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Byleth never cried.
It wasn't a problem. It wasn't a flaw. It was simply a fundamental truth that Jeralt had learned to accept over the years.
Countless injuries, from scraped knees to stab wounds, never got more than a grimace out of the kid. The sting of medicine or the press of bandages never caused his eyes to well up, and he bounced back so quickly it was like nothing happened at all.
As a mercenary, Jeralt and Byleth bore witness to a variety of hidden tragedies; bandit raids, broken families, good people who turned to crime just to eat for one more day. Yet despite his willingness to help, Byleth never shed a tear for this quiet suffering. Forlorn widows, pillaged homes, broken hearts, and everything in between was met by the same quiet, piercing stare. The reputation of the Ashen Demon, who killed without mercy and never so much as blinked in the face of death, went beyond the battlefield, making its way to the hearts of any who bore witness to the same stony gaze that stared down blades.
Jeralt, however, didn't believe in the Ashen Demon. It took time to figure out, sure, but there's more to expressing emotions than the eyes. After many years, the little gestures started speaking volumes. So much can be conveyed by a head tilt, a twitching lip, a furrowed brow. In his own subtle way, Byleth was brimming with emotion.
Even without a heartbeat, Jeralt could see a burning heart.
Imperial Year 1160
Jeralt was getting the hang of the whole father thing. He liked to think so, anyways. He did the best he could, despite the circumstances. The nomadic nature of the mercenary lifestyle made it hard, but you do what you need to do to eat- that’s what he told anyone who asked. The truth of the matter was deeper than that, much deeper, but not a soul needed to know. All they needed to see was a widowed father and child, wandering the world, nameless.
It wasn't easy, that much was for sure. Attending a baby's needs more or less alone was no small task- one that was exacerbated by said infant's silence.
As Jeralt struggled along with whatever advice he could pick up ( What do I feed him? Should I be swaddling him? How do I get him to sleep? What do you mean harnessing him to my chest while I work isn't safe? ), Byleth watched, as always. Those blue eyes, so like his mother's, were unwavering. Jeralt wouldn't call them judgmental , exactly, but he could never shake the sense that he was being closely observed as he rocked or fed his son. He babbled like any other kid, and with time the babbling gave way to the whisper of language, but he still worried. No matter how hungry, how lonely, how anything the boy was, he was never loud. He would chatter, but he wouldn't wail. His little face would scrunch with frustration, but at no point would tears ever start rolling down his cheeks. In the quiet moments, when Jeralt would rock him to sleep, he couldn't help but put an ear to his silent chest and wonder if his tears had disappeared to wherever his heartbeat went.
But in one such moment, he realized he had nothing to worry about.
They were on the fringes of Fódlan, and a small campfire crackled with muted heat a small distance from the tree Jeralt was propped against. Byleth was fast asleep in his arms, wrapped in an old cloth shirt and eyes hidden by a messy teal mop of hair. It was a beautiful evening. The hues of twilight soared through the air as the first stars began to peek down at the earth. As the sky shifted from swathes of gentle oranges to cool purples, a gentle breeze whistled through the foliage. It felt boundless and isolated all at once. Despite the stresses of life, even Jeralt was able to pull himself away from his musings long enough to absorb the scenery.
Running and hiding was a lonely life, but times like these made up for it, if only a little.
He held his child close to his chest as he leaned back further. The beautiful scenery, the crisp chill of the coming evening, the even breathing of the bundle in his arms- all of it made something inside him glow.
“Someday, kid,” he started, quietly. “You’ll look up at a sky like this.” He started to rub slow circles against the baby’s back with a thumb as he spoke. “And I’m sure you’ll treasure it.”
Filling the silence was comforting. He knew Byleth was asleep. Even if he was awake, it wasn’t like he would understand yet. But it felt right. “We’re under the Wyvern Moon,” he continued, voice thrumming. “From on high, flocks of wyverns roar in chorus and soar in the pristine skies, heading south for the winter.” Not that there was a wyvern in sight. But he hoped that, in the coming years, his son would see them for himself.
He was about to continue before he felt tiny fingers grasp at his arm. The sensation snapped him out of his reverie. He glanced down, a little shocked to find his son’s gaze waiting. They were alert and inquiring, without even the faintest suggestion of sleep clouding them anymore. Jeralt was a little taken aback, but after a moment his face melted into a small grin. “Whaddya need, kid?” he laughed, reaching a hand to adjust the cloth wrapped around him.
Byleth, of course, said nothing. His bright eyes blinked slowly as he seemed to consider his father.
“Not too talkative, huh?” Gently, he pulled the cloth wrap a little tighter. “That’s alright. Take your time.”
“Ah.”
“There you go.” He gave him an affirming pat on the shoulder. “Keep at it.”
And there were the little fingers again. He felt them wrap around his index finger, gentle as can be.
“Oh?” He looked down at his son again. He felt his chest tighten when their gaze met; the corners of his little blue eyes were crinkled with the hint of a grin. “What’s got you smiling?” Despite his best efforts, it still came out sounding choked.
Byleth’s grin grew just a little in response. The grip on his finger tightened.
Jeralt couldn’t stop the strange laugh that tumbled out of his lips. “Hah… Never had such a captive audience.” He wiggled his finger a little. The tiny hand held fast. “I could get used to it.”
The sun was finally beginning to disappear below the horizon, but not even the night’s chill could put out the warmth Jeralt felt deep inside him.
Imperial Year 1166
No matter where they went, both the voices of strangers and of members of the mercenary company echoed Jeralt’s own thoughts; your boy is so quiet.
It was always delivered as a compliment. Most kids his age were rowdy, noisy, chatty. Byleth was none of those things. He channeled his energy into productivity, always looking to help carry this or help deliver that. And rather than the deluge of words typical of little kids, he was still quiet unless he was asking questions. Some of them were easy to answer-- What’s a wyvern? Where does the sun go at night? --- but many of them weren’t. Do I have a mom? How old am I? Where’s our home?
Everyone always commented on how polite he was. He seemed like dad’s perfect little helper. Yet Jeralt couldn’t help but worry. Was he having fun? Or was something stifling him? Byleth wasn’t emotive enough for him to know the difference. He didn’t even seem to have any games or hobbies, instead latching onto watching his father’s drills and copying them on his own time. After a while, Jeralt finally relented and started to show his son the basics. Perhaps it wasn’t the most child friendly activity, but it was better than risking him injuring himself. And, after all, it never hurt to know how to defend yourself. He anticipated teaching him someday, anyways. Mercenary business and all.
Not to mention the possibility of less than pleasant interactions if they ever found him again.
On one fine spring day, father and son practiced tirelessly on a stretch of grassy hills. The sound of clattering practice swords tumbled across the fields, occasionally punctuated by a deep voice calling directions.
“Feet shoulder width apart.” Byleth corrected his stance without so much as a pause. “Make sure you aren’t tensing up. You’ll lose control of your blade.” A curt nod. He raised the wooden blade again, ready for the next move.
Jeralt swung his own sword in a deliberate arc. There was no real power behind it, of course. Right now, his son just needed to learn the motions. Strength would come with age and practice.
Just as he’d been instructed, Byleth responded with a parry, transitioning smoothly into a lunge. The tip of the blade bounced off his shoulder guard, earning him a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”
He mirrored the nod with one of his own. He didn’t smile, but his eyes shone. He would never admit it, but Jeralt knew he liked the praise.
“Ready for a break?” He asked, dropping his sword arm to his side and rolling his shoulder.
“Okay.”
The practice swords lay discarded side by side as the two of them sat a little ways down the hill. After taking turns with the water flask, they made no move to get up, enjoying the comfortable silence. Byleth was watching the clouds race each other in the sky with the same quiet intensity as he showed for the drills.
“How are you feeling, kid?” Jeralt asked after a moment.
“Huh?” He broke his gaze from the sky, turning to face his father. All the intensity was still there, stopping Jeralt in his tracks for just a moment. The uneasy sensation passed after a few seconds, and he continued with his line of questioning.
“Feel like you’re getting the hang of it?”
“I do.” The answer was curt but sincere. Jeralt had learned to expect it.
“Good.” A pause. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Enjoying it?” Another common habit; Byleth had a tendency to mirror questions back.
“I know the fighting stuff isn’t all fun and games. I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m pushing you.”
“It’s okay. I like it.”
“Still…” He wasn’t sure how to phrase this question. He took a moment to collect his words before pushing on. “It’s mostly work. If I’m taking away your chance to have fun,” your chance to be a kid, “let me know.”
It was his son’s turn to mull over his words. He watched as his gaze wandered skyward again, eyes tracing the clouds, before he finally responded. “I’m having fun.” The way he said it felt final. “I like learning. And I like to spend time with you.”
“I see.” Despite everything, he still felt a swell of affection upon hearing those words.
But Byleth wasn’t finished. “I want to be like you.”
“...Is that right?”
“Mhm.” He didn’t seem like he was planning to elaborate, so Jeralt shot him a curious glance. “What you do is good. I want to help you.”
“Ah…” One of his hands went to the back of his neck by reflex as he turned away to hide his expression, which was somewhere between embarrassed and concerned. “Thanks, kid. But you know it’s dangerous work, right?”
He nodded. “That’s why I want to learn from you. You’re the best teacher. I know I won’t get hurt.”
Jeralt could only nod back; he didn’t trust his voice right now. That response, dripping with sincerity, brought back a familiar warmth. After a long pause, he finally dared to speak. “Let’s get back to it, then.”
Byleth stood up again, serious as ever.
Imperial Year 1172
Byleth's first mercenary deployment was a resounding success.
Jeralt hadn't planned on his participation. Things just moved too quickly for any other option. One moment they were enjoying a quiet village dinner, and the next they were staving off a sudden bandit raid. There was no time to stop and collect any thoughts, no time to move anyone to safety. Just time to act. He had hastily thrust a sword into his son's arms before leaping into the fray, only sparing a moment for some essential advice: "Remember your sparring sessions. Don't take any stupid risks. And always watch your back."
And then he was off. his child, just barely in adolescence, disappeared in a haze of shouting and clashing blades.
Once the dust settled and the fighting slowed to a stop, the full weight of the situation hit him with the force of an army. His child was out there somewhere.
No battle, no monster, no enemy had ever filled him with the complete dread this revelation brought. His blood was icy as he wove through the company's ranks. Every time he passed a body, he froze until he reasoned that not a single one of them was small enough to be his kid. The whispered snippets he caught from mercenaries and villagers alike did nothing to quell his thudding heart. "Did you see him?" "The captain's boy out there…" "Barely more than a child, and he's already--"
All this chatter did was spur him to walk faster.
His fear was just beginning to manifest into a pained grimace when he finally saw that familiar shock of blue hair.
"Byleth!"
He was just a little ways off. He was standing; that was a good sign. His sword hung loosely at his side, and his head was angled towards the ground. Upon hearing his name, he lifted it up a little- but he didn't turn around.
Jeralt tried not to let his relief overwhelm him. He managed to keep his expression neutral as he approached, though he couldn't keep the concern out of his eyes. "You alright?"
Only then did the boy turn around. Slowly, so slowly, he craned his neck to face his father. His gaze was as stony as ever, but that's not what got Jeralt's attention. What stood out to him was the streak of dripping crimson which ran from his forehead down to his neck.
The panic came rushing back in an instant. "Are you--"
"It's not mine."
And he was right. Now that the wave of fear had passed again, Jeralt couldn't spot so much as a scratch on him. He watched, bewildered, as Byleth did little more than blink before his gaze trailed back to the ground again. He followed his line of sight, finally noticing the bandit's limp body splayed out in a dark pool of blood.
"Ahhh." He understood now. Or so he thought. "Taking a life… it's always jarring at first. No way around it." His gaze softened, just a little. "Sorry you were thrust into it."
They were both quiet for a moment. Then Byleth shuffled a foot. "He wasn't the first one."
"What?"
"He was the fourth. Or fifth. I think."
Jeralt was taken aback. He wasn't sure where to go with that. "You think?"
"It was a blur."
He wasn't sure what to say. Those limp figures he passed on the way here, the frantic whispers he overheard from bystanders…
He was somewhere between proud and horrified.
But that didn't matter right now. Byleth is what mattered. He extended a hand, hesitating for just a moment before reaching out to his bloodied sword. His son gave up the weapon freely as soon as their hands touched. "How are you holding up, kid?"
He didn't answer right away. "I'm fine." A pause. "Just thinking."
"Thinking, huh."
"About how easy it was. Just a few moves and they're gone." It was hard to read his expression, as unchanging as it was. "I know they were bad, but… they had lives that led up to this moment… Lives like mine. And they're just gone now." His voice didn't waver or crack. His face didn't show any sorrow. But Jeralt still felt the weight of his words heavy on his heart. "Look at him. How different are we, really?"
Now that he was asked to look beyond the bandit's garb, he saw what had his son so shaken. This man-- no, this boy -- couldn't have been more than a couple years older than him. He was scrawny and short, and his face, with eyes staring upwards at nothing, was still soft and round.
"...Does it get easier?"
What was he supposed to say? It was a sobering moment, but it was one that every fighter had to confront someday. Deep down, Jeralt figured he already knew that. He was touched that he turned to his father for an impossible answer. He was even more touched that, despite his stoicism, he still felt the full emotional impact of this moment. But there wasn't anything he could do to help.
He finally responded after a long sigh. "Tell you what," he started, voice gruff. "The best thing you can do is remember what you're fighting for. Who you're protecting. It makes it easier to carry out the deed." His eyes went steely. "Just pray you never learn their names."
Once the two of them made their way back to the rest of the party, there was no question that word had already spread. Byleth's presence was met with hushed whispers and furtive glances.
"I heard he beat out people twice his size, back to back!"
"He saved my hide. If he hadn't shown up when he did, I'd have been done for…"
"They say he moves like the wind. Never stopping. How old is he, again?"
"Saw it with my own eyes. He didn't so much as blink. Like some kind of…"
The whispers surrounded them. As they wrapped up loose ends, as they tended to the wounded, as the company checked on the villagers, the mutterings and rumors only spread. Jeralt couldn’t get rid of the sensation that this was only the beginning of something his child wasn’t quite ready for.
Under the Blue Sea Star, amongst the settling dust of a tucked away town, the Ashen Demon was born.
Imperial Year 1176
The tavern was too noisy for Jeralt’s tastes.
Maybe the number of drinks wasn’t helping. The initial buzz had gone from calming to frustrating, and the loud chatter of patrons felt like grating steel in his ears. He could feel the beginning of a headache coming on. His response was, naturally, to drown out the sensation with more drink.
In all his years of experience, this was perhaps not one of his strong suits.
But there was some comfort in it. Despite his irritation, the liquor in his hands was inviting. The dull sensation in the back of his head was more than welcome, too. To forget his sadness, his mistakes, his sins weighing heavy on his back, even for just a little while…
The barkeep cast him a curious glance. Jeralt only sighed. He had the beginnings of an unpaid tab here, so it was only a matter of time before he would drop the polite inquisitiveness.
He was set to ask for a refill while he had the man’s attention before the slam of the door made him jolt. His hypervigilance kicked in. He stood abruptly as he swung around to face the sound with a slight lurch in his step. He wasn’t the only one to react. A handful of strangers were glancing at the door frame to see the source of the commotion.
The rush of adrenaline faded when he recognized the teenager in gray. The boy’s steel gaze cut across the room. He was difficult to read, as ever. His mouth was set in a stern line, and his eyes didn’t betray anything. Jeralt couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being judged.
“Byleth.” He let out a gruff sigh, slumping back into his seat as he gestured him over.
The strangers politely dropped their gaze after witnessing the interaction, and the grating chatter of the room resumed as the boy strode with purpose to meet his father at the table.
“Well?” He raised his eyebrows. “You sure made an entrance. Need something?”
He made no move to sit down. “Your employer was looking for you.”
“Mmm.” He glanced back down at the tankard. “Well-”
“I told her you were busy.”
“Huh. Thanks.” With that, he lifted the drink to his lips, throwing his head back as he drained what was left before slamming it back against the table top. Byleth only watched. “Why don’t you take a seat, kid?”
He shook his head. “I came to get you. I may have told the employer off, but you’ve still been here too long.”
"Feels like you're scolding me here."
"Sorry." The expression didn't change.
“Hmph.” Jeralt glanced back down at the empty tankard, eyes thoughtful. Byleth’s gaze followed. Under that trademark scrutiny, he couldn’t find it in him to call out for another drink like he’d been planning to. “Alright. Lead the way.”
After a trademark “put it on my tab,” Jeralt found himself strolling out into the chill night air. It was later than he realized. No wonder Byleth had gone looking for him. The thinnest sliver of moon shone down from the sky. It was the only light source for miles amongst the empty streets and silent houses. He could hear the wind rustling through the trees, which were nothing more than stark black silhouettes against the deep blue expanse of sky. The stars shone down, peeking from their heavenly perch, but the fog of alcohol blurred them into vague white streaks. It was still an improvement, though. The exhausting sounds of the tavern were well behind them now.
It took Jeralt a moment to realize that Byleth wasn’t actually leading them anywhere. He was hanging just a little bit behind his father, keeping pace but not setting the direction. Once he figured out that they were just wandering the streets, he shot him a curious glance. “For being in such a rush to get me, we sure don’t seem to be going anywhere.”
Byleth blinked with a start. “Huh.” His steps faltered. Then he stopped. “I didn’t even think about it. I’m used to following.”
Maybe he did have too much to drink, because in that moment those words hit him harder than they ever would have sober. Thoughts that he tried to drown out came rushing back faster than he could stop them. In a moment of no inhibitions-- or maybe a moment of bad luck-- a snippet of that flood slipped from between his lips. “Is that all you know now?”
He didn’t even have to look to realize he had caught him off guard. He could hear his voice hitch. “What?”
There was no going back now. Inhibitions were out the window as Jeralt turned to face his son on this darkened street. The light from the moon was weak, but it was enough for him to make out the suggestion of his face. It was enough to see the little changes in expression he’d learned to look out for; the mouth slackening a little, the brows furrowing ever so slightly, the eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He was surprised. “Have I been fair to you?” It came out a little angrier than he intended, but it was directed at himself. “Making this business your whole world… making me the only one you know…” He stopped, trying to choose his words carefully, but it was a wasted effort. He couldn’t grasp what he wanted to say and make it elegant. His head hurt too much. “It’s not on purpose, you know? But that doesn’t make it better.”
That wasn’t even entirely honest, and he felt his gut twist as the words left his lips. There were things he was hiding. The less Byleth knew about the church, or his mother, or his origins, the better. But that didn’t make Jeralt feel any less miserable. “I’m robbing you. And I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t look anymore. He turned on his heel again. “I need to sober up. Let’s head back.” He started to walk in what he assumed was the right direction.
After a few uneasy steps, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t bear to turn around again, but he still felt his eyes like fire boring into the back of his head. “What?”
Byleth didn’t respond right away. But the hand stayed. His grip was firm but gentle. “I know… that you’re doing your best.”
Jeralt finally relented and turned to meet his eyes. He was surprised to find a soft expression. The typical hard lines were gone, replaced with an uncharacteristically gentle expression. He didn’t frown, but his eyes were soulful. It was almost too much, especially coming from him, but he didn’t look away. This felt too important.
He continued once his father turned around. “I don’t always understand. But I know you have your reasons.” A pause. “I follow you because I respect you. I know you’ll never lead me wrong. You know that, right?”
Try as he might, Jeralt couldn’t find the words to respond. Instead, he found himself pulling his son close to his chest in an abrupt embrace. He heard Byleth gasp in surprise, and he felt him tense up under his arms, but he didn’t pull away.
After a moment, Jeralt felt a pair of arms wrap around his back in return.
Imperial Year 1180
Of all the things Jeralt expected to be doing today, having tea time with his son was not one of them.
Yet here he was on a fine weekend, sitting in the little gazebo as Byleth poured two cups of an aromatic tea with careful precision. He appraised his work before sliding one of the saucers and cups to his father’s side of the table and sitting down.
“It looks delicious,” he commented as he raised it to his lips. The gesture earned him a small smile, and Jeralt glowed. He had his fears and reservations about being back here, but it was also the happiest he’d ever seen the boy. The fact that he smiled so often anymore was enough to ease the worries which had haunted him for years.
It wasn’t enough to dispel them, of course. Vigilance never really wears off.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, he finally spoke. “So, why tea time with your old man?” he asked with a laugh. “It’s a nice day. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of students clamoring to spend time with their favorite professor.”
Byleth took a long sip before he replied. “I wanted to catch up. I see them every day, but I miss seeing you.” Another sip. “And I don’t know about favorite…” Did he sound bashful? Jeralt never expected to hear a voice like that from him.
“Well, it means a lot. I know life’s exciting, but I’m glad you haven’t forgotten about me.”
“How could I ever?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Well, you seem happier than I’ve ever seen you. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I can’t deny that.” He tapped his fingers on the table top, seemingly mulling over his words. “I’m seeing new things and meeting new people every day. Not even just the students. Have you talked with the staff much? Or met the gatekeeper out by the market?”
“The plucky one that always seems to be in a good mood?”
“That’s the one. He’s a good man. I should really ask for his name some time.” He glanced back down at his tea. “Sorry. I’m getting distracted.” He cleared his throat before picking up his cup, but he didn’t bring it to his lips quite yet. “Just because I’m happy doesn’t mean I would forget you. You’re as much a good part of my life.”
“That so?”
“Of course.” He finally took a contemplative sip. “I haven’t forgotten your advice, either. To be careful and wary.” He tapped his fingers against the table again. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t have questions of my own by now.”
Jeralt nodded. “Good. Don’t be paranoid, but it pays to stay on your toes.” He was tempted to ask what sort of questions he had, but he didn’t feel the need to push him. If he wanted to share, he would do it on his own time. That’s how Byleth had always been. “How about we move to something lighter, though? Let’s not darken this sunny day. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to tell about your students by now, right?”
The corner of Byleth’s mouth twitched. “I really shouldn’t.” His eyes twinkled. “But I think I will. I’ve had Dimitri and Dedue on weed pulling duty for a while, and I think Dimitri’s eating them.”
And so their conversation carried on. Despite his apprehensions, Jeralt really wouldn’t trade seeing him this happy for the world.
Imperial Year 1181
It was a gloomy sort of day. The air still had the cold bite of winter which seemed to seep through any clothing and nip at the skin. Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the sun and carrying with them the promise of icy rain.
And Jeralt was dying.
It all happened so fast. The sensation was familiar; a searing pain as his life drained out in a pool of red, his tenuous grip on consciousness starting to fade. But there was no one to save him this time. Just the burning memory of a dagger and the cold, hard ground beneath him.
He couldn’t process what was happening behind him as he slouched to the ground. All he knew was that the girl was gone and that suddenly Byleth was there, crouched over him, trying desperately to turn him over as he groaned in pain. Why did things go so wrong? Why did he let his guard down? Why, of all people, did Byleth have to witness it? “Sorry…”
There was so much he had left to say. Too much. Everything he planned to tell him, everything he left unspoken, everything he promised to explain was stripped away, leaving only a sinking feeling of guilt as he struggled to open his eyes. There wasn’t enough time for any of it anymore. “It looks like… I’m going to have to leave you now.” His eyes snapped shut again as he grimaced.
He was grounded again by a warm droplet hitting his face and sliding down his cheekbone. His eyes cracked open, then widened in surprise.
Byleth’s eyes were wide and downcast. For the first time in his life, tears welled up in them, streaking down his face and dripping onto the dying man in his arms.
He never thought he’d live to see this day. Despite his circumstances, despite his pain, despite the sadness welling up in him that only comes with the revelation that you’re on death’s doorstep, he felt… warm. A wry smile worked its way across his face as his eyes slid shut for the last time.
“To think that the first time I saw you cry… your tears would be for me.” He felt more droplets fall across his face. Maybe it was all in his head, but each one made him feel lighter, made the pain feel a little more like a memory. “It’s sad, and yet… I’m happy for it.”
Despite everything, he felt at peace. As his grip on reality finally slipped away, as the sensation of sound and touch all started to blend together, as he felt himself truly fading, he knew one thing for sure. He was truly and deeply loved.
“Thank you… kid.”
He was gone by the time the hot tears began to mingle with the freezing rain as nature partook in Byleth’s anguish.