Today it rained—a sudden downpour of chilled drops fell from a blue-grey sky. Clanging metal rose from a pair of armored soldiers laughing at their mild plight as they hurried into the knight’s hall. Pattering rain muffled a jubilant conversation from beneath the shelter of a stone archway. Wind rustled through summer-green leaves, and broken blocks of rain rolled like waves across the empty path. There at its end, at the top of the stone staircase leading into the empty, well-kept cemetery stood Byleth, as still as the melancholy figures carved in stone below. Rain dripped from the bouquet of fresh cut flowers from the greenhouse in hand. Their overcoat and split sleeves fluttered behind them.
Today it rained, like the day their father died in their arms five years ago.
“To think that the first time I saw you cry... your tears would be for me. It's sad, and yet... I'm happy for it. Thank you... kid.”
Distant thunder drummed through the sky at the memory of Jeralt’s last words. Byleth’s fingers clutched one by one around the bouquet. They exhaled. Brushing a thin strand of rotten green hair behind their ear—missed from their last dying attempt—they took their first step down the stairs.
Five years. Five years came and went like dreamless sleep. Five years spent in a watery grave of their own. Five years since grief cracked through their impermeable shell, since first tears spilled onto their cheeks. How fresh the gut-wrenching memory remained with Byleth. The seizing of their empty ribs, the burning in their lungs, the sting in their blurry eyes, and the way their voice cracked around what words they forced out to others asking “are you all right.” How part of them wished they could go back and let their sadness instead fester behind a wall as done in all their years prior. They could cry, they have cried, they would cry. Sobs and tears and a constricted chest would never part from them henceforth.
Byleth’s feet met with damp grass. Their steady footsteps turned silent as they passed pristine graves. Cool rain dampened their wispy hair, goosebumps pricked their arms. Another roll of thunder—closer now—crackled around them. With each step bringing them closer and closer still to Jeralt’s grave, one question repeated among echoes of the past:
Why, why, why?
How alone they were growing up. How clueless they were of Fódlan and its building blocks of noble blood supremacy. How many lies they lived and believed without a second thought. Why?
Coming to a halt before Jeralt’s headstone, Byleth lowered their gaze to the etching. With their frown deepening, they knew what he’d say if he could answer; for their protection. To keep them safe from Rhea’s claws. To shield them from a world that shunned anything outside the norm. A simple, straightforward answer as any. As simple and straightforward as the lies their mother died of illness when they were but a toddler and he forgot their birthday, same as he did his. As simple and straightforward as forgetting to bring up his past as a Knight of Serios at all, as never once letting Byleth meet a person their age.
Thunder grew stronger and raindrops trailed down their jawline. They gripped their fingers tighter yet around ribbon-tied stalks. They trusted him. They trusted no one else but their goddess damned father in all their twenty-one years of half-living, and he nonetheless lied and hid and tucked them away from the world.
Byleth forced a harsh swallow down their throat. Through their frustration, through the pain of loss and confusion, Byleth clung to one truth and one truth alone; Jeralt loved them. The warmth in his hand when he ruffled their hair, the comfort of silence between them during their early fishing hours, the understanding in his stern eyes whenever a smile failed to appear on their face, how could he feign that? How could he feign the kind of unconditional love a parent should have? Jeralt couldn’t. He couldn’t. Jeralt loved them, and despite the flurry of thoughts and feelings they held over him, Byleth loved him too.
Not a word. Byleth uttered not a single word as they placed the flowers upon Jertalt’s grave with a gentle hand. What was done was done. No amount of regret would see Jeralt rise from his grave. No number of charged words would force an answer or apology from a rotting corpse. Closure would evade them for the remainder of their days, and they accepted it with a smooth roll of their shoulders and sigh. Who would have guessed love and dismay towards one could exist at once? Glancing to the darkened sky, Byleth rose to their full height. Lightning cracked through the sky like a whip. Turning away from the grave as thunder shattered the air, they strode back the way they came.
They should get inside and dry off before someone scolded them for getting so soaked in an oncoming storm.
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the star + the world
major arcana headcanons !
17. THE STAR : what does your muse take inner comfort in knowing ? what guides your muse ?
21. THE WORLD : is there one thing in life that your muse must accomplish ? what will they do when they complete that goal ?
i don't think there's gonna be a time where phil will be happy and truly satisfied with what she has. she will always, always want more, no mtter what she already has in her reach, at least in my opinion. thus the problem of what she will do once she completes here goal doesn't exist, for there's no end to reach lmao.
for real though, even if she came to reach a place in her life where she doesn't have anything to do, i don't think she'd be able to fully relax. it's just ------- you know, it's just hard for someone who has always had something to do, someone to string around, anything at all, it's hard to finally lay down the weapons.
i don't see any sort of "retiring to live happily ever after in a cottage in the forest" ending for philippa, no matter her timeline. she's just not one to settle down (alone, yes, even less so with someone) and so it's just ... unlikely, you see. considering her goals and ambitions it just wouldn’t easily happen (if at all), there would always be something that would catch her attention, something that needs to be fixed, some new type of magic to study, some king to puppet. it's simply who she is.
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Creepy Tumblr “Daddies”
Stay woke to seemingly kind , affable, but actually predatory middle age Tumblr bloggers
who exclusively lust, lurk, interact , and post porn pics from girls far too young for him (some even young enough to be his granddaughter. )
Who encourage young women to post nudes in the guise of feminism and sends “positivity vibes “ , but with “ fuck me “ undertones
Women do not need your “help” with that shit
There is something inherently wrong with a middle age man whose orbit solely rotates around young women , but has absolutely no interaction on his blog with women his own age .
#omg no one else noticed this bullshit besides me ?