In memory of Billy Kametz

Fire Emblem Three Houses: The Ashen Demon

Friday 18th Great Tree Moon, 1180

'T-Thank you again f-for s-saving us sir,' the old man wheezed.

And he, Podrick, meant it. He'd lived in Remire Village his whole life and yet he'd never been so scared. Ronan, a pillaging warlord, had chosen Remire as his next target and had been marching with his band of men towards them.

The old man had feared the worst, and yet it'd never come to pass. He'd thanked the goddess for that. He'd prayed to her, asking for her protection, and she'd delivered. Just as the warlord and his bandits had neared their village, another group of warriors had arrived to deal with them.

At first, Podrick didn't believed they'd succeed. They looked strong yet he'd counted only fifty of them. The rumours had spoken of Ronan having a force that far outnumbered theirs. Just how could so few warriors deal with so many bandits?

The fifty warriors had left early in the morning to face them, and most of them returned in the late afternoon; limping, bruised and battered, but alive. They returned with something else as well, Ronan's head.

The man he stood before now, the one he'd just thanked, leaned against a tree just outside the village. He had a shaved head and an array of piercings and tattoos scattered across his body. A blade of grass hung from his mouth and he rolled a gold piece along his fingers.

'No bother, short stuff,' he said. 'All part of the job.'

'A p-part of'- Podrick trembled. 'I-I heard there were l-lots of bandits.'

The man nodded. 'Plenty of the assholes. (He smiled.) Guess you're lucky Jeralt the Blade Breaker and his band of mercenaries turned up in time, eh?'

'Y-Y-Yes,' Podrick stammered, nodding his head. 'You m-must be really strong.'

The man chuckled. 'We're the finest mercenary group in all Fódlan. All the nations of this land, the Adrestian Empire, the Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance all know about us, but you don't?'

Podrick shook his head. 'F-Forgiv-ve me, I'-

'I'm teasing ya,' the man said, still gazing down at his hands. 'We ain't that big-headed. If anything, we like to keep on the low down. Our leader doesn't like attracting too much attention.'

Podrick fell silent. The mercenary continued to roll a gold piece along his fingers.

'You need something?' he asked.

Podrick jumped, remembering the basket of bread in his hand. 'Oh I- uh, brought f-food to thank you,'

'Nah I'm good,' the mercenary replied. 'I did huntin' earlier, you save that for yourself.'

'R-Right,' Podrick said. 'Well, w-what about t-that man over there?'

He raised a trembling hand and pointed. He pointed to an area at the front of the village where a large blanket of trees sat. At the edge of them he saw a mercenary crouched down.

For the first time since they'd started speaking, the tattooed mercenary lifted his head. He gazed at the other mercenary and then shook his head. 'He'll be fine as well. Don't worry about him.'

Podrick frowned. 'S-Should I-I not give him the offer anyway?'

The mercenary looked at him. A crazed look sparkled in his eyes and his mouth formed into a grin, flashing the few teeth he had left.

'You don't know who he is, do you?' he asked.

Podrick shook his head. He looked over at the man beside the tree again. He had a blue mop of hair and wore a black tabard. He couldn't make out what he was doing.

Is he cutting something? he wondered.

'He's the Ashen Demon,' the mercenary said.

Podrick paused. 'A-Ashen Demon?'

The mercenary's grin widened. 'The son of Jeralt. You wanna know how we dealt with all the bandits earlier? Look no further than him.'

'R-Really?' Podrick breathed. He looked back at the man at the tree. He looked young, someone who'd just left their teenage years behind them. 'S-Should I not at least o-offer?' he asked.

The tattooed mercenary shrugged. 'By all means go talk to the kid, if you dare.'

Podrick frowned. 'W-Will I b-be in in danger if I-I approach him?'

The mercenary chuckled. 'Nah… he won't do much… but that's what'll make you uncomfortable.'

Podrick stared. He looked back at the man at the tree and a chill crept down his spine. He later wished he'd left at that moment, but he didn't. To do that felt like turning his back on the goddess after she'd answered his prayers.

He nodded at the mercenary and then hobbled past him towards the man known as the Ashen Demon.

A fresh breeze swayed in the air, bristling the branches surrounding him. Birds tweeted and insects ticked. Children's' laughter echoed from the village behind him. The sky above was clear of clouds, it was a bluish purple as the end of the day began to settle in. For Podrick, it was beautiful.

And yet, goosebumps rippled across his skin. In this beautiful scenery, a man in black sat, like a blotch of black paint on a picture. Podrick approached, still wondering what the "Ashen Demon" was cutting into. He stopped ten feet from the man… ten feet away from him.

'E-Excuse me,' he said, forcing the words out.

The man in black stopped what he was doing. He didn't move at first, and Podrick wondered if he'd heard him. He opened his mouth to speak again-

-and then choked.

The man known as the Ashen Demon turned his head.

Podrick's hairs stood on end. He could only see one side of the Ashen Demon's face, but that was all he could stomach. It was pale and his eye was a dull, purple colour. Podrick shuddered and forced his eyes downward-

-and saw what the man was cutting into.

It was Ronan's head.

Podrick's bowels released and he spun, trembling. He forced his mouth open. 'I-I'm P-Podrick and w-was w-wondering i-if y-you n-need b-b-bread?'

There was a long pause in which Podrick could only hear his shaking breaths and thundering heart, and then the Ashen Demon spoke.

'No thank you.'

Podrick's stomach twisted and he shuddered again. 'O-Ok,' he whispered. He waddled away, not realising that his basket of bread had fallen from his grip.

The bright orange campfires crackled in the darkness and Jeralt the Blade Breaker and his mercenaries huddled around.

They were scattered on a sheltered hill overlooking the village of Remire. Each one had five to ten silhouettes, mercenaries, around them eating, murmuring, laughing and drinking. One of them, however, only had one man sat at it, and this is the one the Ashen Demon approached.

The man at the fire was a burly figure with sandy brown hair shaved at the sides. He had broad shoulders, as well as thick arms and legs that bulged out of his orange tunic. Deep lines sunk into his long face and large bags hung underneath his brown eyes.

Jeralt rubbed his eyes and then smoothed his hands over the fresh cuts on his arms. The bandit group they'd fought earlier hadn't been new to him or the mercenaries. They'd fought them previously but had failed to prevent them from ransacking various settlements. It'd been by chance that he'd caught wind of their plans to target Remire next, and so had managed to meet them before they could strike. On paper, it'd been a rousing success. They'd stopped the bandits from pillaging Remire and had finally succeeded in slaying most of their men, with only a handful escaping their grasp.

And yet, he wasn't smiling.

'You get it done?' he grunted.

The Ashen Demon lifted the dried head and handed it to his father.

Jeralt stared at it and his face hardened. The head belonged to one of the bandit warlords, Ronan, who'd killed many innocent people over the past few months. He'd managed by amassing a large band of men to follow him, men who viewed him like a deity.

Why had they viewed him in such a way? It was because he'd been a giant, one from a distant land.

Jeralt himself was around six foot and yet even he'd looked small next Ronan. The giant had had long, tangled hair and dark eyes with large, sickening cuts etched over his bulging muscles.

But he was dead now. The man's long white hair brushed off Jeralt's hands. He grimaced. 'Bastard,' he spat. 'I'm only sorry I don't have your brother's head as well.'

And he meant it, because Ronan's brother, Bayen, who'd escaped, was identical to him.

And he was still alive, nearby perhaps.

And to put Jeralt even more on edge, three of the group's magic healers, mages, had been killed in the battle that day. Ronan had picked them off early in the battle. The remaining two had used the last of their magic after the battle to heal the mercenaries most injured, but that left himself and the majority of the mercenaries with injuries that would take weeks to heal.

He laid Ronan's head down. 'Never in all my years as a mercenary has a bandit group been such a pest,' he said. He looked up at his son. 'How's the injuries? Did the vulneraries help?'

The Ashen Demon limped over and lowered himself down into the grass, shaking his head.

'You'll be better after some sleep. We'll head north to Gaspard tomorrow and get ourselves patched up properly. We'll head out first thing in the morning, I won't feel comfortable until we've all been able to get healed.'

The Ashen Demon didn't respond. Jeralt rubbed his eyes again. His head thumped and his body ached all over. The thought of having to get up early the next day made him groan.

It was then he realised he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in. His mercenary group was one of the most successful in Fódlan but it'd come at the price of having little time to relax. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a day off, had relaxed properly or had fun.

He looked at his son who stared blankly into the fire.

When was the last time he relaxed or had fun?

He sighed and a pang of guilt crashed over him. He didn't mean when his son had last relaxed or had last had fun. He meant something else, he just didn't want to say it, even in his mind.

When was the last time he smiled?

The fire crackled, the smoke blowing away in the gentle breeze.

I can't remember… fucking hell.

He closed his eyes and sighed, thinking back to an older time, to a particular day, on the side of a river. He thought back to a day where he and friends long gone had been fishing with the boy. It'd been the first time he'd ever caught a fish.

And it'd also been the first time he'd ever smiled.

Jeralt smiled himself and opened his eyes. 'Y'know, assuming we don't hear any more from our friend, Bayen, our next job in the Kingdom isn't for another few weeks yet. We'll take our time going up, give us a chance to finally go fishing again. Sound good?'

The Ashen Demon shrugged, not lifting his head. Jeralt lowered his, and that's when another of the mercenaries came over to the fire.

'What you guys doing over here being boring?' the man asked. He had strange tattoos and a shaved head. He grinned down at them with the few teeth he had left. 'Not drinking tonight? Y'know it's what Tarek woulda wanted, right?'

Jeralt shook his head. 'Don't drink too much Dalsk and tell the others the same. We need to stay vigilant.'

'Why?' Dalsk replied. 'We just dealt with the biggest band of bandits in the Empire, we ain't got nothing to fear now.'

'Some of them got away,' Jeralt said, 'including Bayen. We're wounded, we can't afford to be drunk as well.'

Dalsk snorted. 'That damn asshole will be far from here now. I don't think we'll hear from him for a few weeks at least, if ever, he might give up.'

'Or he might be hellbent on getting revenge for his slain brother,' Jeralt replied. 'Either way, we're vulnerable until we get our injuries healed. Don't drink too much and tell the others the same, that's an order.'

Dalsk shrugged. 'Yeah yeah, alright. Just promise me you'll go all in at the next pub we come across. You can't not after Tarek passing.'

'Oh don't you worry about that,' Jeralt replied.

Dalsk grinned and looked at the Ashen Demon. 'And well done today kid, they stood no chance against ya.'

The Ashen Demon gave a feint nod, his eyes not moving from the fire. Dalsk bowed (nearly tumbling over as he did so) and limped back towards the other mercenaries.

Mik, one of the new mercenaries Jeralt's group, sat with some of the others. He'd watched Dalsk's interaction with the father and son.

'So… is anyone gonna tell me what's up with Jeralt's kid?'

The fire he and the mercenaries sat around continued to crackle. Dalsk, who was now sitting back on his log on the opposite him, shrugged.

'You saw all you need to know today. He's a kid that cuts people down like it's nothing. Don't mess with him.'

'How old is he?' Mik asked.

Dalsk shrugged again. 'No one knows. About twenty maybe?'

Mik blinked. 'Jeralt doesn't know either?'

'Nope, and don't ask why, I dunno.'

Mik opened and closed his mouth repeatedly. 'Okay, but why is he so strong? He's exceptionally talented for his age.'

'He was raised by Jeralt the Blade Breaker, one of the strongest knights and mercenaries in all Fódlan, what do you expect?' Adrien asked.

Mik nodded. He cast his mind back to the battle earlier that day and a chill crept down his spine. He hadn't witnessed Jeralt's son fight before it, and so had been unprepared for the bloodbath the boy left in his wake. He'd cut many down and had made the remainder rout. The boy's prowess was undoubtedly one of the reasons why they'd fled.

But that's not the only reason why they fled, he thought. His face….

'But he just seems so… different. I've never even heard him speak before.'

'He has no emotion, of course he's different,' Dalsk said. 'Never laughed or cried before.'

'Never?'

'Nope.'

'That's why they call him the Ashen Demon,' Rufus, another of the mercenaries, muttered. 'For his courage'-

'Or indifference,' Gregory said.

'Yeah… or his indifference, but also because he's this soulless being who spends his days killing people with that blank face of his, like a demon, according to the stories.'

'People reckon he's cursed,' Ralph added. 'He scares people. He doesn't have any friends nor does he speak to anyone except Jeralt. I can guarantee you you'll never see him with a woman.'

'But why's he so different?' Mik asked.

The fire crackled again, and the chatting of other mercenaries nearby filled the air for a moment before Dalsk spoke again.

'No one knows. Jeralt's never really went into detail about the kid and it ain't our business.'

'Jeralt's a great man and leader,' Adrien continued. 'And he loves his son. Deep down it probably hurts him with the way he turned out, and it wouldn't be right for us to hurt him further by trying to pry. The kid's strange, he'll never be a leader or have a normal life for that matter, but we'll always treat him with the same respect as we do Jeralt. Don't forget that.'

'Plus, for all his differences, he is an incredible warrior,' Ralph said.

Adrien nodded. 'Trained by Jeralt and supposedly a battle instructor who served under the Faerghus Queen Consort back in the day. He could take any of us. Saved us a few times already. In fact, that's another thing about him, he recovers quickly from his injuries.'

Mik frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that his injuries heal unusually fast, normally after sleeping. If he picks up a nasty limp in the evening it's usually gone when he wakes up the next day. It's like someone is using healing magic on him every time he sleeps.'

So he has some kind of crest?'

'Jeralt said he's been tested and doesn't have one.'

Mik blinked. 'Then how'-

Dalsk rolled his eyes and stared at Mik. 'We don't know.'

Mik stopped and raised his hands, sighing, 'Sorry, don't mean to pry so much, I've just never heard of someone like him before.'

'None of us had either before we joined,' Rufus said. 'A man that's never cried before? It's hard to believe.'

'Y'know,' Dalsk muttered, glancing in the direction of Jeralt's campfire. 'There are stories from people who were in this group before us. The kid wasn't always like he is now, apparently.'

'What do you mean?' Adrien asked.

Dalsk shrugged. 'Apparently there was just… more to him at one point. Dunno in what way or how but… at some point things changed.'

The evening wore on and Jeralt and his son continued to sit at their fire as bright specs glittered in the sky. The rest of the mercenaries drank nearby whilst the Remire villagers celebrated their survival down the hill.

If only they'd known they'd started celebrating too soon.

'You know,' Jeralt said. 'You and I are getting proper beds tonight. The villagers offered us an empty place to rest for the evening. I figure it'll do us some good. Especially with how cold it's been recently.'

The Ashen Demon gave a feint nod in response. Jeralt spoke again.

'Do you dream in your sleep?'

He asked the question as he himself gazed into the fire, and that's why he never saw the Ashen Demon's eyes flicker upward.

'No,' the boy said.

Jeralt looked up, but by the time he did his son's gaze had already moved back to the fire.

'Someone once said dreams are a sign of a good night's sleep,' he said. 'Might be nonsense, but we can test the theory out tonight, apparently these beds are really comfy.'

When his son didn't respond, Jeralt yawned. 'Go on down, we're up early and you need rest. I'll tidy up here and join you shortly, my injuries aren't as bad as yours.'

The Ashen Demon rose and limped down the hill.

BACKSTORY

10th Great Tree Moon, 1166

'You've drank too much, get out!'

'W-wha- No… No… o-on- two more…-'

The barman shook his head and pointed his finger at the entrance.

'Out!'

'F-fuck you.'

'You heard him,' Jeralt said. 'Leave.'

'My attire is noiseless when I tread the earth, rest in its dwellings or ride its waters. At times my pinions and the lofty air, Lift me high o'er the homes of men, and the strength of the clouds carries me far high over the folk. My feathers gay sound and make music, singing shrill, when no longer I linger by field or flood, but soar in the air, a wandering spirit.'

Lilia spoke in a sing-song voice, one that rose and fell at all the right parts; in a voice that, on a stage, would make everyone, including drunk and rowdy men, fall silent. She remembered once telling this same riddle in the same voice to a young girl many years before. The girl's hazelnut eyes had lit up and widened, her mouth had formed into a wide and toothy smile. She'd giggled and had skipped on the spot. Her grin hadn't leave her face for the rest of that day.

Lilia hadn't been surprised at the girl's awestruck reaction. She'd seen similar expressions every day back then. She'd been one of the most famous songstresses in all Fódlan, after all.

In her former life, she'd been on stage in front of thousands. She'd made them cry, feel the burning sensation of rage in their hearts, feel the sinking sensation of sorrow, the giddy warmth of love, the bittersweet sensation of hope…. Her life had been about gripping people and taking them to the extremes of life's expressions of emotion.

So when she recited that same riddle in that same voice to the child next to her on the bench, one could only assume that they'd be blown away by her voice.

But the child next to her was far from ordinary.

The young boy turned his head. His dull purple eyes gazed at her. His face was blank and his skin was pale, as if he'd been dead for several days.

'I do not know,' he mumbled.

'Swan,' she said. Her mouth dried. 'H-Have you seen one before?'

'No,' the boy replied. He gazed at her for another moment (a moment too long for Lilia) and then turned away. A chill crawled down her spine. She hated herself for her reaction, but she couldn't help it.

He was the strangest boy she'd ever known.

He was the son of the mercenary group's leader, Jeralt. He was thin. He reminded her of paintings of impoverished demons that often hung in noble homes. He was around seven (she guessed, no one, not even Jeralt, knew his age) and yet she'd never seen him cry or laugh or show any form of emotion. It was as if the blank expression on his face was plastered on. He spent most days sitting and staring into nothing, as if his spirit left his body for a time, leaving an empty shell behind.

But it got worse, there was his voice. His dull, dead voice that made the hairs on her skin stand on end. The only mercy was that he rarely spoke, despite Jeralt's best efforts to get him to talk more. Her thoughts disgusted her, and yet she couldn't shake them.

Why is everything about him so… horrible?

That was a question she asked herself often. She'd tried questioning Jeralt once. His answer had been that the boy's mother (who'd she'd never met but who'd supposedly died from an illness) had also been different and that it was just the way he was. He never elaborated.

And so, a year on since meeting him, Lilia still didn't understand the boy. What was wrong with him? Why was he so different? Was he diseased? The religious part of her wondered if he cursed in some way.

Is he really dead inside?

She didn't believe that, not yet.

'Would you like to see one?' she asked the boy. 'I believe some can be found in one of the nearby fountains. They are most beautiful.'

A long stretch of silence followed her question, but the boy eventually responded.

'Okay,' he mumbled.

Lilia shivered again but nodded. He'd spoken three times on the bench so far. A year ago, he spoke three times in a week. He was changing, talking more, and that meant he had to be alive inside…

…right?

She hoped so because she was proven wrong, she'd have to leave him and Jeralt's group. But why had she joined them in the first place? Why had she given up her life as a songstress in the Empire? In truth, it'd been an easy decision. Joining Jeralt's mercenaries meant she escaped the creepy noblemen who waited and stalked her at the end of each of her performances, the men who, overtime, reduced her to tears and panic attacks.

She shuddered at the thought.

It was by chance she met Jeralt (although she couldn't help but feel that her prayers to the goddess had helped). She met him, wounded, in Enbarr. Having learnt the basics of white magic from her friend, the "divine songstress", she was able to heal him. Amazed by her work, He'd insisted that she join his group. She would've rejected the offer had anyone else asked, but she'd found herself trusting the giant man. She prayed to the goddess and then accepted his offer. Soon after, she'd become the boy's instructor of anything unrelated to combat and mercenary work. It'd been her idea, a chance for her to thank Jeralt for giving her a new life. Besides, she loved children and had previously conducted singing classes as a songstress. Just how hard could it be to look after one boy, right?

Her and the child were sat on a bench outside "Argo's Tavern," overlooking Fhirdiad, the capital of the Kingdom of Faerghus. Towers and buildings with uneven burgundy-coloured, slated roofs stretched into the distance ahead of them and grey clouds blanketed the sky above. A familiar voice called from the bottom of the hill.

'Hey-ho! Any help here?'

Lilia blinked and looked down towards the cobbled roads where a man stood gripping a stack of boxes that covered his face. A fishing rod hung from one shoulder. She wouldn't have been able to recognise him if not for his goofy voice.

'Not again Arthur,' she murmured. Her brow furrowed and she rose to her feet. 'More trinkets this time? Or have you decided to purchase something that is actually useful for a change?'

Arthur poked his head around the boxes and Lilia saw a wide grin on his face. Everyone in the mercenary group thought it'd been crazy that she, a songstress, had joined the group, but she thought it was crazier that Arthur had. She looked at his face, his soft brown eyes, his matching shaggy hair and goofy grin. She didn't see a killer in him, he was too soft, too caring, too… ridiculous. Regardless, she was glad he'd joined, his smile made her chest tingle.

Not that she'd ever tell him so.

'Sure is,' he said. 'I even bought you something as well.'

'If it's the fishing rod,' Lilia said, 'you can return it to'-

She continued down the hill towards the fisherman-turned mercenary. Behind her, Jeralt's son watched. Behind him, in the tavern, came loud, thumping footsteps.

But he didn't hear them. He gazed at Lilia and Arthur before rising slowly and stepping onto the stone path.

And that's when the doors crashed open behind him.

'Stu… Stupid fuc-… Stu….'

Ronald, a construction worker within the city, trudged towards the tavern exit. His feet came down in loud thumps, making heads spin. Spit dribbled down his sweaty chin and he veered from side to side, his head bobbling on his shoulders. His forehead throbbed.

'Stupid… (he scrunched his face up and spat) BARMAN!'

He swung his leg out and struck a nearby chair. There was a loud crack and one of its legs splintered off. The laughing, shouting, murmurings and belches all fell silent around him.

But Ronald didn't notice. He clenched his fists and veins bulged on his meaty arms. He spat again.

Í helped build this fucking place… and that's how I'm fucking treated?!

If not for the imposing strangers near him at the bar, he would have stayed and have given the barman "his "thoughts". He neared set of double doors that marked the exit.

I'll be back… barman better fucking watch out!

He slammed the double doors open. Sweat stung his eyes, he moved his arms to his face and strode out.

And that was when the child walked in front of him.

Lilia heard the slam of the doors. She spun. Her eyes widened and she froze.

At first, she didn't see a man, she saw a beast. Something taller than Jeralt with arms thicker than her own head. He was more than twice the size of the boy. His bald head gleamed and sweat trickled down his rough ginger beard. His face was red. He stumbled forward and crashed into the boy, slamming him to the ground. The towering man stumbled onto one knee. Lilia heard a sickening click from his body. The man scrunched his eyes closed and roared.

'You're dead,' he screamed. He opened his bulging eyes and turned them on Jeralt's son, his nostrils flaring. The boy stumbled to his feet, cradling his head. He backed away but the man broke into a drunken charge towards him. He clenched his fist and cocked his arm back. Lilia rushed forward.

'Leave him alone!' she shouted.

The man swung his fist.

She screamed.

Far away and yet so close, a young girl yawned.

END OF BACKSTORY