Chapter Text
When he'd been just a boy, he'd imagined life would be different for him. He imagined he'd fight glorious battles, and win the heart of some beautiful maiden, and whoosh! Off into the sunset! Like a tale told over a cradle, like a sweet mother or a sweet cousin whispering sweet stories in his ear. He'd imagined his life to be a song sung by bards in the years to come, but there were no bards and there were no songs.
Only ash and dust.
Even in his childhood he'd noticed something dark in his exalted cousins. Even as a wobbly toddler he'd seen the force that had somehow ensnared Lucina, caught her by the dreams and dug its claws into her tender mind. She'd been such a nice girl, naturally a good and virtuous person, but there was poison inside her, and thus poison she became.
He missed her so dearly it ached to breathe when her name passed through his thoughts.
And Morgan! Morgan was different.
Morgan had not been born lovely and kind.
Morgan had been cursed from birth.
The difference was, Owain realized all at once, that Morgan's brutality was his first nature, while Lucina's was something that had snaked its way into her soul. Morgan bore no hatred for anyone, but he could not fight the darkness that was bound to him. Lucina had lost her heart somewhere, and Owain supposed she had difficulty differentiating between love and hate any longer, but her eyes were still kind and her nature still gentle, even when she was cloaked in bitter darkness and whispered in the night. On that day, Owain recognized the darkness and divinity in both children.
On that day, he saw death take them and choke them and kiss their dark cheeks until they turned pale and cadaverous.
It had begun like any other day.
"M-o-o-o-o-rgan!" Owain had caught his little cousin around his middle when he'd attempted to streak past him, swinging the boy around and around as he shrieked. "Tryin' to trick me, eh? Tryin' to trick the great Owain? NAH!" Owain tackled him to the floor as Morgan shrieked and laughed and moaned for Lucina, Lucina, always Lucina.
"Owain?" Nah's tiny face appeared before them, round and plump from her physical age lagging behind those around her. Her auburn hair floated around her cheeks in fluffy tufts, two stubby braids curling about her jaggedly pointed ears. Owain sat sheepishly on top of his small cousin, who was truly only mere months younger than him, and he smiled brightly at the young dragon girl.
"Nah!" he cried her name for real this time, waving her closer. She came, if only to see what he and Morgan were doing. She glanced between them confusedly. She was barely a toddler, and it was hard to say when her mind was advanced to her actual age or if she was more human than she appeared. "What're you doing, lurking around?"
"Nah," Morgan groaned into the floor, "help…"
Nah puffed out her cheeks at Owain, her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. She didn't look especially intimidating, considering her size, but Owain felt guilty by simply sitting under her stare, and he crawled off Morgan and pouted. Morgan sat up and laughed, promptly high fiving Nah and sticking his tongue out at Owain. He was a jolly boy, to be sure, almost as upbeat as Owain. He, like Owain, was fortunate enough to have had his mother around for quite some time in spite of the looming war.
Owain recalled Robin's face, her dark skin and delicate features, silvery hair and sharp eyes. He recalled her witty words and quick remarks, her big smiles and little gestures. And he recalled the darkness in her he could sense hanging about the air around him. He looked at his aunt, and he saw the root of his cousins' troubles. But he never said a thing. He didn't understand what this foreboding feeling was at the time, so he ignored it, brushed it aside as a twitch when it was a warning.
"Ha ha, c'mon!" Owain cried, grabbing Nah and Mogan by their arms. "Let's go eat breakfast! Do manaketes eat people food?"
"Owain," Morgan warned, scowling up at him. Nah merely looked confused. "Don't joke."
Nah, young and tiny as she was, raised her chin very high. "Maybe I'll eat you," she told him curtly.
"Do it," Morgan gasped excitedly. "Oh, oh please!"
Owain flushed, and he grimaced. "H-hey now," he said, laughing shakily. "Come on. I could take you two shrimps."
Morgan and Nah glanced at each other.
Owain shrieked in dismay as he was tackled to the floor.
It had been a day like any other.
Lucina appeared as she usually did, a bit mysteriously, a bit irritably, but always with a smile and a kind word or two, always willing to play swords and always willing to advise him in his steps. She was the inevitable heir, the future Exalt, and he saw why every time he looked at her. She had a grace to her steps, a certain deliberate motion to her gait that allowed her to appear confident and refined. She was already a ruler, and she was hardly of a proper age to page a knight, let alone lead a country.
Funny how fate worked.
A day like any other.
Owain had observed his friends as they worked at their various crafts, their spells and their lances and their swords and their shields and their fists and their shiny teeth. He found himself staring at his hand, the brand of the Exalt there for anyone to see plainly, and he clenched and unclenched his fist in hopes that maybe the throbbing would stop.
He felt a shadow over him.
"Boop," his mother giggled, bopping him right on the nose. "Good morning, sunshine."
"Ah!" Owain flushed, his hand clamping over his face. "Ma!"
"Don't you "ma" me, kiddo," his mother said, waggling a finger in his face. "I'll boop you senseless!"
"It's not even morning," he groaned. "It's not even close to morning anymore!"
"Ooh," his mother said sheepishly. "Well, I was sleeping. I hope all of you behaved while I wasn't watching, by the way, or else!"
Owain didn't think it was fair that his mother was basically in charge of all the children of the Shepherds. But it was better than the alternative. No mother, no friends. Just the palace, his vague cousins, and scraps of information fed to them through a trickling machine of contacts over weeks and weeks and months and months. Owain was grateful his mother was at his side and not fighting on the front like Chrom and Robin and the rest.
"Who'd misbehave?" Owain asked innocently. "Not us, mother! Never us!"
His mother pursed her lips at him, her eyes narrowing. "Mhm," she hummed. "Said the same thing back in the day about me and Maribelle. Speaking of! Is Brady around? We should be getting news from the front soon, so he'll doubtless be getting a letter. Actually, round up all the kids, will you? They're all bound to get gifts, or something like that." She sighed loftily. "I wish I got presents."
"Maybe Uncle Chrom will bring home a new staff for you, mother," Owain offered, crawling into her lap.
"Oh!" His mother clasped her hands together excitedly. "Maybe! Now wouldn't that be exciting?"
"We could name it!" Owain grinned at her. "We could name it after his victory, or whatever, wherever! Y'know? Oh, this is great!"
His mother tilted her head. "Calm down," she giggled, smiling at him gently and smoothing back his hair from his forehead. "I'm not actually getting a present. Chrom'd never bring me back something from war, it just…" She shifted uncomfortably, but smiled all the same, shielding him from the pain of it. "It doesn't work that way."
"Then why do we get presents?"
Her fingers slid through his dark hair, and she drew her hand down to his cheek to stroke lightly with her thumb. "You miss your father, don't you, Owain?" she asked him tenderly. He stared at her. "Dearly, right? So dearly it hurts your chest to think of him? To think of how far he is, how dangerous it is where he is, how he might be okay but he might not?"
He didn't understand. But he did. It was confusing, and he just gaped at his mother, blinking at her witlessly, thinking of his father's somber face and hopelessly hoping to see it once more. Dumbly, he nodded.
"Well that's just how your father feels too!" his mother gasped. "Only it's extended to the entirety of the army. They want their loved ones to feel loved even when they're gone. You see?"
"But Uncle Chrom loves you," Owain said distantly.
"It's not the same," his mother sighed. "I belong in that war just as much as he does. If I wasn't here with you, Owain, I'd be there with Chrom and your father. But I'd be thinking of you." She bopped his nose. "Everyday. I'd be thinking of your smile." She blew on his cheeks so his skin vibrated against her lips, and he burst into a fit of giggles. "And your laugh. And your eyes, and stuff like that! Because I love you." She squished him into a hug, and he shrieked against her arms. "My little dummy."
"Mother!" he laughed, his legs kicking at the air.
Suddenly, a maid appeared at the door.
"M'lady," the girl gasped, her eyes wide and her face pallid. "M-m'lady, m-m—"
"Breathe," Lissa advised gently. "What is it? Has something happened?"
The girl shook her head furiously. "I…" She looked uncertain. "Your… your husband has returned, m'lady. And… and Frederick as well."
His mother sat placidly. "Frederick," she repeated. "And Lon'qu? I'd say I got lucky, but wow, not the two boys I'd want in the same room after marching for gods know how long."
The maid stared at his mother with even wider eyes. Lissa smiled at her, and laughed. "I'll get Lucina and Morgan to greet them," she said, lifting Owain off her lap. "Owain, why don't you go along ahead and say hello to your father?"
Owain's little heart was bursting with excitement.
"Yes, mother!"
Owain's relationship with his father had been neither one of comfort nor strain. Certainly his father loved him dearly, and certainly Owain adored his father, but Lon'qu was reserved at best, even with his own son. He did not fancy piggy back rides or cuddle sessions, but he would often sit with Owain for hours on end, watching with his somber silence as his son played and painted and laughed and was bested by his peers and his divine cousins.
Lon'qu was a man of few words, but Owain never once felt unloved by him.
So it was strange to not meet his eye the moment he ran into the entrance hall, less concerned about his disheveled clothing— a wrinkled cotton nightshirt peeking out beneath his coarse doublet, his trousers hiked up and his scabby knees bare for both seasoned warriors to see. Owain was grinning thoughtlessly, his eyes bright and bold and ready for all the brilliant tales to be told by these two men.
"Father!" he cried excitedly, beaming at the man and rocking back on his heels. "Father, you didn't tell us you were returning!"
Both Lon'qu and Frederick were not talkative by nature, but immediately Owain sensed his own folly, and he could feel the grief in the air as both men shot him the most tender, pitying glances. They were both frantic looks, but short and remorseful all the same. Owain noted the bundles in their arms, and he found that he could not breathe with this weight in his chest sliding downward slowly into the pit of his stomach to dissolve and become a permanent load in his rapidly growing body.
When you're born into a world at war, assuming the worst is upon you is commonplace when in times of grave looks and grim silence.
Owain stood, and he understood.
This was no friendly visit.
Behind him, Lucina and Morgan entered the hall, and when he looked at them, he felt nervous and terrified to be in their presence. He thought he might burst into tears.
If someone asked Owain to pin point the day Lucina and Morgan's fates became plainly aligned with a darker purpose, Owain would choose this moment.
"Lucina," Frederick breathed. Behind her was Lissa, whose hands were clasped behind her, her eyes large and disbelieving. "Come here."
Lucina looked onward quietly, her lips thin and her eyes large and her mouth parting as it seemed to settle what was happening. Owain didn't know what to do, because he knew it had to be coming, the screaming and the crying and the fury. But there was nothing from this girl, this tight-lipped cousin of his who squeezed her brother's hand and left him to stand bewildered beside Lissa.
As Lucina approached Frederick, Owain began to cry. He could not explain the tears, for they spilt over his cheeks to fast for him to register them as real, and he could not make a sound of grief, for his breath had left him upon the bitter revelation of his father's purpose here and now.
But Lucina… graceful, careful, mindful Lucina… she did not make her emotions plain.
Frederick towered over her. Owain saw him like a steel mountain, dazed eyes and parted lips, his skin waxy and wan, black hollows dipping beneath his weary eyes. Frederick hugged the bundle in his arms like it was a threadbare security blanket, and finally, with his stoic expression crumpling into wrinkled, ugly despair, he fell to one knee before Lucina.
"Forgive me…" Frederick croaked, his head bowed so low his forehead was practically pressed to the floor. He offered up the bundle to her, a folded white cloak falling away, and the glimmering steel of the legendary Falchion flashed in Owain's eyes.
His mother let out a strangled scream from the door, and when Owain looked at her, her hands were pressed over her mouth and her eyes were shot through with red, glittering with wetness and dazed from her grief.
Owain wanted to run to her, to throw his arms around her and to cry into her stomach, to scream and cry and throw something. But he could not. He was stuck in place, his mind fluttering away to some vacant place to cope with this striking news, and his heart was huddled in a blanket of cotton, the glass daggers of words striking and getting caught in the knitted wall.
And Lucina simply stood. Her dress was thin and woolen, dreary and pale, startlingly simple for a princess. Her face was hidden from Owain, but she was still as the surface of an undisturbed pool while Frederick's entire body trembled, armor clinking in a rhythm with his long, lingering breaths.
"Forgive me," Frederick repeated dimly, his voice even softer now. "I… I could not… I did not…"
Lucina rested her tiny hand on top of Frederick's head, her fingers disappearing in his windswept hair. The moment she touched him, the man went rigid in absolute shock, and Owain dried his eyes, his feet dragging slowly as he moved himself in a small semicircle, observing the wideness of Frederick's eyes and the palpable shock that struck the thick air.
"Don't apologize," Lucina said in a small, level voice. "Please, Frederick. I'm sure you did everything that you could."
Frederick's eyes squeezed closed. And the knight broke into a soft, whispery sob.
Morgan was suddenly at his sister's side, his eyes large and bemused as he looked upon the Falchion and the broken knight.
"That's papa's sword," he said vacantly.
This time, Lucina stiffened, and her eyes moved slowly to Morgan's face. The tiny boy clearly understood what was happening, but he had no sadness to show for it. He merely stood at his sister's side, staring, blinking, his mouth open and his eyes wide. As though this all fascinated him.
"Morgan," Lon'qu said. He did not hold the same shattered demeanor as Frederick, and if he was shaken he did not show it. He too held a bundle, this one smaller and thicker than Frederick's, a dark cloak shot through with deep purple threads, eyes peeking out from the chaotic seams and watching them all with wide stares. He bent low, staring straight into Morgan's eyes and holding out the blanketed sword.
Morgan shook his head.
"I'm not ready for that yet," he gasped, waving his hands. "Mother— she said she'd give it to me when I'm ready. So not yet."
Lon'qu's brow furrowed, and he drew the bundle back. "Your mother is dead," Lon'qu told him curtly. He stuck the sword in Morgan's face. "Take it now."
"I'm not ready yet," Morgan insisted. "Mother said she'd give it to me when I'm ready."
"Morgan," Lucina whispered.
"She did, though," Morgan gasped, his wide eyes flickering wildly between Lon'qu and Lucina. "She said so! I won't take it. Not now, not when I still have so much to learn!"
"Morgan, please," Lon'qu murmured. "She's gone. She… fell to Grima. She lost her life… in an effort to protect you. Don't ignore her sacrifice."
"But she's not dead!" Morgan shook his head. Lucina was watching him with an empty expression. "She didn't… fall to Grima, she…!" Morgan wobbled on his feet, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat, a sob bursting from his mouth. "She…! She didn't…! She's… not…!"
"Morgan." Lucina's voice was sharp and thin. Like a knife piercing the tiny boy's sternum and sending him buckling. She turned from Frederick and tore the blankets away from the sword Lon'qu bore, grasping its hilt and dragging it from its home in Robin's old coat, and the Levin sword gleamed in the streaks of dying sunlight that shuddered through the tall windows. It zig-zagged precariously, a blade of little practical use, but immense, overwhelming power all the same.
"Thank you both," she said, her composure never faltering. Morgan shook, watching her with glittering eyes. The sword was about as big as she was, but she held it in both hands, her lips thin and tight, her eyes watery and alight. "Thank you."
"Lucina," Frederick said faintly, raising his head, his face still pained. "Milady… I want you to know… they fought very bravely. They… fought for you. For you both."
She nodded. The tip of the Levin sword fell to the tile at her feet, and her shoulders slumped. She nodded. She nodded.
"Of course," she whispered. "Of course."
Beside her, Morgan shook his head.
She nodded. She nodded.
Morgan shook his head.
"No…" the boy whispered. "It's not true… it's not true…"
"Thank you." Lucina set the Levin sword down, and she took the dark cloak from Lon'qu's arms. It seemed to weigh heavily in her arms, and she held it with more difficulty than the jagged sword. She took a deep breath, and she threw the coat over Morgan's trembling shoulders. He stared at her, his face streaked with his tears, and he blinked rapidly, breathy sobs thinning out. Lucina bundled him tightly in the dark fabric, wiping his tears with the purplish hem.
"Say thank you, Morgan," Lucina told him curtly. She continued to rub his ruddy cheeks, her own eyes bloodshot, her nose turning faintly pink.
"Thank you," Morgan mumbled, hiccupping weakly.
Owain felt a pair of arms around him, and he was dragged into his mother's firm embrace. She picked him up, burying her face in his hair, and he felt the world tremble as she wept for her lost brother, for her lost sister, for her lost friends and family and faith.
When he closed his eyes, his face buried into Lissa's neck, he could smell her hair, the scent of fresh daisies and morning dew. Her skin was soft, and her tears were warm, and her breath tickled Owain's ear as she rocked him gently.
"No… no… not again, not…" she breathed, tearful and in shambles. "Emm… Emm…"
Owain awoke with a terrible feeling clutching his stomach, the scent of daisies still fresh in his mind, burning his nose and leaving him breathless. His blanket was twisted around his legs, the thin fabric sticking to the insides of his thighs and behind his knees, glued to his skin by sweat and friction. He breathed heavily, and daisies burned his nostrils, daisies and dew, the smell of the morning washing over him. The flap of his tent was open.
He lifted his head, squinting blearily through the fluttering shafts of morning sunlight. He heard the soft scuffing of a whetstone against a blade, and he sat up, tilting his head sullenly at Inigo, who sat cross-legged beside him, sword laid across his lap.
"Morning," Inigo whistled brightly.
"Mor…nin'…?" Owain clamped his hands over his eyes, and he hissed as a splitting pain snapped through his head. "Ah! Ah…" he fell back against his lumpy pillow. The ground was hard and unforgiving. "My head…"
"You got hit with a pretty nasty hex," Inigo said, dragging the stone across the edge of his blade. The sound was scathing inside Owain's pounding head. "Noire lifted it, I think, but you've been out for a day or so. You okay, chief?"
Chief, Owain thought numbly. That's right. I'm their leader.
He sat up dazedly, holding his head in his hands.
I'm the Exalt.
That was as fine a joke as any, wasn't it?
"Fine, I think," he said, running his hands through his hair and smiling weakly at Inigo's beaming face. "Tired for sure. Wait, did you say I've been out for a day?"
"Ish?" Inigo blinked, his whetstone resting on the gleaming edge of his sword. "Probably a little more— hey, hey!" He leapt to his feet hastily as Owain fumbled for his breeches. "Take it slow! Honestly, you… you weren't doing all that well. You really must rest. I insist."
I'll rest when I'm dead, Inigo, Owain bit back, laughing meagerly at Inigo's attempt at an authorative tone. "Would you like to be Exalt in my stead, then?" Owain asked him eagerly, yanking his breeches up and tightening his belt. Inigo's smile dimmed ever so slightly. "Round everyone up. I need to do a headcheck."
"Is that really necessary?" Inigo asked tentatively, eying Owain in alarm.
"Not if everyone's where they're supposed to be," he said in a teasing voice, though he was truthfully very serious and very anxious. Inigo looked a little uncertain, but he nodded, gathering his sword and throwing one last look at Owain as he pulled on a loose, threadbare undershirt. He'd had a terrible dream about Lucina and Morgan.
They'd been children. As normal as the grass growing green.
Not that it really did anymore.
Owain rubbed his head, his thoughts fumbling over the idea that he'd been hexed. Who had hexed him? When? How? He could not remember a battle, but his muscles were sore and tight. He shrugged his dyed leather jerkin over his shoulders, fastening his scabbard at his hip.
He exited the tent with his head high. It was all he could do not to stumble over his own feet. A hex? What kind of hex?
Inigo was hanging beside a sheepish looking Cynthia, who was smiling at him regardless of the bleak grayish dawn and the overall somber atmosphere. She bounced on her heels before finally snapping, and she squealed as she flung her arms around his shoulders and squeezed him tight.
"You're awake!" she cried into his ear. "You're awake, you're awake!"
"Yeah!" He was shaken up by how relieved she sounded. She was clutching him so tightly that his ribs began to ache. "Yeah, I'm fine, I— I mean, come on. Nothing can stop the Justice Cabal."
"No, sir!" she cried as she released him, her fists clenching firmly before her, her eyes glinting with joy. For just a tiny moment, Owain felt as though the world had shifted back into balance, and he was safe again within the confines of a vivacious persona.
That boy couldn't exist any longer. Not when Owain was Exalt. Not when the world was in shambles.
He glanced over his troop, his eyes moving quick between the familiar faces. He paused, straightening up. Inigo was standing with his eyes averted, a lazy smile sitting awkwardly on his lips. Yarne was watching with a bowed head, and Brady was chewing on his lip as he stared at Owain, his heavy brow shadowing his eyes. Kjelle was sitting on a log beside the fire, polishing her battered armor.
"Where are Noire and Nah?" Owain asked vacantly. He turned about, his boots scuffing against the yellowed grass, and his heart sunk low in his chest at the sliver of a thought of losing those two girls. They were too powerful to let slip away. They were too loved to lose.
"I checked their tents when I woke up," Yarne offered. "They've been gone for awhile."
"Nah's off somewhere, Naga knows where," Brady said, sniffing. "Gods, 'n Noire, well… y'know Noire."
"I know Noire," Owain agreed. Maybe a little too well. "And so do you. Do you know if she's with Nah for sure?"
Oh, his worry wasn't because she couldn't handle herself. That wasn't it at all. It was, of course, because Owain knew her. Leaving her to her own musings was worrying, especially if Owain's condition had been as bad as he could assume from his friends' relieved expressions.
"We're not going to search the entirety of the forest just to make sure Noire doesn't decide to burn it down on a whim," Kjelle snapped.
"And yeah, Nah's probably with her!" Inigo gasped. "See? Everything's fine!"
"We don't actually know that…" Yarne whispered. He looked around nervously, his ears twitching.
Owain couldn't lose his patience now. Not when he was banking so much on these people. "What happened to me that I ended up hexed for a day?" he asked them curiously. They glanced at each other. Kjelle pause, her eyes cast forward into nothing, her jaw tightening as her hair fell forward and shadowed her expression.
"Oh." Cynthia's eyes seemed to dim a little, and her fists wilted sadly. "Uh… funny thing…"
"We got our asses royally fucked by the posse of your demon spawn cousins," Kjelle said, setting her armor aside, and clapping her hands on her knees. "You say not to aim to kill, and I get it, but they're not treating us with the same respect! We cannot win while we rely on mercy!"
"My cousins cursed me?" Owain's heart sank further in his chest. But he'd been expecting this. Deep in his soul, he understood his last of kin. They struggled and they bled, just as Owain did. So did they not deserve mercy now, because they had chosen some different path? Owain had seen it coming long ago. He'd seen it in the way Morgan dissected everything around him, picking things apart with words and ginger fingers, prying things open to watch them tick. He'd down it to Owain. He'd done it to Lucina. Hell, he'd done it to himself. Owain knew the monsters that rested inside his cousins, but he could not see either them, truly, as the monsters everyone claimed them to be. "Both?"
"Neither," Kjelle told him coldly.
Owain stood, but nothing was understood, and that haunted him. Morgan cursing him, that was something he could handle. Morgan cursed everyone. He was good at it, even if it made him feel awful. Lucina had a delicate touch when it came to hexing, and her spells were articulate and masterful. Her hex would not be a terrible one to have. But anyone else? Why, Owain would just have to take it personally.
A personal offense that it was not personal. With Morgan and Lucina at least he knew there was passion behind their objective to strike him down. Anyone else was just a pawn.
"Neither," he echoed. What a peculiar thought, that neither of his cousins had struck him. "Who, then?"
"You're asking the wrong questions!" Yarne blurted, taking a meager step forward. Owain stared at him expectantly, and he flushed a little, shaking his head. "The who doesn't matter, does it? It's why. Why would anyone in Lucina's troop want to strike you down?"
"Yarne's right," Cynthia said, blinking rapidly. "No, really, though! Owain, before this we thought that at least some of them were still on our side. But it looks like we were wrong."
"Don't ya hate it when the moles become traitors?" Brady asked, leaning against his staff heavily, his smirk weak and mirthless. He was tired and afraid, and most of all, Owain saw his sadness.
He took a deep breath. "I need to think," he said, rubbing his temples. He glanced at the brand on the back of his hand, and reminded himself he'd need gloves before going anywhere.
Someone from Lucina's crew had attacked him. Hexed and nearly killed him. But who?
He could probably guess.
"Noire and Nah need to return," he murmured. "Ah! Where oh where could they be?"
"Okay, I'm leaving," Kjelle said, clicking her breastplate into place and leaving the rest of her armor near the flickering flames. As she stepped into edge of the forest they'd camped beside, she immediately pivoted and strode back. "Your wish was granted, my prince." Her voice was sharp and biting. Owain winced. He didn't understand her anger, but it was Kjelle, and therefore he did not have to. "They've returned."
And without fail, the pallid forms of the two girls shifted from between the trees. Nah was easy to pick out, small and slender and cloaked in red. In the morning light, she was a village child, easily. Noire was different. She was slender and well built, her quiver and bow visible even from the distance. She feigned confidence well enough, but Owain knew her well, and her improved posture did not hide her insecurities.
Kjelle stalked back to them, looking grumpy as ever, and Nah ran as she neared the forest's end, her hood falling back and her braids surfing the air. Noire followed reluctantly. Her eyes met Owain's from beneath the canopy of trees, and he smiled at her wanly. She did not smile back.
"Owain!" Nah hugged him tight, her tiny arms folding around his chest and her small face disappearing in his jerkin. "You're awake…"
He patted her head affectionately, his fingers getting caught in the burnt umber hue, strands curling around his fingertips in wisps, and her cowlick tickled his skin. She didn't smile at him, she didn't scold him, she didn't say anything more. She simply held onto him, a child in all but age, and he wanted to tell her that it was okay to cry, but he was scared of her tears and of her fears. He was scared that she was scared for him.
The thought of people relying on him thrilled and sickened him.
Nah released him, looking sheepish for letting her feelings go unchecked, and she nodded to him, smoothing out her cloak and then her hair. Inigo appeared at her back, tucking a flower in behind her ear. She glanced at him.
"For the pretty little lady. Dragon." He smiled at her genially. "I thought you'd be off picking flowers, but since you weren't—"
"Quit flirting with her," Kjelle said flatly. "This is not the time for that nonsense."
"Thank you for the flower," Nah said, tugging the small white daisy from her ear.
"See, Kjelle?" Inigo flashed her a broad smile. "Completely innocent!"
"I'm sure."
"I brought breakfast," Noire piped up. She lifted her arm, and they all glanced at the rabbit carcass swinging in her left hand. "U-um… if you guys are hungry…"
"Pass," Yarne muttered, blanching a little at the sight of the blackened, red slick throat of his animal kin. Noire stared at him, and then glanced down at the rabbit.
"Oh… oh no…" she moaned, "I forgot again!"
"It's okay!" Yarne winced, shaking his head. "You guys need to eat, and I… I know food's scarce. Don't worry about it."
It was an uncomfortable situation to say the least, but it happened a lot. Rabbits were easy to find in the woods, and they couldn't go without food to spare Yarne's feelings, no matter how much they wanted to. Owain felt terrible about it, and he'd sworn time and again to Yarne he'd never eat rabbit meat so long as he lived, but it was a hard promise to keep when your belly snarled and groaned at the scent of sizzling, blistering meat.
Owain did it, though. He had to. He was their leader. He kept his promises.
Kjelle had no problems with eating rabbit meat, however, and she took the carcass from Noire and went to go set it over the fire. Nah offered to go pick berries for Yarne, but Owain shook his head.
"Nah, you take over cooking for Kjelle. Cynthia?"
"Right!" She nodded at him firmly, her smile broad but tight. Nah shot an apologetic glance at Yarne, and she went to Kjelle's side, tapping her gently on the arm.
Owain was the leader in name, but Cynthia held a special place at the head of their squad. So when Owain needed to make decisions, he pulled Cynthia aside and tasked her with helping him, shifting responsibility from himself a little— just enough so no one suspected his self-doubt— but also allowing them to have the best support they could have. With Cynthia as a leader, they felt like they couldn't lose, because she felt like she couldn't lose.
And Kjelle, of course, was the most seasoned warrior they had. She knew battle. She knew strategy. She understood what it took to win a war.
Owain envied her resolve.
"You have a plan," Kjelle remarked immediately upon entering Owain's tent. He rubbed his brand, massaging his fingers as he kicked the map from his knapsack. "You've been awake what? Twenty minutes?"
"My brain just cannot possibly rest!" Owain smacked his fist against his palm. "Especially knowing how close Lucina is. We have to get ahead of them if we want to thwart them!"
"We can definitely get ahead of them!" Cynthia's eyes were alight, vivacious and wild. "I know we can do it! Kjelle?"
She was very quiet. She glanced between them, and exhaled sharply through her nose. "Okay, let's just… look for a second." She knelt down, smoothing out their map which had been tacked and tallied more times than they could count. They'd been chased across the globe, and done just as much chasing. "We've only been back in Ylisse a few weeks, but Lucina's gathered enough forces to decimate this forest. We know that now from the last battle."
"Right!" Owain nodded at her firmly, kneeling by her side. "What exactly happened there, again?" She shot him a glower so furious that he swallowed his tongue. Cynthia pressed her lips together, her eyes widening and her smirk evident.
"No matter what we do, they'll always have Risen," Kjelle said. "We'll be fighting tooth and nail regardless of how prepared we are. That's why I say we take one of them out."
"No." Owain peered at the map, and his fingers began to twitch feebly. He held them tightly in his lap, his eyes roving the lands and the seas and the deserts. "We can beat them another way."
"Your optimism will kill us, Owain."
"We need to confront them before we act rashly!" He slammed his palm down on the map. "I will not put our friends to death because it'll lessen our burden, Kjelle. You're smart, and you're brave, but you don't make those decisions. I do."
Kjelle's jaw shifted in her frustration, but otherwise she kept her face utterly blank, her eyes shadows in her skull. She nodded curtly.
It was times like these that Owain wished someone else had been cursed with the brand of the Exalt. That someone else had this burdening birthright. That Lucina had been born of some other mother, some noble woman or knight. Anyone but Grima's human vessel.
Because this brand and this title, this exalted life of his, made him become someone he did not want to be.
The truth was, Kjelle was right.
They should just start picking them off before they did the same.
But could they be capable of such brutality? Truly?
Owain was scared, because he did not know and he did not want to know.
"I think we should capture one of them alive," Cynthia piped up.
Owain turned to her. He imagined it. Catching and holding one of his old, dear friends hostage.
But wasn't it the better option?
"And how do you propose we do that?" Kjelle's voice was venomous. "Do you have a spell that wards off wyverns under your belt? Magical rope or a seal? No, I don't imagine you do."
"It's a suggestion," Cynthia retorted, pursing her lips. "Something that doesn't involve hurting them!"
"If we capture one of them, we'll have to hurt them," Kjelle sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "We need to get information somehow. Is anyone here an expert at torture?"
Owain felt sick. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this.
"We'll do recon," he said, rubbing his branded hand and rising to his feet. "I want to know their next move before they make it. If we catch them by surprise, maybe we can catch one of them by surprise."
"Which one?" Cynthia asked eagerly.
"Morgan," Kjelle said firmly. "He's the glue that holds them together."
"No way," Cynthia gasped, her brow furrowing. "Lucina is the one we need to catch! She's the reason why everything fell apart! Without her, no one would have taken Grima's side!"
"Lucina's only there because of Morgan," Kjelle argued. "We get him, we get her. She'll crumble without him."
Owain hated the sound of that. Lucina? Crumbling? Lucina? She was steadfast and towering, a lone stone pillar in the aftermath of a violent storm. She was not so easily ruffled, and to think that they could truly get to her through Morgan was astounding. Owain didn't like the idea. He didn't like the thought of using Morgan to break that girl, the humble, loving girl of his memory.
But in truth, they'd always been children of Grima.
Owain remembered once scraping his knee while playing pretend, and Lucina had prodded him with her wooden sword, telling him over and over, "Up! Up! You can still fight!"
But he'd been crying and careless, and even then Lucina had not faltered. Her eyes narrowed. She leveled her small, polished oaken sword with his neck. And then, with a shout, she'd dropped it, rubbing her hands furiously. Owain had watched tearfully, unsure of what was happening.
And then Morgan knelt beside him, smiling his sweet, boyish smile, and placing a hand over Owain's scrape. "It's okay," Morgan whispered, eyes bright. "Lucina got a little carried away, but it's okay now. Does it still hurt?"
Bewildered, Owain had shaken his head. When Morgan had pulled his hand away, the scrape was gone, and there was a sense of ease that had spread through him.
He hadn't understood then that they'd both been influenced by their fellblooded roots in different ways. Lucina had pushed him because she was humble, but gluttonous for power. Morgan had hexed her because it was his nature to cause pain, but it was his heart to protect, to care for, to love. They were their mother's children in many ways, but they could not shake the prevalence of their father's nature. It was there. It was always there.
So now he had to decide. Lucina, resolute and binding, the leader of the traitorous band of comrades, or Morgan, kinder and crueler, a child who meant the world to the former Exalt. They were the strongest. They were Grima's spawn, Grima's blood, Grima's loving heirs.
It was awful.
Disgusting.
Owain could not do it, he could not, he could not.
"We take neither," Owain said firmly. "Morgan is too clever and Lucina is too charismatic. They'll escape. Not only that, but those two…" He rubbed his hand irritably. "They don't break. Not without a fight. We need to find the weakest link."
"Severa," Cynthia said immediately.
Kjelle seemed to consider this for a moment. "I can't disagree," she sighed. "Severa's the most temperamental of them all. Also, as smart as she is, she's not as proficient in her skills as Laurent or Gerome."
"Severa." Owain didn't like it. But wasn't it better to capture Severa than Morgan or Lucina? "And… she'll talk, won't she?"
"Not easily," Cynthia snorted. Kjelle shot her a sharp look.
"It's possible," she said, staring into Owain's eyes. "But are you sure? Severa isn't crucial to their team. She's hardly worth anything to any of them, except maybe Lucina, but…" Kjelle rolled her shoulders, and she glowered at the ground. "You know Lucina."
Oh. Did he know Lucina.
"That's precisely why I pick her." Owain understood that by separating Severa from the pack, he'd isolate her from the influence of Grima. She was no dark mage, no dark rider, no lady or knight or tactician of the Fell Dragon. She was merely a girl who had followed her leader into the mouth of hell. What was so wrong with that? "So it's settled then. Severa."
"Severa," Cynthia and Kjelle agreed in somber unison.
This would not end happily.
It could not.
"Remember," he whispered to his friends urgently. "This is just recon. Do not engage. Do not act suspicious. We'll meet back here in an hour."
He hooked his arm around Nah's shoulders, and he started forward down beaten down path. Trees were slightly charred here, but Owain could see greenery sprouting beneath the ash and the husks. There weren't many people around… well, anywhere anymore, so they had to be careful with showing up places in large groups. They'd scout around the small settlements near the forest two people at a time, and then report back. And they had to make sure the info didn't get back to Lucina.
Nah would be Owain's companion for the evening. She went with it, binding her hair in a scarf that covered her ears. They had a rule that prevented Cynthia and Owain, the two leaders, from pairing up, thus why Owain picked Nah. Inigo and Noire were pretending to be siblings, relying on their pale hair and dark, Plegian complexions to sell their lie. Cynthia and Yarne were travelers who'd just passed through the desert. Yarne and Nah had to cover their ears to go into public nowadays, lest they be recognized, so it was the best they could come up with. Brady and Kjelle would be going to the same place, but separately. They just didn't look the types to pair up. It made Brady anxious, but it was just how Kjelle wanted it.
"So," Nah teased him lightly as they came closer to the makeshift row of buildings, "does this make me the queen now?"
"Hmm…" Owain tapped his chin. "Well, if that's what my lady wife wants, I suppose I can grant you that. Nah, the dragon queen!"
She rolled her eyes, smiling timidly. "They'll write songs, I suppose. It's only fitting of such an epic romance!"
Owain laughed, and it felt freeing.
They settled down after that, discussing fundamental strategies and contingency plans. If this went south, depending on the usefulness of the information gathered, Nah would leave Owain in order to meet the others at the rendezvous point. She hated it, of course, but she didn't have a choice. He was still the leader here. He still made the decisions.
"Nice," Nah said, glancing around the dilapidated pub they'd entered. There were only three other people in it, and all of them were drunk off their asses.
"Can't be picky nowadays." He nodded to an empty table. "Sit. We might as well get drinks. Is ale good?"
Nah hummed, adjusting her scarf. "I don't want ale," she sniffed. "I'd love some nice mulled wine."
Owain bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing. He'd told Nah to pretend to be a completely different person. He understood now what he comment on the path had been about. She was getting in character.
He would bet anything he owned that she was pretending to be Severa.
He had to be different too.
So he decided to school his features, giving her a long, somber look.
He turned from her without a word.
That's probably what Gerome would do. Right?
He put two coins on the counter, and the barkeep eyed him suspiciously. "You come from the west?"
Owain toyed with a few retorts, but decided that Gerome would never admit to anything. "We're travelers," he said simply. "Two ales."
And the man scowled, but complied.
This aloof thing sure did work.
Nah sat down, folding her hands on a table while scouting out the place with sharp, careful eyes. She was clever, and she knew how to act in social situations. She knew how to rein her emotions and project false ones. She was so put together, and Owain envied her for her strength and for her stability. He was driven by the fact that he was the only person left in the world who could possibly wield the Falchion.
What drove her?
What held her upright and moved her forward?
He slid her a drink, taking a swift swig of his own and listening in on the men around them. They spoke of the crippled environment, the lack of crops and the drought. Stuff that everyone knew about, and everyone wanted to ignore but couldn't. It was all very boring, very stressing stuff. Owain didn't know what he'd do if he succeeded. Right now he was the ruler of ashes and dust. The world would be the same if Grima were slain.
So why did he bother?
"You two are young," observed a man, a long faced villager whose eyes were gauzy and watery from his alcohol intake. "Ain't that sad? Got no parents, I 'spect. Ain't that sad?"
Owain stared at him, and Nah rested her cheek against her fist while she stared into her cup. Ain't that sad? They didn't even react anymore.
It was just a common thing. They were young, and they were alone. Abandoned by time and fate and blood.
"I don't suppose," Nah murmured, "there are much of us left. Young people, I mean."
Careful, he nearly said. You might blow our cover. But it didn't matter, because the man took the bait.
"Not really, 'less you count 'em grimleal kids that've been lurkin' 'round." The man sniffed, and took a gulp from his cup. "Damn near slit my throat earlier for, gods, what'd I even do? Must've looked at their wicked priestess wrongly, or somethin', somethin' of that sort, y'know? You ever gotten a cold knife stuck to your neck, all ready for the cuttin' before? It's a nightmare, really, a real damn nightmare."
Nah glanced at Owain. She pushed her ale toward the man, cocking her head. "How awful," she gasped. "You must've been terribly scared. How'd you get away from them?"
"Just told 'em, I said, "I've done nothin', nothin' to anger Lord Grima!" And the little miss, she asked me if I had any children. So I told her right, I told her 'bout my little Mika, and that wicked wench of Grima's let me go!" He barked a laugh, and Nah turned her face down to her hands. Owain understood her discomfort. Lucina had retained some kindness. That made it so much harder to oppose her.
"Just like that," Owain said. "Huh."
"What?" The man squinted at them. "What is it, huh?"
"You're just lucky, I suppose," Owain sighed. "I've heard awful things about that lot."
Nah stared into her lap. Her persona was slipping. She was thinking of Lucina, to be certain. How unfair it was that they were where they were now.
"Lucky, yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, 'course. Just… sad, I guess. Those kids, they've been all brainwashed up into eating up the grimleal bull."
"Sad…" Nah smoothed out her skirt. "Yes. It's… so very, very sad…"
"Can't blame them," Owain said. "In this world, you take what you can get. The grimleal provides safety."
The man looked utterly appalled. "That 'scuses the whole burnin' the whole wide world to a crisp and killin' our Exalt, then?" He spat at them. "Get outta here!"
Owain resisted the urge to smile. "Fine," he said, grabbing Nah's arm. She hurried to her feet, throwing a glance back at the angry drunkard, and they left before they made any more of a disturbance. Nah clung to his arm with her tiny hands, and he could feel her shaking mildly. He tried to comfort her a little by rubbing her back, but he could tell she was upset.
"That was good," he whispered to her encouragingly, "you did good."
"Yes."
He didn't know what else to say to her, so he simply led her along the path back into the forest, and thought over this new information. Lucina was very nearby. They'd be lucky to miss her. Owain couldn't imagine what she was planning, but knowing her and Morgan it was likely something that would cripple them if left alone. Great. Another thing to stress about.
The worst thing was the knowledge that Lucina was clinging to her humanity.
This was the awful truth.
This was why he could not permit the killing of these people. These wayward friends.
"We need to take out Gerome," Nah said.
Owain looked at her with flashing eyes, stiffening in alarm because he could not fathom this from her, from this tiny friend who always seemed to know best. No. Not her too. How could she and Kjelle be on the same side with this killing nonsense? Couldn't they just… not?
"What do you mean?" Owain asked her vacantly. "Gerome is… well, certainly he's not the greatest threat there is, or the weakest link. Why Gerome?"
"Middle ground," she replied simply. "Take him out of the equation and there's less to solve. He's in the way."
He wanted to shake her, to scream that she was wrong, wrong, wrong, but she wasn't. Gerome was powerful, but not quite so important as Lucina and Morgan, as removed as Severa. Certainly Laurent shared his place in the middle, but Laurent was… logical. Owain had a feeling that if the tide turned, Laurent would turn with it.
"I see your point," he told her.
"Good…" She pushed her scarf from her hair as her boots scraped the forest floor, blackened twigs crushing underfoot. Her ears twitched, and she perked up considerably. "I hear something."
Owain's hand flew to the hilt of his steel sword, a generic bit of found metal forged while on the move. The Falchion was strapped to his back, wrapped in Chrom's old white cloak. Owain seldom used it unless the situation called for it.
Nah turned about in place, her hair loose and fluffy around her cheeks, tucked beneath her scarf. It was a true mess, wisps falling into her eyes and her bangs blown upward and outwards and all around. Her pupils were dilated, and her mouth fell open.
"Duck!" she cried, tackling Owain to the ash blanketed ground, her tiny body sliding amongst burnt up twigs and smacking very hard against an overturned tree, white dust coughed up all around them, and her face was smeared with charcoal and blood as she lifted it very slowly to stare at the explosion of light that had burst through the air, striking the oxygen they breathed alight with its scarring brightness. The lightning had come from a zig-zagged sword, and its blade gleamed in the darkness, its wielder dropped in a crouch as though just fallen from the sky.
Owain's ears were ringing from the fall and from the shock of the lightning strike. He sat up dizzily, his arm hovering protectively over Nah as he heard the swoop of wings overhead. Speaking of, he thought dryly, unbinding the cloak from the sword at his back. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the Falchion.
Lucina's eyes flashed vividly in the darkness, sliding to his face with a fierce caveat igniting the air.
She would kill him if she had the chance.
Goodie.
"Cousin!" Owain exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. And then, when he spotted Nah's dragonstone in her tiny hands, he tore the Falchion from his back and leapt.
She ducked and struck the air, lightning once again beating at the night with twitching, spindly white claws, barely missing him as his feet crashed upon the ground hard and his knee jutted out to catch her in the stomach. She flipped back, and he flung himself sloppily to the side to avoid the cut of her blade. She was too clever with her uneven blade, however, and she readjusted her grip just barely in order to graze his cheek. He breathed in sharply as hot blood spilt down to his jaw, streaming down his neck, and he leveled himself. His feet rocked against the ground as he watched her careful, graceful footing.
His father had always taught him to watch and wait.
So he flipped over her head, knocking her in the face with his forearm and taking her down with him as he tumbled, and she slid, dust and ashes crawling inside his mouth and char sitting heavily, acridly on his tongue.
Nah's voice rang out shrilling as wings beat overhead, shadows whirling and dragons snarling. Owain didn't dare look. He clutched the Falchion, spitting blood and ash onto the ground as he rolled to his feet, eying his agile cousin as she bounced off a tree and caught him off guard with an aerial attack.
He raised the Falchion and stumbled back, blinking wildly as her Levin sword struck the ancient blade, lightning dancing through the air, and he rammed his boot into her stomach, shrieking as the magic hit him hard in the shoulder.
"That was dirty!" he cried. She whirled around, a slashing at him with the tip of the blade, but he managed to duck and dance away, favoring his left side. She stared him down, the whites of her eyes glinting in the darkness. She would not say a word to him. She would not acknowledge him for who he was.
So she drove her sword forward, and Owain sidestepped and parried, the blunt side of the Falchion sparking against the dangerous ridges of the Levin sword. She gritted her teeth as he forced her back with a shove and a step forward. She flicked her wrist around, and he blocked another hit, and another, and sent himself skidding to the forest floor, dust and dirt dancing around him as he kicked her off her feet.
"Speak up!" he snapped. "Speak, Lucina! Tell me what's happening, tell me why you're doing this!"
She struck the air, and the ground sizzled by his side. His shoulder was throbbing, and he dove at her, ducking her sword and whacking her with the hilt of the Falchion. She grunted, for the first time legitimately stunned, and she looked at him wildly.
"Have I made something unclear?" She straightened up. The Levin sword was leveled at his throat. "I serve Lord Grima, Owain. The why is simple. The what is obvious. I am of fellblood, and Grima is my mother and father both."
He stared at her.
He laughed.
"Oh," he gasped, wavering a little. "Oh, gods! Luci, do you hear yourself? Mother and father both? Chrom was my uncle! Robin, my aunt! I knew them well, as did you! You are no child of Grima!"
"Oh, shut up," she snapped, diving at him.
Their swords collided, and he yanked at her hair, punching her across the face and flipping back. Above, Nah was snarling and shrieking and screaming.
He raised his head just for a moment, just to see Nah's long pink body coil and launch back as an axe bore down on one of her claws. His mistake. He felt the sinking of the blade, and he lurched away from it, his scream stifled by the white-hot pain of a chunk of his side being torn out. He stumbled, but the Falchion stayed in hand, and his body stayed upright, and he and his cousin stared at one another in horror of what she had done.
She steeled herself immediately.
"Gerome!" she called.
Owain swayed, but he turned his head toward the sky anyway. Just as he caught sight of Gerome's masked face, of Minerva's sleek scales and reptilian body, he saw the flash of teeth and the shrill screech of some poor animal realizing it was dying. Owain blinked as blood rained from the sky, splashing into his hair and running down his chin.
Minerva's throatless corpse was tossed away. Gerome fell from the sky, shrieking his objections and his horror as he attempted to cut Nah open by the belly, but he was too close to the ground, and Nah was already swooping toward Owain. He leapt onto her back as Lucina jumped to catch Gerome from his lamentable freefall.
Owain breathed in deeply, sheathing the Falchion and collapsing against Nah's cool scales. Her long, almost artistically chiseled maw was drenched black in blood.
That was what she had meant by taking out Gerome.
She'd never meant to kill him.
Owain smiled into her cool, smooth back, and he allowed himself some rest as he appreciated this girl now more than ever before. He was not concerned with his wounds. He'd suffered worse, and would suffer worse, and would die someday, but not today. The sound of her sweet, beating wings served as the melody to his lullaby.