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Garreg Mach Monastery, 5th of the Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1180
It was a beautiful day, and for the first time in a good while, Byleth was standing still long enough to notice.
The sun shone radiantly overhead, bright enough to warm the skin without making one sweat, and wispy white clouds meandered past, spurred on by the slight breeze. Byleth leaned on the low wall outside of the dining hall, gazing out on the calm waters of the fishing pond. With it being such a nice day, there were many passersby to observe, but her attention was focused upon the blue-haired boy sitting at the edge of the dock. Caspar was seated next to Linhardt, carrying on a one-sided conversation while the green-haired mage made a valiant attempt to fish. Given how well Byleth could make out Caspar’s story—something about a new grappling move he’d learned that week—she figured Linhardt had his work cut out for him if he wanted to actually catch anything.
It couldn’t have been pleasant to have Caspar’s voice booming directly in his ear; still, she could understand why Linhardt hadn’t asked him to quiet down. He looked so happy, all big emotion and grand hand gestures and volume, volume, volume, living a maximalist existence with such unbridled lust for life.
She looked at him, studying his increasingly muscular teenage frame, the questionable way he styled his sky-blue hair, how passionately he spoke and moved, talking animatedly with his hands while taking tender care to avoid clocking Linhardt upside the head.
She looked at him and tried her hardest to overwrite the image of him trapped in her mind’s eye with this one.
He’s happy. He’s alive. Everything is fine.
She told herself this over and over, hoping it would drown out the contrasting voices in her head.
It almost worked.
Until last week’s battle, she’d nearly managed to convince herself that her first experience using Sothis’s Divine Pulse had simply been a dream—some hallucination, imagining, or false memory—rather than a very real event. If it had been a dream, she couldn’t explain why she could perfectly recall the physical sensation of the bandit leader’s axe blade carving through her skin, muscle, and bone as it came down between her shoulder blades, cleaving her spine in two. Then there had been that hot hum in her chest and odd pulling feeling behind her navel as Sothis manifested their consciousnesses together in the dreamy haze of her throne room, granting Byleth a power that brought her back to life... and let her save another’s, as well.
It defied belief to think such power existed at all, let alone that it rested in her hands.
She sighed and rubbed her chin, unable to tear her gaze away from the boy on the dock. She wanted to talk to Sothis, but she was asleep, claimed once again by her bizarre divine narcolepsy. Most days, Byleth struggled to believe she was actually real, though she’d inevitably wake up and comment on a situation or start a conversation that only Byleth could hear, keeping her on her toes. Still, it was Sothis’s power that had gotten her here, and she’d hoped the mysterious green-haired girl might be able to impart some wisdom.
Most of all, she wanted to talk to her father. Unfortunately, he was away on a mission for Lady Rhea, and he wasn’t supposed to be back for a few more days yet. It was strange to be apart from him after having spent almost her entire life following where he led. His absence was notable not just physically, in that she was no longer tucked in his shadow or ensconced in the shroud of his whiskey-and-leather scent, but also in a different way—one that tugged at her chest and sat heavily in her gut.
She realized she missed him. He’d always been there, and now she was alone.
Of course, she knew that wasn’t objectively true. She was surrounded by the students and staff of the Officers Academy, all of whom—with a handful of exceptions—had defied her expectations by welcoming her into the fold with open arms. The extent of her experiences living and working with others consisted of camping, traveling, and fighting alongside the rotating cast of warriors in her father’s mercenary band; despite the entire band being on retainer at the battalion guild and bunking in town merely a little ways down the mountain, she hadn’t so much as seen a single one of them since her arrival at the monastery.
To see the same faces every day for the past month or so was a significant enough change. To have them reach out to her to spend time together outside of missions or class was another matter, and one that struck Byleth as very strange indeed.
When she’d walk through the monastery grounds, they’d call out to her, waving her over to participate in a discussion or ask her a question. Often, said discussions and questions had nothing to do with schoolwork, theory, or their upcoming missions: she’d chatted with Lysithea and Annette about food, listened as Ignatz and Linhardt waxed poetic about the library, and discussed religious matters with Flayn and Seteth—the latter of whom, in spite of his apparent distrust of her and exasperation at her lack of knowledge of the Church, had taken the time to teach her about the Four Saints immortalized in the cathedral. To her greatest surprise, a rather friendly gatekeeper seemed to want to strike up a conversation every time she passed by, making small talk about fishing, the weather, and happenings around the monastery.
As a mercenary, she’d either been avoided or invisible, a living sword that serves a purpose. Here, she stuck out like a sore thumb, and she couldn’t figure out what everyone wanted from her. Surely, they couldn’t want to have her around simply for the sake of her company. There had to be something they wished for her to provide, and it was troubling to think she might not be meeting their expectations.
At least it was easy to keep busy. Her first two months at the academy had flown by so quickly, it had almost made her dizzy: there were lectures to deliver, assignments to grade, seminars to arrange, practice battles to coordinate, and myriad other activities to fill her days, all while also providing personalized instruction to her students, attempting to keep up with her own training, and preparing for their mission at the end of the month.
But during their mission just last week, it had all gone wrong, and she’d gotten Caspar killed.
Not that anyone else knew that, of course—least of all the boy himself. He was sitting on the dock, letting his feet dangle into the water, soaking up the late spring sun and basking in the breeze with his friend, talking and laughing and blissfully ignorant of how differently their battle in Zanado had gone for him in a version of life only Byleth knew.
She could still see him with his rib cage split open from the bandit’s powerful axe swing. She could still feel his blood on her hands and how it pooled around her knees as she knelt at his side, cradling his head in her arms, knowing he was beyond help and still desperately wanting to try something, anything.
Somehow, even with his lungs exposed to the air, he’d found the strength to croak out a few words. “Don’t blame yourself,” he’d told her. “It’s my fault for being weak.”
He’d tried his hardest to give her that brash smile of his. It had faltered. He’d whimpered, once, a long, keening sound. Then his lungs had deflated with his final rasping breath, his ice-blue eyes clouding over as he stared up at the sky without blinking.
Back in this reality, she stared down at where he sat on the dock; when her vision became unfocused and she was finally forced to blink, she kept her eyes closed.
The image of him in Zanado remained.
His last sounds continued to ring in her ears.
Briefly, she leaned down to rest her forehead against the wall’s warm stone, focusing on the feeling of the sun’s rays on her skin, on how the gentle breeze drifted through the locks of her blue hair, on the patter of footsteps on pavestones, on the braying of horses at the stables across the way, on the smell of the daily special cooking at the dining hall behind her, on the peals of his laughter ringing from his seat on the pier.
Raising her head with a low exhalation, she drummed her fingernails on the stone, letting its sunbaked surface heat her palms. The ghosts of his agony hadn’t fully left her mind; they’d merely quieted, providing a temporary reprieve. It would have to be enough for now.
Thus far, she’d tried to treat her tenure as a professor like any other mercenary contract with a series of objectives to complete. Prepare the students for military leadership roles. Train them in combat arts and strategy. Accomplish the missions assigned by the Archbishop and Seteth.
Above all, don’t let any of them die.
Byleth knew death as well as she knew the weight of her sword in her hand. She’d brought it upon countless others, seen it take her fellow mercenaries, had to report its presence to her father or the contract holder many a time. It was unpleasant, but it was a part of life, and a significant part of her life.
And in all her days of fighting, she couldn’t recall a single task she’d failed to complete. Although she might not have accomplished every job exactly as planned or intended—naturally, unexpected obstacles would arise from time to time—she’d become somewhat notorious as a relentless fighter, doggedly pursuing her duty to its conclusion.
But she’d realized then, on the dusty plateaus of the Red Canyon, that she’d failed. She’d been inattentive, or had underestimated the enemy, or employed a poor strategy. Regardless of what had happened, a boy had died, and it was her fault.
And while she suspected she couldn’t be more than a few years older than him, she’d realized as she held his small body in her arms that he was precisely that: a boy, pimpled and gangly, with scarcely a hair on his chin. She’d made a foolish, illogical attempt at pushing the fissure of his rib cage back together, as if the light would return to his eyes and the air to his lungs if she held him in one piece long enough for Linhardt or Dorothea to come heal his wounds. She’d torn her gaze away from his body, and when she met Linhardt’s stare from across the battlefield, the expression on his face had made her stomach twist.
Though the young mage wasn’t physically injured, she’d never seen someone in so much pain.
Lifting her eyes to the heavens, she’d called, aloud, for Sothis. She’d felt a strange jolt as the world spun to a stop, then felt that tugging sensation in her gut, as if she was falling from a great height. Everything ran backward in a cascade of color and sound, like a waterfall had reversed its current, and Sothis had briefly materialized in the periphery of Byleth’s blurry vision.
“Do it right this time,” was all she’d said.
And to Byleth’s credit, she had.
As far as anyone was concerned, the mission was a flawless success, with all the bandits routed and no casualties among the students. Byleth had been praised for her leadership, and the students had celebrated their victory by sneaking off to a tavern in town, inviting the professor to come along with them. While she’d appreciated the offer, she’d declined, citing the need to complete a report on the mission for the Archbishop. She’d instead spent the night in her quarters with a stomachache, staring at the ceiling, fruitlessly attempting to reconcile the two realities she alone had lived.
She’d wondered if this was what it felt like to have gone insane. At any rate, she’d figured she was certainly well on her way.
Before Byleth had come to the monastery, she’d never understood what others meant when they talked about loneliness—she’d always gotten by fine when it was just her and her father against the world, and even when she’d gone off on her own for days or weeks at a time, she’d been perfectly content in her solitude. But lying there in her bedroom, alone with her thoughts and struggling to bear the weight of the truth, she’d finally comprehended what they meant.
As much as it might have soothed and distracted her to be in the company of her students that night, she couldn’t justify seeking that solace. If she’d gone along to the celebration at the tavern, there would surely come a moment when one of them would speak positively of her leadership, and she doubted her ability to refrain from dissenting. She knew that she deserved no praise. Her strategy had failed. Her commands had led a student to his death. If Sothis hadn’t intervened, her reception upon returning to the monastery would have been one of disappointment and grief. It might have even given Seteth the leverage he needed to prove she wasn’t qualified to be a professor, forcing her and Jeralt to leave.
The realization made her grit her teeth. She found she didn’t like the idea of leaving. Despite everything—the difficulty of the job, her lack of knowledge of the world, the many unanswered questions she had about her employer—she liked it here at the monastery. She liked having a hot dinner and a cozy bed to return to each night, not needing to unpack and re-pack her rucksack daily. She liked her room—she liked having a space that was entirely hers, safe and sheltered from the weather, and while she was too wary of the precarious nature of her situation to do so, she liked the idea of putting books on her shelves, or hanging a drawing or pennant on her wall as she’d seen some of her students do. She liked seeing the same faces every day, liked the routine and structure, liked learning people’s idiosyncrasies and hearing them talk about things they were interested in. She even liked learning about the Church, about Fódlan, about Crests and nobles and all those things that were yet utter mysteries to her.
She really liked teaching. And she really, really liked the students. Although she’d only been their instructor for a few short weeks, she was impressed by how much their skills had already improved. She liked the sensation that swept through her system and sat high in her chest when one of them accomplished a new move they’d been trying to master, or when they’d beam after answering a question correctly in class, or when she’d find them studying with each other in the library or dining hall after her lecture. She liked learning about them, liked discovering who they were as people, liked how they so willingly shared their joys and pains and hopes and dreams with her. Even the students who weren’t in her class were so willing to allow her into their lives with an intimacy that was foreign to her, but that she appreciated deeply.
She knew she had no business being a professor. She hadn’t earned the position. She certainly wasn’t cut out for academia.
And, as the previous week had proved, she wasn’t good at the job, either.
But she still found herself trying very hard and wanting very badly to be the best professor she could possibly be.
It was new for her to want like that. She couldn’t think of anything she’d wanted before, but she knew now that she wanted this: to be here, to be with her students, to keep them safe under her wing and help them grow to the full potential she saw in each and every one of them.
Maybe if she was good enough, and helpful enough, and worked hard enough, she could find a way to repay them for inviting her into whatever new world of kindness she’d stumbled into that fateful night in Remire.
She couldn’t figure out what she’d done to deserve this opportunity, much less Sothis’s power and the second chances it granted. She just knew she couldn’t waste it—for her students’ sakes, and for her own.
A sudden shout pulled Byleth from her introspective haze, and she stood up straight with a start.
“Hey! No errands to run today, Professor?”
In the same moment, she recognized Leonie’s voice and realized her sword hand had flown to her belt; she let it fall to a natural position at her side, hoping the impulsive motion had escaped notice. Exhaling softly, she blinked away any lingering thoughts of last week’s mission. A smile would be warranted in this situation, so she put one on before turning around to face her student.
The scrappy red-haired girl was walking out of the dining hall, followed closely by, to Byleth’s surprise, Bernadetta. The tiny archer was nearly sandwiched to Leonie’s back, her mousy purple mop barely visible behind the taller girl’s shoulder, though she’d poke her head out every few seconds to stare up at Byleth with those big, amethyst-colored eyes of hers.
“Already done them all,” Byleth replied, adding as much cheer to her inflection as she could manufacture. The attempt was apparently successful, as neither girl looked unsettled—at least not any more so than usual, in Bernadetta’s case. “It’s good to see you both.”
“Y-you too, Professor,” Bernadetta squeaked, and she moved a step or two away from Leonie to give Byleth a nervous smile, twisting the toe of her shoe on the ground and fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Um, it’s a nice day, don’t you think? Unless you don’t like this kind of weather, in which case—”
“It’s lovely,” Byleth said, nodding her agreement. Although she was aware that it was rude to cut someone off, she’d been learning from experience that Bernadetta would likely talk herself into a spiral if she didn’t. “I’ve just been standing around, enjoying the breeze.”
Leonie nodded her understanding, puffing out her lower lip. “Good call. I’m considering finding a nice, shady spot for a nap after that lunch. I’m stuffed.”
“Did you know it’s Sweet-Tooth Week, Professor?” asked Bernadetta.
Byleth shook her head; though she was yet uncertain of what the odd assembly of words meant, she didn’t want to potentially upset the girl by probing further. “I didn’t.”
Leonie made a face. “Well, if you don’t have a taste for sweets, they do have other things to eat, too,” she informed her, shaking her head as she glanced at Bernadetta. “I don’t know how you manage, Bernie. My teeth hurt just thinking about eating all that sugar.”
Bernadetta looked utterly betrayed, her tentatively chipper mien crumbling into one of dismay. “Wh—I thought you liked sweets, Leonie! Oh no—and I made you go to lunch with me—oh, I’m sorry! Stupid, stupid—”
Her ensuing self-deprecating tirade was aborted by a laugh from Leonie. “Eh, it’s no big deal,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The pheasant roast was good, and even if it wasn’t, I still would’ve had to eat something for lunch. Besides, it was fun hanging out with you.”
Her comment must have reassured Bernadetta, who continued to wring her hands wretchedly, but no longer appeared to be on the verge of sprinting away. “I-If you’re sure....”
Leonie just smiled at her before turning back to Byleth. “You should get lunch if you haven’t already, Professor, especially if you want something with protein. I think the pheasant’s going fast, and I’m pretty sure I saw Raphael heading in there a second ago,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.
“I will,” Byleth nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Oh, hey, by the way, Professor,” Leonie said, her amber eyes alight, “everyone’s going out tonight to celebrate Sylvain’s birthday. And I mean everyone. Bernie here is going, too.”
“Really?” Byleth turned her head toward Bernadetta and gave her another smile, but the shy girl shrank away like she regretted having ever left the safety of her room. Byleth realized that her attempts at making appropriate facial expressions were only serving to scare the flighty little thing; she made a mental note to try practicing some different ones that might put the girl more at ease.
“I-I am!” declared Bernadetta once she’d collected herself, sounding defensive and more than a little remorseful. “I will! I’m gonna go!”
“I’m glad to hear it. I hope you have a good time. Just make sure Sylvain doesn’t have too much fun,” Byleth advised, earning a laugh from Leonie.
“You know he’s gonna do what he’s gonna do. If he gets through this night without getting slapped, I’ll be amazed.”
“I’d be willing to bet on it happening more than once,” Byleth said with a shake of her head, making Leonie laugh again and Bernadetta giggle shyly.
“U-um, Professor....”
Bernadetta trailed off before she even began. Byleth gave her time to collect herself, watching as the archer fiddled with the strings of her hooded sweater, shifting her meager weight from foot to foot. She reminded Byleth of a rabbit, or a squirrel, or some other nervous, large-eyed prey animal. Just looking at her was enough to cause some protective instinct to arise in the pit of Byleth’s stomach. Leonie must have felt similarly, as she gave the girl an encouraging nudge with her elbow.
“Would you, um, would you want to come with us?” she asked once she could find her words. She finally met Byleth’s eye and appeared to immediately regret it, jerking her gaze away so violently that Byleth was concerned she was about to turn tail and run then and there. Instead, she gripped the strings of her hood tighter, her knees threatening to knock together, though they remained strong in the end. “I-I mean, if you want to! And if you aren’t busy, and if that’s the kind of thing you’d think is fun, and if you even like hanging out with us....”
Byleth hummed, thinking it over. Not only did she have yet to determine the kinds of boundaries she was expected to maintain with her students as their professor, but she also hadn’t fully figured out what kinds of things she found fun. There’d not been much room for leisure in her life up to this point. Still, taverns were comfortably familiar to her, and it had been well over a month since she’d visited one.
Besides, if she went along, she could ensure her students drank responsibly and didn’t come to any harm during the excursion. And, admittedly, some part of her was very curious to see what kind of person Bernadetta was when she’d had a beer or two.
“I’d like that,” she said, turning back to the girls, “if you’re sure having your professor around won’t put a damper on things. I might not stay long, as I have some work to finish, but if anyone should want to head back early, they’d be welcome to come with me.”
This prospect seemed to provide visible relief to Bernadetta, who promptly perked up, a bashful smile overtaking her usually worried face. Though Byleth couldn’t fully see her from her position behind Leonie, she thought she might have even hopped.
Definitely a rabbit, Byleth decided.
“O-Okay! We’ll see you tonight, Professor!” the little archer said as she and Leonie waved good-bye, beginning to make their way back toward the dorms.
“Meet us by the south gate at seven,” Leonie called over her shoulder. “You better not wimp out! If you’re not there, I’m gonna come get you!”
“I’ll be there,” Byleth assured her. “I won’t be late.”
She shook her head and crossed her arms, letting her face fall back to a neutral expression as she watched them leave. Barely a moment after they’d begun walking away, she heard Bernadetta start conducting a poorly whispered interrogation about Leonie’s dislike of sweets; it quickly escalated in volume, culminating with a frustrated shriek as the anxious youth dashed the remaining distance to her dormitory, leaving a befuddled-looking Leonie standing alone on the green. The red-haired girl stared after her for a moment, shrugged, then began meandering her way back to her own dormitory, whistling something atonal that Byleth suspected was supposed to be a real song.
Throughout the exchange, Byleth had felt a warmth growing through her torso. It sat in the center of her chest and the hollow of her throat, like she was tucked under a blanket and had just taken a sip of hot tea with honey on a bitterly cold day. It felt like those times when she’d get back to camp late to find her father had already gotten a roaring fire going; he’d pat the spot next to him, throwing his cloak around her once she’d settled in.
It felt safe. It felt right. And while she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly know the meaning of the word, she imagined it felt like home.
She glanced over her shoulder once more at Caspar, lying flat on his back on the sun-warmed planks of the dock, the breeze ruffling his hair. She looked at Linhardt, sitting beside him, still holding his fishing rod but making no further attempts to even pretend to fish, a fond smile growing on his face as he cherished the rare sight of the blue-haired boy at rest.
The sights and sounds of the Red Canyon flashed in Byleth’s mind. She swallowed and steeled herself, pushing them away.
If shouldering this lonely burden could buy him, or any of the others, more days like this one, it was a price she was willing to pay.
She cast her eyes down at where her offhand was braced on the hilt of her sword. She felt the sun kiss her cheeks as the wind played with her hair. She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket and turned to head into the dining hall, idly wondering if there might be some pheasant left after Raphael had his fill.