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The halls of their home are already dark as night settles in, most of the light coming from a select few candles that had yet to be extinguished, namely in their daughter’s room. He’s just returned home, but as he nears the room, he can hear his wife’s voice through the wall, muffled and low, but almost narrative in manner. When he reaches the door, he peeks in to see Tharja reading some sort of story to Noire, and by the look on Noire’s face, a terrifying one. Most might consider nothing but Children’s books were suitable for a child of five, but neither Lon’qu nor Tharja had ever been in the business of coddling.
He doesn’t mean to linger, but the sight holds him there. Tharja’s noticed him, but doesn’t acknowledge his presence more than a quick glance, continuing her sentences uninterrupted. Lon’qu isn’t bothered by it. In truth, he had no intention of interrupting this in any way. Especially not after the shit they went through years ago. The Noire from the ruined future had not grown up so lucky. The dying world and that Tharja’s desire to avenge Robin and Chrom had made her desperate to protect her own family, even resorting to testing hexes intended to keep them safe on them directly, not wanting to waste time testing on other subjects first.
And when the Lon’qu from that world died, she spiraled more, to the point of scaring her own daughter, turning her timid and unstable. She’d been so young, she didn’t understand it, believing that Tharja used her as a guinea pig, or would do it as punishment…believing only some of the hexes had been intended for protection. When she came back and spoke of it, the others had been quick to cast the blame on Tharja for being a terrible mother, for mistreating her own child.
Lon’qu didn’t believe it for a second. They didn’t truly understand Tharja or how she worked. They didn’t take into account how even in that world, Tharja had given up her own life to save Noire’s. They didn’t see the look in her eyes when she found out. Past her abrasive exterior, they didn’t see how much it truly bothered her that in another timeline, she’d taken such a path.
He did.
He remembers too clearly the day she made him swear that if she ever turned into that woman, that he would kill her. He recalls to vividly the uncharacteristic panic she’d been in when she first told him she was pregnant. Tharja didn’t seem to fear anything, and many days he believed that to be true. But if anything scared her, it was the thought that she would turn into a monster of a mother.
So seeing her here now, being the exact opposite of that, with their small daughter clinging to her arm for comfort from the likely intense images in her own imagination conjured by the story’s words…he smiles. History had been rewritten, yes. But not just on a grand scale. Even in just their family alone, things had been rewritten. Chrom and Robin’s survival and the fall of Grima…there was nothing to drive Tharja to desperation, nothing to turn Lon’qu into a reckless scapegoat who died to protect his wife, nothing to turn Noire into a timid craven with no sense of confidence. In truth, this is maybe only the fifth time he’s seen Noire do anything but smile, let alone look scared.
Having lingered long enough, he takes a step to continue down the hall, but the creak of a floorboard betrays his movements. Noire’s gaze shoots up to see him moving past the doorway, and she calls out after him. “Papa!” A tiny hand pats at the bed beside her, eyes still wide as saucers. “It’s scary!” Tharja pauses briefly to look at her.
Lon’qu sighs, knowing that even here, he’s seen a protector. But it’s not a role he wants to hold solely. Glancing back at her, he shakes his head, but offers a comforting smile.
“ You’ll be fine, Noire. Mom will keep you safe .”
And the young girl seems to accept that, nodding sheepishly before clinging to Tharja’s arm tighter. Satisfied with that, he continues down the hall to turn in for the night.
About twenty minutes or so pass, he’s nowhere near asleep yet, having never been one to find it quickly. Tharja’s near silent footfalls aren’t noticeable, he only knows she’s coming when the same loose floorboard that creaked under him does the same for her. But rather than feeling her climb into her side of the bed, he feels the weight shift on the mattress closer to his own body. As she’s crawled over to him, he opens his eyes slightly, just before she leans down, pressing her lips against his. Though tired and sluggish, he reaches one hand behind her neck, fingers sliding through her hair as he kisses her back. There aren’t really any unnecessary words needed in that moment, but feeling daring, he wraps his other arm around her waist, gently pulling her down onto the bed beside him. His grip isn’t restricting, more of a guiding request than anything. But she follows, and given that her arms reach for him as well and her lips don’t leave his, he believes he can get away with holding her close for a while. Maybe all night if he’s lucky.