Title: a rose by any other name

A/N: For the Welcome Home zine! I think Jertiza would have a hard time rediscovering who he is, what parts of Emile still exist, after everything's over, but Mercedes is more than willing to wait by his side till then.

Summary: Jeritza didn't know why he was here, in Mercedes' orphanage, as though the war hadn't happened, as though he weren't the Death Knight and were just Emile, the innocent little brother. He didn't know, but when Mercedes took his hand and smiled at him, he couldn't leave either.

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Jeritza didn't know why he was here. He didn't know why he was standing on a cobbled pathway, a rickety gate creaking behind him every time the wind blew. He didn't know why he was staring up at a one-story high wooden building, its body long and wide like a broadsword, its lights darkened due to the late hour. On a moonless night, he was all but invisible to any eye that accidentally peeked out the window, and it would be a simple step to turn and return the way he came.

Most importantly, Jeritza didn't know why he was here. Emile would come here for his sister. The Death Knight would raze the place down. Jeritza was a teacher for only a few short months and even that hadn't been out of choice. The orphanage in front of him had no place for a lost man like him, for a man who didn't even know who he was, let alone what he wanted. All he had was the shirt on his back and the sword on his belt and neither really belonged here.

Through an open window, the scent of freshly made scones drifted through the air. The sound of laughter soon followed.

No, a man of war and blood, a man of death and destruction definitely didn't have a place in a building full of children. Jeritza spun on his heel.

Before he could take a single step, the door behind him flung open. The smell of baking grew stronger.

"Emile!" A woman shouted. Mercedes shouted.

He froze.

"It's you, right?"

He could hear her run down the porch's stairs, her dress swishing at the quick movement. Her feet pattered on the cobblestone; she wasn't wearing any shoes. How had she known he was here? Ever since the war—no, even before that, ever since their first battle against one another, he had wondered if she could read his mind. If she had maybe had a tracking spell on him, if her blood was somehow finely tuned to his.

"It is, isn't it!" Unbothered by his silence, Mercedes flung herself forward, her arms wrapping around him. She pressed her face into his back and he could feel her smile, her sigh of relief. "I knew you'd come here. I knew you'd keep your promise. I'm so, so glad."

"That…" Jeritza's voice cracked. He swallowed and wet his lips. Perhaps there was more Emile in him than he'd thought; her touch shouldn't affect him the way it did. "Yes."

"You took so long, but that's okay." She finally let go of him, but kept him in the circle of her arms as she slipped in front of him. Even without the moon, Mercedes shone, as radiant as the sun. She smiled brightly. "You'll stay, right?"

Jeritza couldn't look away. "I…"

"You will, won't you?" she asked again, no doubt in her voice or eyes. How could she always be so confident? Even when she'd first realized he was the Death Knight, she had never once flinched away in fear.

He should say no. He should keep walking away.

Something told him she wouldn't let him.

Something told him he wouldn't be able to. That if he left, he would never be able to put himself back together.

"Yes," he finally said. "I will."

-x-

Mercedes' smile was no less radiant in the sunlight. Her hand clasped his tightly as she led him to the kitchen the next morning, as though he'd flee if she let go. Maybe he would. Even now, Jeritza wasn't certain what his next steps were.

As though she read his mind, her grip tightened, and Mercedes pulled out a chair at the kitchen table for him. "Just wait right here."

The room was a small one, hardly comparable to the high-class kitchen of the von Bartels or the expansive spaces for the Garreg Mach Academy. The orphanage's kitchen was a tiny, cramped space, just big enough for a single iron stove, a fire, and some counter space. The kitchen table took up half the room. Across the ceiling, strung-up dried herbs filled the air with a pleasing smell. It felt more like a bachelor's space, and he didn't know how she could feed the mouths of a dozen or more children.

No, that was wrong. He knew exactly how—Mercedes had never been the kind of person to let such a tiny, insignificant setback get it in the way of her helping others. If finding out he was the Death Knight hadn't been enough for her to withhold her hand, then this diminutive orphanage wasn't either.

Mercedes hummed as she spun around the kitchen, her hands like magic as she kneaded dough. Bits of flour stuck to her face. She still was beautiful. She always was beautiful. Jeritza had spent years remembering her and his imagination couldn't compare to the real thing.

"So," Mercedes half-sang, her voice as cheerful as a lark's. She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. "I don't know if you remember Annette."

Startled, he flinched, not expecting her to actually talk to him yet. When she gazed at him expectantly, he bit his cheek. "Annette…" She had to have been talking about a student, no doubt. A friend of hers, certainly. Jeritza had only cared for a handful of names during the war, and he couldn't say if Annette had been a friend or a foe.

"Oh dear, you'll have to remember her name next time then. She's my best friend, after all," Mercedes scolded him gently. Despite her words, she didn't sound disappointed at all. She added a few droplets of water to the dough before kneading it once more. "She's short and adorable and has the sweetest voice. You should hear her sing! Actually, the song I was singing earlier was one of hers."

A tidal wave of information poured down on him and Jeritza could only stare as he tried to absorb it all. The more she spoke, the more familiar Annette was—vaguely, he recalled them walking together, though he couldn't say if it was at the academy or on the battlefields.

"So now," Mercedes chirped, smacking the dough. It gave a soft wet sound. She smiled, pleased. "There we go, that's the right texture. So, now she's researching crests with Professor Hanneman—she's always been really smart, you know? They think they can figure out a way to help Lysithea. I know they can do it. Maybe we can have sweets together after. You'll join us, won't you?"

She stared at him and belatedly, he realized the question had been directed at him. Before he could reply, a small child tumbled into the kitchen. "Big sis!"

"Oh my!" Mercedes wiped her brow, either not noticing or not caring about the flour sticking to her forehead. She crouched down in front of the young boy. "Are you okay, Kanna?"

"I'm hungry," he whined, stumbling to his feet. His silvery hair was a mess, though Jeritza couldn't tell if that was before or after he'd fallen on the floor. For a small child, he didn't seem to particularly care that he'd just hit the ground or that his nose was red from impact. Instead, he merely rubbed his belly and whined again.

"Is that so?" Mercedes ruffled his hair gently, scattering flour on him. Despite her air-headed reactions, she tugged the edge of her apron and cleaned his face. It brought back memories of Jeritza as a child, of Mercedes taking care of Emile. Her touch had always been gentle.

Every part of her looked like she was in her element.

"There we go!" Mercedes dropped the apron and stood up. She gently turned Kanna around. "Now, go wait in the dining room."

Kanna fiddled with his thumbs, glancing up at her, then down at his hands. "Umm…"

Expecting that response, she laughed and pulled out a cookie from her pocket. "Oh, alright then. Here's a snack."

The boy snatched it up eagerly and dashed out of the kitchen. Noticing Jeritza's stare, Mercedes rubbed her neck sheepishly. "I know I shouldn't—Annette says I'm ruining their meals—but he's so small. Growing boys need food."

His breath caught. She'd said that of him once too.

-x-

Mercedes had settled in a quiet, peaceful town. One mostly untouched by the flames of war. It wasn't hard to guess why she was here, why she had taken orphans and refugees to this haven. The townspeople donated generously, in addition to the noble funds Mercedes received from her old classmates, and some even volunteered their time for the daily chores.

All of them stayed away from Jeritza, as though they could smell the blood on him.

In times of peace, his skills were no longer needed, and Jeritza was left with an abundance of free time that he didn't know what to do with. The only thing he knew how to do was kill, the only thing he was good at was granting death—his skills had a single, specific purpose.

Who was he, in a time of peace? What about Emile? The only one he didn't have to worry about was the Death Knight—such a being couldn't exist in such a world. It was one less voice in his mind, one less fear at night.

Contemplating this, Jeritza sat under a tree, staring listlessly at the sky. He'd sat here so many times the grass had flattened. A book from the well-stocked library lay on his lap. Today, he was alone, Mercedes nowhere to be seen. Jeritza didn't mind; he preferred solitude.

A shadow fell on him and he looked down to find three young children standing in front of him, a girl and two boys. They couldn't be any older than eight and all three of them struck a different pose. A blond boy covered his face, a pig-tailed redheaded girl had her hands on her hips, and a blue-haired boy held an open book.

"The Justice Cabal is here to play!" they chimed at the same time.

Jeritza merely stared at them. The children at the orphanage usually ignored him and for a moment, he wasn't certain if they were talking to him.

The girl frowned and cocked her head. "I don't think he gets it."

"We didn't shout loud enough," the blond guessed, stroking his chin. He chuckled darkly. "It has to be blood-curling."

The blue-haired boy shook his head immediately. He lightly hit the blond on his arm. "That'd scare him."

"We don't want to scare him," the girl confirmed, before glancing at the blond. She narrowed her eyes and added firmly, "Or anyone else. Right?"

The blond sighed, his shoulders drooping as he agreed. Clearly this was a normal argument. "Yeah, right, right. No scaring or death or—"

"We're heroes, not anti-heroes," the girl repeated, glaring at him.

Jeritza continued to stare. Nothing about this conversation was enlightening. There wasn't even a caretaker to explain what he'd just heard. Was there a play? Was this a game? Were they mistaking him for someone else? Even more confusing was how the girl and the blond boy reached for his hand after that, not seeming to mind or care for his lack of reaction.

"Come, play with us!" they asked in unison, smiles bright as they gripped his hand tightly.

"That sounds fun!" Mercedes chimed in suddenly and Jeritza glanced over his shoulder to find her watching them through a window. She waved merrily. "Make sure you come back in time for dinner!"

And still confused, Jeritza got up, as though Mercedes' words had been an order.

-x-

If there was one thing Jeritza couldn't get used to here, it was the silence at night. War camps were never quiet; even in the late hours, the fires crackled, and someone's armour clinked as they patrolled the perimeter. None of that was needed here and there was no one awake but him when he jolted up from a nightmare. A memory.

No one but him and his sister, and Mercedes was already sitting on her bed, her hands wrapped around her knees. When she had insisted they'd share a room, just like they had as children, he had refused, but now he was glad. In the night, the shadows felt darker, deeper, and he didn't know when one of them would reach out for him.

Her candle flickered as she turned to him, the shadows long on her face. "Nightmare?" Mercedes asked softly, as though anything louder would alert them of her presence.

Jeritza nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Me too." Her voice sounded hoarse. She pushed back her hair, slowly tying it into a braid. "It's a moonless night. I hate those the most."

"Why?"

"…I…" Mercedes glanced at him and then buried her face in her knees. "The night we parted…that had been a moonless night. And the war…I lost a lot of friends. We all used to be classmates and then we were enemies…I still don't understand it. I don't think I ever will."

Jeritza studied her profile. And what did she think of him, as one of the main instigators of it all? Mercedes always skittered around the subject, and he wasn't sure if it was out of cowardice or guilt or even fear. In the dark, it looked like a combination of all three, her body small as she curled into a ball.

"I hate the night," he finally said. "You can't hide in the dark."

"That doesn't sound right." She lifted her head, her eyes dark in the dim light.

"There's no one else," he explained, his fingers digging into his thighs until he left crescent marks. "You only have yourself in the dark."

And he didn't even know who he was.

"Oh, that is scary," Mercedes agreed before smiling at him. "But you have me now. And I have you. We're not alone anymore."

-x-

Her words still echoed in his head the next day, even as he walked under the blinding sun to his usual spot by the tree.

We're not alone.

A sentiment both reassuring and not, both true and not. The problem was that Jeritza had never been alone, he hadn't been alone for a long time. He'd always had Emile, always had Death Knight—facets of himself that were both apart and joined.

He would have preferred to be alone.

He would have—

"I want to be the Death Knight!"

Jeritza gasped. The old moniker knocked the breath out of him. Staggering, he leaned against the tree. He glanced up to find the same three kids from before standing in a nearby field, each of them holding a wooden stick. The girl, Cynthia, and the blond boy, Owain were arguing while their third friend, Morgan, merely watched, exasperated.

"Death Knight is the ultimate anti-hero," Owain gushed, swinging his branch in the air above him to punctuate his point. He stabbed imaginary enemies. "Killing friends and foes alike, destroying everything and then yourself—he's so cool!"

"Why do you always want to kill everyone and then cry?" Cynthia snapped, glaring at him. She whipped her stick through the air, as though she were swatting a fly. "That's not what a hero does! And we're playing heroes!"

Morgan stepped in with a sigh, holding his hands up before either could attack the other. He was the calmest of the trio. "I don't really get it either, but Owain's right—anti-heroes are heroes."

Owain smirked, puffing his chest. "See?"

Ignoring him, Morgan continued. "But I don't know if he's really an anti-hero…I mean, when you think of all he's done…"

Cynthia crowed, bouncing up and down. She smirked and taunted, tossing Owain's words back at him, "See?"

"Then what is he?" Owain asked, pouting as he dragged his branch on the ground.

"He's a villain," Jeritza answered, unable to stop himself.

And villains never deserved happy endings.

-x-

His father stood in front of him, his lips twisted into an evil smirk. Emile's blood boiled. It was a dream. Jeritza knew that, had experienced this same fantasy, this same nightmare a dozen times before. Despite that, the Death Knight struck, his long sword slashing his father in half.

"Emile?" His father whispered, his face shocked, his voice oddly feminine.

That wasn't right. His dream had never gone like that. Jeritza opened his eyes to find Mercedes recoiling, blood dripping down her hand.

There was a dagger in his own. Blood coated its edge. Its sheath was still under his pillow. Jeritza's eyes widened as he stared at it, then her, realization hitting him.

"Ouch," Mercedes grunted as she steadied herself. She smiled at him weakly. "Whoops."

"Shit." Jeritza dropped the blade like it burned. Leaping out of bed, he didn't grab his sword before dashing out. Out of the room, out of the orphanage, out of the city—he didn't know where he was going, only that he had to go out. Only that it had to be away.

"Emile!" Mercedes shouted, her footsteps frantic as she chased after him.

He didn't turn around. When he came here, all Jeritza had were the clothes on his back and his sword and he was fine with losing the latter. He had to go. He had to leave. It wouldn't be long before she avoided him too, before disgust and pity clouded her eyes, before she realized what everyone else had: that he was someone to be avoided.

He didn't think he could survive if he saw her give up on him.

Mercedes didn't give him a choice. With a feral cry, she tackled him from the back, her arms gripping him tightly as they tumbled onto the cobbled path in front of the orphanage. She skimmed her arms on the tiles, his teeth rattled as he hit the ground, and still she didn't let go. They lay there, his face pressed to the ground, her body weighing him down like an anchor.

"Stay," she pleaded, trembling as she dug her hands into his back.

Jeritza struggled, trying and failing to escape her. "I can't," he whispered hoarsely.

"Stay," she ordered, her characteristic softness vanishing into a steely tone.

And despite himself, despite knowing better, he listened. Her hands shifted to clasping his as she led him back to the porch, as they sat down side by side. Jeritza's muscles were tense, his legs ready to flee at the first opportunity.

Mercedes didn't let him. Her blood smeared his skin as she pressed against him. He flinched at the contact and looked away. "I have to go. I'm dangerous."

"I fought in a war," she replied lightly, as though he hadn't just attacked her. "I'm dangerous too."

"Mercedes," he warned, half-growling her name. "You know that's not it."

"Emile." She snorted, the sound odd and inelegant. "It is."

"How?" Jeritza turned to her now, sitting up straight so his figure towered over hers. Even without his armour, he still cut an imposing figure, even more so in the dark. He lowered his voice until it was gravelly and hard, until it was more Death Knight than Jeritza. "For better or for ill, I killed. I committed crimes. I destroyed innocents."

Mercedes didn't flinch, her eyes clear as she looked back up at him. "You know, I also killed. Several times, even."

"That was self-defence," he retorted, dismissing the comparison. "It's not the same."

She pressed her hand in his. "The blood is the same. The regret is the same. The weight and the loss—it is all the same." Mercedes leaned closer, her eyes side. "I've made mistakes too. I should never have left you behind. I'm your older sister, I should have protected you."

He couldn't breathe. Not when she looked at him like that, guilelessly, as though he were still that small boy she used to spoil. "I'm not Emile," he forced himself to say, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. "I'm not sure if I can be him again."

"That's fine," Mercedes replied, no hesitation in her voice. "I told you, I love you. That'll never change. Even if you're Emile or Jeritza or someone else, you're still my brother."

"And if I'm the Death Knight?"

"Then I'll scold you." Mercedes smiled brightly. "That's what older sisters do."

He shook his head, recoiling. "It's not that simple—"

"It is that simple," Mercedes disagreed, tightening her grip before he could flee. "Stay. Please. I can't lose you again."

"That…You saw me. I'm a danger." Jeritza fumbled with his words, trying to come up with an excuse, a reason to go. A reason to reject. "There are children—there isn't a place for me here."

"Then I'll just have to make you a place." Mercedes chuckled. The dark did little to dim her radiance. "And if you're a danger, then I'll just have to keep an eye on you."

Quietly, he asked, "Even if I'm never Emile again?"

"I'll be sad but…" She raised their clasped hands. "Then we'll just have to build a new bond."

He should have known better than to argue with her. During the war, it had been her stubbornness that had taken off his helmet, that had forced him to fight at her side instead of at a distance, that had guided his feet to her door after the war had ended.

Even now, he couldn't fight her words. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. There was peace in her presence.

When he didn't say anything, Mercedes added gently, "You know, mother wants to come see you, but she's afraid you hate her."

Her fingers intertwined with his and the weight was heavier than anything he's ever known.

"What do you think?" Mercedes asked.

Emile gripped her hand back, giving in. "She can come."

She smiled and maybe, just maybe, he could trust the promise on her lips.