Oh. She pauses. That's a familiar face. How bizarre.

Today, five years ago... Her heart feels heavy. But really, these, too, are Byleth's emotions. Byleth's grief.

"I do not like this feeling."

A kiss... maybe.

Jeralt and the Child that never cried

They're in deep thought.

Times were easier when they were the Ashen Demon. Unshakable. They never screamed or cried. They didn't know this kind of pain because they didn't know the warmth of friendship.

And now they're holding Ashe's bow, minutes away from explaining his death to his former classmates. They feel so small, so powerless. They're struck with grief and guilt. He's dead. Nothing can be done about that now.

"Everyone's... managing. I think."

"I still can't believe he's gone. I should have been there."

They head to the little makeshift grave and set down a gladiolus. It's common in Faerghus to honour the fallen with this flower, or so they've been told.

It's colourful, but the leaves are as sharp as blades. Fitting for a knight to be.

Gilbert said they should all honour his sacrifice. But he said it with a voice so distant and flat that it seemed like it didn't concern him at all.

There has never been glory in death. It's the first lesson you learn as a mercenary. They thought they understood that lesson well, but... ...

How many beloved sons and brothers and mothers and cousins and friends have they cut down in their life, be it for money, for the Church or for Faerghus?

They can practically hear Jeralt's voice, see his face. That frown, the slightly curled lips. 'That kind of thinking gets you killed, kid.' He was right. Of course he was. He was rarely wrong.

Jeralt... He'd know what to say right now. What to do right now. Even in moments like these, when the world seems so much bigger than all of them.