BACKSTORY

1st Wyvern Moon, 1170

'Can't believe how quickly time flies kid,' Jeralt said, shaking his head. 'Your jacket barely fits you anymore.'

'He needs a new one,' Pieter said.

'No kidding, look at the number of holes in this thing,' Jeralt said, poking his son's back.

Byleth jumped away. He turned and gave Jeralt another of his feint but noticeable smiles. Jeralt laughed. It'd only felt like yesterday that he'd carried the boy as a baby in his thick overalls. Now his son was as tall as his waist and, thanks to Alain's training, he'd grown out the way; to the point, he reckoned, where even the toughest kids would stop to think before messing with him.

'Need to get him one before we leave Derideu,' Pieter said. 'Cold weather's coming.'

Jeralt nodded. 'There's another guy I know in the marketplace who does good clothing.'

They trudged through the streets of the Alliance capital towards the marketplace, shuffling past crowds of people. Street performers and vendors hollered on either side. Most walked by them without a glance. One street performer in particular, a juggler, had no one standing around him. He juggled two balls, then three, then four, then five, and then seven… and still no one stopped.

Except he had caught someone's attention. Jeralt watched Byeth's head turn. The boy's walking pace slowed and Jeralt saw his eyes brighten. He smiled.

'Here,' he said. Putting a handful of gold into Byleth's hand. 'Give it to him.'

Byleth nodded. He walked over to the man and dropped the gold into the slimy-looking hat. The man stopped juggling and a cheesy smile spread over his face. He raced over to the hat and then bowed and shook Byleth's hand. The boy's face brightened.

'Don't teach him to be friendly with people like that,' Pieter muttered. 'They'll burn him.'

'I've told him to be wary,' Jeralt said, 'but it does his confidence good to interact with others.'

Pieter nodded. Byleth walked back over, still smiling. His expressions were still feint to most, but Jeralt noticed every detail, from the way his eyebrows rose slightly to the slight puff in his cheeks as the corners of his mouth rose.

He's changing more and more, he thought.

They continued walking through the city, Pieter and Jeralt moved beside each other whilst Byleth walked ahead, continually turning his head from side to side, drinking everything in.

And to think he used to just stare into nothing for hours on end.

'This is the place,' he said after a while, nodding left at a large plaza, crammed with people and stalls. Drums, flutes and singing that sounded more like shouting rung in the air. They entered and Jeralt led them towards the other side, ignoring all the vendors who shoved weapons and armour at them, pleading with them to "stop and buy the finest goods in the Alliance." Byleth looked around. He saw more people juggling balls whilst others stood on barrels talking (and shouting) to crowds gathered around them. One of them said something that made his crowd of people bellow with laughter. He flashed grimy, golden teeth and bowed at them. The crowd applauded.

As did someone else, another man who Byleth would never forget. He saw the crowd's applause and smashed a bottle to the ground.

Jeralt didn't notice him, however, and continued to lead his son and Pieter through the crowd.

'Oi, ya big ugly bastard!'

Jeralt turned. A large man with thick, greasy hair and a stained apron waddled towards them. Jeralt's eyes widened and he snorted. 'Arnold! Just the man I was looking for, although I'm surprised you're still alive, you must be getting on now.'

'Fuck off, giant,' the large man said, bellowing laughter of his own. He embraced Jeralt in a tight hug. Then he looked at Byleth and his jaw dropped.

'By the goddess how you've grown!' he breathed. He turned back to Jeralt. 'He was like a frail twig last time I saw him!'

Jeralt smiled. 'He's grown up in a short space of time.'

He wasn't kidding of course.

'They always do, take ye by surprise!' Arnold said. Byleth bowed at him. The man shook (and crushed) his hand, before shaking Pieter's and facing Jeralt again. 'You needin' anything this time?'

Jeralt nodded. 'Heading out soon, long trek west so we need a lot of gear this time.'

The man grinned and turned. 'Well, let's get you sorted then. Hope you weren't about to cheat on me with another vendor!'

Jeralt laughed. 'I would if anything else here was actually valuable.'

The four of them walked across the plaza, wading through the seemingly endless amount of people shuffling by. They neared the far-right corner and reached a large stall that stank of leather and sweat. Bronze, steel and silver weapons hung amongst armour paddings.

'Right, let's get you all sorted,' Arnold said. 'Let's see if I can finally convince you to wear something other than that hideous orange tunic!'

'Good luck with that,' Pieter said.

They were there for nearly an hour, trying on new armour and inspecting the wide variety of weapons. Jeralt had Byleth try on new clothes, including a black tabard, new armour a pair of gloves.

'They suit you,' Jeralt said. 'I think black's your colour.'

'What a dashing-looking young man,' Arnold said. 'Ladies will be queuing up for you soon!'

Byleth looked in the mirror at his new armour. He eyed his new gloves and smiled.

He couldn't have known at the time, that getting gloves was one of the worst things he could have done.

After Jeralt paid for the new armour, Byleth stood outside the stall, watching as the crowd around the man with the golden teeth continued to grow. The man shouted again and again in a raw, cracked voice that echoed over the square. Byleth couldn't understand what he was saying, yet the crowd roared continuously with laughter. The sound made a feint smile arise on the boy's face. He put a hand to his pocket and felt two gold pieces in them. Whilst Jeralt and Pieter's backs were turned, he walked over and put gold piece into the man's bucket.

It was as he returned to the tent that something on the left caught his attention. Near the end of a long row of dingy stalls stood a rotting stage. On it, a man in brightly coloured clothing juggled small blades. He saw them but missed the daggers in the man's eyes. Two bystanders watched, but their heads were turned when another thunderous applause broke out from the large crowd to Byleth's right. They turned and walked away from the juggling man, leaving him on his own.

Byleth was too far away to see the man's face tighten.

He continued to juggle, and the boy watched. At first, the man juggled with three blades and then four. Each time they rose higher into the air, and yet the man was unfazed. If anything, he looked like he was daydreaming.

'Ready to go?' Jeralt asked, putting a hand on his son's shoulder.

Byleth blinked, unsure of how long he'd been watching the man for. He nodded.

Jeralt squeezed his shoulder. Pieter appeared with a bag crammed with armour and weapons. Arnold also reappeared from the tent, giving Byleth another bone-crushing handshake. Jeralt gave the man a hug and then he, Pieter and Byleth were on their way once again. He led them along the quieter route in the square, past the dingy stalls.

'They're not the best weapons,' Pieter said.

'I know,' Jeralt said. 'But I can't think of anywhere better in the Alliance at a reasonable price.'

Pieter grunted. 'There's a man, Zoltan. You heard of him?'

'Of course,' Jeralt replied. 'He makes the best weapons in all Fódlan. Almost impossible to get your hands on any of his stuff without selling an arm and a leg.'

'Alain reckons he's hiding somewhere in the Empire,' Pieter said.

Jeralt's eyes widened. 'Really?'

The two men continued their discussion, not noticing the man with the juggling blades as they walked past.

But Byleth looked back and felt the gold piece in his pocket. He looked at his father and then quickly moved back towards the juggler.

The juggler had been glaring at the clown across the square all day.

He'd never heard of him before. He looked like a tramp and probably was one. But yet here he was, amassing more people than what he himself could, he, a former jester of Godfrey Von Riegan himself.

But wasn't that why he was no longer a jester to the duke, because he wasn't funny?

No... it's because the other jesters were jealous and forced me out.

That's what he told himself, often. The words now thundered in his head as he stared at the clown who continued to caw out gibberish to the swelling crowd around him. The juggler spotted the two bystanders that'd ditched his performance to watch the tramp, the two people who thought a tramp was more entertaining than the best jester in the Alliance... no... in Fódlan. His blood boiled and his face reddened.

'Good,' he spat. 'Don't want any of their fucking gold anyway. Don't deserve to be in my fucking presence.'

He let his blades drop to the floor with loud clanks. He turned, reaching out for a bottle of wine, only to realise he'd smashed it to the ground earlier. He moved his hands to his pockets. They were empty. He spat.

This is all your fault you bunch of stupid...- none of you deserve to be graced with my talent. I-

A boy with a blue mop of hair approached his stage and placed a gold coin into his empty bucket.

One measly gold coin….

'I enjoyed watching you,' the boy said. His face was blank and his strange voice made the juggler's face redden.

He's mocking me. That fucking-

The juggler's nostrils flared.

'I don't want your gold you little freak,' he spat.

The boy froze. The juggler eyed his pale, expressionless face and pointed to the large crowd. 'How about you fuck off and join that tramp on the stage over there? The crowd would love it. You're a freak as well. You'd be called the "Walking Corpse Act". Now fuck off!'

The boy flinched. For the first time in his life, without realising it, he dug his fingernails into his palms. He opened his mouth but no words came out. The juggler spat again. He picked up one of his blades and pointed it at the boy.

'I'll kill you. Scram. Now.'

The boy spun and dashed away. The juggler turned and launched the blade at a nearby wall. When the boy was gone, he stormed over to the bucket and cradled the gold coin, thinking about wine.

Byleth re-joined Jeralt and Pieter before they'd notice he was gone. When Jeralt later offered Byleth another piece of gold, he declined it.

Byleth had a deep sleep that evening, and when he woke the next morning, he did so with a fright.

END OF BACKSTORY