Chapter Text
Brunnya and Narcian lay bloodied on the ground in front of him, panting and nursing their wounds from as much of a distance as he is willing to give them. Hector would attack them again were he not a man of mercy. Narcian, despite all the taunts he threw during the fight, screams and cries like a child, dragging himself back to his wyvern and cursing Hector’s name with every step. Brunnya clutches her tome, the pages wet with blood, pretending as if she can afford to throw another spell at him; she will not. Hector can see the spasms running up her arm, the way her frostbitten skin blisters at the tips of her fingers, and he knows that if she dares use another spell without resting, she will pass out—or worse.
He is bleeding heavily, his armor is ruined, and the entire throne room has been spattered with blood, but he is still alive.
There is a chance he will see his daughter again.
Narcian’s wyvern roars and dives at him again, wings crashing against the ceiling, against the pillars, knocking rubble everywhere—Hector lifts his axe and swings it, feeling its blade tear through sinew and tissue, trying to ignore its scream as it hits the ground and its wing crunches wetly beneath it. Narcian screams again, curses, clutches at Brunnya, who stumbles backwards, acknowledging her defeat.
Brunnya is noble, Hector thinks. He imagines, if she were in his position, she would send all of her soldiers home, too. Her somberness, her regret, her apologies as her magic had thrown him about the room—it reminds him a bit of Lilina.
He wishes she were not on Bern’s side.
And then, she does what he does not expect her to do—she lifts her arm and slaps it to her tome, and ice pierces his armor as if it were nothing more than a sheet of paper and tears through his weapon arm. His axe clatters to the floor, and a gush of blood follows it. He screams, but his teeth are gritted so tight that nothing comes out. Brunnya’s tome falls to the ground—
—the way it sits open reminds him of Lilina’s tomes, open and scattered around her room, and he winces—
—and in that moment, Narcian’s wyvern rushes at him, breaking the ice that splintered through his arm and sending Hector to the ground, where its red-leaking jaws loom over his throat. Its broken wing flaps uselessly through the air as if teasing him about his own arm. The wyvern, at least, still has its jaws as a weapon. Hector is helpless. Narcian shrieks a laugh as Brunnya pulls herself to her feet, collecting her tome—
—and suddenly Lilina is gone, and her open tomes are once again nothing more than a memory—
—and then she escapes outside, and Hector howls a curse at Narcian, at his gods-forsaken wyvern, at Bern, at himself, and then admits defeat.
His last hope is that Zephiel will be merciful, that maybe he will be used as a pawn until he recovers and can kill Zephiel with his own two hands, but he has heard the rumors, has seen what Zephiel has done. The prince they once protected with their very lives has absolutely lost his mind. He speaks openly about reviving dragons as if Nergal had not nearly destroyed Lycia twenty years earlier doing the exact same thing, spat as venomously as he could at Lycia as if Lycia is not the reason he is alive at all.
Narcian collects himself in the corner, eyes bulging and crazed, and laughs as if Hector hadn’t had his head a minute ago. The entire situation is so bitter —bested by a combination of a dragon and ice magic, sent after him by the very child he had risked everything to save. He could have avoided this situation had he, Eliwood and Lyn not been so damn merciful. Had they been just a bit more focused, had they not needed the legendary weapons so badly, had they not been so reluctant to place others in danger, they could have avoided this.
All this for the price of a single child’s life.
Lyn and Eliwood would be horrified at him for saying this—they would tell him there was no way that they could have seen this coming, that it was impossible to know that it would be like this. Eliwood would smile at him. Lyn would take his hand, squeeze it gently, hug him the way she always did when things weren’t turning out. They would tell him that it was okay—that the three of them are together, that they can weather any hardship. That things will be alright, and that they can move forward.
But Eliwood is sick, Lyn is dead, and he is dying. They are not the children they once were, running free and capable of anything. They are older, felled by the same things that they once swore they were impervious to, and Hector is tired of it. He is tired of the pain, tired of the loss, tired of having to blink away the blurriness as the blood continues to pool out from beneath his arm. He is tired of losing everyone he loves. He is angry at losing the future he fought so hard for. He is scared for his daughter, scared for his friend’s son. He is tired of the world being threatened again and again and again. He is tired of not being able to guarantee his family’s happiness. He is tired of not being enough. He is bitter and angry and horrified and bleeding out, and his vision is spinning and he is nauseous, and there is still a very pissed wyvern leaning over him and snapping at his throat, and he has lost. Nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered—once, he believed it had, and then things had turned out like this despite all of their trying. He is so, so tired of playing the hero. He is tired of saving children that grow up to become monsters.
The world did not care when it was their lives on the line, so Hector will say it:
He wishes they had let him die.
(He wants to cry, but he will not give Narcian the satisfaction of seeing that.)
And suddenly, the wyvern is off of him, and Brunnya’s hands are around his, magic crackling threateningly around his throat, which he finds pointless—his weapon arm is damn near falling off, it’s not like he can do anything—and he is brought forth before Zephiel for a conversation he can’t really comprehend, just words spilling out of his mouth that he has no control over. He curses Zephiel, questions his actions, gets even more confused at Zephiel’s urge to “liberate the world”—it is as if no one remembers Nergal, no one remembers Eliwood’s father, no one remembers what they did, the war they fought themselves just barely two decades ago. His head is spinning, and his vision is going in and out, and then he is passed into the custody of some faceless soldier, and Brunnya mentions something about returning to Sacae, and Hector would laugh if he didn’t think he would cough up blood.
Brunnya, the mage, will return to Sacae.
He remembers when he and Lyn had brought Lilina, how they had laid in the field and the entire world had opened up before them. He remembers the promise of a second child, how everything had been perfect, if only for a moment, and he remembers having that all torn away from him in an instant. He finds it horribly ironic that Brunnya could have been Lilina, just born a little later and in a different place. He finds it horribly ironic that Brunnya gets to do what she and Lyn did not, that she may return to Sacae, that she gets to live when Lyn did not, when Lilina’s life is still on the line.
What did she do that they did not?
And then she questions Zephiel, asks if this is really the right decision, and he sees so much of Lilina in her, desperately wants to ask her to leave because she knows that she is not on the right side, desperately wants to be with his daughter in his last moments instead of Zephiel—
—that would have been a trade for Zephiel’s life that was actually worth making—
—and the soldier is kicking him to his feet, and his arm is bleeding everywhere, and every step makes him wish death would come just a little bit faster, because Elimine, this is terrible . He is brought outside, around, and then back into the castle to the dungeons, which, in his delirium, he thinks is vaguely ironic—at least he can die in the comfort of his own castle, even if in a different room—and he’s fairly certain he’s hallucinating, because was that Chad he saw?—and then he is on the ground in a cell, and the only thing running through his mind is an apology to Lilina.
He would give anything to see her one last time, but he would never wish for her to see him like this.
He understands why Uther concealed his illness from him now.
-
He never imagined death would be this prolonged.
Certainly, he can’t have been in the dungeons for that long, but he suspects something about the magic Brunnya used is slowing the bleeding—her version of mercy, he supposes, or cruelty.
Perhaps it’s just his sense of time that’s warping. Everything else seems to be. The ringing in his ears is getting continually louder, and his vision is going white, and he swears he can see everyone he’s lost, see his parents, see Uther, see Lyn in the corners of his eyes, if only for a moment before they disappear. His heart is pounding, but he can barely feel it. Breathing is difficult.
He just wants to sleep.
There are two things that keep him awake—the first is the sound of clashing swords, which he would question more if he weren’t so focused on not dying.
The second is Lilina. He can’t even form a coherent thought anymore, just wants to see her again—would give anything to see her smile one last time, to clasp her hand in his and actually hold it instead of just pressing it against hers. He wonders if she will be at his funeral. If there will even be a funeral for him.
He almost laughs. He’s dying in armor.
“Corrupt neither the body nor the mind”, as Uther once told him.
One must never be weak, not even when facing death.
He wonders if Lyn felt like this. She had died in his arms, at least, but the blood was the same, or at least he imagines it was. But Lyn—Lyn had been so upset . She had been sobbing, even. He remembers walking into the room, fear gnawing at every bone in his body, his stomach dropping at the sight of her blue lips and unsteady gaze, how pale she had been.
Hector wonders if he looks like that.
He wonders if Lilina remembers, how he had returned and broke the news to her, how he had stared blankly while her innocent child mind had tried to process that her mother was gone, how she had buried her face in his chest and sobbed when things had finally clicked. He wonders if she remembers what he looked like before Lyn died, before he stopped caring about shaving. He wonders if she even remembers her mother’s touch, what it’s like to have a mother at all.
He wonders if one day, she will forget what it’s like to have a father.
His heart is pounding. So is his head, which feels like it’s being split in half with a raging headache. He’s not—he’s not alive enough to be having thoughts like this. He just wants to see her again. He would give anything to see her again. He just wants to hold her, hug her.
He remembers, when she was a child, she would ask about his scars. He would explain the stories behind them as if he were a prince in some fairy tale. Perhaps he could tell her about his arm—about why her father can no longer wield an axe, why the throne room is tinged red.
She had always believed him to be a hero, even when the stories were not always about him. She had always smiled as he dramatized his escapades, had insisted Mama be more serious when she had laughed at Hector making getting some stolen goods back from some pirate into a much bigger deal than it actually was.
He misses that. He misses her . He just wants to hold her, to tell her that he is here, that he will never leave again.
He is so tired. He just wants to sleep.
He wants to see her more.
Everything hurts. His vision is blurry. His head is pounding. His ears are ringing. He can’t feel his arm, or his hand. He misses the feeling of Lilina’s hand in his. He wonders if he will ever feel her hand in his again, if he would even be able to if he survives this.
He will not survive this. He already knows this.
Lilina.
There is nothing Hector would not give to see her again. To die without her is a crueler death than he ever could have imagined.
Lilina.
Lilina.
Breathing is painful, and it is labored, and it would be so much easier to just die , but—Lilina—
Hector is struggling to keep his eyes open, but the sound of swords clashing stops and is instead replaced by light footsteps, which is just enough of a change to stay awake for a moment longer. A flash of red hair appears in the doorway, and at first, he panics, because he assumes they have somehow captured Eliwood, that all is truly over for Lycia, and that they have failed their children once and for all. He blinks, and the image comes into clarity: Roy. It’s Roy. Bloodied, certainly looking a bit older than when Hector last saw him, but Roy without question. His face is wrought with panic, with dread, with despair.
Elimine, he looks so much like Ninian, so much like Eliwood. An entire story in one boy.
He must say Roy’s name, because Roy’s face suddenly changes, gaze shifting as if he suddenly recognizes the man dying in front of him, as if he didn’t before.
“Lord Hector!” There is unimaginable pain in his voice. Hector wonders what Roy has been through already, what more he has to go through. The guilt eats at him. He couldn’t protect them after all. Roy does not seem to care, starts shifting his pauldron to examine his arm, and then inhales sharply. “What an awful wound—we must treat it!” And then, Roy is slipping an arm beneath him, as if a child could ever carry Hector’s weight, the weight of all the things he has done and lives he has taken, lives he has been unable to save. “Here, lean on my shoulder—”
Roy is getting blood on his arm. Every breath is searing pain. Hector squeezes his eyes shut.
“No, it’s alright—I won’t last much longer—”
“Lord Hector...”
He sounds as if he is crying, or as if he is about to. It’s a terrible situation to think about this, but Hector is glad that Roy at least is capable of that, despite all the things he’s gone through. It is a sign of strength, a privilege. Hector cannot remember when he lost it.
He might as well be useful in his last moments, so Hector tells him about Bern, tells him about the dragons, like a father passing on a story to his son. He does not tell him about how he knows the dragons existed, does not tell him about Ninian. It is not his story to tell. But Hector finds it ironic that this boy, with the blood of the last of the dragons running through his veins, should hear this story from him, unaware of the tale that lead to his existence.
He coughs. Blood spatters against the front of his armor. Roy calls out his name again, and his voice cracks.
He is still just a child.
Hector could not protect him, but he will be damned if he will go out without giving Lycia a fighting chance.
“Roy—go to Ostia! You must—”
—this could be a mistake, Hector thinks—
“—lead what is left of the Lycian Alliance Army—”
—still, he will not be deterred; he cannot have come this far only for his efforts to die here—
“—in my place.”
Roy’s expression shatters. He looks broken. He looks like Lilina.
“...me? But—”
“Don’t worry—in Ostia, we have a weapon that is effective against the dragons.”
He remembers the pain these weapons have caused in the past.
It dawns on him that this is the outcome of Durban’s warning, that this is the fate he condemned himself to all those years ago. This is what it means to wield a legendary weapon. To wield Armads.
Roy will condemn someone to that same fate, whether he knows it or not.
Hector only hopes it will not be Lilina.
Roy’s voice wavers when he speaks again. There are tears streaming down his cheeks. “...a weapon?”
“I have already told Lilina where it is hidden,” he manages, and then he stops himself. This is the fate he condemned Lilina to. Lilina knows where Durandal is. She is the one who will guide Roy to the weapon that once killed his mother, and neither of them may even know. Still, it is a bitter, bitter duty. He inhales. As much as Roy is a child, she still is, too. She is more than capable of taking care of herself, but Hector only desires for her to have someone to protect her, someone to confide in, someone who would lay their very life on the line for her—someone to raise a daughter, to raise his daughter when he cannot, to watch over her until she is her own woman, until she can let go of their hand in place of his and stand on her own.
Hector almost smiles. She has always been able to stand on her own—she has always, always been more than he is, always been meant for a greater destiny, and he has always known that. He only desires for her to have someone there by her side along the way.
He dreamt once that it would be Roy. He supposes he was right all along.
“Take care of her, too,” he tells him, and he doesn’t see the look of fear, the look of not being enough in Roy’s eyes, but he knows it’s there. He had felt like that once, too. Lilina is more of a gift than he knew what to do with. “She may seem strong, but she is still a child—give her your support.”
He just wants her to be happy. That’s all he wants. He just wants to see her be happy.
It’s all he wants.
He needs Roy to understand. Every fiber of his being desperately needs Roy to understand.
Roy takes his hand, squeezes it. It is not Lilina’s hand, but it is someone’s, close enough to remember what hers felt like in his.
Roy understands.
“...yes, I will,” he says, and his voice is clear, fueled by something that was not there before.
For an instant, Hector sees the Lycia that will succeed him, the Elibe that he will not be there to see, and it is peaceful. Lilina is there, and she is safe. It is all he can ask for.
“Lilina—”
She is all he could have ever asked for. There is nothing more he wanted in life.
“One more time—”
He loves her. He loves her so much. He has never loved anyone more. He just wants her to be happy. It is all he can ask.
He groans, and Roy shouts his name, and the world slips away, and there is only emptiness.
He is gone.
-
“Are you sure I should hold her?”
“Hector, please. You may be a brute, but you’re not that much of a brute. You’re her father. Just hold her like this—”
Lyn places their daughter in his arms, eyes twinkling as she smiles at him, and Hector’s heart melts. She is so small, so precious in his arms. Someone he has loved since before she even existed, someone he will love until the end of time.
He has fought in countless battles, wielded legendary weapons, slain dragons from another world, and yet it feels as if his entire life has culminated into this moment, this pocket of time in which he is merely existing as a father with his daughter asleep in his arms.
Lyn laughs and slips a hand across the underside of his jaw, presses a gentle kiss to his lips, and he wishes this moment could last forever—him, his wife, his daughter in his arms, as if nothing in the world could ever harm them or tear them apart.
This is what it means to have something to protect, Hector realizes, because he is not alone anymore, has a family—
—and for once, Hector smiles, because everything has found its place.
For the first time, he is really, truly happy, and that on its own is more than enough.