Chapter Text
In all honesty, Lon’qu really hadn’t expected him and Frederick to be fighting together. If you asked him, it just…happened. The knight had accompanied the exalt and the prince on their way to parley with Gangrel and Lon’qu followed as well: the tactician mentioned in passing that if the situation took a turn for the worse, the more would be merrier.
An opportunity in disguise for all parties in disguise, it seems: the tactician, in regard to gauging Lon’qu’s abilities on the battlefield; and Lon’qu, for…
It isn’t like he can completely deny his (small, he reminds himself) pull to Frederick, but it still comes as a surprise to him that he’s interested in whatever happens next.
This Maribelle girl is, understandably, their main priority even if Lon’qu hopes he himself doesn’t have to be the one to personally save her. He would rather stick to the sidelines, thanks.
But there’s something about Frederick gives him pause. It’s not just the fact that Frederick is less stern than he initially let on in terms of personality, if only slightly. Even if Frederick’s physical stature is obvious, his ironclad posture and stony expression speak of quiet strength—quiet not in the sense of it being discreet, but somehow belying more beyond.
It seems to have only begun to rear its head with the current situation: Lon’qu had been right beside Frederick when Gangrel’s men lunged toward the exalt and has no doubt that the knight would have blocked the blow if Chrom did not. Still, his hand continues to grip his lance with such force it’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped, tightening imperceptibly to the untrained eye.
Call it swordsman’s intuition, if you will. Or the curious spark of a rival spirit. Regardless, Lon’qu genuinely wants to fight by his side just to see.
Just to see.
The tactician seems to have a similar view, at least from what Lon’qu can guess from looking at them. Though shorter than him, their authority in the situation is clear, especially considering even Chrom’s deference to them.
Their eyes dart his way, and Lon’qu can pick out murmurs meant to their self.
“…speed…shield…Hm.” Then, louder: “Lon’qu, Frederick, I want you stationed right where the ground starts rising. Until the fliers come, you two can pick off most of the enemy just from there.”
“As you say!” Frederick affirms, remaining stock-still despite his vehement response.
Lon’qu only nods, thinking back to what Frederick said about the—well, he supposes their—tactician. Initially he hadn’t trusted them, but if he didn’t already peg Frederick as the honest-to-a-fault sort, he wouldn’t believe that. It might just be the dire situation of a hostage or that a knight simply follows his lord’s way, but Frederick looks ready to kill and die under this strategist’s orders.
Some tiny part of Lon’qu wonders about his own current position, barely coming in days late with his Killing Edge. Of course, he’s deeply loyal to Basilio and fought battles for his own, but at the same time…
There isn’t time to dwell on that, though, as their leader—not Chrom—quickly turns away with a swish of their dark cloak and relays orders to Miriel and Sully to deal with the Mages.
He shifts his gaze to meet Frederick’s, whose eyes seem to burn the air around them. Mounting his horse in one swift motion, Frederick spares him another glance, this one a bit more complicated than the last.
“Shall we, then?”
Lon’qu doesn’t so much nod as jerk his head slightly, but they stand firm regardless and wait.
Frederick is to act as a shield for most of it, the tactician had mentioned while circling around once more. They’re a thorough sort that prefer to direct the actions but not in an overly controlling manner. Hardly anyone minds too much that the tactician never invokes the option to allow them to decide their major moves against the enemy when it comes to the offensive, though for the ones unfamiliar with the strategist had their doubts.
“Of course I trust you all,” they say, when Lon’qu happens to hear someone ask, “I won’t ever tell you not to defend yourself against the enemy when they attack you. But I want to take proper responsibility of the role given to me.”
Just being there, Lon’qu would think, suffices. But his pride isn’t so strong that he’d think himself a better authority in an area he’s never trained in, so he continues to keep his eyes peeled.
Not a second later, he draws his Killing Edge in a single breath and holds the sheath close to his waist, blade straight and skyward. “Support boost.”
Frederick responds lightning-quick, dodging the incoming swing and disposing the Barbarian with two well-placed jabs from his bronze lance. In an attempt to save up funds, the tactician switched the original silver out for this weaker one, so it came as a surprise to them both when the enemy’s body fell.
“Hmm. A challenge.” Frederick’s attempt to be polite, or possibly sarcastic, even to those he was fighting against. The ease of disposal was much higher than those words let on.
“Good doubling, Frederick!” the strategist called from their post nearby with Chrom. “You two make an even better team than I expected,” they add with a thoughtful look.
Frederick and Lon’qu only nod and turn their focus back to the battlefield. Another enemy lashes out, this time with a sword. Myrmidon.
The knight swerves away from the attack effortlessly and thrusts his lance, but he soon clicks his tongue. Even with his strength the blow had not been enough, and the Myrmidon still stands, albeit barely.
“Frederick and Lon’qu, switch and attack!”
They follow the order easily enough. “I have your back,” Frederick offers, lance tight in hand.
Not a second later the next Barbarian crumples. “You’re no warrior,” Lon’qu scoffs, gripping his sword for the next wave. The pair of them switch back and repeat.
He’s been here before. Countless times. Striking down the enemy with timely critical hits is a breeze for him, but he feels something else along with it; something akin to a storm right by his side. He doesn’t even have to glance around to know what it is.
“I must admit,” he hears Frederick say to himself as he cuts down the next four Myrmidons that dare approach, “I’ve outdone myself!”
Lon’qu hides the quirk of his mouth with his blade before using it against another Barbarian. “…Acceptable.”
The pattern recurs time and time again, even more so when they clear enough to head to the fort as per the tactician’s later instructions.
That, however, is also when they run into problems.
“Khh!” It begins with a single Flux spell, but it hits in just the right place at the right time, and Frederick hunches over. The Dark Mage who launched it only smiles before she signals for her allies to arrive. One nearby shoots another for good measure. Wind tome, designed for high accuracy at the cost of low power. On Frederick, though, it may as well have been a catapult.
Lon’qu clicks his tongue. The fort boosts their power, but there’s no way they can counterattack the mages at their distance without leaving it. And while Frederick can heal over time while he heads the front, the flurry of mages making their way over is concerning at the least.
“Frederick, switch with me.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he launches in front of the knight even while he hears an armored hand reach out for him.
In his peripheral vision, he sees a young blonde approaching him with surety, and his insides clench even more.
“Lady Maribelle, no!” Frederick manages from the side.
The girl only grits her teeth and urges her horse towards them.
"DON’T COME NEAR!” Lon’qu screams at her. One Dark Mage uses that moment to Fire at him, and he groans. Magic was harder to dodge than axes.
The fear in him is a mixed swarm—fear of her coming near, fear of the Dark Mages' approach, fear of Maribelle getting in harm’s way, fear of him or Frederick sustaining any more injury—
She glares at him and opens her mouth to say something before the boy mage beside her tugs her back just as a Wyvern Rider swings.
Lon’qu disposes of two Dark Mages with two hits and a lucky miss from them, but it is two out of increasing numbers.
A Wind spell takes the wind out of him and ah, he really has been here before. Surrounded by enemies, desperate to protect, practically failing to as he’s backed into a corner.
Right back into one of his nightmares.
His brain is beginning to shut down—despite his best efforts—he can tell: his movements are getting slower, his usually nimble legs stalling, throat closing up, usually steady hands trembling over his Killing Edge’s handle.
“Lon’qu…” he hears Frederick’s voice, slightly hoarse.
As if to make matters worse, the Wyvern Rider reinforcements have also begun their descent.
Laid siege on all sides, Lon’qu’s hands threaten to drop his sword right there. He tries to shove it all away, but it only results in his body freezing. Even the shouting from all around him is fading in his pounding ears.
He swings, involuntarily—he misses, unfortunately—
A Fire spell zips past him, its close proximity jolting him enough to realize it was not from the enemy. Miriel stands near him, with Sully as support. They successfully pick off the mages enough for Chrom’s timely entrance, in which he annihilates every Wyvern Rider alongside the tactician.
Vaguely, he catches a glimpse of heavy armor supporting Lissa and Stahl heading in Maribelle’s direction, somehow undetected by the foe, and lets out a slow, deep breath.
“Lon’qu—“ A hand on his shoulder, Frederick’s still-weaker voice by his ear. “Please allow me the helm once more.”
He doesn’t remember much after that, but he can piece together the rest, from Frederick and the rest handling the remaining underlings to Chrom’s Falchion felling the boss.
At least then, the battle is over. But not everyone is purely relieved.
Lon’qu still feels the sting of Maribelle’s reproachful eyes on him, but she softens enough after tending to the injured to share a tearful reunion with her fellow healer Lissa, while the young mage excitedly reports to Chrom. The prince looks grimmer than anything, however, and the exalt shares the sentiment.
It is at Frederick’s suggestion that they head back towards Ylissetol to discuss strategy. With the exalt’s agreement, they depart, Frederick already far along with his horse.
Lon’qu himself just happens to make his way to the front, far ahead from everyone else and already near the campgrounds. He’s never been the type to linger behind without a reason, after all, and even this distance is cleared shortly.
“Hello, Lon’qu. This day certainly flew by,” Frederick greets from his perch on the ground as he carries pebbles from near all the tents in one hand.
Lon’qu doesn’t miss the slight strain in his voice. And while there’s so much more he could say about it all, he simply settles for, “I’ll do better next time,” no room for rebuttal in his tone despite his own strain.
Frederick opens his mouth anyway, but something on Lon’qu’s face seems to convince him otherwise. “I will hold you to that,” he finally says, the weight of his words contrasting the unusually light tone. “But,” he pauses in voice but continues by holding out his other hand to a confused Lon’qu, “I still appreciate your efforts thus far.”
Lon’qu sighs for appearances but even he can’t refuse it, and he takes Frederick’s hand, somehow warm through the armor, into his own.
Frederick offers him a final, almost unnoticeable smile. “Good night, Lon’qu. Let us both strive further for the next battle.”
“Mm—good night.”
They trek on their respective paths with the moon’s gentle glow and the lingering weight of each other’s hands.
--
It’s a while before the next battle does happen.
Lon’qu’s already made something of a hom—a resting place in the kitchen the few times he’s assigned to cooking duty. Even when he’s not he finds time and maybe some excuse to move to a cooler area to take his new tools in hand.
He likes this. He can lose himself in the light scraping sounds of knife against potato, and if he were a less diligent man it might even lull him to sleep.
“Ah, Lon’qu. It’s rare to see you out of the training grounds. Oh.” Frederick. “I see you’re on kitchen duty today. Forgive me for disturbing you.”
Despite his words, he seems to study the scene further for a bit with Lon’qu’s silence. Offhandedly and only marginally seriously, Lon’qu just wonders if there really was a Risen invasion while he was here and this rather open Frederick was the result. “I see your skill with blades extends to these small kitchen knives as well. That potato is perfectly peeled!”
It’s not the words that make Lon’qu pause, but the fact that they’re genuine.
He can’t deny that this sort of praise coming from Frederick is high indeed (as unwarranted it seems to him), but he has an image to maintain. “Hmph. It’s just another form of training. Keeps my hands loose when brigands aren’t around while I get to practice control.”
“Marvelous is the way I’d put it,” Frederick replies, voice so sincere it shames Lon’qu’s snarky heart. “Even I never thought of it like that, but I see I should apply such a mindset to even seemingly mundane things. It would allow me to serve Lord Chrom better.”
Yes, this is definitely the Frederick he knows. Lon’qu almost chides himself for entertaining the thought otherwise but inwardly shrugs and continues his work.
Frederick coughs and remains in his stern pose to the untrained eye, but Lon’qu notices him shifting his weight from one leg to another. “Ah, well, dinner is soon and I have no haste in receiving a portion right now. I ought to begin making secondary rounds in a bit.” He turns back to the entrance and walks off. “I wholeheartedly appreciate the advice, Lon’qu. I shall take it to heart.”
Lon’qu blinks. “Wait, it wasn’t really advice—Frederick?” Oh gods, the man’s already gone. With all that armor, how does he do that? Wasn’t that…someone else’s talent?
He regrets his fib a little, but Lon’qu figures there shouldn’t be any real harm in it and settles back down to the potatoes. Even with his dexterous hands on autopilot, his mind wanders: the same Frederick that allowed no mercy to the tactician at their first meeting (from what he’s heard and does not doubt in the slightest) can so easily believe that peeling potatoes significantly improves battle prowess.
He shouldn’t, but Lon’qu still vaguely wonders if Frederick the Wary truly is that trusting, and whether his usual guardedness was more for his sworn role in the army, more for the royal family.
And itreallyshouldn’t, but the thought of possibly being one of the few to see the other side of Frederick tickles something deep in him.
“Ah, that’s right. Lon’qu—” Frederick pipes in as suddenly as he left.
Years’ worth of agility and skill keep Lon’qu from dropping a potato like a fool, but it’s still certainly a close call. “W-what?”
Frederick—the dastard—just smiles. Again. “Thank you.”
Lon’qu isn’t sure what he’s warier of: that Frederick seems to be thanking him again for no apparent reason and smiling (not for the first time) or that it catches him off guard again. Especially when he was thinking about….him.
The swordsman runs a hand through his hair in defeat. “You already…fine. Not that I’ve done anything gratitude worthy.”
“No, no! I must repay the favor. I’ve seen a new light,” Frederick insists, eyes shining. “Is there anything you want? I could do the rest of the potatoes if you desire, and practice my own control. Ah, but then I would be doing a favor more to myself…”
Lips pressed into a thoughtful moue, Frederick seems to have shed another type of armor without even moving. It’s not his physical one, but it feels like more has been revealed, exposed just through this.
Lon’qu can only stare. He’s definitely not used to this Frederick, and yet he knows this isn’t the result of a Risen infiltration. This is simply another facet to the armored knight, numerous as the dips and twists in his protection. Awkward in some respects, and even unpolished in others despite attempts to improve. But as Lon’qu catches a glimpse of Frederick’s tie peeking through the armor, he’s only reminded that something about the knight keeps drawing him in from the inside out.
And while right now he lacks the ability to process it all now, he can’t say he doesn’t want to know more, his lips moving on their own. “There’s…there’s no need. Just…“
Frederick seems to stand even straighter. “Yes?”
“…Spar with me. We could both use the training.” Lon’qu will not deny that Frederick is a skilled warrior to fight beside, but some things in battle one can only learn from fighting against others.
Frederick blinks in what looks like surprise. Before he regrets saying anything, Lon’qu finds his mouth still moving, quicker to the punch as usual.
“You still have time before your next rounds, right? I, er, still have a few potatoes left. I’m not on duty, either. I can show you how I usually do them and meet you at the training grounds after you’re done.”
The other man still doesn’t look quite convinced, which really shouldn’t be Lon’qu’s problem, but his traitorous mouth still runs. “I’m in no hurry to get dinner now, either.” There’s more strength in his words now, at least, so this last part sounds more like the challenge he had intended to deliver from the outset; one warrior to another.
Frederick seems to consider this, a furrow in his brows. “I do humbly accept, Lon’qu.” His usual stern tone is just a little bit at odds with the slight softening to his eyes, windows to the soul in his wryness. “But as a soldier, for future reference, you mustn’t delay meals.”
To hide the way the corner of his mouth lifts, Lon’qu just huffs into the now-warmer air. “Like you should talk.”
He tosses Frederick a potato regardless and can’t help but think that perhaps—together and from one another—they both have much to learn.