[she adjusts to the shift, removing her hands from him momentarily to allow him to rest his head on her lap. she appreciates when he does these things—an open show of vulnerability, and that despite his most hardened words that he himself seeks for comfort though he believes himself unworthy of such a thing.]

[she rests a hand over his side while the other lands on his head, brushing his hair back with light, feather-like touches.]

[her smile is small.]

[tell me a story, he says. byleth wants to refute back his previous statement, of how there is so much blood on his hands. there is just as much on her own, too, from when she was a mercenary. no one in this war was saintlier than any other.]

Would you like to know about when I was a kid?

[the memories... are painful, filled with regret. sometimes she wishes she could have cherished the times she spent with her father better, devoid of the apathy that she grew up with, with the indifference of having such a renown father figure that everyone wished to impress.]

[so she begins, light and gentle with her words.] I learned how to ride a horse when I was around eight. I always saw my father on one, and I wanted to be just like him. But — you know, I was even smaller back then. [her height and jeralt's never quite matched] So, he got me a pony. Bumkin, because I couldn't really pronounce Pumpkin right.

It made him laugh every time I rode past him in 'Bumkin,' most likely yelling out of fear from how fast I was going.

[byleth keeps brushing his blond hair gently, but swallows thickly.]

My growing up was a blur of days. [she thinks] If there is... anything specific you want to know about, you can ask.