The Fell Star’s Return

Watching the gentle green light emanating from the elderly woman’s hands fade away, Jeralt nods his thanks, already feeling slightly better. Fingering his brand-new stitches as the aged healer exits the tent, the mercenary notes that he’ll be getting another scar for his vast collection. 

Then, hearing what he interprets as a light curse, he glances up, watching as his brief adversary fiddles with the bandages wrapped around his chest. Even after receiving the boon of accelerated healing, the black and blue coloration hidden underneath his gauze is still apparently uncomfortable, a sentiment he can acknowledge. 

A myriad of thoughts and emotions dance through the retired knight at the sight of the olive-skinned man. He eventually opens his mouth to speak yet doesn’t quite know how to begin. 

Luckily, Lóegaire goes first. 

“So Jeralt…,” he says, finally raising his head, “what has it been, twenty or thirty years give or take?” 

The flaxen-haired warrior blinks then offhandedly scoffs, “You sure it hasn’t been longer? I hardly recognized you with your white hair.” 

The islander chuckles, observing Jeralt with smiling eyes, “Yes well, we can’t all be as defiant towards the passage of time as you, old friend.” 

Jeralt smiles wryly in response, involuntarily flexing his arms, “I may not look it Lóegaire, but I’m certainly feeling my age. Especially these days…” 

Taking a deep drink from the glass next to him, the Brigidian makes himself comfortable. 

“I have noticed. Leading a group of sellswords… it is a far crying from Captain of the Knights.” 

“…Far cry Lóegaire, not far crying.” 

“Ah yes, that’s what I meant, thank you.”

Jeralt sighs while tilting his head back and staring at the top of the weather-worn tent, “It almost feels like a different lifetime compared to now…” 

“It does seem quite the twist of fate.” 

The Brigid monarch looks at the man across from him, his indigo orbs seemingly searching for something. After several seconds of silence, he changes the conversation. 

“Regarding your mercenaries,” he starts, “how much are you knowing about that young man in your group? He’s quite bright considering his occupation. Too bright even.” 

Jeralt’s unfocused gaze centralizes, his posture similarly relaxing on the rustic wooden seat. 

“Zane? Yeah, I agree. There’s definitely more to him than he lets on, but I don’t know the specifics. Besides, it’s none of my business. People don’t exactly join this business to share their life stories with everyone they meet, and I’m not going to pry into his.” 

The aged Eisner simply shrugs his shoulders, “He could be a prince in exile for all I care. As long as he does his job well he can stay and do what he wants.” 

The tropical king hums in response, still wriggling around in his own chair.

An easy silence settles between the pair then, the clamour of activity outside the tent serving as a suitable backdrop to fill the void. As memories of decades past dredge themselves up in the pairs’ minds, Jeralt’s eyes wander.

 Lóegaire’s tent isn’t too dissimilar from the others his fellow islanders are using, just sturdy green fabric held aloft by several wooden stakes and cleverly knotted rope. A colorful woven mat decorated with intricate patterns lies on the ground atop the mostly leveled dirt and sand while a basic sleeping station rests in one of the corners, really just a pillow of sorts with room spared to lay down. 

His attention lingers on it before moving on. 

There are a few other things of note, such as the small collection of curiously carved figures lining the nearby table, or the hidden blade strapped to the underside of said surface, but overall, it’s decidedly simple - perfect for temporary lodging. 

Concluded his versed examination, Jeralt takes a long breath and finally bridges the stillness, “You know, I was really hoping I wouldn’t run into you here. I almost resorted to prayer,” he finishes with an unwieldy chuckle. 

Lóegaire suppresses a grin. 

“What a sight that would be. But,” he says, “neither the spirits nor your sacred mother could have been stopping our meeting.” 

The jungle king’s eyes glint with amusement as he continues, “After all, last we parted I told you I would be returning to avenge my sister’s honor.” 

The groan from across the tent brings a full smile to his lips. Even with the recent flood of memories, this is one Jeralt had, for all intents and purposes, entombed. 

“For the last time, I told you nothing like that happened. I don’t go for royalty, too much hassle.”

“That’s not the way dear Carina put it.” 

With a peculiar tone the aged monarch’s eyes go vacant, as if gazing into the very past itself. 

“In her own words, you were being akin to a greedy predator that ensnared her and tore away her innocence. She even thrust her bloodied undergarments at me.” 

Jeralt practically shouts as the image of a cherubic beauty with an infuriating smirk flashes in his mind’s eye, “That girl was crazy! I swear, the most we did was…” 

“Oh?,” the islander interrupts, “So something did happen. Then I’ll have to reaffirm that according to both of our laws you’ll need to be marrying.” 

Lóegaire then begins to reminisce, “You know I always wanted an older brother. I remember asking my mothe…” 

“She kissed my cheek that was it, I never laid a hand on her! Tell that crazy woman to confess!” 

Leaning forward with a red face and bulging veins, Jeralt stares at his long-lost friend, a hearty smile barely suppressed on his aged olive mug. They share a long glance and then at the same time burst out laughing, filling the air with joyous amusement. 

“D-don’t be worrying,” Lóegaire manages between chuckles, “she told me soon after it was all a jest. She had stained her female wear with the blood of a rabbit we ate earlier in the day.” 

Sitting back with a sigh he tries to steady his breathing, “She was always playing such horrible tricks on me…” 

The Fódlan-borne warrior waves his hand, “I don’t want to hear it. That single one alone was enough for me.”

Grunting in understanding, the azure-maned islander releases a deep sigh and looks at the ground. When he raises his head several seconds later, his gaze contains a more serious bearing to it. 

“Well, as much as I would be liking to reminisce, there is an important matter at hand.” 

The mercenary captain adopts a similar countenance while leaning forward, resting on his knees. 

“You said it’s about my son Byleth. Tell me what has you so concerned. I’ve never known you to be soft, so I trust there’s an actual issue.” 

Nodding, Lóegaire thinks on everything he witnessed and heard over the few days. 

“This is what I have seen…”

***

On the distant horizon, the heavenly body that earlier burned with an intense fury is now nearly obscured by its mother’s skirts, dyeing the clear sky a mellow orange and pink. Under this waning light, several torches around the cluttered encampment are ignited to ward off the darkness. 

Even under the encroaching promise of night, however, the mercenaries are still grudgingly working. 

Hauling yet another piece of splintered wood that should be impossible for a boy his size to carry, Byleth’s gaze remains absent even as a sharp prick of pain emanates from his left palm. 

Carefully setting the fractured beam on the ground, he examines the shard of wood protruding from his skin, a tiny crimson droplet of blood accompanying it. Rather than immediately remove the annoyance, the stoic youth simply stares at it as his mind takes him elsewhere.

The last several days have been chaotic to the extreme. He’s experienced so many things but doesn’t exactly understand any of them. 

Everything used to be so simple when he barely felt much of anything, but slowly across these months he’s begun to feel many unfamiliar sensations: An oppressive flame burning in his chest towards those two mercs that bother him, an equal downpour on himself for letting it happen, a faint cold in his bones as he watches others laugh together and make merry - plenty of decidedly unpleasant things that he isn’t sure how to term. 

Sometimes though, just sometimes, he experiences the opposite. 

The zeal from becoming stronger or better at something, the warm flame from drawing and interacting with small animals on his forest excursions, a pleasant aura as he learns from Zane and his father, and finally the most intense one - A burning inferno of blissful heat permeating his being while talking with, or thinking of, Sothis. It’s as if something takes him over in her presence and he acts so unlike his usual self. 

On the opposite end of that coin, is the bone gnawing chill he’s had from ignoring her ever since she saw his true face and his feeble attempts to prevent that. 

Those two opposite forces and so many others feel as if they’re tearing him apart and he doesn’t know what to do. This is uncharted waters and he can’t figure out how to traverse it. 

Only just recently, with the time he spent with the hunter, the king he supposes, has he stopped drowning. Now he’s in a constant state of confusion – the sole emotion he can concretely label. 

When will it all stop? When can he stop feeling so… terrible? The idea of just plunging his dagger into h…

An odd feeling on his wrist snaps him out of the introspection as his gaze refocuses on his hand, the droplet of blood having turned into a small line snaking its way down. 

Pulling out the protruding piece wood he licks the trail of blood oozing from the hole, noting the coppery taste as it goes in his mouth. Doing that, a bit of chatter in the distance carries itself to his ears. 

Looking over he can see the cause of it clearly despite the dimming light. It’s his father speedily making his way over, having finally finished his long talk with the king. Raising a hand to his brow, he wipes off the accumulated sweat, watching as some of his fellow hirelings call out to the man. 

They’re promptly ignored, however, as he beelines towards Zane’s tent, easily identifiable by its minor red color variation compared to everyone else’s, to say nothing of the open clearing it’s planted in. That and it’s placed right next to his father’s own blue one. 

Quickly tossing the scrap piece he was hauling into the appropriate pile, Byleth follows after him, just in time to hear a firm order given through the canvas. 

“Get everyone lined up and make it quick.” 

Zane evidently wastes no time on questions, immediately heading off to fulfill the directive as he runs out leaving the entrance flapping behind him.

Inside, Jeralt absentmindedly shuffles through some papers at a rough-hewn desk, not noticing Byleth until he’s right beside him. 

Looking down at his son in the flickering candlelight, his jaw tightens and he finds himself at a loss of words not for the first time today. He soon crouches down, beckoning his child closer. 

As Byleth inches near to stand face to face with his father, Jeralt searches his son for any clue about his current feelings but his brow furrows even further when he finds himself unable to decipher the truth behind the mask. 

Reaching out, he draws Byleth in for a hug, burying him in his embrace despite the resulting pain on his chest. The younger Eisner, for his part, stays stock still wrapped in his father’s burly arms. They stay that way for a long while before he finally releases the lad, maintaining a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Listen kid…,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “I need to take care of some things, but when I’m done, we’re going to have a long talk, just the two of us. Come the morning we’ll go out fishing like we used to, how does that sound?” 

The flaxen-haired captain’s hand involuntarily clenches a bit harder as he notices a subtle trace of surprise in Byleth’s eyes.

“We’re ready for you captain.” 

Jeralt glances behind him to see Zane standing in the entrance. Nodding his thanks, he looks back at Byleth and stiffly pats him on the shoulder. 

As he then stands and exits the tent, his softened gaze hardens. 

He takes a moment to survey the assembled men before motioning for Zane. 

“Go stand with Byleth a ways back and make sure he watches.” 

Although faintly confused, Zane doesn’t argue and heads next to the teal-haired boy that had followed them both outside.

Now alone, Jeralt stands before his men, formed up in five straight lines of eight. The odd sight garners a few curious eyes from the natives in the distance, some of them gathering at the fringes. 

Observing his fighting force, he frowns. More than he would like, which is any at all, are quite disorderly, not properly standing to attention, nor is everyone giving him their undivided focus. 

Sighing in his heart, he admonishes himself for being too lax these nerve-wracking past months, but that is going to change starting tonight. 

Opening his mouth, he speaks loudly so all of those gathered can hear him properly. 

“Six years now, we’ve been in business. The New Dawn Mercenaries.” 

He pauses for a moment, letting that sink in. 

“For six years you’ve worked under my command. Some of have been around since the beginning, while others are more recent additions. But, I think I’ve treated you guys well during your time here. Working for me, you’ve never had to worry about your next meal,” he motions to a still flickering fire with a pot suspended over the top, “or when a new job would come in,” pointing toward the massive piles of sorted debris. 

“All of us have been living rather nicely for men in this business,” he says matter-of-factly, several murmurs of agreement answering him. Jeralt waits until they quiet back down before continuing. 

“In these short few years, we’ve never blundered a job and have quickly become one of the most sought-after small-scale mercenary groups in the Empire.” 

Many become rowdier at the words, believing they’re being praised for their hard work, and can’t help but begin to talk and cheer amongst themselves. 

Suddenly though, Jeralt shouts, “Quiet!” His commanding and enraged voice ushering immediate silence.

“As my men, I’ve treated you well over the last several years. MY mercenaries, Jeralt’s mercenaries,” he emphasizes his name attached to the group, hitting his chest for good measure. 

Then he stops restraining himself. 

“So why the fuck then, have you been throwing dirt on my name and goodwill?! Here I come to find out that my son, MY SON, is being mistreated by you?” 

At this point, Jeralt is all out screaming at his subordinates, many of them flinching in trepidation. 

“I am the captain, and I demand respect! Touching my family behind my back?” 

His knuckles go white on the pommel of his sword as he lets out a dangerous chuckle, “You’re lucky I never caught any of you because so help me, even the goddess wouldn’t be able to recognize you when I would be done with you.”

Watching from the side, for once Byleth has a clear and recognizable expression painted on his face: shock. 

Zane experiences something similar, but rather than shock he’s upset, upset with himself for not doing exactly what his captain is doing sooner. 

Although he didn’t know exactly how far the abuse towards Byleth went, he had certainly caught some miscreants giving him dirty looks or whispering about him more than once. He had swiftly punished them of course, but that was it. 

A pang of guilt strikes his gut over the fact that he hadn’t brought the situation to Jeralt, feeling that it wasn’t anything major that he couldn’t handle, not to mention that his superior hadn’t exactly been around much to begin with. Nonetheless, witnessing the current events, he realizes that the issue was likely more serious than he could have ever imagined.

Taking a steady breath, Jeralt manages to calm down slightly as his voice isn’t quite as loud as before. 

“I know that most of you are innocent, but there are a select few here that are rotting the integrity of my men. This will be your only chance. Announce yourself in good faith now, and your life will be spared, on my honor as the Blade Breaker.” 

At the words, most of the men look around them. The active minority that verbally harassed the lad feel a pit grow in their stomach, but try and stay content with the knowledge that they never actually touched him. One individual, however, is absolutely scared shitless despite what his somehow more composed demeanor would suggest. 

Ultimately though, nobody steps forth. Jeralt watches all of this, eyes like a hawk as he peers through the darkness to observe the various reactions to his words.

“I see,” he says in a neutral tone. 

After a few seconds of silence, as tensions begin to unwind, he proposes something else. 

“How about this: Anyone that comes forward, with unmistakable information about the pieces of shit that touched my son, will receive five times their due commission after this job is done.” 

More than a couple gasps ring out from the lines, their natural greed working overtime. As if by magic, lips that were previously sealed tight are eager to burst open and it doesn’t take long for a quivering hand to rise through the air, causing all heads to turn in his direction. 

“S-sir, I believe I know.” 

Not wasting a single second, Jeralt appears right in front of him, towering over the comparatively short middle-aged man. 

“Speak then, Burch. Who hurt my son?” Burch’s eyes dart to and fro as he struggles to meet his leader’s gaze. 

“W-well, you was serious ‘bout the money, right?” 

Voice shaking like a leaf, the moss-haired mercenary tries to confirm the offered reward. 

“The names Burch,” Jeralt emphasizes with a slightly angrier tone. 

The experienced archer begins wringing his hands, as if deciding how to phrase his words. 

“Well,” he begins, “the other day y’know, I was s-stopping by the inn to deliver a report to Lieutenant Zane, and I saw ummm…,” he stops, as if scared to continue. 

The mercenary captain sighs, placing a steady hand on the man’s right arm. 

“Continue Burch. I won’t let those responsible hurt you.” 

The surprisingly timid man gives a nod of thanks. 

“I saw two people punching and kicking your son.” 

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I-it was Sean and his brother Tevan.” 

As soon as he finishes his confession a loud yell echoes from the back of the formation, “Burch you fuckin’ worm, I’ll gut you for this bastard!”

Shakily turning his head, Burch watches Sean try and lunge for him, screaming bloody murder, but he’s swiftly restrained by two older men next to him. 

“Burch.” 

Calling his name, Jeralt gets the frail man’s attention. 

“Thank you for your honesty, you’ll have your money when we get back to Adrestia.” 

At those words Burch smiles, and Eisner can practically see the moss-haired man’s face light up with greed. At least until his expression twists into agony that is. 

“But I have no use for pieces of trash like you, you’re out of the band,” he says with a cold and simmering tone. 

“Oh, and you might want to get that checked out,” he adds as he releases the man’s arm, which most certainly should not be bent the way it is. 

Burch falls to his knees, screaming in pain, while those nearby try not to wince at the sight of the exposed bone. 

“Now then,” Jeralt turns to the forcibly held Sean, his expression dark, “what should I do with you?”

---