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Chapter Text

On a field outside Valm Castle, hundreds of soldiers gathered into a massive crowd.

"We have won!" they cheered, raising their fists into the air. "The Conqueror has been defeated! Let his tyranny forever cease!"

Others remained quiet and didn't participate in the celebration out of fatigue and relief. Both sides have laid down their weapons, the battle having ended some time ago with the Shepherds and the rebels defeating the powerful Walhart and his army.

The din died down as the swordmaster princess of Chon'sin walked toward a young blue-haired prince in a small, open area in the middle of the crowd. Her eyes shone with confidence and hope as she approached him.

"Sir Chrom, a thousand thanks from every Valmese couldn't repay what you did for us," Say'ri said, giving a slight bow to the leader of the Shepherds. "But I recovered Vert, the Gemstone that was stolen from Chon'sin as a trophy."

In her hand was a small glimmering orb, its color a lively green. Chrom looked at it with mild wonder.

"You're giving it to me?" he asked.

"Of course, sir. It seems the fell dragon will soon threaten us all. I would feel safer knowing the Gemstone was in your hands."

Chrom nodded, his face suddenly grave. If anyone else were to possess Vert or any of the other Gemstones, then he wouldn't be able to perform the rite of Awakening that was key in defeating the fell dragon, Grima. Worse, if someone else were to possess all of them and the Fire Emblem, then they would most likely use them to further their own malicious goals.

"Then so it will be. Thank you, Say'ri."

With a hand clenched around Vert, he turned and walked toward the rest of the Shepherds, and the crowd erupted into cheers once again. With the Shepherds' business in Valm finished, it was now time to move on and prepare for the long journey back to Ylisstol.

Away from the celebrating crowd, Valm Castle stood like the remains of ancient ruins, silent yet imposing. The enormous red banners, adorned with great black lions, fluttered in the wind without pride. Numerous corpses from both sides were scattered on the ground, pale and unmoving.

Inside, a heavy silence echoed throughout the halls. Nothing stirred within; here, there were even more bodies of fallen soldiers, their blood having stained the ruined walls and floors, their weapons broken and destroyed. But nowhere else was the silence more deafening than in the throne room, where most of the Valmese army made its last stand — where he made his last stand.

A long time ago, it would be impossible for Walhart to imagine being in a predicament like this, but now he found himself lying on the cold marble floor before an imposing red throne, just like many of the others who had fallen in the chaotic battle that ensued a while ago. His large armored form was a dented mess, and his face and long white hair were caked with blood. The once proud and mighty conqueror had been reduced to nothing more than a dying man encased in a coffin that was his red armor.

It is only befitting that I should die a violent death. Prince Chrom, after all, was the victor. There is no doubt about it…

Death, after all, was just waiting for him to fall asleep.

Yet I will not yield. Not when what little life I have is still within me!

He let out a brief laugh. Reassurance was a stupid, futile way to keep himself awake. He felt a dull pain throughout his body, although he had been rendered mostly numb to it some time ago, the wounds from the piercing swords of the prince and his tactician meaning nothing to him. He sighed. Something heavy pushed down on his eyes, desperately wanting him to get much-needed sleep.

If I could rouse myself to my own two feet for a final request, I would want nothing more than to speak with the prince's tactician and voice my own opinion of her brilliance on the battlefield. Never have I seen such prowess and determination on any soldier before, which without question commands great respect. Perhaps she, in another life, was my tactician instead of that vile Excellus. Yet... didn't she and the prince want... peace? Perhaps… I once yearned and fought for peace… Yet… Where… Why… Why have I strayed? … Why haven't I… accepted… his offer...

His tired eyes began to fail him, and he could barely make an outline of his dark, hazy surroundings. He tried to raise an armored hand into the air, despite the sheer pointlessness and stupidity of it, as though he half-expected someone to pull him to his feet. If this was what happened before death, then he wished for it to be over; the pain, the approaching darkness, all of it. He no longer cared whether he went to a beautiful, colorful paradise or a dark, hellish realm; anything but experiencing the slow minutes of his fading life ticking away would bring him comfort.

As the ceiling loomed over him like an uncaring starless night sky, his eyes closed, and his arm collapsed to the floor.

Chapter Text

"So, you have fallen, Walhart," a voice said, echoing as if in a vast chamber. "I've expected you."

He opened his eyes, only to be met with a pervasive darkness as he tried to determine where the voice was coming from. He attempted to stand, but despite his efforts, he couldn't; he felt a heavy weight upon him, pushing him down and pinning him to an invisible floor. A harsh cold wind flowed around him, chilling his armor-clad body.

Recovering from his surprise, Walhart nodded to himself, understanding what the words meant. He knew that he wouldn't be welcomed into paradise or heaven or whatever place the believers have called it, and he knew that Naga or Mila or whatever god or goddess they prayed and worshipped wouldn't welcome him and call his name. It was inconceivable that he would ever be accepted into a pure and holy plane of existence by such divine beings anyway.

Yet he was also puzzled—was hell actually a cold and dark place, without any fires or tortured souls? Was it different all along, that it was a simple, isolated and miserable black void, full of nothing, and had no resemblance to its typical depictions? Was he in limbo, or was he on the verge of ceasing out of existence?

There are times when there is little distinction between what is real and what is fiction, though whether he was in a post-mortem realm or simply experiencing a dream did not matter to him any longer. Perhaps the world would be better off without any memory of him, that it would be spared from his history of cruelty and tyranny. It would be folly to face it again anyway, if it was even possible. Most would still see him as nothing more than an evil, power-hungry ruler, or worse, a dangerous, irredeemable beast.

A sigh. "My legacy… what have you done to this land?" the voice asked, tinged with anger.

Who was speaking to him? Whose legacy was the voice talking about?

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ITS PEOPLE?"

It was clearer than when he first heard it, and he deduced it to be coming from a young man, or at least someone or something with the voice of one. He looked around again to search for its owner, only to see nothing more than the unrelenting black void.

"Stop!" another voice pleaded. It sounded like a young woman.

Why were these voices seeming to come from everywhere in the dark, with one calling him out for his wrongdoings and the other begging the first to stop? Shouldn't they be torturing him with weapons or be filled with glee while telling him that he was bound here for eternity, unable to atone for his actions?

But then again, why was he faltering and doubting like any lesser man? He was still the Conqueror! Nothing shall easily intimidate him into submission!

It took a great effort for him to stand up again, as there was still a certain heaviness pressed upon his body. Then a sudden burst of energy overcame him, and he stood up quickly, his blood rushing to his head. He swayed briefly before shrugging the dizzying feeling off. "You dare to hide from the Conqueror?" he shouted into the dark void. "I demand you to show yourselves! NOW!"

At first, nothing happened. He did not hear any more voices. Then the howling cold wind ceased to blow, and he felt the chill disappear.

An explosion of blue light lit the dark void, forcing Walhart to shield his eyes with a gauntlet-covered hand. The glaring light intensified, forcing his eyes shut. After what seemed to be the longest minute in existence, the blue light disappeared.

Upon opening his eyes, he found himself standing in his ruined throne room. It seemed to be night, judging by the few slivers of pale moonlight present in the dark room. Walhart could not tell if hours, days, or even months have passed since the battle, but at the moment, he didn't care how long he stayed in the black void.

All he knew was that he wasn't alone when he came back.

Three balls of light materialized in the distance from where Walhart stood. At first, he stared at them with curiosity and confusion, only for wariness and skepticism to overcome him.

Fear also tried to settle on his features, without much success. He was not one for superstition or the supernatural, believing them to be things the old and the naïve immediately took to when they saw things they could not explain, yet his mind could not curb the instinct to grit his teeth and stay in place.

He waited, his squinted eyes focused on the lights. They hovered and emitted a hypnotic blue glow, seemingly waiting for him to come to them instead.

He walked toward the lights, aware that he carried no weapons; there was no need to defend himself. If these were psychopomps leading him to his fate, then he was ready to accept it—any doubts and feelings of uncertainty were to be cast aside.

As he approached the lights, their forms became clearer, being three floating blue flames. They burned without the warmth and hospitality of a fireplace and instead gave off an unnatural chill, yet a part of him couldn't help but be captivated by their strange allure as they began to move around in a circle.

He recognized them from a book he read and cared little about from a long time ago. The flames, he remembered, were called by a few fanciful names such as will-o'-the-wisps, ignis fatui, and specters. To the Chon'sinese, they were called hitodama and were said to be seen only at nighttime. Though the ones that floated before him burned blue, they were also said to burn yellow or white. The flames continued their mid-air dance after he stopped to watch them, then vanished.

A whoosh came from behind him. He whipped around, but where he expected the flames to reappear, he saw three human figures morphing from blue fire before his throne.

Three people who were said to have lived two thousand years ago.

Chapter Text

A green-haired teenage boy in blue armor appeared first, followed by a red-haired teenage girl in white and gold. The last was a large old man, clad in red armor and holding a massive lance. Despite a cold blue aura surrounding their pale forms, they maintained a regal air about them. But what Walhart found to be the most striking feature on any of the three figures was the old man's face.

It looked worn and weary, with eyes that were serious but tired, as if the old man had yet to receive any rest. His white hair fell just below his shoulders, giving him an appearance not unlike that of an old lion. Despite being an unfamiliar stranger, there was something about the man's appearance that secretly unnerved Walhart, though he couldn't tell exactly what it was about the old man that made him feel uneasy.

"You must be Walhart, the famous Emperor of Valm. The Conqueror himself," the boy said as he walked toward Walhart, making no footsteps on the tiled floor. He stopped before the opposing man, then gave him a cold, disapproving stare.

"Do you realize what you've done?" he asked, almost whispering. Walhart said nothing, his face a stoic facade.

"Do you realize that you have undone my—no, our efforts? My immediate successors' efforts?" the boy continued, gesturing to the girl and the old man behind him.

Upon receiving no answer from Walhart again, his eyes narrowed, and he pulled a sword from his right side, brandishing it. Walhart backed away from the boy, steeling himself for a fight despite not having the Wolf Berg with him.

"Do you?!"

"Alm, please!" shouted the girl, who ran toward Walhart and the boy. The old man made no effort to stop her, and he continued to stand silently by Walhart's throne, his face unchanging and his hands still on his lance like a dedicated guard. The girl stopped between them, and the boy called Alm glared at her as she unsheathed her sword.

"Celica, this bastard has done nothing but conquer this land for the sake of power. Are you serious in defending him in spite of what he's done?"

"Yes."

Alm stepped back, his jaw dropping. "No. Y-you can't, Celica."

She sighed, closing her eyes. "Alm, do you remember what your father has done?"

"Rudolf?" Alm glanced at the old man standing by the throne. "What does he have to do with him?" he asked, his eyes returning to Walhart.

"Don't you remember that your father played a long game and made a risky gambit, that he was actually trying to get you to defeat him in order for you to unite the continent and rid the land of the gods and their influences?"

"Yes, I do," Alm grumbled as he sheathed his sword. "But I still don't follow your point, or understand why you trust him so easily."

"What I meant to say was… what if Walhart had similar goals like your father? One that was ultimately for the good of the people despite his questionable choices and methods? And no, Alm, I don't trust him. At least, not completely."

After replacing her sword, she turned to Walhart and gave him a small smile. "Tell me, was your heart truly set on ridding the evil plaguing this world and bringing peace to the land?"

"Yes," Walhart answered.

"Yet you have been led astray in your quest to unite the continent, consumed with intoxicating thoughts of power and domination. Is this correct?"

"It is true."

Celica looked at Alm, who met her gaze. Though his face softened, he retained his glare.

"I guess you have a point, Celica. But—"

"Alm…"

"Fine," he said, then looked at Walhart. "You have disgraced your name, as well as your predecessors. Now I cannot forgive you for some of the things that you've done, but if what I heard was true, then at least I can tell you this. You have a choice."

"A choice," Walhart repeated. He had to make an effort of restraining himself from laughing out loud and rolling his eyes at Alm's words. This was, without a doubt, a dream. What would have been his choices, other than the ones he made a long time ago, the ones that set him onto a path of conquest and terror?

"To live."

That was not the answer he expected.

"Of course, you don't have to," Alm continued. "You can join us instead, and perhaps we can talk some more for a while. You're not forced to stay with us, but if you wish to face the world again, despite what the people will think about you…"

"You have the power to make that choice as well," Celica said.

Walhart's eyes flitted between Alm and Celica. To live and fight again was an enticing thought, but it seemed too good to be true, too optimistic.

"What are the terms upon making this choice?" he asked.

"Well, if you wish to return, then you will need to understand that the most we can do is provide you with some help before you go your own way," Alm said.

"Now hold still so I can tend to your injuries," Celica said, waving her hands around gracefully. Then she stopped, her palms open and facing toward Walhart. A whitish-blue ball of light enveloped her hands, then moved to him in a gentle arc. When it came into contact with his body, he felt a surge of relief and a heavy weight lifted from him, and he almost wished that the comforting feeling would last.

But it was not to be.

A loud whistle pierced the air of the otherwise quiet room. As the healing light faded away, he heard a quick, repeating three-beat noise, bringing with them the outline of a large figure. As it came closer, the noise became distinct, cantering hoofbeats, and despite the dimness of the room Walhart could see that the figure was covered in red and white.

His horse!

The stallion slowed and stopped before him, then whinnied. He walked up to it, extending a hand to pat it on the head. Under normal circumstances, he would've asked how it managed to come back and find him after having disappeared for so long, but at the moment, he was too stupefied to question anything.

Even as he was handed the Wolf Berg.

"Gods, do you realize how heavy that thing is? It's a wonder you can lift it yourself, as if you're worthy of it or something."

As Walhart inspected his ax, he heard another repetitive noise coming from somewhere near him. He saw Alm with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Did he bring him his ax? He snickered at the thought of it.

"Not even a thank you… Just as I've expected. But that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is that you will get out of here in no time."

Walhart ignored him, his attention on Celica instead. She was waving her hands around again, though the light that emanated from them wasn't the same light he saw when she healed him. Instead of traveling through the air toward him, the ball of light fell to the floor. A flash, and the ball of light grew into a glowing pillar that lit up the room.

"Whenever you are ready, you may step into the light," she said.

He took a long gaze at his throne room. It was a wonder to see it in this state after that fateful battle, yet he didn't care whether or not it will be restored to its former glory. It's not that he even missed it anyway.

He climbed onto his horse and gave the reins a tug. It made a small protesting noise, then walked to the light. Once they entered the pillar, he tugged on them again, and the horse stopped. Alm and Celica walked toward him, then stopped short before the pillar.

"As I have said before, you have disgraced yourself and your predecessors, and I cannot completely forgive you for what you've done," Alm said. "But we helped to give you another chance. A chance to live."

"Now, we don't expect you to change immediately, or even that much, but once you leave this place, you are free to do whatever you want," Celica said.

"But don't think that you aren't going to be watched, because we will be."

A large figure approached, and without looking behind them Alm and Celica stepped aside to make way. Try as he might, Walhart could not help but involuntarily pale when he saw his face again.

Rudolf.

"Isn't it strange, for you to strongly resemble me? Truth be told, I don't understand it either. Perhaps…" Rudolf trailed off, and his eyes narrowed as they examined Walhart and his horse. They slowly widened, and then they closed. He sighed.

"It matters not. You have attempted to emulate those before you, such as my son and myself, and there is no doubt that your original intentions were for a noble cause. There are few that have your character, which has appealed and convinced many to follow you, but you have strayed from your initial path.

Before you depart, I ask you this: take heed of my son's and Celica's words. In addition to that, I have my own personal request for you, though it may be nothing more than wishful thinking. Though you may travel on your own path, there is the option of creating one that will lead you back to your original intentions. However, it is not necessary for you to carve such a path immediately—that will be up to you to decide when."

His last words echoed in Walhart's ears, then faded away.

The brief reign of silence that followed, however, was interrupted by the light pillar as it grew brighter, startling his horse. It attempted to rear on its hind legs and escape the pillar's grasp, though the combined tight grasp of the reins and immobilizing power of the pillar rendered its efforts to be futile. Everything was disappearing and replaced with a bright white color that filled Walhart's vision and forced him to close his eyes.

Amid the frightened neighs and the feeling of being stretched through a tight space, he heard a faint voice that seemed to say "Remember," upon which he knew no more.

Chapter Text

Walhart remembered waking up with his head spinning from dizziness. The area where he woke up was given the apt nickname of Conqueror's Whetstone, located a few miles northeast from Valm Castle, and was comprised of a sparse wood covering a cliff frequently battered by crashing waves and the occasional storm. Weathered tombstones dotted the ground, their words faded from the elements and the passage of time. Many rumors surrounded it, from being a place where those that opposed him were buried after they were killed in battle, to a "secret training ground" that he used to sharpen his fighting skills. Some even say it was a cursed cemetery that spawned monsters and harkened back to ancient times.

He also remembered somehow compelling the Risen to follow his command, though whether he managed to do it by his own power or under a spell that allowed him to control them didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was the prince that appeared before him, briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning.

"Walhart! You survived?!" Chrom shouted.

"My heart beats no more…"

Because it stopped after I have lost my way, when you have defeated me during that fateful battle. But perhaps…

"But the flame within me refuses to gutter out. This marks the third and final time our blades will cross!" he yelled.

"The war has ended, Walhart! We've no reason left to fight."

"We have EVERY reason! A conqueror rules by strength alone. Defeat is death, and I must rise again!"

Thunder boomed overhead, and Chrom gasped. It was clear that this man—no, monster—was as crazy and dangerous as ever. "That's utter nonsense! The fell dragon is reborn and plans to destroy this world! If you're really so dead set on battle, then fight at my side!"

"Such arrogance. This world is mine! I'll suffer no one to harm what is mine, be they man, dragon, or otherwise."

"Then let's strike him down together." To have someone like Walhart on the Shepherds' side would be a major advantage, considering his strength and prowess on the battlefield. Chrom hoped that Walhart would accept the offer.

"Words will not divert my course. Only steel! If you would claim me, draw your blade and make it so!"

Chrom sighed; of course Walhart would say that. "Fine! We can fight again… But when I defeat you THIS time, you WILL join my cause!"

He rushed toward Walhart, aware that he was up against an opponent that could easily crush him in one blow. He took a swipe with the Exalted Falchion, although it was blocked by the other man's ax. Walhart swung Wolf Berg in retaliation, only for the strike to be parried by Chrom's sword. He decided to spur his horse away from Chrom, leaving him alone surrounded by a loose cluster of trees.

Chrom stayed in place, his breaths heavy. His eyes darted around the place, desperate to catch a glimpse of Walhart, while his ears strained to hear battle cries or thundering hooves over the punishing rain and wind.

Nothing.

A large shadow flitted among the trees, though he chalked it up to his mind playing tricks on him. He gripped his sword tighter, his breaths becoming more ragged.

And then he heard him.

He looked around wildly, though it was in vain. No matter where he looked, he couldn't see Walhart through the rain and the trees. The hoofbeats grew louder, and he spun around.

Behind him.

As Walhart charged ever closer, Chrom noticed something strange. The hoofbeats of the galloping steed became independent thuds against the soaked earth. The rain fell at a snail's pace, the individual drops more apparent. He could even see a branching streak of light in the sky, though its brightness forced his eyes to quickly shut.

He stumbled, his vision briefly blinded by the lightning. He saw Walhart's blurry form mere feet away from him, ready to strike again. Chrom leaped aside to dodge the incoming blow in a desperate attempt to get away from his opponent and landed in a heap upon the wet grass.

"Thoron!"

That voice!

A large bolt of lightning surged above him as he laid low in the grass, followed by another. Somewhere he heard a pained yell and a thud. For a while, he heard nothing else but the rain as it calmed down to a drizzle.

"Chrom! I've been looking for you. Are you all right?"

He blinked. Robin was standing over him, a small smile upon her face.

"Yeah," he replied. Robin stretched out the hand not holding her tome, which he accepted. With some effort he stood up, slightly dizzy. She supported him, and the two walked toward Walhart, who laid in the muck not far away.

"Ngh… Then the exalt-to-be is… the conqueror in true…" Walhart muttered. A brief silence lingered in the air between them, only to be broken by the distant clamor of footsteps and cheerful cries. The other Shepherds have arrived, forming a small crowd near the three. One of them, a young girl with blond pigtails, came forward with her staff, which glowed when she began to heal him.

"You gave your word, Walhart," Chrom said. "Now fight with us."

He extended a hand, followed by Robin doing the same. After hesitating, Walhart begrudgingly gave each of them a hand, and they combined their efforts, pulling the large man to his feet. Once he found his footing, he drew himself to his full height, intimidating some of the Shepherds; Lissa's staff even ceased to glow as she pulled it back and held it to her chest, her eyes widening.

"First I must know how you defeated me," he said. "I have never lacked for strength."

"No, you're far stronger than me. Even now I think that's true," Chrom admitted. "But you stand alone. My own strength is but a fraction I wield." He turned to the others behind him. "My allies hone and temper me. They boost my morale and guide my actions."

"You tread the path of kings," Walhart said, walking toward his horse. It was standing underneath a tree in a pitiful attempt to keep dry.

"What?"

"You rule by winning hearts," he continued, climbing onto the loyal steed. "I rule by winning battles. We are opposites, you and I. I cannot change. I tread the path of the conqueror, and conquerors walk alone. However, I am curious to see just how far your kingly path can lead you…"

He gently spurred it to a slow walk, away from the onlooking crowd. They did not follow him, save for Robin.