#child byleth

[inthelittlegenny]

stock photo references

[bridgyrose]

Flayn: *looking through a book* Father, I think Edelgard might be right.

Seteth: Right about what?

Flayn: The crest system, its not working as intended.

Seteth: Of course it is. Rhea is the one who designed it after all. Those crests are the goddess’ gifts.

Flayn: And nobles have been using those crests to harm the lower classes, and even each other, for very little gain. I think… I think we’ve been disconnected from humanity for too long.

Seteth: *sighing* I know you’re just having doubts right now, but humans are selfish. They arent the perfect beings that the rest of us are. We live so we may guide the humans towards their perfection and these crests are supposed to help with that.

Flayn: *pausing for a moment* So, by making sure humans have crests, we’re slowly manipulating them into becoming what we think is perfect for humanity?

Seteth: And after the ceremony when Sothis is reborn, Rhea can lead humanity to perfection as Seiros again.

Flayn: So… we’re a cult.

Seteth: I… wouldnt describe us as that.

Flayn: But we’re making humans think we can lead them to salvation when in fact, we led ourselves to our own downfall. What makes us think that we’re any better than them? Maybe its time we let humanity lead their own lives.

Seteth: *hesitating* I… you should talk to Rhea about that one. Although, I’m not entirely sure she’ll agree with you.

Flayn: *getting up and heading to her room* In that case, I think I’m going to get some rest and think things over a bit.

Seteth: *watching his daughter walk off* Maybe having her pose as the professor wasnt the greatest idea...

[sezept]

Indivisible (Invisible) Friend - Byleth & Sothis & Jeralt

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594534/chapters/48895100

Sothis has been with Byleth since childhood. Based on a fanart by @funyanrinpa on Twitter.

Summary: Jeralt finds his daughter painting a picture of her friend.

(-)

When he finally retires to his tent for the night, Jeralt finds his daughter seated on a stool by his makeshift desk, hunched over something and with a half-burned candle dangerously close to her shoddy bangs. Byleth only spares him a short look, her eyes shaded by her messy hair, before returning to whatever it is she’s been doing, paying no more attention to the commotion her father makes as he sheds his armour.

It used to sting, this apparent lack of care on the part of his child. Most kids her age would await their parents with bated breath, or at least offer them hugs or greetings when they return home at the end of the day. Most kids her age also have actual homes instead of tents, beds instead of bedrolls.

Then again, most kids her age also have a beating heart.

At five years old, the girl only continues to add to her many peculiarities; never smiling, never crying, never laughing, or showing any emotion at all, really. Oh, that is not to say his daughter lacks the capacity for emotions. There are ways to tell if one looks long enough, and after five years of taking care of her, Jeralt has become the foremost expert on the oddity that is Byleth. At her five years old, he knows that the few seconds his daughter’s eyes remain set upon him is a few more seconds than anybody else could hope to get. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

The last piece of his armour removed, the man steps behind his daughter to find little bottles of paint that he got Byleth for her third birthday strewn about the now paint-covered desk. He bites his lip, holding back a reprimand for the splotchy state of his correspondence, a worry for it warring with a sense of gladness that his girl has shown an interest in something as mundane as painting. He wouldn’t want to potentially discourage Byleth from doing it again, not right after she first opened the bottles.

“What’ cha doing there kid?” he asks as he carefully nudges the candlestick away from the all too flammable mop of blue hair.

Byleth, as is usual, doesn’t reply with words, deigning instead to pick up the sheet of paper she’s been working on and present it to her father with a blankly expectant expression.

It’s… a person, Jeralt thinks, that Byleth has tried to paint. It’s crude, and terribly messy, with water not yet having dried off the paper and soaking through the sheet, mixing the colours in places he’s sure they’re not supposed to mix. Still, he can see the basic outline of a human being hidden within it, with long green hair gathered in two pigtails, face, legs and what must be meant to represent hands. To give his daughter justice, he probably wouldn’t do a much better job.

“Who’s that?” It might not be the most realistic depiction Jeralt has ever seen, but the wildly overgrown hair, at least, is distinct enough he would remember it if he’d seen it.

“A friend,” Byleth replies in monotone, and though the words are dispassionate, they stir something warm in the father’s chest.

Byleth has never had a friend. The mercenary lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to allowing them to stay in one place for long, and Jeralt knows well of the troubles his daughter has with connecting with other kids, both around her age, younger, and older, or even the adults. People find her unblinking, dead eyes unsettling, or, to not beat around the bush, creepy. The worst part is that Jeralt can’t even really blame them. It’s a simple truth that Byleth isn’t like other kids. Not that the girl had ever shown a burning interest in other people to have particularly suffered loneliness, so for her to make a friend…

Or - now that he looks at the painting again - for her to have made up a friend, because he’s sure he’d have remembered his daughter running around with someone like that, or one of his men would, and then reported it to him. Still, for her to have made up an imaginary friend brings joy to Jeralt’s weathered heart all the same. From what he remembers having picked off of the parents he’d asked for clues about raising Byleth, it’s apparently normal for children to think up friends, even should they already have those of less imaginary kind.

That was years ago, before it became apparent such advice simply isn’t worth much with his daughter. And though he has not given up hope that she would develop interests more akin to those of other children, in his heart of hearts, the mercenary has started to wonder if he’d ever see the day his child would show interest in such ordinary, childish things.

A smile stretches his lips. If only her mother could see it...

“A friend, huh?” he asks, reaching out to ruffle Byleth’s hair. “I see, I see.”

The look his daughter shoots him, while not baleful by anyone else’s standards, tells him all he needs to know about her thoughts on the gesture. The girl has never been one for physical affection, or verbal affection, or any affection at all, but she doesn’t pull back, and that is all the encouragement Jeralt needs.

He draws his hand back, before handing his child back her drawing.

“Introduce me to her one day, will you?”

The girl nods, the traces of ire vanishing from her eyes, doubtless mollified to be free of her father’s ministrations, and to get her friend’s picture back.

“Now put your stuff away and go to sleep. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow and I don’t want want to hear you yawnin, you hear me? Good.”

Minutes later, as Jeralt lays on his bedroll, eyes closed and already drifting off to sleep, he hears the faintest whisper of  a breath blowing out the candle, and shortly thereafter, feels a small weight crawling her way underneath his blanket to rest against his chest.

[bridgyrose]

Child Byleth AU where Flayn goes above and beyond to convince people she’s Byleth and Byleth is Flayn, so she can keep her newfound freedom from church doctrine

Flayn: *reading through a few books* That is not at all how things transpired! Why do we still have these things? 

Edelgard: *looking over Flayn* Professor? Are you okay? 

Flayn: *pausing for a moment, composing herself into the professor’s demeanor* O-oh, Edelgard. Class doesnt start for another hour-

Edelgard: I was hoping I could discuss a few things with you about the church. 

Flayn: *narrowing her eyes* What kind of things? 

Edelgard: I think Rhea is hiding something. 

Flayn: What could she be hiding? 

Edelgard: *opening up a book* I think this is her. This monster is called the Immaculate One.

Flayn: *frowning* You shouldnt talk about Rhea like that-

Edelgard: I know she’s the one responsible for noble’s crests and the current status quo about them. And its… wrong. All of it is wrong.

Flayn: *hesitating for a moment as she started thinking things over* The crests do give us authority over others, dont they? 

Edelgard: Only because that’s what the church wants. I was hoping I could get your support in overturning this current status quo and reform the world. To make one where anyone can be a leading noble, not just the ones who have crests. There are soo many people out there who are born crestless that already have amazing talents out there that are wasted because no one will look at them with a second glance. 

Flayn: *starting to think things over* That… actually makes sense. 

Edelgard: Then I can count on you to be at my side? 

Flayn: *nodding and taking Edelgard’s hand* You can. I want to see this world that you envision. 

Edelgard: I knew I could count on you. I’m leaving next week for my coronation as Empress of Adrestia. *blushing a bit* And I was hoping I could have you with me. As moral support. 

Flayn: *thinking about what the professor would say* I wouldnt miss it. 

[sezept]

Indivisible (Invisible) Friend part 2 - Byleth & Sothis & Jeralt

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594534/chapters/49040573

A fic wherein Sothis has been with Byleth since childhood.

Summary: Jeralt and Byleth (and Sothis) have a brief moment to bond when they attend a harvest festival.

(-)

The life of a mercenary does not often allow Jeralt to have a quality bonding time with his daughter - an unfortunate reality that the man has resentfully come to accept. There simply isn’t much he can do about it short of changing his line of work. Sure, he could’ve settled down, become a farmhand or apprentice a craft back when he left the service of the Church with his infant child in tow. That, or he could’ve done the only thing he already knew how, and knew how to do well to boot. He supposes the clutches of familiarity were simply too strong for him when he left all else of his life behind in that damn monastery. They needed the money, and simply put, killing pays much better than working the fields. Better than leading a band of men to do the killing, actually, but it’s also less safe, and he does have a kid to take care of. His bounty hunting days were only ever a stop-gap until he could assemble a proper band.

Back then, he had often found himself having to leave Byleth in care of strangers. It was that, or to bring her straight into the danger of a swordfight. He hated having to entrust her safety to others. He was keenly aware that if he were one day to not return form a job, there was no guarantee that his girl would be taken care of any longer than the money he gave to the people he’d left her with allowed. But what other choice was there? The most he could do was make sure she’d be handed over to an orphanage if that ever happened, rather than be left to fend off for herself, even if that meant her falling back into Church’s clutches.

It got easier when he finally assembled his band, but by then Byleth was grown enough for him to leave her to her own devices for more than a few moments and be reasonably sure she wouldn’t somehow hurt herself, as younglings tend to. So he did. He could also leave her with one of his men and be sure they would sooner swallow burning coals than let any harm come his kid’s way. Having Byleth awakened in him a streak of imagination; particularly of all the dangers lurking around every corner, but also of the many ways his men would regret failing to safekeep his child.

The thing is, with the amount of work there always is with the company, it’s just convenient that Byleth is independent enough to not usually need him, as is having someone else to care for her. Because here’s the thing about leading a bunch of sellswords; there’s always more work. Even when everything seems to be going well, it’s all but guaranteed something will go to shit in a matter of days, at most. Equipment falling apart because some dipshit didn’t oil it properly. The tents catching mold. An outbreak of some or other sickness. Food stocks going bad. The animals breaking free from the pens. Men stirring up trouble with the locals, or among themselves. An employer trying to fuck them over. Always something.

It all amounts to him not having nearly enough time as he’d like for his daughter. They’re not distant, but Jeralt can’t in good conscience call them close. Not as close as he wishes they were, certainly. The fact Byleth is… as she is, doesn’t help matters.

It’s for these reasons that the man makes sure to arrange the company to have time off around the time of festivities. It’s good for morale, regardless, to let his boys and girls off the leash for festivals and celebrations when they chance upon them. The camp, he’s decided, will not burn if he leaves it for a day, and he’s glad for the opportunity to spend time with his daughter away from it.

It is how Jeralt finds himself walking the bustling market of Edmund, Byleth’s small frame seated upon his shoulders as to give her a better view of the going-ons around them. She didn’t ask, nor comment on this development, but Jeralt can tell from the minute swinging of her tiny legs that she’s enjoying the chance to be so tall.

A small pat on his head draws the man’s attention to the small person who gave it. He twists his head to find his daughter’s numb eyes expectantly trained on him.

“Yeah?”

“Can we get a bear?”

Jeralt blinks, his first reaction to look around in search of the beast, before haltingly realising what Byleth obviously means. The stall with stuffies draws eyes all around for all the bustle of excited children crowded by their indulgent parents. Indeed, from his position a head above the rest of the crowd he can easily spot the bear stuffy which has caught his kid’s fancy. Curious, that. Among the toys Jeralt has gifted her throughout her life, Byleth has expressed the greatest fondness for sticks and stones to bludgeon those with. That and knives, though she only asks for those on the first day every new moon, apparently in hopes she’ll be old enough to get one, then.

“Oh? Do you like bears now?”

“Sothis wants it.”

The words have Jeralt choke on his breath, and his blood run icy.

“Where did you hear that name?”

Byleth’s eyes betray nothing, though the second it takes her to respond shows clearly her confusion.

“She’s my friend.”

It’s Jeralt’s turn to blink and stare, what parent would name their child Sothis? The Church wouldn’t have the name of the goddess be tarnished on a mere mortal; it’d be blasphemy, pure and simple. He’s also not heard of Byleth having made a friend since they came near the town, it’s only been two days, regardless. Unless...

“The one from your painting?”

The girl nods, satisfied with his understanding, and it’s all Jeralt can do to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the coming headache.

It seems a more exhaustive explanation about what his men can and can not mention around his daughter is in order. In the five years since he’s left the service of the Church, Jeralt has made sure to avoid crossing paths with it with zealotry usually reserved for Seiros’ own knights. This has been in part as an effort to slip beneath Rhea’s ever watchful eye, but also to have Byleth grow free of the Church’s teachings and influence. He’s made it as clear that he wants no talk of the faith in his company as he could’ve while avoiding being overt about it. It seems someone didn’t get the memo. Probably one of the Faerghasians, damn fanatics.

He carefully schools his expression past the scowl threatening to break out on his face. Byleth still awaits his response, and he would hate to give her the impression she’s done something wrong. She’s five. She’s heard a name she likes, and gave it to her imaginary friend. It’s not even that problematic, really. If someone were to hear her call her make-believe friend Sothis. They might even find it endearing to see a child manifest her faith so. That is, as long as there were no questions to follow. Jeralt doesn’t particularly wish for a priest to get a wind of apostasy.

“Can you, maybe, call her something else?” he asks, not entirely successful in masking his discomfort. It slips right beneath Byleth’s notice, the girl firmly immersed in the depths of her confusion at the request.

“But it’s her name.”

Right. Of course it is.

“Can you ask her if she’d like a different name, then?”

Disturbingly, Byleth looks off to the side, where as far as Jeralt can say, there’s nothing to be seen, before turning back to him, only for her eyes to stray again for a second and once more return to him. Are children supposed to visualise their imaginary friends? He doesn’t know, he can’t remember if he had one himself. Should he be worried?

“She says no.”

“Can you at least promise me not to tell people her name?”

“Can we get a bear?”

A bark of laughter escapes the mercenary. Hah! A little wrangler he’s brought up, hasn’t he? Fair enough, though it’s not like he wasn’t going to get his daughter the toy she’s asked for. She already asks for things so sparingly, he wonders who between them enjoys the occasion more. Her, for getting something she wants, or him, for seeing his daughter want something.

“Sure thing, kid.”

[sezept]

Indivisible (Invisible) Friend part 3 - Byleth & Sothis

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594534/chapters/48895100

Little Byleth and Sothis are having a tea party.

(-)

“No, no, like this, see? Hmm, perhaps try showing your teeth?” Sothis tries again, pulling up the corners of her mouth into a smile with her fingers.

Byleth, to her credit, does try to do as she’s told, only it’s as if the child has discovered a lack of skill in replicating the full range of human expressions previously unrecorded in history. After five years of watching over the girl to the best of her ability, Sothis knows for a fact this is not due to the lack of emotions to express. What the cause may be, however, the diminutive woman can’t say.

She does her best to hold in the sigh threatening to spill past her lips upon seeing her host commit a smile. One could scare children with that one, Sothis knows from experience. Something of her thoughts must slip through on her face, for the child seated across the tree stump ceases in her attempts, to look down to her cup - a wooden mug.

“Nevermind that. Do you suppose Mister Bear wants another cup? Your tea really is quite exquisite!” The girl looks up from her feet, whence her eyes eventually rested, raising to meet Sothis’ own. Soulless things; belying the wit behind them, and causing them both no small amount of grief over the years. For each person there are things simply beside their control. For herself it is this prison of flesh in the form of a child, yet to hate the girl for it would be as deplorable as it would be pointless. For Byleth, it is her listless appearance, and the girl is no puppet for it even though she may seem.

“Do you want another?” the girl asks her stuffed toy, bless children’s small minds with their equally impressive capacity for holding attention.

Sothis clears her throat, trying for as low a tone as is her ability. Mister Bear, as Byleth has taken to calling the… bear, seems to her like the sort to sport such.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she supplies in the effigy’s stead.

Like the gracious host that she is, Byleth lifts the kettle - a tin pitcher - from the middle of their table - a tree trunk, to pour the air within it inside Mister Bear’s cup - an empty paint bottle, as they’ve failed to procure another tankard from the mercenaries.

She’s glad to see her charge taking to the activity. When she saw the stuffy stall the idea swept her over to have Byleth involve a third, of sorts, in their somewhat lonely, daily escapades. Normally those entail them exploring the area around the camp, just the two of them; climbing trees, finding rocks to throw at what targets they deign fit (other rocks usually, they got yelled at quite severely for denting a helmet they procured on one occasion), fighting great battles with their magnificent sticks and branches, finding berries (and getting sick from eating those), hunting for lizards and frogs and snails, and finally - when caught - helping in what manner is needed around the camp.

Watching Father’s men do merriment by the fires on evenings and after bountiful contracts supplied her this idea. The mercenaries’ beverages are for some reason denied them, but just as not having a demonic beast to fell never stopped them from achieving the deed, so has a lack of proper celebratory drink failed to bring a pause to this - a tea party. Curious thing, she knows not where she learned of it, yet the steps and ceremony of it are so clear in her mind. Tea, they have not, but as they also haven’t a fire to brew it, that is hardly an issue.

“Do you want some, too?” her only companion asks her as she sets down Mister Bear’s cup.

She smiles, thinly, and curls her fingers around her own cup - a brass can emptied of sewing supplies.

“I would love it.”

Patiently, she waits for Byleth to get around their table, the trunk too thick for the child’s short arms to reach Sothis on the other side, and lift the cup to her lips. A brief moment of warmth blossoms in her hands as her host’s own pass through them, before she obediently sips at the air within, gently blowing the steam away prior.

A more genuine smile spreads across her lips this time as her eyes again meet the smaller girl’s, and find a question thereign.

“It’s delicious.”

The corners of Byleth’s mouth twitch, teeth flashing in an earnest attempt only for her numb eyes to, as always, fail to follow through. A fist clenches around Sothis’ heart, and, she discovers upon trying to speak, around her throat. Instead, she opens her arms, throwing them around the one source of warmth in her world.