believed that, not when Raphael had shushed both him and Leonie when they made to interrupt.
While Leonie still floundered and Raphael played dumb, Ignatz afforded a small smile. He was lucky to have him as a friend.
Mercedes stirred as the woman in her arms moved.
Byleth groaned and brought a hand up to her head. "I don't suppose you have magic for hangovers?"
The holy woman giggled. "I'm sure Manuela knows a spell for it."
The professor sat up and yawned. "Mercedes—"
"Ahem." Mercedes gave the teacher a look.
"Mercie, I trust that what happened here won't leave this room?" Byleth said.
Mercedes stood up and brushed some wrinkles out of her uniform. "If that's what you wish, professor. Your secrets are safe with me."
As she made to leave, Byleth blocked her path, holding out a hand. "You have something of mine."
She bit her lip and slowly handed the flask back to Byleth. The lack of liquid in it worried her. "I said I'd keep your secrets, but that does not mean I wish to enable them."
Byleth stowed it in her pocket. "I'd just find more. Might as well save me the money."
"I'll pray for you," Mercedes said, still looking at the professor in disapproval.
Byleth had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. "Do what you will. I doubt the Goddess has room in her heart for a killer like me."
"I think she has love for anyone, no matter how far gone they are. I'm sure Sothis would welcome you with open arms."
Byleth froze.
Mercedes blinked. "Was it something I said?"
The professor shook her head, but Mercedes wasn't saint enough to not know a liar when she saw one. Still, she held her tongue and nodded. "Well, if you ever desire someone to lend an ear, don't hesitate to seek me out."
Byleth said nothing, and Mercedes left feeling as if she'd made a mistake.
"Okay," Byleth said, her voice shushing the chatter of her students as she stood up at her desk in the front of the classroom. "I've spoken with—"
She blinked. "Where's Lysithea?"
Every head turned to the empty seat. Even Leonie's, who sat next to her.
"Have any of you seen her today?" Byleth asked, uncomfortable. She knew they had all see her reaction yesterday. None had approached her on it and part of her was secretly thankful. That wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with anyone.
A series of shaking heads. Byleth sighed. "Well, hopefully she comes along. Anyway, as I was saying, I spoke with the other classes I teach for the Golden Deer. They've been preparing the past month for you to step in and command them. I don't know what Rhea will assign us for our next mission, but I will be putting you each in charge of a battalion for the next battle."
She held up a hand as nervous chatter sprouted. "But, we've a lot of work before that. So yes, we'll be concentrating on tactics in the weeks to come. Your battalions have been drilling. They will respond to your commands and obey you. Do not misinterpret their help, you are all in command of them."
More lives in their hands aside from their classmates. Do not ignore that fear.
Byleth swallowed sharply. She hadn't had time to dwell on Mercedes' words. "They are Deer, even if they are not your classmates. Treat their lives as such, like I would hope you'd treat any life."
Marianne in particular looked terrified, though the rest weren't far behind. It was Claude and Lorenz who both nodded grimly, acknowledging, but without fear.
She tried to smile, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on her students as some unconsciously reared back. "I don't foist this on you randomly. You all impressed me in the battle." Byleth could get away with that statement with their number down one. "Believe it or not, you are all ready for this. Or at least you will be before our next mission."
Byleth sat back down. "We'll discuss meeting your battalions and their lieutenants in time. As well, there will be a test in a few weeks." A collective groan, loudest from Hilda.
Claude raised a hand. Byleth nodded at him. "Now, Teach, pardon me for asking, but wouldn't you call us living through battle to be a passing grade?" He smirked as he spoke, baiting her into something.
What is was, she did not know. "As far as I'm concerned, you live to the end of the year, you'll graduate."
Some cheered, others looked queasy. Marianne and Ignatz most notably. Perhaps she'd need to train with them one on one. She made a note of it.
"Any other questions?"
There were none.
"Then let's talk strategy."
"Say hello to Lysithea who will be joining us today," Hanneman said. "On account of that, I figured we could talk about some more advanced magical theory." He stepped towards the chalk board. "For those casters in the room, bear with me for a few minutes while I touch on the bases for our less magically inclined friends."
"There are three types of magic." Hanneman drew an isosceles triangle. "White, Black, and Dark." He labeled the triangle, putting white at the top and the other two at the bottom, close to each other.
"Can anyone tell me what determines someone's aptitude for magic?" he asked, not looking over his shoulder.
"Innate talent," Dorothea answered.
"Correct. And the other?"
"Practice," Lysithea replied.
"Indeed." Hanneman set up a graph. "Both of those are true, but let's dive into them a bit more. Innate talent is, of course, the latent ability someone has for the magical arts. This can be observed when someone first learns a spell. Often people with Crests have the highest magical ability, even if their Crest is not known to correspond with magical enhancements.
"That is not to say innate talent cannot grow." He labeled the bottom of the graph 'Talent'. "But we shall speak on that in a moment. As for our other axis," he said, writing 'Muscle', "that is as Lysithea put it, practice. However, the put it more concretely, your magical ability is a muscle. Just like you must lift weights if you wish your biceps to grow, you must hone your magic should you wish your endurance to grow."
Lysithea scribbled notes. She felt Hubert's eyes on her, wary but mixed with approval.
"In tandem, these two facets are what make your magical capabilities grow. Everyone can cast something, but the degree to which that plateau is for you is entirely dependent on these two factors." He elaborated with a few examples, demonstrating on his graph he'd set up.
"Questions?" he asked. No one raised their hand. "Very well, let's talk about each type of magic." He flipped the chalkboard over to the blank side.
"Our first is White. In Fódlan, we would refer to the Goddess' radiance to be the source of White. The way we harness it comes from her divine love and our respect for it." Hanneman shook his head. "While that is correct, it is not wholly true. Across the world, there are religions who worship other deities. If White magic came from Sothis, then why do the Almyrans have access to it, believing in their gods? Or Dagdan priests, worshipping Mother Earth and Father Sky? Even down in Morfis, where religion isn't prevalent, atheists can still wield the power of White magic. Does anyone know why this is?"
No one said anything until a sigh echoed from across the room. Linhardt raised a lazy hand. "Belief."
"Quite right!" Hanneman exclaimed. He wrote the word next White and circled it. "Indeed, it is belief that drives White magic. For what do all these faiths have in common? A belief in something."
"How can someone believe in nothing?" Lysithea asked, raising her hand belatedly.
"Astute question. A belief in nothing is still a belief, is it not? If you were hoping for a philosophical debate, I'm afraid you'll need to turn towards Seteth or the Archbishop. As far as I understand it, there is no true way to understand what really works behind the scenes of the world. A belief in nothing is nothing more than that, a belief. Anyone who would argue otherwise dips into arrogance that you can find when one assumes that the Goddess is true simply because they believe in her.
"The Morfisians take it further, demonstrating that belief in an idea or friend, or perhaps a lover, can also suffice. Faith takes a variety of forms, it is not relegated to simply religious. You tell your trusted that you have faith in them. This follows that principle."
He cleared his throat. "Forgive me, let's hold more advanced questions like that until we finish the basics. Though do write them down, I want to answer them."
Lysithea caught Edelgard's approving gaze on her. Dorothea glanced between the two of them, a slight frown growing.
Hanneman chalked up Black in bold letters. "Black magic, or Anima as it is called in Morfis, is the most common form of arcane manifestation. This is fire, water, ice, lightning, wind, the exploitation of the elements. Just like its opposite, Black also has means by which its power is derived. Could anyone tell me what it is?"
Edelgard raised a hand. "Competency."
"Not quite, but close," Hanneman said. "The people of Morfis have done most of the scholarly research on magic in the world, and the word they use translates roughly to attunement." He wrote it on the board. "But of course, translation does not cover every base. Another interpretation is passion. Where the power of White magic grows with the intensity of belief, Black increases as you grow as a person.
"In some regions of Sreng, they call Black magic the Maker and worship it. Let us take Dorothea as an example," he said, gesturing to his student. "She is an acclaimed songstress, an artisan of voice. Black comes quickly to her because she has found something that evokes passion. I would wager that if you sang incantations, that they might produce stronger results."
He turned back to the class as a whole. "Black magic grows as you find who you are. It is a softer science, as that definition is flexible. Black magic forces you to find something that motivates you, that evokes passion from you. It ultimately forces you to answer 'who are you' should you wish to master it. It is the most curious of the magicks, if you ask me.
"Then we have Dark. Could someone tell me what sets Dark apart from the other two?"
"It is evil," Ferdinand answered.
Hanneman frowned. "Incorrect. Dark magic is a tool, nothing more. It does not have agency to be considered moral. Though there have been plenty who have used it for evil, as have there been with Black and White. And there have been some who use it for good. Assuming that an entire group of people is evil merely shows the color lens the speaker looks through." He fixed Ferdinand with a look. "Do remember that."
Ferdinand, suitably cowed, nodded.
"What sets Dark magic apart is that it is corrosive. When used often and frequently, it will harm the user. I do not refer to developing a pox or stopping your heart. Often this manifests through arthritis. A witch in a story is depicted as old and gnarled. Even in fiction there are grains of truth."
It was one of the few advantages her lifespan gave her. Where an ordinary Dark caster would be wary about consequence, Lysithea could sling spells to her heart's content.
He turned back to the class. "Hubert, Lysithea, would either of you care to share what it is that fuels Dark? Black has passion, White belief, Dark…?"
Hubert spoke up in his raspy voice. "Intellect."
"Excellent!" Hanneman wrote it next to Dark. "Dark magic relies on intellect. Obtaining knowledge is the primary goal of Dark casters. Again, to look at folklore, you will see the antagonist be a person on the pursuit of knowledge. That they'll wield Dark is no coincidence."
Caspar raised a hand. "But do you have to be able to remember everything? If I read a book and memorized it, would that work better?"
Hanneman smiled. "You've a quick mind, Caspar. Yes, it would be more potent if you can readily recall such knowledge in the form of memorization or true learning. But consider the time that could take comparative to simply moving on to another tome. While I do not frequently preach it, quantity has a quality of its own here."
Their teacher moved on. "So, three branches of magic. Black and Dark are often grouped closer together because people with latent talent for one oft find the other easier to work into. Their fields blend whereas White is its own domain."
Hanneman clapped his hands together and looked over the class. It was clear he loved, even lived, for teaching. "That covers the basics. So I asked you hold questions, now is the time before we start branching even deeper into this topic."
Lysithea's hand immediately shot up, a smile on her face.
Byleth ran a hand through her hair as she stared down at the sheets of paper on her teaching desk. The sun's slow descent kept heralding her to bed, her exhaustion apparent.
Why, oh why, had she said she'd have a test? It should have been easy, just writing some questions for her students to answer.
But it wasn't. How was she supposed to evaluate someone's strategic prowess from a few quill marks on a page?
"Maybe I need a practical exam," she muttered.
"Pardon, professor?"
She jumped, seeing a boy she did not recognize in front of her. Not one of her students. "Can I help you?"
"I don't think we've met. I'm Cyril, Lady Rhea's assistant." He bowed, looking like a child trying to imitate an adult.
Just like one of her students, she chuckled to herself. "Byleth. What brings you here?"
"I just have a message to deliver," he said, handing a sealed scroll of paper.
Byleth nodded. "I appreciate it." The boy lingered like the words that seemed to hang on his tongue. "Is there anything else?"
"No!" he said, face flushing red. He scampered out of the classroom.
You startled the boy! I don't have to be a Goddess to know when you should be patient!
"Not now," Byleth growled. Dear Goddess, not even her own head was safe for her thoughts.
Dear Goddess indeed! We must talk about this.
Byleth stopped paying attention. She unraveled the scroll and read the text.
Transfer paperwork.
Forms from Seteth telling her one of her students was switching to the Black Eagles.
And Lysithea hadn't even come to tell her in person.
Author Notes: Were you expecting that? I always see Byleth poaching students in fics, but why not the other way around? I'm sure someone has done this, but I don't see it nearly enough. And so the herd diminishes with the loss.
Editing Notes:
12/31/2020: Corrected a plethora of grammatical errors.
7/28/2021: Minor grammar adjustments.