Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This one is warm,” Byleth states upon gathering the next body. “He's still breathing,” she additionally notes, surveying him in a clinical manner. 

The nameless soldier looks like a good fighter, broad in the upper build, maintaining a solid shape that tapers down his waistline. He's lean, well-toned for speed and dexterity, but strong, nonetheless, and is definitely not a corpse. Limply, he is tossed onto the back of her cart anyway. 

When she looks to protest the order, she's returned a venomous glance from the Emperor's right hand, sharp enough to cleave through umbral steel, as if daring her to challenge his decision.

“I never took the one called the 'Ashen Demon' for a bleeding heart,” he snips. “One foot in the grave is still one foot rendered useless to Her Majesty's efforts.“ Lord Hubert waves her off dismissively, and tallies the man among the dead with a scratch of his pen. “As you possess a keen eye, clearly you can see that his wounds are quite grievous. The eternal flames will come to claim him before dark. Besides, that one would only get in our way. Now, carry on.“ 

Hopping onto her cart, Byleth clamps down on her tongue, daring not to waste time with a fruitless argument against her superior.

Mud slick with blood drags beneath the creaking wooden wheels, leaving a grisly trail that stamps damnation upon the path towards the freshly dug death pits. 

This massive victory for the Empire is said to be the beginning of the end. A blazing path that will catapult them towards a brighter future. 

Ahead of her are a dozen more carts, not too dissimilar from her own. Hand-pulled by three strong backs, with the addition of one riding on the rear to keep the bodies from sliding off during transport. At the end of the line are the pits. The mass grave, more or less, a putrid pile born of the unforgiving throes of warfare.

Right now, it doesn't really feel like this embittered path leads to the bright one they hope to achieve. 

Jeralt says that fate takes them in strange directions sometimes. This was the only possible outcome. Byleth recalls hearing the Emperor shout something similar—just before she cleaved the head off an enemy commander, and called for no quarter on any soldier who refused to surrender. 

This is the reality of war. Death is part of the gig. She knows this all too well. It stares at her without remorse in its blind, baleful eyes as it carefully caresses those it seeks to reap. All she can do is stare back. It is what she was taught. It is all she has ever known. 

Many find her detachment unnatural, eerie, but that judgement couldn't be further from the truth. 

Her boot sinks into the earth. The smell of iron fills her lungs. Flies have gathered in a swarm, tickling her skin. It's blotched with grit, blood, and who knows what else...She cannot tell which is more uncomfortable. If the half-dead man is bothered at all, he does not have the strength or the consciousness to complain.

This is their last job for the Empire, she reminds herself, undaunted in her expression, yet feeling strange in her stomach watching the pile grow. She's used to this, but it's her least favorite part. 

The dead's usable garments and accompanying armor have already been stripped to be repurposed, but the remaining cloth tends to snag on the splintered wood, and their limbs tangle up into a grim knot if she doesn't assist during the removal. Once she tugs them free, they tumble down into the pit until the cart is empty. 

There is another batch waiting when she finishes, and another, and another. She cannot help but feel a heavy pit lodge in her already suffocated throat when the pitiful man falls into place with the rest. His blond hair becomes loose from its tie and splays across the leg of a fallen comrade. It's a shame. He's quite beautiful, even now.

The next cart rolls in, and all dignity for the deceased drifts away behind her with the foul stench of the pit.

The nameless soldier remains in her thoughts as she hauls the next cart, wondering if he will miraculously wake and climb free. Byleth frowns when she returns with the final batch, and finds there is almost nothing more of him left unburied. Only a glimpse of his ruined gambeson and long flaxen hair peeks through the mass of both ally and foe atop him. 

Flowers of mourning and herbs for cleansing are loosely scattered around the pit by the monks, unbeknownst to them, their petals, too, will turn to ash come dawn. For now, they are blanketed by the slow, morose, vermillion set of the sun. 

“The eternal flames will claim him before dusk.”

For the nameless soldier's sake, she hopes it already has.

“Something on your mind, Byleth?“ Shez swirls her fork around in front of her. “You're unnaturally quiet tonight, and you haven't eaten your food.“

For some reason, the haze of distress still hasn't left, made plain on her features. She doesn't blink, only flicks her eyes up at her friend and shrugs.

“It's okay if you need to let something out every now and then,” the commander prods. For all of their differences in the beginning, Shez has been the most welcoming of the bunch. Some might call it guilt, or pity, but Byleth is just happy that at least one person makes her feel included. 

The Adrestian camp is a colorful bunch, their ranks ranging from boisterous to brainy to barely awake. They are nice to her, as is the Emperor, but Byleth knows by the way they gather in their free time and chatter as old acquaintances with detailed pasts, that she is not one of them. Dissociated from the whole. A feeling that has grown exponentially as of recent. 

Do the others even know her name? Or is she still just the Ashen Demon? A convenient weapon to be pointed at whoever is deemed their enemy?

Byleth nearly inaudibly mumbles to her untouched stew and finally responds, “…He wasn't dead.“

“Who?“ Shez tilts her head, softening the lines in her brow. “Someone from your company?“

Byleth shakes her head. “A soldier. Kingdom, I think?“

The fork finds its way into Shez's mouth. It rattles Byleth's gullet as she watches it go down, churning her stomach when all she can see and smell is rot. Byleth has buried the dead countless times. Why does this feel so different?

Shez swallows, and dives her fork back down for another bite as she says, “That's weird. Edelgard is pretty adamant about recruiting useful allies wherever she can. Just ask Ashe and Mercedes. They're from the Kingdom. She practically came swooping in with an offer—it beats staying a prisoner of war. They've been valuable assets ever since, and they're both super nice. Are you sure this guy wasn't…you know…fresh?“ 

A half-hearted nod is mustered up. It's not very convincing, but it's the truth. His breaths were labored, and his body was as pliant as it was warm. “I'm sure. He still had color to him, too.“ Sorta. The blanched gray of unlife was palpable on everyone. Except him. Dimmed a pale shade of pink atop winter's white.

“Hm,” Shez returns with genuine confusion. “I hate to say it, but Hubert probably wanted to leave him for dead for some ridiculous reason then. He thinks everything is a threat to Edelgard. Like the woman wielding a giant axe can't fend for herself.” She rolls her eyes. “Otherwise, why not put him on a medical cart and wheel him to the med tent instead?“ 

Another one-shouldered shrug. “I think you're right. He said ‘ that one’ would only get in Lady Edelgard's way.“ 

Shez's face pinches in disappointment, as if she understands more of his meaning than Byleth does. “Got it. Well, if he is still alive, he can't have gone far…“

In Shez's high ranking position, it's dangerous to say much more.

The commander leans in close, hand cupping the side of her mouth, and whispers, “The monks asked to postpone the burning until midnight.“ With a knowing look, Shez gives a nod of confirmation, vowing she won't say a word.

Scuttling out of the dining tent, Byleth is off. It's stupid, risks her employment, and could compromise the entire war campaign if Lord Hubert is right, but her conviction (and morbid curiosity) vastly outweighs the hesitation. There is something far more pressing in her than blind loyalty that she must dislodge, lest she lose herself in an endless chokehold of guilt and regret. 

The stench is overwhelming, but that vile fetor has been on her hands since sun up, no matter how many times she has cleaned them.

There are so many bodies to search through. It's difficult to distinguish limb from limb when everyone has molded into an unmoving heap to be burned. Just how many has this war claimed? Is this truly the only path towards an era of peace?

Miraculously, a stripe of blond caked in crimson catches her eye, and soon, she is digging with her bare hands to free a stranger from his grave. His eyes are pinched tight. Disturbed, pained, but alive. Alive. 

Under the cover of the night, she's able to lug him out of the pits well before midnight. Ten-thousand times Lord Hubert has been correct, but this time, he is wrong. If he is wrong once, she bets he can be wrong a second time, nurse the nameless soldier back to health, and let him go home to his family where he belongs; as a threat to no one. Sothis senses the man's will is strong, and if his will resembles anything close to his heavy sack of muscle, then it is strong indeed.

Goddess, he reeks of blood.

The hour is late, meaning the bath houses are likely to be closed. It will be tricky to haul him through a public space unnoticed by Lord Hubert. He's meticulously aware of everything that transpires in their camp, shadowed by the lady-in-waiting Monica, who beams at the slightest chance of outdoing her superior. It'll be trickier though, to find a remote source of water where she will be even more ill-equipped than she already is. She adjusts her hold on him, scuffs away the dirt along her path to cover any unsightly evidence, and makes for her tent with haste.

What remains of his gambeson, and small cloths beneath, are as battered as his fragile flesh. She prefers to keep him clothed as he is, but with the stench, and the risk of infection looming overhead, she has little option but to pull off the remaining layers—save for his underpants, allowing him to cling to what little remains of his dignity until she must strip that from him too. 

She tucks her fingers under his breeches—it's a high-quality textile, unbefitting of a run-of-the mill soldier. Perhaps Lord Hubert wished to rid him due to his elevated rank? Knowing that even on death's doorstep, this man would not bend the knee? Jeralt said the Kingdom is a stubborn lot. Too proud and chivalrous to toss aside their loyalties in exchange for their lives. However, both Ashe and Mercedes challenged that atavistic narrative, proving that change has already worked its way into the Kingdom through its previous leadership.

Not that it matters anymore. Their king is probably somewhere rotting in those pits along with his progressive ideals. She guesses they weren't progressive 'enough' if the Emperor still deemed him ill-fit to live under her regime through diplomacy like she did the Alliance leader before his divergence. Or maybe she just doesn't like the guy. 

It feels wasteful to discard the material, but it's beyond salvaging. Her attention is swiftly drawn to something else when she removes them anyway. The injuries underneath are staggering. The inch-long gash on the side of his head is the least of his worries. There is blunt damage to his chest, possibly broken ribs, and his back is sundered like a fault line born of a raging quake. He survived one hell of a fight.

Normally, you'd be lucky to pierce through leather armor—let alone plate, with a very powerful swing. Then she spies it. Corrosion on the frayed edges of his underclothes, and the magical burns left behind on his skin. It was a coordinated attack, led by noxious dark magic that weakened the integrity of his armor. A strong arm and a heavy axe would have no problem rending the rest of it in two, burying him beneath it where he stood.

Byleth has an impressive amount of knowledge over medicine and white magic, but this…this is a lot… 

She can see why Lord Hubert reacted as he did, because even though the nameless soldier has lasted far beyond his given expiration, he likely does not have long. There's not a minute to waste.

A Heal spell is conjured up from her palms, the flesh stitching itself back together where it can, then, ingestible pain relief is administered, liberally. The man may not be conscious enough (if at all) to know it, but his body knows how it suffers and writhes. He lets out an unconscious sigh. At the very least, it makes her feel a little better.

Returning to her other task, she props him upright on a wooden stool and leans him forward against her shoulder like an awkward hug. Using a washcloth, a bucket, and soap beads she 'borrows' from the bath house, she carefully rinses away patches of dirt and blood; that may or may not be his own. Bit by bit, she dabs away the muck with a moist cloth, careful not to reopen what little has clotted itself shut. Another Heal spell is cast from her fingers for good measure, feeling guilty she may have scrubbed a few places with too much force. The focus on her spell also serves as a distraction from the large, blush-worthy object of intrigue nestled between his thighs. She's careful to avoid unnecessary contact while wiping down the area, and pretends not to think about how it looks a nice, healthy shade of pink, and is thankfully, unharmed.

If he's married, that person’s a very lucky partner—Byleth's cheek hue, and the blatantly inappropriate line of thought perishes quickly. 

She curses herself for her utter lack of professionalism towards a helpless individual, and lays a towel back over his lap as soon as she's done with the area. It was inevitable she'd have to look, but normally her thoughts don't stray down that direction. Maybe it's his pretty face? Or the warmth of his body angled against her in a way that seems almost intimate. Either way, she's disappointed in herself. The position isn't ideal, but it's the only practical solution she could think of under the limiting circumstances, and does not warrant crass behavior. 

She dabs her forehead with a clean rag, returns to a more neutral disposition, and leaves to replace her dirty bucket of water with a fresh one. No one questions her activities after dark, not even Lord Hubert, who considers her nightly walks one of her many ‘quirks’—so long as she isn't carrying a Kingdom soldier to her tent, so she gathers what she needs freely. It's times like these when she's grateful for being a nobody in the background to the others. 

Layers of scarring, some old, some new, marble the nameless man's skin. With each section she cleans, more of his story is revealed. The shape, location, and thickness of them tell her more than she wishes to know. Taking particular note of the deepest scar on his body, suggesting he had the misfortune of taking an axe to the back once before. There are burn scars on his arms, his hands, everywhere, actually, probably half a decade old, or more. Scuffs and nicks on the job were one thing, this was…tragic. She can't help but feel what she thinks might be sadness for him.

By the time he is clean and dry, she breaks out the first-aid kit and gets to the tedious part. The laceration on his back takes twenty-five stitches. It's almost her new record. The remainder are much more manageable, taking roughly three to five each if they require any at all. She swears he winces as she sews in each one. 

Two fingers are lightly applied to assess for any internal injuries, her palpitations conclude the worst when she feels more than hears the crunch of bone against bone as he breathes in. She frowns deeply. Hauling him to her tent may have actually worsened the fracture. 

"Sorry," she mutters, digging around her room for another dose of poppy sap. 

One thing she appreciates about the Imperial camp is the abundance of nature surrounding it, making for a vast medicinal cabinet in her own backyard. A handy salve she learned to concoct from the clerics is used to aid the redness, ease swelling, and provide another layer of pain relief. Byleth can't help but gawk at the pristine tautness of his cream colored skin over corded muscle as she spreads the salve along the planes of his body, then wraps up his injuries in a practiced manner that she has done time and time again on her own crew.

She clothes him in a fresh pair of Jeralt's old nightclothes and lays him on his good side in her bed.

His hair is still a sopping, tangled mess, but it will have to do for now. The pained look in his face has eased, meaning the poppy sap has done its job. His breathing has become a slower, more melodic rhythm. No longer shallow or sharp. By the time she feels comfortable with her work, the sun is nearly ready to rise. Against the odds, he has lived to see another day. 

Exhaustion creeps out of her in a yawn. She settles on the edge of her bed, admiring her wrapping technique. All cleaned up, the nameless soldier is very handsome, and she's certain whomever is waiting back home for him won't mind if she takes a moment to admire his appearance a little too. Less beautiful men have had nations toppled for them. She huffs out a small, barely there laugh. 

Maybe Lord Hubert knew his beauty was too much for Fódlan to handle, and she single-handedly screwed the Empire's unification by keeping his pretty face alive. Her humor, though lacking, makes her eyes crinkle, and a small smile pulls at her cheeks. 

Byleth pulls the sheets over him to tuck him in and sets up her spare bedroll for her to sleep on. Her space is a mess, but that's a problem for tomorrow's Byleth.

For now, she lies on her back, letting her lids pull themselves closed, thinking of how his (assumed) significant other must be equally lovely. Probably with fair skin and hair of flowing silk. Byleth admits she envies them a little. Waking up next to his porcelain features every morning. The shameless kisses they'd steal in passing. Wistful nights of promising passion. Long horseback rides to nowhere and yonder. It must be nice. She wonders what he is like.

Away from the fighting, the death. What are his hobbies? His ambitions? His favorite color? 

Whenever he awakens, she feels a sense of excitement to meet him.

Chapter Text

Abruptly, Byleth awakens mid-afternoon to a jolt of fear that the nameless soldier has not survived the night; to find him slumbering soundly without so much as moving an inch. Byleth doesn't expect him to wake yet, but a cloud of unease looms over her. All of her efforts would be put to waste if he up and died on her, taking a serious blow to her pride.

“Kid? You in here?“ she hears from outside of her tent. “I wanted to ask what you think about extending our contract. It's a pretty good deal but…Hey, are you listening?”
Jeralt hadn't seen her all night, and is probably worried to all hell since she missed out on breakfast. She lazily kicks away her bedroll and invites him in, stretching wide as she shakes the sleepiness out of her limbs.
Her father nearly faints when he enters to find that her bed is well-used and very occupied by a grown-ass man. She waves it off nonchalantly, but he folds his arms, stern-faced, and demands some form of explanation for this stranger. He should know she's not particularly provocative, but she is an adult.

“As trite as it sounds, it’s not what it looks like.” Jeralt still seems like he's aged a decade over the matter, so she gets straight to the point. 

“This man is not a pet project, kid. If that brat Hubert wanted to leave him in that pit, then who are we to defy that order?“ Jeralt vehemently disapproves, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mercenaries don't ask questions, they're paid to obey. She knows this, but that line grows murky all the time in their business. Typically, when the pay is lacking, or, if the order is of an exceedingly questionable nature. Her gut said the latter.

“It wouldn't set well with me if I sat back and let them burn him alive,” Byleth protests, brushing a strand of gold from the stranger's cheek. 

Another Heal spell finds its way from her palms to the wrapping running across his chest. The nameless soldier doesn't react, but somehow she feels his vitality grow.

“Dammit...Alright, alright. But don't try to pretend that was the only reason. We both know you took one look at the extent of this man's injuries and saw a challenge to overcome. You've got a good heart, but remember, that's not how this job works.” He groans, rubbing the back of neck, and then adds, “And I thought I taught you not to wrap broken ribs. You could damage his lungs that way.”

She considers his words of both scolding and wisdom for a brief moment, and simply replies, “Right, sorry...”

His clear indifference is underscored by a belabored sigh, nevertheless, the supportive father in him wins out. He helps her remove the restrictive bandages from the soldier in question, coaching her on how to correct his overall treatment. 

“Hmm. Not half bad. Looks like I taught you well after all. He's pretty lucky this stab wound didn't take out his right eye.” Jeralt flicks his head up and cocks a brow. “Wait a minute. Is he…?” For the second time today, her father's face goes pale. “Shit.“ 

She quirks her head. “What?“ 

“Shit…” he says again.

Jeralt can't manage to say anything else, only more expletives come out. If her father means to imply he knows his identity, she's no idea when he would've met the man. The nameless soldier looks about her age. Perhaps he knew of his family? Jeralt did take plenty of jobs in Faerghus, and he's taken a fair amount of those while she's been off taking separate jobs elsewhere. It's anyone's guess at this point, but at times like this, she's better off banging her head against a wall than prodding for an answer. 

In any case, she rubs her arm, feeling a little guilty for causing trouble. 

Like it or not, they are of lowly birth. It doesn't really matter what becomes of the nobility, or the newly instated meritocracy, because their line of work means that to the wealthy, their lives are expendable. Byleth has never quite pondered over the weight of life before. A person is just that. But when she looks at the nameless soldier in such a peaceful, vulnerable state, something insurmountable sets in. 

“Kid, if they catch wind of this…” he trails off, sounding grim. 

With a downtrodden look, Byleth makes it clear he doesn't need to explain further. She expresses her apologies yet again, but stands by her decision. Their things are packed up at once. 

A victory feast is held in the space normally used as the training grounds, one that their mercenary crew was privy to joining in on, but they use the cause for celebration as their chance to leave without suspicion. The crew is understandably annoyed having to pass up a fancy hot meal and free booze, and on such short notice too, but they're used to it. They'll live. 

Byleth doesn't have time to say goodbye to anyone. As quickly as she can, she pens a short letter to Shez, expressing her gratitude for their friendship, hoping their paths may meet again somewhere in time very soon. It's not the best, but it's all she has time to write, handing it off to the friendly gatekeeper, who ensures he'll report to the commander right away. 

Then they're off. 

With Jeralt’s much needed help, the nameless soldier is carefully carried to their convoy, wearing a dark hooded cloak and scarf for good measure. It's warm outside still, a mix of season, bonfire, and revelry, but the man isn't in any position to complain. No one can get a good look at his face. Jeralt italicizes that point more than once. He still doesn't say why. 

A vibrant swirl of violet darts into her peripheral vision, just outside the gate. It fades away into the evening pall, and the comfortable life she has come to grow fond of fades along with it. Byleth casts a look of unease towards the nameless soldier, but she finds herself feeling a mix of optimism alongside it. It's strange, but she hopes overall that this is worth it.

Mercenaries are practical nomads. They don't have the luxury of excess space for the occasional runaway or ne'er do well. If the nameless soldier cannot contribute, then he is a liability. Liabilities don't last long in the company.

After three nights of non stop traveling, some of the color in him restores. Thanks in part to the meticulous schedule she adheres to when tending to him. The bandages are changed twice a day, and soaked in a medicinal salve to aid in the healing where her faith magic cannot. 

Barring no setbacks, the recovery should take about a month, at minimum. Avoiding illness and infection will not be easy, though she suspects this won't be the first time he's been down that miserable road. The glaring problem is, he is still unconscious. 

On the road, she keeps his face fully concealed while they travel on horseback. It's not easy, but no one seems to pay it any mind. At night, he's hidden away in her tent. She misses having a bed of her own, a luxury of their old Imperial employ, but she insists on keeping him comfortable in her bedroll. Ensuring there is a measurable distance between them, she bundles up some hay for herself to lay on. The last thing she wants is for him to wake up and think she's a creep. As if this is much better though…

The heat he emits as he rests is so warm, it reaches even the furthest corners of her tent. She uses her cloak as a makeshift blanket and tries not to think about what it might be like to live a cushy life outside of mercenary work. To come home each night and curl up in a lover's arms. 

Nutrition is key to the recovery process. Unconscious, it is a difficult task to keep him both hydrated and healthy. She starts by feeding him rice water, gently running her fingers along the column of his throat to coax him to swallow. When she finds his stomach can handle it, she serves him a diluted mushroom broth and a mild green tea. It's not much, but it's all she can do until he awakens, fearing he'd choke if she adds anything substantial. 

Over the course of a week, Jeralt leads the band of mercs away from Mach, far to the west. Most of the Empire's forces are focused on the east, he says, in Gloucester, where tension rises against the devious Master Tactician of the Alliance. Alas, there is unrest everywhere, keeping to the more secluded hamlets that have yet to see Imperial occupation. Their crew finally settles at an inn in the outskirts of former Rowe territory, bordering Geraint. Unlike the Leicester Alliance, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus is no more, so she's not quite sure what to call it. 

Byleth finds it's fairly easy to pass off the nameless soldier for a drunkard who doesn't know his limit, and settles him into her new room. She tucks him under the blankets and props his head, checking twice, thrice, on his breathing for good measure. Here, she knows he'll be safe. Byleth then joins the rest of her company at the pub down the road. They're cordial, but hardly interact outside of battle, and while they know she's been tending to an injured soldier, they don't know much else. 

When she arrives, Jeralt pulls her aside, wearing a look of discontent on his brow.

“We can't keep him forever, kid.“ 

Byleth can't help but puff her cheeks. She knew this conversation was going to come up eventually. 

“He'll die of starvation if we leave him as he is.“

Jeralt shakes his head. “The innkeeper says there's a church not far outside this district. They've been taking in lost children and providing shelter for those displaced by the war. The monks will look after him,” he assures, but there is a hint of reservation in his tone. “The fact of the matter is, we can't keep hauling him around. At this rate, people will start asking questions.“

“Is he an important noble or military leader, or something?“ She folds her arms and questions, “How do we know that this church isn't under Imperial influence? I don't want him ending up in another pit because we handed him off to the wrong people.“

The captain rubs his head and looks away. “I don't normally get into politics, but trust me. You don't want anything to do with his lot. These Kingdom folk, they're a loyal bunch, and they take care of their own. He'll be fine with them.“ 

It is stubborn of her, but Byleth isn't inclined to believe him. 

“What's the point of keeping his identity a secret in his own territory then? Or does it have anything to do with the fact that only half of Faerghus is actually loyal to their late king?” Her father is rightfully surprised by her newfound political knowledge, but she's picked up a few things since meeting Shez and the others. If Ashe's word is anything to go by, she's well aware that the western lords of Faerghus threw their lot in with the Empire long before the war even started. Trading loyalty for the promise of wealth under the guise of righteousness. In essence, their betrayal crippled the strong foundation the Kingdom was built upon. It's conjecture, but Byleth is almost positive that the internal instability was a calculated move on the Empire's part, long in the making. 

It would take someone who was unwaveringly loyal to the old guard to provide sanctuary to the nameless soldier who had fought under the late king's command.

She's cross, and demands a response, but knows that Jeralt would rather have his teeth pulled than be honest about something he doesn't wish to speak about. He shuts down exactly the same whenever the topic of her mother comes up. 

“At least let him stick around until he's recovered.“

He scoffs, “And what happens when he wakes up and recognizes you, Ashen Demon? “ Jeralt never calls her that, but she can't deny the title is intrinsically tied to her as a person. “You think because you showed him mercy that he'll do the same? He might not be so kind to the woman who helped cut down his friends.“

“I'm willing to risk it. If worst comes to worst, we go our separate ways. It's not as if he's in any shape to fight me.“ 

The conversation ends on that bitter note, with her bullheaded father brushing her off in a huff to get drunk with the other mercs. Typical. Drinking away his problems. 

Byleth reserves her judgement until he's out of earshot, and lets out a long, disappointed sigh. She admits there's a chance that he wakes and holds a deeply-seated grudge against her, but that's not her biggest concern. He may not wake at all. And then what is she to do? 

The harsh woodlands prove to be just as cold in the spring as the Empire is during the winter. They travel through Geraint to Belinus territory, and find it's no different. A thin layer of hoarfrost blankets the soil in the early mornings, awaiting the gentle heat of the sun to melt it away. This makes even the common medicinal herbs difficult to forage for in the outskirts of the woods, and a few of the particulars that would normally be in season, are late to bloom, making the already unlikely task, impossible. 

Faith magic aids in the closing of wounds, and the revitalization of the spirit, while medicine treats infection, fever, and other problems not limited to physical injuries. Byleth suspects that magic has nearly exhausted its use when she checks the nameless soldier's stitches for the day.

There are no practicing doctors in the humble town, so she visits the only person knowledgeable on the subject she can find. The local apothecary. She keeps her inquiry simple, but even the specialist at the counter touting his 'cure-all' poultice rubs his head, stumped. 

“Waking someone who has sustained a series of traumatic injuries isn't something you just…do,“ his wiry voice pipes out. “The only reliable cure is time . Neither magic nor medicine has discovered a definitive solution beyond that.“

Though dissatisfied with his answer, she understands. Modern medicine has been heavily discouraged and regulated, partly due to the church, something the Emperor wishes to change. Still, some things are simply beyond human understanding, even if she doesn't like it. 

"Is it a possibility that before he sustained his injuries, his constitution was weakened? Whether due to exhaustion, illness, malnutrition, or otherwise?” 

That is something she considered. The battle for the Kingdom took place not long after the battle for Garreg Mach. If she recalls correctly, it was reported that the king’s personal troops were heavily injured in that battle. The Empire wasn’t in the best position to pursue them for another costly fight, but the Emperor would not allow them to retreat and gather the strength to resist any further. Leaving their commanders alive to fight another day would only get in their way. 

“He may have been, yes. Do you think his body is still too weak?”

“I’m sorry to say, I’m not sure. In theory, your white magic should have compensated if that was the case. Either he spent himself far beyond his limitations, or it is a matter of the mind. It could be a combination of both?” The apothecary scratches at his thinning beard for a beat, puzzling over her predicament, then adds, “You may not get the results you desire, but you could try a blend of medicinal herbs to perhaps…give him a jumpstart?“ 

“Like smelling salts?“ she asks, having used it in the past when a sleepy bishop passed out at the sight of blood. 

He twirls his wrist nonchalantly. “Similar, but not quite. Here, try this,” he suggests, handing her a small pouch. “Keep in mind, the practice has earned a questionable reputation due to its varied, and sometimes inconclusive results, but it's generally safe.“

‘Generally’ is more than enough. It's at least worth a shot. 

“When he was laying in what should have been his grave, I could sense his spirit within. I must admit, the feelings that rose were not what I expected,” Sothis speaks softly. “It seemed as if…his will to survive, and his will to live were at odds with one another. Like he was finally free to die, welcomed it even, but knew that despite the circumstances, he could not allow his spirit to fade—even if the veil was but a step away. It was a strange mixture of emotions that I have never experienced before. It was…harrowing, to say the least...”

The evening quickly falls upon them, and after she replaces the nameless soldier's nightclothes with a clean, fresh pair, she props him upright back in her bed. Byleth has added chicken stock to his routine, and once she's coaxed him to sip it down, she adjusts the pillows for him to lie properly.

Now's as good a time as any, she thinks, and gives the pouch a good sniff. The fumes are potent, irritating her nasal passages before it fully reaches her nose. It's enough to make her cough. 

Loosely, she covers his mouth to force him to breathe through his nose. His lips are dry against her palm, but soft. When his nose begins to run, she removes her hand, and brushes some of his hair out of his face. It's unruly, and lost some of its luster since they began their travels, but in a way, she finds it a part of its charm.

It's then that he takes a slow, shuddering breath in. His lips look as if they're trying to move, but he lacks the strength to speak. He grunts. A short, discontented sound.

Sothis’ words still meander about, but no matter which corner of her mind she draws from, it makes little sense. How is someone’s will to live and will to survive any different from one another? She fetches him some water and a rag for his running nose when she hears—

“it…it…hurts…”

Byleth freezes.

“…it hurts...“

Did...it work? She questions.

This marks a major breakthrough in his recovery, but her heart sinks in her chest at his outward discomfort. The water is brought to his lips, but he doesn't seem to have the recognition to drink it. She's already given him a dose of poppy sap today, but his breaths are so tense and short, he may require more.

“Try to drink, please,” she attempts to reassure. 

“it…it hurts…it hurts…it hurts…” the nameless soldier repeats in a tone that is as equally hoarse as it is tragic.

His back. He's lying on his back. 

In a quick motion, she maneuvers him to his good side, alleviating the pressure on his tender wound. It doesn't seem to help much, still hearing him slowly murmur the same two words. She thinks she has been doing a well enough job managing his pain, specifically his broken ribs. Has she miscalculated? Next, she thinks to conjure up a powerful faith spell, illuminating the whole room with heavenly white light. The glow eases down along with his rigidness, but only some.

“I'm...so-sorry…it hurts...“

Not even a Recover does the trick. She searches her cabinets for more poppy sap. All of the topical relief has already been applied. He's suffering, and Byleth can only process the feeling of empathy so much before it overwhelms her.

“I'm sorry…Glenn ...Father…Ingrid…Rod…nggh,” he grunts as he tosses his head, eyes clamped shut, as if caught in a nightmare from which he cannot wake. “…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…it hurts…”

Byleth doesn't know what to do. She prays in her head to Sothis for an answer, but the nascent being is silent. She’s desperate to comfort him, but fears she’ll startle him.

He sobs, “Father, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried…Glenn…I’m so sorry…”  

She hears the names of his loved ones leaving his lips again, and Byleth thinks she starts to understand.

Pain is not just a physical sense. 

Jeralt once said that the greatest pain he had ever endured, cut deeper than any blade. A suffering without end. A fate far worse than death. It stripped at the edges of his soul, to which there was no relief. Over time, it became manageable, but it never fully went away.

The greatest pain was loss.

To be bereaved and left behind. Living where another could not. 

The nameless soldier does not open his eyes even once. He flickers in and out of consciousness, mechanically sipping down water when it is offered, and sobs. The feeling in her is devastatingly helpless, and it’s all her fault. But it does her no good to lose herself in its desolation.

Pragmatically, Byleth mulls over their situation, her options, whatever she might be able to administer to help him. This isn't like the battlefield, where a properly executed tactical maneuver or a swing of her sword will solve her problems, but it occurs to her, she has never really fought to save a life before. Objectively, she has thousands of times, but it never really seemed that way in the moment. She followed orders. That was that. There was no specific cause or ideals she swore her sword to. She fought for neither country nor home. She has never experienced the pain of loss like her father and the nameless soldier. She hopes she never has to.

A lifetime ago, there was a commander whose name she has long forgotten. Only his navy blue, wave-like hair and sparse mustache to match, sticks out in her memory. By the time she arrived to aid him, it was too late, and she knew then, there was no point dragging out a losing battle. Shez and her battalion had her surrounded. The feeling wasn't close to the same level of hurt that the nameless soldier is feeling now, but being unable to do anything but watch the commander valiantly give his life for his people, was an indescribable feeling of discomfort.

That commander was very nice to her. He fed her well, and always spoke highly of her talents. He teased that she should meet with his son, or at least the young king some day. And maybe talk about marriage when she'd inevitably floor them with her swordsmanship. Of course, it was all in good faith. There was hope in his eyes for a new tomorrow, and though she had seen life's flame fade from her companions time and time again, that time, she thought of how she might feel if it was her own father in his stead. The onset of anguish in the moment had deeply upset her, and the only thing keeping her facing forward was a violet crop of hair, her hand outstretched before her, and the determined grin to bring her back to her feet as an ally. At the time, she lacked the means to grasp it, not understanding why her rival would encourage a friendship between them. Still, there was a welcome measure of comfort that came from the sentiment.

Byleth decides there is little she can do but settle on her knees at the nameless soldier's bedside. He's stable, but still a bit fitful, mumbling something indistinguishable. She unfurls his balled-up fists with relative ease, and threads her fingers through his. The motion isn't much. A meeting of hands. Calloused skin upon skin. For reasons beyond her ken, it soothes him. Curious. The tension in his hand gives way and relaxes in her small palm. His mutters all but cease. Byleth glides her thumb across his knuckles. The sensation is cathartic, even to her, even if the logic behind it makes little sense. She deflates in relief, feeling guilty for causing him more distress than he deserves. It was a mistake to try to wake him, one that she will not make again.

She recalls the apothecary saying to some degree, that waking someone in his condition, is just something that happens when it happens. Whether it makes sense or not. 

Beyond the musty curtains in their quiet little room, through the forests, the mountains, the rivers, is a whole world full of what she cannot explain. Knowledge is a precious commodity, and there is an endless amount of it she wishes to gather as she continues the journey of her life. Not just for survival, but for living. 

Her venerable gaze wanders back to the nameless soldier, the featherlike rise and fall of his chest, their adjoining hands nestled peacefully around one another. And there's a new sense she feels, a sense of contentment just being in the moment. Without unfolding the complicated principles behind it.

Her eyes feel heavy, and the slight squeeze of his hand around hers is enough to make her nod off right then and there. She's not sure if she already has, or when she will decide to part from him for her bedroll. Jeralt still presses the topic of leaving him with the church, but there is no circumstance in which she can be convinced to do so. This moment is precious to her. In a way, this experience with him has been profound. And if there are more like this awaiting her in the future, then she will do whatever it takes to protect it.