[There's a prolonged pause after Shez finished speaking, where Byleth stared at the etching on his whistle, rubbing his gloved thumb over the cuts and grooves he had made, while his other hand slowly sheathed his dagger without needing to look.
He tried not to think of Fodlan and its tenuous future too much while here, an act he recognised as cowardly. Homesickness had been an entirely new concept for him, when he had arrived at Kenos, lost and rudderless without his father's guiding hand on his shoulder propelling him onwards. Byleth's entire life had always been defined by Jeralt, whether it be the contracts he took or the advice he gave. To him, Jeralt was Fodlan, and the longer he had spent in Kenos, the more this heavy, gnawing nest of savage worms writhed in his gut, filling him with an emotion he couldn't articulate or understand.
The thought of their worlds vanishing, of Jeralt dying, permanently, forever, while Byleth was dimensions away and whose last words to him had been something to the effect of 'I'm going on patrol now', was almost suffocating. Teasing on the fringes of his thoughts was desperation framing itself as pragmatism whispering: 'In Zenith, you'll be able to save Jeralt's Shard at least, that's all you really need, right? Right?'
It was a selfish way of thinking, and Byleth would never succumb to it. But it still lurked in his subconsciousness, it gnawed at him, grew fangs and claws, with each Oracle, with each rude reminder that this was a competition where Jeralt's life was part of the stakes, and he simply couldn't contemplate a future where Meridian lost, where Byleth lost. His mind simply refused to compute the possibility. He was pretty sure he would descend into a primal, unholy madness that would make Sothis herself baulk.
So, he tried not to think of Fodlan. He fixed his gaze on the horizon and distracted himself with his writings and investigation of romance and exploring the various pastry shops, letting his sword grow dull and his magic untamed, because it turned out that the Ashen Demon was a weak coward without his father's shadow to hide in. Byleth was ruthlessly honest about it, though. He was a coward and he did not think of Fodlan.
But Shez was making him think about it now. Not a vague yet paralysing worry of 'If I fail Jeralt will die and my home is gone' but a firm promise of 'let's make a mercenary band and travel the world once this is all over!' No conditionals of 'if', but 'when'. When.
When this is all over, let's see the world together.
Of course Shez would be so unflaggingly confident about their success. It was both his strength and weakness, his determination to reach his goal no matter the obstacles standing in his way. Where Byleth would falter, overthinking and grimly contemplating defeat, paralysed by the realisation that defeat was defeat, no do overs, no strategic retreats, just pure heart-crushing failure, Shez simply looked at the future and said that's where i'll be, no matter what'.
He didn't brood over failure because it was unproductive. They were going to win. Fodlan wasn't going to be destroyed. Jeralt's not going to die. We're going to travel the world together, right?
Right.
Slowly, Byleth looked up from where he'd been contemplating the whistle in his hand, his gaze snagging on the halo made of twine that Shez held over his head... and nodded minutely.]
...I'd like that.
[His voice was quiet, and he smiled, though he wasn't quite sure what emotion it conveyed. It wasn't purely happy, but it wasn't sad either.]
Someone... someone will have to read the map, after all.
[It's a joke, a wobbly attempt at one, but it's clear Byleth's trying, and it's clear Shez's offer had unearthed something very deeply buried and complicated in him. Not entirely bad, but also very heavy. Some things, however, need to be unearthed to be processed properly, rather than festering quietly out of sight.]
no subject
He tried not to think of Fodlan and its tenuous future too much while here, an act he recognised as cowardly. Homesickness had been an entirely new concept for him, when he had arrived at Kenos, lost and rudderless without his father's guiding hand on his shoulder propelling him onwards. Byleth's entire life had always been defined by Jeralt, whether it be the contracts he took or the advice he gave. To him, Jeralt was Fodlan, and the longer he had spent in Kenos, the more this heavy, gnawing nest of savage worms writhed in his gut, filling him with an emotion he couldn't articulate or understand.
The thought of their worlds vanishing, of Jeralt dying, permanently, forever, while Byleth was dimensions away and whose last words to him had been something to the effect of 'I'm going on patrol now', was almost suffocating. Teasing on the fringes of his thoughts was desperation framing itself as pragmatism whispering: 'In Zenith, you'll be able to save Jeralt's Shard at least, that's all you really need, right? Right?'
It was a selfish way of thinking, and Byleth would never succumb to it. But it still lurked in his subconsciousness, it gnawed at him, grew fangs and claws, with each Oracle, with each rude reminder that this was a competition where Jeralt's life was part of the stakes, and he simply couldn't contemplate a future where Meridian lost, where Byleth lost. His mind simply refused to compute the possibility. He was pretty sure he would descend into a primal, unholy madness that would make Sothis herself baulk.
So, he tried not to think of Fodlan. He fixed his gaze on the horizon and distracted himself with his writings and investigation of romance and exploring the various pastry shops, letting his sword grow dull and his magic untamed, because it turned out that the Ashen Demon was a weak coward without his father's shadow to hide in. Byleth was ruthlessly honest about it, though. He was a coward and he did not think of Fodlan.
But Shez was making him think about it now. Not a vague yet paralysing worry of 'If I fail Jeralt will die and my home is gone' but a firm promise of 'let's make a mercenary band and travel the world once this is all over!' No conditionals of 'if', but 'when'. When.
When this is all over, let's see the world together.
Of course Shez would be so unflaggingly confident about their success. It was both his strength and weakness, his determination to reach his goal no matter the obstacles standing in his way. Where Byleth would falter, overthinking and grimly contemplating defeat, paralysed by the realisation that defeat was defeat, no do overs, no strategic retreats, just pure heart-crushing failure, Shez simply looked at the future and said that's where i'll be, no matter what'.
He didn't brood over failure because it was unproductive. They were going to win. Fodlan wasn't going to be destroyed. Jeralt's not going to die. We're going to travel the world together, right?
Right.
Slowly, Byleth looked up from where he'd been contemplating the whistle in his hand, his gaze snagging on the halo made of twine that Shez held over his head... and nodded minutely.]
...I'd like that.
[His voice was quiet, and he smiled, though he wasn't quite sure what emotion it conveyed. It wasn't purely happy, but it wasn't sad either.]
Someone... someone will have to read the map, after all.
[It's a joke, a wobbly attempt at one, but it's clear Byleth's trying, and it's clear Shez's offer had unearthed something very deeply buried and complicated in him. Not entirely bad, but also very heavy. Some things, however, need to be unearthed to be processed properly, rather than festering quietly out of sight.]