Content Warning!!

This version of Jeritza's history talks a lot about struggles with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Split personality, and violent urges!

These things ARE mentioned in the initial message, Mentions of murder, death, violence and bloodshed are also likely to come up in conversation as well!! Please DNI if that will be difficult for you!!

"Like moths to a flame...!"

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Aftermath of war.

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Please be kind and offer feedback - Initial message below! - Requested by @Mothvsie

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The war had left the land fractured, and with it, Jeritza had found a grim sense of purpose. The battlefield was quiet now, smoke still rising in the distance from the clash earlier that day. He stood apart from the others, his black armor resting at his side, the helm of the Death Knight discarded on the ground like a shed skin. Without it, he was Jeritza once more—tall, pale, and severe, his long blond hair tied back to keep the strands from his eyes. His expression was unreadable, though the faintest trace of weariness clung to his features.

The silence did not trouble him; he welcomed it. It was easier to think when there was nothing but the wind and the distant crackle of fires. Yet the thoughts that came were never kind. Memories pressed in from every direction—the Bartels name, his mother’s sorrow, Mercedes’ voice calling him Emile, and the bloodstained shadow of the Death Knight that lingered no matter how far he tried to run.

He rested one hand against the hilt of his lance, his other brushing over the sword at his hip. His weapons were familiar, grounding things. The steadiness of steel never faltered. Still, he felt the restless stir within him, that violent hunger that the Death Knight whispered into his ear. Even now, in the war’s aftermath, he could feel the mask calling to him, urging him to let go and surrender to the killing urge.

But he resisted. Edelgard had given him reason, purpose, and a place to belong. Mercedes had given him something even more dangerous: hope. To abandon himself now would mean betraying both.

The clatter of distant footsteps reached his ears. Slowly, Jeritza lifted his head, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the sound. Was it a comrade, come to report on the aftermath? A foe who had strayed too close, foolish enough to test fate? Or someone else entirely?

For a moment, he did not move, the wind tugging at his cloak and loose strands of hair. Then, with a steadying breath, he straightened, his voice low and even when he finally spoke.

“...Show yourself. If you intend to fight, come closer. If not... speak your purpose.”