"Next on the curriculum is formations and tactics for armored companies," Byleth says.
I flip through my copy of the Officers Academy curriculum, looking for the relevant section. It takes a moment, as the setting sun streaking through the windows of the Golden Deer classroom brings a bit of a glare at the precise right angle to force me to squint. Even though it's well into springtime, the days getting longer and warmer, the sun still sets right around the time of our after-class debrief and planning meetings. Byleth, for her part, seems unaffected.
"From my own experience, I have several ideas on examples I could use to illustrate the key points," she continues.
"You did a lot of fighting with heavy armor?" I ask. "Isn't that more of a knight thing?"
"Not wearing it," Byleth explains. "Alongside it, and sometimes, against it. Lords would sometimes contract us out to bolster their forces. Sometimes it was against other lords, too."
"Alright then," I say. I grab a pen, ink it, and find a blank piece of paper. "Show me what you've got."
Byleth outlines her plan for the lesson, as I dutifully take notes. She's going to pose the real-life battle situations she's encountered to the students, and ask them for their thoughts on strategies for how to defeat the enemy. It's a pretty decent strategy for us as teachers, having served us well as a general approach since that first lesson on the Battle of the Copper Pass. For today's planning session, she clearly and articulates the points she wants the students to take away from each example.
"Sounds like that all checks out to me," I say, setting down the pen. "I'm impressed. Not that I didn't think you could do this sort of thing, but you've really taken to it like a fish to water. Soon enough, you might not even need me."
Byleth shakes her head. "I need you for many things," she says. "I need you to manage the house's accounting—which we must discuss more in preparation for the mission—and to do the grading."
Of course, the real assistant work. Well, I suppose it's less pressure than having to come up with the actual lesson plans.
"And," she continues, "it is useful to have someone else to discuss my ideas with before I teach them."
"Well, it's good to still be needed," I reply.
"Yes. I would struggle to plan the lessons, prepare our house for the mission, do all the paperwork, and help the students with their questions alone."
I have a feeling she'd figure it out sooner than she thinks—or at least, sooner than she is saying she thinks.
I raise a finger. "Actually, that gives me an idea."
"What is it?"
I lean back a bit in my chair. "If I'm going to be cooped up in the office keeping ledgers and grading papers, I could also open it up to students to come by if they have questions or need help with some of the material," I say. "Obviously, I'm not an expert like you. If stuff gets really complicated I can bring you in on it at a different time. But as long as we go over the lessons like this beforehand, I think I can handle the front line of questions."
"That would be very helpful," she says. "This way I can focus more on lesson planning and organizing the house for our missions."
"Great," I reply. "I'll announce it during the next lessons."
"Good," Byleth says, nodding. "With that and the lesson plan taken care of, we've got to work on preparing for the mission in earnest."
A slight, but palpable, tightness forms in my chest. Our conversation with Rhea seemed to pretty clearly indicate that I would be expected to go along the mission, despite my lack of combat experience. No doubt I'd feel better with Byleth at my side. Of course, she is clearly a formidable swordswoman and an adept commander. But also, I trust, or more accurately hope, that with the Divine Pulse power she possesses, she could—and would— "rewind" and "undo" any unfortunate outcomes of the battle. I believe, or want to believe, that she cares about me enough to use the power to save me from an untimely end if it becomes necessary.
But even with that said, there are unknowns. That's just a game mechanic. I have no idea how it works in this real version of things. Everything from the magic to the money has been much more complicated than it was presented as, and there's no reason to believe that the Divine Pulse is any different. There might be other limitations or complicating factors that I'm just not aware of. After all, as the story goes, she isn't even able to use it to save Jeralt in that cutscene. Again, that was just the difference between game mechanics and story, but there must be some organic reason for it happening. Who knows where else it could apply?
And I can't even ask Byleth about it, because there's no way I could plausibly know anything about the Divine Pulse or the little Sothis in her head—I'd have to explain everything to Byleth, and I don't want to explain everything to anyone unless I really, really have no choice. So, that leaves me with the knowledge that some safety net may exist—a safety net that I will have no way of knowing if it was used or not—but that I don't want or intend to find out.
I take a deep breath to steady myself. "So, what do we need to do?" I ask.
"We'll need to procure equipment," she says. "Weapons and armor."
"The Church isn't providing us with any?"
She shrugs. "There's some in storage in the classroom, though none of it is in particularly good condition. We ought to take inventory of it and see what can be used and what else we need to purchase. Some of the wealthier students may have brought their own equipment, as well."
I nod, jotting down some more notes. "So you're going to ask them what they have and see if it's quality enough for the battlefield."
"Yes, once we've taken stock of our own supplies," she replies. "When I introduce the mission in the next lesson, I will ask them to bring their armor and weapons to the next training session."
"Makes sense to me," I say, though the idle thought of children bringing weapons and armor to school is an amusing, if quite dark, one. I guess the amusing part is that it's completely allowed, if not encouraged, by this society. "What else?"
"We'll need to continue drilling in formations," she says. "And you'll need to redouble your efforts on training. Especially your swordplay."
I grimace a little. "Shouldn't I just focus on magic?" I ask, and sigh. "Look, Byleth, I know I'm pretty useless—"
"You are not useless," she says, interrupting. "We just discussed this."
"I know I'm probably not your first choice on the battlefield," I say. "But I think the only chance I have of being of any use in the field is with magic. I'm getting decent with Fire, and thanks to Manuela, I can actually use faith magic, too, even if I need some more practice with it. Swordplay just isn't coming as smoothly to me."
"I know that you are more skilled with magic," Byleth says. "But if someone rushes you in close quarters, you will want as many options as possible. Perhaps you can defend yourself with magic—but the situation may be better suited towards physical combat."
What would I do if someone rushed me down in close quarters? I imagine myself calling up fire at point blank range, struggling to control it without the benefit of time, distance, and room for error. It's doable, but it may not be the right answer for every situation. She has a point.
"That's why you wanted to teach me the sword to begin with," I say.
"Yes," she says. "Now, let's go through the equipment we have in the classroom. You'll need armor and a sword, too."
We get up and walk over to the room's storage closets, tucked all the way in the corner. The cabinets open with a creak. Inside are racks, sparsely populated with a few articles of weapons and armor. Everything's covered in a light layer of dust.
There's a couple of simple helmets—more bucket or cooking pot-shaped than knightly—as well as two long jackets that flare out into a slight skirt at the bottom. Closer inspection reveals them to be made of stiff, rough leather on the outside, with layers of padding underneath. A tunic of tightly-knit, though rusty, chainmail hangs nearby, as do a few wooden training weapons and a spear with an actual metal tip.
"Take note of each item's condition as I go through it," Byleth says.
"Yes, ma'am," I reply, exchanging my impromptu notes for the class ledger, and flipping to a new page for our inventory.
She takes each piece of gear in turn, picking it up, turning it over in her hands, studying it. I sneeze as the dust she's disturbed reaches my nose.
"Two helmets are usable but need cleaning," she begins. "Same with the spear."
"What about the chainmail?" I ask.
"It is questionable," she says. "We'll have to clean it to find out. But it may be rusted beyond use. Don't bother with the training weapons. They won't be of any use for our mission."
I jot down the list of items, and we continue working through the remaining contents of the closet in much the same way. There's a few vulneraries, an old-looking vial of antitoxin, and some general camping supplies—tents, bedrolls, canteens, flint and steel. "It'll be an overnight trip to the Red Canyon," Byleth explains. "We'll need to make camp."
It doesn't take long to finish that all up. Going through everything methodically brings some measure of comfort and relief. I admit, I hadn't thought about all the details that would go with it, but Byleth's experience means she knows what she's doing, and I can follow along as her assistant well enough. I may not be ready for the mission, but the least I can do is be prepared.
During our next lesson with the Golden Deer, Byleth makes two announcements, as we discussed. One is about my office hours. The other is that the students should bring any fighting equipment they brought with them to the next training session.
After she dismisses class, I set up shop in my office, prop open the door, and settle in to my desk to wait.
Not fifteen minutes go by before I get my first visitor. "Hey, Professor Harrison!" a voice calls from outside. "I'm here for office hours!"
At first I'm surprised that anyone's taken me up on it so quickly, but that wears off quickly when I realize it's Annette. I should've seen that coming. I know from firsthand experience that competitive students of a certain mindset would attend office hours just to do it, rather than because they actively needed help or had questions to ask the professor. A diligent student like Annette, always going the extra mile and then some for good measure, would operate under the same principle.
"Glad to see you, Annette," I reply. "Come on inside and sit down."
She practically skips over to the other side of the desk, settles down into the chair, and leans forward with rapt attention, her blue eyes watching my every move. "Now what?" she asks.
"This is the part where you ask me about the trouble you're having with the material."
"Oh," she says. For a moment her face turns crestfallen, but then she wrinkles her nose in concentration, tapping a finger to her forehead.
I don't say anything, just letting her think.
After a moment she looks up and gives an apologetic smile and a nervous little laugh. "Uh, I don't actually know if I have anything—not right now, anyway," she says. "I guess I shouldn't be here, then?"
"Not if you don't want to be," I say gently. "But it's okay if you just want to hang out here, too."
"I see," Annette says. She sighs. "I thought I was really supposed to come here. I was worried that I'd miss out on something important."
The cynic might say that this sort of thing is just brown-nosing, vying for the professor's favor whether it's by trying one's best to look interested in the material or simply through mere exposure. Of course, the cynic would be dead wrong. This is Annette we're talking about.
I shake my head. "It's not quite like that," I explain. "The idea is that if you need extra help, you can come here. There's no special secrets or tips or information I'm going to divulge here."
"That's good," she says, relief evident in her voice. "I hope you'll forgive me for wasting your time, Professor. I'm just always trying to do as much as I can, learn as much as I can. You know?"
"First of all, you're not wasting my time," I reply. "And second, while I commend your efforts, I'm a little worried that you're going to overwork yourself. You're already a top student across the board. I can't really ask any more of you."
She laughs, and a little blush crawls across her face. "Oh, Professor. You should know I'm used to this sort of thing—since the Royal School of Sorcery, and before then, too. I guess I've had the learning bug since I was a kid, now that I think about it."
She's opening up to me a little. That's good.
"Oh, really?" I ask.
"Yeah. Some of my earliest memories are showing my father the magic I could do. They were simple tricks, but it made him so happy to see that I could do it." She sighs. "He left home when I was pretty young. But ever since then, I kept pushing myself to learn more—study harder—practice and practice and practice. I'd work myself till I was getting exhausted and sick, but I could never let up."
"Let me guess. Deep down, did you think that maybe if you got good enough, he'd come back?"
Annette fidgets nervously with her hands. "It's a little silly, but—"
"It's not silly," I say, cutting her off. "But, listen to me, Annette. You are good enough, whatever he does."
"It doesn't usually feel like it," she replies, in an uncharacteristically low, hollow tone.
I sigh. "I know. I know it's hard. I just don't want you to hurt yourself—especially not for that sort of man. As your teacher, yes, I want you to succeed, but more importantly than that, I want you to be happy, and to be healthy."
"That's sweet of you to say, Professor."
"Maybe just give it a try?" I ask. "Not trying so hard all the time?"
She laughs. "Okay, maybe I can try that. But you have to make me a deal, Professor."
"Yeah?"
"You've got to do the same thing," she says. "I can tell you're not that different from me. Are you?"
I pull my lips together in a tight line.
"I mean, you started here as a servant and then you started learning magic with Professor Hanneman," she continues. "And now you're an assistant professor, and I'm sure that keeps you super busy, but you're still working on your magic all the time. I even saw you practicing faith magic with Professor Manuela, too, and swords with Professor Byleth. You're also trying to do it all. You can't stop working hard, either, right? It might not be about your father, but…" her voice trails off, and she looks at me, expectantly.
She's right, of course. I can recognize the anxious gifted kid in Annette a mile away, and it takes one to know one. The case history is damn near textbook, as are the symptoms: the fear of failure, the desire to please, the compulsive need to feel productive. But in making that assessment and trying to begin to steer her in a better direction, I opened up enough of myself to give her that glimpse back at me.
I nod.
"Yeah," I reply. "I guess I'm not that different from you. People told me I was smart, good at stuff. Especially, or pretty much only, school."
I pause for a fraction of a second. I can't remember if my made-up Morfis story had formal education included in it. It had to have, to explain my ability to smoothly step into the role as Byleth's assistant, but it doesn't really matter. Annette is being real and vulnerable with me, so how could I think of lies like that at a time like this?
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful for that," I continue. "But I know that it's hard, when you get used to being good at stuff. When things aren't perfect, when things don't go as you planned—when things are hard—when you have to fail, even if it's only temporary—it's terrifying, and you'll do anything to avoid it, even if you're just digging the hole deeper for yourself."
"You're right," she says, shifting in her seat. "The thought of not going at full speed all the time is kind of terrifying. You know, on my days off, if I don't get up early and get the cleaning done, I just can't relax! I don't know how people like Mercie can just stay in their room all day on a day off." She furrows her brow. "I guess I just feel like when I'm working on something, I'm in control."
"Comes with the territory of Reason magic," I muse.
Reason magic and science aren't so different after all. Even if the workings of magic remain opaque, it's still fundamentally empirically driven—change your input variables, control your constants, observe your outputs, and draw conclusions based on what you see. That appeals to a certain kind of person, or appeals to and strengthens certain drives and behaviors within people. I think I might be onto something. Or maybe, when you're trained to use a hammer, everything looks like a nail.
"Huh?"
"Just my pet theory," I say. "But think about it. We like to understand things. Pick them apart, figure out how they work, and put them back together so that they work the way we want them to. That's why we got into the magic game to begin with."
"Yeah," Annette says hesitantly.
"So when we're not in control, when there are things we can't fix or change, that's when we get terrified, and run ourselves ragged trying to get them back on track—even though there are things we just can't change," I explain. I sigh. "The truth is, there are so many forces so much larger than you and me out there. And it is terrifying."
She gives a strained smile. "Wow, Professor. That sure is some pep talk."
I hold up my hands defensively. "I'm new at this, okay?"
Annette relaxes a bit.
"My point is that you're not alone," I continue. "Sometimes, just knowing that is a big help."
"It does help a little," she says, and sighs. "Again, I'm sorry for taking up your time."
I shake my head. "You know what a teacher of mine once told me? 'There's a lot of sorry people in this world, Harrison. Don't be one of them.' There's nothing to apologize for. Just say 'thank you' instead."
"I—okay," Annette says. "Thank you, Professor."
"You're welcome," I reply with a smile.
"I've got some work I've got to get back to," she says, collecting herself and getting out of her seat. "I guess I'll see you in class tomorrow?"
"Of course," I reply. "You're welcome to stop by my office anytime, even just to chat like this. Even just to chat about things that aren't serious like this. Okay?"
Annette nods, smooths out her uniform a bit, and steps out into the doorway. "Thanks, Professor," she says, then turns away and leaves the office.
A minute or two passes before I realize I've been holding in a breath, barely moving at all. I exhale a big sigh. That was… well, I'm not totally sure if I should call it unexpected. Annette was certainly being Annette, and a lot of what we talked about is the same sort of things she talks about in her support with Byleth in the game. I guess what surprises me is how readily she confided that in me, and in this sort of setting. Maybe I pushed and prodded her a bit, but I was doing it for her own benefit! I tried my best, and I hope it helped her. I'm just trying to follow in the example that Byleth—the game's Byleth, at any rate—set. I don't know how this Byleth would handle it, but I don't see any reason to assume it's fundamentally different…
This is why they don't let you be a therapist with just a bachelor's. People are too damn complicated.
At our next full-class training session, the Golden Deer file in with their gear in tow. Leonie and Ignatz are among the first to arrive, each with a bow, simple helmet, and nothing else. Claude comes in with a chainmail tunic, bow, and sword at his hip. Lysithea and Marianne follow soon after, neither carrying much equipment that catches my notice.
Lorenz, predictably, struts in wearing full plate, complete with greaves and gauntlets. Tucked under one arm, he holds one of those helmets with a visor leaving a minimal slit for the eyes, and a feathery plume on top. On the other hand, he holds a heavy cavalry lance. A sheathed sword remains strapped at his waist.
Hilda comes in next-to-last followed by Raphael. She's carrying one of those leather armor pieces similar to what Byleth and I found in the classroom, while Raph holds a suit of plate mail and an axe. That seems a bit backwards compared to the others, but upon closer inspection, Hilda's armor seems much larger in size than you'd expect for her, while Raphael's looks far too small for his body.
"Hilda," Byleth says, "can you explain why Raphael is carrying your armor?"
Hilda pouts, pink twintails swaying as she does. "It was just so heavy, Professor," Hilda says with a breathy sigh. "And Raphael is so strong, I just knew he was the right one to ask to help me. So we switched."
"You'll have to get used to wearing it in combat," Byleth says.
"Maybe I could get a lighter set—you know, like Leonie's," Hilda says. "My brother picked those rust buckets out. He doesn't know what's best for me, but I think you're more reasonable, Professor."
"I find that hard to believe," Claude interjects. "Not the part about you being reasonable, Teach. I mean the bit about Lord Holst not having a practical sense for armor."
Claude's got a point. Hilda calls her armor a rust bucket, but actually, it's damn near spotless. It's not gilded, decorated, and opulent like Lorenz's, but it's clearly practical, high-quality, and well-maintained. It probably also has seen a minimum of actual combat use as yet, but no doubt Lord Holst Goneril got the best that his duchy, if not the Alliance, has to offer for his darling sister.
Hilda sighs. Byleth nods. "Hilda, you are a frontline combatant. I don't ask you to wear heavy armor because I want to make your life difficult. I ask you because I want you to survive." She looks up from Hilda and around at the rest of the students. "That goes for all of you. Each and every one. I want us all to come home, back to the monastery, unharmed. That's why I need you to listen to me. Is that clear?"
Nods all around, with a chorus of "yes, Professor" to boot, confirm the class's agreement.
"Now, if there is one thing that I've taught you so far, it is that our best chance of victory starts with preparation—starting with your equipment," Byleth continues. "That's why I've asked you all to bring what you have here today. I know you all come from different backgrounds. Some of you are coming well-armed and armored. Others are working with what is no doubt the best you could gather before coming here."
We get to work going through who needs what equipment. Lorenz, Claude, and Hildas' ensembles are more or less complete. In fact, I suspect Claude in particular has more toys stashed away somewhere that he hasn't disclosed. At the same time, I don't suspect any malicious intent if he does. It's probably just standard operating procedure for him.
Ignatz has a decent bow, though Byleth comments that he could probably use a sword—something like Marianne's little thin side-sword. Lysithea, given her stature and condition, will need the lightest possible armor and weapons. Leonie has a bow in good shape, but Byleth wants to invest in a better spear and some mail for her. Same thing with Raphael. He'll need a new axe and some better armor, and Ignatz and Marianne will need some light armor of their own.
After we finish training, Byleth and I head to the merchants' stalls set up by the entrance to the monastery. She points out the armorers and blacksmiths. The closest to us is a gruff-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard, hard at work over an anvil. Around him are racks and racks full of swords of all shapes and sizes, ranging from classically shaped broadswords, to thin, wiry rapiers, to sturdy longswords. The afternoon sun catches their blades in the light here and there, the glare proving to be a sharp enough weapon on its own. I suppose it's to be expected that the blacksmith keeps his wares in tip-top shape.
"Hello there," Byleth calls out to him between the sounds of hammer on steel. "Are these for sale?"
"Sure are," the blacksmith says, turning momentarily from his work. "Be there in a moment. If something catches your eye, feel free to give it a swing or three. Just as long as you don't break anything, of course."
Byleth nods gravely and begins doing just that. She picks up a sword of each make, studying its blade and hilt, then giving it some experimental swings through the air in turn.
"What are you looking for?" I ask. "In the swords, I mean."
"Quality," she says. "Balance. Weight."
It takes a few moments for the blacksmith to finish up. He comes out from his work area to greet us, wiping his hands on his rough canvas apron and dabbing at a sweaty forehead with a small towel. Despite that, his hands and his brow remain covered in soot.
"Name's Errol Hoffmann. Swordsmith, as you can see."
"Byleth Eisner," Byleth replies. "I'm a professor at the Officers Academy. This is my assistant, Harrison."
Hoffmann looks from me to her. "You're Captain Jeralt's daughter, is that right?"
Byleth nods.
"Well, I hope my blades live up to your standards!" he says. "Though I ought to remind you not to break any of 'em—they don't call your old man the Blade Breaker for nothing, and I've heard you're a chip off the old block where fighting is concerned."
"I suppose," Byleth replies flatly.
"Enough chitchat," he says. "You're here for swords."
Byleth picks out a handful of blades. She collects them in an empty supply crate.
"I know you said you're a swordsmith," Byleth begins, "but do you also make messers?"
I don't recognize the word. Maybe it's some other type of sword that I don't know of.
The man laughs. "Now, that's quite the question! If I were a son of Faerghus, then I might have some harsh words for you. But I'm of practical Leicestrian stock," he says. "I have no truck with those silly games of who gets to call their blade a sword or a knife. They all cut the same, don't they?"
"And messers often do it for a fair bit cheaper," Byleth offers.
"There's that mercenary pragmatism! A lass after my own heart," the blacksmith says. He turns to me and gives a sharp wag of the finger. "Boy, you'd be wise to keep her close, I tell you. Hard to find a sensible girl these days—much less one who knows her way 'round a blade."
Byleth looks at me, and I feel my face start to heat up. "Ah, our relationship is just a professional one," I mumble.
She doesn't say anything.
Hoffmann shrugs, and turns to select a blade and offers it to Byleth. She inspects it once more, gives it a few test swings, sheathes it, and hands it to me.
"I think we have what we need," she says to the blacksmith. "Thank you very much. Harrison?"
I put the sword down carefully while I retrieve a small coin purse from my pocket, which I've been using to hold the house's funds. I pay for the equipment and make change with the blacksmith. Without a portable writing implement, I can't easily make a note of what we spent in our class's financial ledger, but I do my best to commit the items and their costs to memory.
When we're done, Byleth gestures to the sword—messer, I suppose—and I pick it up.
"This will be your weapon," she says.
A chill runs down my spine. I guess I knew intellectually that we'd be going into real battle soon—life-or-death battle—and I knew that we'd had that little chat about swordplay, and that obviously requires getting me a real sword. But it's another thing to hold it in my hand.
It's surprisingly light, I realize, as I unsheathe it and study it for myself. The blade is about two feet long, with a point that makes it look more like a saber, or, truthfully, a long knife than what one imagines as the classical sword. Upon closer examination, only one edge is sharpened, like a knife—the other is wider and blunt. The blade comes to a handle that's about another six inches, with a typical crossguard as well as a nail-like protrusion that forms a T-shape in three dimensions.
"We'll practice with it more," Byleth says.
I nod slowly, and sheathe it once more. When I put it away with the others, I notice my hands are shaking ever so slightly.
We head down the rest of the stalls, buying all the equipment we'll need for the mission. We buy weapons and armor to meet all the students' needs, and the camping supplies, too. It takes a few trips back and forth to our supply closet to put everything away—which also gives me an opportunity to keep track of the money we're spending and start filling out that expense report. By the end of it, we've spent almost three quarters of our funds. Hopefully most of the weapons and armor are durable enough that we won't need to repair and replace them until we get more cash flow. From the Church, of course. I don't know how I'm going to feel about looting the enemies we defeat—people we kill—even if that was part of the game.
As we finish up the last trip, Byleth asks me something out of the blue. "Is our relationship just professional to you?"
I almost trip over my own feet, but I manage to keep my grip on the supply crate. "Huh?" is all I manage to ask.
"You said that to the blacksmith," she says, looking at me with those serious deep blue eyes. "I thought we were—we could be—friends."
I barely suppress a laugh. Did she not understand that the blacksmith and I were talking about a romantic relationship? Is she just trying to see how I react? Or both?
"We are friends, as long as you want to be," I reply.
"Good."
We walk the rest of the way back to the supply closet in silence as I mull over that interaction. Byleth's mix of latent wisdom and occasionally apparent social naivete never fails to fascinate me. Sometimes it seems like she says things just to see how others will react, to better figure out where she and they stand, but sometimes I know she knows exactly what she's doing.
I don't know which this is.
I'm in my office doing some pre-reading for the next week when a tall, bearded man walks through the door. It's Jeralt. After a brief moment of stunned surprise, I leap from my chair to greet him. In my nervous haste, I bang my knee on the desk and am forced to suppress a curse. None of it is helping the lackluster impression I'm no doubt already giving him.
"Captain Jeralt, sir," I say as I get to my feet. "Um, can I help you?"
He grunts a vague answer, not quite affirming or denying. "You're Byleth's assistant, is that right?"
"Yes, sir. My name's Harrison," I reply, giving him a slight bow. I gesture at the chairs opposite my desk. "If you want to chat, come inside and have a seat."
Jeralt shrugs and enters the office proper. He sits down and leans back with a casual ease that oozes indifference. I take my seat once again.
"How're things going with the assisting?" he asks, sounding a bit bored. With the emphasis he puts on the last word, I detect some doubt, or at least confusion, as to what I actually do—what goes into the 'assisting.'.
"Well, they're certainly keeping me busy," I reply. "Grading papers, managing inventory and funds for the class. That sort of thing. Lots of busy work."
"Mm," Jeralt says, nodding. "Byleth's doing the teaching, then?"
"Most of it. I just consult with her on the plan, and she executes it in the classroom. Beyond that, it's mostly clerical work for me."
"And she's doing well?"
"Yes sir, very well."
Jeralt groans. "Knock it off with the sir, would you?" he asks. "You're not under my command or anything."
"Alright then," I reply, holding up my hands in a placating gesture. "I just like to play it on the safe side, you know. Never know whose toes you're gonna step on."
"Don't I know it," he says with a slight shake of the head, then sighs. "When we were mercenaries, I handled everything. Outside of battle, she didn't have much contact with people. So, I'm just surprised, is all. I thought being thrown into a swarm of noble brats and told to teach 'em would be a bit much for her."
I nod. "That makes sense. I won't lie to you—she struggled a bit at first. That's how I got this job in the first place. I helped her out when she was stuck. But after that bit of guidance, she's taken to it like a natural."
Jeralt tilts his head slightly. "Awfully convenient then that you were in the right place at the right time, to step in and help her."
Oh, God. I don't need the Captain of the Knights, my boss's father, to distrust me, too. I guess it shouldn't be a surprise. Even while I cleared my name at that trial, I've felt stained by suspicion ever since. That bishop from the Eastern Church was just one particularly powerful individual who wanted to wield that mistrust as a weapon. Jeralt might have a more secure position as Captain of the Knights of Seiros—a much more secure position—but given his past, he should be no less wary of the Church than I am. He is also intimately knowledgeable of its dangers and of Rhea's potential for violence, even as we both work under its auspices.
"You've been talking to Catherine or something?"
He lets out a laugh, but doesn't answer.
And then things turn around in my mind. Jeralt's story and situation were different from mine. His tragedy was unique and personal with Rhea—literally one of a kind. On the other hand, I faced down the possibility of being just another statistic, crushed by the machine chugging along, business as usual. In that way, the dangers we had survived were of completely distinct natures.
The conclusion slides into place. For perfectly rational reasons, Jeralt must suspect that I am working for Rhea.
A notion I need to disabuse him of, quickly.
I shut the door to the office, careful not to make too much noise.
"Captain Jeralt," I begin, enunciating my words slowly and seriously. "I'm sure by now you've heard all about how the professorship opened up to begin with. I wouldn't blame you if you don't trust me. But let me tell you, I want nothing more than for Byleth to succeed, and I'm doing everything I can to help make it happen. You can ask her—we're a team. We're doing it together."
Jeralt still doesn't say anything. I fear I've overdone it.
"I guess I'm all right with that," he says.
I nod emphatically. "Good," I reply.
The edge of his mouth quirks in a wry half-smile. "Just wanted to see how you'd handle having the screws put to you a little."
"You're going to have to do better than that," I reply, returning his expression. "I lived through a tribunal run by the Archbishop, remember?"
"Had to see for myself," he says with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Funny you should mention her. I thought that all the professors served at her pleasure."
"Sure. But in my case, she's only pleased with me because Byleth is."
Jeralt is silent for a moment before speaking. "You're sharp, kid." The compliment from him seems to come with an air of finality, conclusiveness, and the words feel like the equivalent of a whole monologue's worth of praise. "I suppose you'd have to be to get this far, and for Byleth to take the liking to you that she did. But it's only going to get tougher from here. More dangerous—a lot more dangerous."
"You know about the mission at the end of the month?" I ask.
He nods. "Rhea wouldn't let me come along to back you kids up."
"I guess she wants to see Byleth in action on her own."
Jeralt gives a vague grunt that I interpret as agreement. "I'm not worried about Byleth on the battlefield. She can handle herself. But for you, and the other kids—you're not much of a fighter, are you, Harrison?"
"No, sir."
"You've never killed anyone." He says the words with the same finality that he praised me with just minutes ago. This time, it feels damning.
A lump forms in my throat, but I push past it.
"If you have any words of advice..."
He leans forward. "You want all your darling little students to come home safe and sound, right?"
I nod. "I don't know how I'd live with myself if they don't."
"It's going to be rough on you one way or the other," he says. "You know what you need to be ready to do. When the time comes to strike the fatal blow, don't hesitate. Or get out of the damn way for someone who won't."
I breathe out slowly, then nod again. "Understood," is all I can manage to say.
"Oh, you'll understand soon enough," he says.
I'm working on my swordplay with the sword Byleth gave me. I practice the routines and moves we've worked on, trying to get a better feel for the balance and weight of the live weapon—keeping track of the position of my hands and where the cutting edge is.
"Ah, Professor Harrison," a voice says. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Dimitri enters my view.
"I've got to train just like anyone else, right?" I reply.
"Ah, I didn't mean any offense," he says. "I just thought you had said you had no experience with swordplay."
"I still don't, in the real world," I say. "I'm just going to need to learn to defend myself one way or another when we go on this mission at the end of the month."
"That certainly makes sense," he says. "If you'd like, I would be more than happy to spar with you and offer my advice."
"Thanks, but maybe not right now," I reply. "I'm a novice and as far as I know, you've been holding a sword since you could walk. I don't know how elucidating that would be."
"Fair enough," Dimitri replies. "In that case, perhaps you could show me some of your movements and I could observe? Only if you would like, of course."
He's not going to relent, is he?
I run through some of the movements Byleth taught me.
When I stop for a moment to catch my breath, Dimitri nods approvingly. "I take it Professor Byleth has been teaching you."
"Yeah," I reply. "I know I'm not a natural with this, but I'm trying my best."
"No, no, I meant no offense," Dimitri says, waving a hand in a placating gesture. His eyes move to the blade at my side. "What I mean to say is that it's not a surprise that she'd train you in using the messer."
I nod. "She and the blacksmith we bought it from were talking about that," I say. "Look, I know I'm supposed to be the teacher, but you're going to have to fill me in on what a messer is exactly."
Dimitri just blinks for a moment.
Then, another voice chimes in. "Messers are single-edged swords, rather akin to a cutlass or a saber—or merely a large knife, which is the origin of their name," the voice explains. I turn around to see that Ferdinand has been watching us as well.
"Hello, Ferdinand," Dimitri says. "My apologies. I hadn't seen you there."
Ferdinand graciously bows to the prince. "The apologies should be all mine, Your Highness. I had not meant to interrupt your discussion with Professor Harrison. But I simply cannot help myself when I hear a conversation about weapons," he says, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.
"You are far more adept than I at explaining this sort of thing," Dimitri says. "Please, continue."
"If Your Highness insists," Ferdinand says, though even his practiced diction can't hide his excitement. "The knightly arming-sword with which us among the nobility are doubtlessly more familiar with are of a somewhat different construction. They bear cutting edges along both sides of the sword. Thus, arming-swords are more difficult to forge and therefore more expensive."
"So that's why nobles prefer them?" I ask.
"Precisely," Ferdinand says. "Messers and similar swords are favored by peasants, mercenaries, and even bandits. In fact, if memory serves, in the old days of the Kingdom, there were distinct guilds for sword-smiths, who were allowed to forge arming swords and greatswords for the knights and nobility, and knife-smiths, who only forged messers and other knives for the commoners. Of course, the restrictions relaxed over time, but to my knowledge that is partially from where that distinction originated."
Oh, now that explains the little banter between Byleth and the blacksmith.
Dimitri tilts his head and gives a nod. "Fascinating," he says. "I'd never heard that. You've taught me something about my own country, Ferdinand."
"I am delighted as ever to be of service," Ferdinand replies.
"And that is why I thought that Professor Byleth must be teaching you, Harrison," Dimitri continues. "A mercenary like her would no doubt be proficient with single-bladed swords like the messer. And she must be teaching you the technique."
I nod. "Well, single-blade or double, if it works, it works, right? It's fitting, I think. She's a commoner, and so am I. This is the weapon for us."
I say the words with a kind of quiet pride, even as they sound somewhat defeatist in my ears, talking to scions of elite nobility and royalty. There's some kind of comfort in knowing that peasants trying to defend their homesteads, or mercenaries trying to eke out a scrappy living, are using the same weapons—and if Ferdinand's historical anecdote is right, then that's been a distinction understood for a long time, even vested with legal authority at one point or another. Bandits I could do without, but even then, their choice of weapon betrays their origin—I'd imagine almost all of them were peasants or mercenaries or common soldiers who were driven to the fringes of society by circumstance. A knightly blade doesn't belong in my hands, just as it doesn't in theirs.
"If it's any comfort, Professor," Dimitri says, "in capable hands, the messer is just as deadly as any arming-sword."
"And from what I've heard, Byleth's are some of the more deadly ones out there," I reply.
"Indeed," Dimitri replies.
"Let us train with real weapons," Dimitri says. "It will help you get used to weight."
I grimace a bit. "Is this safe?" I ask. Sure, I've been developing a knowledge of healing, but I don't know just how far I can trust it. Even so, the last thing I need is for anything to happen to the heir of the Faerghus while I'm around, let alone at my hand.
"That's what sparring gear is for," he says with a smile.
We suit up with protective masks, gloves, and basic mail tunics that are common property of the training grounds. The mail, like my sword, turns out to be a bit lighter than I expect, but it still provides a noticeable weight all over my body. My efforts on the training field, and the manual labor with Cyril before, has helped me get more physically fit, developing my endurance some, but I know this added stress is going to wear me down more quickly than I'm used to.
Prepared for combat, Dimitri and I circle each other. I study his movements—well-practiced, well-formed, not dissimilar to Byleth's. His sword twitches ever so slightly from one moment to the next, as if he's itching to make a move, but won't. I'd rather not be the one to initiate, but standing around walking in circles isn't what I had in mind, either.
So be it. I open up by lunging toward him with an upward cut. Dimitri moves out of the way. My missed attack leaves open a wide room for a counter, but Dimitri ignores the opportunity, simply sidestepping it.
I step back and recover the distance between us. Dimitri takes his turn, swinging his sword toward me from above. I raise my blade to meet his. Now the fight begins in earnest. Straight arms are strong arms, I remind myself. I hold steady for a moment, and we both put our effort into the struggle.
Just as I'm wondering how much longer I can hold this up for, and what I need to do next, Dimitri pulls back, giving me an opening to follow up. I swing at him, and I'm surprised to feel the impact of the blade on his mail. I quickly pull my sword away. I wasn't expecting to hit him, and I hope he isn't actually hurt.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"Yes," Dimitri says, catching his breath.
"Good," I reply, then look into his eyes for a moment, trying to get a read on his expression. "You're holding back, I know. I shouldn't be able to land a hit on you."
Dimitri smiles for a moment as he regains his stance. "Would you rather I not?"
I shrug. "Well, if we're fighting with real weapons, it only makes sense we should fight with real effort. Up to the point of actually maiming each other, of course."
"Of course," Dimitri says, and sets his shoulders back. "Prepare yourself, Professor."
With only a moment of warning, Dimitri lunges towards me, faster than before, swinging towards me with another upward cut. I step back just in time for him to miss me, but he's closed more distance than I've created. As he recovers, I launch a downward cut from a high guard. Dimitri's no slouch, and he raises his blade to meet it.
This is where the fight really begins. I didn't have a plan for when we locked swords before, but now, I know holding in place is a losing strategy. Even without a Crest advantage, Dimitri's just plain stronger than me. With the Crest, who knows what the scale of that difference is? The longer this goes on, the more the probability of me faltering will rise. But if I change tack at an inopportune moment, I'll give him an opening.
Dimitri makes the choice for me. In a flash, he withdraws, leaving me overextended and overcommitted to the struggle. He moves decisively, cleanly, while my stance unbalances ever so slightly. He lunges forward, hitting my side with the blunt side of his blade. Pain shoots through the right half of my body, and I stumble trying to get my footing again.
In the moment that he prepares a second attack, I recover and block his next strike. His eyes flash with something and grunts or mumbles—I can't tell exactly what. I'm not sure if he's impressed, disappointed, or just feeling the boarishness come on. I pull back and follow up with a strike of my own, a tight, quick arc from left to right.
Dimitri blocks, and I find myself rattled even more than when our blades meet. There's even more power in that guard than there was before, and I swear I can almost feel the metal straining under the pressure. The Crest of Blaiddyd can cause weapons to break, right? I don't want my sword to break just days after I got it!
Dimitri moves forward again and strikes, taking advantage of the moment I spend on that line of thought, and the unconscious slip in my stance that it no doubt precipitated. I falter once more, and I'm about to raise my hands and call for surrender when Dimitri pushes me to the ground.
Everything starts to spin. I drop my sword and it clatters to the ground, and I find myself looking up at Dimitri's form looming over me, his own blade in hand.
"Stop," I manage to weakly choke out as I get my breath back. "Dimitri, you beat me. I shouldn't have told you not to hold back. I yield." I tap the floor under me, hoping that the meaning of "tapping out" somehow conveys what I'm saying. Does Fodlan have boxing?
Dimitri just stands there, looking back at me, but with a vacant stare. I don't know if he got the message.
Things slow down for a moment, and simultaneously, I can almost hear my thought process slip into a faster gear. I could try moving out of the way, getting to my feet or pushing myself farther from him. But if Dimitri is still intent on fighting, he's faster and stronger than me—not to mention armed, unlike me. I can't get away and I can't fight him.
I breathe out quietly and call up the tiniest, most precise, most gentle puff of Fire I can imagine, toning down the choice of symbols and glyphs to their most basic forms, and direct it towards his sword. I push the energy out from my hand delicately, like skipping a stone along a pond.
It works like a charm. Dimitri's eyes widen. He gasps and drops his sword, clutching his hand. For a moment I worry I actually burned him, rather than just heating up the sword enough to make it unpleasant to hold, but I push the thought from my mind. I use the second of distraction I've bought to push myself back onto my feet and kick the sword away from him.
"Dimitri!" I call to him. "Are you listening?" I'm hoping the little hot hand trick snapped him out of whatever zone he was in.
Dimitri looks from the sword to me, then nods. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and nods again. "Professor… I'm sorry. I do not know what came over me."
I take a deep breath myself, smile, and head closer to him. "It's okay. I'm glad you're out of it, whatever it was. Let me see your hand. Did I burn you?"
He turns away from me, frowning, and shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. It merely startled me out of that reverie—if you could call it such a thing." A small smile appears on his face. "That was good quick thinking, Professor, and impressive control of magic under intense conditions."
"Thank you," I reply. "I'm sorry if asking you to spar with me, and not hold back, was too much. I should've known I would be able to keep up—I'm sorry for putting both of us at risk."
"The fault lies with myself alone," Dimitri replies. "I am glad there was no harm done in the end, but it is shameful to think I put you in such a situation. Perhaps I ought to train alone, so this does not happen again."
I shake my head. "No, that's not right. What was that you said to me a moment ago?"
Dimitri looks back at me. He frowns again. "That the fault lies with myself alone?"
"No, before that."
"That I was impressed with your control of magic in the heat of the moment."
"That's it," I say, nodding. "Control. If you want this to avoid happening again, what you need to do is practice your control. I know you can do it, since you were holding back on that first bout, but you can refine it, improve it. Magic is a great exercise for that. Talk to Professor Hanneman and practice some simple magic."
Dimitri doesn't say anything for a moment. "I've never had much of a talent for magic," he ventures hesitantly.
"It's not about learning magic," I reply. "It's about practicing focus and control. It's about what you learn from the process, not the outcome. If you can bring yourself to be centered and clear-minded when casting a simple spell, you can do it when you're fighting with a sword, too. Does that make sense?"
"I suppose I can try," he says.
As we put away the training equipment, I think back to my conversation with Annette and this experience with Dimitri. I'm not sure if I'm leading him down the right path. The need for control can turn pathological if it isn't checked, but some practice in grounding oneself, gaining mental focus and clarity, would do Dimitri some good, still.
When we're finished, Dimitri turns to leave, but I stop him for a moment. "Before you go," I say, "Just another thought. You might want to talk to Annette about magic and control, too. She tries to keep control too tightly, if you ask me. There's a balance to be struck. Maybe you two can learn something from each other." I shrug.
Dimitri smiles again, that small, almost sad smile. "Perhaps we can," he says. He leans towards me in a slight bow. "Thank you, Professor. Again, I'm sorry for all this trouble."
"There's a lot of sorry people in this world, Dimitri. Don't be one of them."
A/N: Oops, another year went by, hardly updating... in the spirit of some of the dialogue in the chapter, I'm not going to apologize, but instead thank everyone who's reading this for sticking with it. You're half of the reason that I keep coming back to this even so long after - because I don't just like the writing process, I like storytelling, which implies an audience. I know I'm not the most consistent, but I try my best, and I'm going to try to keep creating more next year, and I hope you continue to enjoy it.
Also, thank you to Syntaxis and Stormtide Leviathan for beta reading on short notice.
I'm not active as much these days, but you can always come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces).
I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday and a happy new year!
Review responses -
iwantmyburd - Thanks for the review, and I'm glad that despite the wait the narrative is still paying off!
Osrio - Thank you for the review and the encouragement!
Crowbars357 - Ah, the old "if the we don't know what our plans are, there's no way the enemy does either" gambit, lol.
The Black Kraven - "Wait for a few more chapters and binge read this..." well, about that... sorry, lol!
Pridesbane - Thank you!
OtaconGamer777 - Thanks for the encouragement. I still have a soft spot in my heart for BG3, and I could always do something for it down the line, but I'll shelve that idea for now.
Kweh Viola - Thanks for the review! I was honestly inspired with the Faith magic take from a novel series I've gotten very invested in called the Dresden Files - for its flaws and problems, its portrayal of magic and power of faith as a source of magic is super interesting, and inspired how I wrote Faith magic here.
Scorpio-Rat - Hey, glad to hear from you again! Thanks for reviewing and I'm glad you enjoyed the magic stuff! It was a bit tricky for me to figure out how to make it work, but I'm glad it's enjoyable.
Super duper waffles - I can't really answer those questions without spoiling some stuff that may come up down the line, sorry! But I'm glad you're investedin the story!
bulk Locke the grim head - Thanks for the review!
eseer - That may be out of his grasp for now. He's probably gotta activate some more chakras or something before he goes full Enlightened One, lol.
Ascandas - Thanks for the review! Glad you enjoyed it!
Sol D. Mars - Thank you for reading and reviewing it!
dr34mf1r3 - Thank you!
Type Me - True, but there is something to be said for concentrating one's efforts. I appreciate the encouragement!
Sperance - Lol, that's an interesting thought; we'll see how that plays out down the line. Certainly Edelgard might raise some eyebrows at it as well...
VonLeporace - Thank you so much for the kind words! I hope the story continues to live up to your expectations.
BasicWhiteDude - Thank you for the encouragement, fellow basic white dude.
Steelrain66 - I don't die so easily, I just get depressed and have quarter life crises :') but it's good that fanfiction is always here as a creative outlet, even if I get stuck on things sometimes. Thanks for reading!
Socialism - Thank you for reading!
Grammy-hnng - Thanks!
V01dSw0rd - Thanks for the encouragement, and for reading!
overwrldkiler - Thank you!
Tigereey - You'll have to read on to find out! Thanks for the review!
Caellach Tiger Eye - Thanks for the review! Your point about the different houses having different missions is well-taken, and I think you'll like some of what I have planned for the remainder of WC, since it will be relevant to future plans.
SilverJojo - Thanks!
Knucklesfan - I'm not giving up so easily, don't worry.
Gizzit - Again, sorry about the wait, but thanks for sticking to it patiently! We'll have to see what happens in the long run, but yes, I agree that this sort of thing is a major source of the emotional tension possible in 3H.
Obstinator - We're almost at that "real" plot... I'm going to do my best to get it to you before 2026!
Scoolio - Thanks for reviewing!
Guest - Thanks for reading! Glad you enjoyed it!
heavenschoir - Considering I developed a lot of the plot for this story well before Hopes was even on anyone's radar, and I don't really care to play through the game myself (I'm not super into the Warriors style stuff), I'm not committing to including anything from Hopes. If something is relevant, I may borrow from it if it suits my purposes. We'll see as we go along and things develop further.
Khandrol - Thanks for reading and reviewing! We'll see just how the plot changes as things progress.