Sitting up at the edge of a cliff, with his back to a mountain and his sights to the dawn, beaten within an inch of his life and dying from the final stage of tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan knew as his closed his eyes that he would never open them again.

He was proven wrong when the familiar stab of agony in his chest forced him to wake with a start, violently coughing. His body rocked and trembled as his eyes snapped open, revealing the face of a woman looking at him from some distance away, a worried, yet tentative expression etched in her angular features.

"Hold on," The woman said as she walked up to him. Arthur tried to speak, but he found himself incapacitated as his coughing fit intensified. The mere act of breathing seemed beyond his reach as waves of pain wracked his lungs and throat. He almost passed out a second time until the woman steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "This should help a bit."

Arthur felt the woman place her palm on his chest. He had no time to question it even in his mind, as suddenly, as quickly as it arrived, most of the pain subsided. Arthur quickly seized the opportunity to breathe again, dimly surprised at how great such a simple act felt.

As he relaxed with every unhindered breath he took, Arthur fought the mounting urge to slip back into unconsciousness as he looked around, assessing his surroundings.

He realised he seemed to be in an open tent, with his back to a makeshift bed fashioned out of furs, cloths, and sheepskin. He was wearing nothing, his dignity preserved only by the thick blanket draped over his decrepit body. His entire body was sore from the abuse he put it through, as well as the beating he took from that rat, Micah, and yet... he had a feeling the pain should be much worse than the dull ache he was experiencing. Whatever that woman did to him, it made him feel almost normal, if only for a moment.

As for the woman herself sitting at his beside, it was only then when he wasn't crippled by the pain in his chest did Arthur notice how strangely she was dressed — she had short, sandy-blonde hair, and was wearing an outfit that reminded him of what soldiers during the time of kings and dukes had worn into battle, only cut in a way that accommodated her more feminine figure. She wore a long-sleeved shirt fashioned out of tiny metal chains linked together and reinforced with riveted metal plates, boiled-leather breeches, steel-capped boots, and a cloak made of wolf pelts.

Arthur licked his dry lips as he considered what to say to her. Should he thank her, ask who she was, or question the way she was dressed? In the end, he felt it was more prudent to ask the lady her name.

"Who are y—" The outlaw had barely began to speak when he was suddenly interrupted by another coughing fit. When it subsided, he winced as he felt the pain begin to return. "Ugh... damn it."

"Easy there, friend," The woman said. "Here, let me help you sit up. Don't strain yourself, let me do most of the work."

Arthur let the woman raise him up to sit on the bed, noting how strong she was despite her thin frame. She then rolled up some of the furs that made up his bed and propped them up in a pile behind him, letting him rest his back against it.

"Feel better?" She asked, smiling a bit.

Arthur grimaced, but he did feel a little better at the change. "Feelin' a little less like shit," He said, in between heavy breaths. "Thanks..."

"You're welcome," The woman nodded. She took a cup and filled it with water from a nearby jug before handing it to Arthur. "I'm Tekla. Tekla Schneider."

Strange name... sounds German or Austrian, Arthur thought, as he graciously took the cup and drank the water. When he asked for more, he was handed the whole jug. He emptied it as well. She sounds like Strauss, too.

Resisting the urge to frown at the thought of his former accomplice, Arthur nodded back at the woman and attempted a smile. "Arthur Morgan. Pleased to meet—" He coughed, his smile turning into a wince. "...pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Morgan." Tekla said, setting aside the empty jug. She seemed not to recognise his face or his name, which concerned Arthur more than he thought. Whoever this woman was and whoever she travelled with, they don't seem to have been around New Hanover for long.

"Listen, mister. There is someone..." Tekla paused, seeming to consider her next words. It was another second before she continued, "My boss said I should bring him to see you should you regain consciousness. I know you probably want to rest, but he insisted on talking with you as soon as possible... just to be safe. I'm sure you understand."

He didn't, but Arthur didn't let Tekla know that. His body yearned to return to rest, but he continued to force himself awake. "As long as he don't mind being in the same room as the likes of me," Arthur coughed, both to clear his throat and to emphasise his point. "He can stay here all he likes. Can't promise it'll do his health any good, though."

"Not to worry. When you were asleep, I had you drink an herbal remedy to nullify your consumption's contagiousness." Tekla said, then rose to her feet. "The captain should be safe around you, provided he doesn't stay here the whole night. One moment."

Arthur watched her leave, then closed his eyes to rest a while. He only opened them again to the sound of footfalls approaching.

"Finally awake, huh?" The older man standing in front of him could not be anyone other than the man Tekla spoke of. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a rather intimidating countenance, the other man was clearly not one to be trifled with despite his age. Looking at him, Arthur was reminded of a veteran he made friends with, Hamish Sinclair.

It didn't help that he was also dressed like Tekla, though significantly more... knightly, for the lack of a better word. Whoever these folks were, Arthur can't help but admire the level of detail put into their outfits.

"Wasn't expecting to," Arthur wheezed as the pain intensified. "Startin' to wish I hadn't..."

The man chuckled. "I've been in your situation once. Almost died protecting an old employer of mine." He strode up next to Arthur and lowered himself to his level. "Call me Jeralt. Jeralt Eisner. And your name is...?"

"Morgan," Arthur replied, carefully eyeing the other man for a reaction. He didn't care if these people knew who he was. There was a small part of him that was hoping they did — it's nothing less than he deserved. "Arthur Morgan. Thanks for... delayin' my death, I suppose."

If Jeralt did recognise him, he did a convincing job pretending he didn't. "Don't worry, the worst is over. The others in my company were sure you weren't going to make it when we found you out cold near that cliff edge. That was days ago... and yet, here you are."

The man smirked. "You've got a strong grip on life, my friend. I can respect that."

Surprised, Arthur slowly sat up straight. "I've been out... for how long?"

"Two days. You ought to say thanks to Tekla the next time you see her. That girl was determined to save you when we realised you were wasting away from consumption. She lost her brothers to it, years ago."

Arthur resolved to do just that. Frowning, he realised his sorry state must have reminded her of awful times.

He wished she hadn't bothered with him.

"You came here just to check on me, Mr. Eisner... or is there something else you wanna know?" Arthur coughed. "Ask away, and make it quick, 'cause stayin' here can't be good for a man your age. What I got in my lungs ain't nothing to laugh at." He wheezed out the last few words of his sentence. "As you can see."

Jeralt simply laughed. "I haven't been sick in a long, long time, Mr. Morgan. And thanks to Tekla, I think there's no chance of that happening tonight."

The other man was quiet for a while, as though lost in a memory. It was a moment before he spoke again. "When we found you, yours was the only one out of the three dozen bodies we came across with a pulse, albeit faint. Five dozen, if we count the horses."

Fresh waves of pain bloomed in Arthur's chest, though he remained steady, staring Jeralt down as the man continued,

"The dead wore strange clothes... stranger still, was how similarly they dressed, as if it's their uniform." Jeralt leaned back, a look of utter seriousness replacing his earlier, genial one. "Another mercenary company, perhaps. They seem to have been utterly wiped out. Were you one of them?"

Arthur sighed, ignoring the burning in his throat. No use lying to these folks. "No, I ain't. And these men ain't mercenaries neither... they was Pinkertons." He said, continuing to gauge the other man for a reaction. When Jeralt merely responded with a confused sound, Arthur dared to continue, "Y'know... government men. They work with the law to bring in outlaws and the like."

Jeralt frowned. "Can't say I've heard of these... Pinkertons. You say they work to bring outlaws to justice? Sounds like mercenary work to me."

Arthur coughed, briefly turning away so as to not accidentally doom Jeralt the same way Thomas Downes doomed him. "They don't work for just anyone's coin, these men. Like I said, they get their pay from the government."

Jeralt shook his head, "The... government? I'm afraid you're not making any sense, Mr. Morgan. The only one doing any governing around here is Grand Duke Rufus, the Kingdom of Faerghus' interim regent."

It was Arthur's turn to look confused. "The kingdom of what now? The hell are you playin' at?" He said in between coughs. "Whatever foolishness it is you theatre folk want me to get involved with, leave me out of it. I've had more than my share of lunatics roping me into enabling their idiocy."

"Theatre folk? That's a new one." Jeralt did not appear offended, from the amused smirk that appeared on his face. "At least you didn't take us for bandits. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a mercenary captain, and almost everyone you will meet in this camp are experienced soldiers-for-hire, even Tekla."

Arthur could see dark spots creeping at the edges of his vision as he found it harder and harder to breathe again. "This... this is a joke, right? Don't make me laugh, ya old fool..." He coughed into the back of his hand. When he drew it back, he found it stained in blood. "Ah, hell."

Jeralt's eyes widened in alarm at the sight. "I'm not doing both of us any favours staying here." He stood up. "I'll get Tekla and let you go back to rest, Mr. Morgan. We'll speak again soon."

Arthur nodded as he continued to cough and wheeze. "I bet..."

Tekla entered the room as soon as Jeralt left. When Arthur focused his sights on her, he was surprised to see her carrying his things, including his gun belt, his bandolier, his riding boots, and the clothes he wore that night he thought for sure was his last.

"I think these are yours," Tekla said, placing everything she was carrying next to Arthur's bed, where he could see them. "Freshly washed and laundered, or so I'm told. Wouldn't do you any good walking around camp without any clothes, right?"

Arthur grimaced, as he gasped for air. Breathing was becoming almost impossible. Tekla, bless her soul, noticed his declining state immediately, and rushed to his side.

"Take a deep breath, Arthur." Tekla said, raising a hand. Arthur had borne witness to many strange and unbelievable things during his travels around the American frontier, but what he came to see next was the only one that gave him pause.

Glowing circles inscribed with foreign, unfamiliar letters materialised in the air in front of Tekla's hand, forming a ring around it. Arthur's bloodshot eyes were wide with surprise as the symbol started glowing a bright white light, before disappearing in a flash. Within moments, nearly all of Arthur's pain and weakness vanished once more, leaving behind a vague sense of discomfort and tingling in his chest.

"Dear God in Heaven," Arthur mumbled dumbly as Tekla withdrew her hand. "What did you just do to me...?"

Tekla seemed surprised and even a little hurt at Arthur's horrified look. "Why, it's what I've been doing since we found you. I used vulneraries to heal your bruises, but they won't be enough to treat consumption. I've been using white magic to keep you alive. Are you... did I do something wrong?"

You could've just let me die, Arthur's thoughts rang in his mind, but Tekla's upset face kept him from voicing them. "No, no. You didn't, I..." He swallowed. "I'm just surprised, is all." He said, putting aside his feelings on his outlandish situation for the moment. "Thank you, Ms. Schneider."

Tekla was visibly relieved. "I'm glad to have helped. Do you want something to eat? I brought a bowl of stew while you were talking with the captain."

Arthur shook his head. "I'm good. I wanna get back to rest more'n anything."

She stood back up. "Of course. We'll, uh, work on getting your strength back the next time you wake up."

Arthur grunted, closing his eyes as he settled down on the bed. He had a feeling he was just dreaming, and that the next time he woke up, it would be somewhere considerably warmer and much more deserving of the likes of him.

...


...

Arthur awoke to the overpowering smell of herbs and the sound of a man screaming in fear and agony.

Sitting up with a cough and a groan, the outlaw opened his eyes and immediately found himself face-to-face with a woman who wasn't Tekla, sitting next to him an uncomfortably short distance away, her large blue eyes staring holes into his own.

Bemused, Arthur fought down the urge to cough and stared back at her. He studied her as she doubtlessly studied him.

What was immediately obvious was that she was young, perhaps younger than Tekla. Her hair was shoulder-length and rather unruly, and was dyed a curious shade of dark blue. Her clothes were just as strange and foreign as Tekla and Jeralt's, and clipped to her side was a straight, long-bladed sword, sheathed in a plain-looking scabbard.

Arthur coughed once or twice as he examined her for the better half of a minute. The young woman, on the other hand, stared at him without so much as a blink, or a change in her blank expression.

"Didn't your parents teach you it ain't polite to stare, miss?" Arthur said, breaking his gaze to look at Tekla from the other side of the tent. She seemed to be occupied with another patient, who was screaming his lungs out as he bled from a sizeable gash across his face.

"No." The young lady replied, falling quiet again afterwards.

"Well, alright then." Arthur watched Tekla conjure another ball of... "white magic", and apply it directly into her patient's face.

Shaking his head, Arthur looked back to the young lady, who hadn't broken her unflinching stare. "There a reason why you're just sittin' there? Ms. Schneider could've used your help."

"I'm fine here, Mr. Morgan," The lady in question said from across the tent. "It's just a scratch. Right, Deinhard?"

The man she was tending answered with a muffled groan. At least he stopped screaming.

Arthur huffed. "Yeah, right. Feller looked someone tried to rearrange his face with a knife."

"The men we had a contract against fought back. Deinhard took an axe to the face." The young woman in next to Arthur spoke up, her voice never rising from a monotone. "It bounced off his skull. He is lucky to be alive."

"No kiddin'." Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. What a strange girl.

"Are you a warrior?" She asked him. Arthur realised it was the first time he saw her blink.

He coughed. "Not in this state, I ain't."

"Father thinks you are a warrior." She said. "He thinks you are the one who killed those men we found dead all around you."

"That right?" Arthur leaned back. "He someone I know?"

"You met him the night before. He said you tried to play a fool, then feigned sick so you can avoid answering his questions."

At this, Arthur couldn't help but smile. "You don't look like your father none, miss."

The young woman nodded solemnly. "So I've been told." She was quiet for some time. "I think he is wrong. You are very sick."

Arthur shrugged. "So I've noticed."

It was then that Tekla walked over to them, wiping her bloody hands with a cloth. "It's not every day I hear Byleth talking this much. I hope you two are getting along."

"Swimmingly." Arthur wheezed. Who the hell names their kid "Byleth"? Goddamn foreigners... "Can I trouble you for a drink? My mouth's dry as a bone."

Tekla took a cup, and filled it with water from another jug. She tried to hand it to Arthur, but the man waved it aside.

"Got anything stronger this time?" He said.

In an instant, Byleth produced a flask, removed the cap, and handed it to Arthur. He gave the flask a cursory sniff, recoiled at the smell, and promptly started emptying its contents into his mouth.

Wiping his mouth, Arthur handed the flask back to Byleth. "Ale ain't my usual vintage, but... thanks."

"I don't drink." Byleth said. "This is the captain's flask. He has a habit of losing it."

Tekla gasped. Faster than Arthur could blink, she snatched the flask from the girl's hand. "Byleth! Do you want Jeralt to get sick? Goddess, I need to get this cleaned up before he gets his hands on it."

The healer shook her head. "As for you, Arthur, you should try and eat something more... erm, solid, if you want to regain your strength. There's some stew left over from last night, if I remember right. It's just outside the tent."

Arthur coughed into his fist. He glanced aside, towards where Tekla had dropped his belongings from before. "I'm gonna need some privacy. I ain't exactly decent right now."

"Right, Byleth and I will be outside. And don't worry about Deinhard — I put him to sleep beforehand. Call out if you need any help."

"I'd like to think I can dress myself like a damn adult..." Arthur watched them leave. He spared a glance at the other side of the tent, where Deinhard unmoving body laid. "Best you stay down for this, partner. I ain't a pretty sight."

After some time, Arthur Morgan staggered his way out of Tekla's medicine tent, dressed in a white collared overshirt, brown riding trousers, a pair of black cavalryman's boots with spurs, leather suspenders, a dark blue pinstriped vest, and a very worn, hole-ridden black duster — the same ensemble he wore to his final train robbery. In addition, he had his bandolier and gun belt with him, as well as his hunting knife... though his twin revolvers were missing from their holsters. Presumably, Jeralt had them hidden away until he could decide what to do with him.

Probably gonna shoot me with them. He frowned at the thought. He reached up to right his hat, only for his hand to come up empty. Ah, right. I gave the damn thing to John. Here's hoping the son-of-a-bitch hasn't gotten himself killed without me to save his fool hide.

"There you are, Mr. Morgan!" Tekla strode up to meet Arthur, Jeralt's cobalt-haired daughter trailing right behind her. "Good to see you on your feet... though I can't help but wonder why you were dressed like this when we found you."

"What's so funny 'bout how I dress?" Arthur coughed. He looked around and found everyone else in the camp dressed in old-fashioned armour. "Never seen a stranger-looking group of mercenaries." He examined his surroundings and tried to make out the land, only to find no familiar landmarks to tell him just where the hell did these folks take him. The one thing he knew for a fact was that he hadn't been in this spot of the frontier before. "And where the hell are we?"

"Southern Tailtean Plains, in the Kingdom of Faerghus." Byleth replied, to Arthur's irritation.

"Faerghus... your daddy roped you into this, too?" He looked down at the young woman, who had already been staring at him again. "I ain't ever heard of this Kingdom in my life. This some kind of cult thing you're trying to ease me into?"

Byleth simply continued to stare at him. This time, however, her eyes seemed to focus more on his clothes.

"Cult? We're mercenaries, Mr. Morgan. Our business concerns this world, and only this world." Tekla huffed, pouting.

Arthur coughed, hoping he still had his hat to obscure the dubious look he was giving Tekla. "Right. Forget I said anything, just... take me somewhere to sit down and eat. My lungs are killing me."

Tekla and Byleth led Arthur to a spot in their camp, then had him sit down under a tree, shadowed by the leaves overhead. Tekla used her white magic to heal Arthur and made sure he was comfortable before taking her leave to get food, leaving him alone with Byleth and a few other so-called mercenaries resting and minding their own business.

Arthur tried to ignore the occasional pair of eyes on him as he laid his head against the tree behind him and enjoyed the simple pleasure of breathing. With the sun on his face and the gentle breeze keeping him cool, Arthur would have been all too happy to lose himself to sleep right there, if it weren't for the scraping sounds coming from Byleth.

Looking aside, Arthur found the young woman sitting down on the grass next to him, her unsheathed sword in her lap. She was focused intently on her blade, busying herself with maintaining its edge with a sharpening stone.

Arthur bit back an irritated comment, and instead examined the sword Byleth had in her hands. The weapon was nothing like the old Civil War sabres he had seen before in the hands of a few veterans he came across. Those blades were plain and ugly-looking, whereas Byleth's sword looked to have been lovingly crafted by someone who knew much about what they were doing, with intricate details and silver filigrees inscribed along the blade and all over the guard. The weapon reminded him of his favourite shotgun, a Model 97 Lancaster pump-action, which was cast in black iron and inscribed with golden baroque engravings.

It was a while before Arthur noticed Byleth staring at him again. "Do you prefer the sword like I do, or the lance like the captain?" She said to him, even as she continued to sharpen her blade.

Arthur scoffed. These goddamn foreigners and their medieval theatrics were starting to get on his nerves. "I use a gun, like any sane bastard not lookin' to get himself killed."

Byleth tilted her head to the side. "A... gun? What is a gun?"

"Jesus Chr—" The outlaw pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He glared at the young woman, expecting her to get her act together and stop trying to make a fool out of him, only to be met with her usual, vacant stare. "Are you... do you seriously not know what a gun is?"

"No, I do not. I cannot say I've heard of them."

"Horseshit. What sick game is this you and your daddy are trying to pull on me, huh? You folks may have saved my life, but that don't mean it gives you the right to toy around with me."

Byleth flinched at Arthur's increasingly hostile tone. It was the first time he got an emotional response out of her. "What are you trying to say, Mr. Morgan? I wish to understand."

"I want answers, damn it!" Arthur exclaimed, coughing afterwards. "Why are you folks so dead-set on tryin' to convince me I've fallen into a goddamn children's storybook? Where the hell am I?"

By then, many of the other mercenaries in the area had started to observe the outlaw and their captain's daughter. So far, they seem content to stay back and watch. Arthur figured it was because he was visibly sick and mostly unarmed, and Byleth had her sword with her.

"You are angry." Byleth said, slowly averting her gaze to look at something ahead. "But you are not helping me understand why."

Arthur took a deep, painful breath to calm himself. Byleth was extremely hard to read, but it seemed obvious enough that she genuinely did not know what a gun was. A deep, sinking feeling had started to descend on his chest and down to his stomach, and he wasn't sure it was because of his tuberculosis.

"Look, just... forget about what I said." He said, his voice thick and strained. "Don't know what came over me, neither. Ain't fair to take out my frustrations on you. I'm sorry."

"I still don't understand," Byleth said, setting her sword and stone aside. "But I think I should be the one to apologise. I have a habit of annoying others, or making them angry. I'm not... good with people. This is something I'm trying to improve."

Arthur coughed, vigorously shaking his head. "I don't deserve your apologies. I'm the one who blew up at you for no damn reason. Let's just start over, and I promise not to get mad. We have a deal, Ms. Eisner?"

Byleth took a moment to study Arthur before slowly nodding, "Okay."

Arthur sighed. "Okay."

The young woman tried to reach out for her sword and her stone again, only to stop halfway through. "I do not know what guns are. They are common weapons from where you're from, are they not?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah. You'd be a fool not to have one to defend yourself with. That sword of yours ain't gonna do you any good if I could just use a gun to shoot you dead before you can get close enough to use it."

Arthur could have sworn he just saw Byleth's eyes shining in excitement for a moment. "So guns are like bows. Bows can be nullified with good armour."

The outlaw smirked at that. "Armour ain't worth a damn if you have the proper gun. Revolvers may have trouble shooting through metal, but a rifle or a shotgun will shred through armour any time of the day."

"Revolvers? What is a rifle or a shotgun? I don't understand."

"I can show you the guns I have, if Jeralt doesn't decide to shoot me with them."

"Father has your guns? And why would he shoot you with them?"

It was another moment before Tekla reappeared, carrying a bowl of stew in both hands. Arthur was going to question why she brought two instead of three, when he spotted Jeralt following behind her, also carrying two bowls of stew.

"Looks like Byleth got to you eventually, Mr. Morgan." The supposed mercenary captain was smiling at the two of them as he and Tekla joined them on the grass. He handed his second bowl of stew to his daughter before digging in on his own. "She's been wanting to talk to you since she heard you were awake."

Arthur took the bowl Tekla was handing him and studied its contents. It looked to be minced turkey mixed with chopped onions. "Can't be worse than Pearson's..." He mumbled as he picked up his spoon and went to eat.

Byleth nodded. "We did talk. I learned what I wanted to learn."

Tekla had already slurped through half of her stew, much to Arthur's surprise. She must be hungry. "Yeah? What's that, Byleth?"

"That Mr. Morgan is a warrior," In contrast, Byleth slowly picked at her stew, and chewed just as slowly. "But he does not use a sword, a lance, or an axe. He fights with a weapon I have never seen before."

"You figure that out on your own, miss?" Arthur tasted salt and some kind of foreign seasoning in the stew. It was a simple thing, but the ingredients really stood out to him. "No, don't answer that."

"As you wish." Byleth nodded.

Jeralt swallowed a spoonful of his stew. Arthur couldn't help but notice the captain watching him the whole time the four of them ate. "You know, Tekla told me how shocked you were when she healed you with white magic, as if you hadn't seen its use before. Don't you have white mages where you're from?"

Arthur took a moment to gather himself and answer the question. "No. No, we don't. If you was sick or injured, you went to see doctors or learned men. Back where I'm from, we didn't have magic, period. Till I fell in with you folks, I always considered magic to be the stuff of tall tales and charlatans preyin' on the gullible."

At this, Jeralt flashed a palm and conjured a ball of white light from it. Arthur stared at it in quiet awe, until the man drew back and flung it at a nearby tree. The ball exploded upon impact with the tree, and left behind a visible scorch mark on its trunk.

"From the way your jaw dropped, I can tell you weren't lying about never seeing magic before." Jeralt said, chuckling. He nonchalantly went back to eating.

"That's the strangest thing I've ever heard." Tekla set her empty bowl on the grass. "Magic can be found almost everywhere in Fódlan, and even beyond. Wherever did you come from, Mr. Morgan, to never have seen it until now?"

Arthur was still trying to process what Jeralt just showed him when he realised Tekla was talking to him. "That... that don't matter now, I think. You said magic could be found in... Foad-lun?"

"Fódlan." Byleth said, mid-chew.

"What the girl said." Tekla had Arthur's full attention now. "I've never even heard of it. Where is Fódlan?"

"Well, you're sitting on it." Jeralt said as he patted the ground, seemingly not caring that he was dirtying his hand while eating. "Like I told you last night, we're in the Kingdom of Faerghus, in the Tailtean Plains. Faerghus is in Fódlan, which is the name of the continent we are in."

The mercenary captain could clearly see Arthur getting even paler by the moment. "Interesting. You've never even heard of these places, but you somehow found yourself in them. However did you get here, Mr. Morgan? And if you're from somewhere far, how come you're speaking our language?"

Arthur coughed, the sinking feeling in his chest now threatening to strangle his innards. "Mr. Eisner..." He began, after carefully considering what he wanted to say. "I know you've no reason to help me again after savin' my life, but can you get me a map and show me where you found me?"

"You're thinking of going back there?" Tekla asked, though the worried look on her face shows she already knew what Arthur was going to say.

"I'm also gonna need you to give me my guns back," The outlaw continued. "No way in hell I'm headin' out into the wild without the means to protect myself."

Jeralt put a hand to his chin, a contemplative look on his face. "Your... guns? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. If you meant your weapons, the only thing we found on you was a long knife, which I'm sure Tekla had given back to you, along with the rest of your things. Trust me when I say that we have no reason to steal from you — my mercenaries earn what we own, and I intend to personally punish thieves and looters in my employ."

Even the old bastard doesn't know what a gun is. Arthur fumed. Damn these yokels! Which backward part of the world have I ended up on? Am I even in 1899?

Arthur closed his eyes and thought about where he last left his weapons. He remembered fighting Micah in hand-to-hand for his last revolver, which Dutch had kicked away somewhere down the mountain. His other revolver had been left behind in one of Buell's saddlebags after the poor stallion was shot from under him, along with his shotgun and his 1860 Litchfield Arms repeater rifle.

Muttering an oath, Arthur quickly finished his stew and set his bowl down. "I guess the knife will do. I won't presume by asking for a sword or nothin', not that I know how to use it. But can you spare me anything your men don't need? An axe, or a bow, or something..."

Byleth swallowed her food and stared at Arthur. "You fight with an axe and a bow?"

The outlaw shrugged. "Sometimes."

"I want to see you fight." She said, to Arthur's surprise. "We should spar."

Jeralt chuckled. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves... and I doubt Mr. Morgan is in any condition to be fighting, especially someone like you, kid."

Byleth actually appeared disheartened at that. "I see."

Arthur shook his head, ignoring Byleth. "Can you help me, Mr. Eisner?"

The mercenary captain didn't seem to hesitate as he nodded, "While I don't approve of letting a sick man venture out into the wild on his own, I'm curious to hear about what you think you'll find back in that cliff. You'll get your map, and I'll also lend you a horse and let you take your pick from our armoury. In return, I only ask that you come back and let me know what you found out there."

Arthur sighed in relief, only to end up in another coughing fit. When he recovered, he extended a hand to the other man. "We have a deal, then?"

Jeralt shook it. "It's a deal."

...


...

An hour later, Arthur was standing at the entrance to Jeralt's camp, armed with his trusty hunting knife, a bundle of lightweight axes, and a new longbow with a matching quiver filled with arrows. The outlaw only had to wait another few minutes before one of Jeralt's men approached him with the reins of a palfrey in his hand.

"This is Shoshanna," The mercenary, a young man who brusquely introduced himself as Jaeger, said. He handed the reins over to Arthur with a frown, as though being forced to part with a precious belonging. "She's a good girl, perfect for beginners like you. You'll take care of her, right?"

Arthur ignored the lad as he fed the horse a carrot, patting it by the neck. "I'll bring her back safe and sound, worry your head none."

"You better." Jaeger huffed. "Check one of the saddlebags, there's some provisions, field supplies, and a map the captain had marked for you."

"Yep." Arthur nodded absently, still focused on the palfrey. She had the same colouration as Boadicea, he realised. He hoped Shoshanna wasn't as ill-tempered as her, though.

"And you better come back." Jaeger continued. "Otherwise, you'd better watch your back. We'll track you down and make you regret crossing us."

Arthur grimaced. "You gonna bark all day, son? I made a deal with your boss, and I ain't in the habit of breaking deals."

Jaeger spat on the ground next to Arthur's feet before walking away.

"Goddamn kids these days, I swear. No respect..." Arthur gave Shoshanna one final pat before making to mount her saddle. When he saw Byleth rounding a corner and approaching him and leading a horse of her own by the reins, however, he had no choice but to wait and hear what she had to say.

"Tekla is worried about your consumption." The young woman said, as soon as she was close. "She asked father to leave the camp with you, but he told her she must stay. We still have wounded from our last contract, and she is our best healer."

Arthur coughed. "Is that right? Why're you here, then?"

"Yes, it is right." Byleth nodded. "I'm here because she asked me to go with you, and to take these," She turned and reached into one of the saddlebags on her horse, producing a leather satchel that made audible clinking sounds of glass with every movement. "—to give to you."

The outlaw took the satchel from Byleth. "What's this?"

"Healing concoctions. Each one contains crushed medicinal herbs infused with white magic, and are ingested by warriors to treat wounds on the battlefield, though I was told you should take them to keep your condition in check." Byleth explained as she promptly mounted her horse. "Shall we proceed?"

"Hey, now just hold up a minute, missy," Arthur held up a hand. "Ms. Schneider said you should ride after me, but last I heard, she ain't the one in charge here. Did Jeralt say you have his permission?"

"I don't know." The young woman tilted her head to the side. If Arthur wasn't mistaken, there was just a hint of a smile on her face just then. "I did not stay to ask him for it. Do you need help mounting your horse, or shall I lead the way?"

Unbelievable. Shaking his head, Arthur stashed away the bag of concoctions and mounted Shoshanna. "I can't stop you from coming with, but you better stick close, Ms. Eisner. Rather not have to come back here and explain to Jeralt how I got you killed."

"Do not worry about me, Mr. Morgan. I am quite capable of defending myself."

"Right..." Arthur fished around his saddlebags until he found Jeralt's map. Looking at it, his fears were confirmed when he recognised nothing about the land depicted in it. It really did seem as though he was spirited away into an unfamiliar continent... if not an entirely new world with magic and primitive people.

"Are you alright, Mr. Morgan?" Byleth trotted up on her horse next to Arthur's.

"I'm all good," Arthur scanned the map as he tried not to look as lost as he was feeling. "Faerghus, Faerghus... ah. This here's the Tailtean Plains... and Jeralt was kind enough to mark where we are, and which road should we take."

The outlaw touched the area of the map marked with a circled cross. Sure enough, it was in the middle of a mountainous terrain. "And this... was were you folks found me."

He looked ahead, along the wooded path, then to his companion. "Last chance to back out, Ms. Eisner."

Byleth shook her head. "Someone has to make sure you returned safely. Let us proceed."

Together, the two of them left camp and entered the woods. Whilst there, they came across many strange trees and plants that Arthur had never seen before. Asking Byleth about some of the plants proved fruitless, however, as she seemed just as clueless as he was.

"They are just plants," She said. "Why do they interest you so?"

Arthur coughed. "They might be useful plants, for one. They could be medicinal, or make for some good eating."

Byleth seemed to consider this. "I see. I suppose you can ask Tekla about them, or any of our hunters. Viktor grows plants and herbs, as I recall."

After some time riding, Arthur and Byleth reached the overgrown road Arthur was hoping to find. According to Jeralt's annotated map, following the road should allow them to reach his destination before dusk.

"This way," He beckoned at Byleth, who seemed distracted by something. "Come on, miss."

Ms. Eisner stopped staring into the distant woods and wordlessly trotted after Arthur.

Along the path, Arthur could feel it getting harder to breathe again, though it seemed mundane and even familiar compared to the sensation of hunger he had been experiencing more and more. It hadn't been a couple of hours since he ate, but he still felt as though he could go for something to chew, or at least put in his mouth to nibble at.

"You know this place, kid?" He said to Byleth beside him as he uncorked one of Tekla's concoctions. The smell wafting from the open bottle was unexpectedly pleasant, like flowers and citrus. He took an experimental sip from it.

"Not very well. Father only takes contracts in Faerghus if the pay is substantial enough." She said. "May I ask you about your clothes?"

Arthur almost spit out his concoction. "You what— my clothes? What about 'em?"

"I find them interesting. I've never seen anyone dressed like you before." Byleth explained, still in her monotone. "Did you make them yourself?"

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. "Me? Heh, naw. I went to a tailor, like anybody else. If I got my clothes torn up in a gunfight or for any other reason, Ms. Grimshaw... and the other ladies... patch 'em up for me, good as new." The outlaw's smile slowly disappeared as thoughts of Susan Grimshaw entered his mind. He had known the woman since he was a teenager, and even thought of her as a surrogate mother. The thought that she was gone forever was somehow even more painful than the worst tuberculosis could inflict on him. With a sigh, Arthur closed his eyes and basked in the memories.

"Perhaps you can lend them to me sometime." Byleth's voice pulled him back to reality. "I have been practicing sewing in between contracts, and I wish to study the design behind your clothes."

Arthur shook his head to force himself to return to alertness. It wasn't the time nor the place. "Sure. Make me a new hat while you're at it. We just gotta get back to camp alive first."

The two of them rode along the disused path, mostly in silence. Arthur sipped away at his concoction as he examined the sights he and his younger companion passed by, including animals and more unfamiliar flora. He wished he had his journal and a pen to write and draw the sights with, but for now, the outlaw was content with committing them to memory to write about later. While he was busy taking in the sights, he also kept an eye on Ms. Eisner to make sure she was safe, more often than not finding her already looking at him, his clothes, his horse, or the weapons he was carrying.

Back home, when women stared at him for too long, Arthur knew he was about to be propositioned. It's either that, or he was about to get shot at. Byleth, however, seemed to stare at him out of pure curiosity, as though she wanted to know all about him. While unsettling at first, he soon found himself not minding the different kind of attention, though he admitted her manners could use some work. Had Jeralt intentionally raised his daughter to be this... strange?

After some time, the air around the area had slowly dropped in temperature until Arthur had to button up his coat. The woods around them, once thick and dense, had begun to disperse until Arthur could see the mountains ahead. The ground itself had turned rugged and a tad snowy, and it wasn't long before they reached the end of the road they were travelling on. By then, the sun had just started to make its descent from the sky.

"Gettin' close now," Arthur said, listening to the sound of Shoshanna's hooves audibly clacking against rocks and gravel. "You doing alright, Ms. Eisner?"

"Yes." Came her reply. Contrary to her word, she seemed to be shivering slightly. Arthur blamed it on her clothes.

Using Jeralt's map to guide them on their way, the outlaw and the young mercenary rode on through the mountains. While Arthur led Shoshanna onward with little difficulty due to his vast experience riding horses, Byleth was obviously having a difficult time keeping her mount from following Arthur's trail without it bucking her off, especially as they climbed higher and higher up the area. After some time, Arthur had to dismount and let Byleth ride the calmer and more docile Shoshanna, whereas he had to proceed on foot while leading Byleth's own horse by its reins as it was too agitated to let him ride it. Byleth's face remained impassive as usual, but he could tell from her hunched shoulders and bowed head that she felt rather embarrassed at this turn of events.

After a little more time than expected, they were almost to their destination. Arthur had to stop once in a while to catch his breath or to take a sip out of a concoction bottle, and Byleth waited silently for him every time. During one of these stops, he examined his surroundings to find anything interesting, and indeed, he could begin to see how the terrain resembled the area where he lost Buell to a Pinkerton's gun, on his final day in New Hanover. Even the rocks and the trees seem uncannily identical in placement.

But something was wrong. Arthur stopped again near a tree and hitched Byleth's horse to it. Slowly, he made his way to a patch of disturbed ground and crouched next to it, examining what caught his eye.

"Mr. Morgan?" Byleth rode up close to him. "What did you find?"

Arthur touched the dirt and held his gloved hand up to his face for a moment. Grimacing, he then wiped his hand on his trousers. "Keep your eyes peeled, Ms. Eisner. These ain't animal tracks."

To her credit, Byleth seemed to understand their situation immediately. As Arthur followed the tracks, Byleth quickly hitched Arthur's horse next to hers and dismounted before hurrying over to him. "The terrain is favourable. I can scout ahead and hit them from behind if you can distract them long enough."

Arthur stopped tracking to give her an incredulous look. "Relax, kid. I ain't putting you at risk like that, if I can help it. Just stick close behind me, and keep outta sight. All goes well, we might not even need to fight."

Byleth nodded, falling in behind Arthur.

As they progressed further up the mountain, Arthur began to notice more signs of activity. Bootprints and disturbed earth where bodies must have fallen before being moved later could be seen more commonly. What caught Arthur's attention the most, however, was how familiar the place looked. He recognised the area very clearly — it was where he gunned down many Pinkertons as they attempted to gun him and John Marston down.

But that was in New Hanover, in America. All signs pointed to him being in the southern region of the Tailtean Plains, in Fódlan. Why in God's name did this place look identical to the mountains of New Hanover?

"I see movement ahead," Byleth suddenly droned in, causing Arthur to snap his gaze from the ground to the path ahead. "Four of them. Now five. Six."

"Stay low." Arthur said as he examined the situation up front. Three men in leather hides and ratty gambesons were gathered around a pile of human bodies stacked on top of each other, and it was clear they were stripping the dead for their belongings. Two more were pushing a wagon that seemed to be piled high with horse saddles, and another man was clearly keeping watch, a composite bow in his hands. All over the area, dead horses lay strewn about, with some deprived of their saddles. These men were looters, plain and simple.

"They're in our way," Arthur turned and said to Byleth. "The cliff is further up ahead. We'll have to go past these vultures to get there."

Byleth nodded as her hand clasped the hilt of her sheathed blade. Arthur stopped her with a hand on her arm. "You oughtta stay here, Ms. Eisner. I'll try and talk to them."

"That is ill-advised," Byleth said. "They are well-armed and outnumber you. Your odds of defeating them if they decide to kill you are low."

Arthur let go. "I suppose you got some mercenary wisdom to dispense, then?"

Byleth tilted her head at that, her eyes seeming to soften in mild amusement before quickly returning to their usual blank state. "I suggest a direct charge with me up front. They look unprepared for battle — they will scatter when they see me, letting you pick them off with your bow."

Arthur almost laughed. Six woodland scum scattering at the sight of a charging blue-haired waif with a sword like Byleth? A funny mental image, but unhelpful. "Now ain't the time for jokes, missy. Just stay hidden and let me talk to them."

Byleth blinked. "That was not a joke. You're making a mistake, Mr. Morg—"

"Just trust me." Arthur stifled a cough. "I promised to come back to camp, didn't I? I ain't dying tonight."

The young mercenary still didn't seem convinced, to Arthur's annoyance. "Alright, alright, don't gimme that look. First sign of trouble, I'll double back and we can go with your brilliant plan. That sound good, Byleth?"

In the end, she nodded. "This is your mission... Arthur. I will obey."

Arthur sighed. He uncorked another concoction and gulped it down in one swig. "Here goes."

Breaking out of cover, the outlaw strode forth and tried to appear as harmless as he could by hiding his knife and his axes behind his black duster and raising his empty hands for viewing. His longbow stayed slung over his shoulder and across his body, which he hoped would not arouse suspicion. Hunters were not an uncommon sight in the woods, after all.

"Hey, fellas!" He shouted to the looters once he was close enough. "I mean you boys no harm. Just need to go past you, is all!"

The men were quick to react to his presence. "Stop right there, you bastard, or I'll shoot you dead!" The bowman nocked an arrow and took aim at Arthur as his comrades stopped what they were doing and scrambled to back him up.

The outlaw complied. "I ain't no threat to you! Don't know whatcha doin', don't care watcha doin'! I'm just a hunter on my way to my usual spot!"

"Stay right where you are!" The bowman shouted again. Arthur counted the seconds as the bowman continued to aim at him, while his fellows got into position.

"Who the hell is it?" Arthur heard one of them ask their sentry.

"Some yokel with a bow. Says he's a hunter." The bowman's voice echoed.

"What did he say he want?"

"Says he just wants to pass through. His hunting spot is ahead of us, apparently.

"Goddess, I thought the grand duke's men found us, the way you're shouting. This ain't worth my time, I'm going back to work."

"Yeah, me too."

"Count me in."

The bowman slowly lowered his bow as most of his fellows turned and made to go back to their loot. "What do you want me to do with this guy?"

"Do what you want," The apparent leader of this band of scum shouted behind his shoulder with a dismissive wave of his arm. "We won't be in Faerghus for long, with the money we'll make off this haul after we turn it in with thr masters."

The bowman laughed as he set his sights back to Arthur. "You there! Keep your hands where I can see them and come over here. Make it quick, before I shoot you!"

Arthur recognised the gleeful, yet murderous glint in the man's eyes. He was the kind of man who would indulge in inflicting cruelties on others because he was bored.

Hoping Byleth remained hidden, Arthur decided to comply again. "I'm comin', I'm comin', goddammit! Don't shoot!"

As Arthur made his way to the looters, he watched as the bowman beckoned a fellow looter to come close. The two of them seemed unable to keep themselves from grinning in delight as their next prey willingly approached them.

"Look what we have here," The bowman's friend, a stocky, bull-nosed thug with what looked like a mace clipped to his belt, leered at Arthur. "A lost sheep in the company of wolves. You shouldn't have come here, friend."

The bowman put away his bow and pulled out a dagger. He waved it at Arthur's face, which would have been threatening, if he weren't several inches shorter than the outlaw up close. "Whatever valuables you got, it's ours now. Drop everything you have, and give me that coat. Now, before I lose my patience and start cutting fingers!"

Arthur couldn't help but scoff. He tried to look for an opening to make his move. These two he had to deal with quickly, as the others were just a second away from getting up on his face.

"Hey, hold up a second," Arthur's examination was cut short when he spotted a familiar shade of cremello gold on the ground, among the dead horses being looted. "That's... that's... oh, you gutless, bottom-feeding bastards."

It was Buell. The Dutch Warmblood was still wearing his saddle, and he was about to be stripped to the bone by these vultures.

"Hey! Didn't you hear me, you slack-jawed yokel?" The bowman shouted in his face, seemingly oblivious to the way Arthur's face twisting in rage. "I said hand over your things!" When Arthur didn't react, he lunged forward and grasped the outlaw's collar, menacing him with the dagger in his other hand. "You damn fool! Don't you ignore me!"

"He froze up, Merek. Fear does that to you." The other thug chuckled. "Stab him in the shoulder. Let's see him ignore you then."

The bowman flashed a bloodthirsty grin. Rearing back to do just that, he seemed almost baffled at how Arthur easily blocked his strike from landing with his forearm.

"What the—" With a snarl of rage, Arthur smashed his fist into the man's face, crushing his nose and knocking him down to the ground with a strangled yelp. He tried to scramble up, only for Arthur to cut him and his life short with a boot to the skull.

The second thug's eyes were wide with surprise and he sputtered in anger as he clumsily tried to unclip his mace from his belt. In one swift motion, Arthur drew his bow from his shoulders, nocked an arrow, and loosed low. The looter squealed like a stuck pig as he dropped to a knee, with an arrow through his leg.

"Heads up, we got company!"

The four other looters seemed shocked at what just happened, but they did not waste another second gawking before rushing at Arthur, swords, spears, and axes raised.

"Archbishop's arse, it's that damn hunter!

"Let's add his corpse to the pile, boys! Tear him apart!"

Scowling, Arthur snatched an arrow from his quiver, reared back, and impaled the squealing thug through the eye with it, abruptly silencing him. He was quick to pull away and nock the bloody arrow before letting it loose at one of the charging looters. His shot proved true as his third victim toppled to the ground, an arrow clear through his throat.

By the time Arthur had nocked another arrow, the three other thugs were already upon him. He was forced to stop drawing as he sidestepped a wild swing of an axe, then had to drop his bow entirely when another thug crashed against him and tried to force him on the ground.

"I'll rip your heart out!" The looter screamed in Arthur's face, showering him in spittle.

In response, Arthur drew his knife from his coat and stabbed him twice in the gut, once in the side, and another time in the throat before pushing him down to bleed out. The outlaw had no time to pause for breath however, as one of the thugs slashed him in the back, making him cry out as he stumbled forward, his knife slipping from his hand. The two remaining thugs closed in on him from the front and back. The one who slashed him from behind was wielding a sword, and the one up front was menacing him with a long-hafted spear.

"Breathe your last, dog!"

Arthur stared down the spear-wielding looter in front of him, waiting for the scum to make his move. Behind him, he was aware of how the other looter had his own sword raised high in the air, angled to finish Arthur with a single blow. When the spearman lunged at Arthur, the outlaw waited at the last split-second before dodging the predictable thrust, simultaneously pivoting on his heel to turn around and face the swordsman while grasping the thrusting spear by the haft mid-dodge.

The spearman could do nothing but watch as Arthur forcefully redirected his own weapon and used its momentum to run the swordsman through, eliciting a shrill cry of pain from the man. The spearman tried to wrench his weapon away from Arthur's grasp, but the outlaw proved stronger and much more skilled in hand-to-hand combat as he jabbed his elbow hard into the looter's nose, making him relinquish his grip on his weapon as he staggered back, moaning in pain. With a firm grasp on the haft of his new spear, Arthur pried the weapon loose from the swordsman's chest, then impaled him again through the neck, putting him out of his misery.

Hearing the metallic rasp of a blade leaving its sheath from behind, Arthur whipped around, just in time to see the spearman charge at him with his side-weapon — an arming sword. Arthur simply used the superior reach of his spear to impale the man through the leg to arrest his momentum, before doing the same to his arm, making him drop his blade. With his foe rendered helpless, Arthur lunged with his spear, a guttural scream of rage and anguish escaping his mouth as he thrust into his opponent's heart with all his might. Such was the force of his blow, that when Arthur struck his foe, the spear punched through the man's hide armour and swept him clear off his feet before Arthur angled the spear downwards and pinned his body to the ground with it.

The impaled looter groaned and feebly struggled on the ground for a while before eventually falling silent as his body ceased struggling. Breathing hard in exertion, Arthur leaned his weight onto the spear. He stared into wide-open eyes of the looter he just killed as he strained to catch his breath, watching the dead man's pupils slowly dilate. After he had recovered somewhat, he let go of the spear, straightened himself, and picked up his discarded bow and knife from the ground. Coughing and wheezing, the outlaw then staggered his way to Buell's corpse nearby.

Upon reaching his former mount, Arthur sunk to his knees and wrapped his arms around Buell's neck, resting his head on the stallion's own. Hamish Sinclair's beloved steed had started to decompose and reeked of blood and decay, but Arthur found himself not caring for the dismal scents as memories of Sean, Lenny, Hosea, Ms. Grimshaw, and everyone else he had lost or left behind flooded his mind.

Arthur tried to resist it, but he was not strong enough. He let the tears flow freely as he embraced Buell's body.

After some time, Arthur knew he must forge onward. His family would have wanted him to seize his renewed life by the reins and make something out of it. He resolved to live on in their honour, and remember them always.

With a final shuddering breath, Arthur sat up and wiped his eyes, giving Buell one last, loving pat. He searched the stallion's saddlebags for his possessions and soon enough, found several portions of preserved and canned food, scattered revolver, shotgun, and rifle munitions, sticks of dynamite, some of his clothes folded in a case, and his trusty pearl-gripped, black iron-cast Schofield Model 3 revolver. Sighing at the feeling of being reunited with some of his things from his old life, Arthur holstered the Schofield and reached under Buell's saddle, hoping to God or whoever else was listening to grant him one final wish.

For once, things seemed to go Arthur's way. His hand gripped a leather-wrapped stock, and when he pulled it free, he was rewarded with a reassuring sight: his old Litchfield repeater, its black iron-plated barrels glistening in the fading sunlight. He hoped to find his shotgun, but he wasn't surprised he couldn't. Last he remembered, it was hanging on Buell's saddle by its strap in the open.

Shouting from the distance forced Arthur to cut his reminiscing short, and all the warning he got that he was under attack was a hail of arrows lodging themselves into Buell's hide. Caught out in the open with nothing to take cover behind, Arthur was forced to drop down and use his former mount's carcass to shield himself from another rain of arrows. Peering over Buell's saddle, Arthur hissed out a curse as he spotted a larger group of thugs approaching from further ahead, pelting him with arrows as they did.

"Argh, come on! Shit!" The outlaw clutched his Litchfield to his chest, then stood on a knee. He aimed at the closest of the thugs and pulled the trigger, only to be rewarded with a pathetic click as the gun refused to fire. "Goddammit!"

Arthur dropped on his stomach again as his opponents kept loosing arrow after arrow at him. He scooped a handful of rifle munitions from his bandolier and frantically tried to reload as the looters continued to close in. He hoped to take out two or three of the enemy bowmen before he was completely surrounded, after which he would then resort to his revolver. Anything could happen after that.

Fortunately for the outlaw, he was not alone in his fight.

Panicked shouts from the looters reached Arthur's ears as the arrows suddenly stopped coming his way. He dared to see what had them so alarmed, and found Byleth charging onwards, sword drawn and batting aside arrows with it.

"It's the Ashen Demon!"

"By the goddess, it's her! What do we do?"

"You idiots, we're all going to die!"

Arthur looked on in awe at the sight of Jeralt's dainty waif of a daughter reaching her first victim, deftly avoiding the man's axe before disarming and cutting him down in a pair of masterful, fluid motions. Before the dead man's body even hit the ground, Byleth was already onto the next terrified thug, dispatching him with the same graceful ease as before. She moved terrifyingly quick and agile for someone wearing heels as she advanced to intercept her next unfortunate foe.

Shaking his head, Arthur finished reloading and stood up. Lining up his shot, he fired at a thug who was aiming a bow at Byleth, ventilating his skull. Advancing slowly towards the fray, Arthur cycled his gun, took aim and fired at another thug. Another headshot. Cycle, aim, fire, headshot. Three down. Headshot, headshot, headshot. Six down.

The loud reports from Arthur's gun and the abrupt manner of which he dispatched his foes diverted the looters' attention from Byleth — a fatal mistake. As the men scrambled to figure out how to deal with Arthur delivering rapid death from afar, the young mercenary used the distraction to strike at the looters unimpeded. Limbs flew and heads rolled as Byleth cut a bloody swathe through the looters' ranks. Those who saw her coming and tried to fight back soon found themselves hopelessly outmatched as Byleth parried and counterattacked with incredible speed and agility. Those who tried to flee were spared none of Byleth's lethal attention as she mercilessly cut them down before they could get too far.

In the end, Arthur cycled his gun, looked down the sights, and found no one but Byleth still standing downrange. She stared back at him through his sights, blood dripping from her blade.

Arthur coughed, lowering his gun. "Ms. Eisner."

"Mr. Morgan." She nodded, flicking her weapon before sheathing it.

"You, uh, you alright?"

"I am unharmed. Are you unharmed?"

Arthur reached behind him, touched his wound, and winced. It was a glancing blow, but it cut through his clothes and bit into the skin, leaving his gloved hand stained with drops of blood. "Nothin' Ms. Schneider or a stiff drink can't fix." He shook the blood off his hand.

The two of them surveyed their surroundings. By Arthur's estimate, the gang of looters seemed to have been a little more than two dozen strong before he and Byleth wiped them out.

"Who were these people? They look identically dressed."

Arthur turned aside to look at his companion, finding her looking down at the corpses of the Pinkerton agents he had killed with John back in New Hanover, gathered in one big pile and stripped of their weapons and valuables, which were then stashed in a nearby wagon. How they ended up in Fódlan with him was a mystery Arthur wasn't likely to uncover.

"They was Pinkertons. Government men." He said, shouldering his rifle and walking over to her. "They tried to kill my family... so I killed them. It don't matter now."

"I think I would have done the same." Byleth stared at the dead Pinkertons for another while before turning to Arthur. "Forgive me, Mr. Morgan. I underestimated you. I thought you were dead when that man from the first group tried to attack you with a dagger. I hardly expected you to turn the tables like you did, much less kill all six of them on your own."

"Just got lucky," Arthur waved her off with a cough. "And I'd be dead for real if you wasn't such a terror with that sword. What was it they called you, the Ashen Demon?"

"I seem to have built a reputation over the years." She said, though she didn't sound too pleased about it. She looked up to Arthur, her eyes glistening in curiosity. "I saw you hugging that horse on the ground. I did not understand what you were doing. You almost failed to notice the enemy's reinforcements approaching to intercept you. Then I realised... you were crying. Why?"

Arthur stayed silent. He turned to look at Buell, his corpse now riddled with arrows. Even in death, the noble stallion had served his last master very well, his large frame providing more than adequate cover. Hamish would have been proud.

"Don't worry about it, kid. Consumption can sometimes feel worse than a kick to the balls." Arthur said. "Now, come on. I think we can make it to the cliff on foot from here. We should hurry before we run outta daylight."

...


...

"This is it?"

Arthur and Byleth stood before the cliff marked on Jeralt's map.

"Yep." Arthur stared ahead. He coughed into his fist. "This is the place."

Byleth looked ahead, over to the plains below. From this height, Arthur could see the serene beauty of the Faerghan countryside, framed by the last rays of light from a departing sun. "It's a nice view."

Arthur nodded. "It sure is."

The evening breeze blew over them as they took in the sight. Arthur glanced aside to Byleth, finding her looking far ahead, clearly mesmerised by the view despite her blank expression. While indeed breathtaking to behold, it wasn't what had drawn Arthur to this place.

"I remember lying here," He ambled next to the cliff, placing a hand against the stone. "I was exhausted. Beaten. Dying. I crawled up here, knowin' my time was up. I watched the dawn, then closed my eyes..."

"But you didn't die." Byleth said, following Arthur. "This is where my father said he found you. You were alive, but barely."

Arthur sighed. "The thing is, Ms. Eisner, he shouldn't have found me. I was sure this place was in New Hanover. How did I, them Pinkertons, and this whole goddamn cliff ended up here, in a world I didn't even know existed?"

Byleth glanced around. "I do not know."

No more words were exchanged between the two of them as they watched the sunset. As the sun disappeared behind the distant lands, Arthur bid an unspoken goodbye to his old life. His family was gone, and he was now alone.

"Right, kid, it's gettin' dark and cold. Let's get the hell outta here." Arthur turned and began to walk back where they came. "I reckon we finish what those vultures started, and take everything of value we can find before headin' back to camp. We can use one of the wagons they brought and let our horses pull it home."

Byleth lingered at the cliff another moment before following after her charge. "I would like to have a gun, Mr. Morgan. They appear to perform in combat as formidably as you described."

Arthur shrugged. "Sure, you can take your pick from those dead Pinkertons... but I think I'll keep the rest of the guns, though. Wouldn't want them to end up in the wrong hands."

"Quite astute. I would have said the same thing." Byleth nodded.


A/N: this was... something. Playing both of these games at the same time really put me in a writing mood, I guess. Anyway, onto the most important bits:

1. This story will be written mostly in Arthur's perspective. The POV will change a couple of times, but not frequently, and not for long.

2. I tend to write lengthy chapters, which means it's likely I will update this one less frequently after chapter 3 or 4... but when I do update, it'll be around 10k words minimum.

3. Though I have a lot of experience with writing, I usually write in another language, and my English is not as good as I'd like. Expect typos/grammar problems, especially since I don't have betas and do my own proofreading. It's my hope to improve as I go, though.

Alright, that's it. See you in a few days!