The Fell Star's Return

As the two sleek black buffalo pull his rickety wooden cart along the jungle path, Lugaid can't take his eyes off the beautiful sight in front of him. 

Well, he can, but why should he? He's the prince of a country of passion, so why stifle his own? Therefore, he keeps his eyes firmly on the bouncing contours of the bountiful chest across from him. 

For not the first time he mentally pats himself on the back for 'convincing' the young lady to exchange those stifling Fódlan dresses with a more breathable variety, and more pleasurable to look upon - though still not quite to the extent he was hoping for. She isn't making it at all easy for him, but that only increases his excitement, enjoying the thrill of a different sort of hunt. 

As his thoughts drift into the realm of potential intimate encounters, he notices the passing foliage beginning to slow and the scent of salt wafting toward his nose. Painstakingly tearing his gaze away from the enticing mounds of flesh that move with every root and rock marring the dirt trail, he turns forward and almost immediately covers his face as the sun finally shines unfettered by towering green giants. As his vision adjusts to the beams of light, a destroyed clearing leading to the razed settlement of Salamhor makes itself known to him. 

It's been mere days since he left and yet the tarnished hamlet no longer seems a hopeless bed of destruction. In the far distance he can even glimpse what he supposes is the local prayer circle. It no longer sports vibrant totems on the perimeter of a cultivated greenery ring, yet a thoroughly tidy circle is present all the same.

"Greetin's, Prince." 

Slamming the butt of his multi-pronged spear on the ground, a passing local greets the young man with a quick cadence that leaves his words sounding jumbled to the untrained ear. 

The wood of the cart subtly creaks as the royal leans off the edge, arms folded under him. "Murtagh, how's the family?" he responds similarly. 

The short Brigidian, sun glinting off his scalp, shows a toothy grin. "S'all good. Me daugh'er gu'ed 'er firs' fish yes'erday, tore the li'l' swimmer righ' open," he says, motioning a long cut. 

"Sounds like she might jus' become a disciple of the sea too," Lugaid adds, motioning to the flowing blue tattoo across the breadth of the man's naked upper chest, a stylized depiction of the two-faced ocean spirit. 

"It's 'ppearing so," he says with pride. "You shoulda seen 'er on the night o' the wa'ery mother's wrath. My li'l' cub was howlin' with excitement even as she washed 'way our home," he finishes with a hearty laugh. 

Lugaid joins in as he sweeps his gaze through the wreckage, pausing here and there as he makes mental notes. 

"Say, how did y'all manage to clea…" 

He pauses as his inspection finally stops at the clearing of tents in the distance, different from the ones his people use. Taking a closer look, his eyes become sharper, though he still maintains his trademark amicability. 

"The foreigners," he starts, "when'd they arrive?" 

"Them? 'Bout seven moons 'go. Wasn't sure of 'em at firs', but they've been a big help." 

Suddenly, he lets out another hearty laugh, "Shoulda been 'ere yes'erday, lotta excitement." He continues while mock-stabbing his spear, "Yer da' shared a bout with the…" 

"Sorry, you said me da' fought someone?" the prince interrupts with surprise. 

It's been several months since the aging monarch last entertained a challenger, so Lugaid supposes he shouldn't be so shocked. Who though, would be so bold in this region? 'Was it Galad? No, he should be in the South dealing with those assholes. What about…'

Head bowed, a strong wind blows the introspective noble's vibrant turquoise locks, halting his brain as the shapely rear of his beautiful companion enters his line of sight, moving away. 

"H-hey wait, where are you going?" he cries after her in the language of Fódlan. 

Pausing, she turns, eyes akin to emeralds as the sun imbues them with radiance, beautiful even with the slight edge that makes his blood hot more than anything. 

"As you know, Prince," she maintains a respectful tone, but Lugaid can't help but feel a dig, "I have urgent matters to attend to back in my homeland. This excursion wasn't supposed to last as long as it has," she crosses her arms under her chest, unwaveringly meeting his auburn orbs, "but it would have been unbecoming of me to decline such a generous offer to see the country with its crown prince." 

Performing an elegant curtsy, the island royal's vision is drawn like a magnet to her lowered neckline, a fact she no doubt notices as her closed hands briefly whiten. 

"Forgive me," she says while lowered, "but now I need to go and speak with the captain of that vessel on the horizon. I will visit you later, but for now, I must be on my way. Good day." 

She rises, gives him a stiff nod, and turns to continue her departure, no doubt feeling the royal's heavy gaze on her the entire way. 

'That woman…' He's saddened by the absence of her previous sweetness, but this current cold undertone isn't unattractive at all… 

Shaking his head, he hops off the cart, his bare feet embracing the warm dirt and sand. Looking at Murtagh, he notices the much shorter fisherman similarly enthralled by the departing foreign girl and can't help but chuckle. Hearing that, the bald seafarer turns back to him and shares a cheeky grin before continuing their earlier discussion.

A few minutes later, he separates from the cheerful piscator with a confused mind. 'So it was a foreigner that fought father. But to force a draw, even in a spar…' 

Despite the worry over an unknown, his hand can't help but twitch as a fierce smile splits his face in two.

Rather than go and see his father at his tent, the young prince decides to head over to the so-called mercenary encampment. 'Mercenaries, what a strange profession. I'm interested in testing their mettle though…' 

As he walks through the wreckage of Salamhor, he receives plenty of enthusiastic greetings. More than once he's forced to stop for an idle chat, but he's always quick to try and move on. 

Despite his haste, however, he doesn't fail to notice how the town really does look much better than expected at this juncture. Nearly all the debris is sorted and being repurposed or discarded, and the rebuilding has already begun to some extent. Granted, this is just a small coastal town with no great complexity or import, but the damage was severe nonetheless.

Later, and finally alone after the gaggle of local girls dogging him were dragged away by their mothers, Lugaid sees someone he didn't expect at the foreign encampment. His father. 

His brows crease as he notices the aged monarch and several others encircling a large wooden stake with a battered corpse nailed to it. 

Not at all strange. 

"Father!" 

Calling out, he watches as his king turns and gives him a brief look before continuing what he's doing. The prince's mouth twitches though he holds his tongue, opting to observe instead. 

His gaze quickly wanders to the corpse, and he lets out a light curse as he takes it in. Both arms are twisted, raised, and nailed to the wooden beam, while knots of rope help keep the rest of the stripped body suspended. A litany of cut marks mar every inch of exposed skin, including an ugly gash on the side, but the worst injury is undoubtedly the fact that the man's head is unaccounted for, and it doesn't exactly look to have been severed by a blade. 

Trying to put the displayed gore out of his mind, he zeroes in on the words and actions of his countrymen. Their erratic movements and haunting chants quickly make it clear to him that they're performing a ritual to ensure that this person is denied reincarnation, instead leaving his spirit to decay and deform. 

It's something reserved for the most heinous, individuals deemed so corrupt that to let their spirits pass on and be repurposed would be an insult to the world that created them. To see this done here, and to a foreigner from what he can gather, fills him with urgent questions.

He watches for a while as the men surrounding the pole chant, their voices striking notes that have an uncanny way of unnerving those who hear them. Glancing around, many locals are watching from afar, but no one gets close, not wanting to come into contact with the negative energy being produced. 

As their cantillation reaches a fevered pitch, the corpse suddenly ignites with an explosion of fire, crimson tongues of flames greedily devouring. The inferno burns with an intense heat that steadily increases as the men reach the apex of their cries. 

As the final notes of the chant leave their lips to hang in the air, the fire fades, having completely consumed the offered morsel. Only scattering ashes are left behind, yet even those are quickly carried away by the wind. 

When Lóegaire eventually steps away from the charred post of lumber, his son puts a hand on his shoulder, "Why did you do that? Who even was that person?" 

Lugaid can't for the life of him figure out why his father would perform such an act. As the aging monarch turns to his son, he can see his own eyes reflected in his child's auburn pools. They look tired, though his son would likely disagree, mentally taken aback by the hardness present. 

"He has no name worth mentioning. Just know that he deserved every agony inflicted," Lóegaire says in Tuatha, a cold and resolute quality hidden in the shadows. 

Saying so, he moves on, beginning to walk in the direction of his hut after dismissing those who helped him. 

"Wait, father." 

Lugaid lightly jogs to catch up, soon keeping pace at his side. 

"What exactly happened here? I've only been gone a few days," he says in a voice laced with confusion. 

Not stopping his steps, Lóegaire looks his son up and down and sighs. 

"Listen close…" he says, beginning his tale.

***

"I said pick it up." 

Lóegaire watched as his old friend issued his command. He didn't scream, instead his voice was low and cold like ice, and all the more cutting for it. 

He watched as the man with disheveled blond locks and a dirt-laden face slowly reached out toward the sword thrown at his feet. His hand paused for a moment before he grasped the pommel, then using the silvery blade as a crutch to stand to his feet, he faced the warrior across from him. 

Standing in the middle of a clearing illuminated by dozens of blazing torches, the two were encircled by a throng of men and women eager to witness the proceeding events for their own veritable reasons. 

Despite himself, the Brigid king couldn't help but crack a small smile as he observed his people interspersed with Jeralt's. Fighting and justice, there wasn't going to be anything they'd want to watch more. 

From the number of spectators, it seemed that most everyone came, hoping for a little action prior to turning in for the night. Briefly glancing upward, he noted that it was good weather for a clash. The moon shone brightly above despite the clouds trying to deprive the earth of that heavenly light, and a warm breeze blew in from the ocean, lifting moods like a kite. 

As his gaze wandered back over his shorter dark-skinned brethren, and across the varying characteristics of the Fódlan mercenaries, his focus eventually rested on the teal-haired boy across the gap. 

His expression was just as stilted as he had observed through their brief yet memorable time together, but his hawk-like indigo orbs picked up on the wavering in the boy's cerulean jewels. 

He watched a moment longer before returning his attention to the piece of trash in the makeshift arena, eager to see him meet his end.

Watching Sean pick up the sword, Jeralt opened his mouth to speak. 

"I'm only going to ask you one thing. Where's your brother?" 

Neither he nor Zane failed to notice Tevan's absence during their earlier roundup, and after asking around his lieutenant informed him that the bald merc hadn't been seen for at least a few days. The aged Eisner stared down the pathetic excuse for a man, visually irritable at the query. 

"You won't find him," he eventually said matter-of-factly. 

"I think I will," the wheat-haired warrior responded. 

Sean grumbled but didn't add anything more, instead fingering his sword as his eyes darted around the clearing. 

"Nothing left to say?" the mercenary leader finally asked. 

Refocusing his attention on the giant of a man in front of him, Sean spat on the ground, "Not to you." 

The blond then took a deep breath as if to try and calm himself but a glance at his opponent quickly and unbiddenly transformed into a sharp glare. Almost as if recalling something, a dark chuckle bubbled forth from his lips. 

"Y'know what Jeralt? Fuck you!" he bristled, frustration evident in his tone. 

His face twisted into a snarl as he pointed the tip of his sword forward, rage simmering in his throat, "I saw your fight. Someone like you doesn't know what it is to be weak, to be treated as less than trash. My only regret is not puttin' my knife through your little bastard's skull when I had the chance." 

Jeralt hummed in acknowledgment as the blond merc finished his tirade. He waited a moment, then tapped his lance against the ground. 

"I'm going to kill you now," he stated simply, beginning to walk slowly forward, weapon low to the ground and ready to strike.

"Come on then you bastard!" 

Screaming in defiance, Sean began to run at the towering former knight. As his sprint met his foe's casual walk, the ruffian swung, a war cry leaving his throat. 

The blade barely lowered, however, as he suddenly shot backward, roughly hitting the ground and rolling a few times. Jeralt just looked at him and lowered his leg, kicking the dropped armament back toward him. 

Hunched over clutching his gut in pain, Sean made out the sound of heavy footsteps drawing nearer and looked over to see his former commander nearly within reach. Digging deep, he grasped for his sword and stumbled to his feet, only for his body to immediately twist as the wooden stock of Jeralt's lance smacked across his face with a resounding crack. 

To his credit, Sean somehow remained standing, readying himself and raising his sword in time to deflect the gleaming silver point aimed at his thigh. As his mind yelled at him to counter, he noticed another strike aimed at his left rib and again barely managed to deflect it, though not without a small cut gracing his leather armor. 

In that fashion, a barrage of strikes rained down on the man, giving him only just enough time to defend and never respond in turn. It was completely one-sided as Jeralt smoothly transitioned into attack after attack, slashing and thrusting with no repose.

After what felt like years to him, Sean's arms felt sluggish, and his body ached from the multitude of shallow cuts that penetrated his armor. Growling out a slur of words, Sean strugglingly continued his flight of death, "Stop, playing with me!" 

"Fine," the former knight whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. 

Just like that, with his utterance of words, the blond felt a sharp pang of agony blossom in his side, as the captain's frost fire eyes met his own. Then he twisted his grip, turning the sheathed lance deeper into the man's body. 

Sean's voice echoed in the clearing as a shriek of agony not unlike a wounded banshee. Pushing his lance a bit deeper, Jeralt took in his every expression before pulling back, flicking the blood off his blade. 

He watched as the blond backed away, desperately dropping his sword to hold the wound as if to prevent the gushing ichor from its escape. 

Spinning his lance in a few circles, Eisner stabs it into the ground. He then took a few steps forward and delivered a fierce uppercut as Sean raised his tear and blood-stained face. The smaller wretch veritably flew before he crumpled back down, splayed out on the ground. 

Jeralt didn't relent. 

Getting to his knees he straddled the now blood-soaked man and wrapped his large meaty hands around the seemingly fragile throat below him, squeezing just softly enough to not immediately crush the thing. 

Immediately Sean went bug-eyed, bringing his hands up to try and pry away the vices wringing his very life. When he realized the futility of that he began to hammer away at the captain's face, bloody spittle flying from his mouth at the exertion. 

After the seventh hit that tickled his cheek, Jeralt released one of his hands, yet still maintained his tight hold. With Sean's next punch, he grabbed that arm by the forearm and treated his audience with the sound of snapping bone, that arm now disfigured beyond repair. 

The blond moaned in agony and his bluing face contorted. Still, he didn't stop fighting for his life, attempting to swing his other arm. Jeralt then fully released his grip and gave this other limb the same treatment as the former. 

The disgraced mercenary's urgent gasps for air halted as he screamed and cursed the captain's and his son's names. His body shuttered with pain as he struggled to move, a challenge with the impossible weight on him. 

Jeralt surveyed the broken form of the man he once hired, almost smirking as he noticed the bruising imprint of his hands around his neck and foggy eyes before he schooled his features. Looking up, he turned to gaze at his gathered audience. He could see most of them talking and cheering, clearly entertained by the bloody brawl. 

Although he could see them, however, he couldn't hear their cries and cheers, only his heartbeat raging in his ears. Nonetheless, he opened his mouth to speak, hoping it's loud enough for them to hear. 

"This is what happens to anyone who thinks they can touch my son," he declared.

His eyes wandered until he met Byleth's then, and his heart lurched at what he witnessed: the boy's watery blue orbs and clear face of shock as he hung tightly onto Zane beside him. 

In that moment he felt a torrent of unchecked emotions rage through him: hate, shame, sorrow, but even those were completely overshadowed by his rage. A rage the likes of which he hadn't felt in a long while. 

Then he truly snapped, letting out a near-bestial roar. 

Everything next was a complete rush as he vaguely acknowledged his swinging fists hammering down on Sean's face. He didn't know how many punches he threw, didn't know how much time passed, he simply felt the explosions of power rippling through his arms and the resulting spray of dark crimson chucks and liquid. Only one thing was on his mind, and it was to destroy the man below him, to unequivocally erase him and all his ilk. 

When he finally regained his senses, his brain took a moment to acknowledge the sight through his red-tinted vision. A body without a head, just hairy red mush pressed into a small crater. 

Taking labored breaths, he looked at his shaking red-stained hands and flicked a fragment of skull out from between his thick fingers.

Standing to his feet he looked at the body one final time before raising his head and walking back toward his tent, the surrounding noise beginning to be audible once more. He noticed his mercenaries, as well as the exuberant locals but didn't have the presence of mind to entertain them any longer. 

As he got closer to his son he looked to Zane and paused a moment as he saw the intent expression staring back at him. The redhead didn't say anything, but Jeralt intuitively understood and gave a subtle nod. 

"Go string him up", he then said tiredly. 

"Yes sir!" 

Performing a crisp salute, Zane looked him in the eye and shouted his affirmation, quickly rallying the men afterward. Watching him for a moment, he then looked down at his son. 

The two shared a long look before the teal-haired youth took a tentative step forward. He paused, as if unsure of what to do, but then slowly got closer and wrapped his arms around his father's torso, uncaring of the blood and gore littering his form. 

Jeralt stiffened, never having expected such a reaction in a million years from his stony son. With a quivering arm, he reached down and rested a hand on the boy's back, lowering his head as a few crimson-tainted drops landed on his son's hair. 

At that moment, the gentle rays of the moon broke through the increasing cloud cover, illuminating the pair amidst the surrounding darkness. 

A minute later the awkward father straightened and cleared his throat, patting his son's back. As Byleth backed away he observed his son's red cheek slick with his former abuser's blood and couldn't help but chuckle as an odd memory resurfaced. 

"Come on," he said in a light tone, "let's turn in for the night."

*****

That's all she wrote folks! At first, I was considering skipping over the actual act of Sean's death, but knew that it would be a mistake. There's been too much buildup and anticipation to say, "And then he died," even if I did describe the aftermath. 

Well, I hope that this was good enough retribution for now. The Brigid arc is just about over, only a wrap-up chapter or two and then the crew will be shipping back home, and I'm quite excited for what I have in store.

See you then, and thanks for reading!