Chapter Text
The next morning passes in a flurry. Byleth wakes up in Claude's tent, a thin blanket thrown over his body, with Claude nowhere to be seen. Other than him, the tent is completely empty, unlike it was the evening before. Claude must have already packed his things to continue their travels and left Byleth to sleep as long as he needs. So he sits up and folds the blanket, then pads out of the tent to help his friends. But the other tents are already cleared, the fire put out, and Claude and Cyril are sitting on the ground where Byleth's tent used to be, tying up bags with their belongings to carry them more easily.
"You're awake," Cyril notes with a smile when he spots Byleth and waves his hand. Claude looks up from where he is piling up some of Byleth's belongings to pack them up, "I did not want to wake you, but it was getting a little late already. Now it is not much longer until noon, so Cyril and I decided to pack your things for you." He gets up and grabs a few clothes that are carefully placed on top of one of the bags so they wouldn't get dirty, "I saved some of your clothes so you wouldn't have to travel in your sleeping garments. And once you are dressed, we take down my tent and start our journey to Synnir. If all goes well, we should arrive there by noon tomorrow."
Byleth nods silently and reaches for the clothes, then quickly gets dressed. He stashes his sleeping garments away in one of the bags, then helps the others take down the last remaining tent before they are all packed up and ready to leave. Cyril provides them each with a few pieces of bread while they hike out of the forest, in the opposite direction of where Claude and Byleth had gone to the day before. The vast rolling fields of heath that lie behind the forest turn into well-used pasture and then into a lush green deciduous forest while the sun climbs higher in the sky and finally past its zenith, sunlight spilling through the canopy high above them, trickling down in streaks of gold that bounce off the green leaves.
The banter between the three flows effortlessly while they follow a well-used path that twists and turns between the trees, Claude always a few steps ahead to lead them. He points out small things that Byleth would have missed otherwise—a small-set tree with its branches intertwined as if they were woven together, the ruins of an old shrine that is so overgrown that it blends in perfectly with its surroundings, a small forest cat sneaking through the undergrowth. Cyril shares small quips of when he used to live in Almyra, stories of mythical animals that hide deep in Almyra's woods or legends of gods and heroes tasked with quests much bigger than themselves or even just silly little fables told to kids to make them behave. And Byleth—Byleth stays mostly silent while he listens to his friends, unsure of what to say other than a few short comments on his friends' tales. He does share a small story of when he was much younger, when he had just lost his first tooth, where he got lost in a forest at the foot of the Oghma Mountains (he leaves out the fact that he was to act as a decoy for Jeralt and eventually ended up in his first real fight that resulted in the death of his opponent, instead telling them about the small hidden village he discovered between the tall pine trees and the fog where, for the first time in a very long time, he was treated like the child he was), but other than that, he restricts himself to as few words as possible. Not that it bothers him—he basks in his friends' stories and laughter and realizes that he has never felt more at ease than when he is with Claude and Cyril, which makes a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
With time the forest's undergrowth gives way to steeper ground, less greens covering the coarse soil, and between the trees' thick trunks Byleth can see flashes of soft hills turning to ragged mountains—they must be traveling Westward, half-circling back towards the foot of Fódlan's Throat. He knows that Synnir lays on higher altitudes, is nestled on a plateau that hugs the steep mountain range, but he imagines it to be a tad early to tread back along there. So he asks as much of Claude, who is still marching ahead.
The young man does not halt at Byleth's question, but he does slow his pace to be walking right next to him.
"We are right on track of where we should be," he explains, "My plan is to camp out in a valley that lies right at the foot of the mountain range. Very few people traverse it—we should be safe from suspecting eyes and any other possible danger there. And in addition to that, it has a river snaking through it that carries molten glacier water from up on the highest peaks."
Byleth nods silently and lets Claude get back to leading them—he trusts his friend to make the right decision, and if that means traveling along this route instead of any other, one which reminds Byleth with every step of the horrors that took place on the other side of the rough cliffs protruding into the perfectly blue sky just past the tree line, then so be it. He does not blame Claude for any of it—goddess, Claude probably is not even aware of the feelings Byleth is harboring towards the stone that separates Fódlan from Almyra, is not aware that even their week-long crossing of the mountains made Byleth relive the fight near Fódlan's Locket, where they had helped Hilda's brother Holst defend the border. The fight where Byleth had to watch his students die, over and over again, because his strategies were not working out and their enemies got the best of him over and over again. Where he watched Leonie stagger from her horse, an arrow latched into her chest, while her life (red hot blood everywhere, it was flowing so fast) was seeping out of her body right under his hands, the healing spells trickling from the tips of his fingers absolutely useless; where he watched Flayn's trusty pegasus get hit mid-flight and her frail body was bucked of, soaring through the air, bone-chilling screams echoing from her lungs until she hit the ground, bones audibly cracking at the impact and just like that everything was silent. Claude is not aware of what happened that day, what happened before everything finally—finally!—worked out and all of Byleth's students managed to return to Garregh Mach celebrating their victory, very much still alive; Byleth would never be able to actually tell anyone how far Sothis' powers had reached, all the things that were possible with her powers coursing through his veins (how much it cost to have these powers coursing through his veins).
He is so lost in the horrible visions of events past that he barely notices the forest clearing up, opening up into the valley that Claude spoke of, until Cyril grabs him by the shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh under his tunic (not leaving a mark, never leaving a remainder) to stop him from blindly walking further.
They decide to take a break near a small river that meanders its way through the valley's rocky landscape, intending to set up camp on its banks. The sun is still shining down on them with all its might, a layer of sweat clinging to their skin and the sky still a brilliant blue—but it teeters on the mountain ridge in the West more and more, dipping its beams behind it ever so slowly and letting the snow-capped peaks shimmer in a reddish-gold. Claude assured them that Synnir is less than a quarter of a day's hike away from them now, so Byleth finds himself building up their well-used tents alongside his friend on a patch of grass near the water while Cyril has ventured out in order to provide them with firewood.
"Say," Byleth gazes up from where he is securing one of the tents to the ground to see Claude looking at him, "Don't you think that Cyril has been behaving rather strangely since we arrived in Almyra?"
He tries to remember if there was anything Cyril did that might be considered 'odd' for the boy, but nothing comes to mind, so he shakes his head in response. Claude huffs out a breath before saying, "Then I must be imagining things. Don't worry about it, my friend."
Byleth wants to ask what Claude means by that, what exactly he should have noticed about the younger's behavior that is so clearly unlike him (he has never been good at reading people, and for as well as he got along with the students when he was still working as their professor, he had always been glaringly oblivious to any subtle changes in their behavior, had been struggling to keep up conversations with anyone that wasn't Claude or maybe even Felix—talking about swords and sparring wasn't the most nuanced subject, and Byleth certainly hadn't been appalled by that—and rather spent the little free time outside of the war fishing or in the greenhouse rather than conversing with his students). He does know, though, that Claude's current behavior definitely is to be considered odd.
Before he can ask, though, screams cut through the quiet summer air like knives. Both Claude and Byleth immediately jump to their feet, trying to determine where the screaming might have come from. A startled flock of small birds appears somewhere in the distance, hurriedly fleeing into the air from whatever it was that sent them flying. Claude reaches for his bow and quiver while Byleth pads at his clothes, making sure his dagger is still secured to his waist. They hurriedly cross the river and follow it South to where they think the screaming to originate from, panic flaring up between them at the realization that the screams belong to Cyril.
They find him in a small hollow, nestled between jagged, whitened limestone and a few lonely, scrawny fir trees—a blade pressed to his throat by one man, drawing droplets of violently red blood against his tanned skin, arms yanked behind his back in a way that looks extremely painful by another. The strangers wear velvety red and dark gray robes—clearly remnants of the fallen empire, former nobles that have fled their land to escape punishment for their crimes.
"Let him go," Claude demands, his bow trained on the head of one of the men. His voice is cold and determined, but Byleth can feel his friend shudder beside him as he breathes, can see the arrow swerve left to right to left oh so slightly. His own hand is wrapped around the dagger at his waist, fingers clammy with sweat.
Cyril's attackers do not utter any words in response, but their jeering grins are answer enough to them. Byleth tries to calculate their approach—if Claude were to shoot the one holding Cyril by his arms, their companion would be free to move, but at the risk of having his throat slit open in an instant; if he were to shoot the one holding a knife to Cyril's throat, the immediate threat of death would be eliminated, but the other could just as well pull out a knife of his own or hurt him otherwise. And with Claude's aim not being as steady as it should be, there too is a possibility of him shooting Cyril instead. It makes Byleth anxious that he most likely has to turn back time to protect his friends—since the war has ended he tries to avoid it all together if possible, as it reminds him all too well of the fact that he is not like them.
As he unsheathes his dagger Claude fires his first arrow. It hisses through the air before boring itself into Cyril's left shoulder, inches away from his attacker's neck. Claude's eyes grow wide at his mistake and he lowers his bow with shaky hands while Cyril lets out a surprised scream and instinctively throws his head back against one of the attackers. Byleth utilizes the moment to rush forward as fast as he can and swings his dagger to attack. It crosses with the blade used to hurt Cyril, metallic clanks loud in his ear.
Another arrow hisses past his ear and barely misses its target.
Their blades cross again and again, but he quickly notices how clumsily his opponent wields his weapon—a wide slash that greatly misses Byleth gives him enough berth to ram the dagger into his opponent's side, drawing a pained groan and forcing the man to hold his attacks to helplessly press both his hands to the gushing wound.
A third arrow flies past Byleth and he sees it hit the second attacker right between the eyes, causing the man to stumble and collapse to the ground within seconds of letting go of Cyril. Byleth lets out a relieved sigh—he wants to compliment Claude on that last shot and take Cyril back to their camp so they can all calm down and catch some sleep. His relief does not stay for long.
Cyril has also sunken to the ground, kneeling in the dirt while his right hand is pressed to where Claude’s arrow struck him. Blood is running down his left arm in thick, steady rivers, dripping down from his limp fingers.
Byleth feels like throwing up.
He carefully drops down in front of Cyril—his eyes unfocused and staring past Byleth off into the distance, his tanned skin already a gray-ish hue—and tries to pry his hand away from the wound to examine it. Cyril does not resist to his hand being moved—he does not move at all and his hand drops to his side lifelessly, the only indication that he is still alive being the quick and shallow breaths that rip through his body.
“Cyril, please,” Byleth whispers to his friend and then carefully tears away the fabric of his blood-soaked tunic. He cannot see much of the injury—there is too much blood. With his shaky hands pressed to the wound, he chokes out all the healing spells he can think of. The blood is hot and sticky on his skin and coats his palms while white magic flows from his fingertips in a cool sensation. Healing has never felt this cold.
“I’m so sorry I hit you,” Claude calls as he jogs over to where they are kneeling on the ground, unaware of the situation’s gravity, “Does it hurt much?”
Byleth can sense Claude coming closer behind him. He must have noticed all the blood by now, he thinks, and in that exact moment he feels Claude falter and take in a shaky breath.
“Cyril?”
Claude’s voice is quiet, and Byleth feels his heart sink. He has to turn back time now. He cannot stand Cyril dying in front of Claude. He cannot allow the guilt to gnaw its way into Claude’s heart, even for just a moment.