Eternum

Jeralt's mind is on auto-pilot as he navigates his morning. Countless small motions that he performs with automatic precision. Even as he approaches his daughter's room, his mind is elsewhere, mulling over tomorrow's strategy meeting.

First things first though, he needs to wake Byleth up. His daughter had many unusual traits, and their morning ritual was one of them. For as long as he could remember, Byleth had a strange habit of staying in her room until she either required something or was called upon. Once she was outside, she operated almost normally, but Jeralt always had to get her started.

He takes a breath as he opens the door. "Hey, time to-"

His mercenary instincts take over as he registers that the light is on, and that Byleth isn't in bed. His sword practically materializes in his hand as he steps into the room, turning quickly to face any potential attackers.

Instead of an attacker, he is caught off guard by the sight of his daughter.

For a few seconds, all he can think of was how strange it was for her to be awake. She is still wearing her nightdress, and her hair hangs in messy cyan waves. But the mess of papers spanning the floor tells him that she's been awake for a while. Almost every inch of floor space has been taken up with pages covered in hasty ink scrawls, some of which still glinted wetly in the light. Daggers have been driven in a few of them, with spare thread winding around like a spider's web.

"What in the Goddess' name is going on here?" he asks incredulously. Living with Byleth was an exercise in abnormality, but this was beyond her normal levels of strangeness. This...this was worrying.

Especially when she doesn't answer him.

Byleth was dutiful to a fault, but as he waits impatiently for a response, he realizes none was forthcoming. In fact, it hardly seemed like Byleth had even realized he'd said anything, or had even stepped inside, mumbling to herself instead. He strains his hearing, and takes a tentative step forward.

He hears the crinkling of paper, and starts to look down when Byleth's head snaps around, focusing squarely on him. It strikes him just how bad she looked. Her eyes are wide with a frenzied mix of emotions he can't read, especially from his normally stoic daughter. He's too shocked to even react as she surges forth.

In an instant, his foot is in the air, and he is falling back. Landing with a grunt, he is stunned by both the impact, and the fact Byleth had just attacked him. She barely even seems to register the fact, instead focusing on placing the paper back in its spot before returning to the sole empty space on the floor.

Pushing himself up, Jeralt feels at least five different sentences start and die on his tongue. He doesn't even know where to begin. He has no idea what is going on, and he isn't even sure who he was attempting to talk to. His Byleth is quiet, obedient, and borderline emotionless.

The only thing he could think of is that something terrible had happened.

"What's wrong, Byleth?"

Once again, his daughter doesn't respond, and he feels a small spike of irritation. Maybe she hadn't heard him the first time, but she'd pushed him over just a moment ago. She had to know he was here. He is just about to ask again, when her muttering paused.

"Can't talk. Time," she says quickly, moving back to her work almost immediately. Jeralt waits, hoping that she would say something else, but she seemed to have slipped back into her own world. A part of him is tempted to just keep asking, but this was...different.

Instead, he turns slightly, stealing a glance at one of the papers, careful not to touch it. Initially, he can't make out any details, but as he stares at the lines, he can start to piece together some of the words. He can recognize the formats for dates, but if he's reading them right, some of the dates were months or even years in the future, and yet they were marked to the day, and even the hour in a few cases.

Comparing it to another, he realizes the first line was a name. Most he doesn't recognize, but a few catch his attention. A Hresvelg, a Blaiddyd, and even Lady Rhea all had extensive documents on them. Jeralt is certain he'd kept Byleth largely ignorant of the Archbishop, and yet he can't deny his eyes. He can't read all of the chicken scratch, but what he sees seems to line up with what he knew. In fact, some of it was information that only people that personally knew her would be privy to.

How Byleth had acquired the information is beyond him. But that was nothing compared to the amount of information that was present on everyone. From the looks of things, she'd noted down their entire history, skills, weapon choices; everything. The last section on each paper was the messiest though, devolving into a bullet point list with tallies next to each point. No matter how he squints, he can't read what they were saying.

Shaking his head, he finally stands up, trying to make some semblance of sense out of everything he was seeing. He suspects there was only one way he was going to get an answer, and he isn't enthusiastic about it. Carefully picking his way through the papers, he makes sure not to step on any. Even so, he feels nervous as he steps over threads, and pauses after each footfall, just in case.

Byleth hasn't reacted by the time he stands behind her crouched and huddled form. Hesitantly, Jeralt leans down, moving to touch her shoulder gently. "Byleth, what's the mat-?"

For the second time, he is caught off guard as the world spun, and he finds his breath not only forced out, but also cut off. His arm flares with pain and he realizes belatedly that Byleth has somehow grabbed his arm, thrown him over her shoulder, contorted him into submission, and then proceeded to step on his neck in less time than he could react.

And she lets go before he even finishes processing, hands flying to her mouth as an expression of abject horror contorts her features. From behind her fingertips, tears threaten to spill over, and Jeralt feels his stomach fall away. In all his life, he'd never seen Byleth cry.

Not even as a child. Not once.

Rolling over, he forces himself onto his stomach, coughing once before pushing up to his knees. Rallying himself, he looks up at Byleth, and he knows his concern had to be evident. "Byleth, what's wrong?"

Byleth's mouth opens, but only the clipped start of words manages to escape. After a moment of struggling, she offers her hand, eyeing him with concern, which only twists the knife in his heart deeper. He takes it, and she pulls him to his feet―

―and immediately starts pushing him towards the door. "You need to leave."

This time, Jeralt is ready, and he puts his foot down. In both senses. Before Byleth can bar him from her room, he has lodged himself in the doorway. Despite her best efforts, he still outweighs her, and he is determined not to let her budge him an inch. "Wait! Whatever's going on, let me help you!"

Byleth's pushing stops for a second as she freezes, her head hanging down. Her lips thin tightly and she draws a shaky breath. "You can't help me. No one can."

"Please," Jeralt insists, trying to let his care show in his voice. "Just let me-"

"Jeralt! Sir!"

Jeralt glances over his shoulder, spotting one of the rookies running down the hall in full armour, his expression clearly panicked. "Sorry to barge in, but your presence is needed!"

Jeralt turns to face the man, still lodging himself in the door, but also shielding the room from view. He doesn't know entirely what was going on in Byleth's room, but he knows it was private. The way Byleth clings to his back only reinforces that in his mind.

"There's a group of students―Garrech Mach―saying they're being chased by bandits!"

Behind him, Jeralt can hear Byleth drawing a tight breath. Reflexively, he wonders if she is afraid of a fight, but he dismisses that thought just as quickly. Byleth has never feared a fight. There were times he doubted she felt fear, but this was not one of those times. She is afraid, but not of a fight, and her fear is very real, and very intense.

"Send the men," he orders, hoping he's making the right decision. "Protect the students."

"What about you sir?"

"My daughter is not feeling well. I need to look after her," he says briefly, narrowing his gaze imperiously. The man gets the message, snapping off a quick salute before rushing off to carry out his orders. Jeralt waits until the man is out of earshot to turn around. Byleth has ceased trying to shove him, and instead looks up at him with a mix of surprise and confusion.

Deciding to press his luck, Jeralt puts his hand on the door, and begins to lightly pull it closed behind him, sidling into the room. He lets out a sigh of relief as Byleth not only doesn't try to fight him, but steps back. Her head hangs low, like a chastised kid caught stealing from the pantry. "Whatever is going on, you can trust me. I want to help you. Just...please talk to me."

"You wouldn't believe me," Byleth says flatly, her fists tightening by her sides.

"Try me," Jeralt challenges with a forced laugh. He extends his arms, quietly offering a hug. At first, Byleth hesitates, but the second her hand touched his, she throws herself into his chest, burying her face as deep as she can. He wraps his arms around her tightly, holding her close. All the frenetic energy she'd had only moments ago evaporates, and it feels like if he lets go, she'll collapse and disappear. "You're my daughter. I'll believe anything you say."

He holds her close for a moment, feeling the slight shudders of repressed sobs. Her hands ball tightly as they cling to the fabric of his shirt, and he can feel the quick, erratic breaths as she tries to calm herself. He just continues to hold her until it feels like her breathing was more even. Tentatively, he loosens his hold on her, but he lets her take the step back. She reaches up, wiping away her tears before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, he kneels down, reaching slowly for a paper. He pauses, looking at Byleth for permission, only picking it up once she has nodded. Taking a moment to straighten it, he holds it so they could both see it before he looks at Byleth, trying his best to smile supportively. "Let's start with these. What are they?"

"Notes," she answers succinctly.

"Notes on..?" Jeralt prompts.

"People," she says, crossing one arm over her chest to rub the other one. "Events. Things. As much as I can remember."

"Remember about what?"

Byleth doesn't answer, but the way she clenches her eyes and looks away made it seem like she'd just been slapped.

"Alright, you don't have to answer that. Just...why don't you walk me through what's on this paper?"

"Names. History. Traits. Events," Byleth lists off, pointing to each section in turn. Jeralt nods as she confirms his guesses, but she pauses with her finger hovering above the last section. The one he couldn't read. Her voice comes out weak and small. "Deaths."

"Deaths?" Jeralt repeats, glancing at the dates. "But some of these dates haven't even happened yet."

"I told you that you wouldn't believe!"

"I didn't say I didn't believe you." Jeralt cuts off Byleth's protest, holding the paper away so she couldn't take it back. "I just need you to help me understand. How can you record deaths that haven't happened? And how they die multiple times?"

"They died those ways before," Byleth answers cryptically. "Sometimes I can stop them, but sooner or later, they die."

"Who's they?" Jeralt asks, feeling a rising sense of dread as Byleth fixes him with a hollow look. "Everyone."

"Everyone," Byleth confirms with an empty nod. Her gaze drifts away from him, sweeping over the papers, tracing the lines. Eventually she settles on a page set away from the others with dozens of threads crossing it. Gingerly, she grabs the dagger pinning it in place, and frees the paper. She crosses the distance between them slowly, refusing to meet his gaze as she offers the paper to him.

Taking it carefully, he's surprised at the sheer density of notes. The other papers were messy, but this one is almost completely covered in script. As he stares, he realizes that while the writing is dry, some of it has been smudged, with wet marks betraying where some form of liquid had gotten to the paper. Glancing at the roof, he can't see any kind of leak, and it's only when he hears Byleth's light sniffling that he realizes what they were.

Tears. The page had been stained by tears. A deep fear runs through his body, and he turns his eyes back to the paper, and he finds himself reading a name as familiar to him as his own.

Because it is.

Jeralt.

He skips over the details and history, jumping straight to "Deaths." The tallies are...uncountable. He can only read a few of the words, and even that is enough to make his stomach turn. Stabbing, beheading, incineration; the list went on.

"I couldn't stop them," Byleth apologizes quietly. "I'm sorry."

Jeralt's mouth was dry, but he forces himself to speak. "It's not your fault."

Byleth shakes her head. "It's all my fault. I keep getting chances, but no matter how hard I try, it never works. I can't stop it. It's all my fault."

"I don't blame you. I never would," he assures her, pulling her in for another tight hug.

"Promise me?" she pleads almost childishly.

"I promise," Jeralt says quickly, holding her tighter. He can feel tears of his own starting to form, but he holds them back. He has to be strong, for both of them. "Now come on, let's work this out, yeah?"

Byleth nods, composing herself, moving to sit back on the bed's edge. Her voice comes out as a raspy whisper. "Okay."

"Start at the beginning. If these deaths happen in the future, how do you know they happen?" Jeralt asks.

"I've seen them."

"Like...in visions?"

Byleth shakes her head. "No. With my own eyes. Or someone tells me that they happened. I don't know them yet, but I will."

"So you've been at these times?" Jeralt asks, pointing at one of the dates.

"More times than I can count. Every time I die, I end up back here," Byleth states matter-of-factly.

"You've died!?" Jeralt starts, turning to look at Byleth with horror on his face. Too fast, he notes, as she jerks back, flinching at his volume. He tries to calm itself, but it's hard, especially as he burns at the idea that anyone would dare to hurt his daughter.

"Countless times. It's the only way to reset the cycle. I can go back short distances when I try, but I can only go this far back when I die," Byleth informs him too calmly. Like she was discussing the weather. "But this is as far back as I can go."

"How?" Jeralt wonders aloud. This time, Byleth hesitates, before speaking slowly.

"Sothis."

"Like...the goddess?"

Byleth nods in confirmation. "It was part of Rhea's plan. She saved my life in order to try and resurrect her mother. It's why I have the Crest of Flames, and also never felt anything in my life."

Jeralt's rage spikes at the mention of Rhea and the revelation of her rationale. He already felt misgivings towards the Archbishop, but hearing the full truth of her involvement is worse than he could have ever dreamed. His voice comes out in an angry hiss. "She did this to you?"

"Don't hate her. There has been much that has happened to her. She does many bad things, but also many good things, and sometimes, neither," Byleth explains, a deep exhaustion crawling into her voice. "The point is that I have been through so many attempts to change everything, and it never works."

Jeralt nods, but doesn't say anything, trying to hold back his rage. With a sigh, he lets it pass over him before sitting down beside his daughter, running a hand through his hair. He's not sure how to process the information. The idea of time travel is beyond crazy. And yet, it would explain his daughter's sudden mood shift, and her exhaustion.

"How do we stop it?" he asks, turning to look at her.

"I don't know," Byleth admits, rubbing her arms again. "I've tried so many times. No matter who I side with, or befriend, or love, they all die. No matter who I kill, there's always someone else. I've hurt so many people…"

"Don't go there," Jeralt interrupts. "I don't care what you did in your other lives. You're solving it now."

"Right," Byleth agrees hollowly, before shaking her head, forcing a determined expression on her face. "Right. We don't have time to waste."

"That's my girl," Jeralt smiles, rubbing her back. He gestures to the web of papers. "So, tell me how you've got this all sorted out."

Byleth slides off the bed, moving to stand in the center of the papers. She gestures off to one cluster. "This is everyone who's part of the Golden Deer house. Commoners, lords, and everyone I could dig information up on, no matter how small."

"Blue Lions, Black Eagles, Church of Seiros," Byleth recited, pointing to each section in turn. Once again, she hesitates, her hand hovering as she stares at another cluster. Byleth speaks before Jeralt can prompt her. "Shambhala."

"Who or what is Shambhala?"

"Descendents of the ancient civilization of Agartha. After Rhea destroyed them for using her mother's body to arm Nemesis and his generals, they fled into hiding, and have been working to bring down the Church and all of Fodlan for centuries."

Jeralt blinks slowly, trying to digest everything he's been told. Not only was Rhea somehow involved in a centuries old conflict, it was one that involved the legendary king Nemesis and the apparently-not-so-fictional Agartha. After a minute of thought, he decides it's best just to accept it, rather than try and puzzle through it. "And you remember all this from your trips?"

Byleth nods, but it's not proud. "I've lived through so many lives that I must be one of the oldest creatures in Fodlan."

Jeralt's heart aches, and he feels the urge to comfort his daughter, but he knows that's not what she wants. She wants...needs to solve this problem. He groans as he stands up, moving to stand beside her in the center of the papers. "Alright. Let's get started then. Get me up to speed."

Byleth does a noble job of presenting all the information to him quickly and effectively. He has to ask some clarifying questions here and there, but he starts to see the bigger picture fairly quickly. Like the war that would sweep over Fodlan in less than a year from now. How nations, and people, would rise and fall. Byleth recites it like it's engraved in her memory.

"So the ambush right now?"

"Edelgard's doing. She intends to assassinate the other two house leaders and prevent them from contesting her plans. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't," Byleth explains, pointing off to the appropriate papers.

"Seems like nothing's surefire," Jeralt notes quietly, rubbing his chin in thought.

"I can't predict everything. Not yet," Byleth mutters, running a hand through her messy hair. "The smallest of changes can alter the whole course of events."

"For want of a nail," Jeralt recites, recalling a lesson he'd learned as a squire. As the story went, a squire forgot a nail, which meant he was unable to put horseshoes on his master's horse. Unable to ride his horse to battle, the knight stayed home, but had he gone to battle, he'd have been the one to kill the enemy commander. Without the knight to kill the commander, the enemy army won. And so a single nail lost a kingdom. Back then, he'd always taken it as a cautionary tale against laziness, but now he realizes just how dire the implications are.

"So what is your plan now?" Jeralt asks, trying to get back on track.

"This one doesn't count," Byleth explains. "I need to be at this first meeting to have any chance of effective events. Otherwise, events conspire to keep me from changing anything. The lords don't trust me unless I'm there tonight."

Jeralt fights the urge to grab her and run to the battlefield right now, but he knows better than to argue with her on this. Instead, he sighs, rubbing his temples. "Guess we better get solving then."

Over the next few hours, they plan. At first, Jeralt suggests everything he thinks up, only for Byleth to cut him off halfway and tell him she's already tried it. It doesn't take long for him to realize that she's thought of everything he has. He's simultaneously both proud and saddened.

He glances over at where she's sitting, reading a paper over for the dozenth time in half as many minutes. At this point, he doubts she needs to even read them at all, and so the motion is a useless one. One meant to make her feel like she's being more productive than she is.

"I can't help but feel I'm slowing you down," Jeralt admits.

"I appreciate you trying," Byleth says sincerely, laying her hand over his with a gentle smile. "It's nice to be able to talk to someone about this. It's been so lonely."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you before."

"You've always been there for me," Byleth insists. "Even when everything else changes, you're always there. Everyone else helped a little too. Sometimes we end up on opposite sides, but they're still my friends. I just wish they would believe me."

"Have you tried?" Jeralt asks, lightly surprised. Given how hard Byleth resisted telling him about all this, the fact that she had opened up to others was surprising. Unless their disbelief was why she was reluctant. But he can see her start to bite on her lip, and knows she hasn't.

"No...but they wouldn't believe me," she starts.

"If they're your friends, they would believe you," Jeralt counters. "You could explain everything like you did to me. They couldn't deny everything you said. You know things almost no one else does."

"They wouldn't―"

"Isn't that what you said about me?"

"Yes, but you're my father! You have to believe me!" Byleth argues.

"Being your father doesn't mean I have to believe you. I believe you because you're telling the truth," Jeralt explains, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I care about you because I'm your father, and you're my daughter. If they're your friends, then they care about you too. You should try and tell them."

Byleth meets his gaze, and he can see her struggle. After a moment, she nods, at first slow, but then determined. "Alright. I'll tell them."

"Good. So what comes―?"

Jeralt almost misses the motion. Almost.

In a flash, he has his hand on her wrist, ripping it away from her chest. Pulling the dagger she ripped out of the floor away from her chest. Her eyes widen in surprise as she realizes he's pinned her, and she struggles beneath him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jeralt demands angrily.

"The loop doesn't reset until I die! I already told you this one doesn't count. I need to go back so I can do it right!" Byleth shouts, thrashing and sending papers flying with her legs.

"I can't just let you kill yourself!" he bellows. "There has to be another way."

"There is no other way," Byleth enunciates, and he can see the tears starting again. "If I'm not there now, then it all goes wrong anyway. If I stay, I'll just watch everyone die again, and there's nothing I can do about it. I need to be there, and the only way I can do that is to die."

"There has to be…" Jeralt starts, his voice choking up before he can finish his protest. He clamps his eyes closed, fighting the stinging tears, but as he wracks his brain for anything, he can only remember the lists he'd seen. Every time Byleth skipped the first night, the deaths only got worse. "Please…"

"I wish it wasn't like this," Byleth pleads, and he can hear the sincerity in her voice. "I really wish I could change the way it works. But I've tried this so many times, and I'm telling you that I have to be there. Trust me. I'll...I'll just wake up here. Like this morning. I'll be fine."

Jeralt wants to fight. To struggle. He wants to be able to find something he can hold up and say "you're wrong." But everything he's seen and learned over the past hours tells him otherwise. He can feel his grip loosen, but Byleth stays put.

"You're serious, aren't you?" he asks slowly.

"I am. More than anything, I want to save everyone. But in order to do that, I have to start at the very beginning. Please. Let me do this."

Jeralt sits back slowly, letting go of his daughter. She waits for a moment before sitting up herself, but she doesn't move. She just stares at him with sorrow in her eyes, and it hurts him even more. He wants to be selfish. To ask her to stay for him. But he can't do that. She's already lost so many, and he'd be asking her to sacrifice thousands more for him.

"Alright," he says, his voice barely making it out. He picks up the knife gently, his hand shaking. He's dully surprised that somehow the small blade feels heavier than his sword has ever felt. Byleth's thin hand slides over his, and she gently pries it from him. For a moment, he grips it, but he can't bring himself to fight more than that.

Byleth stands, and gently offers a hand to him. Shakily, he stands, and she walks him over to the bed. He forces himself to look at her, and the face she gives him makes the pain worse. She's smiling supportively, but he can see the dancing fear and pain in her eyes. The strength in his arms is gone, but even so, he gently lays his daughter back in her bed, like he did when she was a kid.

"Thanks," she says quietly. "It's nice to have someone. I'm so used to dying alone…"

"I'll be here until the end," he promises, stroking her hair. He desperately hopes it helps make it hurt less.

It doesn't.

The blade cleanly pierces her chest, and she clenches for a brief instant with a gasp. Without realizing it, Jeralt has wrapped her in a hug, stroking her hair as she shudders in his arms. "It's okay. I'm here."

"Thank you...Father…" she mutters, coughing slightly. She's fading fast, but she barely seems concerned. He knows she's died in worse ways, but that fact alone saps the rest of his strength, and he leans her back, pressing his forehead to hers.

He doesn't realize he's crying until her cold fingertips brush his face and he opens his eyes to see they've spilled onto her face. She laughs slightly, forcing it around the pain. "I'm sorry I was never a very good daughter."

"Oh no, no, no," he insists, grabbing her hand in his and pressing a kiss to the back of it. "You're the best daughter I could have asked for. Don't apologize."

"If you say so," she acquiesces gently. "Hold me until I go? Please?"

"Of course," he promises, unable to say anything else. She smiles gently, and it's all he can take. He scrunches his eyes closed, unable to hold the tears back. He tries to hold back a heavy sob, unwilling to break. He needs to be strong. The strongest he's ever been. For his little girl, who has never smiled at him until now.

He feels Byleth's weak breath by his ear, and her words come out as a whisper. "You were my first tears, you know? I'm so happy...to know you cared the same way…"

"Good bye," he chokes out, his jaw clamped in pain. His eyes screw tighter as her breathing shallows, and her grip goes limp. It hurts too much…too much...

Jeralt's mind is on auto-pilot as he navigated his morning. Countless small motions that he performs with automatic precision. Even as he approached his daughter's room, his mind is elsewhere, thinking on some unimportant little article. He knows that she wasn't awake yet. For as long as she'd been his daughter, she only rose at his behest.

Opening the door, he takes a breath, as he's done so many times. "Hey, time to-"

He's cut off as something hits him across the chest, and he's just about to fight it when he realizes it's his daughter, and she's hugging him tightly. He's surprised, and confused, but happy, and he gently touches her head. "You're up!"

"I am," she laughs, and the sound makes him smile, especially when he sees the genuine smile on her face. He doesn't know where this shift came from, but he doesn't question it. He's too busy enjoying it.

"What are you up to this early?" he asks, despite it being the normal time she gets up.

"I have a lot to tell you."