Imagine being a student of the Officers Academy, just some commoner with nothing to your name, and returning to your home, after Garreg Mach falls, somewhere along the borders of the Adrestian Empire only to be told that your motherâs suddenly gone into labour. Youâre surprised to hear this, of course, because she didnât mention being pregnant in the letter you last received from her, but you compose yourself and ask to be taken her immediately. You drop everything. Luggage, books, weapons, clothes, everything. Bypassing all the usual formalities that it takes to enter your village, familiar faces to rush you to your house.
You just make it time to witness the babe being pushed out, registering the wriggly pink thing drenched in blood to be the cause of your current internal panic. The local doctor and healers rush about, tools and magic strewn about in the air, going on about your motherâs ailing health over the past few years, the delivery being too much for her body to handle. In her already weakened state, childbirth is the final nail in the coffin. Â
Theyâre losing her. Youâre losing her.
You want to scream. Scream at the Goddess in that âkingdom aboveâ for damning her, scream at the people arguing which would be the correct method to proceed, scream while you watch your mother slowly fade away. Your prior fears of Emperor Edelgard temporarily forgotten.
The old man from next door who gave you candy for your fifth birthday pushes past you and shoves aside the doctor and healers, clasping your motherâs hand as he whispers under his breath.Â
It does something. Her tired gaze, half-lidded, flickers from the newborn to you, mouth opening and closing. The old man assesses her sharply before beckoning you over, the rest of the people in the room going quiet. âWhat is it?â you ask, unsure of what either of them want.
He shakes his head, forcing you to take his spot by her side and tells you to listen very carefully. Half of you has the mind to snap at him and say he has no hand in what you do and donât do, but the pleading expression you see on his face stops you.Â
You turn to your mother for answers.
âMama?â you whisper carefully. You havenât called her that in a while. Not since your father died years ago. âMama, Iâm here. Itâs me. Please, tell me, what is it?â
And she smiles at you, weakly raising an arm to point a finger at the frozen midwife cradling a swaddle of blankets, trembling the whole time.
She doesnât need to do anything more. You understand, nodding frantically. The baby. Sheâs telling you take care of the baby, your new sibling. Take care of them and allow nothing to harm a hair on their head. Yes, you will... but... Everythingâs happening so suddenly, and you know there wasnât much that could be done to help the situation, but you wish you had more time to process this andâ
âA name.â Your head whips back and forth between mother and child. A name. âMother,â you say, tone cracking, fingers loosening from her hands up to her shoulders and finding their way round. âMother, their nameâI need a name. Anything!â
You donât even realise youâre shaking her (or crying, for that matter) as your emotions burst out and scream bloody murder for such a simple thing.Â
If you donât have a name, what are you supposed to call them by?
If you donât have a name, what are you supposed to do when they ask?
If you donât have a name, what are you supposed to tell them? Lie and tell them that your mother didnât love them enough to bestow a second gift next to life? That your mother simply hadnât thought of one? That your mother didnât live long enough because of them?
Your throat begins to hurt. The screaming stops, as does the shaking, but you still grip on to her tightly by the shoulders, crushing her between the pair.
âMother, please... I beg of you. What is this childâs name?â
The womanâs glassy eyes betray nothing. They often say dead men tell no tales.
Sheâs so very stiff in your hands, becoming cold like a porcelain doll.
You let yourself be pulled away from her by the old man whose condolences fall on deaf ears, heâs just someone from an old childhood memory. Why does he care? At your request, the newborn from the midwifeâs arms is given to you and you are left alone. (The body will be taken care of, promises the old man with a push, just go. Youâre forced to retreat to the kitchen and sit at the table where itâs quieter.)Â
They havenât stirred at all. Clean and sleeping peacefully, oblivious to recent losses.Â
What a time to be born, you joke to yourself.
A war is coming. A war which you knew was a long time coming; a war which you were settled on throwing yourself into; a war which could find its way right to your doorstep.
A war is coming and you wonât be able to a thing with a child chaining you down. But you canât abandon them. That would be cruel. Youâd be no better than the kind of noble scum that makes bastards in the sheets and leaves Crestless on the streets.Â
You canât become like that.
You will never let that happen.
A hesitant poke to the cheek awakens the child, making them squirm around in their blankets. They whimper and light laughter leaves your lips, maybe things wonât be so bad. You entertain the foolish nation that this will blow over in time, looking out the window to see the dawn of a new day, and for a moment, all is fine.Â
And you make the mistake of looking down again when they move once more, for what greets you are a familiar pair of eyes.
Eyes that you last saw wide in fear as the owner of them tumbled over the cliffside of Garreg Mach, not to be heard of again after corpses were left to rot and the monastery abandoned. Villagers and students forced to evacuate, the knights and faculty tired to the bone in their retreat. One bright spot, among the black uniforms and white armour, gone.
Impossibly twinkling in the light, a tad bit off from picotte blue, lovely eyes youâd admired from afar for their dull sheenâthese eyes which you didnât think you would see again after that day at the end of the Guardian Moon, unblessed by the Goddessâs touch.
A name slips from you and they respond in turn by staring back intensely.
Thatâs all you need to confirm, the little sliver of hope dying inside with the realisation now pounding a headache.
Byleth is quiet, thankfully, observing you without so much a gurgleâa plan of escape already on your mind.
Imagine being a former student of a mercenary-turned-teacher reincarnated as your little sibling, just some commoner with nothing to your name, your mother dead, a war on the horizon and five long years until it all comes crashing down. Word will spread quickly of their unusual appearance and, not before long, twisted rumours will reach the ears of higher powers throughout the continent. Where your home is along the borders of the Adrestian Empire can no longer be considered safe to raise a child, and you might be no Captain Jeralt Reus Einser, yet in spite of this fact youâll try your damned hardest evading pursuit while on the run.Â
Nothing will be the same, but you made a promise.
