Seteth spent months watching Byleth visit Jeralt in his office. With his office right across the hall and the door always open (because as stern as he was, he hoped he still came across as approachable), Seteth was granted free admission to her comings and goings. He would hear them joke and laugh, give updates on missions, or discuss strategies. On a few occasions, Jeralt would cast a look over her shoulder to Seteth in his office, before stepping closer to her and lowering his voice. The captain seemed to have just as many misgivings about him as Seteth had for both of them.

He was certainly dubious of the pair when they first arrived. Regardless of Rhea's generous opinion of them and her vague reassurances, he stayed relentless in his scrutiny of them; especially the very young (or so it appeared, he had never learned her age) and very...attractive professor, he must begrudgingly admit. It wasn't that he made a habit of admiring her in the training grounds or the way she poured over a book in the library or the way she cared for her students (particularly Flayn) as he scrutinized her. Oh no. It was simply that he saw the effect she had on some of her students, even staff. She was a distraction in some ways and that meant having to admit that she was, indeed, attractive enough to warrant such attention.

He doubted he would ever forget the day the professor donned a dancer's ensemble and spent most of the day running around the monastery in it. Apparently, after Flayn was chosen to fulfill the dancer role, she had insisted the professor wear the outfit along with her during training.

But that was neither here nor there. The only thing he noticed about the professor now was the cloud of grief that hung over her as she wandered the halls aimlessly. Captain Jeralt had been murdered by an evil girl with a cursed dagger. It stunned the entire monastery. For all of the tales of the Blade Breaker's prowess on the battlefield, to be struck down by such a cowardly act was a wretched shame. Jeralt deserved a better death than that.

Seteth watched, with rapt attention, as the very focus of his meandering thoughts darkened the threshold of the late captain's office. Byleth stood there, swaying slightly as she looked into the empty room. She gripped the door jamb next to her, steadying herself, before finally entering. She froze then, just inside the door, and cast a piercing look over her shoulder right at him. He flinched back into his chair and averted his gaze, embarrassed by being caught staring. The door slammed shut and he dropped his quill at the sharp sound. A strange wave of shame washed over him. Shaking his head to rid himself of the feeling, he picked up his quill and went back to his notes. He spent the rest of the afternoon casting regular glances to the door as she haunted his thoughts.

It was around sunset before he glimpsed the professor again. She opened the door and left in a hurry towards the stairs without even a passing glance at him. He waited a very prudent minute before letting curiosity drag him across the hall where he stepped carefully into the captain's office; as if not to disturb the air after Byleth's departure, lest she know he checked on her.

He scanned the room, but what he was looking for, he had not a clue. Nothing appeared to be greatly disturbed, but he had never paid much attention before. Then, he saw it. A spot on the bookshelf at the far wall that seemed incongruent to the rest of the neatly organized books. He checked over his shoulder towards the doorway before stalking over to the bookshelf. He plucked the book carefully from its spot and into his hands. Upon opening it, he quickly realized this was the captain's journal. With a jolt, he slammed it shut and stuck it hastily back onto the shelf. No, he would not allow himself to read it. Seteth knew all about privacy and secrets and he would not violate a dead man's right to that.

With a deep breath, Seteth returned to his office. Deciding that was enough excitement for the day, he tidied around his desk and blew out the candles before leaving.


For the next three days, he watched Byleth enter her late father's office, shut the door, and not reappear until sundown. Being ever the pragmatist, on the third day, he decided to check on her. Without much preamble, aside from straightening his back and smoothing the front of his robes, he knocked on the door.

"Professor?" he called with an even, friendly tone. He waited patiently for her to answer, giving a polite smile to a nun as they passed by. Only silence answered him. He took a deep breath and knocked again.

"Professor?" he called again, injecting a hint of concern to his voice. Still more silence. Just as he raised his fist to knock again, she finally answered.

"Come in."

His hand hovered over the door handle. As strange and unorthodox the professor could be, what would he find on the other side of this door? How had she been spending her days locked in there for hours? What did he even plan on saying to her? He shook his head. Never mind all that. It never stopped him before from approaching anybody. With a steadying breath, he opened the door.

Upon entering the office, he did not immediately see the professor. She was not sitting at the desk or standing at the window or perusing the bookshelves. He looked around for three seconds before he noticed her heeled boots sticking out from behind the desk on the floor. There, he found her on her back, arms relaxed at her sides, palms up, as she stared at the ceiling. She spared a glance to him as he rounded the corner of the desk and dropped to one knee beside her.

"Professor! Are you unwell? Should I escort you to the infirmary?"

She didn't immediately answer him. He sighed, his concern mounting. "Pardon me, Professor." He pulled up his sleeve slightly before placing the back of his hand to her forehead. No fever. Even though, a flush appeared on her cheeks as he pressed his fingers against her neck, checking her pulse. Elevated. Suddenly, she swatted his hand away and sat up. His own face became flushed from the proximity of her face to his. He could feel her breath. She stared unblinkingly into his eyes.

"I was meditating," she finally answered.

He arched a single green eyebrow and pulled away from her, creating a more appropriate distance between them. "Meditating?"

The professor nodded. "Yes. She suggested it."

"She?"

"Soth…" She stopped herself abruptly and averted her gaze. "Shamir. Shamir suggested it to me."

Well, that was curious. He would not have guessed Shamir for being one to practice meditation; or readily give advice to others.

"I see," he stated, while standing up. He offered her a hand up. She stared at it before grasping it and letting him pull her to her feet. She swayed a bit from standing too quickly. Seteth brought his other hand up to her shoulder to steady her. "Are you sure you are well, Professor?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. I didn't mean to alarm you."

Seteth absolutely doubted she was anything but fine. From being so close to her earlier, he was able to see the dark bags underneath her eyes along with her pale complexion and gaunt cheeks. Unmistakable signs of grief and unrest. He would know. He knew the face well from wearing it himself for weeks on end just a couple of months ago. But he knew it would not be wise to press her. Grief was a fickle thing and there was no good way to approach it.

The professor moved out of his grasp and gave a polite nod, eyes averted. "Goodnight, Seteth."

She brushed past him and out the door before he could utter the words after her, "Goodnight, Professor."


The next day, at sundown, there was a knock at his office door. He looked up from his paperwork and was surprised to find the professor standing in the doorway. Her face was drawn and she looked unsure. Seteth stood and made his way over to her.

"It is you. Please, come in." He gestured towards the seating area in the corner. There was an odd expression on her face as she looked up at him.

He sat down across from her in the armchair as she sat in the middle of the couch. They stared at each other a moment before Byleth looked away and around his office. Her eyes landed on the tapestry of a white dragon and her eyes narrowed.

Seteth cleared his throat. "Is there something you would like to talk about?" When she didn't respond right away, he continued. "Captain Jeralt, perhaps?"

Byleth flinched at the mention of him but said nothing. Seteth frowned. "Perhaps I should make us some tea."

Within another minute or so, he poured them two cups of tea, chamomile, and rejoined her at the seating area. She stared into the cup as he handed it to her, their fingers brushing together slightly. They sat quietly sipping their tea. Seteth waited for her to speak first.

"You probably saw him every day," she finally said.

Seteth took a cautious sip. "Yes. When he was not on a mission or offering training, I would see him in his office quite a bit."

Byleth frowned. "You probably saw more of him than I did."

Seteth bowed his head. She continued.

"Before we came here, we spent every day together. We shared every meal, every mission. We trained and fought together. We were always together — The Blade Breaker and the Ashen Demon." She stared down bitterly into her cup. "But after we showed up here, I feel like I never saw him."

Seteth sighed. He never gave much thought to what it must have been like to transition from mercenaries that spent most of their time together to being thrust suddenly into new roles and becoming too busy for one another. He had only been critical of the fact they should not be in those new roles at all. Thinking back, they did seem hesitant to accept and just as confused by Rhea's insistence as he was.

"He was going to tell me something. He wanted to talk to me. It felt important. We were supposed to meet after his last mission. But…"

Byleth's hand trembled and the teacup rattled against the saucer. She set it down on the small table between them.

When she looked back up, her eyes were earnest, pleading, hopeful. "Did he happen to say anything to you?"

Seteth shook his head. "I am sorry, Professor, but I regret to admit we never spoke much to one another."

Byleth deflated. He hated himself at that moment for not trying to be friendlier towards the captain. Even as they worked across the hall from each other, he had never invited him to tea or a meal, or even to spar at the training grounds. Seteth could not help but imagine that Jeralt would have appreciated the chance to show him a thing or two. The thought caused a small, sad smile to play on his lips.

But it had been out of suspicion and resentment that he kept them both at a distance and offered nothing of himself to establish a decent rapport. Of course, it wasn't as if Jeralt wasn't just as suspicious of Seteth as he was of him. Why would he share anything with him about his daughter? However, maybe he could still offer something…

"I mainly took notice of your father when you would visit with him."

Byleth's eyes widened at the confession. Seteth blushed somewhat at the unintended implication of his statement. He tried to pay it no mind.

"When he was with you, he transformed into an entirely different man. I could tell his world revolved around you and your happiness. I never really saw him smile or heard him laugh unless you were around."

Byleth stared down at her lap. She looked back up, pain clearly etched in her face. "I wish I could have saved him."

"I know, Professor…"

"No, you don't..." she ground out quietly. Her hands clenched to fists on top of her legs as she appeared to struggle with her next words. "I tried so hard to save him, over and over again, but I couldn't. Why? After all the others I've been able to save, why couldn't I save him?"

Seteth swallowed. He wasn't sure what she meant by "over and over" and "all the others". He guessed she might be referring to her dreams. How many times had Seteth dreamt about being able to save his wife? The things he could have done differently?

"There are some things we cannot change, no matter what," he offered quietly.

Byleth gave a derisive laugh before she crossed her arms and leaned back against the couch. "Right. She said it was fate."

"Who did?"

"Sothis."

His eyebrows shot up at the name. There was an odd silence as Byleth winced like she had been struck.

"She spoke to you?" Seteth questioned. Did the goddess really speak to Byleth?

Byleth ignored the question though. "I saved her. Both of them. Flayn and Monica. If we hadn't searched for Flayn, we wouldn't have found Monica either."

Seteth straightened at the mention of Flayn. Alarm bells went off in his head at the professor's tone, her voice like acid as it mentioned the girl's name, the one responsible for killing her father. Did she regret finding Flayn, and therefore Monica, because it meant perhaps her father would still be alive if they had not been found? He had to be careful with his next words.

"Professor, I understand that you are upset, but surely you do not mean..."

"I don't regret finding Flayn," Byleth replied flatly.

Seteth breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He wanted to help Byleth with her grief, truly, but if she were to try to place any blame on Flayn, either directly or indirectly, he could not abide by it.

They sat in uncomfortable silence. Seteth was unsure how to proceed. It was obvious the professor was dealing with anger and regret. They were volatile emotions he was all too familiar with and knew that saying the wrong thing could make it worse. Byleth finally spoke up.

"I know she's your daughter," she began softly. "I know how much she means to you. I would be devastated also if anything happened to her."

Seteth eyed the door. As late as it was, he was still very nervous about someone walking by and hearing their conversation. He gave her an apologetic look. "Do you mind if I shut the door?"

Byleth shook her head. "No, of course not. I'm…I'm sorry. I wasn't being careful."

Seteth got up and shut the door quickly. He knew this could likely start rumors if anyone knew they were alone together, after hours, but he would rather run that risk than the one of his and Flayn's true identities being exposed.

"Do not apologize. I know you meant no harm," he reassured her as he sat back down. He regarded her thoughtfully.

"When my wife died, I questioned everything. A million 'what if's' ran through my mind. I had this...incredible anger. It was all consuming. I needed someone to blame. I lashed out at those I cared for, those I loved. I was horrible, really. Terrifying. Miserable. I drove everyone away." The lump that had formed in his throat caused him to pause.

Byleth took that moment to speak. "You were quite angry at Rhodos Coast…"

"Yes, I was indeed. That is my wife's resting place, where she is meant to be at peace…"

"May I ask what happened to her?"

Seteth took a deep breath to steady himself. "She was struck down, much the same way Jeralt was. We had just been through a hard-fought battle. It was over, we thought we were safe. I left her side..." Seteth found himself lost in thought and bitter memories.

"Do you ever wish it had been you instead?"

Her voice shook him from his somber recollections. He frowned, a certain ache in his chest. He grieved for her. "Byleth…"

Her eyes widened at the mention of her name.

"I hope you do not mind me calling you that. You are one of the very few who know of my wife and since we...well...since we are being rather informal at the moment…"

"I don't mind at all." Byleth offered him a barely-there smile. "I don't hear much of my own name these days. Even my father called me 'kid' usually..." She looked away, wiping at her eyes.

Seteth was struck by that. When was the last time he heard anyone utter his true name?

Byleth sighed. "I shouldn't have bothered you. I just thought...after you checked on me yesterday...I thought maybe I should try talking to you." She moved to get up from the couch. "I think I'll just go now…"

Without a second-thought, he bridged the distance between them and reached for her hand. "Don't". Byleth stopped, stunned it seemed by his unanticipated reaction. He looked directly into her sad, blue eyes. "I do not wish to see you go if you still need someone to talk to."

Byleth averted her watery gaze. "I don't know what else to say. It doesn't matter. It won't bring him back. And…" She paused for a second. "It won't make me feel better. I feel like all I've tried to do is talk and it hasn't helped."

Seeing Byleth like this broke Seteth's heart in a way he was not prepared for. He wished there was something he could do to help. He squeezed her hand. "I am very much indebted to you. If there is any way I can begin to repay that, I would like to do so. If talking has not helped, then maybe there is something else."

Byleth looked down at his hand as it squeezed hers. She looked him in the eye. "This," she said, her voice trembling, as her grip tightened around his hand.

As he watched her tears begin to fall, Seteth hesitated only a brief moment before crossing the short distance to sit beside her. Her eyes watched him the entire time as he gracefully moved from his seat to hers and faced her, never letting go of her hand and placing the other on her shoulder.

"What about more than that?" he uttered softly.

"You mean more than this?" She indicated to her hand in his.

"Yes...I can hold more than just your hand."

Byleth simply stared at him, unable to comprehend. He gulped. "I mean, I can hold you, if that is what you want. If that would help…" He couldn't help the bit of warmth that flooded his cheeks. He hoped she did not think he was angling for anything, with it being so late in the evening, sitting on his couch, and his office door shut. He only wanted to help, only wanted to give her the one thing he had craved in his time of grief — someone to simply hold him and let him cry.

He was startled out of his self-conscious thoughts when Byleth leaned into him; she rested her head on his shoulder, hands tucked up between them on his chest, and very quietly replied, "Please, if you don't mind."

His arms were around her in an instant, holding her to him as she cried onto his shoulder. He was not prepared for the effect it had on him. The scent of her hair was hard to ignore and the sheer warmth of having her that close… He had to take a deep breath. It was hard to keep his hands still on her back and not bring one up to smooth her hair. It was hard not to let his chin rest gently on top of her head and offer soft, soothing sounds. It was hard not to hold her even tighter when her whole body shook from sobbing. He stared up at the ceiling, overwhelmed by his own emotions. He could not remember the last time he held someone like this that was not Flayn.

"Seteth…"

"Yes?"

"It still hurts," she whimpered.

He took another deep breath and looked away from the ceiling. His eyes landed on his sketches hung up across the room. An idea occurred to him.

"What if I told you that grief is like a ball in a box with a button inside." He noticed Byleth became very quiet and still. "In the beginning, the ball is very big. You cannot move the box without the ball frequently hitting the button inside, and that button causes immense pain. The ball rattles around on its own inside the box and hits the button over and over again, sometimes so much that it feels like you are unable to stop it – unable to control it – it just keeps hurting."

Byleth released a shuddering breath. Seteth continued. "But as time goes on, the ball gets smaller. It does not disappear completely and when it hits the pain button, it is just as intense; but, it becomes easier to get through each day."

As he finished, Seteth noticed with a small jolt of panic that his hand had moved, at some point while he spoke, and was now smoothing her hair. Byleth remained still and quiet, the only sounds were her sniffling and soft breathing. He rested his chin atop her head. When she relaxed further into him, he held her tighter.

He felt, more than heard, her words mumbled against his chest. "Thank you, Seteth."

He shut his eyes. "You are welcome, Byleth."


A/N: So, on a very personal note, I started writing this after my best friend lost her father due to Covid at the beginning of July '21. My heart broke for her and it felt like I was grieving right alongside her. So this fic was born as a therapeutic exercise. "The Ball and The Box" is a real analogy used to describe dealing with grief. Google it. I would like to thank SakuraChiyo over at AO3 for beta-ing. It's thanks to her I was finally able to wrap this up. Thank you for reading. If this maybe helps someone else going through a tough time, then I'm glad I shared.