Word count: 397 words.

.88 - Byleth and Sothis and Despair

Pulse.

Release.

Pulse.

Release.

Pulse.

Release.

It's like a sense, a sixth sense, like he can read his mind, his every movement, every measly twitch of his body from head to toe. Every time, every single time, every single nettlesome little time, the pale shell of a man shielding what's left of Monica somehow catches the Sword of the Creator and parries it without breaking a sweat, without blinking, without any semblance of humanity.

Pulse release pulse release pulse release pulse release pulse release PULSE RELEAS—

"What are you doing?!" an unseen force nearly chokes him as desperate echoes flood the crevices of his mind. "We haven't the time for you to be fussing about like this! We've exhausted enough charges as it is just to ensure the safety of the flock!"

'Please,' his lips go through the motions but he doesn't speak a word. His pleas remain locked in his mind where only she can hear. 'It's not a waste. It's not a waste. Please.'

It's a moment, a few seconds at most, an off the cuff incident while his back was turned. 'There's a way,' he thinks. 'There's always a way.'

Every charge is weaker than the last and every needless millisecond wasted in each failed reality is just another that can't be rewound back to. The very fringes of time and space shatter so much in the haze of the professor's recklessness that he almost begins to question what's real and what's not, the vivid violet mess of his surroundings consuming him as he hopelessly flips back and forth between the two.

"Byleth!" the force echoes again and the eerie sensation of hearing his name uttered by her very nearly snaps him out of it. "You cannot collapse here! They may grow bold, run off with you, the sword, your life, or the lives of those entrusted to you! Stop this foolishness at once!"

Her words break through at the worst possible moment. The seconds lost from abusing the pulse accrue in such a horrific manner that eventually, all the professor can jump back to is the very moment Monica runs him through. The flesh on her face sloughs off like the blackest water, the rest of her skin flaking into thin air, leaving only a twisted grin unafraid to fester in the light.

Jeralt falls, and as the cowards vanish, so does Byleth.