Chapter Text
Fight for the people, Rhea might say. Fight to protect the faith. In truth, it’s difficult for Catherine to imagine what exactly Rhea would tell her in this situation, because if she tries to think any harder she might start babbling to ghosts no one else could see.
What else might Rhea tell her…? To fight for the goddess? But now that Catherine knows the truth, she can’t go back to how things were before. She just can’t.
She’s gone, anyway.
Actually gone.
Everyone grieved and the funeral was a grand procession of weeping mourners. Cyril was bawling the loudest out of all of them of course, inconsolable, and Catherine would have been a hypocrite if she told him to get a grip. What could she have done? Absolutely nothing, because Rhea herself had accepted her fate and if there was anything Catherine couldn’t do, it was change Rhea’s mind. Lady Rhea was just that kind of person, she thinks. Maybe.
Catherine has little interest in the fate of the continent now, really. Foreign policies are being shuffled like cards and Fòdlan’s Throat was yawning open, last time she heard, but none of it even seems to matter.
Nothing much does.
But life goes on and so do the people. Rhea becomes not much more than a name to be taught in history lessons now, and Catherine tries to push down the swells of resentment and anger. Seteth has thrown himself into his work. Cyril was convinced to stay, and now he sweeps the halls and dusts the books just like he always had, and a new generation of student enrolls with the grand reopening of the Officers Academy. Life… goes on.
So does Catherine, leaving in the middle of the night without announcement, knowing full well that Seteth would plead with her to stay just as he did with Cyril. There’s nothing left for her in the monastery, only lingering memories of the day Rhea saved her life.
Rustling. Wind. Not the wind— it’s too loud to be the wind. Shamir quietly lifts one finger without tearing her eyes away, then two when a bulky figure stumbles out into the open, cursing through the underbrush. Behind her, Leonie reaches for an arrow. Shamir curls her fingers into a fist.
The arrow flies, and the tip sprouts from the back of the man’s skull. He collapses with far less noise than his clumsy stomping.
“That was—...“ Leonie presses her lips together when Shamir doesn’t lower her fist.
Three more figures are creeping among the trees. Leonie slowly inhales and holds her breath, then lets out the air in two quiet puffs. Just like Shamir taught her. Shamir is still focused straight ahead, and in spite of the tension, Leonie feels a small swell of excitement— the same kind of excitement only a good hunt could bring about.
But she has to firmly remind herself that this isn’t a hunt, this is a job they’re being paid for. Which is why she let Shamir take the lead this time when they were informed that these men are a bit more than dangerous than the usual fare. Such a warning typically wouldn’t deter Leonie, but Shamir is cautious and calculating, even when she’s lunging straight for someone’s throat.
Shamir always knows what she’s doing. Always. For instance, right now, she isn’t drawing her bow just yet because… of a good reason, surely. Even as those three men creep among the brush, taking only the briefest moment to glance down at their fallen comrade. Leonie inhales again when their heads turn up to scan the trees. They haven’t spotted her or Shamir through the foliage.
These guys clearly have more finesse than other average run-of-the-mill bandits. The guy Leonie had killed must have been a new recruit of theirs, if she had to take a guess. A dispensable scout sent ahead. Now they know they’re being hunted.
That barkeeper better toss in a bonus for making them go through all this trouble…
“Think it’s clear?” One of the men mutters, barely loud enough for Leonie to hear.
Another one shakes his head. “That arrow went straight through. Whoever fired it has to be close by.”
“We’ll sweep the area. Be thorough.” The third pauses. “Check the trees.”
Leonie turns her attention to Shamir. Shamir is crouching perfectly still on that branch, partially obscured by the trunk of the tree and further hidden by the thick cover of foliage, but in order to get a clear view of their targets a part of her must be exposed at an angle. From here, it’s just a matter of how observant they are. But it shouldn't matter, because Leonie doesn't know anyone else who's as skilled at hiding as Shamir is.
Slowly, she uncurls one finger. Leonie reaches for an arrow.
The wind rustles. Leaves scratch against her shoulders and neck and back.
Shamir uncurls a second finger. Leonie breaths in. Out. Out.
One of the men looks up, directly at them.
“HOORAAAAH!!”
“What the—?!”
Leonie nearly loses her balance, teetering dangerously on her perch, and ends up grabbing the back of Shamir’s jacket. Shamir doesn’t shout in surprise, but the leaves around them very obviously rustle and the branches creak, essentially giving away their position. She hears Shamir curse under her breath, and Leonie would apologize but right now—
Something— no, someone crashes down from seemingly out of nowhere, a blur of crackling thunder magic… no, it’s not magic. The men draw their weapons but two are cleaved before they can even properly react.
Leonie is still gripping Shamir’s jacket. She hastily lets go. “Sorry.”
“Subtle as ever,” Shamir sighs, and Leonie is about to apologize but realizes she’s not speaking to her. Or even looking at her, for that matter. The third bandit charges at the newcomer, but he’s simply swatted down to the ground like a bug.
Catherine lazily flicks the blood off Thunderbrand and points it up in their direction.
“There’s no point in hiding like cowards! Show yourselves!”
Leonie follows Shamir as she nimbly hops down from their hiding spot, landing softly in the grass. Catherine lowers Thunderbrand, tilts her head, and loudly laughs. Shamir shows no outward reaction when Catherine claps her on the shoulders, but Leonie swears she sees a faint smile.
“Well, hey. Long time no see, partner!” Catherine pulls Shamir a bit close, but stops just short, as if she was going to hug her but changed her mind. She lets go of Shamir to turn to Leonie, looking her over. “And if it isn’t Leonie Pinelli. I didn’t think I’d run into you two all the way out here in Kingdom territory— ah, excuse me, former Kingdom territory.”
“What are you doing?” Shamir crossly asks. “You could have blown our cover. Or worse.”
“Huh? Oh,” Catherine spares a brief glance at the bandits she had just cut down. Then, she shrugs. “So I made your job a little easier. What of it?”
Leonie shakes her head. “That’s not the problem! I almost fell out of that tree when you yelled, you know.”
“Ah, my strategy worked! I was trying to catch them off guard. Don’t sweat it,” Catherine roughly pats Leonie’s shoulders, this time. Leonie groans and slings her bow over her back.
Things haven’t really settled after that war. Not entirely. There are those who had taken advantage of the chaos wreaked by the Empire’s campaign to loot villages and worse, so as terrible as it was, it was an opportune time for Leonie to start her new life as a mercenary.
Getting started was the easy part. Gathering capable men was a bit harder— especially when those who joined quickly found out that most of their funds would be funneled to Leonie’s village and the various bars and taverns that held onto Jeralt’s unpaid tabs from all those years ago. Even the hired battalion that had accompanied Leonie during the war left, when they realized they would no longer be enjoying the fair pay that had been largely provided by the church.
For a while, she’d been riding alone and fighting alone. Until Shamir caught up only two moons after she’d set out, and then things weren’t so bad.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Shamir says.
“Same goes for you.”
Shamir nods to Leonie, and gestures to the fallen bandits. Leonie nods back and moves from body to body, claiming the dyed cloth each wears around his neck. At least the barkeeper who had hired them didn’t ask for fingers or ears as proof of the job’s completion.
“What have you been up to?” Shamir’s expression softens. “It’s been… a while.”
Catherine’s smile twitches. Leonie, suddenly feeling very awkward, hunches over and pretends to struggle with untying the last bandit’s bandana.
“I kinda lost track of the time,” Catherine says.
Oh. Leonie’s hands freeze.
The former archbishop passed away a year ago. A whole year ago. It was all anyone in the towns they passed through would talk about for a while, so it was impossible to forget. Leonie nearly blurts out the question— why did you leave the Knights of Seiros? But bites her tongue.
Catherine is here and her presence is just as loud and imposing as it ever was. Like she hasn’t changed a bit. Leonie inhales, then exhales twice.
This isn’t any of her business. She’ll let Shamir do the talking.
“… Of course you did,” Shamir finally says. “That’s just like you.”
“What about you, huh?” Catherine says, smoothly redirecting the question. “You left pretty suddenly back then. I didn’t even get a chance to say a proper goodbye, you jerk.”
“I felt my time with the Knights of Seiros had reached a natural conclusion,” Shamir says without missing a beat. Then, her eyes cast downward. “Saying goodbye would have been difficult, anyway. Don’t you agree?”
“… Sure.”
Leonie straightens up, fists tightly clenched around those grubby bits of cloth. “Okay, how about we head back to town before the sun goes down? I’m starving— are you starving, Shamir? How about you, Catherine? Great! I’ll catch some birds and we can cook them at the inn.”
Catherine’s smile is slanted. “What, you’re not gonna treat yourselves to a feast for the occasion?”
“No way!” Leonie furrows her brow. “Why would I throw away my money like that when I can just catch my own food?”
“We’ve been living off of wild game and foraged greens,” Shamir mutters, and Catherine laughs. Just like that, the tension in the air dissipates, and Leonie exhales just once.
It turns out that no one had hired Catherine to go after the same bandits Leonie and Shamir were hunting, she had merely overheard some tavern patrons complaining over their drinks and decided to go take the matter into her own hands. Shamir is entirely unsurprised, and Leonie is just a bit disgruntled about the whole matter. But they get paid in the end and enjoy some slightly burned pheasant cooked in a little too much oil, so that’s that.
“You should join us!” Leonie says, sitting backwards in a chair and kicking her heels against scuffed floorboards. They’re at the local inn— Leonie only agreed to pay for the night because it’s raining. Other customers and guests are milling about, soft shadows in the dim lights barely keeping the place illuminated. “I’m trying really hard to get my mercenary group started, but everyone’s so picky about the pay.”
“That’s because you send every piece of gold we earn to your village or to bar tills.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me to loosen my pursestrings just a little?”
“I didn’t mean exclusively on drinks.”
“Anyway,” Leonie coughs, and she turns back to Catherine. “What do you think? The legendary Thunder Catherine joining up would do wonders for our renown, too.”
Catherine puts her feet up on the table and leans back in her seat, earning a dirty glare from the bartender that goes ignored. She hadn’t really cared to entertain the thought of becoming a mercenary, even though it seemed like the most obvious route to end up on after leaving the Knights of Seiros.
Maybe she’d thought of going back to the church. Maybe.
But…
No, she can’t go back. Every time she thinks about it, she remembers why she left in the first place and it hurts, it hurts almost enough to reopen the wounds and send everything crashing down upon her all over again.
Shamir is scrutinizing her. Catherine offers an easygoing smile and holds up her hands in a noncommittal shrug.
“I guess I could tag along for a while. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“Yesss!” Leonie pumps a fist in the air. “No one’s gonna stand a chance against us! The Jeralt Mercenaries are back on track to becoming the greatest band of mercs in all of Fòdlan!”
“Mind if I make some suggestions for a new group name, though?”
Leonie’s face falls into a stony glare. “Absolutely not.”
“Haha, sure…” Catherine’s boots hit the ground. She stands up with soft grunt, stretching her arms above her head. “Well, I’m gonna hit up the washroom before turning in. See you in the morning, Leonie. Shamir.”
With that, she’s gone, brushing past others to make her way to the stairs. The quiet din of conversation gradually falls to a lull with each passing minute as more people decide to go to sleep as well, until only a few lingering drunkards and Shamir and Leonie are left.
“So…”
“It’s not awkward.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask!”
Shamir takes a sip from her tankard. It’s still mostly full, somehow, despite her holding onto it for the entire evening. Without Catherine at the table with them, it’s almost easy to pretend that things are normal, that it’s just the two of them making their way around Fòdlan, hunting marauding bandits by day and drinking until they pass out at night.
She’d become much fonder of Leonie than she’d anticipated or ever been, during those years struggling for the Alliance. Those days at the academy feel like an entire history ago. Leonie… always tries hard, and fights hard. In a way, her resolute ambition to live the way she wants to fits perfectly with Shamir’s tendency to fall on the wayward side of aimlessness.
She hadn’t thought of Catherine in a long, long time. Things were easier that way.
“We left on good terms, if you were curious about that. Don’t worry, I don’t mind. You’ve always been considerate about not asking nosy questions about my life.”
Leonie frowns, leaning her arms against the table. “It’s not like I don’t want to get to know you better.”
“I know. You’ve always been a good kid, Leonie.”
But it was simply because she’d always had other things on her mind, like making sure the money made it safely to her village and picking out poisonous mushrooms from the edible ones. Shamir never seemed to want to talk about herself, so Leonie simply didn’t think to ask.
She may not have cared much for gossip and the such, but it was common knowledge amongst the students of Garreg Mach that Thunder Catherine often worked alongside a trusted partner. Seeing them frequently together around the grounds, at the training grounds and in the dining hall and everywhere else, pretty much confirmed that the rumors weren’t just rumors.
“Do you… want to tell me about it, or…”
Shamir sighs heavily. She sets down her tankard and runs her hands over her face.
“I can tell she’s still grieving for Rhea.”
Leonie stares down at the various notch marks and gouges on the table’s surface. “Oh. Right. It must’ve hit her especially hard.”
“Let’s give her some space, for now.”
“Are you sure? You are…”
“Partners?” Shamir scoffs. Her eyes soften, and she nearly looks sad, staring down at her drink. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
In the morning, before the sun has yet to emerge over the horizon, Catherine prays. She isn’t quite sure what she prays for anymore, or why, for that matter, but she prays nonetheless. For comfort, perhaps. For a semblance of familiarity and normalcy when the world is so different. Finally, she inwardly acknowledges that an entire year has passed since Rhea’s passing, and Catherine squeezes her eyes shut and folds her hands together tighter.
Her armor is worn and the metal dulled, but Thunderbrand is just as sharp as ever. She sits at the edge of her bed and balances the blade upon her palms, trembling, the weight of its history as heavy as bone.
Someone knocks on the door. “Get up. We’re heading out.” Shamir. Of course.
“Stay for a bit. I’m just getting dressed,” Catherine calls back, putting Thunderbrand aside and reaching for her shirt. There’s silence for a moment, then the door opens. Shamir rolls her eyes at Catherine’s state of undress, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it, arms crossed.
“What?” Catherine scoffs. “I thought you’d be happier to see me. Or maybe not, since you did basically desert the Knights of Seiros.”
“Look who’s talking. Hypocrite.”
Catherine stands. Her shoulders sag before she can even think of a retribution. “How did you know?”
“Leonie and I passed through Garreg Mach about half a year ago when we were crossing over into the former Kingdom. Seteth told me.”
“Tsk, of course he did. It’s shameful, isn’t it?” She looks away. “The mighty Thunder Catherine— deserter of the church, traitor to the Knights of Seiros.”
“You didn’t betray or desert anyone. I can’t judge for for your actions, anyway, since I essentially did the same thing.”
Catherine pulls her pants on and sits back down, back hunched and hands folded on her lap. She looks much smaller without all her armor and without Thunderbrand in her grip. Shamir can still see that uncharacteristic tiredness in her eyes, when she looks up. It… aches. It doesn’t suit her.
“I guess our paths really did diverge, huh?” Catherine stares down at the floor. “In spite of all that talk… well, neither of us made any promises. We agreed on that much, at least.”
To her mild surprise, Shamir actually moves away from the door and sits beside her, shoulders tensed and knuckles white. “Catherine, I should tell you. I thought of asking you to come along with me.”
“… Why didn’t you?”
“Because—“ Shamir heavily swallows. Her mask is beginning to crack. “Because Rhea was dying. I couldn’t do something so terrible. I know how important she was to you, and how important you were to her. You needed to be at her side.”
“So you left.” Accusing, bitter, resentful— “While Lady Rhea was on her death bed. What, you couldn’t stand to see all of us so miserable?”
As always, infuriatingly, Shamir doesn’t show any semblance of anger or frustration to throw back in return. Catherine wants to shake her by the shoulders and yell in her face, anything to get some sort of reaction or get some sort of emotion out of her. She snatches her boots and yanks them on, tangling her fingers in the laces.
“Forget it, there’s no point in going in circles around this,” Catherine spits, only growing angrier the more she fumbles with her bootlaces. “Besides, you’re certainly doing fine for yourself. Does Leonie give you what you want?”
The sour note in the edges of her voice is unmistakeable. Almost laughable. Shamir stays where she is, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Catherine curse at her bootlaces, quietly considering the right answer to avoid a full blowout.
What could she say? That she didn’t stay because the idea of watching Rhea wither away was too much to bear? It’s a weakness, she supposes. Some things are far too difficult to simply tuck away to be unseen and forgotten, and the sight of people dying before her eyes had become too normal and hardly worth mulling over.
So what could she say? That she was afraid she would feel nothing if she had been at Rhea’s bedside with everyone else?
And if she had felt nothing, and shown nothing, Catherine would never have forgiven her.
And if she had felt something…
“Answer my question, Shamir.” Catherine is standing in front of her now, glaring down. Shamir sees that she’d settled with messy knots for her boots. Her shoulders sag and she presses her palms together, looking up at her without actually tilting her head.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Catherine.”
Shamir smiles.
Catherine rears her arm back, a coiled snake ready to lash out, and Shamir braces herself.
But nothing comes.
The first light of the morning filters through moth-bitten curtains, a spotlight upon the dust motes that dance in the stuffy air. Weak sunlight spills across Shamir’s knees, and she shifts back, so that the ray casts a sort of dividing barrier between the two of them, a flimsy line that wavers upon worn floorboards pocked with all sorts of scuffs and grime.
“No one could ever replace you as my partner,” Shamir quietly says. “I’m… sorry. I’m sorry, Catherine. I should have been there.”
Catherine says nothing, but she does grab Thunderbrand and head for the door. She pauses there, one hand on the doorknob.
“Come on. Let’s not keep Leonie waiting.”
If Leonie is aware of the fresh tension between them, she wisely says nothing about it. Instead, she fills the silence with excited chatter about her plans to expand their mercenary group, and making a proper banner to honor the man who had inspired her to live this life. Titles, too! The greatest mercenaries in history always have titles.
“To be honest, I’m a little jealous,” Leonie says. She walks a few paces ahead of them, hands folded behind her head. “Thunder Catherine. People always sound awed when they speak your name.”
“I get that a lot,” Catherine says, relaxed and with that cocky half-smile she usually wears. “Titles are earned, though. Remember that.”
“Oh, for sure! Someday, I’ll get a title that’ll inspire the same kind of reverence yours does! I was coming up with a few ideas, but I’m still not quite there yet.”
“This one’s no help when it comes to nicknames, I bet.” Catherine glances sidelong at Shamir, who stares straight ahead down the path they’re following. The town is out of sight behind them by now.
“Actually, we have discussed it!” Leonie snaps her fingers. “Right, Shamir? But you said you don’t really care about that sort of thing.”
“I don’t,” Shamir says. “Giving nicknames to everything is weird. Fòdlan is weird.”
“Aww, don’t be a spoilsport. I’m sure we could come up with something for you, right?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, don’t be a spoilsport.” Catherine sneers.
“How about…” Leonie puffs her cheeks out and looks up to the sky. A few clouds drift here and there; the ground is still muddy from the night’s rain, but the weather is brilliantly clear this morning. “Lightning!”
“… What.” Shamir stops in her tracks. Catherine pauses as well, and then Leonie when she hears their footsteps stop, turning around to smile brightly.
“Lightning Shamir. Doesn’t it have a nice ring to it?” Leonie beams, clearly pleased with her own clever idea. “You know, because you’re fast— like lightning. You strike when no one expects it, in the cover of darkness. Just like lightning.”
Shamir deliberately avoids looking at Catherine, but she doesn’t need to. Catherine laughs, guffaws, in fact, sauntering over to Leonie to sling an arm around her shoulders. “Lightning Shamir! To match with Thunder Catherine! How long have you been sitting on that one, huh?!”
“I- I just came up with it on the spot just now, actually—“
“I like it!” Catherine is practically howling with laughter, slapping Leonie on the back. “You’re a genius, Leonie!”
“Ow, ow, don’t hit me so hard.”
“Thunder and Lightning! What do you think of that… partner?” Catherine stares straight at Shamir, her smile tightening. But Shamir is no longer paying them any mind— not to ignore them, but because she’s looking past them. Without another word, Shamir reaches for her bow and strides forth, drawing an arrow from her quiver with her other hand.
“Shamir?”
“Someone is fighting down the road. Shhh. Be quiet. Do you hear it?”
The unmistakeable sound of blades colliding echoes faintly across the breeze. They walk faster, and faster, until the source of the noise comes into view.
Two figures clash in the field just before a line of trees, out in the open. The taller one, clad in armor and carrying a massive shield, deflects quick sword strikes and tries to swipe at the other fighter with an equally large axe, but the attack is easily dodged and the swordfighter is already rearing back to lunge again. They’re both shouting— it’s two men, and both clearly intend to kill in their harried movements.
Shamir, Leonie, and Catherine stop, too far away to intervene but now close enough to see their clothes and faces. Leonie puts a hand to her brow, squinting.
“Is that… Felix and Dedue?!”