Archive of Our Own

.o0o.

Demoiselle

The afternoon is unspeakably warm, and Maribelle sits in the shade cast by a large elm. The Shepherds (along with the small menagerie of allies Chrom seems to attract wherever he goes) are training in a nearby field. Her embroidery hoop lies abandoned in her lap, the needle tucked away, and she finds herself staring, not for the first time, at Henry.

He's skinny as a rake, so narrow in the waist that Maribelle thinks it may be downright unhealthy, and when he rolls up his sleeves around the campfire at night, she's certain she can see bones beneath the pale, almost blanched skin. At first, she thinks it may be a Plegian custom to starve their mages in the dark, but as time passes, she realises that it isn't the case at all.

Henry spends as much time in the sun as the rest of them, and when dinner is served, he eats more than Chrom and Vaike put together. Sometimes, he joins them in training, and she can tell from the way he handles a sword that he's used one before. It's strange, Maribelle thinks, because she doesn't know him very well, but there's something about him that simply doesn't add up.

It's the mystery that fascinates her more than anything else about him.

Pursing her lips, she returns to her embroidery. The Plegian is new to their cause, but Chrom and Robin both seem to trust him for some reason, so she supposes that her suspicions are misplaced. He's let his guard down far too often for him to be an enemy spy, and there's a casual indifference in the way he behaves, as if he doesn't quite care about secrets, ruses, and lies.

She chuckles at the thought. If there's a spy in their camp, it's Tharja. She's a haughty thing that dresses in a very peculiar manner, all sheer silks and exposed skin. Tharja is shrouded in mystery and allure, an altogether different kind of conundrum to Henry, whose very nature seems to try and drive everyone around him away.

Maribelle isn't quite sure why she dislikes the other woman, but a small voice whispers that maybe it's because she's everything that she isn't. More than that, Tharja seems oddly at ease with Henry. They ate together and studied their tomes together, and Maribelle doesn't know why she finds their friendship unsettling.

"There you are," calls a cheery voice, and Maribelle turns to find Lissa approaching. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"You can't have been looking all that well," she retorts. "I've been here all morning."

"Of course you have," says Lissa, and Maribelle doesn't miss the sly note in her best friend's voice. Turning towards the training swordsmen, she smirks. "How long has Frederick been there?"

"How am I to know?" asks Maribelle.

"Gaius?"

"I don't know," snaps Maribelle, growing irritated. She doesn't see where this line of questioning is going. If Lissa wants to know the training schedules, she's welcome to go and ask Cordelia.

"What about Henry?"

"A few hou—," replies Maribelle before catching herself. Turning away to hide the tint of pink staining her cheeks, she continues with as much decorum as she can muster."For a mage, he's good with a sword. I've been curious."

"Of course you have." Lissa giggles, and Maribelle wants nothing more than to put away her needle and thread before stalking off to her tent. It'll be quieter there, and she'll be free of her friend's prodding.

"I have no idea as to what you're implying, Princess Lissa," she says in what she hopes is a stern voice. "And I dearly hope it is not what I suspect."

Lissa says nothing and Maribelle's cheeks burn. Her fingers trembling, she returns to her embroidery without another word.

.o0o.

Crying out, she brings up her staff to block the axe and nearly falls to her knees as it snaps. They're surrounded; the Risen had come from nowhere, and she's been separated from the others.

Scrabbling away, she looks about for something, anything, to use as a weapon, even though she knows it's pointless. She's a healer, not a fighter, and though staves may be similar to tomes, she's never been able to truly understand offensive magic.

Maribelle closes her eyes as the axe descends once more, but then, she feels an icy chill stabbing at her skin. Opening her eyes, she sees the Risen crumple in a swirl of purple and red, and then she sees Henry, his tome in hand. In the spectral light of his spell, he looks like the very monsters he's fighting, all skin and bones and shadows. Then, he winks at her with his usual cheery grin, and he takes off in pursuit of another Risen, and hastily, she gets to her feet.

Smoothing her skirt and abandoning her broken stave, she hurries to keep up with him. She's just met him less than an hour ago when he arrived at camp accompanied by a murder of crows, but she'll be damned if she just waits around to die.

.o0o.

The Grimleal are a barbaric and uncouth folk, she thinks to herself as she sips her tea, but Henry is strangely different in a twisted sort of way. He's sitting cross-legged at the campfire, surrounded by people but alone all the same. Something about him unsettles the others, from Frederick to Panne, and she's noticed that even Sully keeps her distance. Still, despite it all, he's grinning to himself as he always is, his eyes fixed upon the crackling flames.

"What does the lady's handbook say about staring, Maribelle?" asked Lissa, nudging her in the side. "I'd swear you have a crush."

Maribelle started, having not noticed her best friend come up beside her. Flushing at having been caught, she tosses back her hair and turns up her nose, somewhat desperate to downplay her unladylike fixation on the newest member of their cause.

"Such insinuations are beneath you as a princess of Ylisse, Lissa," said Maribelle, offering her friend a cool glare. "He is Grimleal, and it is important he be kept an eye on lest he return to his old ways."

"Well, he's sorta creepy, I'll give you that much," said Lissa, a knowing look in her eyes. "But, you never kept such a close eye on Tharja when she defected to our side, did you?"

Maribelle's cheeks grow redder, and she thanks the dim light for obscuring her embarrassment. As always, her friend has raised a point that she simply can't counter. Flustered, she sips at her tea in an attempt to calm herself, hoping that a suitable response will come to mind.

When nothing occurs to her, she purses her lips and rises to her feet. Excusing herself with absolute politeness, she walks off in the direction of her tent. She knows that she shouldn't let Lissa's insinuations get to her, but they do.

She must be going mad. That's the only reason for her strange fixation. Maribelle misses her manse, and she's certainly been fighting this war for far too long. It's madness. There's darkness swirling all around them and it's only a matter of time until their next fight. She needs to be honing her craft and practising her magic, not spending her free time staring at the odd young man from Plegia. For all she knows, Validar could be spying on them even as she stood here thinking. Chrom and Lissa need her to not be distracted, and she can't let them down.

With a sigh, she returns to her tent and curls up beneath her covers, hoping in vain for dreams in place of nightmares.

They make camp near the Mila Tree. They're a league away and still beneath its branches, and Maribelle wants to know the story of this place. In a world that's going to hell on every side, there's a sense of serenity here that she adores.

Kneeling beside a babbling brook, she cups her palms and brings the clear water to her lips. It's fresh and sweet, so unlike the waters of Ylisse. Across the sea, the water in the brooks and streams are cloudy with a foul taste that she tries desperately to ignore. The taste of corpses rotting upstream, Frederick had once confided in her when they'd made camp near Regna Ferox.

She misses her home. There, she's Lady Maribelle of Themis, the duke's daughter, and it's a different kind of life than the one she's been living for so very long. She wonders what her parents would say if they could see her now, drinking from streams and eating with her hands around campfires, with dried bloodstains upon her sleeves and thistles in her hair. Would they recognise her? Maribelle doesn't think so. She's changed too much in too short a time.

A flower catches her eye. It's a small blossom peeking up from the ground with delicate pink petals. As she looks at it, she realizes that it's been a small part of forever since she's seen a flower. In a country devastated by war and scourged by Risen, there isn't much that grows.

"I'm just so weary of this gods-forsaken war," she admits to herself as she watches the flower flutter in the morning breeze. "Every time we turn around, Risen are tearing apart some poor village."

As if a dam has been broken, she finds herself speaking to the flower at length. It all comes out: her fear of the darker days to come, her admiration to see it grow in such a desolate world, and her anger at seeing their realm come so undone. She's tired, and now she fears that she's truly gone mad as well.

"Hi there, Maribelle. You all right?"

She nearly jumps out of her skin in surprise. An undignified sound escapes her lips, and she whirls, looking this way and that for the speaker. She spies him standing nearby, half-hidden by the trees with an amused look in his eyes.

"Henry," she admonishes. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I dunno." Henry shrugs, uncouth as ever. "Since before you launched into that soliloquy, anyway."

"Eavesdropping is a shameful habit, sir." Her cheeks are burning. "And on a lady, no less! Were you birthed in a barn?"

"Aw, but it's fun to listen to you mumble. You say such crazy things. Like when you were chatting to that flower at the end."

"I was not chatti—"

"It's okay," he says, interrupting her with a bright grin. "I do it all the time."

She tenses as he approaches, certain that he's going to mock her. Sure enough, he kneels beside the flower and cups his hands around it. He mumbles softly with mirth in his eyes, and she has to fight the urge to whack him with her parasol.

"The flower says thank you for your kind words," he says, finally turning away from it to look her in the eye.

"I appreciate the gesture, Henry, but you don't have to feign madness for my sake." Collecting herself, she keeps her voice level. It would never do to let on how unsteady she's become.

"I'm not feigning anything," he replies, and she realizes with a start that he's being serious. "I'm just rather in touch with the natural world is all. I can talk to anything that's alive. Flowers. Trees. Crows. Maggots. Oooooh… Maggots."

Maribelle isn't sure how to reply, but she's grateful that she's at least managed to keep her jaw from falling open. Nodding politely, she gets to her feet, hoping that he isn't about to begin regaling her with stories about chatty maggots.

"That is a remarkable talent," she says diplomatically. "If a shade disturbing."

Three weeks pass Maribelle by in the blink of an eye, and it's come time to leave the Mila Tree behind. She doesn't want to leave. There's been fighting here, but it's still so peaceful compared to the rest of the world. In this bastion of tranquility, she can see herself growing old beside the babbling brook and not having a single care in the world.

She has her duy, however, to Ylisse and to Themis, to the Exalt, and to the world itself. More than anything, she owes it to Emmeryn to see this war through. Hoisting herself onto her horse, she runs a hand along his mane before spurring him onwards at a light trot. There's movement all around her. Frederick is going over their supplies with a careful eye, and Cordelia is circling overhead, keeping a close gaze upon the clearing from the back of her pegasus. Gaius is crunching on candied apples as he mounts his own steed, and Maribelle raises an eyebrow as Tharja climbs up beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist as he flicks the reins.

That's new, she thinks to herself, and not for the first time, she wonders why she once disliked the Plegian girl.

Choosing not to dwell on things, she trots past the brook and glances around. Before she goes, she wants to say goodbye to this place. Her heart sinks. The little pink flower is nowhere to be found. In its place is a shrivelled stem, and the sight is more than she can stand.

It doesn't make sense. She's seen a lot worse than a wilted flower in her life, so why in the world does she feel so sad? Biting her lip, she searches deep inside herself for the answer, and she gets no reply. A tear prickles at her eye, and she doesn't know why she's crying.

She just doesn't.

"You look like a cat just ate your canary," says a familiar voice.

Immediately, she drags her sleeve across her eyes to dry her tears, and she forces herself into an upright position upon her saddle. Letting her face fall into an impassive expression, she turns to face Henry as he rides up to her upon his black mare. There's a crow perched upon his shoulder, staring at her with beady-black eyes, and it's strangely unsettling.

"I fear that my flower friend has withered and died," she replies, somewhat stiffly.

"Aww." Henry sounds sympathetic, which is very unlike him. "I guess it hasn't rained in weeks, has it."

"The brook is right there!"

"Has anyone watered her, though? Just because something's close by, doesn't mean it's any good to those who need it."

Maribelle nods. As disturbing as he can be, he's strangely perceptive when he wants to be. A thought occurs to her, and she swallows.

"Can you still talk to her?" she asks, thinking herself foolish for even considering something so morbid.

"Nope." Henry shrugs. "Only living stuff."

"Yes, of course. How foolish of me to think otherwise. She's dead, never to bloom again. It truly makes me think, you know, how someday upon a battlefield, that could be my fate as well."

It's a thought that hasn't left her mind since she first joined the Shepherds, but it's one that she's never given voice to before. In truth, she doesn't know why she's bringing it up to him of all people, when Lissa and Chrom and even Sumia are so very close by, but for once in her life, she doesn't want to know.

"Basically." Henry shrugs again, and it strikes her how cavalier he is about their mortality. "Flowers die. People die. That's just how the world works."

"Still. The idea that I could be gone tomorrow? In an hour's time? It's ghastly." She shakes her head, a shiver running down her spine. "We try to ignore it, but it's always there. And when you think about it, it's a vast, gnawing pit of terror."

"Meh. Not to me," says Henry, and to her shock, he's smiling. "Everyone kicks the bucket at some point, so why fret?"

Maribelle thinks about it, and she doesn't quite have an answer for him. In the distance, she hears Chrom calling out for them to assemble at the road to begin the march. Gently spurring on her steed, she sighs as Henry rides beside her with an expectant look on his face. In the morning light, he's so pale with his white hair and blanched skin that he's almost a ghost.

"I suppose..." she offers up finally. "It's not so much death that I fear as much as it's the pain of dying."

"Finally." He grins at her, his eyes lighting up. "Something I can understand. Get this, all right. I've been working on a special curse. Been working on it for a while now. If you're ever mortally wounded, it'll kill you before you suffer any pain at all. Just… poof! Off you go."

"I see."

She contemplates him for a moment. What a morbid type of spell, but she sees a kindness to it as well. As a cleric, there's been a great many people that she hasn't been able to save. The most painful are the wounds that can't be healed by mortal means, yet linger for days before finally fading. She remembers holding the hands of the dying as they bled their last, looking into their eyes as the pain overwhelmed them.

It's not a fate she wishes for anyone, least of all for herself.

"Perhaps this is something you can cast on me?"

"Sure, yeah." Henry smiles, his eyes lighting up at the thought. "I can do it right now if you want. Just say the word. Then you'll never have to fear the old boneyard again."

Unable to help herself, Maribelle chuckles at his infectious enthusiasm.

"I do declare, Henry," she says. "You have the strangest ways of putting people's minds at ease, and yet I'm so tempted to accept your offer."

He winks at her, and it's more than a little uncouth to do so. Still, as she rides beside him, she can't help but feel that maybe there are some things in the world more important than decorum, and maybe she really is going mad, because she's almost certain that Henry is one of those things.

The abandoned village they stop at is a small, half-ruined place in the middle of nowhere, but the rough palisade is enough to convince Chrom that it'll make a decent enough camp for them all. Maribelle isn't as certain. Gazing around at the splintered wood and caved-in roofs, she wonders if the monsters that did this are still in the area.

Pushing her misgivings aside, she dismounts and leads her steed towards an empty trough. Miriel's there, a tome in her hand, water flowing from her fingers and into the deep wooden vessel. As her horse drinks his fill, Maribelle turns towards the mage.

"By any chance, Miriel, do you perhaps have a spare tome that I can borrow? Something basic."

Miriel sniffs, clearly annoyed at the interruption. The trough now full, she snaps shut her tome and slips it into the holster upon her belt before studying Maribelle as though the request is the most asinine thing in the world.

"It takes years of careful study to master even the most basic of spells," says Miriel, her tone snooty. "What do you think to accomplish in the days until our next battle?"

"Enough that I do not have to be dependent on others for protection upon the battlefield," Maribelle bites back, incensed. "I have been using staves for years. How different could a tome be in comparison."

Miriel shakes her head and doesn't deign to reply. Instead, she turns away and strides off, leaving Maribelle standing beside the trough with clenched fists. She should have gone to Ricken instead. Miriel's always been rather insufferable about her craft, but Maribelle's never been snubbed in such a manner.

Turning away, she pats her horse on the side before wandering into the village in search of somewhere to set up her tent. Most of the buildings are in ruins, and a canvas roof is far better than a thatched one filled with holes.

As she passes an alley, someone whistles, and she turns to find Henry leaning against a decrepit hovel, a cheery grin on his face. As she opens her mouth to reply, he brings a slender finger to his lips and holds up a tome. Eyes wide, she glances around to make sure that they haven't been seen before ducking into the alley.

"That is a wind tome," she says, glancing at the cover. Taking care to keep her tone disapproving, she continues, "Are you a thief as well as an eavesdropper?"

"Aww." He grins. "Are you forgetting that I'm a mage?"

"You're a dark mage," she corrects him. "Elemental magic is not your forté."

"Darkness is subjective, isn't it?" Chuckling, he hands her the tome. "Go ahead, it won't bite… much."

She shakes her head in amusement before accepting the tome. It's warm to the touch, and she opens it, she feels a thrill run down her arms. Unable to hide her eagerness, she reads the first page, and she points her finger down the alley.

"Ventos," she says, and to her complete and utter disappointment, nothing happens.

"Wow." Henry, as always, seems amused at her failure. "You're really bad at this, aren't you?"

She opens her mouth to retort, but he's faster. Deftly, Henry moves to stand behind her, and the words die in her throat as she feels his body almost flush against hers. He's so close that his breath ghosts upon her throat, and he's reaching around to grasp her by the wrist.

"A tome isn't a staff," he explains. "You don't just say the word and let the magic do its thing. A tome's magic comes from you. See."

Extending two fingers, he takes aim at a wooden beam at the end of the alley. Maribelle thinks that it once belonged to an overhang or balcony, but she isn't quite sure. It's solid, though, and almost as thick as both their arms put together.

"Interitus," he murmurs into her ear, and a bolt of red-black light bursts from his extended fingers. It strikes the wooden beam with an agonizingly loud screech, and before her eyes, the wood rots away to dust.

"The flux spell is a bit basic, but I've got to focus for it to work," he says, and she can almost hear his grin as she speaks. "It's the same with the wind spell. You need to feel your heart beating. Direct that warmth from your chest to your arm. The words are just a command, telling it what to do once you release it. Go ahead. Try."

Her eyes are wide and her heart is beating in her chest as he raises her hand this time, positioning her in just the right way. Trembling, she extends two fingers at a half-ruined wall. She listens to her heart, feeling the frantic warmth within her chest that she can't explain but know it's because he's holding her with such appalling familiarity. She draws on the heat, letting it run from her heart to the tips of her fingers.

"Ventus," she says again.

The wind howls as it escapes her, forming a single crescent blade as it whips against the wall and gouges into the stone as if it's soft clay. Maribelle squeals in glee, unable to control her exhilaration, and Henry's laughing as he releases her.

"Thank you," she says, giddy with the joy of having used her first tome. For just a small moment, she forgets to be prim and proper and perfect, and she stands there with him, laughing until her sides hurt.

"Henry, do you have a moment?"

They've found their way to the outskirts of Plegia, and the days are growing ever darker as they approach the shadow. It's going to be only a matter of time before they have to enter enemy territory, and Maribelle knows that the fighting is only going to get more vicious. She's so close to home that it hurts, but she's resolved herself to see this to the bitter end.

"Yep!"

He's sitting cross-legged beside a fire, roasting bits of carrion over the roaring flames. Every now and then, he pulls a bit of meat free from the skewer and feeds it to his crow. In the dim light of the afternoon, the bird stares at her with an almost human malevolence, as if warning her to stay away.

She ignores it. After making sure that nobody else is around, she settles down beside him on the ground. The fire is warm against her skin, and she's grateful for the heat. It hides the flush in her cheeks, the tint of color that only he can bring.

"I've been watching you in recent battles," she begins. "I noticed something odd. No matter how fierce the fighting becomes, you always have a smile on your face."

"Yep," he says, his grin growing wide. "I love fighting. Pshew! Pshew!" He directed his fingers through the air as though he was firing off spells, and the firelight lit up his face. Animated like a giggling ghoul, he shoos off his crow so that he can use his other hand, and Maribelle has no idea what to make of his almost childlike performance.

"But as a mage, you go into battle with very little armor and you're almost always the first one targeted. You could be injured or killed in the blink of an eye, and yet you still smile. Why?"

"It's 'cause I'm not scared, Maribelle." He shrugs. "Fighting's easy. I just have to kill the other guy before he kills me. See. Simple."

"Henry, sometimes I find it very difficult to understand your train of thought."

"Yeah, I suppose most animals are supposed to fear death and stuff."

"Animals…" She flushes. Is he mocking her? Maribelle doesn't know, but she feels embarrassed and annoyed all the same. Is he calling me an animal for fearing death? She bites her lip, wanting to reply with something clever, but her words fail her.

"But I'll tell you one thing—there's no reason to be sad about death."

For the first time in as long as she's known him, Henry isn't grinning. He's painfully serious as he looks at her, and it's a very different version of him than the one she's used to. Somehow, seeing this new facet makes the fluttering grow more frantic, and she urges it to be silent so she can listen.

"Everyone in this army is going to croak sooner or later—it's really just a matter of when. And, when it's all over, we'll see each other on the other side."

"You really think so?"

Maribelle doesn't know all that much about the other side, about heaven and hell and all that lies in-between. She does know that it's a pretty thought, even if the sentiment is not one she ever expected to hear from Henry of all people.

"Oh… wait." Henry's eyes light up, and the tender moment fades away as if it's never been there at all. Grinning, he gestures animatedly towards the sky. "Holy crows! I just had a really weird thought. That means all the foes we kill are going to be there, too. Aw rats. I'm going to have to kill them all over again, aren't I?"

Against all odds, she laughs. Of course, she thinks to herself. Of course that's the first thing that comes to his twisted mind at the thought of an afterlife.

"You absolute idiot," she says, poking him between the ribs. "How dare you worry me like that?"

Henry giggles through the groans of pain, but she isn't amused. He's lying in front of her, stripped of his bloodied shirt and cloak, and the claw marks are livid against his pale skin. Painfully skinny and remarkably nonchalant about how close he'd come to getting his entrails ripped out of him, he's still giggling as she runs the end of her staff across his wounds, and his eyes glint with madness and mischief as she continues to curse at him under her breath.

"What's so funny?" she asks, finally deciding that enough is enough.

"Your bedside manner is hilariously terrible," he chortles. "Are you sure you've been a cleric all your life?"

She raps him smartly across the knuckles with her staff, and she's strangely pleased by his grunt of pain. Serve him right for worrying her like that, and then having the gall to laugh at her for being worried in the first place. Maribelle doesn't ask herself why she's so concerned about him in particular, because she's well aware that she isn't going to like the answer. There's no denying that Henry's more than a little warped around the edges, and while he's innocent enough when he's lying here, she's seen him in battle.

He's fearless and reckless, wearing the darkness he commands like a second skin. She's seen him boil blood and shatter bones with a single giggled word, and she's seen him emerge from fights with wounds so deep that most men would be howling in pain. In a battle, Henry delights in agony, and he's so very twisted that she doesn't dare take so much as a peek at his tomes.

It doesn't matter, not really, because he's warped and twisted and more than a little unsettling at times, but he's charming in a way that disturbs her but keeps her coming back for more. It's madness is what it is, but when Henry is beside her, she questions why she'd ever want to be sane in the first place.

"You don't get to die, Henry," she says in a stern voice. "Not until you curse me with that spell you promised me."

Henry raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes as the wounds stitch shut upon his skin. She drags her staff over for a second time, hoping it'll be enough to keep him from scarring.

"I told you," he says. "All you need to do is say the word, and it'll be done in a jiffy."

"Then you're just going to have to not die until I say the word, isn't that right, Henry?"

He chuckles. Reaching up to wrap his slender fingers around her wrist, he grins at her as something warm flutters inside her chest. She smiles as well, knowing that down this road lies madness, and funnily enough, she just doesn't care.

"I can probably do that," he says.

She's flustered by the tenderness in his tone, hidden deep beneath the mirth and cheer but so painfully present that she feels it wash over her all the same. Her body seems to be behaving with a mind of its own as she leans in. Her nose bumps his as he raises his head to meet hers, their brows resting against each other as her lips ghost across his.

"I knew it!"

Maribelle jerks away from Henry at Lissa's shriek, and she hastily composes herself. He looks oddly disappointed as she releases his hand, and turns to face her best friend who's standing in the doorway of the tent with an expression of absolute glee on her face.

"I have no idea what you think you saw," says Maribelle in as prim a voice as she could muster. "I was merely inspecting his eyes for signs of a possible concussion."

"Aw," whines Henry. "Am I not concussed? I was hoping for one. I've only had fourteen so far."

Not now, Henry, she wants to yell at him, but the smile is crossing her face all the same. She can't help it. Flushing furiously, she glares at Lissa.

"I'm sure," says Lissa, still looking as though Christmas has come early. "Were you also inspecting his lips for something?"

"Testing his breath for poison," says Maribelle, and even she knows how absurd that sounds.

Lissa's laughing and Henry's grinning, and because Naga hates her, Chrom sticks his head into the tent, looking concerned. He takes one look at the scene in front of him before seemingly deciding that he doesn't want to know, and he takes off before she can yell at him for coming in without warning. Raising a finger, she wags it sternly at Lissa.

"If you tell anyone, I swear to—"

She cut herself off. It didn't matter. If Lissa knows, then Ricken would know soon enough, and if Ricken found out, so would the entire army. Finally seeming to realize that she may be interrupting something important, Lissa winks at her and makes her promise to give her the details later that night before taking off, and Maribelle is left alone with Henry once again.

Only this time, everything is different. She turns to find him looking at her expectantly, and when she raises an eyebrow, he smooshes up his lips and makes exaggerated kissing noises in her direction.

"You're really trying to get that concussion, aren't you?" she asks, raising her staff.

"Aw," he chuckles. "I was hoping for a kiss, actually, but another concussion would be even better. I wonder if I'll see stars this time."

"Dark fliers up above," roars Frederick. "Keep low."

The warning comes too late. A barrage of fire and thunder comes raining down from the airborne mages, and it's all she can do to leap behind the nearest rock for cover. Soldiers are screaming as they're struck down by the sudden assault, and she cowers lower as a bolt of fire slams into the stone she's using for cover.

The flames lick around at her but don't quite reach, and she looks around for any sign of a friendly face. Across the field, Gaius and Virion are kneeling behind a rocky ledge, their bows singing as they fire arrow after arrow into the sky. Cordelia and Sumia are high above, lances flashing as they descend to break the enemy formation. Maribelle turns, panic growing within her chest. Where is he? He'd been right beside her before the ambush.

Lissa's fine, ducking behind a tree. Chrom and Robin are nearby. She can hear them barking orders. Tharja's on her knees, cradling a badly burned arm to her chest with fury in her eyes. Maribelle keeps looking around, desperation beginning to set in. Where is he? Someone leaps over the rock and ducks down beside her. It's Ricken, she realizes, and he's got a deep cut beneath his eye.

"Have you seen Henry?" she asks as she raises her staff to his face.

Ricken shakes his head, and a sharp twang echoes through the air. Maribelle turns in time to see the ballista fire for a second time. A dark flier shrieks as her mount is shot out from under her, and woman and pegasus both come crashing to the ground as Vaike swivels the commandeered ballista around to take aim at another.

It's then that she sees him.

Henry's standing in the open with a cold fury in his eyes that she's never seen before, and he's cupping a sphere of red-purple light in each hand as he glares across the battlefield, as if desperately searching for something. He's bloody and his shoulder is jutting out at an awkward angle, and then he's hurling his spell into the air. It catches a dark flier in the chest, and Maribelle watches in horrified awe as the woman withers to a husk before her eyes.

He's still looking around, still searching, and she sees the Risen axeman long before he does. For a single torturous second, she wants to scream out a warning, but she knows full well it's going to come too late. Instead, Maribelle vaults over the rock and yanks her tome free from her belt.

Henry turns as if in slow-motion as the jet of wind slices through the air behind him, slashing off the axeman's arm and throwing him to the ground. His eyes grow wide as he turns in the direction of the spell, and when he sees her, the fury's gone and he's laughing. Maribelle's hand shakes as she takes aim again, finishing off the axeman as he lies there bleeding black sludge, and by the time she's done, Frederick's yelling for a roll call to make sure that they're all okay.

"You all right, Maribelle?" asks Robin, coming up beside her and clapping her on the shoulder.

Maribelle barely notices. Brushing Robin's arm away, she takes off at a sprint towards Henry. There's blood on his lips and glee in his eyes, and it's so very him that she wants to give him the concussion he's been asking for, if only because it's cruel to worry her in the way that he does. He's still laughing, but it's a different sort of sound that what usually comes from him, and there's an emotion in there that she's never heard from him before. It's relief that she hears, and it's probably because she's just saved his life.

(It's not.)

Their first kiss is bloody and frantic, and she's holding onto him with such fervor that she's afraid of snapping his bones. He clings to her, and she's so frantic that she almost forgets to pull away for air. By the time she remembers, her lungs are screaming and her lips are smeared with red.

"I told you, you're not allowed to die until you curse me," she says.

"Aw, Maribelle," he replies, and he's looking at her in a way that makes her butterflies go absolutely mad. "I told you that you just need to give me the word."

"Then you're just going to have to stay alive until I say the word, isn't that right?"

His eyes twinkle as he giggles, and if their first kiss was bloody, then their second kiss is bliss.

Maribelle's never given the act of love much thought. It's unbefitting of a lady of her rank and stature to think of such things, but with Henry, she's learning a lot about herself that she's never even considered before.

She's a screamer, for one, and she learns this one night as he clamps a hand over her mouth to keep her from waking the entire camp. His lips are on the back of her throat, his teeth grazing her skin with such ferocity that she's certain he'll draw blood.

They're on their knees and naked with him flush against her, his chest slick against her back. Their clothes lie around them, his leggings torn by her nails and her chemise in tatters from his teeth, and every move he makes draws a muffled scream of pain-stained pleasure from her lips as she comes undone in his skinny arms. He's slender all over, really, but he's strong as well. Just the thought makes her flush furiously, and she throws back her head as he thrusts ever deeper, because there's nothing prim and proper about it.

She just doesn't care anymore, not when she's with him.

"Maribelle," he moans into her ear, and her heart is beating like a drum because his voice is so very strange. There's no mirth or macabre delight, and it's twisted by longing and frenzied passion, and the only thought that's booming across her mind is that it's her who's making him lose himself in such a carnal way.

Naga above, she's in love with this man; from his manic laughs to his warped perception of their reality. He chills her and he warms her, and he makes her butterflies beat their wings as furiously as if they were crows, and it's a small miracle that they've found each other in this war-torn world.

It's their miracle, though, and it's the only one she needs.

For a change, they're eating breakfast at a table. Maribelle tucks into her porridge with gusto, and she's so sore that the thought of climbing onto her horse sends a shiver down her spine. She's dimly aware of the eyes on her as she eats, knowing full well that Frederick doesn't approve of her budding romance with Henry.

It's rare that Frederick approves of anything, however, so she's willing to ignore it for the most part.

"Good morning, Maribelle," says Lissa, coming to occupy the seat beside her at the wooden table. In a tone that drips with faux decorum, Lissa titters and reaches out to delicately clasp her by the wrist. "How did you sleep?"

I didn't.

"Why in heaven's name are you talking like that?" she asks, wondering if perhaps her best friend was coming down with a cold.

"I am so terribly sorry," says Lissa, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "I fear that in light of recent events, someone needs to be a proper lady of the court given you've recently decided to leave the position vacant. Heavens above, my dear Maribelle, but I heard the most peculiar sound last night coming from your tent."

Maribelle squeaks, her cheeks burning red at the knowing look in Lissa's eyes. Acutely aware that they were surrounded by their comrades—with Stahl seeming particularly interested in Lissa's sudden turn to decorum—she grasps her best friend by the wrist. Leaping to her feet, she drags Lissa along with her until they're out of earshot of the others.

"No, it was not a squeak, I fear," says Lissa. "It was more a shriek, but oddly muffled, as if your face was buried in a pillow."

"Stop it," warns Maribelle. "Ladylike behavior doesn't suit you."

"Why, Maribelle, I would hardly consider you an expert on what is and what isn't ladylike." Lissa holds her stern expression for a second longer before it slips, and she's laughing into Maribelle's heated face. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I just wanted to have some fun."

"It stays between you and me," says Maribelle.

"And Henry," chimes in Lissa.

A vein begins to throb in Maribelle's forehead, and she has to try very hard to not rap her friend across the knuckles for that show of vulgarity.

"Yes," she says, her smile tight. "And Henry. For god's sake, Lissa, please. Tease me all you want but don't do so in front of the others. Not about this."

"Oh, don't worry about that," replies Lissa. "I'm just thrilled that you've found someone you drop your guard around, you know. It's crazy that it's Henry, but love is blind, isn't it?"

"That it is," says Maribelle with a wan smile. "Now, let's get back to breakfast before everyone begins to speculate more than they already are."

"No, no." Lissa waves a hand in front of her face, snapping her fingers for emphasis. "You're not getting off that easily. I want details. How'd it happen? When did you realize?" In a conspiratorial whisper, she adds, "How is he in the sack?"

Maribelle pinches the bridge of her nose, and she walks off without a word. No, she thinks. Just no. She may be unravelling as she descends into madness, but she hasn't strayed quite so far from the prim and proper path so as to kiss and tell.

It began as a single night, but it's quickly become a habit. They make camp after a long day of travel, and he slips into her tent after dinner. Idly, she wonders if anyone's noticed, but she finds that she doesn't quite care as much as she once did. It's comforting to have Henry beside her, even on the nights when they do nothing but sleep side by side.

She doesn't know when exactly it was that she got to this point, but now, she simply can't sleep if her arm isn't strewn across his chest.

Maribelle lies with her back arched and her hair tangled in his fingers, and he's leaving a dozen nips upon her throat that will be lovebites come morning. It's slower than usual, almost as though the urgency of their first dozen couplings has been forgotten, but she likes it just as much as their first night together. It's moments later when he's spent and she's sated. There's a grin on his face as he plays with her hair, and she cuddles into him as she pulls the blankets around them.

"I should be mad at you, you know," he says, breaking the comfortable silence. "I really should."

"Why?" To say she's surprised at what he's saying is an understatement. She's done absolutely nothing wrong that she knows of, and the only rules she's broken have all been for him in the first place.

"I've never been afraid of a fight before you," he says, and though he's got his usual grin on his face and his eyes are twinkling, she can hear the almost imperceptible crack in his voice as he spoke. "Never. Fighting's fun. Before meeting you, the war was the most fun I've ever had."

"Then what changed?" she asks.

"I'm afraid for tomorrow," he whispers, and the mirth is gone. "For every tomorrow. It's 'cause I think you're really swell, Maribelle, and the thought of losing you makes me scared."

"You think I'm swell?" Her heart's beating fast and there's a buzzing in her ears as she processes what he's just told her. Intertwining his fingers with hers, she looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "Naga above, Henry, I'm naked in your arms and you think I'm swell?"

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" he asks, and the light's back in his eyes.

He rolls them over so that he's on top of her, pinning her in place as he leans in to press a kiss to her lips. It surprises her. Their kisses have been fury and fire and frenzy, but it's never been this soft before. She closes her eyes and runs her fingers through his white hair, and when he pulls away, it's him who's blushing and it's her who's wearing a grin.

"I'm in love with you, Maribelle," he says. "I want to be your knight in shining armor. Blood-red shining armor, that is. I'm hoping we'll spend the rest of our lives together, and that they'll bury us together as well. Which I guess is another way of saying that I think we should get married. Yay! Wait… Errr, I don't have a ring ready or anything. Aw heck."

"You are absolutely mad." She looks at him in sheer amazement, and there's a dozen emotions running through her.

"Aw, Maribelle," he says. "Is that a yes?"

"Of course it's a yes, you idiot man," she says.

When she finally returns home to Themis, it's more bitter than it's sweet, and the only light she can find in all this misery is the gentle swell of her belly and Henry's arms around her. He's uncharacteristically quiet as he rides behind her, and no matter what she says, there's not so much as a hint of a giggle.

It's not that she tries all that much. There's very little left to laugh about. They both know what's coming.

Chrom is inconsolable after Robin… after Robin… Maribelle clenches her eyes shut at the memory and shakes her head. Even thinking about it hurts like a knife through the heart. Lissa's all but lost and Frederick is dourer than he's ever been. These days, Maribelle doesn't see the other Shepherds as much as once did. Sumia comes by now and then, seeking an escape from the gloom plaguing Ylisstol, and Stahl sometimes rides over on patrol. It's the closest thing she has to days when they were young and fearless, to that pretty time when victory was in their grasp before it trickled out between their fingers.

As the world comes crashing down around them, Maribelle wants nothing more than to return to those long days on the road, interspersed with battle after battle as they fought to escape exactly this fate.

As the months trickle past, the tidings grow ever darker. Valm is gone, and the Mila Tree's in flames. Plegia's in anarchy. Regna Ferox loses another town with each passing week. Chrom's moving to strengthen the Ylissean borders for the coming assault, but Henry and Maribelle already know that it's not going to change anything.

It's over. Grima's won. These final hours of the world are little more than a formality, and it's all they can do now but to savor what little they have left.

A month later, Brady's born. He's a squalling boy with her eyes and Henry's shock of white hair, and she wants to be happy. She really does. Instead, as she brings him to her breast to nurse, she's miserable. She's a monster. It's the only way to describe it. To bring a child into a world that's coming apart at the seems is perhaps the cruellest thing that either of them could choose to do. Maribelle tries her best to do right by her boy, but it's Henry who truly shines in a way that she's never really expected. Watching him play with their son as the days go by, watching him feed and change and bathe him without batting an eye... it's so unlike anything she'd have thought possible that she's certain it's a sign that the world is truly ending.

She's so, so tired, and all she wants to do as she glances into Henry's eyes to see the same hopeless look of defeat reflected there is to turn back time and go back to the babbling brook beneath the Mila Tree, and to search for the flower that had brought them together.

Brady's three when Themis falls. The attack is sudden and ferocious, and they're forced to flee in the dead of night as the flames reach up to scorch the sky. Maribelle clings to Henry with one arm as they ride double, and she holds Brady tightly to her chest in the other. The Risen are everywhere, and there are just too many for either of them to fight.

The city is burning and people are screaming, and she looks up in time to see the monstrous, mutated dragon-god floating through the clouds. His laugh makes her ears bleed, drowning out the thunder of their horse's hooves.

"Hold on," Henry yells. He outstretches a hand and mutters a word before firing his spell, taking out the Risen blocking the front gates.

They make the ride to Ylisstol as swiftly as they can, picking up what survivors they find along the way. By the time they ride through the gates, news of Themis' fall has already reached, and Chrom's expression is grim as he meets them in the throne-room.

It's all lost. Everything is lost. They all know it. She remembers what it was to laugh, of how simple things were when she first fell in love with Henry. It was a simpler time, she knows, and she clenches his hand as tightly as she can as they stand there, the Shepherds, coming together one last time.

"Mother loves you," she whispers, pressing a kiss to Brady's brow. "Always remember that. I love you."

"Dad loves you as well, you hear?" Henry reaches out to pinch his cheek. "You be brave now, okay?"

"'Ma," Brady whines, holding out his arms and wanting to be held, but she knows that they're already out of time.

Slipping the wedding ring off her finger, she strings it onto Henry's chain before placing it around Brady's neck. She swallows thickly before looking up at the priest, and her voice shakes as she tries to keep calm.

"Keep moving," she says. "Don't stay in one place too long. Just keep moving. We'll buy you all as much time as we can."

The priest nods before picking up a screaming Brady, and he's reaching out for her as he's carried away. It breaks her heart into a million screaming pieces, and the only thing that stops her from running after him is Henry's hand upon hers. There's no time, and if nothing else, they need to make sure that the children escape the coming carnage.

"We're doing the right thing not going with him, aren't we?" she asks. "Henry?"

"More people fighting equals more time for them." Henry shrugs, but she knows him well enough to know his nonchalance is feigned. "He'll be okay. The Risen aren't fast enough to track small groups."

She nods once, tears sparkling in her eyes. Grasping his hands, she leans into his spindly chest, and he presses a kiss to her brow. It's a quiet moment as they stand there, awaiting the sound of the bells which will signal the final battle with Grima, and they both know that it's a fight that neither of them can win.

"Henry," she murmurs. "I'm afraid."

"Aw," he replies. "Me too."

She looks up at him, and she's very certain that he knows exactly what she's going to say before she says it. Reaching up to cradle his cheek, she forces a smile to her lips, wishing to see just one last grin before it all comes crashing down around them.

"I think it's time I gave you the word."

-Fin-