Jeralt had never looked forward to a bed like he did now.
The mission had taken longer than anticipated. Much longer.
The bandits of the Rhodos Coast turned out not to be simple bandits. Well, they were, but their leader was the head bishop of the Western church.
So, after three months or so away from the monastery, Jeralt rode through the gates with the bishop as prisoner. Two of his cronies were chained on horses as well, seeming coconspirators. Behind them, four Knights.
He'd ridden north himself with three Knights. At Arianrhod, he met with Aelfric's three dozen.
The five of them had been the only survivors. And that was what had convinced him the Archbishop had tried to have him killed.
He gave a few orders to the surviving Knights, bidding them to report to Rhea with the prisoners. He'd report in person later, after he saw his daughter.
Seteth and Rhea wouldn't be pleased with that detour, but Jeralt hadn't seen his baby girl in three months. Could they blame a father for caring about his daughter?
It would be an argument that would work on Seteth, at least. That gave him a rueful smile.
Byleth, predictably, was by the fishing pond. What the girl's obsession with that pond was, he didn't know. But whenever he looked for her, if she wasn't in her room, that was where he'd find her.
As he approached, she didn't notice him. His face crinkled into a smile. Oh, this would be good.
He pushed her in.
Byleth yelped like a child as she submerged. Her head poked up and she sputtered out water, seething with anger as she looked for who to blame.
Jeralt couldn't help it. He doubled over with laughter. Goddess, he was exhausted and it hurt his stomach to laugh that hard. But it was the first time he'd had something to smile about in months.
"Dad!" Byleth cried when she realized who it was. She leapt from the water and wrapped her arms around him.
"Kiddo, you're getting me soaked too," he protested without much effort.
She pulled back and crossed her arms. "You deserve it." There was annoyance on her face, but it was overshadowed by the smile.
His daughter, Jeralt realized, was happy.
He'd raised her alone. Well, some of his mercs helped out from time to time, but he bore the brunt of parenting her. So when he thought that Byleth was happy, he knew that it was the first time in her life.
Though that was far too much a broad stroke. It wasn't that she hadn't been happy before. When he'd given her a stuffed wyvern as a child, she'd been happy. When she first beat him in a spar (he'd let her), she'd been happy. But it had been different. Muted, almost. A soft happiness.
The smile on her face was anything but. Byleth, the best part of his life, was alight with happiness.
A melancholy hit him, a bittersweet sadness. Had he not been enough for her to be happy before coming here? Maybe she really needed people her age. He could remember being a teenager, almost, with how he hadn't had much attention for his parents.
He supposed he just always thought that the relationship between he and his girl were different.
She was hugging him again and he smiled, returning it. Maybe he was overthinking things.
"Where have you been?" she asked, finally pulling away completely. "I thought you said you'd be gone for a month or so? It's been three."
He sighed. "You'll get that story later, I promise. It was a mess, but it's done. More importantly, how have you been?"
She began to ramble. His daughter, rambling.
Had he ever seen her this full of emotion? Goddess, he'd resigned himself to thinking that his daughter would grow up to be as stoic as him.
In truth, when he looked at her as she spoke, all he saw was her mother. The smile was all Sitri's, the same smile that had made him fall in love with her.
Would you be proud of her, Sitri? He thought she would be. He certainly was.
He ruffled her hair. She groaned. "Dad, quit it."
"If you ever have children, you'll understand," he said through a laugh.
"Oh! Sir Jeralt!"
They both turned to see a fair haired woman with a kind expression. What was her name?
"Mercie!" Byleth said, her smile growing wider.
Ah, Mercedes, right. The one he'd talked to several months ago. The quiet one or at least soft spoken. Hell, he barely knew her.
Wait, what was that smile on Byleth?
Jeralt did not consider himself an expert in emotion. Sitri had always called him a rock that a stream passed around. Strong, consistent, unwavering. He'd liked that comparison.
But he had been in love before. And it didn't take a genius to put two and two together.
"Mercedes, a pleasure to see you again," he said.
She turned to him and bowed her head. "Forgive me, Sir Jeralt. I believe our last conversation got us off on the wrong foot. My name is Mercedes von Martritz. I am in your daughter's class now, much to my delight. I am very sorry for giving you any impressions that I was up to anything untoward before. Allow me to assure you that isn't the case."
Jeralt blinked and looked over at a very confused Byleth. But that goofy smile was still there despite it.
The suspicion Jeralt held cracked under seeing his daughter so happy. "The fault was mine. I sometimes am too paranoid for my own good."
"Did I miss something?" Byleth asked.
"No," both Jeralt and Mercedes said at the same time.
Jeralt smirked. He liked her, for the little of her he knew.
"I'm sure you two have much to catch up on," Mercedes said. "I'll take my leave now. Jeralt, I'm glad you've returned unharmed. Byleth, I shall see you later."
"What was that all about?" Byleth asked as Mercedes departed.
Jeralt chuckled. "I'll tell you when you're older."
"Dad!"
"Who is she?" Marianne asked.
"Monica von Ochs," Manuela answered. "She went missing last year."
Linhardt frowned at the unconscious woman in front of them. Manuela had called him, Marianne, and Mercedes in for some practice healing on a non-critical patient. He hadn't been expecting that person to be his future classmate.
They were the only four in Manuela's room, sans Monica. The rest of their classes were off learning who knows what. Linhardt couldn't care less.
"Will she be okay?" Mercedes asked.
Manuela nodded. "It seems like exhaustion is what she's suffering from, primarily. Sleep is the best antidote for any ail."
And the former songstress was right. Save for a few cuts and bruises that she had them tend to, Monica seemed unharmed. Flayn had been as well, for that matter.
Curious, Linhardt thought. Odd that someone who apparently was after Flayn's blood would have another captive for a year and not substantially harm her. He of course didn't advocate for harm, perish the thought, but it stood out as strange to him.
He knew House Ochs. Not well, but to a degree. His mother was, unfortunately, a prolific gossip. Monica von Ochs had vanished and it had broken her father. His darling girl, taken away from him. If the rumors were to be believed (and his mother always believed them) then Lord Ochs now dealt with affairs of the nefarious variety. Maybe it was to find his daughter, maybe it was to get back at someone.
Regardless, Linhardt afforded a smile. He'd be glad to have his daughter back, that was for certain. Hopefully it would bring the man a measure of peace.
He yawned. Oh, he'd missed bedtime. Damn, he'd been looking forward to that. Maybe he could sneak a few minutes of sleep in the free bed.
"How come her skin feels so cold?" Mercedes asked as she was checking her pulse.
Manuela reached out a hand and pressed the back of it to Monica's cheek. She frowned. "You're right. Linhardt, grab a blanket from over there."
He groaned inwardly and did as he was told. Manuela kept talking. "It's not uncommon for someone who is suffering from exhaustion to catch a chill. Still, she was doing fine before—"
Monica opened her eyes.
"Eep!" gasped Marianne, nearly jumping back.
"What, never seen a corpse move?" Monica growled. She blinked, as if taking in her surroundings, then smiled. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! Did I scare you?"
"Oh, um, it's fine," Marianne said, very much not fine.
Manuela sat down on the edge of the bed. "Monica, do you remember me? Do you know where you are?"
"Manuela, of course! And this is the monastery, why do you ask?" The redhead certainly was cheerful, that Linhardt could be certain of.
With a few more probing questions from Manuela, she stood up. "The three of you, keep an eye on her. I need to speak with the Archbishop."
"Why was she asking me what year it was?" Monica asked, cocking her head to the side.
"Seems you've lost a year of time somewhere in captivity," Linhardt said with some renewed interest. Amnesia wasn't exactly common, but it wasn't unheard of. Perhaps she'd been struck with a blow to the head at some point. Had her captors gone to lengths to cover up wounds? Had they intended to let Monica go? Questions upon questions.
He was much too tired for this.
"Lost a year?"
"It's not 1179, the year is 1180," Mercedes said gently.
Monica's eyes widened for a moment before she shrugged. "Oh well, that's the way the cookie crumbles."
"You're not bothered by that?" Marianne whispered. "Your family is probably worried about you."
Monica fixed Marianne with a glower. "Mind your own business. Worry about your own family that doesn't love you."
Linhardt's jaw dropped, Mercedes gasped, and Marianne said nothing. She stood up quietly and walked to the door. Linhardt could hear her sniffling.
Mercedes was up and going after her in a second. Linhardt turned to Monica, but the door opened again. In walked Rhea and Manuela.
"Linhardt, you may go," Manuela said. "The Archbishop wishes to speak to Monica."
He bit his tongue and did as he was told. He threw one last look at Monica before he walked out the door, watching her cheerful exterior.
Witch. She had something to hide, that he was certain of. For a brief moment, he considered going to speak to Marianne. But Mercedes had already gone after her, he'd just be in the way. Plus he wasn't much for comforting. And, well, nap time called.
But as Linhardt walked back to his room, he wondered about Baron Ochs. He wondered what he'd do when he heard his daughter was alive.
And how he'd react when she clearly had changed. After all, she hadn't recognized Linhardt.
"You're late," Lorenz huffed.
Claude ducked behind the tree that his fellow Deer was crouching behind. Ahead of them, practicing in the open fields outside the monastery, the Blue Lions drilled in preparation for the upcoming mock battle. The sun was beginning to descend for the evening, giving both of the Deer the cover of nightfall to blend with.
"I was helping Hilda with something," he replied. Lorenz had picked a good spot for their spying. Or maybe he'd just gotten lucky. They were elevated, giving them an excellent view of the Lions.
"What on Fódlan would that woman actually need help with?" Lorenz grumbled. "The day she does anything will amaze me."
"We put Monica back in the infirmary," Claude said with a wink.
Lorenz fully turned to him for the first time. "Tell me you're joking."
"Monica said something that made Marianne cry yesterday. She finally admitted what it was to Hilda." Claude smirked. "So naturally, Hilda beat the shit out of her."
Lorenz floundered for words.
"You should see her hands. Hilda's, that is. Her knuckles are all bloody. I seriously haven't see someone so angry. I was late because I was bandaging her hands."
The Gloucester boy groaned. "This is a nightmare. The scandal—"
"Won't happen. I slipped behind her and put a sack over her head. Hilda and I brought her into the stables during riding practice when everyone was gone. Let Hilda do the work, for once she was willing to, and I kept lookout. Made sure the only thing we said was about the Death Knight." Claude's eyes twinkled, the way they always did after a scheme. "She didn't know what hit her. Literally."
Lorenz' mouth still hung open. "Claude, this will work itself back to you."
Claude's smirk was far more vicious this time. "She made one of my Deer cry. I put that bitch back into a coma. Seems fair to me."
"Your utter lack of decorum, political savvy, and caution is going to tear the Alliance in shambles," Lorenz moaned in pain, as if Claude had punched him.
He clapped the purple haired man on the back. "You're telling me that if you saw Marianne crying, you wouldn't do something?"
"I never said that. Just that we should be careful about how we enact vengeance." Lorenz sighed. "Do you know what Monica said?"
"Something about Marianne's family. She wasn't very clear about it, but it upset her a lot," Claude said softly.
His friend, and he was his friend, look back out at the Blue Lions, not seeing them. "Have you no remorse for beating someone bloody who was just rescued from imprisonment?"
"No," Claude said immediately. "No, I don't think so. Some things need to be done and some lessons need to be taught. Just like Teach teaching us how to kill, there's some messages that need to be communicated. I'm not going to let anyone walk over my Deer or the Alliance. I swore I'd protect what was mine and I will."
Lorenz turned his head to him and offered a small smile. "I'll never repeat this, but you are a far better person that I expected, Riegan."
"Oh?" Claude grinned widely. "What was that?"
He huffed. "You're insufferable, I don't know why I expected anything less."
The heir to Alliance laughed. "C'mon, let's do what we came here for so we don't report back to Teach empty handed."
"Hmph, spying on other classes for our own teacher. It's somewhat pathetic for a mock battle."
"She's teaching us to use our resources!"
"Ever the schemer, Riegan."
Marianne hadn't moved from her place on her bed in some time.
It was silly to be hung up over something for so long. Monica had said that to her yesterday, she should be over it.
No amount of blankets she'd wrapped herself in would make it go away. The truth, that is. The one she was running from.
She wasn't loved. Dead parents or Alister, there wasn't love for Marianne. No one wanted her around. Some woman who woke up with amnesia could even see that.
Marianne pulled the blankets tighter around her. Hilda had left her some of hers, but she still felt cold.
Where was Hilda? She'd left a few hours ago with a promise to come back soon. A dark voice in her mind whispered that Hilda was like the rest. Marianne felt sick for thinking it.
Hilda wasn't like that. None of her friends were, but Hilda most of all.
Over a decade ago, Marianne had a maid that had enjoyed reading stories to her. One of the stories involved a princess from Morfis who learned to talk to animals through magic. She'd loved that one. The first time she'd heard it, she'd cheered at the ending when a prince came to save the day and broke the spell that had transformed her into a beast.
When she grew up, she learned what a damsel in distress was. Some women sneered at it. In her heart, that was what Marianne wanted.
Even all those years ago, she knew she was a monster. Why couldn't someone come and break the spell with a kiss? Why couldn't someone whisk her away into the sunset?
Why couldn't she have someone who loved her so much that they would go to any means necessary to save her?
She prayed to the Goddess for salvation. Marianne knew she needed saving. And for years, she'd contemplated taking things into her own hands. She could be her own savior.
But she thought about that princess. Her prince had come to rescue her at the last second, just when all hope seemed lost. It was the hope of a child, but Marianne had held it.
Maybe it wasn't worth the effort. She was tired, so tired. It was as if her very bones were stressed, so weak from burdens that they were ready to collapse like brittle wood. Each breath that escaped her lungs was a shudder on the verge of collapse.
Marianne closed her eyes.
The door slammed open.
"Oh, Marianne!" Hilda sang, drawing out the last syllable. There was a pep in her step as she skipped inside the room.
Marianne barely turned her head at first, then gasped when she saw Hilda's hands. "Hilda!" she said, dropping the blankets that she'd clung to so tightly.
Her friend's hands were wrapped in bandages, blood seeping through them in some spots. Hilda looked embarrassed as she held them behind her instead. "Oh, it's nothing. Just had to do a little work. These dainty hands weren't made for things like that."
Marianne got up and pulled Hilda to her bed. Her own fingers caressed Hilda's, slowly pulling the bandages away. Blotchy, half formed scabs marred Hilda's skin.
"Why didn't you go see Manuela? Or come to me?" Marianne whispered. She raised her free hand and felt radiance pour from her, meticulously healing Hilda.
Hilda shifted in discomfort at the healing. "Oh, it wasn't a big deal. It doesn't hurt much."
Marianne paused, looking up at Hilda, and spoke honestly from her heart for the first time in years. "It hurts me to see you hurt."
Neither said anything as Marianne continued her work. Were she Manuela, the light scarring could have been avoided. But Marianne wasn't skilled enough for that.
When she finished, Hilda's hands were caked with dried blood but free of wounds. Underneath the grime, her beautiful hands were scarred because Marianne was inept.
Beautiful, Marianne caught herself. She'd called Hilda's hand beautiful. That was strange, they were just hands. But they were Hilda's hands and that made them special.
"Oh thank you, Mari!" Hilda said, throwing her hands around her.
"I'm sorry, there'll be scars," Marianne murmured.
Hilda drew back and laughed. "I don't care. It'll be a nice reminder how that bitch had it coming."
She blinked. "Hilda, what did you do?"
"Nothing," Hilda replied like a child with a hand in the cookie jar. When Marianne looked at her disbelief, she crumbled. "Okay fine. I just had a conversation with Monica about what she said to you. I don't think you'll have to worry about it again."
"Conversation?"
"I mean, I did most of my talking through actions. They speak louder than words, you know?"
"Hilda…" Marianne looked down. "I'm not worth that."
Freshly healed hands cupped each side of Marianne's face. Hilda's eyes looked into hers with a melancholy she'd only seen in the mirror. "Oh, Marianne," Hilda said. "When will you realize just how much you're worth? Just how much there is to love about you?"
Hilda leaned in, slowly, waiting to see if Marianne would pull back. When she didn't, Hilda pressed her lips against hers.
They were soft.
Later, Marianne would be embarrassed with that having been her only thought. But now, there was little else for her mind to focus on aside from the woman kissing her.
Byleth leaned back in her chair as the last of her students filed out for lunch. She'd join them in a bit for the meal.
They'd been working harder with the mock battle coming up. In two weeks, the three houses would cross blades at Gronder.
If it were up to her, she'd not have cared at all about a mock battle. Practice was important, sure, but they'd been getting real experience out in the field for the past months. It felt unneeded to put gloves back on for safety.
But Claude's silver tongue had pitched her an idea. "Show the other houses that we're the best and lure more students to transfer to us."
That she couldn't argue with. With that in mind, she drilled harder than ever before. Shamir worked her archers to the bone and even enlisted Catherine to assist some of her other students. Her father tended to give a few pointers whenever he passed by to watch her teach.
She still needed to talk to him about Rhea. Maybe she'd skip lunch and find him.
"Professor?" a melodic voice called out.
She looked up and Dorothea strut down the classroom's center. Byleth opened her mouth to respond as the student set down a sheet of paper in front of her.
Transfer papers.
"Dorothea?" It was all Byleth could say.
The songstress smiled, but something held it back from being full. "I've been very impressed with the Deer so far. I thought it seemed like better prospects for me than the Eagles. After all, there's only so many nobles to turn down and this girl has high standards."
"Ah, well, welcome to the herd?" Byleth's mind still worked to catch up.
Dorothea laughed. "Don't you worry about it at all. I just wanted a change of scenery." She turned around and walked out the way she came. Petra stood outside, arms crossed, nodding at Dorothea as they walked away together.
Dare I say that was odd?
Odd indeed.
Author Notes: "I put that bitch back in a coma." This is my favorite line I've ever written.
And my Raphael scene I've been trying to fit in for the past two chapters gets delayed again. At least I got Jeralt to come home this time. That was meant to happen like four chapters ago oops.
Marianne and Hilda! If you know anything about me, that pairing was also a given. But now we're out of the territory of all the 3H pairings I've repped.
Editing Notes:
4/14/2021: Minor adjustments to grammar. Revised sentences for clarity. Added a little more sass to Hilda.
7/30/2021: Minor grammar adjustments. Fixed a continuity issue.