Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

These nights of quiet rest are precious, when the days are filled with fight after fight. Brighid puts her journal down and pretends not to notice when she feels a faint prickle at the back of her neck, but smiles nonetheless.

“Something on your mind, Lady Mòrag?”

Mòrag is staring. Not in the way a stalking volff would watch a bunnit, but… Brighid can still feel her steady gaze pressing through her very being, warmth beyond her own flames. She's in one of those moods, is she?

“It’s nothing,” Mòrag says.

But she’s still staring. It’s a mere game at this point, and Brighid sits on the edge of the bed beside Mòrag to gently cup her face in both hands.

“Be honest with me.”

“Ah, then…” Part of a grin slips out, and Mòrag places a hand over Brighid’s. “I was simply thinking about how beautiful you are, Brighid.”

“What a coincidence, so was I.”

They don’t need to talk anymore. All that’s left in the space of this room are the soft sounds of their kissing.

Unfortunately, they’d somehow completely forgotten the third presence in the room, currently crouching on the bed at the other corner. Nia hisses.

“I’m gonna shred both your faces into ribbons if you two keep that up, I swear—“

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe it. You actually followed through.”

Murderess seems like she might take offense to Irina’s disbelief, but she only smirks. “Where did you think all that money was going to?”

“Hell if I should know—“

“I’m going to throw a little… housewarming party.”

“You’re kidding.”

“What’s the point of having all this newfound wealth if I can’t show it off and rub it in other people’s faces?”

The disbelief is only half sincere. A part of Irina always knew that Murderess would get what she wanted one way or another, even if she didn’t agree with most of her methods, and… that sort of unbending tenacity does deserve some sort of respect. The bare minimum of what could be called “respect”. She really did it, though. Murderess bought a nice, big house in the Residential District, complete with a swimming pool and a garage big enough for two cars (though she doesn’t have a car, yet).

Irina never paid much mind to the NLA suburbs, nor does she care to visit. If anyone asked for her honest opinion, she would say it seems like a waste of space and resources— for crying out loud, an entire BLADE team could live in just one of those houses!

But hedonism is merely a part of human nature, and she can’t begrudge Murderess for actually working at her dream and actually making strides to that goal.

Murderess is staring at her, expectantly, and Irina brushes off the urge to make a face and look away. Because it’d be childish, of course.

“… What.”

“Be a dear and draft up a guest list, won’t you? Five at the minimum, ten at the most. It’s going to be an exclusive little affair, of course.”

“Invite your own friends, Murderess.”

She’s still staring. Her mouth twitches. And then Irina finally gets it, and now she suddenly feels like an dumbass and an asshole.

It never quite occurred to her that she might be Sharon Effinger’s only real friend on this godforsaken planet.

“… I mean…” Irina rubs her neck. “Sure. When’s the party gonna be?”

“Tonight. See you in a couple hours, don’t be late!”

“—You jackass!”

Miraculously, by sunset, Irina manages to scrounge up a small handful of people that she thinks Murderess might not completely hate, and vice versa. Colonel was the first she asked, of course. Lin wanted to come along for the swimming pool. She came across Mòrag and Brighid by the Outfitters Hangar, and then Mia— being Mia, no less— dropped down out of nowhere on their way to the Res District and refused to go away.

Oh, well, Mia is… sturdy.

“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of elaborate trap?” Mia asks, grinning and wiggling her fingers in front of Irina’s face. “What if she’s just gonna scam us to take all our credits? They call it… a multi-level marketing scheme! No one buys timeshares anymore, c’mon!”

Irina deadeyes her. “Murderess isn’t going to do that.”

“Just in case, I have Vandham on speed-dial,” Lin says very, very seriously. She bursts out giggling.

“Do you suppose we should have brought a housewarming gift?” Brighid asks. “If I had the time, I could have giftwrapped a dead Blatta for Murderess. Or a box of spiders.”

Irina covers her face with her hands, and Elma is the only one who reaches out to ring the doorbell.

The welcome is sarcastic and half-assed, and Irina is actually concerned for a moment that Murderess and Brighid might start a fistfight right there over the threshold, but everyone is ushered inside (even Mia) and then… it’s not as awkward or disastrous as Irina thought a party hosted by Murderess might be.

Hell, Hope and Pyra are already there for some reason, and Irina realizes she might have underestimated Murderess’s social skills after all. Just barely, though.

The interior is spacious and warm, not at all like the cold steels of the barracks. Creamy white walls. Plush carpet. Empty picture frames to be filled at some point. A granite kitchen island. Leather furniture.

No wonder the suburbs are reserved only for the wealthy and elite.

“The pool!” Mia hollers when she spots it through the glass sliding doors, and she jogs in place excitedly. “Can we swim in the pool?! We can use the pool, right?!”

Murderess shrugs indifferently. “Whatever. But if you track water inside, you’re dead.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, sure thing! Race you to the water, Lin!”

“You’re on! Wait, you’re not gonna take off your ground gear—?!”

Splashes. Shouting. Laughing. The beginnings of what makes a home a home. Irina looks at Murderess and swears she sees her lips turned up in a small smile for a moment, before it’s set back in her usual smirk.

“When I asked you to invite people, I meant people our age. Not children.”

“Hey, just be grateful Tatsu didn’t come.”

“We wouldn’t be friends anymore if you brought that thing.”

Friends.

Such a nonchalant admission burns Irina’s ears bright red and she stares down into the plastic cup that Elma had handed her earlier. Cheap wine, artificially produced from whatever random shit the botanists grew in the labs. She scoffs. Of course Murderess would talk about bragging over her wealth, then serve the cheapest crap that even the Prone turn their noses up at.

“… It’s a nice house,” Irina mumbles.

“I know. Pyra already told me.”

“Tsk.”

Murderess gives her a sidelong glance, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

“Irina, Murderess, we’re going to be playing a board game!” Hope calls over from the kitchen table. “Would you like to join us?”

Everyone else is staring at them now. Elma, with her knowing look as always, Pyra and Hope with eyes wide, Mòrag half-turned away, and Brighid… squinting. But she’s always squinting. She’s so judgmental, sometimes.

“Actually, I was about to give Irina a private tour of the house,” Murderess says, grabbing Irina’s shoulders so quickly that she chokes on her own words. Irina casts a helpless glance to Elma and Mòrag, but they both look away.

Rude.

Outside, Lin tries to drag Mia out of the pool, who had begun to sink in the deep end when her gear filled with water.

The second floor is even more spacious than the ground floor, deceptively large even for what they’ve seen of the house outside. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, an empty room for… whatever something, Irina doesn’t know, and a couple closets and a deck.

If every BLADE team could live in one of these houses, instead of the Barracks… if NLA had enough damn resources…

“I still haven’t bought most of the furniture I need,” Murderess says. “I’ll need to start saving credits again.”

“You don’t need much,” Irina says, more aggressively than she means. “Hell, do you even need a house this big?”

“Of course I do. Unlike most people, I value my personal space.”

“The Barracks aren’t that bad.”

But only because the Barracks are luxurious compared to the poverty Irina had grown up with. It strikes her then, that thought, the wonder of what all this compares to the ostentatious wealth that Sharon had lost.

She can’t quite wrap her head around it. Materialism always seemed like such a pointless thing to fret over, when the bare necessities were hard enough to scrounge up.

It almost pisses her off. All of this. Irina glares at that big empty room where two bunk beds and four lockers could easily fit.

“What, jealous?”

“Like hell.”

Murderess leans against the doorframe, arms folded. “I know you’d rather be anywhere else than here. And yet you went through all the trouble of gathering the Brady Bunch for a silly get-together.”

“Because you told me to!”

“Right. Because I told you to.” There’s that infuriating smirk. “What if I tell you to move in with me?”

“… What.”

“I have more than enough extra bedrooms, so you can pick whichever one,” Murderess says, brushing past Irina to the stairs. She pauses. “Except the master bedroom. Unless you wouldn’t mind sharing a bed?”

Irina sputters something unintelligible and takes a step towards Murderess, but stops there. Oh, if only she could see the look on her face. Sharon laughs.

“You can take as much time as you want to think it over, but I know you’ll say yes.”

“Hey! I didn’t even say anything yet—!”

“Yeah, I know.”

What’s the point of having all this wealth if there’s no one to flaunt it at?

What’s the point of having all this wealth if there’s no one to share it with?

Her mother and father loved each other so, so much. Murderess remembers that much, from what precious memories she’d managed to hold onto over the years of being consumed by anger and grief. A room gilded with gold and diamonds is… nothing, if it’s otherwise cold and empty.

Irina is hotblooded enough that she could warm the whole damn house, and then some.

The rest of the night is oddly mundane and uneventful. Mia and Lin eventually come inside (after drying off, because no water is allowed on the carpet) and they all talk and play stupid board games that Pyra and Hope keep pulling out until the drunks start crawling out of the diner. Brighid and Murderess succeed in not strangling each other. Mòrag looks content, for once. Elma doesn’t even point out that they should all respect the unsaid curfew and get rest for tomorrow.

But eventually they do leave, and Irina is the last to walk out as she follows Elma, who carries a sleeping Lin in her arms.

“Think about it,” Murderess says, brushing a hand over Irina’s back.

Irina looks back at her, tired. She hates all of it. The excess, the waste, the sheer unfairness of it all. The system is grotesque and yet. And yet, she can’t hate Murderess, because all she did was play that system to climb closer to the top. So she’s tired, but smiling, ready to make her own effort in reciprocation.

“When should I bring my stuff?”

Chapter Text

“Icky! Get away from Riki! Riki will bash you!”

“No, Riki—!”

“Get away, shoo! Shoo!”

“Don’t be mean to it, Riki!”

To think that the mighty Heropon would be so disturbed and afraid of a small… puppy. Stray Dobercorgis are beginning to show up around Colony 6 and the surrounding fields again, now that more people are moving in and restorations have been making a steady pace to bring life back to the area. The dogs are hardly noticeable, really, but today, a bold one decided to come right up to Riki.

It was probably more interested in the Tasty Sausage he was holding than Riki himself, but still.

“Riki no like dogs! Urrrgh— smelly, noisy, nippy!”

“It doesn’t mean any harm! Look, it’s just curious!” Fiora helplessly tries to pick up the puppy, but it snaps its teeth at her every time her hands get near.

“Dog is biting at Fiora too, though!”

Melia decides she’s been playing the role of uninvolved spectator long enough. Trying not to giggle, she strides over and easily plucks the puppy off the ground.

“Oh, you two. You’re going to make a scene.”

“Ah, whew, Melly here to save the day…”

Fiora sheepishly looks away, though she visibly breathes out in relief. “It really wasn’t a big deal…”

Melia is still holding the Dobercorgi when Riki parts ways to go find Dundun, or whatever he said, but Fiora suspects he just wants to get away from the puppy.

And Melia doesn’t seem willing to put it down anytime soon. It curls up comfortably in her arms with happy little sniffs.

“How darling. We don’t have any creatures like this in Alcamoth,” Melia says, stroking the dog’s head with her fingers.

“They’re called Dobercorgis,” Fiora says. They’ve meandered over to the Ardun farm, to loiter by the fence and watch the two calves. So much life is coming back to what was once a devastated town. It’s truly a testament to the tenacity of Homs.

Fiora looks down at her hands, metal all over. “When I was younger, a neighbor of ours in Colony 9 found some pups. I begged Dunban to let me keep one, but he isn’t very fond of them.”

“Like Riki?”

She laughs, and doesn’t notice Melia’s ears turn very slightly red. “Not quite as much as Riki. Who knew that our chosen Heropon would be so scared of dogs, though?”

“He can stand up to the mightiest of Orlugas, and yet such a small creature would send him into a panic,” Melia murmurs. The Dobercorgi licks her wrist.

Tentatively, Fiora reaches over to pet the dog, but just like before, it snaps at her fingers and nestles closer against Melia.

“Oh…” She can’t hide her disappointment. “I guess it doesn’t like me.”

“How rude!” Melia frowns at the Dobercorgi, and holds it up at eye level. “Fiora is a dear companion of mine. You mustn’t treat her that way, do you hear me?”

“It’s alright,” Fiora quickly says. “Maybe it’s because of this body. It could be afraid.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” Melia says, firm, and Fiora isn’t quite sure if she’s addressing her or the Dobercorgi. “If this dog cannot give you the respect you deserve, then I’m afraid we cannot bring it along with us.”

“You wanted to… keep it?”

“W-Well,” Melia blushes, holding the Dobercorgi in a rather tight hug. “Of course not during our travels, but… perhaps someone at the palace could care for it in my absence…”

Fiora laughs. She still doesn’t notice Melia’s ears turn red again. “You can ask Sharla’s brother to take care of it. He seems reliable.”

“Mmmh.” Melia’s petting the Dobercorgi again, absentmindedly. She stares off into space. Could it have really reacted to Fiora with such animosity because of her Mechon body…? Truth be told, she had been more than skeptical of Fiora when they found her, but now she hardly even thinks of it.

Though she’s certain Fiora often does.

Shulk and Reyn and Dunban will be closer to Fiora far more than she ever would, but isn’t this progress admirable as well?

“I will teach the Dobercorgi to trust you,” Melia decides out loud.

This time, Fiora definitely notices the flush that spreads across her face when she laughs, and Melia is a bit too slow to turn away. “It’s alright, Melia. I really appreciate it.”

Melia puts the Dobercorgi down and it sits by her leg, panting. It’s… very cute. Very, very cute.

But not as cute as…

As cute as…?!

“... Are you alright, Melia?”

“Nothing to be concerned about!” Melia leans heavily against the fence, trying to catch her breath. She doesn’t want to imagine where that train of thought was heading, though she’s perfectly aware of what was at the end of the tracks. The Dobercorgi yips and pounces at her foot.

Fiora gently rests a hand on her back, and Melia thinks it hardly even feels like the cold steel of a Mechon.

Chapter Text

Fiora awakens in a plane of stars.

Whether she is drifting or if the stars are drifting is unclear, but it’s disorienting all the same. She gingerly rubs at her temples and half-heartedly tries to focus through the painful thrum in her head, and notices she’s not alone.

“Hey,” the girl says, too nonchalant and too outwardly indifferent. She looks to be about her own age.

“… Hello?” Fiora lifts a hand in greeting. It’s strange, as if she’s in a dream, but…

The girl uncomfortably shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking all around them at the drifting stars. “What’s your name? Mine's Mythra.”

Automatically, Fiora recites, “It’s nice to meet you, Mythra. I’m Fiora.”

Mythra steps across several galaxies until she’s nearly standing nose-to-nose across from Fiora, golden eyes burning so bright with something… angry? Sad? Fiora can’t quite tell.

“Listen, Fiora… this is going to be a lot to take in, but you need to promise me not to freak out. If you do, I’ll probably hit you.”

“H-Huh?”

“You died,” Mythra says, letting the words rush out in a quick stream. “Your body was taken back to Mechonis to be salvaged and repaired.”

Oh, now she remembers.

Fiora looks down at herself. No blood. She suddenly feels very, very dizzy, and Mythra steadies her by the shoulders when she wobbles. “Um… what do you…?”

“I am Lady Meyneth’s Monado.” It feels as though Mythra’s hands are sinking into her shoulders. “She gave me a mission, and I’ll need to… borrow your body for a while, to see it through. Sorry, but you won’t get much of a choice in this either way.”

“Hold on—! What do you mean?! Who is Lady Meyneth? A Monado…?!”

Mythra embraces her in a tight hug. All the stars around begin to expand into suns until everything is nuclear, and Fiora opens her eyes.

Face Nemesis is complete. Now running diagnostics.

Her body doesn’t belong to her anymore.

Fiora finds herself trapped behind that other girl’s consciousness as a backseat spectator to everything that happens. She struggles, at first. She screams and sobs with grief and confusion and anger and Mythra tells her to shut up shut up shut up because she’s annoying as hell but then it becomes clear that Fiora can’t even twitch a fingertip.

So she goes quiet. Mythra sighs in relief.

And then, when Mythra also calms down, she talks to Fiora while their new body— Face Nemesis— hangs in stasis along with other Face Mechon until called upon.

Mythra tells Fiora about the devastating war between Bionis and Mechonis.

She tells her of the goddess called Meyneth, who was too soft-hearted and merciful despite Mythra’s advising.

Of Egil, who lost his kindness when he lost his people.

Fiora listens and learns and she still cries, but her cries are subdued now, but she isn’t quite sure if the tears belong to herself or to Mythra at this point. Mythra raises a hand and flexes the fingers, so strange and alien, no longer flesh and bone.

“I’m just her weapon,” Mythra says, something resonating hollow in her voice. “But she sacrificed a part of her ether to salvage me.”

And now the goddess is reduced to a flickering light, harbored within the Machina woman who had been responsible for implanting Mythra’s consciousness into Fiora’s dying body.

Time passes and Fiora finally begins to understand, and she begins to fade into darkness more often.

“Mythra…?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your body,” Mythra grimly says to her, though she means it only for Lady Meyneth and not for Fiora.

Thousands upon thousands of years of waiting would be more than enough to drive any being mad with isolation, which is what Lady Meyneth said what happened to Zanza.

Oh, Lady Meyneth, even in her weakened state she still clings to empathy.

But it was because of Mythra, she says. Because her divine sword is her own being as well, and Mythra kind of understands and she kind of doesn’t, and that’s why Meyneth can still love and hope and feel things.

Once, Mythra dares to take a peek into the mind of the girl whose body she had taken, and she’s nearly overwhelmed by a blast of identical emotions. Amidst it all there are faces. A brother. Two best friends.

Dunban. Shulk. Reyn.

Are they the reason why Fiora won’t shut up?

Is Mythra the reason why Meyneth won't give up?

Mythra considers her own… feelings, toward Lady Meyneth. Back when Agniratha was thriving, Meyneth would bring Mythra amongst her people and teach her. A weapon has no need for such things, Mythra had thought. But her Goddess thought otherwise and encouraged her to explore and roam to her heart’s content as if she were another Machina and not a mere Monado.

So many years… thousands upon thousands of years of accumulated data and she can’t even think of a way to bring Meyneth back to her full glory and put a stop to this madness once and for all.

Mythra runs her hands over her face in frustration, and she feels Fiora’s warmth wrapping around her.

I want to help you too, Mythra.

“You will know the pain and suffering you caused the Emperor and Fiora!”

He’s going to kill Metal Face— good, that monster was the one who killed you, Fiora— but he can’t, because Shulk…

Please, Mythra, you mustn’t let him!

Despite everything he did?

He is still a Homs!

Fiora…

Lady Meyneth would feel the same! I know it!

Damn it!

She maneuvers Face Nemesis in between the swinging blade and Metal Face, and the hull is shattered open, and now she can properly see the boy who wields Zanza’s Monado.

“Hey! Zanza! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“I see… so you were sent in her place to do her dirty work? That coward.”

Time slows to a crawl as Mythra flips the mask open to glare down at the gathered Homs. Shulk. Dunban. Reyn. The important people in Fiora’s life. And something hurts so hard in her chest for a moment in the memory of what used to be a heart there. Fiora is crying out.

“Fiora… you’re still alive,” Dunban whispers.

Mythra feels it all. This time, she doesn’t tell Fiora to shut up.

“I am not Fiora,” Mythra declares, her voice ringing through the very ether. “I am…”

I am…

A Monado.

No, you are Mythra!

Face Nemesis is nearly falling apart, and Zanza’s vessel is fading away as they linger. Mission complete. Mythra grapples with that excruciating feeling and forces herself to tear her eyes away from the shocked faces of those Homs and flies away back in the direction of Mechonis.

Fiora is crying, but Mythra is nearly used to it at this point.

”Thank you, Mythra.”

“For what?”

”For letting me see them.”

“… It just happened to align with our mission.”

Chapter Text

The capability of deviating from her given commands isn’t hardwired into her, but lately, Mythra finds her thoughts straying further and further away from the stagnation she had been stuck in for the past… however many millennia it had been.

At the Bionis’s wrist where Valak Mountain leads down to Sword Valley, she seeks out the other Monado alone despite knowing that these actions would only rouse Egil’s suspicions and risk completely blowing her cover. She does it because of the compulsion.

Because Fiora begged her to.

Because she couldn’t bear to see her Homs friends get hurt.

And why should Mythra give a damn about the Homs? They’re beings of the Bionis, creations of the cruel God who had slaughtered the Machina and rendered Agniratha into a mere husk of what it used to be. But the Homs didn’t ask to be pressed under the thumb of such a madman. The Homs are not at fault for the indifference and murder and helplessness of it all.

They’re fighting for their… destiny. To seize it themselves. Mythra wonders about that.

Face Nemesis touches down in a flurry of snow. The cockpit opens, and Mythra looks down at them.

“… Hey,” she says, unsure now that she’s actually here. Shulk runs forward.

“Fiora!”

“I told you, I’m not Fiora,” Mythra impatiently says.

“No, you are— don’t you remember?! You must know your own brother, at least!” Shulk says, frantically gesturing to Dunban, both of them just about stricken frozen by disbelief.

Please, let me talk to them.

Not yet.

“There isn’t enough time. It’ll take too long to explain. But— you, who wields that Monado. Shulk.” Mythra narrows her eyes at him.

“You do remember…”

“No! Argh— how many times do I have to say it!”

Dunban’s expression falls, but he slowly walks forward. “That’s not Fiora. It’s as if it’s an entirely different person, wearing her face… can you answer one question, then?! Whose side are you on?!”

Lady Meyneth’s. Only hers.

A beam of energy strikes Face Nemesis aside; she cries out in pain as Metal Face comes crashing down upon her exposed Mechon shell with harsh laughter, sharp claws grazing so dangerously close to the skin of Fiora’s jaw.

She feels Fiora’s reflexive terror and her mind withdrawing within itself, unwilling to relive the memory of being killed all over again. Mythra follows and their body slumps into unconsciousness.

I told you, I won’t let anything happen to you!

She couldn’t save Mechonis. She couldn’t save Meyneth. The burden of the guilt weighs heavily upon Mythra’s shoulders, crushing what once used to be careless pride and ego. How can she be proud when Lady Meyneth isn’t even strong enough to take another vessel, and Egil had become a bloodthirsty wretch?

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Fiora says, having heard the story so many times by now.

“You don’t know what it was like,” Mythra snaps.

“To see so many of your friends and family be slaughtered for no apparent reason?”

“I just… wanted to save…”

Their minds wrap around one another and Fiora gently urges Mythra to rest. Face Nemesis is still undergoing repairs after the attack at Valak Mountain.

Zanza’s Monado wasn’t granted the gift of life, because the other God didn’t see any reason for a weapon to be anything but a weapon. But if it were, Mythra wonders if they would feel the same heavy weight she does.

Are they her own feelings? Or is she merely feeling what Fiora feels? A sword cannot be a shield, but…

She fights back against Egil, perhaps because it’s what Fiora wills, or because it’s simply the right thing to do. Lady Meyneth would know the answer. All the Homs watch on in disbelief as Face Nemesis clashes with Yaldabaoth, a battle at a magnitude too large for a mere Homs to partake in.

“You dare defy me?!” Egil snarls.

“This isn’t what Meyneth would have wanted!” Mythra shouts, and she senses Egil falter only for a split second.

“Who are you?!”

But she’s weakened, even when Lady Meyneth had lent her own ether, and there’s no way she can win this battle. It’s just like back then, against the forces of the Bionis, but if there could be a way— there is a way. She mentally fortifies herself, and tells Fiora to keep quiet.

She didn’t use this power back then, but she can use it now.

“No!” Shulk screams, sprinting but too far away. “No, you can’t—!”

The nuclear blast succeeds in driving Egil back, but it also destroys the supports of the platform. They’re falling. Face Nemesis is falling. But the Homs are miraculously unharmed.

Mythra… what did you do?!

“I need to… sleep for a while…”

The last thing she hears is Shulk’s hoarse screaming as he leaps after Face Nemesis.

“That girl’s name is Mythra,” Fiora says, fingers running over the crest embedded in her chest. They’ve stopped to rest somewhere inside the Fallen Hand’s wrist, and Shulk is still fretting and worrying. Fiora had been conscious the entire time. He still can’t quite wrap his head around it. “She’s resting now.”

“I hope she doesn’t wake up,” Shulk says more harshly than he intends. “She kept you from speaking to us. Can she even understand how we felt?”

“It wasn’t her fault.” Fiora’s voice is small. “None of it was.”

“… Fiora?”

“Mythra promised to protect this body. To protect me. And then she fought to protect all of you. I know things don’t seem great right now, but Egil would have surely killed all of you had she not sent us falling down here.”

Shulk sits back against the wall, inhaling deeply. He has bags under his eyes. How much sleep had he lost, from the days and weeks of searching for her? How many times had Reyn worried and Dunban scolded and Sharla threatened to make him sleep with a tranquilizer? “Why are you defending her?”

Fiora searches within the recesses of her mind, only to be met with silence. After all this time of sharing that space with Mythra, her absence is rather unnerving. She’s in a deep slumber; that nuclear blast must have taken quite a toll on her. Fiora doesn’t want to disturb her right now.

“If it weren’t for Mythra, and Meyneth and Vanea, I would still be dead.”

“They only wanted to use you as a vessel for that— thing! That Monado!”

“I know it started out that way, but…” Her eyes meet Shulk’s. “Mythra is a good person. She just wants to save everyone.”

“Then what does this Monado want?” Shulk holds the sword up. It’s so cold and heavy in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Fiora admits. “We can ask Mythra, when she recovers.”

While they’re resting on the outside of Mechonis’ leg on their way up to the capital, Mythra quietly awakens. Fiora turns to the side as to avoid drawing attention to herself, and squeezes her eyes shut.

Back then, when she had first regained consciousness, that dark plane of stars was terrifying and disorienting. But now there’s more light within it, and she thinks she might even see the outline of clouds against a blue sky if she relaxes enough.

“You guys made it to Mechonis, huh?” Mythra puts her hands to her hips.

Fiora nods. “Do you want to talk to everyone?”

“No.” She pauses. “They won’t like me.”

“But I like you,” she says without thinking, and Mythra tightly crosses her arms. Fiora casts her gaze downwards. Is that grass beneath her feet? Or just her imagination? “On the Fallen Hand we met some Machina, and there was a doctor who looked over my body…”

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

“She says there’s no way I’ll be able to get my original Homs body back.”

Mythra sharply inhales and strides up to Fiora, her jaw tight. “Let me guess— you didn’t tell your brother or your friends.”

“I don’t want them to worry.”

“I knew it!” She throws her hands up. “That’s so like you, Fiora!”

“But it doesn’t matter! As long as I can fight alongside everyone—“

“What about you?! You’ll never be rid of me if you’re stuck like this, you know! My power is what keeps you alive right now!”

Fiora grabs Mythra in a sudden hug. Mythra’s body is… so cold. It’s just like a Mechon body. But she can feel her quick, unsteady breathing and her trembling shoulders. That’s not right— she’s not like a Mechon. She’s neither Mechon nor Homs. Just like Fiora.

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind, Mythra,” Fiora whispers, and Mythra cries against her in frustration.

“Fiora?” Dunban gently shakes her, and all the stars and clouds and grass are gone. She’s only hugging her own knees. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

Everything that happens before and during their confrontation with Egil is a blur. Vanea is there— Lady Meyneth is there— and Mythra retreats back within Fiora, unsure what to even say with all that had happened, but the Homs actually pull it off. They actually manage to defeat Egil and stop Yaldaboath.

Kill him.

But Shulk doesn’t. Instead, he offers his hand to the defeated Machina.

And Mythra finally understands.

She understands when that traitor shows up and shoots Shulk in the back, and when the mad God Zanza appears before them in all his glory, and when Fiora allows her to take control to clash blades with him in the sky. Zanza mockingly laughs in her face, parrying away her strikes as if he’s merely swatting at flies.

“You are still just as weak as your master,” he smiles. “Why do you struggle? Because she commands you to? You are nothing more than a weapon.”

“Shut up!”

“Because she is a fool. This world is no different from the rest. What difference does one more reset make?”

“These are people, Zanza!” Mythra shoves him back with all her strength, but he only floats away with a wide, deranged smile. She gestures behind them, to all their friends and companions who can do nothing but watch. “They feel and think and speak just like you and Meyneth!”

“You would compare such insignificant bacteria to a God?” Zanza’s smile turns into a snarl. He slashes at Mythra so suddenly that she’s hurtling back to the platform before she even realizes it, and when she manages to sit up, she sees Zanza raise his own Monado. “Let me show you how easy it is to wipe out germs!”

Lady Meyneth expels herself from Vanea to shield everyone from his attack. She gets it now, she really does.

Mythra, too, wrenches forth from Fiora’s body. This isn’t her destiny. She flies toward Meyneth.

“Lady Meyneth!” Mythra screams, not even thinking of what she’s doing. Meyneth turns to her and smiles. She hasn’t seen her in such a long, long time.

“This is what I wish,” Meyneth says, beautiful and dying. “This world belongs to you all.”

Even a weapon?

“Create a world with no need for gods.”

Because… oh.

I am proud of you, Mythra.

She’s still weak— she can’t protect them like this. So Mythra joins her Goddess at her side and thinks of nothing but her. Of protecting them all. Of protecting Fiora. Zanza’s power is rending through them both, but it’s… enough. She can feel the ether particles being ripped apart, her very essence beginning to disappear. Meyneth’s spirit is blazing hot beside her.

“Mythra!!”

Was that Fiora?

Zanza seizes the other Monado now that Meyneth is dead and Mythra has reverted back to a weapon. It’s a beautiful sword, all white and gold and emerald, graceful and sleek.

“That’s better. A sword should behave as a sword, and nothing more,” he says, weighing it in his hand.

Fiora doesn’t cry. What would Mythra say if she did?

Chapter Text

It looks like they’re having a good time, anyway, so Lin doesn’t really see any reason to intervene.

But also because she has a failsafe ahead of time— Alexa’s going to call her in a few minutes with some fabricated emergency request that’ll keep Lin at the Outfitters’ Hangar working on a repair job overnight, so that she doesn’t have to stick around and bear witness to whatever’s going to happen.

“Hey, how about cinnamon?”

“Mmh, it would add a nice aroma.”

“Yeah, alright, into the pot it goes!”

Gwin doubles over and mutters, careful to keep his voice low enough that those two in the kitchen can’t hear him. “I can already feel my stomach turning inside out…”

“Then go to the Maintenance Center,” Elma says, apparently dead serious.

Lin giggles uneasily. The block she shares with Elma is probably the largest in the BLADE Barracks; it’s just one of the perks Elma gets for her status within the military, yet somehow the entire place is already beginning to reek of whatever Irina and Mòrag have stewing in the pot. It probably even seeped into the garage.

“Who let them cook, anyway?” Doug hisses. “Lin, why aren’t you cooking?”

“Hey, don’t treat me like some sort of house servant! A girl needs a break from the domesticity now and then.” Also, Alexa is going to have that completely made up emergency that’ll give Lin her excuse to get away before the food is served.

“Domesticity…” Gwin shudders.

That’s one way to put it.

As if on cue, everyone looks over to the kitchen. Irina and Mòrag are standing side by side, their shoulders brushing up against each other, both of them animatedly passing random bottles and jars and what-have-yous back and forth and indiscriminately tossing this and that into the pot.

“Smells delicious,” Irina bumps up against Mòrag. Even from here, they can all hear the grin in her voice.

“Oh? And what exactly would you be referring to?” Mòrag nudges her back with her hip, never taking her eyes off of Irina as she dumps what appears to be an entire thing of peppercorn into the pot.

“Hah, someone’s in a good mood tonight!”

Doug groans. “Well. That’s gross.”

“Oh? And what exactly would you be referring to?” Lin says in a deep voice, a very rough imitation of Mòrag. She flops back on the sofa and tries not to inhale too deeply. “You know it could be a lot worse, right?”

“How?” Gwin eyes her skeptically.

“Mythra could’ve joined in.”

“Oh.”

They all fall silent in grateful thanks, but it only lasts for a moment. Gwin yelps and Doug swiftly rises to his feet— whatever’s in the pot caught on fire.

Mòrag and Irina are enthusiastically kissing with their arms wrapped around each other, oblivious.

... Of course they are.

“Where’s Tatsu?! Grab Tatsu! We can smother the fire using him!” Gwin hollers, jumping back and forth. Elma walks over to the fire extinguisher with that sort of grim calmness she wears when they're faced with an enemy as big as a skyscraper.

Right on time, there’s a beeping in her pocket and Lin pulls out her comm device. She conspicuously holds it up at eye level.

”Heeey, Lin! There’s, uh, an emergency…? With some Skells! Some repair stuff. With the flight modules. Can you get over here right now? Like, right now? Alright, thanks, see you soon!”

“Elma? I gotta head out,” Lin calls.

Elma stares at her for a moment. She… probably knows, but. With a quiet little huff and a small smile, she nods. “Pick up some burgers from the diner on your way back, would you?”

“Yeah, no problem!”

Irina and Mòrag are trying to wrestle Doug away from the blazing pot, shouting something about how the fire is completely intentional, this is how you cook it, you fool and Gwin ran off somewhere to find Tatsu. And Elma has it all under control, surely. The last thing Lin sees before she ducks away is Elma carefully aiming the fire extinguisher at Irina, Mòrag, and Doug, and decides it’s probably for the better that she doesn’t stick around to see what happens next.

Chapter Text

“Making another perfume tonight, Brighid?” She can’t really comprehend how Brighid does it with bits of wood and random plants and even insects, but she does on occasion, and the little bottles of fragrance she ends up with are typically squirreled away by Minoth. Everyone has their own hobbies, she supposes.

“Here. Tell me what you think of this one.” Brighid offers a small bottle— cheap amber glass, which doesn’t quite suit her but they are roughing it in the wilds most nights now, and Lora delicately holds it as if it were expensive crystal. The liquid inside is nearly translucent.

She begins to stick her nose right into the opening. Brighid gently stops her with a chuckle.

“No, that’s not how you sample it. Let me show you.”

“There’s an incorrect way to smell perfume?”

“Careful, now. You don’t want to sound as uncivilized as Mythra.”

“Well, I… “

Brighid pauses and gives her an odd look. Or, at least, Lora assumes that’s what’s happening, since she still hasn’t gotten the hang of reading her. Even Jin’s moods are easier to decipher… but then again, Jin’s been her companion for seventeen years and they’d only met the Emperor and his Blades not too long ago. Either way, she’s beginning to feel self-conscious.

“The mercenary life doesn’t afford much in the luxuries of cosmetics,” Lora mutters. In a moment of boldness, she lifts her chin to stare right at Brighid’s… eyelids. “But I’m not against the idea!”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“It’s really nothing worth pitying.” It only took that much; she loses all that bravado and looks aside.

“Still…”

Something warm touches her chin, and Lora nearly jolts up to her feet when she realizes those are the tips of Brighid’s fingers. Brighid is… touching her face, scrutinizing her, and all Lora can think of is how strange those fingers feel upon her skin. Fire? Crystalline? Rough? Smooth?

“You have a remarkably clear complexion… no scars at all. One would hardly assume you’re a rugged mercenary,” she says jokingly, and then her fingers moves up to play with a bit of her hair. “This, however, could use some taming.”

“Er… thank you…?”

“Have you ever considered wearing make-up, Lora?”

“Erm, not really,” she says, trying very hard not to move her face, because if she did, Brighid might stop grazing her with those blazing hot fingers. “Considering my budget, it’s out of the question.”

“Mmmh,” Brighid hums. Is she agreeing or disagreeing? She’s still looking her over, that’s all for certain. “Maybe you don’t need it. Sometimes, natural beauty is all you need.”

“Oh. I suppose.”

“But it’s only my opinion,” Brighid says, and she finally sits back and folds her hands neatly over her lap. “Anyway, you wanted to try my perfume?”

“—Yes, but,” Lora remembers to breathe, and that she’s still holding the little amber glass bottle. “You said I was smelling it incorrectly.”

Wordlessly, Brighid takes bottle back from Lora. She takes a small handkerchief from her pocket and presses it against the opening, quickly turns the bottle over and back upright, and pats the dampened cloth against her wrist.

Which she then offers to Lora.

Dumbly, Lora only stares at that outstretched hand, and all she can think to ask is, “It doesn’t burn?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, perfumery wouldn’t be a hobby of mine if I burned everything I make.”

“Oh, sorry.”

All in all, she still doesn’t quite understand, and Lora wonders if this is how Mythra feels when Brighid insults and patronizes her. But Brighid is being neither insulting nor patronizing here, and she had essentially called Lora beautiful, and touched her face, so…

She lifts Brighid’s hand up and delicately sniffs her wrist. The perfume’s fragrance is softly sweet and brisk, like the first breeze of a winter morning, and she even forgets about the flames for that moment.

“It’s nice,” she says, regretting her own lack of eloquence, but Brighid smiles back.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Minoth crouches between them, zeroing in on the bottle with unconcealed eagerness. “Made another one, Brighid? Mind if I…?” He’s reaching for it now, but Brighid swats him away.

“Not this one. It’s for Lora.”

“Tsk, you spoilsport.”

Lora scratches her head in silence, still thinking of that refreshingly sweet fragrance of the perfume.

Chapter Text

The quick succession of passing looks across Irina’s expression doesn’t fail to escape Elma’s notice. Confusion, first. A touch of disbelief. Then, could that be denial? Is that really Elma?, it seems to say, and Irina takes a step backwards.

“No way…”

Elma had expected something like that to happen in all those scenarios she’d run through her mind before, but it doesn’t sting any less.

“I hope you all understand,” she says, skillfully smoothing over any of that self-conscious discomfort that might have made her shrink away from all their stares. “And at the end of the day, I just hope you’ll still consider me as one of you.”

They’re her allies. Friends. Of course they would. Elma knows all of them and she knows that there’s no reason for this apprehension, because they’re… them. They could accept L. And Celica. And all the other xenoforms that had taken up residence in the city. So surely they’d be alright with this.

Irina’s gaze flits up, to the side, and down to the ground. She’s hesitating.

Lin isn’t, though. She never does. “Of course we will! You’re still Elma— the Elma that we know and trust! What you look like on the outside doesn’t matter, because you’re still the same person on the inside!”

That’s all it takes to bring the others forward. Doug firmly nods in agreement. “Yeah. As long as you’re still you, what difference does it make?”

“They’re right,” Gwin chimes in. L is grinning maybe a little too eagerly, and Tatsu is just going along with it because of course he is, but Irina…

Still hesitates.

“… Irina?” Elma softly says.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. Gulps. Stares at Elma’s feet, lets her gaze slowly rise up her form, and settle upon those crystal eyes. Irina’s hands tremble and clench into fists.

“—You’re beautiful,” she blurts out, and immediately hunches over into a coughing fit. Everyone’s staring at her, now.

Gwin’s mouth opens. “Uhh.”

“Colonel!” Irina straightens up, a fist pressed to her chest, eyes ablaze with… something. That sure is something. “What I mean to say is— you’re still just as beauti… no, I mean—!! You’re more beautiful than you— damn it!”

“I think… we get the point,” Doug awkwardly smiles.

“Irina,” Elma starts. “I’m glad that—“

“You’re incredible, Colonel!”

Four seconds of silence pass.

Elma clears her throat. “Thank you, everyone. Your trust means everything to me.”

Irina covers her face with her hands.

“But before I tell you all anything else, let's get power running back to the Lifehold...”

Chapter Text

The village kids are hurling themselves off the cliff into the Cloud Sea below.

Under supervision, of course, and someone is on the lookout for any Serpronds that might stray too near. Mòrag stands beside Elma beneath the shade of a tree to watch. It’s one of those days that feels like a day where they can simply put down their weapons to relax, a rare opportunity amidst the fighting and roaming.

Even people like them can afford a moment of peace now and then.

“The children here are so carefree,” Elma says, with an acknowledging glance to Mòrag. “They’ve been at it for nearly an hour.”

“You’ve been watching them for that long?”

“Did you expect me to join in?” She quirks an eyebrow. Mòrag pretends not to notice, idly playing with the hems of her gloves. “I was hoping for some company, though. Thanks for joining me.”

“If I’m bothering you, a simple word will suffice.”

“Hah! Oh, you thought I was being sarcastic. You should know me better than that by now, Mòrag.”

Really? The retort dies on the tip of her tongue. As comfortable as they all are with Elma’s presence, none of them can say they know her. But she’s amicable, and reliable, so that’s about all they need. Even Mòrag can’t find any reason to pry any deeper than what little Elma does tell them about herself and where she came from.

Besides, she… Elma’s likable. Is all.

“They remind me of indigens called Terebras,” Elma says, smoothing right over Mòrag’s awkward silence. “We’d sometimes see groups of them diving off a cliff into the sea, one after the other.”

“Are you comparing those children to wild creatures?”

“Only a little.” She smiles.

“My, you’re certainly making yourself right at home.”

“See? You know me so well.”

Is she being playful?

Or is Mòrag just jumping to conclusions.

She automatically follows Elma as she begins to meander toward the cliff, a bit away from the group of playing children, until they’re peering over the drop. The clouds brush up against the edge of the island in gentle waves.

“Judging by what Rex told me about salvaging, the Cloud Sea’s density is no different from any other body of water,” Elma says, holding her chin in thought. “Would it really be accurate to call them clouds, then?”

“But they are clouds,” Mòrag says, as simply as saying that the sky is blue and trees grow upwards.

Off to the side, a child screams as he plummets off the edge. He disappears into the clouds with a soft sound and hardly a splash, then surfaces not a few seconds later, hair wet and plastered over his eyes. The kid spits out water in laughter and begins to swim to shore.

“Oh, I’m not debating that part. Hm…” Elma continues to ponder this. Then, she gestures to Mòrag. “Would you mind diving in with me?”

“… Pardon?”

“Even a minute of hands-on experience is worth more than an hour of observation. I’d just like to swim in the Cloud Sea myself.”

“You want me to jump with you.”

“Sure, why not? You know how to swim, don’t you?”

“That’s not the issue—“

“I guess I could ask one of the others to accompany me—“

“—Nevermind that, I’ll come along.”

Elma’s smile widens barely, just barely, and she offers a hand to Mòrag. Mòrag stares at it for a moment, glances at the children, at Elma, and back at the hand.

She cautiously lays her palm across Elma’s. Nobody else is watching; Mòrag smiles back. Yes, they could afford this moment, soldiers who have earned their right to the most mundane happiness available within grasp. She'll never quite understand her, but at least there's this.

And Elma leaps so suddenly over the edge, roughly yanking Mòrag along. Her hat falls off.

Chapter Text

From a distance, the three of them can visibly see Aurelia put her hands to her mouth and nod when Len offers that ring. They’re both ecstatic, framed by the brilliance of the aurora above them; it’s hard not to feel moved by such a scene. Initially, Rex had suggested that they should all go back to give the couple their privacy, but he’d also been admittedly curious to see how the proposal would play out.

In the end, Brighid and Mòrag decided to watch as well. Ah, well, the others should be happy to hear the good news, too.

“How nice. It went exactly as I expected,” Brighid says.

“You knew she’d say yes, Brighid?” Rex asks.

“Of course. You saw how she was at the harbor, didn’t you? I may not have spoken with her myself, but what I heard told me all I needed to know. And while Len is a little peculiar, his love for her is true and pure. Anyone with eyes to see can tell a couple like that is a sure thing.”

“Well said, Brighid,” Mòrag nods. “I wish that couple a long and happy life together.”

“Wow…” Rex rubs his chin. He didn’t really think of them that way— he’d been so focused on simply retrieving the Posystone and then fighting off the Gogols that reading more into the whys never occurred to him. Suddenly, he’s glad that Mythra decided to head off; she’d probably call him oblivious, or something.

“To see such strongly bound souls truly strengthens one’s resolve.” Mòrag seems to be talking more to herself now, looking up at the aurora. “Indeed, we mustn’t falter in our struggles.”

Love sure is something, huh?

“Hey, Brighid, with that keen eye of yours, I bet Mòrag would be safe as houses if she ever got in a relationship!”

Both of them fall silent and stare at Rex.

“… Hm.”

“I mean—“ He rubs the back of his neck, feeling quite awkward now beneath their stares. Was it the wrong thing to say? He just thought, since they had just watched a couple become engaged and all… oh, Titan’s foot. Rex turns to Mòrag. “What kinda guy would you look into, anyway? Someone like Len?”

Mòrag and Brighid glance at each other.

Rex continues to babble, unsure now. “I can’t imagine it, myself. I don’t know any men who are as strong as you— not that it’s a bad thing, but if it’s like— just thinking about it now, I don’t wanna start sounding like Kora, but I can’t help but be a little curious. Have you dated guys before, Mòrag?“

“Rex.” Mòrag crosses her arms. “I’m a lesbian.”

“… I thought you were Ardainian?”

Brighid makes a noise that suspiciously sounds like a snort of laughter. Which is very unlike her, but.

“What did… oh, I said something wrong, didn’t I?” Rex looks down at his feet, and wishes that the ground would fall out from beneath him and deposit him into the Cloud Sea. Or something.

“I’m not surprised that you haven’t noticed. We do tend to be discreet, out of habit,” Brighid says, smiling crookedly.

“Noticed what?”

“Ah, don’t you worry about it.” Now Mòrag also has a nearly identical slanted smile. She clears her throat and folds her hands behind her back. Brighid loops an arm around her elbow. “Brighid and I… are going to retire for the evening. If you’ll excuse us.”

“Good night. We’ll see you back at Corinne’s,” Brighid calls over her shoulder as they walk away together, leaving him absolutely dumbfounded.

Rex can’t think of anything to say, so he only watches their retreating figures in silence. He scratches his head and looks back to Len and Aurelia. The two of them are pressed close to each other with linked arms as they watch the aurora. Mòrag and Brighid were nearly similar in their silhouettes, come to think of it. What a strange coincidence.

Chapter Text

There’s absolutely nothing different about this one.

She sees her at the church, often. Cathedral. Chapel. Whatever the fuck— it’s not like Murderess has any particular faith in any religion, because she doesn’t believe in miracles. Hope Alanzi is always there, lending an ear and a hand and them some to other people like she has infinite self to spare. But no one does. Goodwill? That’s just selfishness with glitter tossed on top.

Murderess watches Hope crawling around in the dirt. The assignment is one of those easy, messy, menial Curator assignments that pays well but sucks what little joy there is left right out of life. Collect eight Tractor Beetles for further research. Why someone is choosing to study bugs when humanity is still struggling just to keep NLA float is beyond Murderess, but she supposes that’s just a part of being human.

Doing pointless shit. Things like that. That’s why she has Hope Alanzi digging the beetles out for her while she just stands there and watches.

The kicker is, Hope doesn’t even seem to care that Murderess basically dumped the dirty work to her.

“Are you done, yet?” Murderess drawls.

“Just about!”

Hope smiles up at her, pants stained with dirt and even more dirt under her nails.

Murderess grimaces.

“Hey, Miss… Murderess?”

“Just Murderess will do, sweetie.”

“Certainly. Is it alright if I ask about that name?”

Her mouth twitches. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Be quiet and get the rest of those bugs. I want to get back before the sun goes down.”

Anyone else would roll their eyes or snap back or do something to show they’re bothered. But not Hope Alanzi. No, Hope Alanzi just smiles and gets right back to the task on hand without complaint.

It kind of sickens Murderess, but at the same time, she can’t help but be mildly impressed that no one’s wrung this woman dry and left her to rot somewhere in an untouched corner of NLA already. People don’t survive off kindness. People survive off of self-preservation. Kindness gets taken advantage of for the sake of self-preservation.

So how is Hope still surviving, after a war that destroyed their home and two years spent fleeing through space and another few months of hell on this rock?

“Alright, that’s the last one!” Hope drops the wriggling beetle into the little box with all the rest and stands up, completely oblivious to the way Murderess glares and how her hand twitches for her gun.

It would be… so, so easy to kill her on the spot. She probably wouldn’t even fight back.

“You know I’m taking that reward all for myself, don’t you?”

Hope’s shoulders slump, just slightly, and she looks down at the box of beetles she had collected for Murderess. “Though I’m not particularly fond of gossip, I’m fully aware of what people say about you. I’ve been… warned.”

“Heh.”

“Keep the reward, if that’s what you need.” Not a want, but a need? Murderess actually blinks at that, mildly bewildered. It doesn’t escape Hope’s notice; she takes a deep breath.

“Everyone needs something that gives them hope in these circumstances. Friends, loved ones, dreams to achieve…”

She could nearly laugh at the absurdity of it. But she doesn’t. Murderess stares at her for a long, long moment, unsure if she should insult Hope or argue or what. People don’t survive by being kind. People survive through sheer tenacity and willpower. And this woman, who willingly allowed Murderess to boss her around and make her do the work for absolutely no payment, doesn’t even care.

She helps everyone without discrimination just because. It’s absolutely grotesque, that sort of genuine good-heartedness.

Murderess suddenly feels compelled to protect that disgusting thing.

“... Whatever. Let’s just go back to the city.” Murderess begins to walk away, but actually pauses to let Hope catch up. “Don’t forget, that reward is all mine.”

Still patient and understanding, Hope nods. “I know.”

“But,” she glances at Hope, wondering what the hell is wrong with her. With herself. “I’m taking you out to dinner. My treat.”

Chapter Text

Sharla spends most of her free time meticulously caring for that big, heavy rifle. Even Melia, who has no such prior experience with Homs technology, can tell that there’s little point in lugging that thing around when better alternatives are available and they have the funds to buy a new one for her.

“It’s a reminder,” she says, putting all the pieces back together like they each weigh a ton. Melia sees the burning glint in her eyes, a look that doesn’t belong to someone so selfless and kind. She understands that Sharla is meant to be a medic, not a fighter.

But she must fight, just like the rest of them.

“You are not alone in your feelings, Sharla,” Melia says, simply unable to leave this be.

“Are you sure?” Sharla pauses with what she’s doing to look her directly in the eye.

She sees her grief and hope and tiredness and all the other things that keeps that rifle slung across her back. Melia’s grip tightens on her own staff. It… belonged to her father. Of course she knows that feeling. She feels that same kind of grief and hope and tiredness.

But she looks a little closer and she sees something else that she doesn't share. They both lost so many people, but could they truly be comparable? Melia knows of their revenge quest and wholly supports them, because she shares the same goals, but it’s not just about revenge. Shulk had already come to that realization, and so did Reyn and Dunban.

Sharla should have as well, because Colony 6 is recovering and there’s hope for them yet.

And yet, Melia looks deep into her eyes and sees a burning hatred.

“I swore to kill each and every Mechon,” Sharla says, turning the rifle over in her hands. She says it so matter-of-factly, but there’s that hatred lying in the undertow. It’s different from that fierce, just resolve for vengeance that had driven Shulk and Reyn. “That hasn’t changed.”

Sharla is a healer. Healers don’t kill.

“Surely that can’t be your only drive,” Melia says, tentative. She sits a bit closer to Sharla.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply staring off into space now. “Everybody here has something they need to fight for. I… need to fight for the people I have left. I can’t lose anyone again. Not anymore—“

“So destroying all the Mechon is your final resolve?”

Sharla’s expression briefly twists. Her knuckles turn white. “It’s not right, I know that. But I think of what they had done to Colony 6 and the people who died, and I can’t help it.”

It's the same, Melia almost wants to say, but decides against it. She tries to think of the correct words to say, the ones that are supposed to neatly fall into place, but struggles against her own tongue. They can't be that much different, surely. Sharla is Sharla. She's kind and caring and has a sharp wit about her. Yes, that's exactly it. Melia tilts her head. 

“You are strong, Sharla. Far stronger than you could possibly imagine.”

“Do you really think so, Melia?”

“Of course. The power to protect should not be taken so lightly.”

At last, the tension rolls away from her shoulders and she leans back with a soft sigh. Her eyes are gentle once more, for now, and her fingers loosen around the heavy rifle. Sharla briefly closes her eyes and smiles.

“You sure know how to cheer a girl up in the strangest ways.”

Melia dares to rest a hand on her knee. Sharla doesn’t move away. “I am here for you, always. Do not forget that.”

They sit together for a while longer, until Dunban announces they must keep moving onwards.

Chapter Text

Dromarch’s absence is apparent even before she opens her eyes, upon gaining consciousness.

The air smells musty. Ancient. Heavy with rot. Nia softly groans and blearily squints up at the stormy skies. They’d all… fallen off that cliff after it was completely destroyed. Of course. Stupid artifices. Stupid Ophion. Stupid Siren.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

No, well, she shouldn’t insult Siren, because at least Siren is still under Mythra’s control. Speaking of Mythra— she’s sitting close to her, knees pulled up to her chest. Nia props herself up on her elbows and squints. Her head is still slightly spinning.

“… Eh? You’re not green anymore.”

“Wow. Good morning to you, too.”

A quick glance of their surroundings confirms that they’re the only ones here… wherever it is. Everything just about matches that staleness in the air, from the dilapidated buildings to the crumbling streets to the murky storm clouds. Have they always taken that clear blue sky for granted?

“I dropped Rex somewhere along the way down,” Mythra admits, with a sigh. She hugs her knees tightly. “He should be alright, though. I think I saw Zeke grab his arm.”

“Zeke? I’d say his chances of survival are even slimmer, then.”

Mythra chuckles, though it’s obviously forced and somewhat uncomfortable, and now Nia regrets making a joke out of it. She pushes off the ground and stands up, and stretches as if she’d just awakened from a leisurely nap rather than having just gathered her bearings after falling all the way through the Cloud Sea.

“Alright, then! Let’s get a move on. Better find ‘em before they tumble down a ditch and twist an ankle.”

Mythra quietly nods and stands up as well, but neither of them actually move. She’s staring. Why is she staring?

“When did you…?” Mythra gestures to her, and Nia realizes she’s still in her Blade form.

Ah.

“It’s… kind of a long story,” Nia scratches her neck, self-conscious for reasons she can’t quite put words to. Mythra’s gaze is sweeping up and down her body, tempting Nia to simply switch back. But it… wouldn’t feel right, since Dromarch isn’t at her side.

“Well, it’s not a bad look,” Mythra finally says with a firm nod. “I’m, uh, glad you were able to tell everyone else. Pyra's been kinda curious about your true appearance for a while, you know. She’s happy for you.”

“Ah, thanks.” Nia awkwardly smiles and looks down at her feet. And curses the butterflies in her stomach. It wasn’t like this back in the Elpys, brazenly declaring the truth for all of them to see. It wasn’t even like this back at the hot springs, from what seems like ages ago, when her intuition told her that Mythra could be trusted; even if they hadn’t known each other well, being able to entrust her with her secret didn’t even seem like something to think too hard about. Mythra probably would’ve figured it out herself, anyway.

It’s quiet, and no one else is around, and Mythra sure is taking her sweet time looking Nia over. She even steps around her in circles to scrutinize her from all angles, and Nia consciously folds her arms.

“Are we gonna get moving or not?!”

“Sure, just—“ Mythra pauses, and Nia almost expects Pyra to come out, but she only holds out a hand. “Can I see your sword?”

“I… I guess? Oh, right, Rex still has yours, doesn’t he? And Siren sure won’t be able to fire those beams all the way down here.” The scimitar materializes in Nia’s grasp and she hands it over to Mythra, their fingers briefly brushing across each other. That spark of ether was just her imagination, Nia firmly tells herself.

Mythra scrutinizes the sword just as closely as she had scrutinized Nia, weighing it in her hands. Then, she nods and casually hefts the blade over her shoulder. It’s far lighter and smaller than what she’s accustomed to, but it’ll suffice.

“Alright, let’s go.”

“Hold on— what d’you think you’re doing, Mythra?!”

“Don’t sweat it. I’m an Aegis.”

“I can fight well enough on my own, thanks!”

Mythra actually sort of smirks, even though her ears are just as red as Nia’s— not that either of them would notice, as distracted as they are already. “You got a problem with me Driving for a while?”

She narrows her eyes, and settles with a quick scoff. “Fine, fine. Let’s just go find the others, already. This place is giving me the creeps.”

So they head off, side by side, her sword held firm in Mythra’s grasp. Nia looks down at herself, then at Mythra, and briefly touches her stained Core Crystal. She could’ve shown herself to Mythra like this much, much earlier, she realizes with some mild regret. She could’ve trusted Mythra with the entire truth… and then some.

Chapter Text

“Taking a break to sort through your mail?” Brighid asks.

Mòrag only grunts in response, weary from an hour spent hunched over paperwork. It’s a national holiday, for stars’ sake. But! A holiday is no excuse to shirk her duties, despite Brighid’s attempts to sway her earlier. No, there is never an excuse to put work aside, even if she already had a perfectly good reason to take the day off.

But the sun’s gone down now and Mòrag is still human. She stretches her arms above her head and glances back at Brighid. Brighid’s sprawled on the bed, idly flipping through a book but clearly not reading it.

It’s… Valentine’s Day. A feeling of shame and guilt begins to bubble in Mòrag’s gut, and she stands up.

“The mail can wait until tomorrow,” she decides out loud.

Brighid raises a brow, gesturing to the pile that’d been set aside at the edge of the desk. “There’s quite a lot.”

“It can wait,” she repeats, shrugging off her coat. She offers an apologetic smile, but Brighid gives no outward reaction, and Mòrag inwardly curses at herself. And here she’d been, foolishly believing she could effortlessly balance her work and personal lives. Once again, she remembers it’s Valentine’s Day.

“… Brighid?” Mòrag kicks her boots off and crawls onto the bed and towards her, coming to sit beside her legs.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she says, even if she still isn’t looking at her. “Your duties as Special Inquisitor should always come first.”

Unsure what to say now, because an apology would probably only make things worse, Mòrag leans down to softly kiss her knee. She rests her cheek against Brighid’s thigh and is barely able to hold back a sigh of relief when she feels burning fingers threading through her hair.

“I love you,” she murmurs, daring to draw herself up and over Brighid’s body, keeping her lips close to her skin. “More than you could possibly imagine.”

She feels Brighid’s smile upon her head now, and arms wrapping around her waist. “Don’t worry. Your sad attempts at romance more than make up for it.”

“S— Sad?”

“I’m kidding. You’re very romantic… when you aren’t trying so hard.” Brighid laughs.

Mòrag is careful to keep her full weight off of Brighid as she lays upon her, kissing her, guilty but exhilarated. The teasing is a good sign. If Brighid actually were annoyed, she’d be much more sarcastic. But she’s kissing back. She’s burning the threads of her shirt and digging her heel into her thigh, but she’s kissing back.

She only breaks it off when Brighid bites her lip.

“I… am aware that I’m not usually the most adept at expressing my feelings, but…” Mòrag struggles, wanting nothing more than to breathe in the scent of her skin and kiss Brighid until they’re both breathless.

It’s Valentine’s Day. Shouldn’t she be obligated to make a better gesture than this?

“Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I love you, too,” Brighid smiles up at her and grazes the back of her hand along her jaw. “Now, are you going to keep stuttering, Lady Mòrag, or are you going to kiss me again?

Yes, she’s definitely just teasing her.

Chapter Text

Mythra yells so loudly that the entire garrison could probably hear her. “Crank it up! Crank it up!”

Technically, there’s not much of a reason to even take this sparring session so far, because Addam had been called to the estate to check on something or other and Lora’s sitting off to the side to watch. There’s something of an unsaid agreement that all Blades should be able to fend for themselves, but the need isn’t really there when separations are fewer and far between now.

Also, Mythra is an Aegis. So.

But Aegis or not, she’s not immune to Haze’s power. Haze makes a face of sorts and thrusts her staff upwards in the air; it stirs the ether in a spreading pulse, and Mythra almost falls flat on her face.

“Urrgh…!”

“No Blade has ever been able to break free of Haze’s power,” Lora says, watching from the side. “But this could be useful. If we can figure out just how much it would take for Mythra to break through, we can use that information in our plan to take down Malos.”

“I don’t think that’s why Mythra is doing this,” Jin says.

“Is this all you got, Haze…?!” Mythra breathes hard, leaning heavily upon her sword; the tip of the blade sinks into the ground. “I could still call Siren, you know! I could do it! Don’t test me!”

Haze walks over to look down at Mythra. With her staff raised like that, it almost looks like she might smack her on the head with it (and Jin sort of hopes she does, and judging by the look on Brighid’s face, she’s definitely hoping for something like that).

“If it’s starting to hurt, Mythra, please let me know.”

“H-hah, are you kidding me?! I could do this all day!”

“You do look like you’re in considerable pain!”

“It’s nothing, believe me!”

But Haze lowers her staff and the concentrated ether dissipates. Mythra finally does faceplant on the ground, quite ungracefully; Haze kneels beside her to prod her shoulder.

“You’re incredible, Haze…” Mythra groans, rolling over to face the sky.

“And you’re too brazen,” Haze says, but she smiles and grasps Mythra’s hand. It’s warm. She helps Mythra sit upright. Lora, Jin, and Brighid are coming over now— clearly not out of concern for Mythra’s well-being (she’s fine, she’s fine) but just to see what’s happening.

“There’s a word for that sort of thing,” Brighid says, disdain dripping in her voice. “It’s called masochism. Do you know what that word means, Mythra, or shall I fetch a dictionary for you? Assuming you know how to read, of course.”

“What’re you— shut up! It’s not like that!”

“No, I think Brighid may be onto something,” Jin flatly says.

“You did seem pretty happy, being crushed by Haze’s power…” Lora awkwardly says.

“Because it was a challenge, duh! Not like any of you are any fun to spar with!” Mythra snarls, gripping Haze’s hand so tightly without realizing.

She does realize, about two seconds late, when her gaze falls upon Haze’s grimace of discomfort. But she doesn’t let go. She merely loosens her grip and grabs Haze’s other hand. Ah, her sole comrade— a real friend who shines with kindness and grace. Damn, why can’t the rest of these clowns be more like Haze?

“I guess… it was a little fun for me, too,” Haze admits, apparently fine with Mythra holding onto her hands. “Being able to bring the Aegis herself down to her knees before me? What a thrill!”

Everyone falls silent. Mythra considers taking back what she said, both out loud and inwardly. Shit— shit, her ears are burning up. Shit. Is she blushing? She might be blushing. Shit. 

“… Oh, Haze,” Brighid sighs and brings a hand up to her face. “Why would you encourage her?”

They all mutually agree not to mention this to Addam, when he returns from the estate.

Chapter Text

Her Prince is certainly a people person. As for herself, Pandoria isn’t sure what she’d call herself, but she’d be the same by mere association, right? Maybe she doesn’t go out of her way to get up in people’s faces with dramatic flourishes and obnoxious soliloquies about chaos and justice, but she wouldn’t call herself shy either.

Being part of such a big, lively group is… different. Even if it’s noisier and livelier and there’s always someone yelling for one reason or another, things are easier. For the first time in her decade of living in this lifetime, Pandoria can really look at other people.

The Aegis and her Driver are no joke, of course, even if the kid might not strike the most inspiring figure. Nia’s fun. She’s funny. Dromarch’s fur is soft, and he’s kind of a spoilsport because he won’t let anyone else sit on his back. Poppi’s incredible, really, and Tora is, uh, Tora.

And the Flamebringer and the Jewel of Mor Ardain sure are something else.

Pandoria used to imagine that her Prince could very well be the most powerful Driver in all of Alrest, not just Tantal, but, oh, man, Mòrag’s also pretty incredible to watch in action. Gone are her delusions that no one could ever match Zeke in a fight. Gone are her singular admirations, that had once solely revolved only around that planet called Ozychlyrus. 

So she finds herself watching Mòrag and Brighid a bit more than she would watch the others, while Zeke is squabbling with Nia or dragging Rex around, able to simply drift and get lost in her thoughts.

Mòrag is cool.
She’s so dignified.
How can someone be so confident yet quiet at the same time?
Brighid’s lucky to have a Driver like her.
And Brighid is really, really pretty. Like, surreally pretty.
Does she even do anything special to keep her skin so flawless?
Ah, Mòrag’s hair is always on point, too.
Do they help each other with their makeup?
Do they brush each other’s hair in the mornings?

Do they…

“Did you need something, Pandoria?”

Oh, they’re looking this way. Crap.

“You’ve been staring at us for quite some time,” Brighid notes, curiously tilting her head. Pandoria almost falls backwards in her seat, scrambling to grab onto the table. Her tail lashes behind her and wraps around another chair nearby, thankfully one without an occupant already in it.

“Uh— it’s nothing! I was just spacing out!” That chair makes an awful scraping sound as Pandoria inadvertently drags it close with her tail. Other café patrons glance their way. “Hehe, don’t mind me…”

“You’re always welcome to join us for drinks,” Mòrag says. “No need to be shy.”

Her hand is laid flat upon the table, Brighid’s fingers loosely interlocked with hers. The physical contact between them is so casual, so uncharacteristically blatant, that Pandoria struggles to decide if they’re messing with her or if they simply don’t care that she sees.

Or if they’ve noticed her observing them all along.

The tips of her ears begin to blush red, and Pandoria quickly stands up— but forgets that her tail is still wrapped around that chair, and it’s noisily wrenched over onto its side. She takes several steps away, unsure; Mòrag and Brighid are staring at her expectantly.

“Uhhh, I think I hear my Prince calling me—!” She runs.

Maybe she’ll take them up on that offer for drinks another day, though. Maybe.

Chapter Text

“I bought this one from some guy in Fonsa Myma. He said something like, this is a precious heirloom and easily worth at least 100k G, and I was like, either you can sell it to me for half of that or you can eat shit. Guess who has his claymore now, though? Hah!”

Patroka’s laugh isn’t very friendly, but Fiora can’t really recall a time when her laughter ever sounded kind. Fiora simply nods and keeps her hands folded behind her back, waiting for Patroka to move onto the next weapon.

When she’d suggested they spend the afternoon together while Mòrag and Brighid attended a council meeting, she didn’t imagine Patroka would invite her to see her weapons collection. Fiora didn’t even know that she had a weapons collection, or that Mòrag allowed Patroka a spare room in Hardhaigh Palace to use.

It’s kind of impressive. If all the weapons weren’t meticulously displayed and clearly cared for, she would’ve assumed this was part of the Imperial armory.

Shulk probably would’ve been interested in all this, but for some reason, Patroka was adamant that Fiora would be the only one to follow along.

“This one’s from an antiques seller in Torigoth,” Patroka says, brushing her fingers against the gleaming blade of a hefty axe. It’s huge, even taller than Fiora, and she vaguely wonders how Patroka managed to carry it all the way here. “I also told that guy to eat shit or give me a discount.”

“Wow, you’re pretty good at haggling.”

“I know, right?” Patroka scoffs, completely missing the dry sarcasm that lined Fiora’s tone. “So? What do you think?”

She blinks. “What do I think about… what?”

“My weapons, duh!”

If she had to be honest… they’re not really her thing. It’s a little weird, actually. But Patroka’s clearly proud of the collection she’d accumulated, and she seems to be having a good time— which is rare, when she’s always so annoyed about one thing or another. Fiora fiddles with her sleeves, pretending to be captivated with looking around the room.

“Have you ever given the tour to anyone else?”

“Nah. Well, Mòrag sometimes likes to come in here, but I told her I’d beat her up if she messed with anything. Nobody else is allowed, though. My weapons are off-limits!”

“So why bring me here?”

Patroka stares at her for a moment, head slightly tilted and a hand on her hip. Rather bluntly, she says, “I dunno. You’re kinda cute, I guess.”

I guess?

What is she even supposed to say to something like that? She almost wants to be annoyed, and it would only be fair because Patroka gets annoyed at everything too, but she can’t. Fiora runs her hands over her face with a soft sigh.

“Whatever,” Patroka shrugs, turning away.

“It’s a very impressive collection, Patroka!”

There’s a pause, almost tense, and Fiora’s a little afraid that Patroka might snap at her. But she smiles, sort of. It’s a very Patroka-like smile. That’s the only way she could describe it.

“These knives over here are from a blacksmith in Alba Cavanich. Wanna know what I told him?”

“To eat shit or give you a discount?”

“Yeah, you know me so well already.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Night falls. Zeke declares something about an obsidian gloom engulfing the realm or whatever. Everyone proceeds with their usual routines, setting up camp and preparing to turn in for the night, and Zeke preemptively gives up on his dramatic dialogue.

“Hey… Pandoria?” Pyra’s voice is lowered, and she’s even leaning in so that no one else can hear her. How… suspicious! How dubious! How is she getting carried away already! Pandoria catches herself and acknowledges her with a friendly grin.

“Ooh, what’s this, you got some kinda juicy secret to share?”

“Wh— no, I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

Now Pyra’s deliberately avoiding eye contact, shyly placing a hand over her Core Crystal. “How do you deal with the glowing?”

“The… whatnow?”

“Well, it’s really hard to miss you in the dark. Don’t you ever get self-conscious about people staring at you?”

Pandoria abandons her attempts to untangle the ties around her sleeping bag (that’s the last time she lets Zeke tie them up, his knots are impossible to untangle) to place her hands on her hips and squint at Pyra, feigning indignation. Of course she’s not actually offended because— yeah, she does glow, and her lightbulbs are pretty damn bright. Maybe she’s flattered, even, because Pyra chose to ask her and not Brighid.

Brighid is already settling down on her shared futon with Mòrag (pft, rich people) and snapping at Zeke to be quiet. Mòrag covers herself and Brighid with their blanket and all that can be seen of them is a dim glow through the fabric.

Wouldn’t Mòrag boil alive in there?!

No, wait, she’s getting off track. Pandoria clears her throat and looks back to Pyra, who helplessly wrings her hands together.

“This is the part where I make a joke about a glow-up, right? Hmm, I can’t figure out how to fit it in here yet, though. Gimme a few minutes and I swear I’ll have the perfect punchline ready for you.”

“Ah, sorry, just forget I asked…”

“Wait, wait!” Pandoria sidesteps and blocks Pyra’s path just as she’s about to walk away. “Lemme help you out, Pyra! Let me…”

Pyra’s eyes widen in shock (or is it terror?) as Pandoria showily grabs her left arm and… pops it out of her shoulder socket, lightbulb glowing at the end.

“Let me lend you a hand!”

Oh, Architect, she’s offering her arm to Pyra.

Mythra’s screams go unheard by anyone.

“I…” Pyra rapidly blinks, staring down at the limb, then at Pandoria’s awkwardly proud grin. “… I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Sure I can! How many Blades does it take to screw in a lightbulb, eh? Ehhh?”

Mythra is still screaming. Pyra bursts out giggling.

“Wow. You’re full of your own surprises, aren’t you, Pandoria?” Pyra is still giggling behind her hand, and Pandoria can’t help but throw back her shoulders— er, one shoulder, back with pride. “You know, I don’t even feel self-conscious about my own glowing anymore. Thanks.”

“Anytime, Pyra! Anytime!” Pandoria coughs out.

“You’re sweet,” she says with a smile, and briefly touches the hand of her unattached arm. Her lightbulbs are blinding for a moment, and Pyra goes to set up her own sleeping bag near Poppi and Dromarch without comment on that.

Pandoria rubs at her nose with the back of her hand and awkwardly pops her arm back into its socket, and sights Zeke flashing two thumbs up at her with a big grin.

Chapter Text

“This was the fault of negligence. It will not happen again.”

“I know, Lady Mòrag, you’ve already said that four times since yesterday.”

To that, Mòrag simply stiffens her neck and leans back against the nest of pillows that had been brought for her comfort, as if the extra comfort could magically fix her arm and send her back out into the field. It was the fault of negligence, which means it was only her own fault. She should have been more alert of that treacherously loose ground along the cliffside. Reckless haste had driven her forward without caution, and she’s only so lucky that the steep drop didn’t outright kill her.

It feels like weeks ago, though it was only yesterday. Brighid insisted she take the following day off. Mòrag only agreed for Brighid’s ease of mind.

“Does it still hurt?” Brighid asks, her voice soft this time. She sits on the bed at Mòrag’s side, slightly turning to face her.

“Hardly,” she dryly says. But when she tries to flex her fingers (hopefully hidden from Brighid’s view by the sling), she winces.

“You are allowed lower your pretenses when it’s just the two of us.”

Hesitantly, unsure, she extends a hand to Mòrag’s face, the heat of her palm licking her skin but never actually making contact. Mòrag hesitates as well, though her frown is no longer so blunt and she doesn’t lean away.

She leans down instead, to rest her cheek against that warm palm. There’s a mutual sigh passed between them at the contact; Brighid scoots closer and Mòrag nuzzles against her hand, not unlike an affectionate cat.

“Do you still blame yourself?”

“Well, I suppose part of the blame can be left to you,” Mòrag wryly smiles, and she allows Brighid to guide her up to draw her closer.

Closer, and closer, until their foreheads gently make contact. Brighid’s eyes are open: gentle, so stark from her ferocity on the battlefield that only Mòrag’s could rival, offering reassurance that isn’t necessary but still wholeheartedly appreciated. Mòrag forgets entirely about her broken arm for a moment. She feels Brighid’s breath upon her lips and realizes she must look like a lovestruck fool with the face she’s making.

But she’ll gladly accept all the faults of her own infatuation, because it’s Brighid, and her hand is so warm against her face.

Chapter Text

“Ah, and the Imperial Guard’s Chief Enforcer will be joining us as well.” Hugo says this like a mere afterthought, already beginning to step away to review a report that Aegaeon brought over just now. He vaguely gestures to the figure silently standing at a respectful distance. They all turn to face him— her? It’s difficult to tell with the helmet that obscures their face, and they aren’t saying anything either. Unlike the other soldiers they’ve seen toting rifles around, this one carries a sword with a blade more slender than Hugo’s.

“… Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” Mythra impatiently asks, and Brighid looks about ready to tear her a new one for speaking so rudely to Hugo. Hugo’s head snaps up and he apologetically smiles.

“I’m sorry, I—“ he clears his throat and turns to them. “I’m certain you must recognize the emerald Core Crystal. Her name is Mythra. And you remember Addam from his previous visit to Mor Ardain, yes?”

The person nods, still silent.

Addam’s too busy scolding Milton about something to pay any mind.

He introduces Lora, Jin, and Haze next too briefly for small talk, and then he’s back to discussing the report with Aegaeon.

No one else asks any more questions after that. Jin is a natural conversationalist in comparison to the Chief Enforcer’s background presence, like a ghost, always following at a fringe and only ever responding to Hugo. It makes Lora somewhat uneasy, but she supposes it would only be normal for someone as important as Hugo to have extra personnel following him around, if it isn’t the Special Inquisitor.

She’s a woman.

Lora is only slightly caught off guard later that night, when they make camp and the Chief Enforcer removes that helmet to reveal a stern, youthful face and long locks of dark hair that had been neatly pinned into a bun. The Chief Enforcer quietly takes post by Aegaeon’s side outside the warmth of the campfire, diligent in their lookout.

“You’re staring at her,” Brighid says, taking a seat at Lora’s right. “Surprised? I don’t blame you. I can count the number of women enlisted in the Imperial Army on one hand.”

She isn’t really sure what to say, because no one had really said anything at all about the Chief Enforcer’s presence in their little group. Except for Mythra, but she only pointed out how weird her silence was, and then Addam told her not to be a bother to their new compatriot.

Maybe that’s just how things are with Ardainian soldiers? Lora wouldn’t know, and neither would Jin or Haze.

“Even the Ardainian government isn’t exempt of nepotism. She’s Hugo’s elder sister, you see.” Brighid doesn’t even bother concealing her disdain, wrinkling her nose at that woman’s back. She and Aegaeon stand completely still, shoulder to shoulder, though Lora would like to imagine they’re quietly speaking to each other anyway. Hugo had never mentioned a sister. But then again, sharing details about his family isn’t exactly an important matter when they’ve all got the threat of the other Aegis to consider.

“You don’t seem terribly fond of her,” Lora carefully says.

“Hmm… we get along well enough, I would say.”

“Does she have a name, or are we all expected to address her solely as Chief Enforcer while she accompanies us?”

“Mòrag. I’d stick with calling her by her title, though. She tends to be a stickler about those kinds of things.”

It’s clear that Mòrag is simply there to watch over His Majesty Emperor Hugo, because she seems interested in doing very little else other than keeping vigilant with her observations. The sun passes overhead, they make a little more progress across Torna’s back, and everyone grows more comfortable amongst each other’s company.

Except for the Chief Enforcer. Except Mòrag. Sometimes, Hugo will drop to the back of the group to exchange a few words with her, but she never takes the initiative to speak herself.

It bothers Lora. Why should she be excluded from the group, just because she’s supposed to be keeping an eye on Hugo?

“Brighid mentioned you’d prefer to be called Chief Enforcer, but is it alright if I use your name instead?”

Mòrag stares at Lora as if she has three eyes.

“Is that really necessary?”

“Incredible, so you really do talk! Oh— wait, don’t go. I’m only joking.”

But Mòrag isn’t paying any attention to Lora. “Your Majesty?”

Hugo turns around. He seems… awkward, somehow, whenever he talks to Mòrag. It’s a different kind of awkward from Aegaeon’s unique brand of awkward, almost as if he’s uncomfortable with her mere presence. “There’s no need to follow me, Chief Enforcer. I’m only going to the nearby springs for some water. Why don’t you keep Lora company, for the time being?”

Oh, so that’s how it is. Lora sighs.

There’s silence as Hugo leaves. Brighid and Aegaeon are trailing after him anyway— if it’s them, he clearly doesn’t mind, but Mòrag…

She looks down at her hands. Lora feels the urge to grip her shoulder, or something, but refrains from doing so.

“… Our elder brother ordered me to surveil His Majesty,” Mòrag quietly says, and Lora isn’t even sure if she’s addressing her or simply talking to herself. “If you were curious as to why he seems resentful of my presence.”

“I… well, to be honest, yes. I was wondering.”

But apparently she would be left to wonder some more, because Mòrag stops talking and walks away to watch Mythra and Haze spar.

Nobody talks about the situation with the Ardainian royal family in great detail, but from bits and pieces of brief mentions that pass between Hugo and Addam’s chats, Lora is able to glean just enough to assemble a picture. No, not just a picture— a portrait. A portrait of three children: an eldest son, filled with bitter resentment over never being able to be enough, his younger brother who holds all the potential he could have only ever dreamed of… and the middle child. The middle daughter. A mere ghost, out of sight and out of mind. She’s not even their real sister, anyway. She’s a cousin, adopted by the previous Emperor after her parents’ passing.

Hugo is Emperor only because their brother didn’t have the aptitude to be a Driver. Addam sometimes expresses his worries to Hugo when Mòrag is out of earshot. Hugo sighs when Mòrag follows him.

The rest of them are just outsiders. Lora wouldn’t want to get involved in royal family business, anyway. Bunch of messiness that she isn’t equipped to handle.

But that ghost seems so pitifully lost that she can’t help but watch.

Did she choose to be the Chief Enforcer of the Imperial Guard, or was that title sewn to her skin by her brothers?

“Don’t get involved,” Jin says, knowing perfectly well what Lora is thinking, because he’s Jin. “We have enough on our plates as it is.”

“Everyone is in this together. Including her, whether anyone agrees or not.”

“Doesn’t she seem lonely to you?” Haze feels similarly, but she’s simply too passive to do anything herself.

“Yeah,” Lora nods. “I think so, too.”

That’s that, then. Jin doesn’t argue because he knows it’d be pointless, and Haze smiles encouragingly.

While everyone gathers around the warmth of the campfire one evening, Mòrag takes her usual post to keep watch. Tonight, Aegaeon doesn’t join her, so Lora takes the opportunity to casually (very, very casually, wouldn’t want to startle her away) sidle up beside her and pretend like she’s also interested in standing guard. She isn’t, obviously, because who could possibly stay awake staring off into the darkness for hours at a time? But that’s what Mòrag usually does.

“You can always join us by the fire, you know,” Lora says. “It must be tiring, eating your dinner after everyone else has already finished. The food is cold by then.”

“I don’t mind.”

Torna’s wing is a terrifying silhouette in the darkness, but the light of the stars is a comfort. Lora used to be frightened of all those massive shapes when she was a child. It’s hard to imagine that this stoic, silent ghost of a woman was once a child just like herself as well.

“… Hey, so is it alright if I call you Mòrag or not?”

She looks at her so sharply that Lora internally stumbles, an apology ready to burst at the tip of her tongue, but Mòrag’s shoulders relax. She glances behind them, at the group chatting and laughing around the fire. Hugo is thumping Aegaeon’s shoulder and laughing at something Addam says.

Lora decides to press on. “To make it fair, you can call me Lora.”

Mòrag doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no either. So that’s pretty much a yes, Lora figures.

It happens so quickly. The Jagron changes course to target the kids— filthy beast. Mythra shouts as it leaps through the air. Lora helplessly screams out the boys’ names, running but nowhere near fast enough to cover that much ground, and Milton hugs Mikhail tight.

Mòrag jumps in front of them, head held high and sword drawn.

Hugo bares his teeth and yells. “What’re you—?!”

A dark blur slams into the Jagron and knocks it aside just as it had been about to tear through Mòrag with its claws. His name is Minoth, and he grimly regards the dead Jagron once it’s all done and over with, and amicably greets Addam as an old friend. Mythra berates the boys for standing too close to the battle, and Haze fusses over them (much to Mikhail’s annoyance and Milton’s embarrassment).

She thinks Brighid might be glaring at Mòrag, but it’s hard to tell.

“… It would have killed you.” Lora’s heart is still racing. Addam is still speaking to Minoth, and Hugo had joined them as though he’s deliberately avoiding addressing what the Chief Enforcer had just done.

Mòrag helplessly makes some sort of vague gesture, unable to hide her shame. She returns her sword back to its sheathe. “I couldn’t stand by and watch.”

“You’re not a Driver.” Something occurs to her, and she wonders why she hadn’t realized it earlier. She’d never actually seen Mòrag use that sword she always carries around.

For the first time, Mòrag’s lips turn upward, in what could be called the approximation of a smile. She even makes eye contact with Lora. “I suppose I'm not.”

“Enforcer!” Milton is dragging Mikhail over. “Ah, we just wanted to say thanks. Both of us. For tryin’ to protect us.” He jabs Mikhail with his elbow. “Right?”

“… Yeah, whatever.”

“Aw, Mik, don’t be so rude!”

Mòrag kneels to lower herself to their height. There’s something soft in her eyes, something that’s missing when she speaks to Hugo or is scolded by Brighid for one thing or another. Lora holds her breath as Mòrag places a hand on each of their shoulders. “It was no trouble.”

“Chief Enforcer.” Oh, looks like Hugo is done shooting the shit with Addam and Minoth. Everyone’s watching, now. Everyone. Hugo gestures to her. “If I could have a word with you, please.”

Minoth’s addition adds a healthy dose of liveliness to their group, with all his stories to tell and off-beat humor. Everyone immediately takes a liking to him, and even Jin seems more or less comfortable around him.

It’s so different from when Mòrag had joined them, with her ghostly presence.

Once again, Lora takes a spot beside Mòrag away from the rest. She’s sitting rather than standing, this time, holding her helmet on her lap. These days, she doesn’t wear it as often, so surely that must mean something. Or it’s just wishful thinking on Lora’s part.

“Am I allowed to ask about what Hugo said to you earlier today?”

Mòrag turns the helmet over in her hands. She says nothing for a painfully long pause. “He wasn’t terribly pleased with my reckless attempt to protect the children.”

“Ahaha… you gave me quite the scare, too.”

Even more silence passes between them. They can hear Minoth reciting a story to the others, and the rustling of trees and the noises of nocturnal wildlife. It’s… peaceful. For once, things are normal. Then Mòrag finally speaks.

“Our brother was against my becoming Chief Enforcer, at first.” She lifts the helmet to stare into those dark goggles. “He wanted to marry me off to one of his friends. If Hugo hadn’t taken the throne, I expect that’s where I would be today.”

Lora freezes, and very carefully, sits just a bit closer to her.

“But Hugo argued that my talents would be better off being put to good use in the Imperial Guard. And so, here I am.”

“I can’t imagine it…” Lora leans back with a soft exhale. Domesticity… is a nice thought. But to her, domesticity is Jin cooking hot meals from foraged ingredients and Haze clumsily trying to learn how to mend clothes. Then, they could all sit together and enjoy simply being with each other. That’s domesticity.

But the domesticity of a nobleman’s housewife? She can hardly fathom it. What a miserable lifestyle, that must be.

“He… does care about me, as I care about him.” Mòrag puts the helmet down beside her, in the grass. “But I understand his conflicting feelings, knowing that our brother intends to use me as a set of eyes for his records.”

Lora tilts her head. She suspects that’s not the reason why Hugo has been so awkward around her, but. “Well, I think the solution here is pretty obvious. Just stop listening to your brothers.”

Oh, that scandalized look on her face. Lora laughs at that, and dares to rest a hand on Mòrag’s knee.

“I get it— Hugo’s the Emperor, and I expect your eldest brother holds quite the influence and power over you, too. But really, think about it. You’re not in Mor Ardain right now. Who’s going to punish you for doing whatever you want? Brighid? You’re in good company, Mòrag. Don’t mind the funny looks they might give you.”

“But I’m still—“

“Hey,” Lora softly says. “I’d like to see more of that woman from today. The one who boldly jumped in front of that Jagron to protect the kids.”

It’s dark out, so maybe Mòrag didn’t actually blush, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless.

She joins them for breakfast the following morning, finding a place beside Lora and fitting in so naturally it’s as if nothing’s different at all. Lora cheekily smiles at Jin (hah, who said something about not getting involved?) and encouragingly nudges against Mòrag with her shoulder.

“Oh? I don’t think I was introduced to this one, yet!” Minoth points his fork at her, glancing not very subtly at that close proximity between Mòrag and Lora.

“That,” Hugo says before Lora can speak, his voice ringing clear. “Is my sister, Mòrag.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps it’s the comfort of how ordinary she is that draws the children to Mòrag, and who could blame them? Tagging along with an Aegis, two members of royalty, and an assortment of incredibly powerful Blades would make anyone feel small in comparison— and Lora is coming to know that inadequacy all too well.

A simple mercenary has no place among these ranks, and yet here she is. She understand it’s not her though, it’s Jin. The Paragon of Torna. It would only be a matter of time before Haze makes a name for herself as well, with that incredible ability to seal other Blades’ powers.

The people of Torna had always revered and respected Blades throughout its history, and Lora is no exception to that tradition.

As for Ardainians, it’s hard to say.

There’s an unsaid relief within the group that someone can keep an eye on the children when they’ve got their hands full with battle. Now that Hugo has finally pierced that barrier of professional duty, Mòrag is given other things to do to keep her busy. Polish weapons. Keep inventory of their rations. Make sure Milton doesn’t run off by himself.

Lora thinks back to what Mòrag had told her, of how she would have been given away for marriage if Hugo had not bestowed the title of Chief Enforcer to her.

How is this any different?

“You seem livelier, these days,” she notes. Mikhail is trying to show Mòrag how to peel carrots. “Both of you. I’m glad to see smiles on your faces more often.”

Mikhail is nimble with his work; his carrot peels come off in neat little curls to rest in a pile between his feet. Mòrag, in comparison… ah, perhaps domesticity truly doesn’t suit her, after all. Lora sits at Mikhail’s other side to watch them.

“Hm.” As always, Mikhail doesn’t have much to say.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I have no talent in the kitchen,” Mòrag mumbles, cutting thick chunks off the carrot with her knife.

“Neither do I!” Lora cheerfully reaches for her hands, guiding her movements to carve thin peels in a spiral. “But we’ve all got to learn somewhere, right? I’m lucky, anyway, since Jin handles all the cooking between the three of us.”

Mikhail leans back, squinting at the way Lora’s hands cover Mòrag’s. Neither of them are even paying attention to him at this point. That’s for the better, probably.

He wonders if Jin and Haze know. A Blade and Driver should always be completely open with each other, he figures, from what he’d observed of the bunch. Except Addam and Mythra— those two are hopeless, as far as he’s concerned.

In that regard, in their ordinariness, it’s easy to open up to Mòrag and talk. Even though Mòrag has dropped that standoffishness to actually befriend the others, they still take time in the evening to sit together at the edge of the camp, away from the others, to capture a moment of peace with no interruption.

Only contemplation, and warmth, and their mutual empathy.

It’s different, from the familiarity she shares with Jin and Haze. They’re her Blades. In a way, they’re an extension of herself, the bond so natural it simply is. But Mòrag is human. She has her own independent thoughts and ideas and feelings that exist outside of the little world that revolves around Lora that she’d only ever known her entire life.

Lora recounts those long, long seventeen years spent on the run with Jin. Then with Haze, then with other mercenaries in passing. All in all, fortune had been considerably kind to her, even with the fate of her late mother and all the troubles that came along with being the Driver of the Paragon of Torna.

While Lora lived in order to simply live, Mòrag’s life had been one of lack of meaning.

“I would often watch Hugo and Fernand spar with their wooden training swords, when we were children,” she says, one hand loosely entwined with Lora’s. “Father explained that there’d be no meaning in teaching me how to fight, but a generous instructor took pity on me.”

“Why would your father refuse to have you learn swordplay?” Lora asks, incredulous.

Mòrag shrugs. “He already had two sons, each fighting fit to vie for his inheritance. There was no place for me in such affairs.”

“What a poor excuse. Everyone should know how to defend themselves.” She couldn’t, when she was a child, but Jin was there to guide her.

“At least he couldn’t express his disapprovals after his death,” Mòrag dryly chuckles. Lora squeezes her hand, unsure if she should laugh along, but Mòrag’s expression softens. “I may not be a Driver, but I can hold my own well enough in a fight.”

“Then we ought to spar sometime, to see those skills in action.”

“Against the Paragon of Torna? I think not.”

“Not against both me and Jin! Just… me. My self-taught skills versus your Ardainian swordplay.”

“It has been some time, since I’ve used my sword…”

Because she’s not really needed here. Because Brighid and Aegaeon are more than enough to guard the Emperor and keep him safe. Lora knows that, so surely Mòrag does as well. But now that she’s no longer sending daily reports back to their elder brother, she’s left doing menial tasks and keeping an eye on Milton and Mikhail.

“Mòrag,” Lora says, feeling the twitch of her fingers around hers. “What do you really want?”

She stares not at the stars above them, but at the grass beneath their feet.

“… I don’t know.”

“Well, I want to live a life free of fear.” But doesn’t everyone? “After this is all done and over with, Addam will grant me pardon and Jin won’t need to wear that mask anymore. I’m thinking… of settling in a house with a couple bedrooms and a warm kitchen.”

She has Mòrag’s full attention now, so Lora allows the words to tumble freely.

“In the mornings, we’ll buy fresh produce from the merchants who make their daily rounds, and I’ll water the flowers on the windowsill. Maybe Jin would be baking bread that day and Haze will grind ink for her talismans. Lunch will always be something simple. Steamed vegetables, most likely, because Jin prefers sensible cooking over extravagant cuisine.”

“Then our friends will all come visit, and I expect I’ll have to remind Milton not to track mud inside. Addam mentioned he wants a plot of land for farming after we defeat Malos. Yes— our house could be a short walk from his estate! He’d probably want to keep in touch anyway, as sentimental as he is.”

“What about His Majesty?”

“Haha, I wouldn’t expect the Emperor of Mor Ardain to make frequent trips out to the Tornan countryside.”

Mòrag’s hand is beginning to shake.

“But why don’t you stay with us, Mòrag?”

To abandon her duty as Chief Enforcer? It’s unthinkable. She ought to berate Lora for even suggesting such an outrageous idea. But…

But could it be that something she’s been searching for her entire life?

In the end, after their father’s death, there were only two options left for her: marry some nobleman who she would never love, or devote her entire self to serving in the Imperial Guard. Hugo’s offer was far more ideal than Fernand’s, and perhaps there was some illusion that Mòrag was given a say in the matter, but she was merely strung along between her brothers to comply with their commands.

She was just as aimless as a child, given no purpose when her father was far too busy teaching his sons to be Princes. It was what it was.

Just like Lora, she lived one day at a time, but at least Lora had some far off dream to stride towards.

Trembling, she turns her head up to the sky. To live a life free of fear, huh?

“Would there even be room for me?”

“I thought you were far more clever than that, Lady Mòrag,” Lora says, laughing out loud in relief.

“Hah… pardon my foolishness, Lady Lora.”

Jin is wary, but not quite distrustful, merely protective. He isn’t quite sure what to make of it. Have those two really gotten so close as they now apparently are in the span of a mere few days? He could tolerate the others at best (barely, in the case of Mythra) but Chief Enforcer Mòrag had always been such a nonentity that he hadn’t bothered forming an opinion on her.

But now, he sees her sitting with Lora. Holding hands.

“It’s nice to see Lady Lora enjoying herself!” Haze offers, looking at the bright side as always.

Things are… certainly different from how they used to be. He can’t say he’s all that fond of the recent changes, but as long as Lora is happy.

That’s all it should be.

Chapter Text

“May I have a moment of your time?”

“Mine, or Pyra’s?”

Mòrag considers this in all seriousness, because of course she does. She’s always like that. Neither of them really have any complaints about it, though, because it’s reassuring to have someone in their group who can take things seriously.

Even if she sometimes takes things too seriously.

Mythra counts six seconds and twenty seven milliseconds before Mòrag comes to a decision.

“Both of you. But more so Pyra.”

“Rude.”

But Mòrag brushes right past that and forges on ahead, never one to entertain backtalk. It’s one of her better traits, being able to cut straight to the chase without any pointless meandering. But right now there’s hesitance in her stance, in the way she looks over Mythra’s face as if she’s searching for traces of Pyra.

“I believe I owe you a personal apology.”

Mythra raises a brow. “Yeah? What for?”

“I mean to address Pyra, but… I suppose it would apply to you as well, Mythra.”

“Get on with it, then. I wanna grab dinner soon.”

She neatly folds her hands behind her back and clears her throat. Then, of all things, her gaze softens into something that Mythra had only ever seen directed to Brighid when they think no one else notices.

She urges Pyra to come out, but Pyra tells her to wait.

“Initially, I had seen you as nothing more than a threat to be eradicated. However just my intentions were, it was no excuse to treat you as anything less than a person.”

Oh.

Just as Pyra shares Mythra’s memories, Mythra shares her. She wasn’t awake at the time, but… she sees that battle at the Ardainian Military Base, where Mòrag had declared the Aegis to be a harbinger of catastrophe. She was ruthless. So ruthless. They were lucky to escape her.

Of course, if Mythra had been there it wouldn’t have even been such a one-sided struggle. Hah.

“… Keep talking,” Mythra says.

“As the Aegis, you… I’m not quite sure how to put this,” she mumbles, shifting her weight to one leg. “Please know that I realize I was in the wrong, however.”

“No, you were right,” Mythra casually says, looking away. “I’m dangerous. Pyra and I are, that is. We just happened to get lucky with the people we’re surrounded by.”

Mòrag knows there’s something more behind her words, something with scars that haven’t quite healed over. Whatever happened in the past is long gone, but to Mythra it must feel like mere weeks ago. But she doesn’t prod. It wouldn’t be right.

Mythra shimmers, and then Pyra is there, smiling softly at her. “It’s alright, Mòrag.”

“You deserve a proper apology after the way I spoke about you,” Mòrag says, the words more hasty than her usually calm drawl. “As a Driver myself, I should have known better.”

“It’s alright,” Pyra firmly says. She hesitates, then reaches up to lightly touch Mòrag’s face with her palm. “… You’re a good person, Mòrag. Mythra agrees, too.”

“That’s… a reassurance…” Mòrag’s breath hitches. She stares down at Pyra in bewilderment, unsure how to react to that hand cupping her cheek. Then, as if it wasn’t confusing enough, Pyra leans in, stands on her toes, and pecks her on the cheek.

“I mean it,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Just as quickly as it had happened, Mythra is in her place and walking away. “Alright, let’s go. Corinne should be calling us all for dinner anytime now.”

But it did happen, and Mòrag stares at her retreating back. It isn’t until she hears everyone else approaching that she moves to follow Mythra, to head inside.

Chapter Text

“I’m gonna do it!” Gwin declares, in a bizarre moment of brazen confidence. Unwarranted, more like. “I will! I’ve decided, no more holding back!”

“Good for you, buddy,” Doug says.

Lin chimes in: “Congrats, Gwin.”

“Do your best,” Elma absentmindedly says.

Gwin glances across the three of them. They’re all occupied with their own things— or nothing, apparently, in the case of Doug, who’s picking dirt out of the crevices between his armor pieces with a screwdriver— and aren’t even looking at him. He sighs. “Aren’t you guys gonna ask me what I’m gonna do?”

At least Lin has the courtesy to be curious. Or she’s feigning curiosity. “Aren’t you talking about that request to gather indigen dung samples no one else wanted to do?”

“What— no! Isn’t that a job for the Curators, anyway?”

“That’s no excuse to shirk your work duties, Gwin.” Elma frowns.

“Ugh, forget it… I just thought I’d be able to be open with you guys, of all people.”

Doug pats the empty spot on the couch beside him, then pats more insistently when Gwin doesn’t move. “Hold on, hold on, we’re listening. C’mon, spill it.”

He takes a deep breath, all that bravado from earlier just about gone by now. But! If he lets his nerves get the better of him now, how could he possibly stand his ground for the real deal? This is… practice, yeah. A way to preemptively steel himself. They’re paying full attention now, and Gwin’s suddenly acutely aware of his own self-consciousness.

“… I’m gonna tell Irina how I feel about her. I’m gonna confess!”

“Oooh…” Doug winces.

“W-Wow, thanks for that vote of confidence…”

Oh, for crissakes, even Elma’s making a face. And she never makes faces. Never. Lin softly inhales through her teeth, bringing the tips of her fingers together and up in front of her mouth.

“Uh, Gwin…?” She says, her wince only slightly less pained than Doug’s. “Didn’t you know…?”

His heart falls into his gut. No— it plummets. Gwin had braced himself for this very real possibility, because there are still some things Irina doesn’t tell him, and maybe he’d had his suspicions? Or just those anxious, paranoid thoughts? Damn, he can’t get his head sorted out. Slowly, he sits down beside Doug, holding his head in his hands. “She’s seeing some other guy, isn’t she…? Oh, hell, is it Wolf?! Don’t tell me it’s him!”

“Dude.” Doug lays a heavy hand on his back. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

He’s wrong…? Does he— is there still a chance?

“Irina is involved with Sharon, at the moment,” Elma coolly says, though she’s still making that face at him.

Oh, never mind.

… Sharon?

Gwin squints. “… What?”

“Seriously, Gwin? You’re practically her best friend. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed,” Doug sighs.

No, maybe a small part of him always knew that she was that kind of person. Maybe he was just willfully ignorant to the broad hints and the way Leon sometimes talked about her. Or maybe he’s just an idiot. But no, that’s not the important part— “Wait, wait, who’s Sharon?!”

“Murderess.”

“—Irina is dating the Murderess?!?”

“Right. That’s essentially what I just said.”

Gwin clutches his head, staring down at his knees. How can Elma even say that so casually? “But, how…?!”

“Sorry, Gwin.” Lin sits at his other side and pats his shoulder, half-wincing and half-smiling apologetically. “I guess you’ll have to put a raincheck on that confession, huh?”

No kidding.

“That’s rough, buddy,” Doug coughs.

Chapter Text

Somehow, through one way or another (as things usually do) Mia has appointed herself as Celica’s Special Personal Ambassador For All Things Earthly, aka SPAFATE, as she fondly calls it, even though Celica doesn’t quite understand the need for such a thing.

Is there? Humans seem to have warmed up to them since they’ve first been brought to the city, probably thanks to the influx of other xenoforms taking up residence in NLA, and now they hardly even feel out of place.

But Mia still declares herself to be Celica and Rocks’ SPAFATE, so SPAFATE she shall be.

Maybe it’s just an odd human quirk.

Rock likes Mia, at least.

“Basketball!” Mia holds up the ball. They’re at those asphalt courts at the Sports Complex, empty in the middle of the afternoon when people are either working or hiding elsewhere to slack off from work. “One of the great Earth sports, lost to the untimely tragedy of intergalactic war! Preserved though, of course. … So not technically lost.”

“Yes, we’ve heard of it,” Celica patiently says.

“Really? Damn, and I had a speech prepared and everything.”

“The objective of the game is to toss the ball into the mounted hoop, while preventing your opponent from doing the same, correct?”

“Whaaat, someone already taught you? No fair.”

“More like we just watched other people play,” Rock says. “We haven’t had a chance to try it ourselves.”

“Great, perfect! Then you guys get to play basketball for the very first time with… me! Your very own SPAFATE!”

Mia lightly passes the ball to Celica with an angled bounce against the ground. Celica grabs it and, unsure, hands it to Rock.

Oh, it’s puny in his hand. He could probably flatten it between two fingers if he wanted to— but of course he doesn’t, because he’d probably panic if he did. Rock gingerly cradles the ball between his palms like it's a baby, waiting for… something. Wait, he’s staring at Mia. Mia gestures encouragingly to the hoop when she realizes he’s probably just waiting for her to give him some kinda direction.

“Go on, big guy! Give it a shot!”

“Um, alright,” Rock takes one step close to the hoop and carefully, very carefully, slips the ball down into it. His finger can’t even fit through.

Celica politely claps. “Very good, Rock!”

… It’s not really the proper way to play earth-blooded basketball, but who’s Mia to tell them that? She gives Rock a friendly whack on his leg and picks up the ball, spinning it on one finger. Rock, abashed for some reason, ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck with an embarrassed chuckle.

Which gives Mia a sudden strike of inspiration. Celica seems to realize this by the look on her face alone, and takes half a step behind Rock’s other leg.

“You and me, Celica! The two of us against Rock!”

“Huh?” Rock’s eyes go wide. “Isn’t that a little unfair?”

“To be honest, Mia, Rock and I would be more comfortable if we could team up with each other,” Celica admits.

“Aw, c’mon, you guys are a team all the time! Twenty four seven! Can’t ol’ Mia have a turn?” And it’s not just because Mia had been dying to go on a BLADE mission with Celica but hasn’t been able to find a good opportunity to ask, yet. Nosirree. Yessirree. She dribbles the ball and passes it to Celica. “Listen, I already thought of the perfect way to work around that height advantage Rock has over both of us, too.”

“I don’t think—“

Too late, Mia’s already squatting down and enthusiastically making motions to Celica, then herself.

“Sit on my shoulders!!”

“Ahhh…” Celica pretends to be distracted by something in the opposite direction.

“Hey, I didn’t take you to be the shy type. That’s pretty cute too, in an unexpected way.”

“I do not recall anything like this being recounted in the rules for this game.”

“A little improvisation never hurts!”

“You do realize that even if I were to take you up on that offer, we would still not come to Rock’s full height.”

“I can crouch down a little!” Rock chimes in.

“Thank you, Rock, but that won’t be necessary.”

Mia is still squatting. “Why not!”

“It is not that I dislike you, Mia— on the contrary, you really are pleasant company. However… would I not be too heavy a burden?”

She could almost look outraged. Almost. “You?! A burden for your own SPAFATE?! Perish the thought, my dear Celica! Besides, these mimeosomes are built to be pretty sturdy. You’d be surprised at how much pressure it takes to actually crush one.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Celica puts a hand to her chin, pursing her lips. “Being carried by Rock is one thing, but by you, however…?

“Hm? What’s the big deal?”

Mia’s headtilt is so perfectly bright and oblivious that Celica is beginning to wonder about her own doubt. Rock is too, maybe; he’s wisely keeping quiet to see how this exchange plays out, hands folded together in excitement.

Rock is Rock. Mia is Mia. One is her best friend and the other is… her SPAFATE? Sure.

Celica chuckles to herself. Of all the humans she and Rock have met so far, none quite compare to Mia.

“It’s nothing. Yes, perhaps I shall take you up on that offer, then.”

Though it doesn’t really work, because Mia loses her balance hardly a minute after Celica climbs up onto her shoulders, but at least Rock is there to catch them.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Lin. How’s the project coming along?”

“Almost done! I… think. But everything should be on track!” The place is a mess, but the room hasn’t seen any other use other than for storing old junk to be sorted out later, so it’s fine. If only it had a window, though. Lin straightens up and turns to Elma just in time to see her toss something luminescent her way; she snatches it out of the air, and gasps.

“I picked it up while I was passing through Cauldros the other day,” Elma says. “Since I recall you mentioning you’d be needing one.”

“Thanks so, so much, Elma!” Lin could nearly cry. “This is the last piece I needed!”

“It’s no trouble at all. Let me know how it works out.”

“You’ll see soon enough!”

She could blame the Ma-non for igniting her natural spark of curiosity into a blaze that couldn’t be contained. Artificial Intelligence. The Ma-non have the means for such things all over the place, but they don’t care to act on that potential with their technology. Not to its fullest, at least.

The idea grew and grew and grew until its roots had dug down so far deep that Lin began to have dreams about it, and she finally buckled down and began to try. It took a hell of a lot of trial and error, and numerous consultations from a rather reluctant Tutura who really didn’t see the point in what she was trying to create, until…

Until she’s here.

Truthfully, Lin isn’t entirely certain why she built this either. Curiosity? Certainly. But a small part of her would maybe admit that there are other reasons.

Maybe she’ll talk it over with Elma, later.

But like with the Skell flight modules, she defeated the improbable and did it, and therefore it’s something she can be proud of.

“I’ll call you Poppi,” she decides out loud, because she remembers the poppy flowers her mother used to grow in their garden.

She fits the Elemental Battery that Elma had given her into Poppi, and her robot hums to life.

“Is it alright if I ask what she does?” Elma asks.

Poppi is sitting on the couch. Her body is unmistakably that of a machine’s but Lin had taken great care to give her a face that’s human enough— not too much, for fear of uncanny valley, but enough that she looks alive.

“Poppi can do whatever Lin asks of her!” She speaks with a voice that’s only slightly tinny.

“Oh, she speaks in the third person?”

“Yeaaah, that one might be the Ma-nons’ fault.” Lin shrugs. “They did the bulk of her programming. I may be handy with a wrench, but coding’s not exactly my territory. Especially not coding for an artificial intelligence.”

“Is… Lin unsatisfied with how Poppi speaks?”

“No, no!” Lin sits beside her. “You’re just fine, Poppi!”

Elma raises a brow. She can… see the beginnings of emotion, on that robot’s face. Blank curiosity, mostly. But she can guess that it’s part of her design, to learn and grow, because what else would be the point?

“She’s very impressive, Lin. Well done.”

“Ohhh, you haven’t even seen all her features yet!” Lin puts an arm around Poppi’s shoulders. “I’m also thinking of outfitting her with some weapons— purely for defensive purposes, of course, but other tools, too! That way, she can help me out when I’m working in the hangar.”

“Poppi will do her best to help Lin however she can!”

“Aww, Poppi, you’re too sweet!”

Unlike Lin, Elma is almost entirely certain of the true, underlying reason for all of this. It aches with a bittersweet warmth, and she can’t help but wonder if Lin really had been that lonely this entire time.

It must have been tough, being the only child aboard the White Whale for two entire years.

Poppi is alert and attentive as Lin brings her around the Administrative District first, particularly eager to learn when they pass through Armory Alley, and stares up at the Skells that stomp by with unconcealed awe.

Lin holds her hand the whole way, too excited to stop talking while she explains what’s this and that. She thinks! She learns! She’s… real! As real as a robot with artificial intelligence can be. But Ma-non technology is incredible, really.

“What is that?” Poppi points upward, at BLADE Tower. The pupil lens of her eyes are adjusting, focusing on the numbers displayed.

“That…” Lin falters. “… How about I save that part for the end of the tour, huh?”

“Okie-dokie.”

“Haha, wow, where’d you learn that phrase?”

“Poppi has over eight billion words and phrases currently programmed into harddrive! And counting!”

“You know what?” Lin grasps both her hands, eyes shining. “You’re gonna learn even more once we get that Lifehold Core. There’s so much information and data still stored away in pieces we haven’t found yet!”

“But does that mean Lin would stop explaining things to Poppi, as she is doing right now?”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess so. I wouldn’t really need to teach you myself if you can just download everything, huh?”

Poppi contemplates this, or perhaps she’s only processing what she was just told, and smiles back at Lin.

She actually smiles back.

“Poppi is very excited to learn about whoooole wide universe. And about Lin!”

The days pass and they continue to salvage bits of humanity across Mira, and Poppi is always growing and learning. She never does outgrow her way of speaking, though, and Lin comes to be too fond of it to ask the Ma-non to adjust her linguistics.

Amongst all the new xenoforms settling into NLA, one robot doesn’t really stand out. People double-take at times, but sometimes, Lin can almost believe that this is normal.

Everyone else thinks so. Even Chausson didn’t say much when he was introduced to Poppi for the very first time (Nagi, in comparison, was more excited than Lin had ever seen him before). Other BLADES come to expect and enjoy greeting Poppi when she makes her daily rounds through the city whenever Lin is busy with work or missions. The Ma-non are pleased to see a being of their own technology integrate so seamlessly into their general society, too.

Poppi is as real as anyone could be.

“Thank you,” Elma says to her one evening, while Lin had momentarily left the Barracks to run a quick errand. Poppi’s head swivels toward her. Unlike most others, those robotic movements don’t really unsettle Elma. “For making Lin happy.”

Poppi doesn’t say anything for a moment, sitting perfectly still. “Is that the real reason why Poppi was created?”

“It’s hard to say,” Elma admits. “Lin isn’t one to have irrelevant projects on the side. She cares too much about her work to do things like that. So you were definitely created with meaning and intent— that’s all I can say for certain.”

“For what purpose…?” Is she… pondering? Do machines ponder? Or is it an imitation of pondering, wired into her programming? “Is Elma saying Lin was sad, before Poppi came to be?”

Elma leans against the counter, fingers drumming against the surface. “We’ve all been a little sad, Poppi.”

“Oh.”

“Lin may seem remarkably resilient for someone so young, but she’s still just a kid deep-down. I think she missed having a friend close to her own age.”

“But Poppi is not even year old yet!”

Elma chuckles and reaches across the counter to pat Poppi on the head. She’s wearing a soft knit cap that Hope gifted to her. “That’s true. You truly are a remarkable young lady.”

What had begun as pure, unsullied curiosity has developed into something that Lin, and not even Tutura, could have predicted or coded. A person. Poppi asks questions, she gets answers, she learns, and she thinks.

She thinks about the Ma-nons’ odd obsession with Earth pizza.

She thinks about the flight module Lin is currently developing for her (a scaled-down adaptation of a Skell’s flight module).

She thinks about humanity’s race against that clock on the face of BLADE Tower.

When she looks at herself, at her human-shaped body and machinery parts, she wonders how different they really are. Poppi is well aware of what she is, and how she came to be, but it also means she’s conscious of her own growth and mental capacity.

Her body really isn’t much different from the ones that humans wear.

But she’s neither human nor Ma-non. She’s an artificial creation meant to embody the spirit of a living thing, never to run short of power thanks to that modified Elemental Battery fueling her core, and she’s here because of Lin. She’s here for Lin.

Poppi touches her own face. She can feel it. It’s real, just as real as her love for Lin is.

“Lin? What is love?”

Lin sputters on her milkshake and nearly laughs out loud, but then sees that serious look on Poppi’s face. They’re sitting on the curb outside the diner with a bag of burgers and fries between them. Poppi doesn’t need to eat, but neither do mimeosomes.

“Have you been talking about weird stuff with Gwin again?”

Poppi shakes her head and pops a french fry into her mouth, chewing it and tasting that savory saltiness. “Poppi is still learning.”

“Love is…” Lin closes her eyes. Love was looking forward to seeing her parents after they come home from work. Love was going on late night trips to the ice cream parlor with her father. Love was reading books with her mother on a comfy armchair. Then love was getting to know Elma, and learning about Skells, and prepping homecooked meals in the Barracks.

Love was that feeling when Poppi whirred to life for the very first time.

“Love is whatever you make of it,” Lin decides. Then, she shrugs and takes a bite from her burger. “You’re better off asking someone else, though— not Gwin. Try Hope instead? I think she’d give you the best answer, out of all the people we know.”

“Okie-dokie. Poppi will find Hope tomorrow.”

Poppi hesitates and her hand slowly inches towards the one that’s resting beside the bag between them. Lin leans back and smiles up at the stars, wordlessly taking Poppi’s hand in her own. Both their fingers are greasy from the burgers and fries.

Poppi still has plenty of growing up to do. So does Lin.

Chapter Text

They kiss for the first time in a quiet little corner of Auresco, when the sun’s gone down and the air begins to cool.

Given that neither Lora nor Mòrag have their own experiences regarding these matters of romance and affection, it’s a rather awkward kiss, and they aren’t quite sure what to do with their hands, but it’s a kiss nonetheless. Nothing half-assed, and nothing hesitant. Neither of them would.

“… I suppose this means it’s as real as it would ever be?” Lora breathes out, nearly unable to believe it herself.

“Yes,” Mòrag says, resting her forehead against Lora’s. “It is.”

Still, they mustn’t lose sight of what they’re here to do. People are in danger and Malos is running around somewhere out there, drawing closer and closer to the capital. They can talk about the future all they like, but everyone knows they need to secure it first.

But Auresco is a tranquil city, its people warm. They greet Addam on the streets like he’s an old friend, and not a princeling. Mythra scoffs behind him like his petulant teenage daughter. Hugo and his Blades receive respectful bows, and Jin tries to ignore the curious stares from the few people who seem to recognize him.

Mòrag likes Auresco. It’s very different from the smoggy, dusty streets of Alba Cavanich.

“I have never seen you in such high spirits before, Chief Enforcer,” Hugo says to her, catching her in lone contemplation at the café. “The scenery is a welcome change of pace, is it not?”

“To compare these lands to the glory of Mor Ardain… is…” Though she’s careful with her choice of words, she falters. Mòrag hangs her head.

Hugo brightly smiles and takes the empty seat beside her. “Shall we drop the pretenses for now, Mòrag?”

“Your Majesty—“

“To command you to do so would be a contradiction in itself. So… I’m asking you as your brother. Not as your Emperor.”

She’d forgotten what it was like, before the previous Emperor passed away. It was like an entirely different era. Were things easier back then, or had she simply become accustomed to such things over the years? Hugo folds his hands on his lap, looking out at the people milling about the streets.

“Fernand and I have never been particularly kind to you. I offer my sincerest apologies.”

Mòrag quickly shakes her head. “That’s not true. You granted me an opportunity that Fernand would have withheld. For that, I will always be grateful.”

“I think,” Hugo says, eyes cast down. “That you must find your own purpose in life, if you are ever to be truly happy.”

As if she hadn’t been told that before, by the tutors and instructors who saw her for the purposeless wretch she was. Being a follower and never a leader can’t surely be all that bad. Hugo, of all people, should realize that, as the country’s Emperor. What’s a ruler without people to lead?

But Mòrag isn’t quite so sure anymore. She thinks back to the kiss she and Lora shared in private.

“I am happy,” she says, trying to convince herself more than Hugo.

“To be blunt, Mor Ardain doesn’t need you.” Hugo’s voice doesn’t even waver. “However, that also means that you do not need Mor Ardain. My sister… neither Fernand nor I should ever have a say in how you choose to live your life. You did nothing to deserve the cruelty you endured from us.”

Cruelty? What cruelty? Cruelty in the way Fernand planned to give her away like some kind of trinket, or in the way Hugo conscripted her to the Imperial Guard? They weren’t cruel. They simply had no idea what to do with her, just as Mòrag had no idea what to do with herself.

“Please, don’t burden yourself with guilt,” Mòrag awkwardly says. “… Could we save this discussion for after the war has ended?”

“Ah— of course, if that’s what you’d like,” Hugo nods. “Yes, we ought to be focusing on the upcoming battle against Malos.”

“You ought to be,” she corrects him. “I’m no Driver. I have no place in that fight.”

Hugo struggles to find something to say, because Mòrag is absolutely right— she’s skilled in swordplay, certainly, and perhaps she could even go toe-to-toe with Hugo without intervention from Brighid or Aegaeon, but she’d be useless against the might of an Aegis.

He can see it on her face, too, that resignation of acceptance. Why must she look so content with it?

“I think I’m in love,” Lora declares with a sigh, falling back onto the bed. Which is sort of a mistake, because the mattress isn’t much softer than a plank of wood, but she’s too happy to care.

Jin’s eyes narrow, while Haze’s go wide.

“It’s official, then?!” Haze puts her hands to her mouth. “Congratulations, Lady Lora! I’m so happy for you!”

“Hold on, Haze!” she laughs. “You make it sound as if we’re planning to get married.”

“But are you?” Jin asks.

Lora flashes a crooked smile at him, sitting upright, crosslegged. He still doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion on Mòrag, though he definitely ranks her higher than the likes of Mythra and Addam. At the very least.

“I didn’t take you to be the type to crack jokes like that.”

“Lora,” Jin frowns.

“Relax. Now’s not the time to be making grand plans, I know.” But Lora’s all relaxed and at ease, like Auresco isn’t under threat.

The Tornans are resilient. Lora is resilient. The end of the world is but a small hurdle in the face of a future filled with hope, and everybody is placing their stakes in the group of fighters that Prince Addam brought together. What could possibly go wrong, seems to be the general sentiment in spite of the apprehension.

Jin doesn’t see it like that. He doesn’t understand, but he supposes it’s not his place to upset Lora with his own cynicism.

“She’s gloomy,” Lora fondly says, gazing at the ceiling. “She doesn’t smile much. And she’s rather aimless, too.”

“Like Jin?” Haze giggles.

“Don’t call me aimless,” Jin flatly says.

“But there’s a fire in her eyes, whenever I look at her,” Lora continues. “I’d like to see just how brightly that flame can burn.”

Malos brings only a fraction of his wrath upon the capital with his Artifices. It’s a terrible, terrible sort of chaos, and Mòrag quickly takes the two boys to safety below the inn while the rest of the group confronts the Aegis in the palace gardens. Outside, the Artifices lurch through the streets, firing artillery at anything that moves. Screams and explosions fill the air.

“Can’t we do anything to help?!” Milton paces back and forth, restless. The Titan itself seems to quake, but the ceiling above them holds firm. They should be safe down here. For now.

“Nope,” Mikhail says, and that seems to be that. But Milton isn’t having any of it. He shakes Mòrag’s arm.

“Mòrag!”

“It’s too dangerous,” she says, and Mikhail nods in agreement. “You’ve seen the scars left by the Aegis’s powers. The only ones capable of standing a chance against him are—“

“Master Addam and Mythra! I know, I know!” Milton’s grip on her arm tightens. “But don’t you hate feeling useless, too?!”

She consciously tries not to scowl, and instead places a hand over his head.

“We must have faith in their strength. They’ll be fine.”

Everything that comes after that passes in a sort of surreal haze that Mòrag isn’t quite sure how to parse. The Tornan Titan is awakened. Auresco picks up the broken pieces Malos left behind and resumes life as normal, and Addam decides they should spend time helping with the reconstruction and community efforts before they head to Torna’s Core.

Her brother sends angry letters, demanding to know why Mòrag had stopped reporting back to him.

And Brighid stops looking at her with unconcealed disdain and even Aegaeon is no longer so stiff and distant around her. Maybe it’s because of Lora, though— everyone likes Lora, and now everyone likes Mòrag by mere association.

No, Lora says, that’s wrong. It’s because they finally see Mòrag’s true conviction and strong will. No longer is she a ghost drifting in Hugo’s shadow. She’s… as much as a person as any of them are. Though she lacks the charisma of Prince Addam’s reputation and the regalia of Emperor Hugo’s armor, Mòrag is still there, her presence established into something solid and no longer fleeting.

So Mòrag is there alongside everyone else, when Lora is knighted and established as well. No one would even be able to tell that they had just suffered losses from Malos’s attack days ago.

“So… I’m officially a Tornan Driver now,” Lora murmurs.

She turns to Haze, and Jin, and then Mòrag, a hand held over the crest affixed to her chest. Her smile could illuminate the night skies far better than the moon or stars ever could.

“Okay! Let’s make some memories.”

If they pretend hard enough, they could almost believe that they could build a life right here in Auresco together.

Azurda is basking in the gardens today, allowing curious children to climb all over his back. He grumbles in agreeable humor; it’s a comical sight, watching the kids treating him like a playground.

“Haha! Nuncle always did get along with little ones exceptionally well,” Addam laughs. They’re helping a gardener spread new sand across the garden plots, a menial task unthinkable for royalty to partake in. Yet here they are, lugging heavy bags around and getting sand in their boots under the hot sun. “How’s everyone holding up? There’s no shame in asking for a break!”

“You could put us to better use,” Brighid snaps. “Rather than having us play in dirt.”

“Sand, technically!”

“Shut up, Addam,” Mythra rolls her eyes.

“Is that how you talk to your own Driver, Mythra? You’re a disgrace to all Blades.”

“Shut up, Brighid!”

“I actually enjoy this sort of work,” Lora says to Jin and Mòrag. “It feels nice having something to do that doesn’t involve slaying creatures out in the wilds or tracking down bandits.”

“Agreed,” Jin says, hoisting two full bags of sand on both shoulders. That’s apparently all he has to say about the matter, though, and he walks away to deliver the bags to Aegaeon, who’s currently on his hands and knees in a shallow pit of sand for whatever reason.

Mòrag empties her own bag and reaches for Lora’s. “If you’re getting tired, Lora, let me—“

“You’re too sweet,” Lora says, moving her bag away with a slight grin. “But I was just about to make the same offer.”

“Are you underestimating my endurance?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But still… between a Knight of Torna and the Imperial Guard’s Chief Enforcer, I wonder who would be stronger?”

“Is that a challenge, Lady Lora?”

“There’s still plenty of sandbags to carry!”

Jin and Aegaeon are the only ones watching as Mòrag and Lora hasten to grab more bags of sand, laughing. Jin, distracted, accidentally pours a generous amount right over Aegaeon, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered.

“It is good to see them enjoying themselves with such healthy vigor,” Aegaeon says.

Jin pours more sand on him, this time intentionally. “Don’t say it like that.”

Normalcy can only reach so far, though. Malos is still waiting.

“To whom do your loyalties lie, Mòrag?”

It’s the last question Hugo ever asks her. Mòrag looks to him, then to Brighid and Aegaeon standing vigil behind him, and feels nothing.

“To those I love and care for.”

Hugo grasps her hand and nods. “Good answer. I’ll see you soon enough… my dear sister.”

“Goodbye, Hugo.”

She watches the group’s retreating backs as they leave Auresco together. Lora glances over her shoulder and mouths out words that she can’t quite interpret, but her head is held high and Jin and Haze are at her sides. It’ll be alright. Mòrag takes a deep breath, hardly noticing when Mikhail tugs at her sleeve. She looks down at him.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” he says, solemn.

Yeah, she knows.

Torna dies violently, without dignity, sinking. Does it feel pain? Does it notice the blasts tearing apart the beautiful landscapes on its back? Does it hear the cries of those who stayed behind?

Mòrag feels nothing, when she kneels beside Hugo’s body and weeps.

The Special Inquisitor is here. Addam quietly hands over Brighid and Aegaeon’s Core Crystals with not much more than a somber heave of his back. Then the Special Inquisitor turns to look straight at Mòrag, who sits among the other Tornans. Milton is crying into her shoulder, and Mikhail is holding her other arm so tightly that she can’t feel her fingers.

Addam drifts away to stare at the unconscious girl who isn’t Mythra.

“Special Inquisitor,” Mòrag nods at him. Vill Ethelmar answers directly to Fernand— Emperor Fernand now, she bitterly realizes through the numb fog.

“Chief Enforcer Mòrag,” Vill hesitates. Those children. Why are they clinging to her like that? “His Majesty’s brother will be expecting your return. I have a Titan ship chartered.”

“No,” Lora walks over, every step as heavy as lead. “She’s not going— you can’t go back, Mòrag.”

Mòrag’s eyes are unfocused. She’s tired, so tired. Hugo’s body is still within her line of vision. Minoth is sitting beside him now, head bowed.

Lora crouches beside Mòrag; Milton automatically moves aside to allow her to get closer, sniffling and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

“… You won’t go, right?” Lora softly asks, her voice shaking.

She’s perfectly aware of what will happen if she walks right back into Hardhaigh Palace, where Fernand’s resentment and wrath awaits her. Hugo… wouldn’t have wanted that. There are a lot of things he wouldn’t have wanted.

Mòrag shakes her head, staring right at those tinted goggles. “I stay with Lady Lora and her Blades. Please let Fernand know of my decision, Special Inquisitor.”

It’s her decision alone, not merely Lora’s.

“He could have you tried for treason,” the Special Inquisitor takes a step forward.

“He can try,” Lora says. “But you heard her. Mòrag goes with me.”

Vill Ethelmar is a man of duty and little else, but his Emperor’s dead body is a stone’s throw away and those two children still hold onto Mòrag like they’re afraid she’d slip away into the clouds with Torna. He nods, the Jewels of Mor Ardain heavy in his pockets.

“I wish you the best of luck, Mòrag Ladair.”

They exchange their farewells at Lascham Cove, where a good handful of Tornans disembark and head towards Torigoth. Most of them don’t even give Addam a glance as they pass by, and Addam looks down at the ground in shame.

“The Royal Spirit Crucible is in Leftheria. That’s where I’ll be headed next,” he says. The girl who calls herself Pyra is waiting for him out of earshot, thoughtfully staring at a patch of weeds. She hasn’t said much to anyone. It’s as if she’s anxious. “And Minoth already left for Spessia, as one last favor to me. Some remnants of the militia are there.”

“So I suppose… this is farewell, then,” Lora quietly says.

Addam slowly exhales. “Milton? Will you be coming with me?”

“I- I’m sorry, Master Addam…” Milton’s eyes are watering, fists clenched tightly at his sides. Mikhail puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t… want to leave anyone, but…”

“I understand.”

And so Addam leaves in one direction alone with that quiet, anxious girl, and the rest go the other way. Lora and her Blades. Two children with nowhere else to go. And the former Chief Enforcer of the Ardainian Imperial Guard.

“I’m thinking of Uraya,” Lora says, one hand wrapped in Mòrag’s and the other held by Milton. “I heard they have a lot of active mercenary groups based throughout the Titan. I bet we can find someplace for us there.”

“Things… won’t necessarily be any different, even though Malos is dead now,” Jin looks out across the Cloud Sea, still and tranquil. “Peace won’t come so easily.”

“It could never be that simple, no,” Mòrag says. Fernand might be sending people after her, as far as she knows. His vindictive nature runs deep; at least she can rest knowing he will never be able to awaken Brighid or Aegaeon.

“Will the fighting ever stop?” Haze looks like she might cry at any second.

“As long as people inhabit this world…” Jin pauses, and looks to Lora.

“As long as people inhabit this world, things can change. There’s always hope,” she says, squeezing Mòrag’s hand. “Humans and Blades have each other. We have each other. Right? All of us are here, together.”

Mòrag feels it all crashing down at last, the excruciating grief in her heart with all its hues of sorrow and mourning and hope. Her breath shudders and she holds steady, rendering her motionless for a suspended moment. She sees it so vividly, everything that had happened, everything that had brought the six of them together at this point. Hugo's words still resonate within her chest. It’s… painful.

She feels it, and could cry all over again.

Someday, surely…

Mòrag nods. "Yes. We go together."

Chapter Text

She wakes up before the sun rises, just as she always does, and allows her eyes to adjust to the bleary light of Brighid’s flames.

Brighid is curled up against her, head resting on her shoulder. Her back slowly rises and falls with her steady breathing, her fire dimming and glowing with every inhale and exhale. That seems to be an unconscious thing, as it only ever happens when she’s fast asleep. Mòrag had once contemplated how convenient it would be if Brighid were able to control it at will, but now she’s too used to that glowing to even consider sleeping in complete darkness.

Mòrag fondly runs fingers through her hair. She’s warm, as she always is, welcome when they’re somewhere like Tantal where the air is too cold.

Right on cue, Brighid stirs about five minutes after Mòrag had awakened.

“Good morning, Brighid,” Mòrag whispers, still playing with her hair. Brighid keeps her eyes closed, but her light is no longer dimming.

“Don’t get up just yet,” Brighid mumbles, pressing her face close to Mòrag’s neck. “I’m still asleep.”

“There’s no need for excuses. I wasn’t planning on disturbing you.”

“Even though you already did?”

Ha, ha. Mòrag shifts and turns onto her side to wrap an arm fully around Brighid, reveling in her blossoming heat as she gradually makes her way to full lucidity. Brighid yawns. Her fire flares. Mòrag kisses the crown of her head.

“You’re very warm…”

“I could say the same thing of you, Lady Mòrag.”

Their legs tangled together, lips finding each other, hands caressing and stroking— moments like these are few when they rarely get privacy these days. To take it for granted would be to be an undeserving fool. She kisses Brighid again and again and again until her kisses have come down to her nose, and Mòrag pulls the blanket up higher over themselves.

“Allow me to be honest for a moment,” Brighid whispers, squirming beneath Mòrag’s ticklish kisses. “But this side of you in the mornings may be my favorite yet.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Mòrag kisses her again, drawing ever closer to her mouth. “It isn’t as though I could let my guard down in any other situation.”

“Shh, stop talking. I’m trying to sleep.”

Hah…” Mòrag breathes in her warm scent and closes her own eyes as well. Brighid nestles against her with a contented sigh. “Very well. Good morning, Brighid.”

“And a good morning to you too, Lady Mòrag.”