Drawn in by the clamor of the two prideful men, a steady stream of onlookers begin to amass in a garbled half ring, interrupted by the lush expanse of wood that survived the ocean spirit’s wrath.
Sun-kissed skin and various shades of dark hair, the natives of Brigid chatter amongst themselves in their foreign tongue, some of them a touch apprehensive about the proceedings.
Among this gathering throng are the noticeably paler Fódlan-borne mercenaries, many of whom display visible shock at the revelation that the simple-looking hunter is actually the monarch of the country they are currently in. Simple men in a lowly station, this is the closest many of them have ever been to a so-called ‘elite’.
Standing in between the two at odds, Zane’s eyebrows are noticeably scrunched, his composure faltering for a moment despite his prior suspicions. Glancing over at his commander, the deputy notes that the man hardly has a reaction to the news, simply continuing to alternate his steely gaze between Byleth and the Brigid King.
In that regard, the young Eisner is much the same as his father, showing no emotion to the words of the individual holding him in place, though who knows what the boy is inwardly feeling.
Taking a steadying breath to regather his countenance, Zane readopts his professional persona with a courteous grin.
Bowing to the ruler he speaks in a formal tone, “It is an honor to be in your presence, your majesty. I have heard many tales of the famous King Lóegaire, tales of your honor and kindness to all. I must then ask, why is it that you refuse to release our captain’s son, Byleth?”
The now-revealed king, Lóegaire, evaluates the young mercenary in front of him.
From his reddish-orange hair to the way his defined jawline matches with the rest of his profile. He didn’t pay much attention in their earlier conversations, but now the figure of a certain man can’t help but overlap in his mind with that of the redhead speaking to him.
Pushing that thought aside for now, he looks to Jeralt, staring into his eyes and standing tall, actively exuding the strong and commanding aura he’s known for.
“You ask why I refuse to release the boy to your care? As I have said, you are not being fit to properly care for him.”
Then, the monarch’s voice drops even lower as it fills with hints of rage and accusation.
“A man like you is having no right to be a father Jeralt, not when you are subjecting such a young boy to many horrible conditions.”
By this point, the flaxen-haired captain had managed to regain a modicum of composure, but the King’s ending words once again stoke his anger.
He barks a short laugh while his look adopts slight contempt, “Not fit to be a father? Shouldn’t that fall on you for raising such a failure of a son?”
The former knight raises his palms skyward with a mock sigh, “Even in Fódlan, I’ve heard tell of his political and social ineptness. I almost feel sorry for a man your age still having to be King. Clearly, your duties are causing your mind to fail if you think training my son is so horrible.”
Zane almost can’t believe his ears as he listens to his superior’s almost childish response. ‘Since when has he been so easy to rile?’ he thinks with a healthy mix of confusion and anxiety.
‘I need to fix this now!’
The deputy’s gaze snaps toward the Brigid sovereign, an explanation already leaving his lips, “What my captain meant to say your majesty, is that-”
But he’s promptly cut off.
“I am knowing full well what Captain Jeralt means, and his response only proves me correct.”
If the tropical sovereign is bothered by the personal remarks about his son, then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he seems to stick to the last thing the mercenary leader said.
“At first, I had been thinking that you were subjecting your son knowingly to these things but the reality is even worse. I see now that you are being desperately clueless about your own internal affairs. Not only are you failing at being a father, but also as a commander to your men!”
Then he turns his gaze to Zane, “And you boy, you are equally responsible for this. I see that I evaluated you too highly!”
With the sudden shift in accusation towards himself, Zane is noticeably bewildered.
“All right, that’s enough!”
Jeralt steps forward, putting his lieutenant behind him as he comes face to face with ruler Lóegaire. Whether it be the locals or the mercs, most everyone tenses, preparing for a possible fight.
“All this talking isn’t going to get us anywhere. Let’s just settle it the old-fashioned way then.”
Seeing the older Eisner once again begin to finger his blade, Zane tries to stall him.
“Captain, we can still ta-”
“Enough Zane, the time for talking is passed. Both he and I are far too wound up to have any meaningful discussion.”
Lóegaire doesn’t concede, similarly stepping forward until he’s standing directly in front of the riled sellsword.
“Very well then, if that’s how you are wanting to do this.”
Letting go of Byleth’s collar, the king gives him a kind smile and motions for him to back away before returning his attention to the boy’s father. The teal-haired youth seems momentarily at a loss for what to do but eventually goes to stand by Zane, his indifferent expression never faltering.
The pair of leaders share a look and then Jeralt turns his head to the side and yells over his shoulder. “
Just leave this to me, men! This is between me and him.”
The mercenaries that were preparing for a fight relax their guard, deciding to settle in and watch the show. The king does the same, calling out in Tuatha to the natives.
Soon the groups that moments ago were ready to clash are now shouting and talking animatedly between themselves, excited to see the duel that is about to occur.
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“Been too long since I seen the captain let loose. Oi Edick, ten gold that he’ll break the old geezer, whaddya say?”
A mercenary with sandy blond hair hooks his arm around the neck of a much older man with a prominent scar crossing the bridge of his nose.
The graying Edick merely snorts in response, shaking off his younger compatriot.
“If you’re wanting to waste perfectly good coin then go ‘head, but leave me out of it,” he says in a thick accent.
The blond, Petchel, leans in and raises his voice as if offended after he manages to decipher what was said.
“You sayin’ the captain’ll lose?”
Nose crinkled, the weathered sellsword distances himself a few paces away and clears his throat.
“I’m saying that this Lóegaire guy isn’t someone you ought to mess with, if even half of what I heard ‘bout ‘em is true. That’s all.”
Petchel waves him away while taking another look at the self-proclaimed monarch, “Yeah right, you ol’ coot, as if that old man could even touch our leader. You going senile? I know the weather ‘ere is hot, but even a kingdom lover like you can’t be that loopy.”
Edick simply shakes his head while muttering something under his breath. Bringing up a hand, he runs it through his fading hair, grimacing as he sees the sweat on his hand afterward.
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Rubbing it into his leg, he reaffirms his point, “Look, all I’m saying is that out of everyone here, the only one who probably stands a chance IS the captain. Don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”
Petchel seems caught off guard at that, laughing awkwardly.
“Nah, there’s no way that’s true, right…?”
But Edick doesn’t pay him any more mind, only giving him a serious look before turning away to watch the duel.
The blond scratches his head in consternation, debating what he heard. Flipping the gold coin in his hand, it catches the light of the descending sun before submitting to the force of gravity and falling back into his outstretched palm. Looking at it, he nods and trots over to another group.
“Oi Sam, five gold the old geezer gives Cap’ a hard time, whaddya say?”
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Toward the center of the established clearing, Byleth and Zane stand side by side, watching on with complicated feelings. The young mercenary isn’t entirely sure why they are about to fight, but knows it is because of him.
Beginning to blame himself for the situation, he’s suddenly snapped out of his dark thoughts as Zane ruffles his hair. Looking up he sees the ginger glancing gown at him with a slight smile.
“Don’t trouble yourself over this Byleth, it’s not your fault. The captain has been high-strung ever since we got here, and I suspect that it’s in no small part due to King Lóegaire over there. For now, let’s just watch and see what happens okay?”
The silent lad stares at Zane for a moment, scrutinizing him, but eventually turns his eyes back to the impending fight and ever so slightly nods his head.
Seeing his words had at least some effect, Zane’s smile grows, however, it eventually evaporates as he gazes worryingly upon the men about to clash. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing…’
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Surrounded by their respective people, Jeralt and King Lóegaire ready themselves an appropriate distance away from one another.
Checking his armor, the former knight stretches his body while gazing at the spear of a nearby subordinate. He seems to appraise it before straightening and pulling out a silver longsword from the sheath on his hip with one hand and grabbing the sturdy shield strapped to his back with the other.
On the opposite side, some women from Brigid bring forth a pair of short swords along with some lightweight armor for their ruler to use.
In the island country, it’s said that each and every citizen can fight to some degree or another with their monarch being the strongest of them all. King Lóegaire is no exception to this as despite his more aged appearance being less intimidating than his foe, that factor is completely annulled by the experienced way he handles the twin blades, spinning them around like a performer as he tests their weight and balance.
When they both appear to be ready for combat Zane steps forward, his bow already in hand.
Glancing between them he clears his throat and calls out in a loud voice, “If you’re both ready, I will shoot a single arrow into the sky. When it hits the ground, the duel begins!”
The two nod at the younger man’s words and watch as he nocks an arrow and draws the string taut. Raising his arms high, he takes a deep breath and releases.
The projectile travels high, piercing through the air and defying the earth’s indomitable will as it becomes nothing but a small dot in the vast orange-tinted sky.
Readying themselves, both men adopt their respective stances while examining the other for any openings or clues.
After an extended period of silence where the spectating crowd watches with hushed fervor, the low thud of the arrow impacting the ground signals massive cheers as the combatants dash forward.
Despite the seeming age gap, King Lóegaire surprises many of the mercenaries with his sheer speed, quickly arriving before Jeralt and thrusting his left sword.
The captain isn’t surprised though, anticipating the strength of his foe.
Calmly, he raises his shield and lets the blade slide along the smooth metal while simultaneously bringing down his own sword on the forward-moving king. The long blade swings harmlessly through the air though, as the monarch swiftly drops under the attack and attempts to sweep Jeralt’s leg.
Not missing a beat, the lead mercenary simply raises his foot over the strike and harshly stomps back down just as quickly. Widening his eyes, the king hurriedly scrambles away, just managing to avoid the crushing blow as it impacts and cracks the ground with a low rumble.
Separating from one another, they take another moment to evaluate the situation before clashing once more. This time Jeralt moves in with his sword at the ready, sending out a barrage of slashes and thrusts that exemplify his prowess. Despite that, the agile sovereign manages to dodge every swing with the most subtle of moves, also sending his own lighter attacks that get blocked by his foe’s heater shield.
On the side, Byleth watches the fluid combat with ever so slightly widened eyes. It’s fair to say that the boy has never seen his father fight so hard, his opponents usually going down in a few swings due to his proficiency and overwhelming power.
For the first time in person, he’s witnessing deadly combat between two highly skilled fighters, not just instant defeat against untrained bandits or low-skill mercenaries.
For several minutes it goes like this, Jeralt sending out mighty blows, only for the king to maneuver around them all as he nimbly jumps around the battlefield. Neither could the monarch land a solid blow as the erstwhile Seirosian knight remains unfazed behind his stalwart defense.
There is no speaking, no taunts, simply pure concentration to best their opponent in a display of skill and resolve.
Perhaps realizing that the battle would end in his defeat at this rate, King Lóegaire decides to make a riskier move.
Charging in the same as always, he attacks with the same variable rhythm as his other unsuccessful attempts, striking with a combination of rapid and slightly slower attacks to throw off his opponent. Each swing of his blades would slice down a lesser man in a heartbeat, but the veteran warrior that is his foe meets every single attack with his shield or a textbook-perfect parry.
The back and forth of attack, dodge, attack, block, of the two combatants appears as if a dance of whirling steel. In such a mesmerizing performance, the coda makes its presence known as ruler Lóegaire ducks under one of Jeralt’s unsuccessful swipes, moving with a hitherto concealed show of agility. Shifting his body, he prepares to slash with the combined might of both swords.
As the flaxen-haired mercenary raises his personal aegis to meet the dual attack, his eyes slightly widen as both of the king’s swords adopt a dim azure glow mid-swing.
Bracing himself with full seriousness, Jeralt meets the assault with a mighty yell, putting all of the force he can currently muster from his less-than-optimal position behind his shield to counter the blow.
As the moves meet, a deafening bang echoes through the area as they come almost to a standstill, each attempting to overpower the other. Gritting his teeth, the king’s swords began to glow ever brighter as he gathers more of himself behind it, while Jeralt does his utmost to dig himself into the earth and stand his ground, opposing the strike.
Despite the encounter only taking mere seconds, it seems to drag on in the minds of the two warriors as well as the surrounding audience.
The stalemate comes to an end though as a screeching metal sound washes over the clearing, the glowing twin swords beginning to cut into the amazingly sturdy shield opposing them.
Jeralt’s roar becomes even fiercer as he realizes his plight and in but a moment, his muscles bulge with newfound power while what appears to be a light blue leaf-like symbol materializes over his shield.
Under King Lóegaire’s resentful gaze, Jeralt somehow gains a sudden burst of strength, and with a mighty push, he finally blows back the monarch.
Not one to waste an opportunity, the ferocious Eisner charges, fiercely swinging his blade at his opponent’s staggered form, “No escape!”
Still shaken from the blowback, the ill-footed monarch can’t dodge but does manage to raise his right sword to block the strike. Alas, Jeralt is not renowned as the blade breaker for no reason. Meeting the heavy blow his arm is almost torn from its socket as the sheer strength behind Jeralt’s swing completely overpowers him, causing him to drop the now chipped blade.
Pushed down by the fierce strike, he nearly can’t react in time as a leg bearing the force of a mountain delivers a strong kick to his chest. Only with his absurd reaction speed from years of battle does he manage to begin jumping back from his crumpled position, slightly negating the damage. The force behind such a strike can’t be totally avoided, however, his body caving and aching with pain as he’s sent airborne.
Ready to continue his charge, Jeralt suddenly tries to twist his body to the side, not even attempting to raise his shield. He barely turns just as something flies past slicing a gash on his cheek.
Turning back to look at his adversary with narrowed eyes, he stops altogether as a sharp pain blossoms in his upper left pectoral.
“Heh, I got you blade breaker.”
Clutching his own chest in pain, Lóegaire manages to give Jeralt a fierce smile.
The flaxen-haired captain says nothing, simply looking down at the dagger currently sheathed in his flesh, having broken past his chain mail.
He gazes at it for a moment before grabbing the hilt of the blade and wrenching it out, blood beginning to soak his shirt.
“That was a good move. I didn’t expect two daggers coming at me after launching you away like that.”
Examining his wound, Jeralt calls over to the Brigid king in a surprisingly friendly and appreciative way.
Lóegaire lets out a mix of coughing and laughter clutching the indented armor surrounding his chest.
“I am glad you are liking it. I also did not expect that you would be able to shrug off one of my strongest moves like that.”
Clutching his sword, Jeralt looks at his fellow warrior and begins to walk over laughing.
“What can I say? I’m pretty tough!”
The dual wielding islander smirks and similarly begins making his way to the mercenary captain. Stooping down, he picks up the blade he was forced to drop, shaking his head in the process.
“Yes, you are certainly blessed by the spirits, my sword almost broke from that single attack!”
Witnessing the amazing feats on display, almost everyone is excited to see how it’s going to end as both combatants get back up to fight. The last few exchanges were amazing to watch and really got their blood pumping.
However, only a few who know the individuals involved could have expected what happens next.
“Time to end this,” the former knight says while brandishing his sword.
As the adversaries come face to face they raise their respective arms and bring them down into another clash of sorts.
Next to Byleth, Zane can’t help but groan, “Why did I know it would turn out like this?”
As both of their weapons clatter to the ground, Jeralt and Lóegaire give each other fierce grins while grasping hands.
“That was a good fight!”, the monarch says.
“Eh, I’ve had better,” the mercenary responds with a sly smile.
Byleth’s previously enraptured eyes at the fierce combat can’t help but go back to normal as he stares at the sight of the two men freely complimenting one another with no emotion on his stony face.