[ The language that Byleth begins to sing in is — vaguely familiar, to him. It is not the language of his own lands, but one that is suggestive of a neighboring people; a well-traveled god, he learns languages by osmosis, and employs translators to briefly communicate with the mortals of foreign lands, but the divine voice of the gods is a universal tongue. It is the language of their shared origins, the primordial chaos from which nearly all of them hail — a curiosity that had always meant more to him than it did to his siblings.
So, the language Byleth sings in has a quality he cannot deny that he recognizes. It is hauntingly beautiful in a way he feels impossible to fully admire, for he is a war god of screams and wrathful song, not a god of music like Hathor. Hathor, that vapid bimbo, would appreciate Byleth's singing more than anyone else — she'd probably try to get her horny little claws in him too, she had such an appetite for virgins. Set, on the other hand, stands in the cooling shade with the singing man and,
closes his own eyes.
He cannot recognize a lullaby. The mother who carried him had never shared as intimate a relationship with him as she had her other children; life and peace and magic, beloved by her and crooned to by her, while the war-child seemed invisible, unseen. It is a lovely song, but. It finds no connection in his memory to draw on, and perhaps that, is most disquieting to him. Uncomfortable and guilty, he opens his eyes as the song comes to a close, and turns his eyes away. His face away, as if ashamed to look at Byleth, who has sung for him a song that does not resonate in his heart.
It is pretty. He appreciates it, and he feels terrible that he cannot offer more ( why would he HAVE to offer more?! ). ]
No matter what anyone says of you — [ He says instead. ] You are full of feeling and sentiment, Byleth.
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So, the language Byleth sings in has a quality he cannot deny that he recognizes. It is hauntingly beautiful in a way he feels impossible to fully admire, for he is a war god of screams and wrathful song, not a god of music like Hathor. Hathor, that vapid bimbo, would appreciate Byleth's singing more than anyone else — she'd probably try to get her horny little claws in him too, she had such an appetite for virgins. Set, on the other hand, stands in the cooling shade with the singing man and,
closes his own eyes.
He cannot recognize a lullaby. The mother who carried him had never shared as intimate a relationship with him as she had her other children; life and peace and magic, beloved by her and crooned to by her, while the war-child seemed invisible, unseen. It is a lovely song, but. It finds no connection in his memory to draw on, and perhaps that, is most disquieting to him. Uncomfortable and guilty, he opens his eyes as the song comes to a close, and turns his eyes away. His face away, as if ashamed to look at Byleth, who has sung for him a song that does not resonate in his heart.
It is pretty. He appreciates it, and he feels terrible that he cannot offer more ( why would he HAVE to offer more?! ). ]
No matter what anyone says of you — [ He says instead. ] You are full of feeling and sentiment, Byleth.