Work Text:
There’s blood under their fingernails.
Byleth blinks. Where are they? What’s going on? They’re- is it dawn?
They squint into the sunlight; it’s not dawn. The sun streaks across the sky in gold-pink light, clouds dark blue and heavy above them.
Something isn’t right.
Byleth takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Their rib twinges. They’re hurt, and the sun is setting. They… went to bed last night. They’re not in bed anymore — they don’t know where they are, only that the time of day is wrong, the place is wrong, and nothing is as it should be.
They squeeze their eyes shut. This is bad. This is what they were worried about, all this time. Somehow, they’ve caught whatever’s going on in the middle, and now…
Their hand flies to the phone in their pocket. They exhale slightly; it’s there. When they dig it out, it has plenty of charge. Maybe it hasn’t even been used. Why is it there?
It takes a moment to unlock, their hands sweaty and shaking, but it confirms what they thought: it’s the evening of the 10th. They have no memories past Friday night, but there’s blood under their fingernails and bruises across their ribs and something is deeply, terribly wrong.
Byleth takes another deep breath. Then another, and another, until their mind stops racing quite so fast. Their hands move through familiar motions; unlocking the phone again after the screen went dark, opening up their message thread with their father.
‘Dad, it’s me,’ they write, because they aren’t sure if that’s always true anymore. ‘Can you pick me up? I think I need help.’
Byleth didn’t know when it started. They just knew that, at some point, they were missing time in their memory. Not huge chunks — just little things. Walking to the store and only realising they were there when they were most of the way down an aisle. Forgetting to message a friend because they hadn’t realised four hours had passed. Not knowing what they’d eaten for dinner despite no longer being hungry.
It wasn’t a lot. Just enough that it concerned them a little, made them try and pay more attention to what they were doing.
Then they started waking up tired. Not like they’d slept badly, but a bone-deep tiredness that never ceased. An ache behind their eyes all hours of the day. Though maybe that was the blood loss; they kept waking up injured, too. Split lips, bruised arms, scraped knees. There were no holes in their clothes, but their shoes ended up muddy, worn down.
It didn’t take much to put it together: they’d been going out at night. Except they didn’t remember a second of it.
Byleth was scared, to say the least. They weren’t a stranger to memory problems — their childhood was a little foggy. It was just how they were, how they’d always been. If they went to their friends and asked if they seemed forgetful lately, they’d probably get the response that they were the same as usual.
But it felt different. Their memory had always been a haze that settled over the past, as if someone else had been operating in their body and they were someone new.
Now, it was something else. Minutes missing every few hours. Chunks of their nights where they knew something was happening but had no idea what it could be. They were still around, the same person that they’d been the day before and the day before that, but…
It was unexplainable. Whatever was going on in that time left no signs that they were doing anything in particular, nor that they were anyone separate to Byleth. Not until the drawer.
Byleth lived on their own. They had more space than they needed, and rarely had an inclination to fill it; they didn’t have all that many personal effects. They had empty cupboards, half empty storage spaces.
They also had new shoes, and needed somewhere to put the old ones. Just in case they needed them for some reason — the old ones weren’t wrecked, just worn out. So they opened up the compartment two drawers down from the top of their chest of drawers.
Byleth stood there for a moment. Neatly folded, all instantly identifiable, were several sets of clothing. Shirts, sweaters, skirts, trousers, socks, all in green and purple and gold. Bright, ornamented, form-fitting, and in Byleth’s size.
They slammed the drawer shut; it rattled, and the chest of drawers nudged the wall with a dull thump. They stepped back.
They’d never seen those clothes before in their life. Those clothes were in their size. Byleth would never, ever wear anything like that in public or private. The thought of the way it would cling, the things those clothes were designed to show…
No. They’d never wear something like that; it would make them want to tear their skin off. But someone had. Someone had been wearing those clothes. The clothes were clearly bought to fit their body, and were kept in their home.
Something was very wrong. They needed help, and they always knew who to turn to.
On the evening of the 9th, Byleth went to bed early. Their father had all day shifts again this week, so he wouldn’t be able to come to them right now. He needed rest.
Well, he would come, but they’d be fine for one more night. If they called him now, he’d call out of work, and that would be one more shift off his pension fund, one more shift out of his wages. They couldn’t call him tonight.
They’d call him tomorrow evening, once he’d had his shift and slept. Then, they’d get all of this sorted. He always knew how to fix things like this, or at least make them feel better about it.
Byleth got into bed on the evening of the 9th. By the time the moon was brightest in the sky, they were up again.
It’s dark when Shez wakes, which is wrong. It’s quiet when Shez wakes; wrong again. They sleep like a log. They always set an alarm. They leave their curtains cracked open in case it doesn’t wake them, so the morning light can do their phone’s job for it.
But no. It’s dark and quiet. There are noises somewhere beyond their room, a low rumble of activity. Could be anything. Might be some kid moving into the building for the start of term, or Goneril might have kicked her boyfriend out for the sixth time.
Shez squints. They’re not in their bedroom. There are blinds, not curtains, covering the window, and the sheets feel wrong. Heavy. None of their clutter lies around them. They’re not entirely certain that they recognise the feel of the clothes they’re wearing.
Shit.
They reach around for their phone; their hand stops short within two motions. Shez blinks furiously, trying to clear the drowsiness from their eyes. It’s so hard to keep them open. They’re in pain again.
They tug their arm once more, and their suspicions are proved right: they’re handcuffed to the bed. They’re not in their room, and they’re injured. The bustle outside must be from somewhere else — a prison? A hospital? They inhale deeply; the latter, if the smell is anything to go by.
Well, fuck.
For Shez, it started with books.
It made them feel like a tool to even think it, but they weren’t a reader. They didn’t just… get books. Definitely not from the library, and definitely not magic books. They’d never used any magic in their life!
Except it wasn’t just magic, like setting things on fire or casting a little breeze. It was dark magic, books that very nearly oozed rot from their mere words. Shez felt like the books were dangerous just from their existence, and when they read some of the descriptions held within?
It was a scary kind of magic. The stuff that the shady guy down the road probably used. This stuff wasn’t like the memes about the historical use of Dark Spikes T that ended up on their Twiddyd feed.
Shez could excuse some books; they just returned them to the library drop box furtively, hoping no one would know that they’d read a book that told them how to boil blood with a gesture (and okay, they didn’t know how to do that, but it was probably in the book). Except the books weren’t the end of it.
Dark lines started forming under their skin. Their wrists, their arms, their chest; places where blood flowed. A little freaked out, Shez looked them up, and sure enough: side effects of dark magic they didn’t know how to use and couldn’t remember learning or using. Except their body remembered using it.
It wasn’t great, but… it wasn’t painful. They were just a visual side effect of the body doing exactly what it was meant to do when encountering dark magic, the medical sites said, and if there was nothing else then they’d be fine.
So Shez didn’t do anything about it. They didn’t have time, alright? They worked the shifts they could get, and sometimes they ended up between jobs. While they had work, they couldn’t ditch it to investigate something they wouldn’t be able to explain. Medicine involved doctors, and doctors involved appointments and blood tests and time that Shez, frankly, did not have. As such, it went straight to the ‘pretend this isn’t happening’ box of their mind and they got on with their life.
If that had been the end of it, then everything would have been fine. Shez would have moved on and forgotten all about the books, or the marks that would fade with time. Except the marks didn’t fade. And alongside them formed scrapes where they’d clearly fallen, bruises blooming in places they didn’t remember hitting, and burns. Magic burns.
Whoever their body was convinced they were using magic on was fighting back.
It got harder to brush off. They went into work with a black eye, and their constantly cycling set of coworkers asked after them. When Shez said they didn’t know, didn’t remember, but hey it was just one of those weird, funny things that happens to people, right? Getting beaten up when they were meant to be sleeping?
Their coworkers didn’t laugh. They just stared, and Shez stopped talking about it. Maybe it would get worse, maybe it would get better. Until then, there was nothing they could do.
Jeralt wishes his day could get normal rather than just getting worse and worse.
First, it’s a bizarre work day; some punk kid got themself into a fight, ended up in an ambulance after a good Samaritan saw them stumble right into her bins, and then when they woke up? Well, that was when Jeralt was called in to restrain them.
Weird kid. Really weird kid, all long words and ‘unhand me, you fiend’ and not settling down until they were handcuffed and sedated.
And that, of course, was when the second thing kicked in: Byleth texted him.
Byleth doesn’t normally text when Jeralt doesn’t text first. They’re quiet and independent, and Jeralt can respect that. Can wonder in it, really, when he spent half their childhood being told by doctors and teachers that they weren’t right.
But when they do text? Well, Jeralt knows something is wrong. He knows it in even starker clarity when Byleth texts him with their location, miles from where they live. And when he arrives…
Well, he’s never seen Byleth look like that before. They’re spattered with blood, burned and bruised, and they’re wearing… actually, he doesn’t know what they’re wearing, but between that and the braided hair and the way they’re hunched in on themselves, they don’t look like his kid at all.
“Shit, kid,” he says, pulling himself fully out of the car. They perk up a little at the sound of his voice. “What did you get yourself into this time?”
Of course, he’s seen them in the wake of fights. They’re his kid, after all, and he taught them not to take crap from anyone. This is different. This is so much worse, and only gets more so when they limp towards the car.
“I don’t know,” they admit, and his breath catches in his chest. Have they been drugged? Did they take drugs? It’s not a very Byleth thing to do, but they grow in all kinds of unexpected ways all the time. Maybe this could be one of them.
“Think you’ll be alright?” he asks. They shrug, then wince. “I can get you checked up, if you want. We’re not far from the hospital.”
They bristle, then shake their head. They stop short when the braid hits the side of their face, hands drifting towards it. They frown. “I’ll be fine,” they say, and even if he couldn’t read them like a book he’d be able to tell they were lying.
“Want to go back to your place?” They nod, moving to take their hair out of the braid. They wince again as they run their fingers through their hair.
“I want to tell you about it,” they say.
Jeralt hums. “Sure thing,” he says. “Let’s wait until we get you back though, alright? I’ll make you some tea.”
They perk up a little at that. Honestly, they relax pretty quickly, seeming more and more like themself by the minute. It’s helped by their usual disregard for car safety when they lean over the hand brake and over to the backseat to grab one of Jeralt’s jackets, bundling themself in it.
“You cold, kid?” he asks, and they shake their head.
“Don’t like what I’m wearing,” they answer.
Jeralt doesn’t smile when he replies. “Well, why’d you put it on then?”
“I didn’t,” they answer simply, and then they say no more for the rest of the journey.
They vanish into their room as soon as they let Jeralt into the flat; he goes to the kitchen, where everything looks pretty normal. Byleth emerges again a couple of minutes later, tosses him the jacket they’d pinched, and settles down on the sofa with a first aid kit.
They’re just done with the antiseptic wipes when he brings the tea over, and they clutch it like a lifeline. Their knuckles are torn.
“Alright, kid,” he says, settling down a short distance from them. “Hit me with it.”
And they do. They tell him about the injuries, the memory gaps, the clothes. They tell him about coming to themself this evening and knowing that something terrible had happened.
They tell him, and he has no idea how to do anything about it. He’s never encountered anything like this before, never known them to be anyone other than themself, completely and truly. But here they are, and something has changed.
They’ve grown up, and Jeralt doesn’t know how to protect them from something like this.
“I’m going to be honest, kiddo,” he says. “I don’t know what to do here.”
They nod, and they don’t look disappointed, but Jeralt knows he would be if he’d gone to someone for help and received no solutions. “That’s okay,” they say. “I think I just wanted to tell someone.”
Jeralt cracks a smile. “Alright. But I’ll try and think of something. You don’t deserve to go around worrying like this.”
“I know,” they say. And that’s when Jeralt’s work phone goes off, because nothing in this forsaken world can go right. Can’t he get one moment with his kid?
“Can I pick this up?” he asks, and Byleth nods. “Jeralt Eisner speaking.”
“Hi, Mr Eisner!” It’s the Victor kid from HR, which means they want him covering something. Again. Even though he only just got off his shift, which isn’t exactly legal; they probably know he’ll say yes anyway. “Sorry to bother you in the evening like this. The patient you dealt with earlier who was violent when you got in — they’re awake, and they want to leave.”
“What? They were real busted up.”
Victor laughs nervously. “Yeah, I know,” he says, “but no one can keep them if they don’t want to stay. The doctor wants someone to come in and watch them while all the discharge procedures go through.”
“Paramedics aren’t pressing charges?” he asks. If they were, this would be a simple transfer to the police. If they weren’t…
“Nope,” Victor answers cheerfully. “No one was hurt, they say. And the patient seems pretty calm now, but it’s a just in case kind of thing. Do you think you can come in?”
“I just got off,” Jeralt notes.
“Yeah, I know.” Victor sounds decidedly sheepish. “I’m sorry. We can find someone else if you decline, but you’re our next port of call.”
“Alright,” he says. “Hang on.” He puts his hand over where he’s pretty sure the microphone is and turns to Byleth. “They’re calling me in for something, kid. I can say no and stay here, or I can go — you can come with me if you want.”
Just like old times, he doesn’t say, but he knows Byleth hears it; they nod. “Yeah, I’ll come with.”
Jeralt nods, and relays his agreement to Victor before setting down the phone. “You’ll have to stick around in the car, of course,” he says. Byleth nods again. “I can even lock you in, if you’d feel safer.”
He never used to lock them in when he’d stick them in the car as a preteen, just in case they needed to get out. This time, though, they nod. Jeralt smiles at them and pretends not to be terrified by the change of heart.
Shez knows that they’re in deep fucking shit. The deepest fucking shit, perhaps.
“I mean what I said about not remembering,” they repeat, to a doctor who seems decidedly perturbed. “I wouldn’t lie about this, promise.”
“I believe you,” the doctor says. She told them her name earlier, but they don’t remember exactly what it is. They’ve got a bit more on their mind, like oh, they don’t know, the fact that they apparently attacked paramedics in the evening. The evening that they don’t remember, just like they don’t remember the past two days. “I just don’t fully understand what we’re looking at here.”
“You’re sure you tested my blood?” Shez isn’t in the habit of taking drugs. Well, not drugs that would wipe out days of their consciousness and make them attack people, anyway. They’re not sure drugs like that even exist, but they’d been tested anyway. The bloods came back completely negative.
So they’re clean, and still handcuffed for some reason despite being told that they weren’t having charges pressed against them (and thank fuck for that, because Shez did not know what they’d do if they had a criminal conviction), and these people clearly don’t trust them to not go off on one all over again.
At least, they’re pretty sure that’s what the security guard means. The scary, rugged-looking security guard whose gaze hasn’t moved from them since the moment he entered the room.
“Yes, we’re sure,” the doctor says. “Do you maintain that you don’t want to stay for observation or further tests despite the inconclusive nature of what we’ve already done?”
“Yeah, get me out of here,” they say. The security guard in the corner shifts, probably hiding his amusement. “I don’t have time to stick around, sorry.”
They’d love to be able to. They need these questions answered, because this is starting to majorly freak them out. They want to know how not to wake up exhausted, or how to stop the magic marks winding up the inside of their arms. But they have work, and they can’t miss their shifts. They’re just building up a good reputation with this lot, it’s not something they can forsake just like that.
“Alright,” the doctor replies, utterly unimpressed. “Well, you have the medication for the dark magic treatment — it should accelerate the movement of the magic out of your body. Just don’t use it again if you don’t want it to come back all over again, okay?”
“I don’t remember using it in the first place,” they point out, which probably isn’t the best thing to say. The security guard eyes them weirdly again. “But I’ll do what I can. And I’ll try and heal as best as I can on my own.”
“Good,” the doctor says. “Don’t strain yourself too much for the next few days, and of course come straight back in if there’s any sign of infection. Does that sound all good?”
“Sounds peachy,” they answer. They don’t feel peachy, but they’ll take the victories where they can. Like getting out of this place and back to their crummy little flat where they can get some proper sleep and some real food. Like McMacuil’s.
From there, it doesn’t take long to get out of the handcuffs and sign the release papers. They’re watched very cautiously the whole time, but they get it. They’re dangerous or scary or… whatever. They don’t want to hurt any of these people (don’t want to hurt most people, to tell the truth, but apparently some part of them does?), so they don’t. It goes smoothly.
The security guard, though? He still watches Shez like some overly persistent hawk, his eyes never leaving them. He even takes the same way out of the hospital as them.
“Hey, kid,” he calls, just as they make it to the exit. They pivot on the ball of their left foot, making no effort not to glare at him. It’s going to take forever to get back, and they don’t have all night. “Woah, woah. What’s with the look?”
“You’re not guarding anyone against me anymore,” they say. He looks pointedly around at everyone in the reception, though, and maybe he has a point. “I’m not going to hurt anyone!”
“Sure, I believe you,” he says, in the tone of someone who actually does believe them. Huh. “I just wanted to ask you if you had a way to get back home. It’s another fifteen minutes to the station.”
Shez shrugs. “Nope.” No harm in being honest; the guy probably knew they’d come in an ambulance they didn’t actually remember.
“Want a ride?” He gestures in the direction of the car park. “My kid’s out there as well, that okay?”
Shez shrugs. They don’t want to entertain a kid in the back of a car for half an hour, but they’re not exactly going to turn down a ride. “Sure thing,” they say. “Thanks. Lead the way, Mr…”
“Just Jeralt, kid,” he says, fixing them with another look before he leaves the hospital, not even looking back to check that they’re following.
Sothis is tired. She is often tired, and she knows it’s partially her own fault; she’s wearing the vessel out more than she should. She doesn’t remember how human bodies operate just yet, not in their entirety. As such, controlling the vessel takes more out of her than she wishes, and she needs rest.
So, she’s meant to be sleeping. Leaving that thing to control the body that is rightfully hers. Recovering her strength for the next bout, for it will surely come sooner rather than later.
Except—
It’s here. Sothis doesn’t know when it arrived, but it’s right next to her, looking away and out of the window. It isn’t in control of the vessel right now, but she’d recognise that look anywhere. She recognises those injuries, the ones she gave to it only hours before.
It’s here, and she can’t sleep anymore. Not when she has her chance.
She stirs herself, and the vessel says something. The transport they’re in pulls over to the side of the road, and the vessel flings the door open, sprinting with limbs Sothis is trying to leak into. The space is open and green, better for a fight than the inside of the transport. Sothis wonders, idly, if she should thank the vessel for understanding the appropriate venue.
Reacting to the commotion, that thing looks up, catching the vessel’s eyes — the abomination surfaces, vanishing from the transport and appearing in front of Sothis.
Her vessel’s consciousness recedes without resistance, and the fight begins.
They pick up where they left off before, the blighted creature pelting her with dark magic, and Sothis responding with holy light. They’ve been doing this for weeks now, orbiting each other with the intent but never the means to kill.
Last time, though, Sothis got a good hit in. This time, the vessel the beast occupies is injured. She can win, she knows it.
She weaves right, left. The thing moves to meet her every time, but she can step ahead of them over and over. She rewinds time, ducks under their blow. Rewinds time, gets in to strike. Rewinds time, goes for the-
Her movements stop at the vital point, and she’s forced to rewind just to avoid a burst of dark magic to the chest. What?
And then Sothis realises, as she darts and weaves and attempts to fight: the vessel is resisting her from within. And they’re only getting more insistent.
Sothis retreats from their rage as if burnt; their mind is a blunt object, heavy and wielded indiscriminately. She doesn’t understand. She’s so close to finishing this. Only a few minutes more, and she would have that creature in her grasp and it would never tarnish the earth again. Why do they resist?
But resist they do, and against the force of their pure feeling, she can do nothing. She’s too tired from the night before, helpless against their rage and desire, and there’s only one route left for her: she retreats, letting her power fade from their fingertips and watching. Sothis is always reduced to observation.
So, she watches. Distantly, she sees as the older man — the vessel’s father, she thinks — gathers the vessel in his arms and sets them down on the ground, half lying and half sitting against the tree. And then he turns, his back turned to the vessel as he faces down the beast.
Helpless, Sothis fades out. She’ll get her chance another day.
This is not how things were meant to go. Arval knew, the moment they set eyes on that thing again, that they had to fight for as long as they could. They would take her down, her vessel dying with her, and they would relish in a hard-won victory.
When her vessel started resisting? That was even better. Easier to finish off two people out of harmony than one in her stride, and going in for the kill would be as simple as breathing.
Except it didn’t work like that; because unlike every time before, they were no longer alone. And when the vessel brought the beast down from within, there was someone to step in.
“Kid.” The man practically spits the word, sidestepping a spell. He hasn’t managed to get much closer yet. “You were fine just now. What happened?”
“I saw that creature,” they reply. “You’re harbouring a monster.”
“Alright.” He lunges for them; they dart out of the way, but this body is slowing. They can’t keep this up forever, and they have to get through the beast after this. “I’m only going to say this once.”
“Say what you please,” they answer. Arval won’t listen regardless — they have to focus on the task ahead.
“I have no idea what you did to my kid,” he says, eyes ablaze. “I don’t know what you want to do to my kid. But if you don’t stop? I will kill you. Not here, in a public place next to a road, but someday soon, I will.”
When he speaks, he darts forward again, far faster than his age would suggest, and lands a blow to Arval’s side. They wince, trying to push the pain out of their mind.
“Nothing smart to say?” the man asks. “Not so mouthy when you’re on the back foot, are you?”
Arval just scoffs, reaching within the vessel for more magic. The body protests lightly, but not significantly — they take what they wish, just as they always do. As is their right. They gather the darkness in their palms, waiting for the man to open himself up to an attack again. He will, everyone does, they just have to have patience, just have to-
The man snaps his fingers, and the magic vanishes. Where once there was the cool slick of oil gathering around their core, there is now only void. A feeling not dry nor wet, not hot nor cold. Just nothing, where once there was something.
They take a step back. “What did you do?”
The man laughs. “Where do you think the kid learned the faith magic?” he asks, and they realise; they’ve been Silenced. Silenced by an old man, no hint of the Church on him, and yet…
When he goes for them this time, they have no defence, knocked off kilter by his efforts. Arval falls to the ground, and he wastes no time in pinning them there. “Alright, I’m going to say this again,” he says. “You listening this time?”
They nod. They have no other choice.
“Good. You stop whatever this is right now, and you get to live another day. And you remember, you keep it in your stubborn little skull, that no one hurts my kid. Got it?”
Arval weighs it up. His word means little; their word means less. He’s offering them a mercy he should not give, and they would be a fool not to take it. And yet, if they could just get past him, get to the wounded, exhausted beast on the ground mere moments away…
The man shakes them — they feel something dislodge within them, some older injury reopening. It sends pain sparking through them, and from the way the man’s face shifts, he knows. “I said, got it?”
Arval exhales, then nods. They know when they’re beaten, and they know when they have to take a step back and add a new target to their plans; they relinquish control, and watch from a short distance as the vessel, gasping with pain, comes back to themself. It’s not long before they pass out, sending Arval spiralling back into darkness.
“I have to talk to them.”
Their father paces the length of their childhood bedroom; it’s not big. He goes thrice before he speaks. “You really don’t have to. I don’t want to tear you two apart again.”
“You won’t have to.” They couldn’t know it, but they knew it. Somehow. After all, Byleth knew exactly where Shez was, which meant the thing inside them knew where they were, and she still hadn’t come out. They were safe.
“Kid, you…” Jeralt shakes his head. “Do you know how terrifying that was?” Byleth nods, and he shakes his head again. “You have no idea how that made me feel.”
“I know how it makes me feel,” they say. “It’s-” Terrifying. Awful. They feel like something’s crawling under their skin and they can’t get it out. They don’t know who they are anymore, and if they’re ever going to be the same person after all of this. Are they two people now? What’s even inside them?
Jeralt’s gaze softens. “I know, kid,” he says. Leans forward slightly, his hand out; Byleth nods, and he moves to ruffle their hair. It’s nice. It feels like something he’d only do for them. “But that’s exactly why you can’t go and talk to this Shez person. They might mess this all up again.”
“Alright,” they say, settling back against their pillow. “I’ll stay here. You’re going to talk to them?”
Jeralt nods. “Just for a bit, then I’m going to bed too. It’s been a long day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” he says. “This isn’t your fault. It’s… something else. And with Shez, we’re going to find out what.”
With that, he leaves them be, turning the light out on his way out. Byleth hears his voice start up at a low murmur in the next room, talking to Shez.
They’re not going to stay put; they have to talk to Shez. They’re pretty sure their father already knows that, though.
Jeralt’s kid — Byleth, he said their name is Byleth — is quiet when they steal into the room Shez is ‘staying in’ (Jeralt said he wasn’t going to let Shez go until he’s worked out what’s going on and how to solve it) that night.
Shez is tied to the bedframe in the least sexy way possible. It’s not tight — it might not even keep that thing at bay if it really wanted to escape — but… it makes Shez feel safer.
Shez really wants to feel safe right now.
Byleth doesn’t flick the light on. They just come to sit at the base of the bed, staring at Shez. Waiting for them to speak, clearly.
“Why are you here?” Shez asks, though they’re pretty sure they already know the answer. If they weren’t tied up, they’d be doing the same thing.
“I wanted to talk to you,” they answer. “After earlier…”
“There are a lot of questions,” Shez agrees. “I don’t think I know what happened any more than you do, but I worked a couple of things out. I think, anyway.”
They nod. “How long has it been going on for you?” they ask.
“I don’t know,” they admit, and Byleth nods again. “Weeks at the very least. Maybe longer. I only really noticed when I started getting-” They gesture at their arms with one hand, and Byleth tilts their head slightly. Of course; they can’t see what’s there in the dark. “Dark magic marks. Like I’d been using magic I didn’t even know how to use, but had learned from books in my flat that I’d never taken out of the library.”
“It was memory for me,” they answer. “Gaps. Then injuries.”
“Then exhaustion,” Shez continues. They know this one. “And then I wake up with the shit beaten out of me in a hospital, having no idea what happened.”
Byleth doesn’t wince and doesn’t apologise. Shez doesn’t think they’d want them to. “Normally I would wake up in bed,” they say. “Last time was different. I woke up in the wrong clothes, in the middle of a place I’d never been before.”
Shez lets out a short laugh. “And now we’re here.”
“And now we’re here,” Byleth echoes. “But where do we go next?”
“Nowhere, for now.” Shez tugs on the scarf binding them in place for effect. In the darkness, they think that maybe they see Byleth crack a small smile. “Don’t know about you, but I really need sleep right about now.”
“I do too,” they say. “But tomorrow?”
They’re strange. Almost too direct, their voice quiet and firm. They don’t move much, don’t talk much. They’re weird, but not in a bad way. Just a… way way. Most of all, they’re completely different to the person Shez half remembers their body fighting.
“Tomorrow, we find out what’s going on with us,” they say. “Together.” They reach out a hand, and after staring for a moment, Byleth shakes it. For someone with such a pretty face, they have very rough palms.
“Together.” This time, Byleth smiles properly, and something ignites within Shez. Not the disgust-anger-rage they felt when they set eyes on them before, that feeling that belonged to something that dwelt within them, but another emotion entirely.
Connection. Something they shared — these things that slept inside them, the very thing that conspired to keep them at each other’s throats, had instead drawn them together. They had fought as enemies, but by taking control where it wasn’t wanted, those creatures within had made an enemy they could never defeat; and an alliance that couldn’t be broken.