Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, if she listened closely to the sound of the wind as it snarled at her back, she could hear a shudder of a low tone that reminded her of what she had lost. Sometimes she thought herself a great fool for letting herself be roped into such childish fancies, but most times she could not help but stop and listen, the hairs on her arms prickling as a cold sense of dread washed over her.

She'd asked Morgan once what he heard when he listened to the wind.

The boy was so very bright, and so very eager to learn all he could to help the war effort. It was unknown to her whether he believed in the cause as wholeheartedly as he pretended to, but if it was truly pretend then he played his part magnificently.

"Lord Grima, of course!" her little brother exclaimed, for he knew no better, and perhaps that was her own fault.

The way of the world was that it was dying in constant, and she could hardly understand why no one understood her motivation. Her people, of both nations, would suffer greatly at the hand of the cruel, wretched world around her. Was it not her job to protect them? To give them a sense of peace?

They would not understand.

No one could understand.

Except Morgan. Morgan always understood.

He heard it too. He felt the voices stirring inside him, a string of dull instruments rising slowly until suddenly they were crashing and singing and bleeding through their bones and eating them up until they were nothing but bags of skin and drumming voices.

The voices were screaming now. Sweet voices, soft voices, low voices, mellifluous and strong and pounding upon her chest, fist after fist after fist of steady blows to her ribs until she felt them crack, and she felt her heart pouring out.

She was on her knees, holding her aching chest as her vision swam with blood and tears, and the wind took hold of her cape and toyed with it lovingly, stray fingers combing through her hair.

Lucina, the voices whispered in the wind and in her heart. Lucina, Lucina…

Sometimes, if she held her breath, she thought she could feel him in the room, watching her with disappointed eyes as she did what she had to do without objection. Sometimes she thought she could smell him, the scent of sweat and grass and blood, the scent of a ruler who could not be pinned to his palace and of a father who could not stay by his daughter's side.

She never told Morgan, but sometimes the illusions were so powerful that she spoke to them.

I deserved better, she'd tell the invisible man.

The wind pressed into her back. No, she realized numbly. It was a foot pressed into her spine. It's cruel to meet my end at the hands of my last of kin.

Sunlight glinted on the whetted edge of the mighty, mythical Falchion. The sword of her father and her father's fathers, the sword of the Exalt. She could not quell the pang of jealousy upon seeing what was rightfully hers in the hands of her mindless, spineless oaf of a cousin. Fate was cruel to deliver her at his feet, weakened and defeated, her will crushed and her mind in shambles.

Her exalted cousin leveled the sword with her face, and he did not smile when she glanced at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the folded steel.

"I've thought about this," Owain told her, his voice different from the last she'd heard of it. Often times, when alone, Lucina had closed her eyes and thought she'd heard Owain's lofty little voice calling out to her, battle cries from a long forgotten play, a war of dirt and sticks and biting, scratching, hair pulling combat. She'd thought about it in her darkest of states, and felt as though she had been removed from that memory in order to observe as an outside. She's thought about this. She's terrified of it. "I wanted to speak to you so badly, because I thought… I only let myself fancy a dream where you'd return, listen and understand, that you'd realize how misguided you were and return to us. But I was wrong. I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong to have faith in you!"

"Faith," Lucina said, closing her eyes. "Dreams. Love. Honor. They do not exist, Owain. They're a fabrication. A lie. Just like you."

"Oh, shut up," he spat, digging his heel into her spine and kicking her face into the dirt. "I heard your patronizing loud and clear, Luci. But you just don't get it. You're the one living a lie. You and Morgan both, you served this great and powerful illusion, like it could somehow save your souls from the devastation Grima's caused! You cannot fathom the pain and suffering you've dealt already, and yet here you are trying to inflict more! You're… you're despicable— you're a disgrace!"

She spat, dirt clogging inside her gums, and she felt betrayed in the oddest way. Perhaps she'd been expecting Owain to beg for her to change her ways, to see the light within herself, to challenge her fate.

Instead he leveled the Falchion at the base of her neck, and he whispered a prayer.

She didn't know when it had begun, exactly, only that she had been very young, and very impressionable, and there had been so much she had not understood. She hardly ever saw her parents, and that had left an odd little bruise on her tender toddler heart. She'd wanted the world, and the world at that time and that place had been nothing but the warmth and comfort of her mother and father's presence. Instead she got soft spoken, reassuring words, scratchy, hasty letters, and empty apologies.

Loved was she, the girl who had everything.

She liked to run and hide from her maids, dare herself to leap from high places and flip off things to practice her coordination. She'd balance herself on banisters, stepping toe to toe with a book wobbling on her head in order to improve her footing, and she knew, she knew, she knew from the very start that she was meant to fight.

She just didn't know what yet.

But little girls didn't need a what, really, just a why.

"For my family!" she'd cry, lunging at a pillow with a makeshift sword in hand, nothing but a baton with the safety bulbs torn off. She pictured herself in the midst of a great battle, whirling left and right and all around, dancing a dance of death and doom and laughing all the way.

Her mother came home abruptly, and Lucina felt as though something had gone terribly wrong.

"Mother," she'd said, hardly really old enough to speak full sentences clearly and eloquently, "is father hurt?"

"What?" Her mother looked angelic, her brow pinching in bright, bright amusement, and her mouth parting sweetly. "Oh! Oh, no, of course not, Lucina. Why would you think such a thing?"

Lucina had stood on her stubby legs, her fingers clenching and unclenching as she resisted the urge to cry. "Because," she said distantly, "you're home."

Her mother looked momentarily crushed, as though everything angelic about her suddenly crumpled up like a bit of paper, and Lucina watched her face closely, unable to tear her eyes away. She thought she might be able to count the lines of emotion there, but Lucina wasn't very good at counting, and she did not want to embarrass herself.

"Oh, Lucina," her mother whispered, bending down on one knee before her and smiling something like an apology. "We've neglected you, haven't we?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, though only because she didn't know what neglected meant.

Her mother looked at her, and in her dark complexion Lucina thought she saw little beady eyes blinking at her from behind the lines and the pores and the skin. Lucina touched her mother's face, the tips of her fingers feeling the smooth flesh and nothing more, and she thought she must be tired.

"You know better," her mother whispered to her, smoothing her hair back. "I know you do. You know why we're always gone, don't you?"

"I know you're fighting," Lucina said, nodding vigorously. "Very hard! Mother, mother… I want to fight too!" She grabbed her mother's hands, feeling the radiating warmth of them tingle through the grooves of her skin. She looked down, and she saw that her mother's hands were bare. She'd never seen her mother without gloves before, had she?

Her mother laughed at her, and she kissed her forehead, and then her hair, and then her nose, and Lucina squealed as she was scooped up into a tight hug, squished in her mother's arms as she was attacked with furious kisses.

"I love you," her mother declared, smooching her cheek and her temple and her ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Moth—" She giggled and gasped. "Mama, stop, it tickles, it—!"

They both ended up collapsing against a wall, breathing heavily and giggling in hushed tones, hiding from a passing maid or Frederick or something like that. Frederick had a child recently, which was nice, because that meant a new play thingy, and Lucina loved playing, so it would be nice not to be lonely anymore.

Lucina sat in her mother's lap, her cheek pressed to her breast and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat drumming vividly inside Lucina's head. It sounded like music, the kind that swooped through the city during the nights of celebration on the rare occasion that their exalt returned. Her mother ran her long, slender, nimble fingers through Lucina's silky blue hair, parting it carefully. Lucina turned obediently in order to allow her mother to cast her long blue strands into tight braids. It was exciting, because Lucina hardly ever got to braid her hair. None of the maids did it right.

"I like it when you're home, mother," Lucina said, uncertain on whether her candid words would please her mother or not. She didn't want to burden either of her parents with her desire to be with them, but at the same time she was aching for their company, and could not bear to part with them. She'd fight a thousand battles, slaughter a million foes before she let them be taken away from her again. But of course that was just a child's fantasy, and even young as she was she was not deluded enough to believe her mother would not up and leave again as she always did.

"I like it when I'm home too," her mother said, her agile fingers working fast at the back of Lucina's head. "It means I get to spend time with you, Lucina. And… that makes me happier than you could ever know."

Lucina's heart stuttered like little butterfly wings beating at her ribs, bones shuddering and organs quivering, and she felt a little queasy and dizzy from elation.

"Really?" she breathed. She could not bear to face her mother, not now with her face so shamefully shocked and red and she was simply baffled.

Her mother tied off the end of her hair, and she rubbed the top of Lucina's head of "Look at me, Lucina," she said. The words weren't commanding, but the request was prominent enough that Lucina couldn't figure a way to avoid it.

So she turned in her mother's lap, straddling her and clinging to the deep purple folds of the lining of her cloak. Her mother held her cheek, and Lucina noted that it was rough to the touch, nothing like the squishy hands of the maids who bathed and dressed her. Robin had the hands of a warrior. Calluses were prominent across her palms and scars marred the tender skin of her knuckles, and Lucina felt the scratchiness of her, the unrefined beauty of her mother, the tactician, her mother, the fighter, her mother, the mage. Her mother. Lucina feared looking into her face and seeing a stranger, feared that the weeks and weeks and months and months away would weather her mother's face into that of a completely different person.

"You're so much like you're father," her mother laughed suddenly, her pale hair curling across her cheeks as her head cocked to the side. "It's really amazing. You crave love and attention, but you don't want to make that apparent so you hide behind your pleasantries and your courtesies and your niceties, and you try not to think much of yourself. Am I right?"

Lucina was taken aback. She could hardly understand what her mother was accusing her of— it was an accusation, wasn't it? It was so strange.

"But, mother," she objected, "am I not supposed to be kind and courteous? Is that not what an Exalt should be?"

"Emmeryn hid behind her kindness and her courtesies," her mother murmured, glancing away from Lucina's face. Lucina had, of course, heard of her aunt Emmeryn before this instance, but never with such offhand regard. Everyone treated Emmeryn as though she were as grand as Naga herself, but Robin talked of her as though she was… human. Lucina was shocked. She was enthralled. "Chrom— your father, he does only what he believes Emmeryn would do. But deep down, he is not Emmeryn. Gods, deep down Emmeryn wasn't Emmeryn— do you understand what I'm saying, or am I babbling?" Her mother laughed weakly. "Ah, gods, I'm rambling nonsense to my own daughter."

"No, mother," Lucina said eagerly. "I like it very much when you rumble."

Her mother regarded her with a long, amused gaze. "Ramble," she corrected with bright smile. "But honestly, Lucina, I'm just trying to make a point. I don't want you to be hiding all your life behind a mask of false confidence. You know your father, of course, but I've known him a little longer, and I'm going to tell you a secret."

Lucina sat with bated breath, her eyes wide and shining with excitement. Her mother was stroking her cheek absently, and her knuckles were discolored and scratchy.

"Your father isn't mighty," her mother said. "He isn't great, or incredibly powerful, or even all that wise. Actually, he's kind of a dope, if you ask me."

"I thought pa— father, I mean, father was very smart," Lucina said confusedly. "Is that not true?"

"Ah, he's clever when he needs to be," her mother said, bouncing her head from side to side. "In truth, I do most of his thinking for him."

Lucina's stomach was jittery at this information. "Wow!" she gasped, leaning forward and grasping her mother's rough hands. "You must be the wisest person in all of Ylisse, mother! No!" Lucina bounced excitedly in her mother's lap, her eyes alight at the thought that this amazing person was her mother. "All of the world!"

Her mother barked a disbelieving laugh, nodding along as Lucina bounced happily. "Oh, I wouldn't say that…" she said, closing her eyes. "But you wouldn't believe how many times your father has said that to me."

"It's because it's true," Lucina said firmly. "You must be, if father loves and trusts you so, don't you think?"

"I did say he wasn't all that wise," her mother giggled. Lucina giggled as well, and she looked down at her mother's hands, running her fingers over the long scars, which were so much lighter than the rest of her mother's sun-kissed skin. Lucina noticed a strange marking on the back of her mother's right hand, and she drew her fingers across the twinkling eyes that seemed to be more or less branded into her mother's skin.

"What's this?" she asked, turning her mother's hand toward her.

"Oh." Her mother sounded a little strange just then, quiet and dejected which was so very unlike her. Worry prickled inside of her, twisting up inside her stomach and making her whole abdomen ache. "It's just… a mark, I suppose. It's been there as long as I can remember."

"Like my brand," Lucina asked, pointing to her eye. Her mother glanced down at her, nodding slowly, although looking uncertain.

"Something of that nature…" She'd glanced away then, biting her lip nervously. "Listen, Lucina, how would you like to have a playmate?"

Lucina nearly shrieked with delight, but kept herself calm, and let only a small glimmer of her excitement peek through. "Oh, yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."

"Good," her mother breathed, slumping. "That's good. Because you're going to have one. A little sister. Or brother, I don't know which yet. Is that okay with you?"

Lucina stared at her mother confusedly. A sister? Or brother? Well it'd certainly be nice to not be alone anymore. And it wasn't as though she had to worry about another child stealing her parents' attention— their attention was never on her anyway.

"Of course," she replied, blinking wildly. "Do we share a room now? Do I have to move out of my room? I don't really very much want to move out of my room, but if my baby sister or— or brother, or whichever it is, if they want my room, I think that's okay, but can I move my stuff out first?" She chewed her bottom lip anxiously. "You won't give it my stuff, right, mama?"

Robin looked utterly bewildered.

"Lucina," she said, suddenly laughing hysterically. "Lucina, oh gods, you're— you're taking this very well. Chrom owes me a new tome…"

"Mother…?"

"The baby won't be coming for a few months yet," her mother said, lifting Lucina's chin gently. "And it will have its own room and toys and things, don't you fret. I just wanted to be sure you were open to the idea of having a sibling, but it seems we've been worrying for nothing. You're far too mature, you know. You should throw a tantrum. That'd give me some peace of mind."

"That'd be rude…" Lucina shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think I want to do that."

"Ah, it can't be helped, I suppose." Her mother shrugged, and she scooped her into a tight hug. "But at least I have you all to myself for a few months, hm? Your aunt Lissa actually is here as well, so she can teach you how to throw the best of tantrums."

"Aunt Lissa?" Lucina's words were muffled against her mother's collarbone. "Why is she here?"

"Um…" Robin laughed nervously. "The same reason as me, actually. She's going to have a baby too, though she's much farther along than I am. Hard to believe she kept it a secret for so long."

"Why'd she keep it a secret?"

"Oh, for all the reasons I kept mine a secret for a bit," Robin said, grimacing. "It's a hassle to pick up and leave everything so suddenly, and the journey's not pleasant for our… um, conditions, and of course we feel like we're abandoning everyone by returning home for this, but also we just don't feel comfortable leaving everyone behind." She paused, glancing down at Lucina worriedly. "Am I rambling again?"

"Yes, but I like it. I like it when you talk." I like it when I get to hear your voice, she thought, though she didn't have the courage to say it aloud.

"Cordelia will be staying here as well," Robin said thoughtfully. "I guess we'll be having babies everywhere for the next few months."

"I like babies," Lucina told her mother eagerly. I think.

"You're a baby yourself, you know," her mother laughed, ruffling her hair. "Gods, you've grown…"

"Not really." Lucina sniffed, glowering up at the ceiling. "I'm not as tall as you or father yet, so I can't have grown much at all, really. Is father here as well, mother?"

"Oh!" Robin blinked wildly. "No, I'm sorry, Lucina. He couldn't just bring his entire army with him here, but he couldn't desert them either. So it's just me, Lissa, Lon'qu, and Frederick. And Cordelia soon, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's exciting," Lucina said, though she couldn't help but be disappointed that her father wouldn't be joining them.

"Do you remember your Uncle Lon'qu?" he mother asked her curiously. When Lucina shook her head, her mother giggled. "Well. Come on, then. You'll enjoy this."

She'd never met a grown man so uncomfortable around her before. It was strange.

Her mother's presence in Ylisstol during that time had influenced Lucina more than she could ever say. She'd awaken each morning to the scent of her mother's hair, the scent of dust and tomes and something natural and sweet like honeysuckle. In the night she'd dream of ash and dust, and through the screen of miasma there were eyes glowing bright, bright, bright in the distance, red and wild in the darkness. And when she'd awake, she felt strangely charged, like she'd been struck by lightning and absorbed its power.

Once, she'd been tasked with amusing some of the other children, who had begun filling the castle as a result of the imminent royal birth, so she'd taken them out into the yard and played pretend war. She was the oldest, so she got to pick who fought who. She pitted Noire against Cynthia first out of curiosity, both girls being clumsy and awkward to start with. That match had ended in an escalating number of scrapes and bruises, but Cynthia had laughed it off rather heartily. Noire had begun to cry, which in turn had made Brady start to cry, which in turn made Inigo start to cry, which in turn made Gerome attempt to leave.

"Where are you going?" Lucina asked him, watching him halt. He was smaller than her, but only just barely, and he stood with his eyes cast toward the grass. She didn't want to pry, but he made her curious, and he never spoke, so she couldn't tell if he was rude or simply shy.

When he did not answer, she scowled at him. She snatched the wooden sword from Cynthia's hand and tossed it at his feet.

"Fight me, then!" she cried, tiny and electrified, her mind in a foggy dream and her heart in an age-old song. "Fight me, and I'll let you leave!"

Noire had ceased her weeping, wiping her droopy eyes on her long, dagged sleeves. They'd all quit the crying in order to observe her, which she thought rather odd, but she let herself enjoy the attention.

Gerome took the hilt of the wooden sword in hand, and it seemed to fit him better than it had fit Cynthia. He was bigger, and older, and more adjusted to his limbs. Noire offered out her sword, her round cheeks very pink and her eyes bloodshot as she stared up at Lucina in awe. She was the youngest of the group, not counting Nah, who was too small to be allowed to roam the grounds, and Severa who had only just learned to crawl. Nah could at least speak and comprehend things around her, in spite of her appearance being that of a near infant. Severa was just a grumpy baby who wasn't allowed to play.

Lucina took the sword from Noire, and she twirled it between her fingers, feeling as though her entire short life had been preparing for the moment when she could force an opponent flat onto their face. Gerome seemed like a worthy opponent. After all, he was the closest to her age.

Before they could cross play swords, however, Yarne let out a terrible shriek, and both Lucina and Gerome dropped their faux weapons in shock. When they looked, they saw a small twitching, lurching horde of men inching toward them. The grounds should be safe Lucina thought dazedly, stumbling forward and grabbing Cynthia by both blistered hands, yanking her to her feet.

"We have to go," she said urgently, ushering Cynthia toward Gerome. "Everyone! Back inside!"

"I ain't scared of no soldiers," Kjelle declared stubbornly, "not dead nor alive!"

Lucina, young as she was, had been influential in their little band of righteous play time, and so she rose herself higher, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, looking at Kjelle with a gaze so steady that it made Lucina a little dizzy to hold it.

"You won't be so brave once you become one," Lucina warned. "We have to go inside, Kjelle, we have to go warn everyone! If we don't, imagine, just imagine! We'll be hurting more than helping out here!"

"What are those things, Luci?" Cynthia whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

"Those are Risen," Laurent piped up matter-of-factly. He was the only one still sitting in the grass, and he had a notebook in hand, his eyes trailing from the approaching Risen to his page. "If I'm correct, they are a legion of animated corpses."

"Huh?" Inigo spluttered, while the rest of them simply stared at Laurent blankly.

"Yes," Lucina said uncertainly. "Yes, I s'pose so. Anyways, come on!"

Yarne had already bolted, which Lucina didn't quite understand, but she was glad he'd run when she said so. The day was dim, and the Risen were inching closer and closer and closer, their weapons glinting in the sunlight, and Lucina felt compelled to run at them, to beat them all down, to be the hero she'd heard of in glorious tales and songs.

But she didn't. She could hardly move, she was so frightened.

"Lucina," Cynthia whispered urgently, "Luci, Luci! What do we do?"

They all looked to her for guidance.

She had none.

Suddenly they were all screaming, and scattering, and she stood there, feeling utterly lost as she tried to usher them all behind her, but lost sense of direction and time, and felt the darkness of these rotting beasts as they sped up, and without warning, they leapt.

Lucina covered her face with her arms, her heart beating hard and a scream strangled inside her throat.

The reanimated corpse that had moved at her screeched instead, a gurgling hiss of a dying breath, lightning spitting through the air and slicing through its blackened flesh. Lucina peeked at it through her fingers, her mouth opening just enough that she could taste the charred skin, the scent of it blistering and bubbling making her dizzy.

"Lucina," her mother said breathlessly from at her back. "Lucina, gods, are you—?"

She turned to look up at her mother, who was standing with a tome open in one hand, her other hand catching Lucina by the shoulder and yanking her behind her. When Lucina looked around, she saw that all the other children had been caught by at least one of their respective parents, and her being ushered to safety. Lucina was terrified as she listened to the Risen moan and rumble.

She clung to her mother's cloak.

"Mother," she murmured, "we have to run away…"

"I won't," her mother said firmly. "But you must. Go, Lucina."

"I can't," she gasped, shaking her mother's cloak. "Not without you!"

Her mother looked at her, and there was such a brilliant awe in her features that Lucina thought it glowed upon Robin's dark face, glinting with the flash of her eyes, and she stretched out her arm, flicking her wrist up and around, her fingers splaying and the air sputtering as her voice shook nature itself.

"Thoron!" She snapped, something electric pulsating along the edge of her fingers before a grand column of lightning sprouted from her touch, sending the Risen around them into a crisp, jittery mound of charred bones.

Lucina's eyes had followed the zig-zag of light, the spark and the flash and the intoxicating energy of it.

This was the point where Lucina's fate took a different course than she believed it had initially planned.

After her mother and a few others had taken care of the Risen, Lucina had rushed to her side, feeling jittery and uncertain.

"Mother," she said, flushing bright red as she clasped her hands behind her back. "I want to learn magic."

Robin had been so very surprised, and Lucina just did not know if it had initially pleased her to hear these words come from her mouth.

"Oh," her mother said, pushing her pale hair from her brow. She took a breath, and she smiled down at Lucina as best she could. She looked tired, and her warm skin was very pale now, very waxy and wane, bruise-like hollows dipping below the light of her eyes. "Of course, I— of course." Lucina took note of her mother's odd behavior, the excitement in her smile that did not hold inside her gaze. "Come here."

Lucina came, watching her mother kneel and take both her hands in her own, the cowhide gloves smooth and worn as they massaged Lucina's tiny knuckles. Behind Robin, Lucina saw Noire's mother, the dark mage called Tharja, eying them with her shadowy gaze and her ghostly smile. She was holding Noire by the hand, ignoring the child's sniffling as she clung to her lean thigh.

"You must understand," Robin said staring into Lucina's eyes, sweat gleaming on her brow, hair plastered to her cheeks, "that magic is no easy craft to master. It also is very finicky— you may not get the results you wish for, or if you do, you might regret it. It's not like picking up a sword. Magic is very dangerous, and very powerful, and you might decide you don't like it very much."

Lucina considered her words very carefully.

"Mother," she said, squeezing her hands, feeling the remnants of lightning bolts from beneath the smooth leather. "I want to learn magic. I can do it."

And her mother smiled, this one a genuine one, and she pulled her up into her arms, laughing into her hair. "That makes me happy," she whispered, holding her tight.

Does it?

Lucina snuggled closer into her mother's arms, inhaling her scent, the sweat and the sweetness, and she felt something tingling inside her.

She felt the power here, and she was enthralled by it.

Her mother had warned her. Magic was not for everyone.

Lucina had not been very good at it.

"You really need to concentrate," her mother encouraged her, leaning over the slim tome that was a designated beginner's book the magic. If Lucina could not produce a fire, she could not master anything remotely as advanced as what her mother dealt with. "Read the words carefully, and try to reach deep. You're willful, Lucina. Magic should come to you."

It didn't come to her. It was apparent by her mother's teaching methods that she'd never had to do this before, and she was using her own experience to teach, but as Lucina sat for hours and hours, pouring over tomes and histories and conduits, she struggled to find her inner mage.

She often snuck away to watch Laurent practice with his own mother. He seemed to grasp everything so well, and she was stuck with ink stained fingers and zero results. Focus? Focus was something she understood, and she was a girl who could withstand most anything, but her patience wore thin, and her desire to learn outweighed her reason.

"Miss Tharja?"

Lucina was still very young, and Tharja was a very intimidating woman, so she wasn't quite sure how exactly to address her. She'd gone directly to her and Noire's room, not particularly interested in subtleties. She waited at the door until it opened, and the willowy woman stood before her with her shadowy eyes and perpetual smirk.

"Princess," she cooed.

Lucina flushed, and she shook her head furiously. "Miss Tharja," she gasped, clasping her hands together. "I wanted to ask—"

"Yes," Tharja said, opening the door wide and stepping aside. Lucina stood confusedly for a moment, her mouth hanging open.

"Wait," she said, "I didn't ask it yet."

"Oh, I already know what you're going to ask." Tharja's smile was poisonous, and even Lucina could tell that this lady wasn't much of a Lady at all, and more like some sinister snake her mother and father had plucked from the desert sands. Still, she was desperate, and Tharja seemed the least likely to tattle. "You want me to teach you magic so you can impress your mother. That's something I can do."

"Really?" Lucina asked eagerly. She quickly entered Tharja's room, bouncing excitedly on her heels. "You can teach me?"

"If I can't, I'm certain no one can." Tharja leaned against her door, staring down her nose at Lucina. "You're very much like her."

Lucina whirled around to face the woman, shocked and a little overjoyed. "My mother?" she gasped, her eyes brightening. "You think I'm like my mother?"

Tharja tilted her head, her long, sleek black hair pooling like roughspun silk, and there was a crease in her dark brow that suggested bemusement. "Is that odd?" Her voice was low and lilting, sweet and chafing. Lucina could not truly fathom this woman. "You have the same… presence about you. Come sit."

Lucina followed her deeper into the dim chamber, which had been changed around to accommodate Tharja's darker tastes. The draperies were black, the candles burned low, and the windows all covered while incense burned in spiraling trails in the corners of the room. It was an overwhelming scent.

She sat down at a round table, folding her hands in her lap as she continued to look around. Her own room was bright, but a little closed off for her safety. This room was dark and massive, but also airy and balanced. It was a nice room regardless.

Tharja retrieved a thick looking purple tome, much like the kind her mother had often moved up to higher shelves so Lucina could not reach them. Its spine was cracked and its leather bound face wrinkled beyond belief, and it coughed up a flume of dust as Tharja dropped it onto the table.

"Firstly," Tharja declared, rolling up her papery thin sleeves, "I want you to promise me that what happens in this room stays in this room. You will not tell your mother, nor your father, nor anyone else in the castle."

Lucina understood that this was strange and scary, but she could not help but be deeply curious about why this was so secretive.

"I was going to ask you the same," she replied earnestly. "I don't want mother to feel as though she's not teaching me right— I don't think that's the problem at all. I just don't think I'm good at the kind of magic she's trying to teach me."

"She's trying to instill the basics in you," Tharja said, resting her palm against the old, withered tome. "You don't need the basics. You need the darker arts."

"Dark magic," Lucina said, nodding. "Yes. But I don't want mother to know I've gone to you."

"Once you learn the old, arcane magicks," Tharja said, "making a fire in the palm of your hand is baby stuff. Just listen to me, my dear little princess. I'll show you exactly how to do it."

Needless to say, Lucina learned how to do it.

It wasn't as hard as she had been expecting, once she stopped clinging to her niceties.

Nobody needed niceties with magic.

Magic was raw. It bled.

Lucina took a small dagger, its hilt of bone and ivory still somehow too big for her chubby hands, and she slid the iron blade over her palm and held it before her tutor. Tharja held her skinny wrist, thumbing the wound as Lucina's eyes welled up with tears, and her lips trembled, and finally she gasped and bit her tongue to contain a sob. Tharja did not smile as she lifted her red soaked thumb to her lips and dragged Lucina's blood down her tongue.

"Not bad." Tharja took the knife, wiping Lucina blood on a towel she'd set out. Noire was never in the room during their training sessions, always sent away when Tharja knew Lucina was going to show up. Apparently Tharja could not force the dark magic out of Noire as she did with Lucina. Of course, Lucina did not mind at all. She had Tharja all to herself, and she was really impressing her mother with her newfound magical prowess. "Now do me."

"W-what…" Lucina's hand was throbbing, and tears glittering on her cheeks, reflecting the candlelight. "What is this going to do…?"

"It's merely a precaution dark mages must take when officially designating a fledgling such as yourself as an apprentice." Tharja sliced her palm open as though it was nothing, and Lucina merely flinched as she offered the bloody hand out to her. "I'm cursing us, in a way."

Cursing?

"Cursing," Lucina whispered taking Tharja's dark hand and watching the blood congeal along the line of the cut. "Hm."

"Hm?" Tharja smiled at her grimly. "Would you like to curse someone, little princess?"

"I'd very much like to curse Gerome," she said, clenching her bloody fist and dragging her thumb along Tharja's open wound. "I'd like him to curse him to smile."

Tharja laughed at her. She had a dark laugh, a four-syllable chuckle that went right through Lucina. She was a little fearful as she opened her mouth and rested her bloody thumb on her tongue. It tasted foul, like something was burning her taste buds clean off, and she had to deal with that fleshy, charred aftertaste.

The door burst open, and Lucina licked the rest of the blood off her thumb, aware that a bit of it was dribbling from the corner of her lip. She stared in horror as her mother came marching in, her head eye and her eyes ablaze, her hand at the hilt of her Levin sword.

"Robin," Tharja purred.

Her mother froze at the sight of them— Lucina garbed in tradition Plegian clothing, black muslin robes and a sheer shawl, blood smeared on her lips and dripping from her hand, and Tharja with a bloody knife and a coy smile. It was an awkward image at best. Robin took in this sight, rolled her shoulders back, and turned to face Tharja calmly.

"I've put up with this long enough," she said in a firm but gentle voice. "No more, Tharja. You will not fill my daughter's head with thoughts of curses and hexes and blood magic."

"She came to me, Robin," Tharja said innocently, setting her knife on the reddened towel. "Your teaching methods, though I'm sure are effective on the average little mage-to-be, had no real effect on our dear little princess. Not to say she isn't talented— she truly is immensely gifted, you know."

"I know," Robin said, this time very coldly.

"I was the very same way," Tharja said. "I never learned the basics of magic, only the dark arts, which allowed me to understand the fundamentals. You can't really blame her, can you?"

"I don't blame her at all," her mother said. Lucina found herself slumping in relief, her heart giving way as all her fears and anxieties were lifted from her shoulders. "I feel responsible for this entire situation, for not giving her the proper attention, and for not seeing this coming. I would have done the same, if in her shoes."

"Mother…" Lucina whispered, tears blinding her.

Her mother turned her attention solely to her. "I understand perfectly how you feel, Lucina," she said. "I understand that you wanted to earn my respect, and to somehow impress me, but you didn't need to go through this sort of length to do so. You already impressed me just by asking me to teach you. The idea that you went to Tharja when you realized you weren't catching on to magic right away, instead of confronting me about your uncertainties, honestly is very disappointing to me. I thought— I'd hoped you'd care more for spending time with me than impressing me."

Her mouth had dropped open, the taste of blood still clinging to her tongue, and the tears were rolling fast and firm, flushing her warm cheeks and making her truly feel the pain in her hand. She was overwhelmed. No, she thought, no, no, mother, no, that's not it at all. But she had no real explanation. She was so ashamed of herself, and she couldn't even properly articulate how sorry she was.

"I didn't…" Lucina's eyes flashed wildly from her mother to Tharja and then back. "Mother…"

Robin held up her hand. "No more," she said. Lucina didn't really know if she was talking to her or to Tharja, but it didn't matter. They both got the message loud and clear. "I'm thankful to you, Tharja, for… imparting what knowledge you could on Lucina." Her eyes were narrowed dangerously into slits. "However, your teaching methods are not welcome, and undeniably creepy. You will not lay a hand on my daughter again, you understand?"

Tharja shrugged. "I've hardly landed a hand on her at all," she said, wiping her hand off on the towel. Robin glowered at her. "Oh, I love that look on you. But honestly, Lucina made herself bleed more than I ever did."

"On your command," Robin snapped. "You told her to hurt herself, and because you are her teacher she listened! She doesn't understand that it isn't okay!"

"A flaw in you, not me," Tharja sighed. "Though it's best if they're obedient, I think. It makes them easier to mold."

"Do you hear yourself, Tharja?" Her mother sounded so distraught, and Lucina was shaking in fear and guilt. She hadn't meant for this to happen. She hadn't meant for her mother to be so angry and sad. "She's a child, not a toy! You cannot simply break her and expect her to be sunshine and smiles once you've maxed her out!"

Tharja looked surprisingly puzzled. "Why would I want her to be sunshine and smiles…?" Tharja blinked rapidly, and tilted her head. "That's stupid."

"Tharja!"

"Robin!" Tharja mimicked, resting her bloody hand on Lucina's head. Lucina's eyes widened as she saw the look that crossed her mother's face. "If you're so angry about our little training time, why don't you teach the girl some dark magic yourself?"

Robin inhaled very sharply, and her face was as hard as sandstone. "Your leave is over, Tharja," she said in a low voice. "Pack your things. You're going back to camp."

"That's fine," Tharja yawned, prying her sticky fingers from Lucina's damp blue hair. "I've been itching to try out some new hexes, and Libra's probably gotten antsy with me gone, gods know."

Her mother stood rigidly, though she did not look surprised at how offhand Tharja's response was. "I may still tell Chrom," she warned, "and he might not be so forgiving."

"I hardly did anything wrong," Tharja said. "She never even cursed anyone. I only gave her the smallest of tastes of what her true power holds."

"And look how much that's tormented her!" Robin waved her hand at Lucina, who shrunk back, her tears still streaming steadily. Quickly, she rubbed her face on her scratchy sleeve, leaving her cheeks itchy and raw.

"She's your daughter," Tharja said vacantly. "How could I turn her away?"

"If you cared about me at all," her mother spat, "you never would have dreamed of hurting her, because she is my daughter."

Tharja looked, for the first time, visibly dismayed at Robin's words. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Lucina," Robin said, holding out her hands. Lucina ran to her side, and nearly broke into sobs as her mother hefted her into her arms, hugging her tightly and kissing her red slick hair. She rubbed her back, small, soothing circles massaging her spine as her mother whirled from Tharja and left the room, kissing her wet cheek and her earlobe, nuzzling her bloody blue hair and smiling into her warm skin.

"I love you," she murmured. "Even though you snuck around and kept secrets from me, I still love you."

"Really…?" Lucina hiccupped, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest. "Even… even if I'm bad?"

"You're not bad, Lucina."

"But I used dark magic," she gasped. "Laurent said that dark magic is bad magic, and bad magic breeds bad people!"

"Laurent, smart as he is, does not know yet the complexities of the world," her mother sighed. "He may very well use dark magic in the future, if this war… ah, never mind that. Anyways, magic doesn't determine what type of person you are. I use dark magic all the time, but I still think I'm a good person."

"Is Tharja not a good person?" Lucina asked confusedly.

Her mother did not answer right away. "Tharja is a troubled person," she said slowly. "But… I think she's good. And Henry— ah, you've never met him, but he's Inigo's father— I think he's also a good person, in spite of how disturbing he can be. He's truly very nice when he's not undeniably creepy as hell."

"Inigo's father?" Lucina tried to wrap her head around it. "Is he anything like Inigo?"

"Oh, gods, no," her mother laughed. "Inigo is so sweet and shy— he's his mother's son, no doubt. The only thing he really inherited from Henry, I think, is his smile."

"Henry smiles lots, then," Lucina stated.

"Lots and lots," her mother murmured. "It's not really all that pleasant, honestly, but he's really quite nice all in all, and he'd probably adore you."

Lucina nodded, burying her face in her mother's neck and inhaling her scent of sweat and ink. Her hand was bleeding freely down Robin's side, dampening her dark coat and even smearing blood across Lucina's chubby thigh. As they moved a little more hurriedly through the hall, they passed by Frederick, who was still on paternity leave. He moved past them, and then promptly froze.

"Robin," he called.

"Damn," she muttered against Lucina's cheek. Lucina peered up at her mother's face, noting she looked a little stricken as she turned around to face her father's right hand man. "Hello, Frederick… I haven't been to see Severa in awhile, is she well?"

Frederick eyed her suspiciously, his gaze trailing between Lucina's disheveled appearance— the blood and the tears and the Plegian garb— to Robin's sweet mask of a smile.

"She's very well," he said, his shoulders squaring. "May I ask what's happened to you both?"

"Ah." Robin glanced at Lucina, and she smoothed her damp hair from her forehead, leaving sticky red trails across her skin. "Just a little hiccup in magic lessons. Nothing too severe."

"Robin, she's bleeding!" Frederick neared them, reaching for Lucina but faltering as his hand came close to her throbbing, crimson fist. "Gods, she looks like she's battled a whole squadron of Risen!"

"Oh, it's not that bad," Robin sighed. She pressed her palm to Lucina's forehead, and a rapid wave of cool energy rolled over her flesh and knitted all around her, attacking the open wound that dug at her palm. "Don't you fret, Freddybear. She's fine."

She lifted her head, feeling lighter and brighter and utterly relieved. She ran her thumb over her healed palm, small circles massaging the creases of her skin. She'd never been healed by magic before. She'd never witnessed this sort of thing, and it intrigued her, enthralled her, held onto her with clingy fingers.

"Be honest. What happened?" Frederick asked, taking a large step toward them. Lucina watched him, and she was reminded of something Tharja had said. Every man, woman, and child have weakness, she'd whispered with a coy little smirk. Your job, princess, is to find it. Exploit it.

What was Frederick's weakness, she wondered?

"Ran into a little snag with magic training," her mother said, peering down at her. Absently, her mother began to stroke her cheek with her knuckle, wiping away the remnants of Tharja's blood. "It could've happened to anyone. Um, we really need to go, though." Robin shot Frederick a weak little smile. "I've got to clean her up. You understand, I'm sure."

"Of course…" Frederick's eyes moved warily from Robin's face to Lucina. She watched him, her cheek pressed to her mother's shoulder and her eyes droopy from exhaustion. She smiled at him.

This man's weakness was that he loved too much, and trusted too little.

She noted how his eyes narrowed at her suspiciously.

Wary even of a child!

It'd be difficult to curse him.

It'd be mean too.

Very mean.

"Well then," Robin said brightly, "goodnight, Frederick!"

"Yes," he said distantly as her mother turned away, clutching her very close. "Robin, you know I am here not only for my daughter and wife, but for you as well. You can tell me anything."

She paused. Lucina looked at her face, and saw the wideness of her eyes, the shadowy panic of her features, which she schooled so fast, it was mind reeling to a tiny child with little experience in the art of fooling.

"Of course I know that," she laughed, turning only her face to him. "You are one of my closest friends, regardless of your duties to the House of Ylisse. If I had something to tell you, Frederick the Wary, don't you think I would have by now?"

"I'm not so sure."

"Trust me, Frederick," Robin pleaded. "Everything is fine. Go back to Cordelia and Severa. Gods know when either of you will be sent out again."

"Not me, milady," Frederick said softly. "I am here indefinitely."

Lucina felt her mother stiffen, her muscles rigid and her smile tight.

"You don't need to take care of me," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm a big girl, and I've been through all this pregnancy nonsense before. Was it Chrom's order? Or your request?"

"It was a mutual agreement."

"Ah," Robin said brightly. "Well, trust in my boys to make me feel safe as can be."

"I beg of you," Frederick sighed, "not to take this the wrong way."

"I understand," her mother said earnestly. "And I really do appreciate it. I just… hate being worried after, that's all. It's so stifling, and you know how capable I am."

"I know," Frederick said. "I know…"

"Then prove it," she said. And she whirled away, Lucina resting at her hip, and her cloak gliding behind her as she strode down the corridor, leaving Frederick to his aching concern. Lucina buried her face in her mother's collarbone to hide a smile. You're amazing, she thought in awe. Mother, you're amazing!

She was promptly stripped and dumped in a tub, soaps and incense tossed into the water, sweet scents that Lucina realized were of her mother. Beneath the clinging smell of sweat and ink, her mother smelled of sweet grass and daffodils. Lucina swished the water around, smiling as her mother dropped a handful of flower petals over her head. They were pale pink and thin, fluttering slowly against the steam that drifted from the sudsy tub.

"I'm still disappointed in you," Robin admitted as Lucina shook the flowers out of her hair. "But I can't say I'm surprised, or even angry. Honestly, I know I would have done the same."

"You would have?" she asked in awe.

"I'm a perfectionist," her mother laughed, dragging a bar of soap over Lucina's back. "And Tharja isn't all bad, really… she's just a little extreme. What did she make you do?"

"Um…" Lucina had to think. The remnants of the taste, the dull tang of blood, still hung on her tongue. "Well, she tasted some of my blood, and made me… taste hers…" She lowered her head in shame. "I don't know why…"

"It was probably just a binding hex," her mother explained gently. "It can't harm you, unless you attack Tharja or anyone who shares her blood. It's a precaution some dark mages take when accepting an apprentice. To ensure you'll never curse her out of revenge for some way she treated you, or something like that."

"Oh." Lucina was silent as her mother washed the blood from her dark blue hair, tugging at the knots and laughing sheepishly as she apologized. She explained that she didn't know what she was doing. Lucina wondered what she meant.

"These are actually Sumia's flower petals," Robin admitted, dragging a wooden bowl across the ledge of the tub. "She said I could use them. You know Sumia, right?"

"Of course," Lucina said, blinking. "Cynthia's mother. Of course!"

"Of course." Robin smiled. "She's been giving me advice, but… oh, I don't know…"

"What?" Lucina twisted in the bath, water swooshing and petals clinging to her skin. "What is it, mother?"

"It's silly," her mother sighed, dragging her fingers through Lucina's fine hair, wringing it slowly. "I just… feel as though I haven't been fair to you, Lucina."

"What do you mean?" She was at a loss. Her mother was the kindest person she knew. She was just, and she was brave, and she was wise, and she was beautiful, and she was kind. Lucina could not fathom the idea that she felt such a way. "You're always fair!"

Robin poured water over Lucina's head, and she covered her eyes so the soap wouldn't get in them. "I don't know," her mother said. "Like I said, it's silly. Do you feel as though you know me, Lucina?"

"Yes…?" She held her damp fingers to her eyes, darkness spread out all around her. All she heard was her mother's soft voice, and all she felt was water flowing over her head, a warm sensation flowing from her clean hair to her warm skin. She felt as though she were floating. "Of course…"

"I'm glad…" her mother said distantly. "But, Lucina, aren't you ever angry? Aren't you ever sad that your father and I… that we're hardly home?" Her mother pulled her hands from her eyes, and stared at her with a stricken face, with parted lips and dazed eyes. "Don't you blame us? Even just a little?"

"No," Lucina whispered in shock. "Never."

Robin stared. And then, she smiled, and she laughed, and she kissed Lucina's wet forehead, splashing her in the face. She could only yelp, half submerging beneath the suds and the petals and the hazy water, and she splashed her mother back, shrieking with joy.

"Ah!" she cried as her mother dumped the bowlful of flower petals into her palm and blew them into Lucina's face. "Mama!"

Her mother burst into a fit of giggles, kneeling on the floor with her head thrown back and her cheeks flushed with delight. Lucina sat, her skin freckled with little round flower petal stuck very firmly. She puffed out her cheeks, and she noticed as her mother leaned back that beneath her thin beige shirt her tummy had grown significantly in size. She stared vacantly, uncertain as to what that meant.

Some time later, Lucina found herself in the yard dueling with Gerome. This was a thing that happened often enough, for they were the closest in age amongst the young Shepherds, and they were both eager to get better at swordplay. Lucina almost always won, using her size and her strength to her advantage, while Gerome lost his footing more often than not and fell to her tricks every time.

"That—!" Gerome, quiet as he was, squeaked in dismay, a scrape running along his elbow. "That was unfair!"

"You stepped too wide," Lucina retorted, prodding his foot with the point of her wooden sword. "Not my fault. Anyway, get up, let's try again."

He got up without complaint. He was good at doing what he was told.

"Lucina!"

From across the yard, her aunt Lissa shouted and waved her arm. Her newborn son, only a few months old, sat in the crook of her elbow, peering at the sky and tugging at his mother's pigtail. Lucina glanced at Gerome confusedly, and she dropped her play sword, bolting across the yard, dirt coughing up around her as she skidded to a stop, leaving Gerome in the dust. He caught up eventually, and he looked disgruntled and embarrassed.

"Lucina," Lissa gasped, bouncing excitedly. Owain bounced in her arms, smiling his toothless smile and reaching absently for Lucina. He was constantly trying to get at her, to tug at her hair or her lips or the fabric of her gowns. He just loved to tug at people, to get them as close as possible so he could stick his nose in their face and nuzzle them half to death. He was grossly affectionate. Lucina prayed her new sibling would not be such a hassle.

"Aunt Lissa," Lucina said, blowing her hair from her eyes. She'd been keeping up with both her magic training and her swordplay, learning both in order to keep both her parents as proud of her as possible. She was thirsty for praise. "Is something…?" The elated look on Lissa's face told her everything. "… Wrong?"

"The baby's coming!" Lissa cried, clapping her hands excitedly. "Isn't that wonderful?"

That wasn't the word Lucina would use for it.

This meant her mother would leave soon.

It meant that their months of laughter and magic were over.

She took a page from her mother's book, and she smiled big and bright.

"Yes!" she cried, jumping in feigned excitement. "Is it a boy or a girl? Do we know yet?"

"We'll know soon," Lissa laughed, ruffling her hair and smiling big. "Come on, let's go wait."

Lucina began to follow her, and he paused to look back at Gerome. He was stuck with them, it seemed, for his mother and father had both returned to fight. He was the oldest among the younger Shepherds, not counting Lucina. And he was perpetually awkward and lost, following Lucina if only to not be stuck alone in his room all day.

Her mother had explained that the younger Shepherds were welcome in Ylisstol for as long as need be, but it'd been months since the lot of them had arrived, and more and more of them were left by their parents. Lucina was glad for the company, but she wondered if any of them had homes of their own, in all honesty.

She sat obediently outside her mother's room, her knuckles white against her stained training breeches, and her eyes held straight and forward. She listened to her mother's screams, confused and bewildered, because she had not been near her aunt Lissa's room when Owain had been born, and this was a totally new experience for her.

"Why is she screaming…?" she whispered. Gerome sat beside her, watching her with the expression he always wore. Somber, bemused. He was a boy of little words and little emotion, but he was kind, and he was there. Always. She just could not shake him.

"It's just how birth is," Lissa said, smiling down at Lucina and shrugging. "It's really not all bad. Of course, I was a teensy bit out of whack when I gave birth, 'cause I got spiked with some poppy seed before it happened…" Lissa tilted her head toward the ceiling. "Huh. Lon'qu should've been the one drugged, to be honest. He totally fainted when he came into the room." She giggled a little, but her jokes did not make Lucina feel any better.

She must be in a lot of pain, Lucina thought wildly. So much pain… for what? Some stupid baby?

Lucina squeezed her eyes shut, and she wished Lissa would let her leave. She didn't want to hear the screaming anymore.

She felt a sudden weight in her lap, and she looked down to see Owain's round face beaming up at her. She felt the urge to shove him off, a tingly little urge to scream at him and cry and run away from all this pain and this bad air.

He reached up with his stubby little fingers, and he touched her hair gingerly.

"Lu…" he mumbled happily. She stared at him, unsure and disbelieving. Even Lissa looked confused, her mouth open and her eyes wide. "Lu-lu!"

"Huh?" Lissa looked distraught.

"Lu-lu!" Owain tugged on her hair, and she yelped, wincing. He planted a sloppy kiss on her nose, and he giggled loudly in her air.

Then, without much else to feel happy about, she began to giggle too.

Not too long after, the screaming stopped. She was thankful, and she was relieved, and above all else, she was anxious. She wanted to see her mother. She needed to see her mother. She needed to. She needed to, she needed to, she needed to…

In the back of her mind, there was a dark voice singing.

Drums and hums and thrumming beats.

She felt the world around her. The air, and the breaths, and the trailing silence. She felt the earth turning underfoot. She felt the sky, and she felt the mystic, the magicks, the thrumming of life being pulled and tugged.

She felt something in the shadows. She felt something at her back.

She was led into the room by the hand, her head bowed and her mind in shambles.

What a weak little thing you are, her mind hissed at the little squishy blob in her mother's arms.

She was instinctively drawn to it. She wanted to protect it, and she could not say why. The voice in her head was hissing, chanting, cooing at her to hold this child tight.

"Lucina," her mother said, her voice weak and her eyes bright. "Come meet your baby brother."

Brother.

Brother.

Hello, brother, she thought, moving slowly to her mother's side. She smiled at him, her excitement stirring her to excited laughter.

"His name is Morgan," Robin whispered, cradling the boy gently.

"Morgan," Lucina said, tasting the name and finding herself reminded of the trickle of warm, acrid blood down her throat.

She saw his hands, and her smile fell.

On the back of one was the brand of the Exalt. This was unremarkable. Lucina looked upon her brand every day when she glanced in the mirror.

On his other hand, the six eyed marking of the mother that held him, a birthmark that tied him to her, an eerie thing for an eerie boy.

Lucina stood and stared.

Submit, a voice hissed in her ear.

She smiled, and took his little hand.

Her envy was dampened by her unyielding loyalty.

"Morgan," she whispered, running her thumb over the dark little brand. "I'm Lucina. I'm your big sister." She brought his dark hand to her lips, and kissed the eyes of the beast. I'm here to protect you at all costs.

Such was her fate.

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.

Chapter Text

Sunlight danced through the yawning cracks, the jagged shapes of open space between the stone columns and parapets, between the crumbled tile and the arched ceiling. Waves of heat danced deliberately, seductively around the shattered altar, catching upon glinting glass and baking metals, drifting madly in time with the song of the long dead. The heavy taste of dust and death clogged his throat. He wanted to suffocate in it.

He peeked out of a gaping hole in one of the walls where Lord Grima's mighty claw had smashed through the bulwark, and he saw the ruins of a city, the perches of buildings and the billows of smoke from a distant new village, a sign of life that made his heart wrench in envy.

A boy could go mad, cooped up in a dilapidated old castle.

He stripped himself of his coat, relishing in the feeling of the thick air against his bare arms, and he tied it around his waist. Well, time to get to work!

He started at the altar. He cleared it off, hefting a boulder of the busted platform, and he hopped right up onto it, cracking his knuckles as he inhaled the must of the old throne room. Nobody came in here. No one dared enter from outside, and no one bothered to check it out. It was Morgan's sanctuary.

He began to hum as he drew into the dust with his forefinger, drifting amongst the shades of shimmering light, the shafts of dancing, wavering heat, and he breathed in his share of death and exhaled with a shifting smile, wavering alongside the walls of heat haze.

He pretended like he didn't care. That he was okay with being left out.

For Lucina's sake, he played the part of an obedient brother beautifully.

She did not know.

He recalled the night she'd pulled him from bed, pressing her finger to her lips, her blue eyes so very stark in the thick darkness, and he'd been so confused. She dressed him hastily in roughspun breeches and a thin cotton shirt, pulling Mother's coat around him and bundling him tight. She'd pulled her hair back and dressed herself in trousers and a boiled leather jerkin, looking half a peasant as her dark blue hair curled in unruly wisps around her forehead and cheeks.

"Luci…" he'd mumbled, tugging on her elbow. "Lucina… what's…?"

"Mother spoke to me," she'd interrupted, sounding breathless and elated, helpless and delighted. She took Morgan by the hands, staring brightly into his eyes, and she shook her head. "We mustn't waste any more time, Morgan. You remember what she said to us, the night… the night Father…"

Morgan had swallowed thickly, tears springing into his eyes and causing her face to swim and blur. Yes, yes, he remembered, yes. She'd come into Morgan's room, sat down on his bed and begun to pet his hair dreamily, her eyes dazed and her lips thin.

"Oh, Morgan…" she'd whispered. He'd been too bewildered and excited to speak. He'd tackled her in a big hug, burying his face in her chest and inhaling the scent of her, so familiar, so… so… ah. It was strange. She didn't… smell like sweat or ink or flowers, she smelled… like nothing. She didn't have a scent. How peculiar!

Lucina had appeared at the door, looking a little alarmed at the sight of their mother, and she'd stayed where she was.

"Oh, Lucina." Their mother reached toward the girl, dark fingers twitching through the air, beckoning. "Come. Come here. Come to your mother."

And Lucina, ever the obedient, had obliged.

She'd taking Lucina by the chin, and she'd said, "Something has happened. You two are my only hope to survive. You understand, don't you? My children. My lovely Lucina. My magnificent Morgan. I need you. I need you. I need you."

They'd stared at her, their beautiful, smiling mother, transfixed and in love, watching as her dark face, her warm cheeks cracked open, like twin fissures in glass, and the air around them had heated up with the twing and the twang of magic, electrified by something above them, something above their souls and above their minds, higher, higher, higher than they could ever dream, and this deep, dark, damaging force had broken their mother's cheeks right open. Two eyes snapped open along the glowing red fissure, sitting upon her cheekbones, wisps of red smoke trailing like tears from the blazing corners, corners, and parallel to the corners of her mouth, two more burning red eyes snapped open, smoke expelling in violent ribbons, dashing through the air and consuming her face.

Morgan was haunted by her scorching gaze, six eyes branded to his back.

"She needs us," Morgan had said the night Lucina had stolen him away. "She needs us!"

"Shh," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "Yes, yes. She needs us. Now. We must go to her."

"Yes," he agreed, eyes burning his flesh, baking his bones. He felt himself turning and baking and turning and baking under the ferocious stare of some beautiful monster that called herself his mother.

And so he let Lucina lead him out the window, a sword on her back and a white cloak on her shoulders.

She'd left the Falchion.

Of course she had.

They both knew she could not wield it. She was not worthy. Nor was he.

Instead, she'd taken the Levin sword. An artifact their mother had plucked from the corpse of the old mad king she'd slain. She was a fierce warrior, to be certain, but when Morgan had been presented with the sword he hadn't known exactly what to do with it. He certainly could hold his own in fencing, and he was handy with a blade, and the magic was palpable whenever he so much grazed its hilt, but he was a creature of mind and tongue, a shadow that lurked in between yellowed pages and faded ink. He lived in runes and consumed the tingling traces of energy left behind by a rapid incantation.

The desert had not been kind to them.

Lucina had not packed them anything. Before entering the desert she'd managed to procure some food for them, but they both knew it would not be enough. By that point, she'd shorn her hair and began pretending to be a boy to avoid suspicion. The people of Ylisse were distraught over their lost Exalt.

She was only twelve. They could not possibly understand what she'd been going through.

To run a whole country?

Lucina was not Emmeryn.

She could not handle the pressure of losing so many so fast with the responsibility of so, so, so many lives on her shoulders. So she did what anyone would do.

She avoided it

Morgan was on her side regardless.

So, the desert. Morgan remembered that he had not yet been accustomed to the heat, the dreaded heat that draped itself across Plegia like a loving mother's embrace. Yes, it was brutal, and yes, it was difficult to breathe, but Morgan had come to appreciate it for its barren beauty, its brilliant brutality. Yes. Morgan loved his waves of heat and scars of sand. He loved his haze and his cloudless sky and the taste of his own sweat on his upper lip whenever he uttered a curse.

He loved the sight of Grima's wings as they beat down the rays of sunlight and crushed the humid air, slicing through it with grating claws and leathery scales.

He loved it all. All the darkness. All the light.

He loved this world and its imperfections.

He loved this life and its horror.

He loved, loved, loved, loved.

He loved and loved and loved and loved.

But he had nothing to show for it.

Because he was defined by his nature, and his nature was Lord Grima.

He loved.

But hate was him, and he was hate, and in the fabrication, the very make up of his cells, he felt it stirring.

He was a living, breathing paradox.

"Morgan."

His mother's voice dragged him from his thoughts, lovely and lilting, a Plegian accent tugging at her every word. He did not know if this was a thing she'd always had, but he had one too now, so he supposed it made sense.

"Mother," he said. She was standing at the edge of the altar. Her fingers danced in the dust. Her dark face floated below his, her expression washed clean of any emotion. He grew weary of that expression. She never showed him her love and kindness anymore.

He knew why, of course, but it was still annoying. Lord Grima could make the extra effort.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked. She moved her fingers slowly across the dusty, dirty altar, inching as close to him as she dared, her nails twitching and tapping along the edge of his makeshift ward. She eyed the runes. Morgan smiled at her brightly.

"I came to practice a bit with these neat old hexes I found," he said. He met her cold stare, and he kept his smile big and bright. "Is it working?"

"You're keeping me out," she whispered, her voice vacant and offended. "Now, why is that? Do you not trust your dear mother any longer?"

"Don't get like that," he laughed. "I was just testing a theory." He offered out his hand, grinning at her broadly. "Let me show you, mother!"

She stared at him. Her fingers twitched and thrummed as they drummed against the crumbling altar. Her eyes grew dark and her lip grew thin, and she pointed her chin.

"What is this about, Morgan?" she asked coldly. He could see the fire in her eyes, the embers crawling beneath the thin veil of skin that held her there, in reality, somehow, someway. Beautiful mother and beautiful father. Beautiful mother who smiled and laughed and teased and played. Beautiful father who did not exist in his foggy memory, clouds gathering around his face and blotting out his mouth and eyes and lips. Beautiful mother. Beautiful father.

Beautiful mother and beautiful father had lost their lives in this very heat soaked throne room.

He let his hand wilt sadly. "Oh, mother," he sighed softly. "Don't sound so offended. I just used a spell to ward off dragons. Isn't that so neat?"

Her lip twitched, and she leaned forward, her silvery hair slipping from her shoulder in long pale strands, pooling like molten metal against her collarbone.

"Remember your place, Morgan," Lord Grima said, their voice clawing at the inside of his mother's dark throat. Angry red fissures sprung vertically along her cheeks, and Morgan sighed. This again.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly, sweeping away the runes. "I love you, mother."

They tilted their head at him, skin cracking at the corner of his mother's lips, and it sizzled away to reveal jagged teeth and blackened gums. They reached for him, long fingers gliding through the air, and for a sad, hopeful moment he thought they might place their hand on his head to pet his hair affectionately as she had done long ago. Instead they dipped their hand, and curled their fingers before him. He understood.

He took Lord Grima's hand and slid off the altar, genuflecting before them and kissing their hot, uneven knuckles. Human skin was tricky to maintain at a constant heat. Sometimes Lord Grima forgot, and his mother's flesh sloughed off. It was okay, though. She could always go back to the way she always looked, beautiful and elusive as the silvery moon in the darkened sky.

He had to be careful. Not even he was safe when Grima got testy.

Oh, he wasn't delusional. He knew that his mother and Lord Grima were essentially different people. But Grima was in his blood, in his heart, in his head, in his words, in his very soul. He'd known from the very beginning that Grima was inside his mother, imbuing themself into her as they did to him. Grima exhaled the air that Morgan inhaled. Life was Grima. Grima was life.

And Grima knew that. Grima knew that Morgan's very skin was theirs to kiss and burn, to stroke or strip or strike.

Grima played Morgan like a fiddle. But at least his music was pleasing to hear.

"Forgive me," Morgan murmured. "I had no intention of truly using it on you. It's for Nah."

"Naga's whelp." Grima's face was dark but their voice was crisp and offhanded. Bored and unimpressed. "You call her a dragon?"

Morgan didn't dare look up into their deep red eyes, the six of them peeling way the layers of Morgans flesh and veins and muscle and bone until his soul was laid bare for his fell dragon mother to see.

"Nah isn't related to Naga, I thought," Morgan said confusedly, still genuflecting, still clutching Lord Grima's slender brown hand.

"All manaketes are the blood of Naga, child." Grima lifted his chin with their index finger, eyes of blood and flame scorching his tender skin, and he felt them crawling inside him, beneath his flesh and squirming in his bloodstream. He felt the heat and the hate and the power, and he was consistently drunk and dazed and dazzled by it, by them, by her. For she, they, he?

They were one.

"I think," Morgan said as they motioned him to rise, sitting themself on the stone altar and their eyes moving along the battered throne room appraisingly, as though admiring their own handiwork. "I think we should capture her, Lord Grima, don't you? It'd be a marvelous advantage, to separate the nonbelievers from their only connection to their weak little god." Even as he spoke, the brand parallel to Grima's marking prickled. It was overwhelming to be promised to both deities. To have the blood of Lord Grima shooting through him, electrifying him and causing him to act with fire in his very breath, but also to have Naga's hand brush his shoulder, cup his cheek, whisper in his ear at every single little solitary fucking decision he made. He understood that his actions were wrong. He had guilt and disgust, and he had a plea that went unheard, because Naga held no power, not in his body, not in his mind, not even in his weak, helpless heart.

He was trapped in this prison of meat and bone, bound by blood to a dragon of darkness and bound by bond to a dragon of divinity. How awful. How disgusting.

He wanted to rip himself in two and feed himself to both just to please their vicious, hungry tongues.

"Why keep the cheap imitation alive?" Grima asked, crossing their legs and folding their hands placidly. "We should just kill her. Messily. Both of us, together. And then we shall eat her."

"Mother," Morgan pleaded. "None of that. I don't eat people."

"You should try it, it's divine."

"Mother, I'm serious."

"As am I." They looked directly into his eyes, all six of them ablaze in sickening delight. "She'd be so soft and tender, Morgan. Like a child, fleshy and sweet, just enough sinew to fill you up. She's much too small for my appetite, but you may very well have your full on her saccharine Nagan flesh and syrupy blood. If you want a taste of her, do it properly, and consume every last bit of her. What's left of Naga now, then, if her very last daughter resides in our belly?"

Morgan's belly felt particularly nauseous.

"You know I'd kill anyone if you asked," he whispered. "But please. I beg you. Not that."

"Weak boy," Lord Grima cooed, reaching out and stroking his cheek with their soft, warm fingertips. "I just want the best for you. A strong body, a strong core. You are not a normal boy. You do not have the luxury of denying your nature."

"It is not within my nature to eat people," Morgan said firmly. "That is, unfortunately, not a quality you passed on to me, Lord Grima. I beg of you, my liege. Let this die."

"Let them all die," Grima scoffed. "Let them all suffer me and die in the fire of my breath and rot in my stomach."

"I'm one of them, mother," he reminded. "So is Lucina."

Grima reached for him, and he came to them, letting them drag their thumb down his cheeks. He felt his skin peel and crack, fire dancing on his nerves as he felt his blood boil beneath the jagged red fissure that had erupted from Lord Grima's feverish touch. He felt his own face crack open at the mental command of the fell dragon, and smoke fell out of his ruptured flesh, billowing from open red eyes like rapid, ceaseless tears, and the pain was unbearable but he had to suffer it because he was part of Grima, body and soul.

"Oh, child," Grima sighed, their breath coiling around him and venomously stinging the inside of his ears. "You are not one of them."

Sometimes he wished they'd just burn him to a crisp already.

He took a step back, recoiling from their touch, and his skin reassembled itself in a quick refolding of flesh, invisible threads binding eyes shut and smoke coughing out of existence. He felt so sick that it made his eyes sting and his throat ache.

To amend for his misstep, he whirled around.

"What a pretty place," he said, whirling around, his mother's coat whooshing at his calves. Lord Grima's face melted back into the visage of his beautiful mother, and she looked around as well, silver hair curling around her smooth brown cheeks. Her eyes were sharp, angular, and alert at all times. "This is where you killed father, isn't it, mother?"

Grima did not reply. She was eying him. Sharp eyed and alert.

"Tell me how that happened," Morgan urged, whirling to face his draconic mother. He leapt atop a fallen pillar, his boots scraping the old white marble as he let himself soak in the falling rays of sunlight, his fingertips dancing toward the radiating heat haze out in the dunes through the gaps in the walls, and he laughed. "Was he shocked? Must have been! You used Thoron, yes? Or, or, was it something more powerful than that? Oh, he must've been so shocked!" Morgan threw his head back, and he laughed.

"He amused me," Grima said. "I almost kept him as a pet."

"That's a joke isn't it?" Morgan glanced at her, and she smiled at him. It was a Grima smile. Wicked and poisonous and tempered with the fire of their soul.

"Yes, he was shocked," Grima said. "He told me silly things, that it was not my fault. How peculiar that man was. A wonder two remarkable things such as you and your sister came in part from him and his ilk. At least it wasn't a manakete, I suppose."

"What happened to his body?" he asked, kicking the air idly. "Frederick only brought home his cloak." Lucina still had it. Somewhere.

"Are you truly interested in this, Morgan?" Grima asked, crossing their legs and watching him with a cool, level gaze. "No, I think not. You do not come here to mourn a father who was never there. You come here because it is a place where no one will find you. Where you can let yourself fall back into yourself. Are you so sick of me? Would it please you if you were separate from me?"

"No, Lord Grima," Morgan gasped, whirling to face them. He leapt from the pillar, feeling wobbly on his feet. "Oh, no, no, no! You've got it all wrong!"

"Then ask not about your father," they snapped, sliding from the altar and letting their dainty human feet graze the floor. "He was nothing when he was alive, and he is nothing now. The only use he had was giving me you and your sister. He played his part well, the pawn that he was. Now. No more talk of man and manaketes, they're far beneath us. You are Grima, child. Never forget."

I am Grima, Morgan thought, following his mother's puppet of a body through the ruined throne room. I mustn't forget. She, they, he, me. One.

His mother and Grima had been the same as he and Grima, he knew, he knew, he knew, yes, that this was true, but it was odd to think that his mother had been in this position of not knowing or understanding which part of him belonged to him and which part of him was solely Grima stirring in his heart.

He wanted nothing more than to rip himself open just to find where Grima was inside of him and cut them out before they infected every last part of him.

He went to his room to think about this and that and them. Grima had no real plan, of course, Grima wasn't a creature of guile. Grima was above that. This was the reason for Morgan's existence, and his mother before him, and his grandfather before her. Grima didn't have the humanity to understand politics. Morgan was different.

He understood that in order to gain the entire world, one must first be loved by it.

Grima wasn't about that, Grima wanted to be feared, for all who opposed them to suffer. Morgan agreed. Fear was a primary aspect in ruling.

However, there was nothing more powerful than a healthy dose of fear and adoration.

At least, until the dragon fire consumed them all, but Morgan never told them about that.

He spent a few hours reading through his books, devising a new strategy or several about how to get around the pesky resistance that his cousin and the old gang had put up. Who'd have known such a small bunch of fighters could do so much damage to Grima's crusade?

Morgan was never allowed to go out into the field. Lucina forbade it, though he could not understand why. He could handle himself. He was Grima's blood just as much as her— more so. He was Grima incarnate, as their mother before him. Her fell blood was no match for his. And yet he was the one stuck in the crumbling castle while she pranced around and plotted to kill their closest friends!

He didn't want to be bitter. He loved Lucina more than he loved life. He loved her dearly, so dearly it made him feel sick to be parted from her, which was why he was so heartbroken whenever she wished him home.

It meant that she did not feel the same.

Typical.

Anyway, Morgan was good at what he did, so there was that. If he could just find a way to disband that damn group— instill the fear of Grima in them, and make them submit— then everything would be fine. He didn't wish them dead. He just wished them on their knees with their heads bowed to the dirt and their lips caked with mud from kissing the ground at Lord Grima's feet. Figuratively and literally.

His door opened, bursting nearly from its hinges as Severa skidded into his room, her ponytails whipping around her face as she searched the piles of tomes to find him. Her eyes were large and her lips were parted, and her face was stricken.

"Morgan!" she kicked a tome away, and toppled over a pile as she pushed toward him, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him to his feet. "Morgan, has Lucina returned?"

He stood dumbly, his feet scraping the ground. "What…?" He peered into her face, and saw she was truly frightened. "Wow, Severa. You look pretty spooked. Did the mission not go as planned?"

She shoved him hard, and he stumbled a bit, quick to catch himself as he smiled at her. "She and Gerome didn't meet us at the checkpoint," she said sharply. "Laurent and I waited until dawn, okay? Is she here or not?"

"I haven't seen her…" Morgan felt a prickling fear inside his stomach, but he batted it away. Lucina is strong, he reminded himself. Stronger than all these turncloaks. She's fine. She's fine. Gods, she's fine, right? Right? Right!

He was terrified.

Severa took a deep breath, clenching her fists at her sides and frowning fiercely. "Listen," she said, pointing to him. "You know Lucina. She would never ditch us out there. She's the one who's so insistent on checkpoints! She wouldn't just leave us."

That's what you think, Sev, Morgan thought gleefully. They all loved Lucina so much. Almost as much as Morgan himself. But they had no idea that Lucina would throw them away in a second if need be. That was the Grima in her. Lucina didn't need them like she needed Morgan. They were so disposable. It made him sad.

"There could be a number of explanations," Morgan told her gently. "Calm down. I'm sure Lucina will be back soon. How was the desert? Did you fair okay?"

"Yes, yes, Laurent and I are used to the desert by now," Severa said heatedly, though her myriad of freckles and splotches of red skin suggested otherwise. "We're obviously fine. You're not getting it. Lucina's missing."

"And Gerome," Morgan reminded, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. She shot him a chilly glare, and he laughed. "Oh, calm down. Lucina's fine. Just give her some time to cross the desert. It's not so easy as you say it is."

"You're no help at all!" Severa spat at him, whirling away and marching out the door.

Severa was tricky. She was, undoubtedly, the most skeptic of the turncloaks that had chosen Lucina's side over their own loyalties to the world. Severa had her affections for Lucina, certainly, but Morgan could sense her disappointment and unease at the fact that Lucina's change of faith had not been a ploy to take Grima down from the inside, as they'd all thought when crossing the desert to keep by Lucina's side. Gerome went with Lucina. He swore himself to her side, to protect her back and fight anyone who tried to harm her. Laurent was clever. Grima was winning. And her certainly had an interest in Lucina beyond simple loyalty.

And then there was Severa.

Severa was sly— by far the trickiest of those who had left Ylisse for Plegia. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she believed.

She was not so easily swayed from what she believed to be right. That was the hard part. Severa was very much still a believer of Naga at heart. Not even her love for Lucina could blind her from that truth.

Morgan supposed he'd kill her if he had to. It'd be sad, but he'd do it. He'd never born much love or hatred for Severa. It was sad. So sad.

He sighed. Love and Hatred. Naga and Grima.

Fate had taken the exalted sword and cleaved him in two the moment of his birth.

Morgan picked up an old tome, gripping it in his gloved hands, and he took a deep breath, lowering his forehead to it and inhaling its archaic, leathery scent. Dust tickled his nostrils, and he bit his lip, his gloves squelching against the cover. He hurled the book across the room, and in his rage he felt his left cheek split open, fire coughing into the air through red eyes. He tore the gloves from his hands and scratched at the hollows of his eyelids, hissing softly through his teeth.

Nonbeliever, he thought, his own voice bleeding through his mind in thick, venomous motions, a waterfall of haziness pouring through him. It was truly disgusting. He dug his fingernails into his flesh, falling to his knees and rocking to and fro, spitting through his teeth, "I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know…"

On and on and on and on and on. There was a fire inside him, and in his blood it roared and devoured all sense. It rung in his ears and he wished it'd pour out and stain his skin.

"Stop," he moaned, sliding his fingers through his hair, laughter spilling through his jagged teeth, and it tasted metallic. "Oh, stop…"

Nonbeliever!

It was an alarm that blared in his head, a bell tolling ceaselessly, and he wanted to tear his polished blue hair from its roots just to make it all fucking stop already.

He fell onto his side, curled up and breathing heavily as he scratched at his brand and his mark, the backs of both his hands rubbed raw by the time his vision swam and his mind fell away into red, red, red.

When she finally returned to her humanoid form, she was drenched with blood, and she fell to her knees, clutching her hand and holding back tears. Owain was slumped in the dead grass, his body a beaten shadow in the darkness. She took a deep breath, took a deep breath, took a deep breath. Her heart was hammering, thudding wildly, and she thought she might begin to sob erratically out of utter terror for his life and out of sheer pain. Half of the fourth finger on her left hand was missing.

She had no time to staunch the blood. Owain was bleeding far more than she was.

"Come on," she whispered, clutching her dragonstone in her reddened right hand, biting her tongue when it slipped right through her fingers. She was choking trying not to scream and sob. "Come on…" she gripped it tight, dizzy with her agony as her left hand throbbed, and she stumbled to Owain's side, dragging herself and listening to her own uneven breaths as they hit the air like the rapid clang of iron swords clashing. "Come on, Owain. Stay with me."

He did not move. She was distraught. This was her king, her Exalt, her prince. She was supposed to protect him.

She was so useless.

The dragonstone slid from her fingers yet again, and in her crippling pain and crushing despair, she doubled over and emptied her stomach in the dark, dead grass. She expelled all of her discontents there, letting herself retch up her self hatred and self doubts, throwing away her very self while bile clung to her lips and acid stung her tongue. Tears sent skin-colored trails down her deep red cheeks.

She wiped her mouth with her fingerless hand, tasting her own blood and relishing in that.

"Come on!" she spat, snatching her dragonstone and kissing it with her bloodied mouth.

She flipped Owain over, ignoring the blinding pain that shot through her hand and arm, and she peered at his face. Blood and dirt marred his complexion. She held her red-slick dragonstone over him, and she closed her eyes. Deep breaths. She could taste blood and vomit sloshing in her mouth.

Focus. Deep breaths.

I am a dragon, she thought. I am a dragon, not some scared little girl!

She opened her eyes, and she gaped as she was bathed with the soft green glow of her stone, light emanating from its very core and pooling across Owain's stark, bloodied face, gathering in the hole left at his side and in the marks left by Lucina's Levin sword. The light stretched and curled, alive and like breath, whispering softly to her in songs of old.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she laughed in disbelief as the light intensified and billowed like ribbons around her, licking her cheeks of their gashes and her heart of its doubt, and she let it swell and fall into her mouth, sliding soothingly down her throat and relieving her of her despair.

The light seemed to explode for a moment, green blinding her and colliding with her, and she was knocked onto her back as Owain bolted upright, heaving and gasping and coughing.

She felt like she could dance on a cloud.

"Nah…?"

She turned and rested her cheek against the scratchy dead grass, and she laughed in disbelief, laughed and laughed for her missing finger and for his recovery. For Naga's blessing, wherever she was.

"Nah!" Owain crawled hastily to her side, picking her up by the shoulders and turning her gingerly to face him. He supported her head, and then with a gentle hand he wiped her cheeks of her tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry— smile for me, please? Laugh again. Please?"

She did as he asked, and it almost felt real.

"There!" Owain beamed at her, and he crushed her in a hug. She blinked rapidly as she found herself squashed against his chest, and it felt nice to be held after that battle, after nearly losing Owain, after definitely losing her finger. She could feel it. The empty space where it should be. She still wanted to sob, but she couldn't let herself do that, not when she was so close to being okay.

Well, at least, pretending she was okay.

"There we go," Owain whispered into her hair, rubbing small circles into her back. Owain gave the best hugs. Not too tight, like Cynthia, and he was aware of her size so he tried not to actually crush her. She was thankful. He was alive, and she'd done it. "There! You did it! Nah, have I ever told you you're amazing? You're amazing!"

She could not speak. She feared he'd hear the pain in her voice.

He held her for a few minutes longer, maybe just because he needed something to hold, and finally he took a deep breath and released her. "That was a mess," he admitted. "But at least you took out Minerva. Good work, Nah. You gave us a huge advantage."

She smiled up at him, holding her stump of a finger and nodding. He noticed, all to quickly, and he tilted his head.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked, squinting through the darkness. She bit her lip. She struggled to contain her sob. Finally, she pushed her bloodied fingers toward him, turning her face away so she didn't have to look. He took her dainty hand in his own, and she heard the sharp intake of breath that signaled he'd seen her missing finger.

"Oh, gods," he breathed. "Quickly, Nah, use the stone!"

"It doesn't…" she murmured, shaking her head somberly. Her voice was weak. So was she. She was surprised she was able to stay a dragon as long as she did. "Owain, I… I can't, it doesn't work like… like that…"

"Gods…" he exhaled. He tore a knife from his boot and ripped through the seam of his breeches, tossing the blade aside and attacking the fabric with his hands, tearing it apart, loud ripping sounds filling her ears. She stared vacantly, her mouth parted in awe. He began to bind her hand, winding fabric around her wrist and moving it expertly to her finger. "How'd this happen?"

She didn't want to speak, but she didn't want to keep silent either. She sniffled, and she shrugged. "Um…" She had to think. She was high on pain and magic. "Gerome got me. He just sliced it right off. I… I think he was trying to, Owain."

"Guess he got a little more sadistic, huh?" Owain muttered, scratching his head and scowling. "Well, we're gonna make him pay."

"I already killed Minerva," Nah murmured. "Let that be enough, Owain."

He stared at her. He stared, truly, into her eyes and saw how weary she was of this death and doom, and he decidedly distanced himself from the topic.

Nah knew what it was like to be the very last of something old. She felt as though she'd just torn the throat out of one of her last of kin. It hurt her soul.

But it was Minerva or Gerome. She knew who she cared more for.

"Come on," he whispered, snatching his dagger and her dragonstone from the blood soaked grass. He smiled at her, and took her hands. "Let's go. They others are probably worried."

Nah wanted to tell him her fears about what their old friends could be planning, but she didn't. She was tired, and her hand was throbbing terribly. So she climbed onto his back, resting her cheek against his shoulder, and she wished with all her heart that she could save them all from themselves.

Humans were so monstrous. She almost wished she were not one in part.

He carried her back to camp, much to her dismay, and she wondered what they'd do if they were attacked again in the night. It'd be terrible. She wouldn't be able to fight, not in this condition, and gods knew what'd become of her.

"Owain!" It was Inigo who found them, running to them and staring with his pretty eyes and pretty face stark in the darkness. Sometimes Nah thought she wanted to claw his dark, pretty face to ribbons. "Gods! Nah? Owain, what happened, you're— you're covered in blood!"

"You didn't meet at the checkpoint," Kjelle snapped from the fire, stoking it angrily.

Nah buried her face in Owain's back. She wanted to melt away and never face them again. She couldn't help. She couldn't kill Gerome, and that was her flaw. If she had killed him instantly, she could have saved them all a lot of grief. But no. She was not a killer. She ached. Her insides were rotting.

She tried to remember the faces of her foster parents, but even they were faded husks in the blurry stream of her cobwebbed memory. Not even she could clean the mess that was her mind.

"We ran into Lucina and Gerome," Owain said. "Nah killed Minerva and saved my life. You should be asking how she's doing, considering I'm carrying her. Mind your priorities, Kjelle."

And surprisingly, Kjelle looked remorseful. She turned to look at them, and she stared at Nah. Nah stared back.

"Nah?" Yarne asked timidly, looking at her with large eyes. "You're okay, aren't you?"

"Yes," she croaked. She wanted to rip her tongue out. It had betrayed her.

"She's lost a finger," Owain said. "Brady. Where is Brady?"

"I'm here!" Brady appeared, looking between them from beneath his heavy brow, and he stared into Nah's face as well. "Oh. Nah…"

"I'm fine…" she grumbled into Owain's shoulder, hiding her face in shame.

"Come to my tent," Owain told Brady. Nah did not dare look up. She hated this weakness. She hated being the tiniest, the one everyone seemed to want to protect. Aw. Poor little Nah. So tiny. So childlike. She was a fucking dragon!

Had her parents dealt with this same bullshit?

If Kjelle or Noire had come back like this, they certainly wouldn't have that soft, trailing tone. Nah… Nah… how to react when little Nah got hurt. How infuriating!

Owain laid her down on his blanket, smoothing back her bangs and smiling at her genially. She shot him a wan smile back, though she felt like screaming. Weak. Weak. Weak!

"Right," Brady muttered. "Right, 'kay, so let's see the damage."

Owain unwrapped her finger, and she hissed, recoiling from him. He tried to soothe her, hushing her gently, his eyes wide and his lips parted.

"Oh," Brady said faintly.

Don't say that, she thought furiously. Don't say that like there's nothing you can do!

"Right," he exhaled. Right. There was nothing he could do.

It was just a finger anyway. She had nine more.

"Right…" Brady's voice was thick. "Um. Owain, go and get me a bowl of water. Right now. Go!"

"Ahhh!" Owain leapt to his feet. "Right, right!" He bolted from the tent. Nah watched him go, lifting her head in bemusement and then letting it drop against Owain's pillow. She was tired. She wanted this all to end. She wanted to be able to see a world at rest, a world of peace, a world without Grima. But that was a silly dream, a silly child's fantasy. She was wrong.

She was wrong.

She was so wrong.

"Nah," Brady said, lifting her hand gingerly. "I gotta soak this, get as much blood off as I can. I can try to heal what's left of it. I… I ain't gonna save it, I'm sorry, I… I can't grow back limbs."

"It's fine," she whispered, her voice scratchy in her throat. "If my dragonstone can't heal it, I don't expect you to. It's… it's fine…"

He bit his lip, and he turned his face from her. In her hazy vision, she saw his scarred brow, saw his thuggish face, and she recalled being afraid of him for much of their time together, but she understood that he was soft hearted and absurdly kind. He held her hand, blood drenched, fingerless and all, and he scooted closer.

"Musta been a real scuffle, huh?" He peered at her, and she stared back at him, her brow furrowing. "Who'd ya fight? Gerome?"

"Yeah…"

Brady nodded. "Yeah, he's a real piece of work." Brady pressed his palm carefully to her stump, and she hissed in shock and reared her head back against the pillow. "Shh, shh! I just gotta staunch the blood, 'kay? Right? Nah, I don't wanna hurt you, I swear!"

"I know," she mumbled, tears prickling her eyes. Had she not called herself his little sister once? Her hand was throbbing, but he held it, and he did not balk at the blood, and he kept his hand firmly at the stump. She felt a chilly sense of relief as he healed her, light glimmering through his palm and enveloping her tiny hand. He smiled at her when he withdrew, holding up his bloody palm. She lifted her hand, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she stared at the missing space halfway up her ring finger.

At least it wasn't bleeding anymore.

"Thank you," she murmured. She didn't know if she meant it, but it was something she had to say regardless. He nodded to her, still smiling at her fondly. And she could not help but smile back. He was too kind.

"You'll be tip top in no time," he told her. He set his staff aside, and he leaned toward her. "Nah, promise me somethin' will ya?"

"Of course," she said, blinking up at him. "I owe you, don't I?"

"Don't think of it like that," he muttered, shifting in discomfort. "Just… be careful next time, is all."

"I'm always careful."

"Are you?" Brady studied her with clear disbelief. "You're reckless, y'know. Utterly reckless, and you push yourself too hard. Relax, will ya?"

"Relax…?" She groaned. "It's not as though I went looking for trouble!"

"No," he said slowly. "No, but more often than not you go off to prove that you can do things. With this set back, you're gonna… Ah. Damn, I dunno. I dunno what I'm talkin' about, ignore me, just ignore me."

He wasn't wrong.

She pretended he was, but she knew he wasn't.

She decidedly pushed his advice right out of her mind.

"Owain got skewered by Lucina, by the way," she said, sitting up and flexing her hand. It still hurt, but with a phantom pain. Truly irritating. She looked up at him, and she noticed he was sniffling. "Oh. Brady, no, I'm fine. Honestly, look." She stuck her bloody hand in his face, and she wiggled her remaining fingers. "You did a superb job. I feel so much better already, and that's all thanks to you!"

"I-I'm not crying!" He rubbed at his eyes furiously, but he only managed to smear blood across his cheeks and into his tear ducts. "Ah! Damn it!"

Nah giggled in spite of herself. "There, there," she said. "It's going to be alright. I'm quite better, and honestly, the only thing beyond repair is probably my dress." She grimaced as she peered down at the splotchy white fabric, which was now heavily stained with Owain's blood and her own.

"I can make you a new one," Brady offered. He sniffed, and he shrugged, glancing away from her face. "I mean, only if ya want a new one!"

"That'd be lovely," she whispered. "Thank you, Brady."

Owain returned, and he quickly began to dote on her, which was not something she particularly liked. They soaked her hands in a basin full of water, and then began to wash her face and neck and even her hair to free her from the caked on blood. She let it happen. She had no will to resist.

She listened. They told her she'd be okay, but in truth she didn't know if she believed it. The fact was that she'd screwed up. She'd made a royal mistake in letting her finger be taken. She stripped herself of her soiled dress, and they wrapped her in a spare cloak. They were kind, to be sure. But they wouldn't understand. They couldn't.

They left her to sleep. Owain held her hand, smiling at her broadly, and he promised her, he promised, he said, "You'll be fine. You're the bravest person I know, Nah. You'll be fine." And he left her with that, bundled in a cloak, thoughts of screeches and cries, of blood pulling in her mouth as she spat scales and ribbons of meat from her mighty dragon jaw. She didn't want to call him a liar, but he didn't understand. She wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine for a while now.

Brady stayed a little longer. He sat by her side, his head bowed and his brow furrowed, his scar too prominent in the flickering candlelight, and he looked even more thuggish than usual, concern contorting the contours of his face. She'd turned her face from him to keep him from seeing just how upset she was. She was terrified. They could not know that. They could not know how scared and small she was.

"You're okay," Brady muttered, maybe to himself. "You're gonna be A okay, Nah." He kissed her hair, which was still flecked with blood, and he combed it from her face as she schooled her features into appearing still and sleep-like. He was trying to reassure himself of her condition. That hurt more than it should have.

When he finally left, she turned onto her back to stare at the ceiling of Owain's tent. How ridiculous it was that she was getting special treatment for this. It was only a finger… only a finger… and yet she was beating herself up more than she could possibly say. She'd fucked up. They could not know or understand how much so.

She tugged Owain's blanket up to her chin, tears gathering in her eyes. She was hopeless. Hopeless. There were no gods. There was no fate. Just an infinite string of coincidences flooding the world with disaster, feeding on despair and tainting dreams. Gods were made up. Naga wasn't really divine. Grima wasn't really as powerful as everything assumed. Magic was a crutch.

Nah squeezed her eyes shut, and she kicked the blanket back. She stripped herself of the cloak, and she sat naked, staring at the missing joints on her left hand and gritting her teeth. This was her fault. This was all her fault. What would they do? What chance did they have now? Was she worrying over nothing?

She knelt beside a candle, staring into it and feeling its heat fluttering and expanding around her, like the light of her dragonstone. She folded her hands and held them to her chest, the sound of her own drumming heartbeat too loud for her to stand. She exhaled, and wondered. Naga was light, but Grima was flame. Manaketes had no fire in them. They breathed ice. They were children of the cold, the serene and the silent and the frigid. Naga herself was a distant creature. But Grima was flame, and their children were just the same. Fiery and uncontrollable, vivacious and fluid.

She was terrified of fire, and she was terrified of ice, and she was terrified of dragons, and she was terrified of gods, and she was terrified for herself because she didn't know where she sat on the spectrum of divinities and disasters, what was a coincidence and what was fate.

"Naga," she murmured, squeezed her eyes shut. Tears were hot against her cheeks. "Naga, please."

Naga did not answer. She never did.

It was always the same.

"Naga, please," she begged, her eyes snapping open as she stared into the vacant, flickering flame. "If you can hear me, you must answer me now. I'm afraid… I'm afraid I may…"

She'd once spoken to Morgan, after being taken from her foster home back to the palace, and he remembered he'd asked her a question.

"Nah," he'd said, his eyes as bright and alive as ever. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

She'd been confused. She hardly knew what to say or do when it came to Naga.

"Yes," she'd said vacantly. "Sometimes, yes."

And he'd smiled, scooting closer, and he'd looked around hurriedly. "I'm gonna tell you a secret," he whispered. "I hear voices too."

She'd been alarmed, but so excited, so excited that she could barely stand herself. She'd gasped and grinned and grabbed his hand, too beguiled by him to see what he meant. "You hear Naga?" she'd asked delightedly.

He stared, his mouth parting, and he looked down at her hands around his fingers. And he'd laughed.

"Something like that!"

She let her hands fall to her sides, and she blinked rapidly as the tears kept falling, and the fire blurred and blotted in the bleariness of her vision. Could Naga not hear her? Or was it something else, something worse? Did Naga not care for her any longer? Was that it? Nah had tried so hard, she'd tried her damnedest to be the angelic little follower she was supposed to be, to always be helpful and kind and brave, to be the person Naga would love dearly enough to answer.

"Naga…" she choked. "Please…"

But Naga would not reply. Nah took a breath, and she realized she was sobbing.

No. This was wrong.

She jumped to her feet, kicking her soiled dress up into her arms and tugging it over her head, ignoring how sticky the blood felt against he bare skin. She tugged her hair from beneath her high collar, and she dashed her tears away.

No more.

She threw her red cloak over her shoulders, and she blew out the candle.

Chapter Text

He knew in his heart that something was wrong. What scared him was that he did not care. He was deeply and truly distanced from his own foul human emotions, and it made him sick to his stomach to even think about how others must be feeling. He had trouble with feelings in general sometimes.

Love or hate.

Or nothing.

True to form, Morgan was a monster.

No one had come to him when he'd collapsed, of course. No one had checked his vitals or hugged him tightly, promising him solace and hope. No one even knew what had happened. He supposed that was for the best. They might think strangely of him, if they knew how much of Grima truly sat latent within him.

"There you are!" Severa snapped at him when he emerged sleepily from his room. They were all huddled in Lucina's quarters, and on her bed the feeble body of Gerome was laid out. Laurent was leaning over him, one hand on his chest and the other on a great tome. Magic sizzled and snapped like roaring flame over his pointed mage hat. "Gods, did you take a nap? At a time like this? Typical!"

Morgan yawned. I'm part dragon, he almost informed her. I sleep a whole lot. Instead, he shrugged. "Did I miss something?"

Lucina's face came into view, and he smiled at her broadly. She smiled back, though wanly, until she seemed to remember her place. Her smile disappeared.

"Gerome fell," she replied shortly. She turned, her hair flying around her cheeks. Morgan tried to imagine that. Gerome falling. How funny a sight that would be.

"He fell?" Morgan stifled an amused laugh. "Where on earth from?"

"Minerva." Lucina's voice was clipped, but Morgan could hear her emotion, her rage and disgust and despair. Yes, Lucina was sad. "I almost didn't catch him in time. He hit his head."

"Oh." Morgan tried to sound sympathetic. It was difficult. "And Minerva?"

"Dead…" Gerome's reedy voice drifted through the air, and Morgan glanced at him curiously. His eyes dim, and it was so strange to see them unmasked. He looked like such a child without that awful metal thing covering his pretty, boyish features. Morgan wanted to laugh. And they thought him fragile looking! "Nah… she killed her, she… that little beast, that little—!"

Nah! Morgan's eyes widened a bit in surprise. Of all people to step up and shed blood!

"Beast," Severa repeated. "Nah? Honestly, Gerome, remember who we work for. A dragon killed the dragon of a boy who works for the fell dragon."

Morgan prickled with irritation from her blatant disrespect. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but Lucina beat him to it.

"Grima is your god, Severa," she reminded the girl with a hiss, "your Lord. Care to remember that."

Severa's jaw tightened, and Morgan watched her features as she bowed her head, and gave a sharp, curt nod. Yes, she understood. She hated it, but she understood. She was the smart one. Grima was not her god, nor her Lord, but she submitted anyway.

Submit. That's all Morgan asked.

"Nah tore Minerva's throat out," Gerome snapped, sitting upright. Laurent shoved him back down, his hand still flat on his chest.

"None of that," Laurent sighed. "You're far too stimulated. Calm down. We can handle your revenge on Nah. Just calm down."

"You better…" Gerome murmured. Morgan's stomach was all tied up at the thought. Hurting Nah? Honestly, she was the only one who had any sort of spine! She finished off Minerva! At least she was actively trying to win! Couldn't they at the very least admire that? She'd be such an excellent addition. It was unfortunate she was Naga's kin, Naga's voice. Morgan wished she wasn't.

Morgan was struck by something.

"Did you get it, at least?" he asked Gerome eagerly. He'd been dying to get his hands on it.

Gerome stared at him grimly. He lifted a finger feebly and pointed. Morgan glanced. He could hardly contain his excitement as his eyes landed on the scaly, blood-caked claw sitting innocently on Lucina's bedside table. The flesh beneath the reddened scales was pale pink, and Morgan thought of Nah, thought of what she might think of him, and his excitement turned sour.

This conscience thing really sucked.

"All of this," Severa exhaled, "for Nah's claw? Are you all mad?"

Laurent whirled to face her, his eyes flashing from beneath the gleam of his spectacles. "You haven't any idea what you say, Severa," he sighed. "Honestly, you might want to take up some tome or another in your spare time. Manaketes are purely magical beings— divine, if you will. Every bit of them, every last tooth and nail and scrap of flesh. Manakete claws are key in a hex that allows one to see into the future and past." He adjusted his glasses, nodding curtly. "Of course, only immensely gifted mages should attempt to do such a thing. Dark mages are best suited for this phenomenon. Luckily for us, Owain does not possess anyone with real proficiency in dark magic."

"Noire," Lucina reminded, sitting on her bed at Gerome's feet. "Do not forget. She is your enemy now, after all."

"Noire is no mage," Laurent replied. "A hunter, yes, but a mage? She hasn't the control!"

"Magic is not about control," Lucina snapped. "Didn't you ever meet Inigo's father? The sorcerer, Henry? He was an utter madman, Laurent. Yet he was a highly skilled mage, one of my father's best and one of my mother's most intriguing followers." She considered her own words for a moment, and she glanced upward. "Well. Follower in a sense."

"Are you two really going to bicker about what magic's about?" Morgan asked, tilting his head at them. "Ah, how boring. Stop trying to define magic. There is no definition for feelings. There's no need. You just feel them. That's it. That's all magic is."

Lucina stared at him, blinking wildly. Laurent seemed unimpressed with Morgan's analysis. Perhaps he expected more from their tactician.

"No one actually cares," Severa said flatly. "Keep your magic. I'll fight with a blade and some cold, hard logic, thanks."

Lucina shot Severa a look. Grima, a being of magic, was in her blood just as much as his. It just happened that he was not only Grima's child, but Grima's vessel. She didn't have that misfortune.

Morgan noticed Gerome's expression. It was clear that he was shattered by the loss of Minerva. Morgan wondered what that was like. He remembered the feeling of isolation when everyone had tried to convince him of his mother's demise. Was that what it was like for Gerome now, then?

"I'd like to speak with Gerome alone," Lucina declared. Morgan felt a pang of jealousy. He hadn't seen Lucina in days, and he'd hoped to be able to speak with her. About Grima. It's getting worse, it's getting worse, oh, Luci, Lucina, Lucina, Lucina, please, you hear it too, you see it, you feel it, help me. Help me. Help me!

She was a busy person. She had things to do.

No reason to bother her about such trivial matters such as his sanity. His humanity.

No reason.

Morgan left without complaint.

He was a good brother.

"They had forever to talk alone," Severa muttered indignantly. "Why kick us out just when they finally come back? I don't understand them!"

"I believe they are initiating in what you might call comfort companionship," Laurent stated bluntly.

"Yuck!" Severa's face twisted in absolute disgust. Anger, too. Morgan held back a smirk. He recognized jealousy there as well.

Lucina certainly had her admirers.

He went back to his room, not bothering to comment. They were clearly thinking of other things. He didn't appreciate the fact that he seemed to be the only person there whose mind did not wander to the idea of wooing his sister. She played it well, though.

Well, as in, she used them all and never clung to one in particular. It was just her way. The Grima way.

Morgan wondered why she was so corruptible.

He tossed Nah's claw onto a tome and flopped backwards onto his bed. Gerome had hurt her in retrieving this. What a fool. Didn't he know there were painless ways to take a claw from a dragon? Had it been necessary to take a chunk of her limb with it? He'd been asking for Minerva to be murdered!

It was a real, true struggle to keep his opinions to himself. But he tried his very best! Gerome was just so… distant. Closed off. Morgan could not fathom his feelings, and that made him truly irritated. How was he to know when Gerome stepped out of line when he simply just could not read Gerome? Ugh! It was not fair!

Gerome was only there, simply put, because of Lucina. That was all Morgan knew. It was not enough. At least with Severa and Laurent, Morgan could trust himself to be able to befriend and manipulate them. With Gerome, it was all Lucina.

He stared at his ceiling, imagining all the terrible things they'd done, and he wanted to laugh. It was so simple! The world! It was so awful! The world!

It was so wonderful!

He was dizzy and sick with his own hysterical laughter, bits of his skin crinkling and cracking at the corners of his eyes, stinging from the pain of Grima's influence bleeding through him.

Morgan clapped his hands over his eyes, his giggling breaking apart as he kicked the air, blinking through the haze of red that blinded him. He felt scales rising against the skin of his cheekbones, hot and smooth, and he covered his face and let the laughter consume him.

It was getting worse.

When he'd been young, a child in his mother's arms, a squishy little babe that held Lucina's hand in order to simply move across the room, he'd seen things. In his sister's face, her warm skin split apart, and her large eyes grew redder and redder until they glowed like beacons, and his mother— his beautiful, sweet mother, with her sun-kissed brown face, her bright, tired eyes, her natural grace and natural loveliness— her skin did the same as Lucina's only worse, only she morphed, only eyes sprouted and dispersed on a regular basis, and he never saw an abnormality in that.

It was never truly real. He knew that.

Even now.

His face was fine.

His eyes were not bleeding red from Grima's fire.

It was all just part of the grand scheme.

He hated it.

It was very difficult. To hate things.

He closed his eyes as his breath steadied, and he imagined. He imagined being born to a different mother, someone not as soft and lovely and wicked— ah, no!

No, he thought to himself sternly. No one's more lovely than mother!

He was sick of his own delusions.

"Nah," he'd said once to a girl he hardly knew, a sweet little manakete girl whose nature was so disgustingly similar to his own that it took too much to not adore her and too much to not want to tenderly pluck her eyes out. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

He'd known her when they'd been very small, and then she'd been taken away. Morgan knew why.

This was what Morgan knew.

Nowi was not Tiki. Nowi was not Nah. Nowi was hardly worthy to be called a dragon at all.

Nowi's blood tasted warm and sweet inside Morgan's mouth.

He dreamt of it sometimes. These were horrors Lord Grima blessed him with at night, kissing his brain and seductively whispering, "Look at all this fun we've had, Morgan. My son. My own blood. Let us do more."

Nowi's blood tasted cold and bitter inside Morgan's mouth.

He saw her through six eyes, her childish face a beacon in the dust and the darkness. His shadow had cast over the ruins of some shaded manor, fire crawling closer and closer from the grounds outside. The labyrinth of rooms had not been much use in a fight against Grima. Grima could just tear the ceiling away and find the little fleshlings cowering, cowering like the squirming worms they were.

Except Chrom's lot did not cower.

Disgusting.

Oh, Morgan did not know all the details, but he knew that there had been more than just Nowi in that ruined mansion, that sad place where families crumbled with the foundation, where children were cracked open like the discolored stone walls. He seethed and sighed over those whose fates were tied to that wretched place.

Nowi was not Tiki. Nowi was not Nah. Nowi was not Naga, in all her pitiful, despicable, sweet-tongued glory.

She was just some little slave girl or another that had outstayed her welcome on Grima's earth.

Morgan thought manaketes all to be beautiful. They had to be. They were not true dragons, but they had this overwhelming presence, this safe, calming demeanor that made him want to bleed himself for them so they might fill what was left of him with their cooling ambience.

Nowi was no different, odd as she was. Morgan barely recalled her from his own memory, from his childhood in the palace, but he did know she'd been excited and brash, perpetually shouting and laughing and winking and bouncing.

In the dust and ash of the crumbling manor, Nowi had looked into Grima's six eyes, her green hair falling in greenish, whitish, reddish ribbons. She'd looked up into Lord Grima's face, and her own, beautiful, youthful, and blood-slick, had contorted with her grand, boisterous laugh. Tears swelling in her eyes, she clutched her glowing stone, that terrible little tool that Naga's whelps loved to use as conduits for the small bit of power they had. Nowi, the laughing, bloody child that she was, had set the dragonstone down.

It had not been her own blood that graced her beautiful little face.

"Hey!" she'd shouted, laughter bleeding, just as the odd little mage boy bled on the floor where she'd left him, her stone staining from the way she'd placed it on the hole in his chest. Even so, even so, Grima saw in their rage that the mage boy, auburn haired and just barely an adult by any human standard, was twitching. "Hey! You! You big dumb chunk of fake! Come here! Come see what a real dragon is!"

To taunt the fell dragon Grima?

She was truly the most vivacious fool they'd ever laid eyes on.

Grima had waited. They saw the dragonstone on the mage boy's chest. Ricken, he was called. He was smart, a boy for sorcery and tricks, a boy of light and feathers, a boy that Grima sensed could have been useful if not for the fact of his wife being a manakete. He was a boy for Naga, certainly, but that was not always the way of the world. Grima stole Naga's tokens all the time. It was one of their most favorite things in the whole wide world to do. Stealing from Naga was intoxicating. But this boy, or man now, perhaps, this Ricken of Ylisse with his blinking eyes and soft, shuddering breaths, his hat soaked through with blood and flecked with ash a few feet from his side, he was to be Naga's to the death. Green light bloomed around him, slithering through him and blanketing him with the light and love of that divine little bitch.

Grima had waited.

They wanted Ricken of Ylisse to see this clearly.

The moment Grima saw light flickering in his eyes, the recognition that stung there as he sat up, as his gaze moved to the meat shield his little wife had made herself into, Grima lunged.

Nowi was no Naga.

Nowi was no Tiki.

Nowi did not even live up to Nah's name, Nah, the last manakete, Nah, the steadfast, the resilient, the clever little serpent. Morgan admired Nah, and Grima knew it, and Grima ached to taste that girl's blood as Grima had tasted her mother's, their jaw snapping and cleaving the girl up so her blood washed down their throat, her death oddly instantaneous and undoubtedly messy as her blood came pouring down onto the mage boy's sweet face.

He might have lived longer if he'd not married the little manakete. He might have grown taller. He might not have seen his sweet little wife throw her life away to buy him some meager time to run like the rest. His face might have gotten longer, his shoulders might have broadened, his jaw might have gotten harder, his legs might have stretched out, and he might have been a mage man to the great dragon instead of a mage boy.

But he was a child to them, regardless, and Grima loved to watch children break.

Nowi's death had been quick. Her blood and flesh draped Grima's mighty maw. It hung fresh in the boy's wide, unblinking eyes, his body half healed, Nowi's dragonstone still digging itself into him to give him life when she now had none. Grima almost wanted to let him go, to see where that went. Morgan had been angry that Grima hadn't.

Because Ricken's death made Nah go away.

In Morgan's dreams, he saw this part vividly. Nowi's sacrifice was something Grima cared little for. It was Ricken that had pleased them.

He'd clutched the little dragon stone the whole time. He'd hardly even screamed.

Morgan licked his lips.

He'd never eat anyone.

He'd never do that.

But Nowi's blood and Ricken's soft, tender flesh, it was something branded into his mind, some taste that he craved but he could not explain why.

Morgan sobbed into his pillow, Ricken's sad eyes faded as his skin was lovingly, lovingly, lovingly pulled away.

Nah had been sent away, fostered by some family that did not appreciate her. Grima felt robbed. They hadn't truly manifested yet within Morgan, but to see that child grow would make killing her so much more satisfactory.

When she'd returned, she'd been changed. More reclusive, more eager to please, and yet, completely immune to Grima's influence. She could have spent days and days on end with Morgan, soaking in his bad vibes, and never once turn her pretty face from Naga's melodic voice. Pitiful. She was truly nothing of value. Grima salivated at the idea of stealing her from Naga's grip, but there was no untangling this one from the divine tree of fate.

Morgan had been terrified.

"Nah," he'd said, imagining how he must look to her. Like some frightened animal caught in a trap. He smiled to make up for it, and he realized that probably made it worse. "Do you ever hear Naga?"

Nah was, Morgan thought, the oddest person to look at. He knew many beautiful people. His sister was, of course, stunning, and Severa had all of the famed Cordelia's beauty, though little of her charm, and Inigo was dashing and coy and lovely of voice and face and step, and Noire, who had all of her mother's curves and most of her coloring but none of her hostility, and Owain, his cousin, his dear, stupid cousin whose eyes were sunlit and whose face was sun-kissed, and who bore a light that could not be snuffed out and… oh, Morgan was certain he could detail the beauty of the whole of the world, but Nah was unexplainable. She was pretty, certainly, but he knew others who were far more striking, and she was smart, yes, but who was she compared to the likes of Laurent? She was strong, but only as a dragon, and even then she was weak in the face of Grima.

But Morgan thought her lovely in a way he simply could not fathom. Grima despised her. Morgan adored her. The trouble was that they were one and the same. So what was Nah to him but a troubling pawn to toss and fawn over?

She'd given him a strange look when he'd asked her. She'd looked at him so oddly, as if he were the bizarre one, as if he were the one handpicked by some dragon deity to bear the weight of the world.

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Morgan tasted Naga in the air around her, and it constantly made him want to scratch his tongue into shreds of lumpy red flesh.

"Yes," she'd said, unsurprisingly undeterred by his question, her voice even and her expression soft. "Sometimes, yes." Morgan wanted to warn her.

He moved closer to her, desperate and hopeless and smiling, his fingers itching to touch her throat. "I'm gonna tell you a secret," he whispered, a bright caveat oozing into his words. She watched him eagerly. Fool. "I hear voices too."

Run, he was whispering to her. Run from me, Nah. Either that, or just strike me down right now. Please, oh please, oh please…

She gasped. Her auburn hair bounced around her round cheeks as she leapt toward him, gripping his hands, and he felt electrified by her touch, because Naga was in her, and Grima in him, and this was where the world unraveled.

He was absolutely charmed by her. He was absolutely repulsed by her.

Such was his nature.

Such was hers.

"You hear Naga?"

She was darling and devilish, and she knew it well. She watched him, and he watched back. This was eternal. The two of them. Circling and cycling and grasping and gasping and deceiving and destructing till there was nothing left for them but to bleed and repeat.

Something hummed in his chest, clenched in his gut, for he knew that this girl was divine, and that he was demonic.

He must have given her such a look. Him? Hear Naga?

He wished!

"Something like that!" he laughed, holding her tiny hands in his, and thinking that Grima would not be pleased. They were not.

Morgan sniffled, wiping his eyes free from tears and of fire, and he sat up. He hiccupped. It was a trial to serve Lord Grima. But it was worth it. For Grima knew him, and Grima loved him, and that was what was important. He was Grima. Grima was him. Grima was mother. Grima was life.

The longer he thought about it, the more he questioned what living was even worth.

He picked up Nah's claw, touching it gingerly and wondering how that had felt. Being separated from a limb like that. How simple. How awful. How wonderful.

Morgan stood up after his tears dried, and he looked around his room. Books. So many books.

Grima mocked him for being so materialistic.

He kicked away a pile of tomes, kicked and kicked and paused, for he knew he was getting out of control.

It hadn't always been this bad.

Soon they would all begin to notice.

Morgan was not himself, nor had he ever been, but now it was getting worse, for he did not know where he was or who he was or how he was or what he was.

He took the claw and left the room.

"I'm not entirely sure how to work this, Morgan," Laurent admitted when Morgan brought the claw to him. "Lucina is the one who suggested this method of magic. She should be the one to do the incantation and ritual. I honestly would not know where to even begin."

"Hmm…" Morgan leaned over the table. Laurent worked in a laboratory of sorts, tomes lining the walls, jars and tins and boxes full of ingredients needed for specific hexes and curses and things. It was surprisingly bright, a wide window letting in air and light and heat from the desert. Laurent needed that, certainly, considering how hard he worked. Morgan did like him. But also, he hated him. Sad. This was how Morgan felt about mostly everyone. "Severa?"

She made a sharp noise from the back of her throat, and she pushed off the door. "What?" she asked, her voice sharp and her tone impatient.

"Go fetch Lucina and Gerome. We have to start planning."

"You want me to interrupt them?" Severa sounded surprised. But she did not object. "Fine. Okay."

She strode away, and Morgan smiled to himself. He looked up at Laurent, who stood with his eyes lowered toward the claw.

"Don't take it so personally," Morgan told him gently. "Lucina certainly loves you."

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Morgan." Laurent adjusted his glasses, his eyes moving from the claw to his tome. "We should be able to get a few premonitions from this, if what Lucina says is true."

"It is." Morgan nodded firmly. "Dragon claws are immensely powerful."

"Then, may I ask?" Laurent studied Morgan curiously. "Why not use Lord Grima?"

It was an honest, precocious question. Grima did not object to the curiosity of men.

"Oh, that's simple!" Morgan bounced excitedly in place. "Lord Grima is sacred, we can't defile them with our man made sorcery. Besides, why dare approach Grima when we have our own little dragon lurking on our tails? Could you imagine capturing her alive? An infinite supply of these—" Morgan gestured to Nah's claw. "—Well, and we'll be set to win the war!"

"That's supposing we can interpret the future correctly," Laurent reminded. "As well as the past. Do not forget, that is also within this magic's capabilities."

"We don't need to look at the past," Morgan said stiffly. "Who needs the past? We have to look to the future! That's where Grima is."

"Grima was in the past as well," Laurent said. "Lest you forget, Grima is past, present, and future."

"I could never forget that," Morgan murmured. "I just mean, why dredge up the awfulness of the war past? Why put yourself through that pain? Why—? Oh." Morgan pushed back, his eyes widening as he peered at Laurent's long face. "Oh, I see. Laurent, no."

"I'm not quite certain I know what you're objecting to…"

"You will not," Morgan said, his voice a rapt warning, "under any circumstance use the manakete claw to find out what happened to your mother. I forbid it. Lord Grima forbids it."

"Voice of Grima," Laurent said quietly, almost reverent, but clearly mocking. He nodded once anyway, curtly acknowledging Morgan's request.

What Grima had done to Miriel was too horrible to say. The desert sands were still stained from the butcher. It had been Risen.

Thousands and thousands of Risen.

There was no escape when the world was a haze and mirages made thousands into millions.

She'd given up. She'd begged.

For herself. For her son.

Morgan smiled up at Laurent, and he twirled Nah's claw between his fingers.

He loved. He hated. This was his nature.

He was responsible for all the wrongs in all the world. Guilt was plainly who he was, Guilt and Grima both.

"You work very hard for my sister," Morgan noted. Laurent did not glance up from his page. "For me as well. For Lord Grima. Do you ever… resent us?"

"I see no reason to resent such incredible beings," he said.

Morgan hummed idly. "Ah, well," he laughed, "for one, we stole everything you ever held dear from you."

"I've no taste for religion, if you'll excuse me saying, and as for my loyalties, you understand where they are, so I ask you, Morgan." Laurent raised his eyes, and they were sharp and cold. "Do not attempt to test me. I am, as will I always be, your loyal servant. Let me do my job in peace without having to consider the wrongs done against me."

Morgan was surprised. He nodded vacantly in shock. "As you wish," he said, attempting to wrap his head around Laurent's reasoning. Did he know? Was he figuring it out? Did he truly not care? What was he plotting?

There was something amiss here.

Severa returned, her brown pigtails trailing behind her as she pointed her chin at them. Lucina followed behind her, and then finally Gerome, who'd donned his mask once more. Typical.

"How are you feeling, Gerome?" Morgan asked.

"I'll be content," the boy whispered, "when I see Nah's wings tacked to a wall."

"How colorful," Morgan cooed. In truth the idea of it made him sick. His back muscles ached at the thought.

"We've come to the conclusion," Lucina declared, making her way to the table, her voice sharp and sweet and shocking, "that Nah must die."

"Marvelous." Morgan rested his cheek in his hand. "I'll do it."

Lucina glanced at him. "No."

He glanced right back. "Yes," he said.

"No."

"Lucina, that's hardly fair."

"Minerva was Gerome's mount," she said firmly, "therefore Nah is his kill."

"Gerome is hardly capable of taking down Nah," Morgan scoffed.

"You think I cannot cut down a little girl?" Gerome growled.

"I think you cannot cut down a dragon girl who is clearly far smarter than you!" Morgan whirled to face him. His mask hid all his anger, but Morgan felt it. However, Morgan was angry too. "You do not know Nah, clearly, if you insist she is a little girl. You do not know anyone, Gerome, you're too self involved! That is why you won't be able to kill Nah. She is faster than you, stronger than you, smarter than you, and Minerva, your only leverage in battle, is gone. If she were not so kind, she'd dismember you the instant she saw your lying, turncloak face."

"Morgan," Lucina warned. "You're out of line."

"Am I?" Morgan looked into her eyes, truly looked into them, and he forced her to see the truth in his words. "Are you certain? Or are you letting your feelings cloud your judgment?"

She considered him for a moment, and she stepped forward. Severa had cleared out of the way before she'd even moved, and Gerome stood silently, rather shocked by Morgan's words. Laurent simply observed from his side of the table, a tome in hand.

"Tell me," his sister whispered, moving in a slow, even circle around him. He did not dare let her see a glimmer of uncertainty within him. She would crack first. She had to. "Do you not trust my judgment, Morgan? Do you not believe in me?"

"I believe in you," he gasped, beaming at her as she circled him, "most certainly!"

"Then my friends. They are the ones you have no faith in."

Morgan tilted his head. He smiled. "Lucina," he said gently. "I'm hardly qualified to pass any real judgment on anyone here. But here is the issue. I am more willing to bet on myself in this situation than on anyone else in this room. The question is not whether I believe in any of you. It's if you believe in me."

And to that, Lucina had no answer. She stopped, lifting her head to him, and she stared at him for a long time. Then nodding, she whirled away.

"Tell me what makes you the better choice to send for Nah's head," she said.

Gerome did not object. It was not in his reclusive nature to do such a thing. So Morgan let himself be heard.

"It's simple," he said. "All of you are looking at this as well, yes, kill Nah, who is practically a child. But you forget. She is not a child. She is a manakete, and young as she may be she's hardly touchable in dragon form, lest Lord Grima show up to gobble her up. Which, as you might imagine, is unlikely." Well, it was a half truth. "So you need to keep Nah from panicking and transforming into a dragon. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Except for one thing." He leaned forward, placing his hands firmly on the table, and he smiled at them all sweetly. "Not one of you understands her enough to be able to talk to her for that long. Firstly, the only one of you four who is charismatic enough to pull it off is Lucina. And, Luci, I love you, but Nah won't receive you so kindly."

"And she'd listen to you?" Gerome asked hoarsely. Severa scoffed.

"Oh, is that so?" Her voice was thin and taunting. "I can't even imagine, Morgan, what talent you must possess to beat Lucina in a contest of charisma!"

"Quiet," Lucina snapped. "Both of you. Morgan is not wrong. I'd have no idea how to speak with Nah. I'd likely just attack her. She is the enemy, after all, and beyond negotiation."

"Let me go," Morgan pleaded with her. "I can kill her without a hitch. Allow me to do this one thing, and I promise you won't regret it. Honestly, think about it. I'm hardly ever out of the castle. I'm hardly ever anywhere. I need to kill her. It needs to be me."

"Sounds like someone's possessive," Severa cooed.

You're one to talk, Morgan bit back.

Lucina held up her hand, and Severa quieted. The silence stretched between them, and Morgan continued to smile. He knew something they did not. That was the smile he wore every day. They could not understand how his mind worked. How it hardly even worked at all.

"Fine," Lucina said. She placed a hand on Morgan's head, smoothing his hair back and letting her knuckles graze his cheek. "I'll put my faith in you, Morgan. You will find Nah, and you will kill her."

Morgan smiled brightly. His insides were rotting away, hot and baking in a stew of disgust.

"I won't disappoint you!" he gasped. Tears were stinging the corners of his eyes.

It was warm. The air was light and the breeze was consistent, and the temperature remained steady in spite of everything. When she'd made it there, she'd thought that it had to be an act of trickery, a mirage of sorts. The grass was soft and green, and it bent in slow, undulating waves when the constant breeze ran itself over the expansive field. It had been so long since she'd seen green grass. There were flowers poking out between the blades, not little white weeds like the ones she and Inigo picked, but real ones, real blossoms sprouting outwards in a myriad of colors.

Hyacinths and Gardenias and Poppies and Marigolds and Tulips, fat petals of all different shapes, crimped and cropped and crumbled, folded and flattened and flowing, sharp and smooth and slim, colors of dirty, bruised dusk skies and of glittering winter snows and of bleeding sunsets and of burning horizons and of blinding morning rays. There was a great, gnarled tree, and there was so much grass, and the air smelled so clean it burned her lungs, so fresh and untainted, so miraculously pure. This place was untouched by Grima, somehow, someway, and it made her feel as though she'd been delicately unfastened from her body and allowed to float in an endless current of wavering winds above this sanctuary to watch the flowers grow and die and dance in light and the night and in the constant breeze forever and ever and ever.

It was almost okay now, that Naga had abandoned her.

Yes, she'd left her friends, left her camp, left her exalt to worry after her, and it was because she was losing herself in terror of Naga's lack of presence. Naga did not speak to Nah anymore. Naga had truly left her last manakete to rot in a world of death and dust and darkness.

Ask her. Ask her what drove her, what pushed her forward, what allowed her to be the one who could always lend a helping hand. Ask her if she truly could handle it.

Ask her if she had not felt some relief upon fleeing from her duties. She'd never answer. She'd rather rip her own heart out and devour it.

So. She'd left. She wondered how they were fairing without her. She'd left a note, of course, she hadn't gone completely mad, but it was difficult to imagine returning. They'd yell at her. Scold her for her negligence. She wanted to beg for their forgiveness, but at the same time she just did not want to burden them any longer with her false sense of security. They thought she knew exactly what she was doing. In truth, she was so lost that she felt herself fading with every breath she drew. And she was to live for millennia.

She was already sick and tired of this world. To think she was to be here for a grand eternity made her sick to her stomach.

So she'd taken flight. It had drained her energy, staying in dragon form in so long, so when she finally landed on the Divine Dragon Grounds, she stumbled into the field of grass, all nine of her fingers grazing the long stemmed pink tulips and crimson poppies and sun-drenched marigolds, her boots flattening the long green sea of grass and flattening it to the earth. She'd laughed in disbelief of this beautiful, beautiful place, and she'd dropped onto her back and let the grass swallow her up, flowers fluttering around her, wind swirling overhead, plump white clouds crossing over the sky, and she grinned upward, her body pressed to the warm earth, and she took a deep breath of the cleanest air she'd ever breathe.

She closed her eyes, and she'd gone to sleep.

Truthfully, she felt as though she'd slept for years. She awoke in darkness, and then napped again, awoke and slept and awoke and slept, too weary to truly care. She and her sanctuary. She felt safe here. She felt loved. She sent her thoughts and prayers out to Naga, but of course there was no response. That was hardly new. But it hurt anyway.

Nah stayed there for days. Weeks. She slept for most of it. She dreamt. She breathed. She prayed.

She begged Naga to come, to help somehow, to change their fates and rewrite what Grima had carved into stone.

She pleaded for her friends to live through this battle. For Lucina to have the veil torn from her eyes. For Morgan to fight his nature.

She dreamt of him and her and them. She saw the world crumble at her feet, this beautiful land scorched, this beautiful boy an empty husk on a throne of awkward, deformed bodies. She felt his heart break apart, and she tasted his tears in her mouth, hot and bleeding, flames to battle the ice of her breath.

She saw a girl with hair like midnight skies, who danced and dared but had no understanding of her own actions. She'd been tricked and tied to someone else's fate from the start. She'd been stained by blood and by bond. She was hopeless, but still, her heart bore love for the weak and the miserable souls she'd left behind upon fleeing Ylisse. Just as Nah had just done.

She dreamt of Tiki. She hadn't a clue what had happened to the Voice, but Nah felt that she'd been dead a long while. Tiki's face floated in the seas of Nah's mind, not in memory, never in memory, for Nah had never met Naga's true daughter, but she saw her. She looked like what Nah had always imagined a goddess to look like, soft faced and soft eyed, plump pink lips and tender skin. She was beautiful, and Nah felt her in her head and in her heart.

She awoke from her prayer. The day had dimmed, and sunset was sloshing around her, burning the green grass and sending her into a haze of brilliant reds and oranges. She saw wisps of her auburn hair, and it looked like swirling firelight. She yawned, blinking contentedly as she stretched herself, her back stiff from hours and hours of napping against the tree. She stretched her arms above her head, her eyes swiveling around her twilit sanctuary.

Beside her, slumped against a tangled root, was a slumbering boy.

Some part of her had seen this coming.

His face was dark, his skin warm and brown in the dying light, and his deep blue hair hanging in lofty waves, curling at his forehead and around his ears, twitching subtly in the eternal breeze. Nah was stunned to see him. It had been a long time. She could not recall when she'd seen him last, or maybe she just did not want to recall. He looked older, his round face slimming out slowly, his legs tangled up, longer and longer than they'd ever been before. She stared at him, and she realized that he was getting old, and she was still a child. And that was how it always would be.

She wished herself wholly human so she could age alongside him.

Nah sat up straight, her mouth parted in shock, and she had the urge to touch him to be certain he was really there. This boy, this traitorous boy, was Grima's tool. And yet, here he was. He'd come for her, certainly. Nah did not understand. She'd been praying for hours. It had been morning when she'd begun. Perhaps the morning before, or even the morning before that. Instead of killing her in her most vulnerable state, he waited.

Why?

Nah didn't have the time to ask.

She crawled closer to him, holding her breath as her heart battered against her ribs and thudded in her throat. Her eyes were watering meagerly from anxiety. She scooted even closer. Her eyes moved from his delicate face to the threadbare coat of his mother, Robin, the famed tactician, to the thin shirt he wore beneath that and the lines of his collarbone as his throat lay bare. The shine of silver pulled at her, lulled her into reaching carefully beneath the folds of his coat and grasping his sword by its hilt. She tore it from his scabbard, and the moment he stirred, she leapt at him.

She sat upon his legs, straddling his waist with one leg hooked behind him, and she pinned his arms to the twisted tree root, holding the gleaming blade of his sword to his bobbing adam's apple. He was awake now, blinking wildly in shock as he adjusted to lucidity. He stared into her eyes, and she gripped the blade tighter. Tricks. That was all Morgan was. A big fat trickster.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, pressing the blade so hard into his skin that she saw, vaguely horrified, dark beads of blood slip slow down the surface of his warm brown neck.

He smiled at her as though she were not holding his sword to his throat. "Is it not obvious?" He blinked at her wildly. "I'm here to kill you!"

"Oh." She adjusted herself in his lap, digging her fingers into his arm and taking a breath to calm herself. "Well. Marvelous. Shall I slit your throat now, then?"

"Oh," he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. "You could do that. I won't stop you. It looks as though your dress is already stained, so what's a bit more blood splashed onto it? I should warn you, though, killing me will steal Lucina's soul away. You'll never see the light of the world again."

"You talk as though there's hope for anyone," Nah spat.

He looked utterly bewildered. He stared into her eyes, his mouth dropping open, and lines of confusion built up on his sweet face. "Is there not?" he asked incredulously.

"No," she said. His eyes moved about her face, soft and wide and searching, so very alarmed and very scared, and out of pure guilt she backpedaled, her heart bursting. "No, I… I don't know. I don't know, Morgan. You've made too much of a mess. I can't say if the world will ever recover from it."

"Nah," he said, his voice drifting through her ears and caressing her brain. "This world was sick long before I was delivered into it. This fate would be here whether I played a hand or not."

"The problem is that you helped!" Nah felt his breath hot against her cheeks, but she did not care. She held the sword up against his throat, and she thought of Lucina sneaking up from behind and skewering her. So be it. "Morgan… Morgan, you were so loved. You still are. Owain plots time and time again ways to save you, to rescue you from yourself, and the others… we wish you could see sense!"

"I see sense," Morgan sighed. "Nah, lift that blade. I've been sitting here for hours. If I had the intent to kill you, you would have been dead the moment I saw you praying."

This shocked her. "You…?" She lowered the sword weakly. "You'd go against an order?"

"I decide who I put to death," Morgan said simply. His smile had fallen, and he looked so very weary, the shadows under his eyes plain for her to see. She found herself struck by terror of him, because she knew he was tricky, and she knew she was vulnerable, and she knew. She'd known from the moment she'd stepped foot in this beautiful place that she was doomed to meet this dreadful, divine boy.

"I've heard terrible stories," Nah whispered, letting her words hit him, strike him like blows, like her small bony knuckles on his immaculate cheeks. "Everywhere I go they say that you and the grimleal pillage and burn, crusading through villages and whole countries until the entire world falls to Grima. I've heard the most horrible things, Morgan. They call Lucina a wicked priestess, and Gerome a demonic omen, and Laurent a heartless sorcerer, and Severa a rabid hunting dog. And you, Morgan, they call you the little beast. You're terrible."

"I've never pretended to be anything but," he told her vacantly, peering into her eyes. "Nah, human beings are terrible. You are terrible, same as me."

"I am not!" She shook her head furiously. "And humans… humans are not so terrible as you say."

"No? I suppose you lost your finger in a terrible accident, then, hm? No " His brow furrowed in sharp irritation, and he grabbed her hand, the warmth of his skin sending goosebumps shooting up her arms, her hair standing on end as he clenched her knuckles and pressed his sword harder against his jugular. Nah's mouth fell open in horror as the blood pooled down his neck and gathered in the hollow of his throat. "You're trying to kill me. Does that not make you a terrible person too?"

She tore her hand away, dropping the sword at her side and clapping her hands over her mouth. Tears were building in her eyes, and he looked at her, his mouth opening in alarm.

"I didn't mean to upset you!" he squeaked, lifting his hands toward her face. She flinched from him, and he stopped, his hands hovering for a moment before he understood her fear, and he let them fall. "I'm sorry, Nah. As you said, I'm terrible. I don't pretend that I'm not. But I did not come here to kill you."

She rubbed her eyes furiously, and he sat beneath her, placid and patient, his neck bleeding and his eyes large with remorse. She hated him. She hated his charisma and his plays, his undeniable pull. She was already in too deep. She already adored him.

"Morgan…" she mumbled. "I hate you."

"I don't think you do."

She wiped her tears away, and she scowled at him. "Oh, are you a mind reader now?" She slammed her fist against his chest, and he winced. She froze, astonished that she'd actually fazed him. She gaped at him, and he shifted beneath her, stretching out his legs and glancing from her face down at her positioning. She looked down as well, and she flushed in embarrassment, her chest brushing his every time she inhaled, and she wanted to cry because it wasn't fair at all. This wasn't fair at all, and her heart clenched in despair as her eyes fell from his, tracing the lines of his nose and lingering on his mouth. The shape was soft and subtle, his lower lip slightly plumper than the upper one, but it evened out when he smiled.

"I would hardly call myself a mind reader," he murmured. "But, um… I honestly think I can guess where your mind is right now."

She jolted, her entire body stiffening as she squeaked, "What?" Her face turned bright red and her eyes began to water in mortification. She crawled off his lap, biting her tongue and trying to keep cool, because she was supposed to be confident and smart, but around Morgan she felt utterly transparent. It made her sick to her stomach.

"I don't mind at all," Morgan offered her as she curled up against the tree beside him, burying her face in her hands. "I admire you as well, you know. You're very pretty."

"Just…" Nah held her hand up to his face, laying her palm on his cheek and gently pushing it the other way. "Stop. Don't look at me. Okay?"

"Okay…" He kept his face turned from her as she caught her breath. She tried to pass it off as something else, not a big deal, not a big deal, but she couldn't. It was a big deal. It was a huge deal. She felt as though she were suffocating. "I'm sorry for upsetting you."

"Quit saying stuff like that!" Nah scooped up his sword, and she leapt to her feet. She'd regained at least some semblance of sense. "You have orders to kill me, don't you? Well, then, go ahead! Try and kill me!"

"But I already told you," he gasped, throwing up his hands. "I don't mean to kill you, Nah. Please hear me out."

"Why?" she whispered, tears burning her eyes. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because!" He jumped up, dusting off his long coat, the purplish eyes of Grima glaring at her from the stitching on his sides. "I'm making you an offer! Nah, I want to come with you back to Owain. I want you to make me your hostage."

She stood, thinking over this proposal and absolutely puzzled by it. This made no sense. She couldn't fathom it. But then, yes, she most certainly could. Morgan always was the one that they could never account for. He was mercurial, an utter anomaly in nature. He was calm and cool, but triggered by rage at a drop of a hat. He loved people in their entirety, but he hated the world by default. She trusted and adored him, and she knew that he was nothing but death and destruction under the guise of a sweet, warm, lovely boy.

"Explain," she demanded. He'd already won her over.

"Oh boy," he whistled. "Okay. Nah, you said you think I'm terrible. That's true. I know I am." He wrung his hands nervously about his coat, and he took a deep breath. "Yes. It's true. I'm terrible. I am Grima's son. I am Grima's heir. I am, as far as I know, the one true vessel of Grima."

She felt the sword droop in her hand, and she stood in a daze, trying to process these words, trying to understand what he could possibly mean. Vessel of Grima. Voice of Naga. These things were titles, these things were truths, and she tasted the disgust on her tongue like bile burning the back of her mouth. She realized it, her heart constricting so painfully that she had to close her eyes.

She was in love with Grima.

"And I'm to trust you," she whispered, her voice tearing from her throat and spilling in the air, her soul aching with every breath, wriggling and writhing from pain of being kept prisoner in her slowly aging body. "You expect that of me, don't you? Irrevocable trust. Me, the last manakete, to you! Grima!"

"I am not Grima!" Morgan blurted, stumbling closer to her. "That's why I'm talking to you, Nah! I… I understand that I've done a lot of terrible things—"

"Oh boy…" she groaned.

"But!" He bit his lip nervously. "But! I know, okay? I know that I am human more than anything else. Lord Grima owns my soul, I'll admit to that, and yes, Nah. Some part of me… is the embodiment of the fell dragon…"

She truly was going to be sick.

"However!" He clapped his hands together. "I am, without a doubt, a separate entity. Lord Grima exists beyond my body. Therefore, I exist beyond Lord Grima."

"I don't believe you." I do, she thought, her eyes large and awestruck. I do, I do, I really do.

"I…" He held his head, blinking rapidly. He moaned. "Ah… maybe I was mistaken… thinking you'd understand. I thought because… because of your connection to Naga, you could help me. I don't want to become an empty husk, a heap of flesh for Lord Grima to slide into whenever they need a human face to toy with. I love Lord Grima, but I also am scared, and I don't want this. Help me."

"Morgan…" She didn't know what to say. Help him? Help the boy who'd destroyed the world? She would rather die! At least, that was what she wanted to believe. She was truly enthralled by him. There was no way around it. Grima had him in their clutches, but she had the chance to turn the tide. Morgan was the key.

It could be a trick, she thought. She dropped her sword. I don't care anymore. Trick me, then, Grima. I'm here. I'm done. I did not plan for this, and I don't care any longer. I haven't a clue, so if you are tricking me, than so be it!

She could not care less. She was no longer the resilient, steadfast, sweet and helpful girl she knew everyone relied on.

That girl could not have existed, really.

"Help me," he pleaded, tears staining his eyes bright red. "I… I see things. Hear things. Feel things. It's always been this way, but lately I know it's gotten worse. I'm becoming something inhuman, and as monstrous as I am, I can't bear to lose my humanity. My mother was human. My father was human. Lord Grima, a parent of mine, cannot wholly claim to have created me. I'm gullible, Nah, but not so much that I do not understand my own identity. Robin and Chrom are my mother and my father. Grima is higher than that. But in my heart, I know. I know. I know that it's true, that I am a human boy, who has human feelings, and I want to be certain that Lord Grima, as much as I love them, does not strip me of that."

She could not breathe. This was truth. She could feel it, the way the truths melted against the air, warming her cold heart. He stood before her, begging and pleading with her to simply take him as a prisoner, and she was denying him… out of what? Spite? She was a fool!

She was a fool to trust him.

"Morgan," Nah murmured. "I want to believe you."

"Then do," he gasped, stepping toward her. "Please, please, do! Nah, you must bear some love for me somewhere, I just know it. Can you imagine it? Imagine someone in your head, pulling at you and whispering, telling you exactly what to do all the time, even if you don't necessarily want to. I love Lord Grima. I love Lord Grima. I do, I do…" He covered his face with his hands, breathless and shaky. "Oh, I do, I do, I do! I love Lord Grima, but I can't do this, Nah, I can't! I feel as though something's terribly wrong, and I don't want to cease to exist entirely so that Lord Grima may take over. I'm selfish, I know, but—"

"No, Morgan," Nah gasped, grabbing his hands and prying them from his face. "No, no, no! You're… you're not selfish at all. Listen to me. If Grima's been controlling you, you must tell me! Does Grima influence all of you? Is that the problem? Oh, Morgan!" Nah was reeling. She felt drunk on information, and she gripped his hands, savoring in their warmth even from beneath his gloves. "I'm sorry. I must seem cruel, I suppose, to treat you this way."

"No," he said cautiously. "I know cruel, Nah. You are not it."

That did not make her feel any better.

She tentatively tugged his gloves away. He watched her, his eyes large and curious. "I do understand," she whispered. "I understand perfectly what trial you are going through." She let his gloves fall to the grass, and she gripped his warm fingertips, running her thumbs over the raised birthmarks that stained the flesh of the backs of his hands. The Mark of Grima and the Brand of the Exalt. Two terrible marks to brand a boy with a terrible fate.

"Can you help me?" he whispered. He sounded truly terrified. "I don't want to upset Lucina, but I can't think of any other way to make sure I… I stay me… somehow…"

"I will help you," Nah said firmly. "And this is why." She dragged one of his hands closer to her, brown skin darkened by the dwindling light, and fireflies flickered into life around them, splashing his face momentarily yellow and allowing him to look part an angel in the dusk. She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed the Brand of the Exalt, closing her eyes and praying to Naga to save her. She gripped his hand tightly, her mouth lingering on his hot skin, and she felt his hand on her cheek.

"That's a sweet thing," he sighed. "I did not know my father, you know, but I feel as though I've betrayed him somehow. Wearing this brand and not honoring its contract. Tell me, Nah, how can I fix that?"

"I very much doubt that is something you want to do," she murmured against his warm flesh. She wanted him to know, to understand, but she could not say it, and so she simply said nothing about it.

"You speak to Naga," he whined, pushing her hair back from her eyes and dragging his knuckle down her cheek. She wanted to laugh. "Surely you can figure something out."

"It does not work like that, Morgan."

"I want you to save me, Nah," Morgan said. In his voice, she could hear a thousand agonies. He bore the weight of the pain of all the people Grima had hurt. All the people Grima had made him hurt. He fiddled with her braid, idle and uncertain, nothing like the confident boy he'd been pretending to be at the start. It seemed they were exactly the same. They pretended. They lied. The faked their way into respect and then wallowed in the fact that they were nothing.

"Then I'll try my best," she breathed. She retrieved her dragonstone, holding it tightly in her fists, the warmth scorching her fingertips. Fireflies danced around them, landing in his hair and on flowers, bouncing from blades of grass. "You are the Vessel of Grima, Morgan."

"Yes…" He tickled her nose with the end of her braid, and she ignored it. "I thought we established this."

"You've been gravely wounded, I think," she said holding her dragonstone to her chest. "Not a wound of the body, but of the soul. Let me heal you best I can. Then you can return to camp with me and testify to your experience."

There were tears in his eyes. He smiled tremulously, and he nodded. She sensed it. She felt it. But she had given up a long time ago, and she felt that this was good, this was a good end to a good story, so she closed her eyes, and she held her stone, and she waited.

He kissed her. The pressure on her lips was magnified by the warmth of his skin and the warmth of her dragonstone as it latched onto him, swirling about and catching on the light of dragonflies, moving and writhing and breathing as she breathed. She did not know much about kissing, it was all very strange and foreign. Inigo often brushed his lips to her hair and forehead, and Owain her cheek or knuckles. But being kissed like this was unbearably new, and she felt his proximity and his warmth, and she felt his darkened heart, and heard something far off calling to her, an unheard caveat that she'd sensed from the moment of her arrival.

She kissed him back with chapped lips digging into his softened ones, her glowing dragonstone pressed between them as he let his hand fall to her neck, his thumb gingerly stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. This boy was Grima, this boy was Grima, and that haunted her. She was kissing not a toy or a dog of the fell dragon, but the fell dragon's chosen human form himself. Had Chrom felt so horrified and enticed when he'd found out? She was in love with Grima.

Maybe love wasn't the right word. Not for Grima. For Grima, she hated. For Morgan, she loved. Anomaly. Imbalanced child. She tasted his sins on his tongue, and she stole them away and washed his heart with the light. Her own heart was alight with wonder, but at the same time she knew.

She opened her eyes as his hand slid from her neck and fell against her chest, his palm settling over her heart and his lips still locked firmly around hers, as though to keep her quiet, to keep her from screaming as magic pulsated through the air, a different magic than the healing touch of Naga, and the entire world stuttered and rocked, fireflies igniting and combusting as her nerves were set on fire and her heart was sliced by white hot wires in the form of lightning bolts.

She teetered on her feet, her lips stuck dryly to his, and she laughed a little, choking on the sound as blood filled her lungs. It tasted metallic and burnt.

Four red eyes were wide open and glowering at her intensely. Mine, Grima seemed to be spitting at her as she wobbled and blinked, the lightning strike making its way through her body. She choked.

She stumbled back, and he stared at her, his mouth opening.

She clutched her chest, laughter making her feel as though her veins were unraveling from her muscles, and her ribs were crumbling and caving in.

"You…" she whispered, her dragonstone still clamped in one hand. "You liar…"

He caught her when her legs gave out, his arms looping around her waist, and she wasted her tears on him once more, her lips trembling pitifully as her eyesight failed and everything around her became a senseless blur. She saw fireflies. She felt safe.

Chapter Text

He sometimes dreamt of reversing time and averting fate. He sometimes thought feverish thoughts, hopeful, languished thoughts of brighter days and happier times. He sometimes wished. But that was the child in him still breathing somehow, in spite of how damn hard he tried to beat him to death with blunt words and turned backs. That child was perpetually screaming.

He ignored it. He ignored desire and he ignored pain. He'd ignore the whole world if he had to.

Sometimes, even he tired of his gloominess.

"What do you think?"

Sometimes, even he wanted for something.

"I understand, you know. You can talk to me."

Sometimes, even he feared and ached and cried.

"Gerome." Lucina's steady voice drifted through his head. He waited for her to touch his cheek patiently, but she did not. He felt dejected. "Are you angry with me for choosing Morgan over you?"

"That'd be childish," he responded evenly. But yes, he added mentally, his eyelids drooping. Nah had killed Minerva, so it was only just that Gerome killed her. It was the cycle of vengeance. It was his right.

"It would be," Lucina agreed, staring into his eyes with a long, chilly gaze. Oh no, had he angered her? He really could not take that right now. "You understand why I made that choice, correct?"

He felt the urge to shift uneasily beneath her stare, but he quelled it. "I suppose," he said, "you wanted to give him a chance to prove himself." How noble of her. Couldn't she have done it with, say, Cynthia? Owain? Brady? Anyone but the girl who had murdered his last connection with his mother?

"Well, yes." Lucina sighed. "In part, yes, that was a factor. Gerome, do you listen to a word Morgan says?"

"Of course."

"No," Lucina said, sitting down on her bed. He stared at her. This was always difficult. Everyone whispers, he thought vacantly, of these secret, intimate things that we apparently do, but not once has she so much as eyed me in such a way. Gerome would not make any advancement, and she seemed to have her head consistently caught up in only two things. Morgan and Grima. Gerome found that he was incapable of resenting either. "No, Gerome. I don't think you do. If you listened to Morgan, you would see no sense in killing Nah."

"He volunteered to kill her," he argued in a dull voice. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"Nah is useful," Lucina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Morgan will kill her, yes, but you know why he volunteered as well as I."

"No. What?" Gerome had to think very hard. "No. Explain."

She laughed at him amusedly, her eyes sparkling with a light he was surprised to see. He didn't hear Lucina laugh much anymore. It was such a brilliant, boisterous sound, loud and unrestrained, and she seemed to realize that, for she stopped. That made him sad.

"Morgan is in love with Nah," Lucina said, folding in hands in her lap. Her eyes seemed to soften, and she lifted her head toward the ceiling. "Or at least, he's in love with the idea of her. Which he knows is wrong. Ah, it's difficult to get into his head. Almost as difficult as it is to get into yours." She tilted her chin at him, and she smiled gently. "Are you alright, Gerome? You've hardly cried since Minerva—"

"I'm fine." He looked down at his feet. Morgan was in love with Nah. That made him sick to his stomach. Stupid, idiot, monster of a boy! Did he not see how rotten she was?

But he was rotten too, and they all knew it.

What a pair they'd make.

"Did you…" Gerome leaned forward, finding his composure slipping as the revelation came over him. "You… you sent him instead of me to test him… to test his loyalty…"

Lucina's gentle smile widened. He shivered at how truly venomous she was.

"Very good," she said, tapping her lips. "See, I knew you knew. I can always trust you to know, Gerome."

He wanted to sigh, a wistful, disbelieving sigh. This girl would be the death of him.

"But you don't trust Morgan?" Admittedly the boy was a little… off, but this was strange. Lucina loved Morgan. There was no questioning her loyalty to him. She'd do anything for him.

"Not particularly." Lucina shrugged. "I mean, do you?"

Well. Point.

He sat down beside her, staring vacantly ahead of him. He was trying to process this. Grief was still eating at him, and without the knowledge that Nah had paid for Minerva's death… Oh, it was killing him.

"Lucina," he murmured. "What if he doesn't kill Nah? What will we do?"

"If Morgan returns and Nah is not dead, the task will fall to you," Lucina said. "Though, if you chose to let her live, I wouldn't be opposed to it."

Let her live? After what she'd done? No. Never.

"Thank you," he said. He could have spoken his mind about Nah, but truthfully he didn't know. Were his feelings simply the heat of the moment? Would he regret murdering that girl later? He didn't know. He didn't know the world or himself well enough to determine such a thing. "And if he does not return at all?"

She eyed him. Not particularly kindly, and it made him want to squirm, but he had more self-control than that.

"If he does not return," she said, "we'll have a far larger problem on our hands than a pesky manakete."

She was imagining what Grima would say. He knew it. He knew that Grima spoke to her, whispered in her ear, and Gerome had let it happen. This transformation, this terrible transition from pleasant girl to vicious beast. She'd killed. She'd burned. She'd let Grima devour whole villages, cities, empires, civilizations. She was no longer the exalt, no longer a hero, and yet here he was. At her side, never faltering. He would lay down his life for her in a heartbeat. He'd plunge a sword into his heart if she so much as asked.

"Will you use Nah's claw?" Lucina asked him.

"No. I haven't any need for peeping into the past, nor the future. What matters is now."

"Hm, maybe so." She smirked at him, her dark fingers drawing against her cheek as she leaned forward. "But aren't you the least bit curious? You could see your mother's face again. Your father's. You were young when he died, I suppose you forgot about him."

"We were not much alike."

"Are any of us like our fathers?" Lucina asked him, her eyes bright and burning with the light of Grima's fire. Gerome shuddered, for this girl had him by the neck, and he could taste her every move before she made it. She'd strangle him with his own love, and that was fine, that was okay, he would gladly let himself bleed out for her if she uttered offhandedly that she was a little parched.

"I don't know."

Were any of them like their fathers?

Did any of it matter? The struggling and the pleas? Gerome heard begging in the clogged up canals of his ears, pleading, panicked voices that were at the edge of extinguishing. There was blood under his nails that would not come out no matter how hard he scrubbed. There was a scream in his throat that shook him to the bone, but could not be released, for he'd shackled it to his gullet and beaten it down into submission.

Were any of them like their fathers?

Gerome's father had been a man of finery, a quick, eager tongue and a boastful nature. In Gerome's limited memory of him, he was always smiling vividly, bouncing Gerome on his knee and cooing like a fool. Gerome never really showed it, but that thought of mad bouncing, bubbly laughter burning his chest, often helped him sleep at night. His mother was his tether, and his father was his balloon. Memories of her kept him grounded, and memories of him let him drift away.

Gerome didn't even remember his face.

Were any of them like their fathers?

He lifted his hand, cautiously letting his gloved knuckles brush her cheekbone as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiled.

Were any of them—?

"Take off your mask," she whispered.

Gerome did as she asked, for she was under his skin, and he wished she'd just tear it all from his bones already, for he knew, he knew, he knew that's what she wanted.

She touched his cheek, and he kept his composure, suppressing another shudder as she let her thumb roam the dark circles beneath his eyelids, forcing his gaze to bore directly into hers. Her fingernails hooked painfully beneath his jaw, and she dragged his face closer to nip his lower lip with her teeth, sensitive skin pulling away as she leaned back, and he gasped in dismay as his skin tore and blood hit his tongue, her breath the only thing he could inhale as she giggled against his chin.

"A forewarning," she exhaled into his skin, "when I choose my brother over you, Gerome, you best believe I have a good reason. Is that clear?"

She stood up, wiping the blood from her chin and striding to her vanity. He sat on her bed in absolute shock, the feeling of her teeth tearing into him so vivid that he thought he might dream about it every night hereafter, a nightmare or a sweet reverie, who could say.

This was not the girl he'd fallen in love with as a child.

And yet, every day, every hour, every minute, every second, he found himself further devoted to her.

"Yes, Lucina."

"Good." She glanced back at him, her eyes burning at the irises and blackened at the sclera, and she smiled a gentle, coy little smile. "I'm so glad you understand."

I don't understand at all, he thought, nauseated for reasons he could not explain.

"Would you like me to leave now?" he asked in a dead voice.

"Yes, I think that might be best." She was staring into the mirror, her eyes glued on her reflection. Gerome suspected Lord Grima had made their presence known to their daughter, but not to Gerome. He stood up, cupping his bleeding lip, and he fastened his mask into place before leaving the room.

He was hopeless. If he could grant all her wishes, he would in a heartbeat. If he could ease some of her burdens, he'd gladly let himself be crushed. But nothing seemed to please her, and so he let himself get further tangled in the twisted, dewy web that Grima had spun.

Severa was whetting a sword in the courtyard, her looping brown curls loose to frame her smooth face. She glanced up at him, and he listened to the whetstone screech against the blade. She chewed on the inside of her lip, and turned her nose up at him.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

He said nothing. He realized he'd stopped to stare at her. His mind felt hazy, and his heart felt numb.

"Move it," she continued, turning her eyes back to her sword. "You're blocking the sunset"

He sidestepped. Apparently, not the right way.

She threw her sword down on the ground, a clatter that shook his soul and made him want to shrink in terror, and she leapt to her feet.

"If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to bust your pretty fucking lips right—! Oh." She blinked up at him wildly, and she tilted her head. "Huh. Looks like someone beat me to it."

Gerome turned his face away, covering his lips with curled fingers.

"What happened there?" she asked, smirking at him, her brown hair curling around her cheeks, and he thought she'd be very pretty if not for her resting bitch face.

"Why is that of importance?"

Her eyes lit up in curiosity, and she leaned forward, curls falling elegantly from her shoulders. "Why are you hiding it?"

He'd very much like to punch her, but it made him anxious to imagine it, and so he merely turned away from her, his thoughts in jumbles and Lucina's glowing eyes searing into his frontal lobe.

Nervously, he began to retreat.

"Loser!" Severa bellowed after him. "Fine! Go back to Lucina with your tail between your legs, you little bi—!" She halted herself, a sharp intake of breath forcing her to quiet, and he turned his face back to her only out of curiosity. She was facing away from him now, toward the entrance of the courtyard. "Morgan?"

Gerome whirled around. In the light of the setting sun, Morgan's silhouette seemed to be that of a giant, his shoulders hunched and his legs making long strides across the battered stones. Gerome felt the urge to flee.

"Severa," called the boy, beaming at her as he neared them. "Your hair is down! That's a refreshing change. It's very pretty."

She toyed with her silky brown curls, and she smiled at the boy, clearly pleased with his compliment. "Mhm. So you were listening to me when I told you flattery will get you everywhere. Go on."

"I'd praise your beauty some more, Sev," Morgan said earnestly, his large eyes widening further to express some sort of regret. Gerome was enthralled. "For now, I'd really love to take a bath. It's been a long journey."

"So you've killed her, then," Gerome clarified, his voice dark and hoarse. Morgan glanced up at him. He smiled.

"I said I would," he said. "Did you think I'd honestly fail to do such a simple task?"

Severa stared at him. She glanced at Gerome, and then back at Morgan, her expression hard to decipher.

"Where is she?" Gerome asked sharply. "I want her head."

"Well, you can't have it," Morgan said coolly. "I left her body as a gift for the exalt to find. You're welcome to go and get her, if seeing her corpse really means so much to you, but I'll warn you, Gerome. Where she rests, she stays forever."

"You make no sense," Gerome said. "All I want is confirmation of her death."

"Oh?" Morgan rolled his eyes, and he sighed. "Well. All right, then. Since you asked so graciously." He stuck his hand into the pocket of his mother's oversized coat, and from it he retrieved a circlet. It was bronze or gold, something akin to that nature that lit up like fluid, curling flames in his fist, which did not close all the way for reasons Gerome could not explain. There was a large, cleanly cut gem inlaid within the swirling metal, which Gerome realized were eyes. He hadn't a clue how Morgan had gotten the crown made in such a short amount of time. Perhaps Grima had given it to him.

"That's Nah's dragonstone," Severa breathed. She looked uncomfortable. Her eyes were large and her body was tense.

"Yep!" Morgan held it up to the light, and it burned Gerome's eyes, the trickery of the metalwork making him feel as though Grima was staring right at him. Morgan held the crown gingerly, and Gerome realized he was exercising caution with clutching it, as though his hand was cramping beneath his leather glove. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's terrible," Severa snapped. "Get rid of it!"

"Calm down," Morgan said gently, thrusting the diadem back into his pocket. "It's mine, so I can do what I want with it. You wanted me to kill Nah. Well, I've done it. Is a souvenir too much to ask for?"

"You're disgusting!" Severa snarled, shoving him hard and knocking him off his feet. Gerome watched the boy fall onto his back, blinking rapidly up at the velvet sky. There were tears in Severa's eyes.

No, he thought, his heart clenching as Severa opened her mouth to let Morgan know just what she thought of him. No, you can't, you can't!

He backhanded her, his fist colliding with her jaw and forcing her to stumble, her legs twisting and tangling around each other, and she skidded onto her side, cupping her cheek and spitting blood. He heard the crack of his fist on her cheek long after it died in the heat of the desert air.

How hopeless they all were.

He helped Morgan to his feet, dusting the boy's coat off. He stared ahead of him, his mouth parted.

"Severa," Gerome said. His voice shook inside his throat. "Kneel. Your prince just won a great victory and a great prize."

"I will not—!" Severa objected, her vicious voice bleeding with all her self-righteousness, all her blatant ignorance.

"Kneel."

She stared at him, her eyes red and hollow. Her lips, wet with blood, trembled.

Severa sat up, her heavy breaths breaking in the dying haze of heat, sundown coughing a coolness across the wavering desert air. With all her uncertainty and all her despair, she bent the knee, and she bowed her head until her glossy, windswept brown curls curtained her face and pooled in the dirt.

Gerome met Lucina's eye as she skirted the edge of the courtyard, looking like a predator who had just found her next prey. He licked his lip where she'd bitten him. In his stupor, he found himself kneeling before Morgan too.

There are mistakes, and then there are monumental shifts in the balance of life itself. Morgan had monumentally fucked up.

He should have killed Nah the moment he saw he praying. He should have taken his sword and cleaved her dainty little neck in two. He should have made it so she died with some semblance of hope for him. She'd only wanted to save him. That was all. He'd sensed it the moment he'd arrived, and for reasons he could not explain he'd let it play out.

Killing her had been a mistake.

He had not meant to.

The residual spark of power that jolted through him after the lightning bolt found her heart made him sick. He did not understand. He had not meant to summon any magic, but here she was stumbling and blinking, electrocuted and fading even as he formulating new thoughts, hopelessly trying to figure a way to save her.

"You…" she exhaled, electricity on her tongue and shooting through her words. They crashed like glass inside his ears. "You liar…"

And she fell.

He lurched to catch her, disbelief crawling through him. In his head, there were dim images of a boy mage, hardly a man, hardly a child, who looked at him with that same vacant stare as his skin was pried from his muscles and gobbled up. Morgan could taste it in his mouth, the sweet, metallic tang of blood and the shreds of flesh against his teeth. She looked like him. Her face did not betray her pain, but her eyes bore complete and utter resignation.

"No," Morgan blurted, trying to support her body as she sunk into the grips of death. This was not what he'd intended. She'd had every intention of helping him, and he'd had every intention of killing her, but not like this, not like this, not like this, oh gods! "Nah, please, it wasn't… it wasn't me…"

Not that it mattered.

She was gone.

Why? Morgan dipped his head, hugging her body close and resting his forehead against her chest. Grima, please, explain. Why did she have to die?

But Grima did not answer.

She was still warm, which made it easier to pretend like she was sleeping, which made it easier for Morgan to cope. He didn't want to let go, because letting go meant… what? That he admitted that he'd lost all control? Grima was part of him, and there was nothing he could do but let himself meld into the destructive force he knew he already was.

But Nah was so small, and her smile, and her hope, it had hurt him in a way that he could not fully comprehend.

She'd wanted to save him from Grima's grasp.

He'd begged her to. Had he been serious about that?

He didn't know anymore.

What was done was done. Nah was lying in his lap, hair auburn braids falling into the grass, and the more he stared at her the more his stomach hurt from grief and disgust. She was a manakete. By all accounts, she should have lived an exceptionally long life. She was just a baby in the lifespan of her people, basically, and Morgan had murdered her.

He'd kissed her and lied to her and struck her with lightning.

He'd loved her and hated her and destroyed her without meaning to.

He wanted to cry and scream and tear the world apart, because that was all he could think to do, for there was nothing left in him but an empty ache that he was desperate to fill.

He tried kissing her again, thoughts in his head of tales where heroes woke sleeping maidens with just a peck on the lips, but her skin was cooling, and her lips were stiffening, and he was horrified. She'd become ugly and shriveled soon enough. Decay would set it. Deterioration had already begun. He was out of time.

Lifting her in his arms, he moved her to the base of the tree, resting her back gingerly against the bark. Her head lolled, and he straightened it. A bloodless death made her appear to be sleeping. He'd rather her be splashed with dark, blackened gore, her white dress drenched and her skin stained, for it'd mean he would not have to remind himself over and over that he'd truly killed her.

He felt simultaneously shameful and shameless.

He opened his mouth to tell her that he'd really wanted to come with her, to be saved by her dainty dragon hands, to let the world heal from Grima's wrath, but he also knew himself better than that, and he knew that he'd come with the intent to kill her.

And he knew she'd known that too.

What types of people were they? They let these terrible things happen because it was easy.

He closed his mouth, and he stood. Her body sat in its peaceful state, untouched by the foulness of time and nature. He stared at her. She was beautiful, even now, even with her lips steadily increasing in pallor, even as her skin became wan and papery. Her auburn hair still had a sheen to it, even despite how disastrous and disheveled it was, even in the flickering light that drew from the hoards of fireflies that gathered and drifted like miniature stars in a breezy paradise.

Such a beautiful sight could not just be left to the mortal inevitability of time and decay.

No. Morgan would not stand for it.

He moved through the high grass, dragging his hands through it, letting it tickle his palms as light blinked, faded, blinked, faded, lightning bugs grazing his cheeks as they illuminated the bright peonies and poppies, bleeding color into the earth and then rapidly sucking it away. He plucked the flowers by the stems, by the handfuls, by the roots, and ripped them from their blankets, from their homes in the hard, tough earth, and he tore at the roots, flinging the hair-like tethers away as he brought them back to Nah and laid them carefully along the folds of her dress.

He ran to grab more.

His hands became sticky from nectar as he viciously uprooted flower after flower after flower after flower. He found patches of them and began to work at plucking each one individually, capturing them in bouquets and beheading them to adorn Nah's sweet neck, to kiss her ears and hug her breast, to bejewel her fingers like precious gemstones, to swath her shoulders like a velvet cloak, to bind her hair like beads of pearls, to weigh on her brown like a heavy crown.

It was not enough.

He could not be satisfied with a corpse buried in flowers, no matter how much he adored her, no matter how much he loathed her, no matter how beautiful or ugly he thought her to be, he could not, he could not, he could not, there was something missing.

He spent the better part of five hours scouring the cliffsides in the dark scraping his fingers and letting his skin slough off in order to find a patch of greenery somewhere down below where rocks smoothed outward and a white flower blinked in and out of existence with every stutter of a firefly's light passing by.

When he found it, he dropped to his knees before it, a smile so big and so gloriously empty, because he realized that this stupid flower would not bring her back or erase what he'd done, but it made him feel better anyway, because this was something she'd often spoken of with him. An offering to Naga. Naga's bell.

He bent his head to the grass, resting his forehead down against the dirt, inhaling the scent of the earth as tears stung his eyes, fire roaring in his soul and ice glazing his skin. He was doomed.

He gingerly snatched the flower up into his hands, and it felt cool and soothing, its petals melting into his bloody fingers like snow in sunlight. It was so fragile. He had to take his time climbing back up to where he'd been before, and even then he had to use magic to keep himself from falling to his death.

Nah's body was enshrined with the most beautiful flowers in all the world. The only place, Morgan supposed, that was still fertile enough that flowers (not small, stubby weeds, but real flowers) grew. And at the center of this shrine, in Nah's lap between her hands, was Naga's bell. Its petals had not so much as wilted in the climb. Smudges of red stained small sections of the creases in the petals' veined surface, but he did not mind, he was beyond pain at this point, and he'd gladly welcome more if it meant his heart would stop, stop, stop, stop, stop with its incessant aching, fumbling, screeching, for all the world had become clear to him, and all the pain he'd caused seemed so real now, so real that it hurt him.

Nah's death made all death a reality.

Morgan did not want to see what realities her corpse might make.

"I stole away your longevity," Morgan said, voice tremulous, "so let me make it up to you, Nah, okay? Let me make you as divine as I can. Forever."

Now, Morgan knew exactly what was required with magic. Every spell, every hex, every curse. It was all very calculated, and the methods could vary, but it was always a matter of what could he sacrifice to make his thoughts, his feelings, a reality?

He pulled a dagger from his boot.

"Forever," he echoed himself.

He let the blade kiss the inside of his left ring finger. Then, using all of his strength and all of his willpower, he sawed through tendon and bone, listening, eyes wide, to the flesh shred and veins snap and muscle squelch and bone screech. Tears flooded his cheeks, and he did not realize he'd screamed himself raw until he found himself on the ground, rocking unsteadily before Nah's body, his blood darkening the grass and his finger disembodied between tufts of grass. He gritted his teeth. He leapt to his feet, snatching it into his fist and throwing it into the air.

As it descended, he let himself think.

Beauty.

Pain.

Time.

Decomposition.

Deterioration set in upon death, which he knew, and she'd already begun to decay right before him, so it was natural for him to want, desire, need more than he needed oxygen for her to stop this ridiculous process of falling apart until she was bloated and purple then shriveled and white, then half eaten away, chunks of her missing, chunks of her discolored and stark, then an awkward, faded pile of bones, and then, finally, nothing at all.

Ugliness.

Happiness.

The stump of a finger descended.

He slammed his palm against it and watched it explode, blood showering Nah— and then breaking apart in a massive wave of energy, shimmering momentarily as it stole from him all his thoughts of hope and laughter, all his will to move forward and to change, all of it, all of Nah's influence, and it draped itself over her in a lethal shield of perpetual beauty.

She'd never decompose.

She'd never move from that spot.

He'd created his own little pocket of timelessness.

His hand didn't even ache.

His heart throbbed more than his bloody finger.

He wobbled in place as the sun began to rise, and he dropped onto his hands in knees, and he closed his eyes.

"Naga," he croaked.

But Naga was not there.

Naga was dead.

Naga's dead, child.

He should have said something. Had he known that already? Had he always known that? He didn't understand himself. Grima. Himself. Grima.

Naga.

Grima.

Nah.

Naga.

Cycles.

Repeat.

Time.

Stops.

He screamed into the grass, screamed and laughed and let himself bleed as the little dragon corpse watched on, shielded from nature and ready to start an eternal vigil. It begun with observing Morgan's first break, a fracture in his visage, fire seeping from his eyes as he laughed and ice encasing his breath as he screamed.

His journey home had been a hard one.

Leaving Nah was not something he'd wanted to do, but after hours of staring, retreating back into screams and laughter, staring, laughing, screaming, laughing, apologizing, laughing, he finally scooped up her dragonstone and pocketed it.

He took it to a smithy in Valm before returning home. Fell dragons didn't pay, so he thanked the man for his service and apologized for stabbing him forty eight times, which was something he thought excessive, but he wasn't sure, maybe it should have been more, he should have been quicker, it should have lasted longer.

He was angry at himself. At Nah. At himself. At Grima. At himself. At himself. At himself!

Why did she have to die?

Why did she have to die?

"Why did she have to die?"

"She was useless," his mother answered, smoothing his hair back, a sign that he was truly, really truly, losing his grip on reason. Grima never did that. He must really need their love right now. "You did well. The flowers were… unimpressive. Next time you kill one of those damned shepherds, do not make the display so… pretty. You may have adored her, but don't act like it, you fool. You know you hated her just as well."

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "But did she really have to die? I could have—!"

"You were going to abandon me and run away with her," Grima snapped grabbing his chin and forcing him to stare into their monstrous red eyes. His monstrous red eyes. His mother. Him. Grima. One. "It was necessary."

"Yes, Lord Grima," he agreed.

He did not agree.

They knew it.

He knew it.

But were they not one person?

He wanted to rip out a rib or two to make room for his swelling heart, for it had been damaged to the point where everything was battered and bruised and bleeding out.

Like any good child, he listened to his mother. Nah's death was a necessary part of the overarching goal. No matter what he felt, no matter how sick his heart and his head were after this atrocity, he would manage, because it was right, he was right, this was right.

Had Grima been right when they'd snapped their jaws on Nowi, crushing her bones between his teeth, and then deciding that Ricken had not suffered enough in watching his wife's gruesome demise, so his death became slow and agonizing, a sequence of pinkish, reddish strings stripped from his muscles.

The more he thought about it, the more it all felt so wrong.

Ricken's face was bleeding into Nah's, and Nowi's was flashing beneath his eyelids, and he smiled at his mother, at Lord Grima, smiled in spite of the nausea that made the lining of his stomach shed and tear in objection to his actions.

He returned home with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

Everything in him was screaming that he'd done something terribly wrong.

But Grima kept telling him, whispering in his ear, that he'd done it all right, that it had been right, he was right. But he didn't know what to believe.

He sensed Severa's unease with his actions the moment he confirmed Nah's death. I loved her too, he wanted to shout at Severa's angry face, blinking back tears. You think you're the only one who's hesitant to hurt them? I was willing to abandon you all to find some sort of compromise!

He could not say that, though. Grima knew enough of his near betrayal already.

Dizzily, he found himself being knelt before. He didn't understand. Why were they kneeling? He felt their hatred and disapproval, for Grima knew neither of them were comfortable with him, Severa especially. Why?

Tell me more about how horrible I am!

Severa, please!

Severa!

Morgan smiled to himself. This was fear. He could taste their sweat and their swears, their terror and adoration.

This was how a ruler was made.

Tears broke through his eyelashes, and he blinked as they painted his face, flushing it deeply and forcing him to shake and shiver.

Lucina strode between Severa and Gerome's kneeling bodies, ignoring them as though they were simply part of the stone structure of the courtyard. She smiled at him, taking his face in his hands and dashing his tears away.

"We have a lot to talk about," she said. He stared at her, his throat aching terribly from constriction. He didn't know how to respond, so he merely flung himself at her, his arms hooking around her waist and his face burying into her collarbone.

He breathed in the scent of her, sweat and ink and something flowery, and he felt dizzy, for his mother's smell seemed to cling to her perpetually. She rubbed his back comfortingly, and then she took his hands and pulled him away. He blinked rapidly through the tears, everything around him blurry, and he took a deep breath. She dragged him through the halls, leading him away from their kneeling friends, and he breathed heavily.

"Morgan."

Why did she have to die?

"Morgan…"

Why did they have to die?

"I'm not going to undress you, you know."

He blinked at her, vacant and afraid, and he realized she'd led him to the bathroom. He was thankful to see she'd already drawn a bath while he'd been staring off into space, feeling sick and sad.

"I killed Nah," he said, tears still falling. His voice was a wisp, and his heart had sunk to the recesses of his churning stomach.

"Yes. You said you would." Lucina was looking at him with tired eyes. He knew that this was who she was. A patient girl who was perpetually tired, and perpetually willing to clean up his messes. He shrugged his coat off and began to undress, if only because she'd told him to.

"But I didn't…" He struggled to find the words. "I…" His voice broke. "Oh, gods… Lucina… what have I…?" He couldn't do it. He dropped to his knees and began to sob, the blood of Ricken and Nowi streaking his vision, Nah's fall burning his brain and searing his heart. He felt as though her death had branded him worse than Naga or Grima ever could.

Lucina helped him into the tub, and the moment the water hit his skin, he decided he wanted to drown in it.

"Relax," Lucina whispered, a bar of soap clutched in her long fingers. He stared at her, his face streaked with tears. "It's natural to be upset."

"Grima said I did the right thing," he breathed, "but I'm not… I'm not so sure… Lucina…"

"It's hard to say," she murmured, dipping her hand into the water and wetting the soap, "whether what you did was right or wrong. The point is, it's done. You mustn't let anyone know how uncertain you are, Morgan."

"I know…" He sunk deeper into the water, staring distantly ahead of him as she dragged the soap along his collarbone. There was dirt everywhere, and he knew it. His fingers were bloody and raw. She lifted them up, and she froze at the sight of his mutilated finger.

"Morgan!" she cried, dropping the soap and clutching his hand. "What happened?"

He inhaled shakily, and he laughed, he let his head loll as he squeezed his eyes shut, sobs breaking apart inside his hysterical, breathy laughter, and she clutched his hand tighter, healing the scrapes and the cuts and the open wounds which he'd wrapped hastily out of disgust for himself and the world. The sound of his breathless sobbing echoed on the thick stone walls, lapping like water on the porcelain basins and beating his chest as they returned to him like a series of vicious, angry blows.

Forever.

Was that how long it'd take for this pain to subside?

No, the pain had been here all along. Nah had done something to rip open the scar that had grown there since childhood. She'd torn him open and let him bleed out the moment he'd struck her with that lightning bolt.

He laughed.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Lucina's expression was resigned as she dropped his hand into the brownish water.

In the corner, the girl's expression was sad, perfect and divine, like a girl who'd been bathed in sunshine as he was being bathed in his own filth. She radiated beauty, and he felt sick and ugly simply sitting in her presence. Her hair was like copper threads, spun thin on a spool and unraveled to form delicate waves. Her lips were rosy, her cheeks flushed, and she looked so… so alive… her eyes were brimming with ice, and frost clung to her lashes and kissed her skin.

He smiled at her feebly as his laughter died down and his sobs exploded in his chest.

Nah smiled back.

"I'm sorry, Morgan," she said distantly, her voice thick and broken apart, muffled as though the words had been uttered under water. "I guess I couldn't save you after all."

Chapter Text

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Imbalanced and imperfect, it always made a mess of everything.

Everyone knew it was love that had driven Morgan and Lucina from the Shepherds. Everyone knew that it was love that had prompted Laurent, Gerome, and Severa to follow. Everyone knew that love was the reason Chrom had made a wife out of Grima and sired dragonspawn. Everyone knew that love made imbalanced, imperfect, impudent fools out of the lot of them.

And yet here they were. Loving and loving and loving.

The constant breeze tugged and whispered, like a song of old tickling her ears, her brain, her heart. It made her want to laugh and cry and scream and thrash. The scent of flowers clung to the air they inhaled, an overpowering aroma that stung their nostrils and burned their nasal cavities. In her lungs, she felt nothing but fire consuming all the oxygen there and enveloping her heart and her ribs and turning her to crumbling ash. Rage became her for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunlight, dancing rays parting through the leaves of the giant tree, and trickles of sunbeams kissing Nah's youthful face.

Nobody wanted to say what was on everyone's mind.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Owain fell to his knees.

Was he really so shocked?

They'd all had the same fearful, vicious thoughts upon waking to find Nah gone.

She's dead. She'd dead. She's dead, oh gods…

Nobody wanted to say it.

Owain had ripped the camp apart, frantic and breathless and still half in a dream, his hair askew and his eyes dim as he shouted himself hoarse, the name of their lost friend shredding his lips to ribbons.

Brady had sat by the smoldering twigs and kindling that made up their collapsed fire. It had gone out during the night. He sat, staring at it with his heavy brow and his thin lips, and he looked like something had been stolen from him during the night, part of his mind or his heart or his soul, and now he was incomplete.

Cynthia had mounted her Pegasus and taken to the skies the moment Brady had stumbled from Owain's tent, asking in a very small voice if they'd seen her, if Nah was with them, where was she, where had she gone, oh no, oh no, oh gods, oh no… And when Cynthia had returned, she'd looked at all of them with big, hopeful eyes, as they'd looked at her, and there had been a heavy collapse of morale when they'd realized neither party had found Nah, and neither party would.

Yarne had run. He'd scoured the forest and the nearby villages, not even caring to hide his ears, and he'd run shouting, breathless, shouting and begging, but no one had seen any dragons, no one knew what to say or do in the face of an extinct boy. He'd gotten more alarmed silences than anything else, and he'd returned to camp with supplies and silence. He'd tossed a sack at Kjelle's feet and hid away in his tent. He had not spoken since.

Kjelle was the only one who had not made a panicked spectacle of Nah's disappearance. She'd donned her armor, brushed her hair from her eyes, and raised her chin very high. She did not crumble under the pressure of a lost cause. She did not believe in lost causes. She was the one who grabbed Owain by the collar after hours of ceaseless bellowing like a mockingbird, Nah's name echoing on the horizon every other minute. "You are our leader," Kjelle snapped at him. "Not some spineless child! Shout her name to Naga all you'd like, but we need to think if we want to find her. You must know Nah well enough to know her mind. Think of where she'd go."

Inigo had spent his time tugging up grass and weedy flowers and making crowns out of them. Noire had sat with him, unable to think straight.

"The way I figure it," he'd reasoned with himself, "she's gone off to clear her head, as we all do at times. She'll return and feel horribly about frightening us. Don't you think?"

Noire had nodded. She's dead, she'd thought vacantly, staring at Inigo's quick, nimble fingers, and noting how they trembled and shook, his smile easy and made of paint and glass and string. She's dead, and you know it too.

Who knew Nah well enough to figure it out?

None of them, really. That was why it had taken days and days and days to understand what had happened. And by the time Inigo suggested Morgan, Noire knew it was definitely too late. Owain had been optimistic, though. The moment Inigo suggested it, Owain's face had lit up, and for moment Noire thought he was going to take Inigo by the face and kiss him.

"Of course!" Owain exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh, of course, why didn't I think…? Nah's far too kind and far too stubborn to let Morgan's wickedness dissuade her! She must have gone to him to save him."

"Or join him," Kjelle said darkly.

Owain had looked at her sharply. Noire's eyes snapped wide, and then they narrowed. She'd snarled at Kjelle, every muscle in her body coiling in defense, "Only dirty, anxious cowards doubt their friends!"

Kjelle met her glower fully, and her expression was eerily serene in comparison to Noire's contorted features.

"We must learn from experience," she said, "or we'll be doomed to repeat past mistakes."

"Nah is no spy nor traitor, Kjelle," Inigo said gently. "I'm disappointed that you'd think such a thing of her."

"I'm disappointed you haven't learned by now!" Kjelle grimaced. "I had faith in Laurent. I had faith in Gerome. I had faith in Severa, I… I had faith But that faith has been bled dry. No more. When we find Nah, she will be punished for disserting us."

"FOOL," Noire screeched, lunging at her. You mock her, you mock her memory, you mock her love and her trust and her nature! You mock your friends for having feelings! You mock us all with your paranoia and your misplaced logic!

Owain caught her by the waist, dragging her back before she could claw Kjelle's face to a bloody, pulsating pulp. Noire hissed, squirming and writhing in his grip, tears in her eyes. It was difficult. She was not brave enough to tell them that Nah was likely already dead. How Noire knew that, she could not say, but she was certain of it.

They'd made their journey to the Divine Dragon Grounds. That had been Brady's morose suggestion. Cynthia and Owain eagerly boosted their optimism about Nah's fate, but Noire knew better. She sat with Yarne for the majority of the voyage, neither of them speaking, both of them knowing, sensing it in the briny air. They'd lost already.

Before arriving, Noire found Owain with the Falchion laid across his lap. He was running a rag across it, watching the surface of it gleam. Her eyes moved to the brand that twisted his skin, morphing it and pinching it in ugly ways. She did not like it at all.

He'd looked up at her, smiling his bright, easy smile, the kind that always seemed real even if it wasn't. He was almost as good at fooling people as Inigo.

"Noire," he greeted.

She sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap. She was anxious and sad. She'd cried half the journey when no one was looking, and instead of sleeping she merely offered her prayers to Naga, pleading and bargaining. Please let Nah be alive, please let me be wrong, I'll do anything, I'll serve you for eternity, I'll be my father's daughter and never touch a bow or sword or talisman again, I'll be as saintly as you like, I'll forsake my mother's name and ties to Grima, I'll let you have everything, everything, everything, even my life, if that meant you let Nah live.

Her mother had always called her father a fool for believing in Naga's mercy. She'd been right.

"I wanted…" Noire's voice was pitchy and uneven. She had to take a deep breath, and she flushed in embarrassment at his worried eyes and undivided attention. She hated how he made everyone feel like the center of the world when he talked to them. He hated how he made everyone feel special. Because it made her feel inexplicably ordinary.

"It's okay," he said to her gently, taking her hand. She stared at it, the warmth of his fingers sending prickling jolts up her arms and down her legs. Her heart was thudding rapidly. "We'll find Nah and bring her home. And also, I won't let Kjelle touch her, if that's what you're worried about. I know you're angry with her."

"She's a fool," Noire spat, stiffening in a fit of rage. Before she could continue on with her vicious words, she relaxed in a daze as Owain's callused thumb caressed her knuckles, idle and thoughtless. His eyes were cast down at his legendary blade.

"You're right to be angry, and you're right to defend Nah, but you must remember that Kjelle is just as right to be suspicious. We've had too may turncoats."

She's dead, Noire wanted to tell him. She's dead, and Kjelle is poisoning her name with awful words and awful thoughts.

"There is a difference between suspicion and paranoia," Noire told him quietly. "One is evidential and one is senseless." She tore her hand from his and strode away, tears blinding her. He was leader, yes, but that did not mean he was without his share of flaws, and she knew he could never understand how time and fate worked against them.

When they finally came upon her body, Noire regretted it. As Owain sunk to his knees, bewildered and swept up in a great ocean swell of grief, she regretted not telling him. Nah's body was upright, half-buried in a careful arrangement of flowers, and she looked so serene and alive. To think she could be dead beneath that ageless face and shroud of flowers felt wrong. Irrationally wrong. How could she be dead?

Noire remembered Nowi.

"RAWR!" The little dragon had a tendency to capture Noire from behind and heft her up, burying her face in her hair as she shrieked. Her mother hardly ever spared them a glance. "I'M GONNA EAT YOU!"

Nah had been too tiny to remember. She grew too slowly. But Nowi was singularly the most enthusiastic person Noire had ever known, which was saying a lot. She'd swung Noire around and around until her stomachs did flips, and she burst into a fit of giggles.

"Tharja!" Nowi would sing. "I'm kidnapping your daughter! You gonna do something about it?"

"You can keep her."

Noire's laughter had been ceaseless, and she kicked at the air, laughing and moaning. "Mother, help…"

Her mother, with her dark eyes and dark hair and dark skin and dark clothing, stared at Noire for a moment. Then she turned way, gathering up a tome and waving Nowi off.

Nowi cackled in Noire's ear, chanting, "You're mine, you're mine, you're all mine!"

She'd then be deposited in a room to play a game Nowi had made up called Slay the Dragon. Noire had to "kill" Nowi, who declared herself a fearsome, ugly old dragon, and save Nah, who was a cursed princess locked in a tower— her cradle. The game made up some of Noire's best memories.

Nah's corpse was mocking them.

Noire had woken up once to a loud crash. She had not stirred, but instead cracked an eye open to observe her mother's dark silhouette hunched over the table where she often did her conjuring, hexing, cursing, spellbinding madness. She was leaning against it for support, tomes on the floor, phials spilt over, cracked or shattered, various substances collecting in the grooves of the floorboards or dripping off the corners of the tables. Her chest rose and fell in a quick succession of heavy breaths, her beautiful black hair curtaining her face, and Noire had stared in wonder, for she had never seen her mother in such a state before. Her father stood behind her, giving her some space, his long face slightly pained.

"Tharja," her father had murmured as her mother shook. "That's enough."

Her mother whirled on her father, glossy tresses flying against the air and whipping her cheeks as she marched up to him and shoved him into a wall so hard the crash vibrated through the floor and up into Noire's mattress so that she could feel the strength of her mother's rage.

"Is it?" her mother snapped. "Is it enough? How could you know that, Libra, when you've done nothing but pray to your silly goddess for their souls?"

If her father had been hurt by her words, he did not show it. He leaned against the wall, his pale hair loose around his shoulders, framing his lovely face and his tired eyes. Noire wanted to crawl out of bed and run to him, to get between him and her mother's wrath, but she was too scared.

"What happened was unfair," he said quietly. "But do not take it out on Naga."

"You did not see the bodies, so do no presume you can tell me who I can and cannot blame." Her mother had still been shaking. Her voice had been thick and sharp and disgusted. "Naga is just as powerful as Grima, and yet she does not lift even a glorified pinky to aid those who have faith in her. She could have saved Nowi and Ricken, but she didn't. She let Grima rip them to pieces."

Noire had sat up. Nowi and Ricken? She had not seen them in ages, not since Chrom and Robin had died and she'd been taken from the castle. She remembered feeling bemused and afraid. Nowi had always been so fun, and an almost constant presence in Noire's childhood. Ricken had been her tutor at one point, and Noire remembered that he'd looked very young, but sounded very wise. Like Nah. Undeniably like Nah. In fact, her bookish, supportive, nurturing nature had come from her father. Anyone who had known Ricken could see him in his daughter.

"Your anger is justified," Libra whispered. "Your pain is understandable. But you are placing the blame on the wrong dragon. It was Grima who killed Nowi and Ricken, and whether Naga could stop it or not is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" Tharja's voice was cold, and her shaking ceased. "You think she's flawless, don't you? Well fine. Think what you want. You're right, it doesn't change that Nowi's in several pieces and Ricken was found stripped of his skin. It doesn't really matter that it didn't have to happen, does it?"

"I am sad too!" Libra pushed off the wall, and Noire jumped, for she'd never really heard her father shout before. "I was a friend of both Ricken and Nowi. I want nothing more than to go back and save them from the terrible things Grima did to them, but I can't! I don't care if Naga could have saved them, because they're gone now and there's nothing we can do about it. You are focusing all your energy on hating Naga out of speculation that maybe she ignored Nowi and Ricken when you should be using that rage to combat Grima's influence. Do not forget, Tharja, it is your god who kill them, not mine."

Dead?

Noire could not wrap her head around it.

"You don't understand," her mother said heatedly. "You're making excuses."

"No, you are." Her father took quick steps to close the distance between himself and her mother, and he took Tharja's face in his hands. "You're trying to cope. I know you cared for Nowi, and I know that this is difficult for you. So let's not argue any longer about our gods, and instead focus on what's really bothering you. You could not protect her, and that frightens you."

She smacked his hands away, but Noire could tell his words had shaken her. That was disconcerting. Nothing shook her mother.

She'd been silent for a minute or so. And then, hugging her chest, she'd raised her chin very high and said in a small, chilly voice, "I did not know you had that capacity for cruelness, Libra."

Her father's face had suddenly become stricken with doubt and guilt.

"Mother?" Noire called, pushing her blankets back and swinging her little feet over the edge of her bed. She remembered how stark and cold the room had been, how concoctions dripped over the edge of the table, a steady sound that beat at the vacuous silence. It was coupled only by the sound of her uneven breaths. Her chest ached in fear for her mother, who was in pain, and that meant something unimaginable to Noire. It meant that anyone could be hurt.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

"Mother…" She'd treaded carefully up to her parents, her nightdress pooling around her ankles, and she'd looked at them confusedly.

Her mother turned her face down at Noire, dark and shadowy, smooth and beautiful, and her dark eyes were as bleak and hard as coal, glimmering subtly and gleaming like glass. She looked fearsome and faded.

"Go back to sleep, Noire. This is nothing."

"But," Noire had breathed, "Nowi… you said Nowi's dead…"

Her father swept toward her, kneeling before her and staring into her eyes. "Do not be sad, little one. They've gone to be with Naga now." Her mother had turned her face sharply away from them. "Come here."

She gravitated uncertainly toward him. He wrapped her in a tangle of arms, her breath stolen as she was buried in his chest, and she thought about crying but she didn't feel that there was a point to that, and so she let herself sink into his embrace, thinking to herself that there was an emptiness to the news of death that could not be filled by simple sobbing and comforting words.

That was why she didn't mind when her mother turned from them and strode away.

If Noire was anything like her mother, it was great empty space within her, a hollowness that grew with every death and every muffled sob in the dark. She had to close herself from them, even though she was them, for she could not take the immense emptiness as it was. She had to fill herself with something. Maybe that was why she had vicious spouts of anger.

"What…?" Inigo uttered from her side, his smile wavering as the revelation came upon him that Nah was not, in fact, sleeping soundly in a blanket of flowers. "Oh… no, what…?"

He sensed it too. The dark magic here. The nature stirring in unrest, disturbed and reeling from the bending of elements.

"Nah!" Cynthia lurched forward, her boots carving a serpentine path through the long grass, and Noire and Inigo shrieked in objection. In shock, Cynthia tripped and fell, skidding and rolling and gasping. Noire ran after her, her heart… her heart gone, left to drift away into nothing as he chest became an empty cavity. She flung herself between her friends and Nah's beautiful corpse.

"Don't touch her," she gasped, flinging her arms out.

Cynthia sat up, dirt smearing her cheek and her delicately swirling armor, and she scowled up at Noire. Her pigtails were slipping around her ears, soft curls dancing around her tearful eyes.

"Why not?" Kjelle snapped, marching up to Noire. "We need to check if she's alive."

"She's dead," Noire said, her voice trembling. "She's dead…"

"Noire, get out of the way."

"No!" Noire spread her arms wider, gritting her teeth in frustration. "You don't understand!"

"Get out of the way. That's an order."

"You are not the exalt!" Noire snapped, her voice booming across the clearing, ripping the breeze to shreds and carving anxiety into them. "Owain is our leader, Kjelle, not you! You cannot order me, you cannot—!" She threw her head back, laughter tearing from her lips and scratching deeply at her throat. It hurt so much, and she could not take it. She wanted it all to be emptied out of her.

"Gods." Kjelle grimaced. "You've gone completely mad, Noire. Stand aside."

Noire was breathless. Blood and thunder, blood and thunder, blood and thunder, and yet she was crumbling like charcoal, brittle and breakable and brimming with uncertainty. They could not touch Nah. She knew that.

"Get out of the way, Noire," Cynthia exhaled, her brow pinching.

No one else spoke up. Yarne was hiding his face in his hands, Brady looked a little traumatized, his eyes cast toward the sky as he leaned against his staff. His eyes were shiny and dim. Owain still knelt, his arms half-buried in the grass, and Inigo was looking just as uncertain and horrified as she was.

He knew too.

"Inigo," Noire gasped, "tell them!"

"What?" he blurted, appalled that she was addressing him.

"Tell them why, tell them! Nah's body cannot be moved!"

"I…" He looked so uncomfortable. What good was he?

"Coward," she spat at him, whirling to face Nah and unhooking her bow, grasping it with shaky hands and breathing deeply.

"Noire, what are you doing?" Cynthia cried, tears streaking her face. "Stop that!"

"I swear, Noire," Kjelle growled, "I'll cut you down if I have to."

"Fools," Noire muttered, drawing an arrow from her quiver, a grimy black carrion crow's feathers tickling her fingertips as she notched it. The drawstring made her muscles whine as she took quick aim, listening to the shouts of her distraught friends, and her eyesight went in and out of focus, her emotional state flickering like a candle against a storm.

She released the arrow, the recoil a familiar sting, and she watched it sail through the air, spiraling and zooming until it fond its way between Nah's closed eyes— and it splintered apart, the arrowhead exploding and the shaft becoming nothing but slivers of wood that began to burn and cinder and rapidly eat itself out of existence the moment it hit the soft white petals of Naga's bell, the flower that sat innocently in Nah's lap.

A gentle breeze sang through the grass as they all stared at their tiny friend's corpse, at her endless existence, realizing the enormity of what Noire had just proved.

She turned to face them, her expression grim.

"Cut me down," she snapped at Kjelle. "If you truly want to die so badly, cut me down and try and move Nah's corpse. I dare you! Ha!" Noire brushed past Kjelle, laughing and shaking and blinking as she reached Owain's side. She touched his shoulder gingerly, her laughter guttering out, and she bowed her head. "We can't do anything for her now."

Owain shrugged her off, rising to his feet and avoiding her eye. It hurt. Her eyes were wide as she stared at his back. He took quick, even steps to the tree, and everyone's voice seemed to erupt at once. He skirted around Nah's body, however, and leapt at the lowest branch, catching it with ease and hefting himself up, his leg swinging idly as he observed Nah's shrine from above. He pulled a dagger from his boot.

They watched as the dagger bit into the bark of the tree, carving large, thick strokes into its face. They stared. Noire found herself sitting in the grass, watching vacantly as he worked away at the tree, deep gouges appearing and forming letters. Inigo sat beside her, looking distant and stunned. Perhaps he had forgotten. His nature was not simply to dance and perform. They shared Plegian blood, and they shared the innate sense for dark magic the moment it tinged the air.

It was nearly nightfall before Owain was done. He'd carved words and accents into the bark, making it look as natural and beautiful as he could manage with the time constraints, and by the time he was done, his hair stuck to his forehead and his fingers raw and smeared red, the skin shredded from them. He did not jump down from the tree. He slumped in a branch, resting his cheek against the mighty trunk, and he did not move.

In the dying light of day, the carvings lit up in a yellowish glow, and Nah's auburn hair burned like copper igniting, and the flowers that blanketed her looked radiant in their perpetual vigil. Her expression was so peaceful, and it made Noire want to puke.

She knew who did this.

They all knew who did this.

But in the sunset, Nah was sleeping. That was enough.

NAH

DAUGHTER TO DRAGONS

MILLENNIA FOR THE GIRL WHO CANNOT BE MOVED

As night fell, they all made their beds in the grass, watching the stars in their myriad, a thousand, a million, a billion, freckling the bruised sky and winking sadly.

"I'm sorry," Kjelle whispered to Noire. She looked tired and worn. She had been the first to cry for their lost friend, curling into the ground and muffling the sound into her hands. Brady had been the next, but his sobs were loud and ugly, and he'd left them quickly after that had begun. Yarne cried shakily, and Inigo sat beside him, patting his back. He met Noire's eye.

"It's okay," Noire murmured. She looked to the shadow that was Nah's corpse. And she hated Morgan for stealing her millennia away.

The grief had not settled in yet. They were all still empty of emotion and trying to fill it in with words and tears.

A counterattack was necessary.

Noire stood up and wandered away from the group of them, wandering around and away, peering in the darkness and blinking as the breeze tickled her bare neck and whistled through the grass and the flowers. Fireflies glowed in an uneven rhythm, dancing around her and blinking like the stars above.

"Hey."

She turned her face at an angle to stare at Inigo, his dark skin so smooth and his hair so neat and his eyes so bloodshot. Had he cried? He looked a little like Nah. Perfect and dead.

"I want to kill Morgan," she whispered.

He was stepping with an awkward gait, and he stopped to stare at her. Fireflies drifted around him, splashing shadows across his dark skin and carving lines into his snowy hair. He did not smile and he did not speak and he did not make a gesture that might suggest that he was Inigo, and not some Risen taken over him.

"I want to kill Morgan, and I want it to be slow and agonizing. I want to peel his skin from his muscles and make him eat the little strips. I want to rip him to shreds, and then scatter him across Plegia so everyone will know that the fell dragon's son was just a human like them, and there is nothing divine about him." Noire took a breath, and she clapped a firefly in her palms, cupping them so it knocked against the enclosed space, trapped and panicked. She smashed her palms together, feeling the last squirmy moments of the insect as it crunched and splattered. She rubbed her hands together finely, and then flipped them over, staring at the luminescent smear of some poor beetle's viscera as it sunk into the folds of her skin. "I want to crush him like the spineless little vermin he is."

Inigo's eyes moved from her face to her glowing hands, and then back.

"I'll help you," he said.

They stared at each other vacantly.

"Wait," she said, her voice softening in disbelief, "really?"

He nodded. And then, astonishingly, he smiled. It was the most frightening smile she'd ever seen, and it looked misplaced on Inigo's face.

"Morgan is clearly very gifted in dark magic," Inigo said. "It'd be difficult to oppose him. But you and I are the children of two of the most powerful, most unhinged mages of their generation. If nothing else, we may as well serve their legacy well."

At heart Noire was a hunter and at heart he was a dancer and at heart neither of them knew how to live up to the standard their parents had set, Noire with her pious father and her wicked mother, Inigo with his talented mother and his ruthless father. They were children of blood and sweetness.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she whispered. She did not have the touch for dark magic— she understood it fine, but she could not hex to save her life.

But Inigo was more confident than she was.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Absolutely."

Noire remembered Nah, and she imagined what the girl might say if she knew what they were planning. She'd likely advise them to use caution, and try to supervise whatever magic they conjured up. Always the responsible one. But she was gone. She was gone, and Noire did not understand how to cope with this, because it made her feel utterly empty, and she wanted to cry but she could not manage it somehow, because it did not seem real, and she was so dazed and bemused.

All she wanted was to find Nah in the woods, kneeling in the dead leaves and the twigs, and praying to some goddess that would not answer her. To sit beside the girl and watched her lips move soundlessly, feeling at peace for once as the world calmed and her anxiety melted away. All she wanted was for Nah to crack her eye open and smile in spite of herself, and scoot aside to allow Noire to sit closer. All she wanted was braid and rebraid Nah's soft auburn hair, to blow it into the girl's face and laugh when it caught on her nose and her eyes crossed childishly to stare at it.

All she wanted was Nah's presence.

Morgan's pain would probably suffice.

A counterattack.

Noire stared at her hands, and she knelt down, wiping her sticky palms in the grass. Her mind was reeling, and tears stung her eyes. She was filling the void with anger, and she hated herself for it.

Morgan deserved the worst kind of death.

You don't even know that it was him, a voice in her head whispered.

She didn't need to know for sure, because it was written in the taunting display, the shrine for the little lost dragon, the flowers and the tranquility.

Love was the ruination of human existence.

Her mother had taught her that.

She'd washed her eyes and her mouth out so many times, but she could not clean the lies from her tongue or scrub off the blood clinging to her lashes. She'd done too much. She'd done too much, and it was becoming abundantly clear that she had broken everyone and everything, and there was no way to stop it.

Morgan had not left his room in days.

"He's resting from the journey," she told the rest when they asked. They could not see the weakness in him.

Of course he was weak. He hardly spoke to her when she came in to check on him, and he spent his days busying himself with tomes and books and strategy, and she was jealous and disgusted, for she could not figure out how he did it. She was unhappy and unhinged, and she figured they all knew it, so why pretend?

She wanted her father.

He'd know what to do.

He left us, she reminded herself, sitting on her bed and glancing at her reflection in the mirror. He left me. He never supported mother or Grima, he would have just abandoned us, or killed us if he knew.

In her very deepest of hearts, she knew that was a lie, and she knew that her father had loved her unconditionally.

How worthless that had been.

She wanted to turn back time and escape from Grima and Naga and her father and her fate. She wanted to sleep for a thousand years like a dragon and abandon everything just to have some peace. But she was not that person. She'd made her choice when she'd chosen Morgan. She would not let doubts dissuade her.

Sometimes she felt as though she was going insane. Grima's influence could not wash away her sins, and Grima could not convince her that the lives she was taking in her crusade meant nothing. She was aching on the inside knowing what she did and how wrong it was, but she did it anyway because she didn't know how to stop and she knew she couldn't stop.

She could not stand herself for letting herself become a tool for fate to carve out the future and bleed the earth dry. She was so sick of it.

"Worlds are meant to be destroyed." Her mother had appeared while Lucina had been sitting in a daze. "You know that humans are awful, so why continue defending them?"

"I don't know."

Sometimes she thought she could hear her father's voice beating at her back like a furious wind, and it made her want to rip her skin off.

Her mother wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Lucina's shoulder. "Your brother failed me," she whispered.

Lucina's eyes widened.

"No," she said. "No, he did what he was told. He killed Nah."

"Perhaps. Perhaps it was his hand that dealt the blow, but the intent was never his. It was mine." Her mother nuzzled her cheek, and she laughed. "Lucina, darling, you know I love you, right?"

"Of course, mother."

"Then don't fail me like your brother did. The exalt and his little band of misfits, they're you're enemy. Treat them as such." Grima slid from the bed, and they stretched their arms. Their silver hair slipped against their dark cheeks as they turned their head back to glance down at her. "If you bear any love for that spineless lot, then kill them quickly. Or I'll make their deaths the most agonizing spectacle to ever be performed."

Her heart had stuttered in shock, and she'd nodded distantly.

"Yes, mother."

Yes. Of course. She loved them, so she must put an end to their suffering before it began. There was no room for them in Grima's future. Morgan had loved Nah, and of course Lucina knew it— it was not difficult to see. Everyone knew it. But that love had not spared her. In fact, it had merely driven him to be the one to claim her life.

Lucina had to be the same as Morgan.

She had to be brave and strike before it was too late.

Quick deaths for them all.

For herself, she could suffer. For Morgan…

She had other plans.

"Up!" She kicked Severa's door open, tossing her a shirt as she sat up groggily, nothing to cover her breasts but her unruly brown hair as her blanket slipped away. Severa stared at her vacantly. Lucina marched on, kicking in Laurent's door, and then Gerome's. "Up! Get up!"

Finally she came to Morgan's room. She stared at the doorknob, her fingers itching to grasp it. She turned away and walked on.

"What's all this about?" Severa grumbled.

"We're going to catch Owain by surprise," Lucina said, raising her chin high. "We're going to attack him while he and the others are grieving over Nah, and kill them. Understood?"

They stared at her. Blank, tired eyes. Even Gerome looked unsure.

"That's the plan?" Severa asked briskly. "Just… attack?"

"A coordinated attack, fine. We cannot let this opportunity slip away!" Lucina slammed her palms against the table as they gathered closer around her. "We are outnumbered, but we are not pariahs. We need only say the word to make them true outlaws. And when that happens, they'll be reduced to nothing, scrambling to find food and shelter. When we strike, it'll be a mercy."

Gerome nodded in agreement while Laurent looked at her curiously and Severa merely averted her gaze.

"I will give the decree in the morning," Laurent said. "But, Lucina, use caution. We may very well be strong, however we are only but four. You must remember that we will need to go up against them, and the odds…"

"We will win," Lucina said simply.

"But at what cost?"

She glanced at him. She smiled, and she shook her head. "I am not concerned," she said. "Grima is with us. That is all the reassurance you need."

"Of course, Lucina." Laurent bowed his head reverently, and Gerome followed the suit. Severa simply stared. Lucina eyed her.

"Of course, Lucina," Severa echoed, her voice thin and venomous as she bowed her head in submission. It was amazing what a little fear and adoration could do.

"And… what of Morgan?" Gerome asked hesitantly. Of course he was hesitant. None of them wanted to push the topic too far, but how could they not? Did Lucina even blame them? There was no real explanation for the way Morgan was acting, except that he was grieving for the girl he'd killed. Which was probably plain to see to any of them. How was she supposed to fix this?

"He will not be joining us." Lucina smoothed her hair back, thinking to herself that she was the ruler of a thousand fools, and the sister to the greatest one of all. She thought of her father. The daughter of a fool fated to rule a world of fools. Amazing. "I do not trust his mental state."

"That's rich," Severa murmured.

"I've come to accept my brother's flaws," Lucina declared, her chin raising high. "He loves too much. It is admirable. Would you like to know why?"

"Certainly," Laurent said, watching her intently. He's not really here for you, a voice in her head hissed, nagging and digging at her. He's only here because of Grima's influence. They're all only here because of Grima's influence. And you know it. You know it!

She smiled at them warmly.

"Because Morgan does exactly what he's told."

They stared at her, Severa's eyes widening momentarily in fear, Gerome watching her like she was a goddess bathed in flesh and constructed out of pure rays of light, and Laurent with a knowing expression, one that could not be read or explained, and she loathed him for it.

Sometimes she questioned whether or not they'd follow her to the ends of the earth.

Sometimes she thought she'd be better off without them.

But for now, she needed them.

For now. For now they'd live and adore her and fear her and fight.

And she'd let them. She'd let them go and fall and die if that was what it took.

For Grima. For her mother.

And for her father…

For her father, she'd leave the world an ashen, barren husk.

Chapter Text

Truthfully, he found the entire idea of dark magic distasteful. It was such a messy affair, and so volatile and ugly— there was no real art to the madness, no reason or rhythm, it was really just terrible, a true cacophony beating in his head and in his chest when he attempted to contain it. He held a book in his hands, and he read the words, and he told himself that this was what he wanted.

But nothing ever happened.

He didn't will it to happen.

He didn't want it.

But here he was, floundering to understand the small selection of dark tomes they actually had. They were Noire's, keepsakes from her mother, and she actually understood them. She tried to explain to him that he wasn't trying, and he argued, as sweetly as possible, that he was, he really, really was! But she merely stared at him, her lips thin and her expression somber. Little niches carved out into her dark forehead, and it was sad to him, because he'd been the one to suggest this.

He weighed the tome in his hand. It was so much heavier than a sword and shield. It was so…

Nostalgic.

The tome was dusty and too heavy for his tiny arms, but he'd shimmied it from its place on the shelf and let it spill open on the floor, hastily glancing over his shoulder, scared of smiles and scared of frowns, scared that the book would unlock something within him that he didn't know he had, and scared, simply, because he didn't know what he wanted. He pressed a finger to the scrawled words, mouthing them slowly and taking a deep breath before speaking them aloud, testing the sound of them inside his mouth. His voice shook, and his lips quivered.

"You're thinking too much."

His heart stopped, stopped— but oh, not really. It sunk in his chest, because for a moment he'd forgotten where he was. In the dim lamp light it was easy to mistake her delicate features— her smooth jaw line and straight nose, her soft mouth and thickly lashed eyes, her pale hair cropped and feathery around her dark face— for his father's.

She looked at him, and all he heard was his father's eerie laugh as it filled the old study and sent Inigo into a state of pure shock.

"You're thinking too much!" his father had laughed, swooping down and pointing past his flushed cheek toward the tome beneath him. "You're reading the words, but you're not feeling them. Just let it happen."

Inigo had sat on his bare feet, his hands on his knees as he stared pitifully at the tome, unable to look his father in the eye. He was ashamed and scared. He didn't think he could do it, and his father… oh, he knew all about his father. Henry was feared and revered, and everyone looked at Inigo and he saw it in their eyes. Pity.

They pitied him. Because they thought his father was insane.

"You're such a sweet, shy little thing," they'd coo, looking sad and nervous. "How on earth did such a nice boy like you come from that?"

He was ashamed.

He was ashamed to be ashamed.

He loved his father very much, and it was unnerving how understanding he actually was. Whenever Inigo felt he was doing something wrong, his father had encouraged him. Whenever he was scared, his father had inspired him.

But Inigo wanted nothing to do with his father. His father had been frightening and cruel, and he had not really done a thing for Inigo in the end. It had always been his mother who had pulled him out of his shell, who taught him what it was to live and breathe. His father just taught him how to kill and die.

Noire watched him in silence.

He was doing it all wrong.

Tears of shame stung his eyes.

His father would be so disappointed.

No, Inigo thought, taking a deep breath and uttering the hex again. He'd be happy and smiling and he'd say, "Oh wow, Inigo, that's amazing! I'm so proud of you for trying!"

What a joke.

"No, really," Noire sighed. "You're doing it wrong. You're saying it wrong."

"H-how…?" He bit his tongue as he stammered. No. None of that. "How on earth am I supposed to say it?"

"Not like that."

"Well, my dear, that is positively the most helpful advice I've ever received."

"You're mispronouncing it on purpose."

"I am not!"

She sighed once more, looking reproachful yet stern. How very much like his mother she was. How very much like his father.

How very nice this plan turned out to be.

They'd left Nah's corpse. Abandoned it, really. Oh, Inigo didn't really know if he knew Nah all that well. He'd always felt uncomfortable with his own flirtatious habits around her, nagging himself that she was a child, a child, but then that wasn't really true. They were the same age, and she was quick to remind him of that.

Had been quick. Because she was dead.

Damn it.

"I am trying," he insisted, staring into Noire's eyes. "You believe me, don't you?"

"No."

He lowered his head and tried not to look too dejected. He stared at the page he'd been pouring over, and he tried to think, tried to focus, tried to energize the very words that were inked into the yellowed text, but nothing. Nothing worked. It was absolutely hopeless.

Magic was so different from anything else he knew how to do. He was a man for physicality, and magic made his mind feel like mush. It was absurd and outlandish, and yet he felt it. He felt it there, stinging his back, grasping him and shaking him firmly, because yes. He was part of it as it was part of him. He could not shake it.

How the hell was he supposed to use this thing that entangled him?

He just didn't know.

"Maybe we should take a break," Noire offered. Inigo exhaled. Yes, that sounded nice. A nice break. Nice.

"Okay!" he chirped, jumping to his feet and leaving her to her old tomes and her foul memories.

They were both scars left by their parents on the surface of the world. How shameful.

He wandered into camp, his mind wandering back to the serene expression on Nah's face when they'd found her corpse resting against the tree. He'd known. He'd sensed the poison in that beautiful display the moment he'd set foot on the grass, the moment he'd tasted the wicked breeze. He'd known the hex cast upon her, and he'd known that she'd been dead for a good while before they'd arrived.

Magic was in his blood.

He wished it wasn't.

He wished his mother had chosen someone else for a husband, someone far more attune with their sanity. He wished he'd been a swordmaster's son, a mercenary's son, a merchant's son, a lord's son, any son of any man, just not the sorcerer that had sired him. He didn't like the burden that came with Henry's legacy, and he didn't like that it made him feel tainted. He didn't like that his father had been sweet and kind, but the mark he'd made had scarred Inigo's perception of the world.

He felt as though he was blaming the wind for a hurricane.

"Hello, Yarne." Inigo beamed at his friend as he plopped down by the fire. Yarne glanced up at him, and in the firelight he looked like a corpse, gaunt and hollow-eyed.

"Hi, Inigo," Yarne said. How resigned he was! He needs to smile, Inigo thought wildly. I'm going to make him smile.

"You're sitting awfully close to the fire," Inigo pointed out. Yarne's eyes suddenly lit up, and he shrieked, toppling backwards off the log he'd been lounging on. Inigo quickly got to his feet and leaned over him, observing his disgruntled expression. "Are you alright down there?"

"You saved my life!" Yarne gasped, rolling onto his hands and knees. "Inigo, you saved me!"

He took great gratification out of his exclamation. "Oh," he laughed, "it was really nothing. But do me a favor, will you, Yarne?" He helped Yarne to his feet, taking him by the arms and steadying him as he swayed uncertainly.

"Yes, yes," Yarne murmured, shaking his head furiously. "Yes, of course, anything!"

"Chin up," Inigo said brightly, knocking his chin higher with the knuckle of his forefinger. "Smile. You know that's what Nah would want."

Yarne looked stunned. He tried to smile, but it just looked like a sad, anguished tremor against his lips.

Do I need to teach him how? Inigo thought vacantly. "Ah," he laughed, patting Yarne on the back. "Yeah, we'll work on that. Do you want to talk about it?"

Yarne shuffled in place, his eyes lowering toward the ground. "Inigo, you know I try my best, right? I don't want to be a burden to anyone, even… even though I'm really scared, you know, of extinction and stuff."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Yeah." Yarne sniffed, and he sat down tentatively, this time far away from the flames. Inigo followed the suit. "Well I was just thinking… Nah was never scared. She never once seemed afraid of anything, and she always tried to help all of us, and always kept us where we ought to be, and I'm just thinking, you know, that we really ought to be more like her. She had to have known she was facing death by going to Morgan. But she did it." Yarne's eyes were glistening in the glow of the flames. "We… we really… need to be braver, don't you think?"

Nah was not brave, Inigo bit back. She was sad and in love, and that blinded her.

He couldn't say it. He couldn't bear the thought of it. Nah's bravery had always been an act, and he could see it fine, because he was the troop's most talented performer, and he knew the act like he knew sweet words and sweet lies. Nah was a child. He was convinced that she was a child, even though he knew, he knew, he knew they were the same age. It was just… difficult. He didn't know how to let go. So he avoided it.

"Perhaps," he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He didn't want to seem too doubtful, of course. He couldn't be suspicious. He couldn't have Yarne know how sad he was. "But frankly, I do think that there is a right and wrong way to go about bravery, don't you?"

Yarne glanced at him, his eyes widening minutely, and then he shook his head fast. "I'm not following."

He wanted someone to tell him all the answers.

What was right and what was wrong?

His father had certainly never known.

"Well," Inigo explained hastily, "I just don't see why you'd want to change. It's perfectly okay for you to run away." He was smiling, beaming feeling emptier and emptier as he forced good feelings into every word. He was perfectly amiable and perfectly charming. Yes. He knew it. He was glad to use it. "I only mean, well, it's reliable. You instinctively run when your life is in danger, Yarne, that's a good thing."

"But I'm a coward," Yarne croaked, eyes big, shoulders slumping. "I'm a big fat coward! Nah would be so disappointed—"

"Oh, bullshit," Inigo scoffed. "Nah would not care in the slightest. Your survival would be her main concern, and you know you're fine there. Don't bring Nah into it just because she's too dead to object now. She'd be insulted."

Yarne stared. The markings on his off-color face stood starkly in the firelight, and when he turned a certain way, he looked almost fierce. "Maybe you're right," he whispered.

"Of course I'm right." Or maybe I'm wrong, he thought. But you don't need to know that. Just listen to me and be happy, okay? "I really think there's a sort of bravery to cowardice, don't you? There is knowing when to fight, but having the courage to know when you've been bested? It's admirable."

Yarne glanced at him, and he had a peculiar look in his eyes, the sort of doubt that made Inigo severely uncomfortable, for he felt as though something was about to give, and he was hardly prepared for confrontation. He wasn't sure if he could handle it.

"Are you just trying to make me feel better?" Yarne asked weakly.

"What?" Inigo blinked at him wildly, making it apparent he was taken aback. "I'm not cruel, Yarne, I just want to be honest with you."

He looked disturbingly disbelieving, and that was a blow to Inigo's ego. He didn't want to think about how compulsively he lied, or how his nature was to do anything it took to make the people around him happy and comfortable with him and themselves. It was an awful feeling, realizing he'd failed.

He glanced around the camp, hopelessly trying to find a way to change the subject. "Did everyone else turn in already?"

"Huh?" Yarne blinked. "Oh, no. Owain sent Brady, Kjelle, and Cynthia to scout for the nearest town, since we're low on supplies. He's in his tent now, I think. If you want to talk to him."

"I think I will," Inigo said thoughtfully, glancing into the fire and watching the flames writhe. "But… Yarne, please. I'm really not kidding when I say I think you're brave. Don't let yourself be fooled, okay? Only fools die of excessive bravery."

"Are you calling Nah a fool?" Yarne asked sharply.

"No, of course not!" Inigo winced at his mishap. He was lying, he was perfectly fine with calling Nah a fool. Because she'd been one. But he knew well that he was just as at fault. "I just think you're smart, for all your self-preservation. We should all learn from your example."

"Don't be stupid…" Yarne muttered. "There's nothing brave about running away."

There's nothing honorable about it, certainly, Inigo thought, his eyes focusing on the fierce flow of flames as they stretched themselves to their limit and ached to reach the stars. He felt their struggle, how endless and agonizing it was, to be so vivacious and so willing to be something more, only to be stuck and stifled by environments that threatened to quell him.

"There's nothing cowardly about living, either," Inigo said, closing his eyes.

"Inigo," his mother once had to utter in the most inexplicably broken, yet solid voice. "Inigo, can you come here?"

He'd known what had been coming. He'd known from the moment his father had awoken after a week of comatose helplessness. He'd known from the frightful screams, the restless, hopeless shouting that had expelled from the man, the vicious words that had spilt from his shriveled lips, from his crooked, tearful smile. He'd known when he'd watched his father fumble and stumble and crash upon his face, for his legs no longer seemed to work correctly, and the healers had been a little too late.

"Inigo, can you come here?"

His mother hadn't been there— she'd been assigned to a different regiment somewhere up north. He'd been at camp, waiting, waiting, waiting, drumming thoughtfully on a marching drum, when they'd returned with haunted faces and a stretcher that held his father, bleeding out and not even happy about it. It had been so surreal. Inigo had thought it all a spectacular joke. He'd laughed, in fact, when he'd been told his father might not wake up. "Did he tell you to tell me that?" he'd asked.

"Inigo, come here. Please."

Henry had been part of some mission or another in a manor that Sumia had dubbed the Manor of Lost Souls, which Inigo felt was something Owain would call it. He didn't understand why the name was so apt until he realized there were many people who had not returned. Nowi and Ricken. Oh, how jealous he'd been of Nah. How hopelessly jealous he'd been that his father had bare knuckled affections for her, clearly favoring her intelligence, her willingness to experiment, her audacity. She was a manakete, and a baby in truth, but Henry had no qualms about offering to teach her dark magic. Inigo had been jealous of her because…

He did not dare love his father so shamelessly.

It was funny, looking back. He was so shameless now, and yet he still could not do his father any good.

"Inigo, please. I don't want to shout… don't make me shout…"

Ricken and Nowi were something very special to Henry, though Inigo had not understood it well. He knew now what that type of friendship was. To be willing to dig your own grave to protect and serve, to do whatever to took to preserve those few special people in your life. He knew. He knew that his father would leave and never return, even then, because that was just the type of person he was. His capacity to love was infinite, but his hatred? It was the most volatile thing in existence.

Something had to give.

"Inigo, look at me. Look at me, I… I need to talk to you, okay? Inigo? Gods! You already know! Don't tell me you already know, please… Inigo… look at me, please…"

He'd known, he'd known, he'd known from the very first, shaky breath his father had drawn upon awakening. It broke into a scream. This man, this father of his, had broken apart in a burst, like tinder collapsing in a fire and embers coughing into the air as the flames suddenly roared and reared, unfurling and devouring itself. His father had screamed his head off, and Inigo had known that he would destroy himself in his anguish.

"Look at me, Inigo, please…"

Laughter and tears. That was what his father had been reduced to. He sang of retribution. Promises he had to keep, you see. Sumia had been there, and she'd tried to tell him that it was fruitless, he was not able enough to do such a thing, he couldn't, he couldn't, but the laughter and the tears, the screams and the smiles, the cracks that slithered across the veneer. It was a lovely, formidable sight, to be sure. Inigo had wanted nothing more than to evaporate from his lowly existence. He was nothing in comparison to his inspirational mother and his indomitable father.

"You… you know, don't you? Your father, he's… well, it's just… that he… oh…"

No one had outright told Inigo what had happened to Nowi and Ricken, but he'd surmised the situation from scraps of information he'd obtained from around camp. Ricken had saved Henry's life by offering to stay behind to hold Grima off while the others, Sumia and Tharja included, retreated with Henry and anyone else who'd been wounded in the battle. It had been a difficult choice. But they had made it. Nowi had broken away from them and stuck by her husband's side. They'd died together. How very romantic. And Henry just… he couldn't bear it.

Inigo wished he could scream and cry and laugh away all his rage at Nah's death. He wished he had that conviction.

"It's hard to say it out loud… I'm not sure how to— how to go about it, there's just… it's a lot, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I… oh. Please, Inigo, won't you give me a smile? I… I… I…"

He'd fled the tent his father had been recovering in. The moment his father had become an incoherent explosion of words and wails and wistful laughter, Inigo had ran from the medical tent and into the tent he and his father had shared before the battle. He'd gathered up all the tomes, all of the ugly books with all their ugly runes and ugly yellowed paper and ugly scratchy-scratchy writing, all their ugly leather covers and all their invaluable knowledge, and he took all that ugliness and purged it from the earth. He flung them all into the fire, one by one by one by one. He'd been scolded, he'd been threatened, he'd been told awful things, but he had not regretted it one bit.

He'd believed whole heartedly that by destroying Henry's tomes, he could save Henry's life.

No tomes, no magic!

No way to fight, no way to die!

Simple!

We can go home, he'd thought happily. We can go home, just me and him and mother. Nah came in as an afterthought. Sumia had told him that because Henry was very close to Ricken and Nowi, Nah might become part of his family, which he didn't really like much, but he could accept her if it meant that he was her older brother, because that meant he could boss her around and practice being assertive.

He'd been so deluded to think that something so trivial as the lack of offensive or defensive weapons would dissuade his father from his vendetta.

"It's okay, mother," he'd said, giving her his brightest smile. He'd touched her shoulder, and they'd both smiled vacuously.

He's dead.

All because he couldn't accept that sometimes it was okay to run away.

From a promise.

From a blood thirsty dragon.

Whichever, really.

Either or.

Inigo felt pathetic remembering all this. He just wanted everyone to be safe and happy, but Nah was dead, and he felt… no, not empty, not really, he just felt like he'd missed something, that he needed to grieve in a way that would be completely inconspicuous.

He was sad, but only in the most innate senses. There was no way around it. He was stuck living in a world of tragedy, so the only way he could imagine coping was to project himself as someone who could not be hurt.

"Inigo?" Yarne's voice was distant, and his hand was suddenly wavering in a furious blur before Inigo's eyes. He blinked rapidly, the firelight scorching his retinas, leaving his vision yellow and scarred. "Did… did I upset you?"

"Oh, no," Inigo laughed. "Of course not!" He shot Yarne his best smile, and he got to his feet, the scent of the fire clinging to his nostrils and shooting through his esophagus. He could taste it swirling inside him, crawling up from his lungs and carving away at his innards. "I'm going to go speak to Owain, though, just… really quickly. I need to ask him something."

"Okay," Yarne said, smiling at him minutely.

Inigo got to his feet and turned away. He rubbed his eyes as he left the fire, his eyelids showing him glinting lightning bugs and a sweet dead girl. He was exhausted.

He paused halfway to Owain's tent. He felt a familiar itch, an odd repulsing shudder that ran through him, tickling his spine. He wished this wasn't something he understood, something that just was completely foreign, but the thing about magic was that he really did feel it. He simply could not bear to be a part of it, as it was already a part of him.

He wanted to be a dancer, not a sorcerer.

He wanted to be a performer, not a killer.

Where had they all gone wrong?

"Yarne," he whispered, his fingers twitching as he raised them toward the air. Something terrible was here. He whirled around. "Yarne, douse the fire!"

"What?"

An explosion rocked the camp, fire reaching its trembling limbs toward the winking stars. And the earth beneath him quaked. The sky began to fade away in a vicious swirl of smoke. He was blinded by the miasma. He coughed, his fingers flying to his sword as everything in the world seemed to either be aflame or smoking.

He heard static and felt a tug of energy somewhere within the space near his navel. He clenched his fists, and he closed his eyes. His toes curled as he thought very fast. He couldn't really deal with it. Feeling and thinking and falling.

He gasped in pain, buckling and falling and thinking and feeling, as a sphere of fire tore through the smoke and caught his shoulder. He skidded, his cheek scraping against the dirt, and he batted out the flames hastily, coughing and wincing, coughing and wincing.

You're doing it wrong.

He knew he could have dodged that. He'd felt it coming.

He licked his lips, and he sat up, pain racing through his arm and the punch of it reverberating throughout his chest. He used his sword as a crutch for a moment as he caught his breath. He heard shouting, and he felt magic, and he heard the crashing of metal against metal. The familiar twang of an arrow being released soothed his thoughts. He felt the earth rumbling.

Why now? Why couldn't they just let them grieve in peace for just a little while?

He supposed they just didn't care.

"Inigo!" The smoke was beginning to part, and in the great swirl of it, Inigo could see the flash of Owain's features, his dark hair in the shuddering light, the mighty Falchion slicing away at the bog. His blade collided with Gerome's axe. The masked boy was a dark figure curled inside a cape of whispering smoke. His movements echoed the wisps that filtered his steps. "Get up! Come on, you can do it, get—!" Owain had to jump back, his feet clapping hard as the axe was swung to and fro, side to side, vicious strikes by a boy who seemed to have lost all sense of himself.

Inigo sat on his knees, blood and dirt burning one eye and forcing it half shut as he leaned heavily on his sword. His throat and lungs were screaming as they burned.

Just as his father probably had, he supposed, when Grima had finally had enough of his pesky human existence.

He thought of his mother. He wished her death had been so simple and distant from him.

But the fact was, he'd been with his mother when she'd died.

It'd been a night much like this. A field that dropped into the see, great palisades and cliff faces that bore the blood of a hundred dying breaths lost to the sweet hiss and gasps of the sea. His mother… Olivia, with all her grace, and all her soft smiles, soft words, had perished by a blast of dark magic that had billowed against her faint, whispery clothing, jingling the golden bangles and toyed gently with her braids as it consumed her softly, exploding and rippling, and she'd… fallen.

He supposed she'd lost her footing.

Sumia had caught him before he'd leapt after her. He'd sobbed into the neck of the Pegasus, darkness blotting out the stars in his eyes.

Perhaps that was his problem.

Darkness and magic, dancing around each other with vile intentions.

He wiped the blood from his eye, and he rose shakily to his feet. His shoulder objected, aching so very terribly, but he didn't care. He just… he couldn't care. He was beyond that point.

He smiled at Severa as she stepped before him, lowering her chin, smoke gathering around her cheeks and accentuating her pout. He lifted his sword, ignoring how awfully his shoulder ached.

"Lovely as always, Severa," he told her, watching her eyes roll violently.

Two mercenaries with their hearts very much not in the fight. He was excited, in the loosest way possible, to see how this turned out.

She pushed off the ground, and he watched her footing, his eyesight poor but his instincts whetted, and he let his feet guide him away from the great arc of her blade. He whirled, his toes digging into the dirt as he elbowed her in the gut, listening to her gasp, and he smashed his hilt into her face, watching with horror as a laceration appear, ripping a grand chunk of skin from her cheekbone and causing her skin to redden and swell just by contact. He ducked and winced, a ripple of pain slipping along his arm and locking it.

She spat blood, and he slipped away once more as she went in again, her blade glinting in the dim light. He listened to their swords clash, and he pushed back, maneuvering his pelvis and twisting his body in effort to avoid her violent kick at his sternum. It was a dance. She moved forward, he moved back, she launched, he parried, and neither of them wanted any of their strikes to hit home, so it was a half-assed struggle to hit and retaliate.

Owain's pained shout caused that to change.

In Inigo's panic, he caught Severa's arm with his blade, and then punching the open gash to hear her howl, feeling guilty and terrified as she screamed, and as he wrenched her blade from her fist, he smashed her face into the dirt. He leapt over her feebly twitching body, blinking in the cover of darkness and smoke, and he saw the struggle of Owain, his side bright red and his arms no better. He was fumbling with his footing, not graceful, not steady, just trying to stay alive, and Inigo could hear his words.

"It was Nah, Gerome! Nah! Do you honestly think she deserved—" He slid back the Falchion taking a hit, and then another, quick, brutal strikes. "She wanted to help! She only killed Minerva to save me! Why did you—" He was buckling. He jumped away, breathing heavily, and he was tearful in his shouts, breathless in his pleading.

Inigo made a decision.

His feet guided him. He did not need to see where he was going. He felt it.

For once, he let himself feel it.

Darkness and magic. How terrible of things.

He was starting to feel the real, true agony of his shoulder wound. The scent of burnt skin. It was blinding. He threw his sword away, and he grasped a bulky tome. He let that guide him back into the battlefield.

With a new clarity, he could see dances all around him. A distant, fast paced rhythm floated between Noire and Laurent as arrows and fire met in mid air, twangs and trembling evenly matched and explosions kissing the night air. A long, frightful dance of Taguel lashing out, dodging the lightning strikes of the Levin Sword with sharp, calculated steps. Gerome's axe falling, falling, falling, until it cut smoothly, music thudding, a cry like a drum, and that was the final straw.

The tome fell open in his hands, and he felt it, the screams and the blood and the dance of the madness.

He hated it.

He watched his own hand in the swirl of smoke, his fingers splayed, and he breathed in the scent of decay as he exhaled the words.

The dark magic flooded the air, and he watched it, feeling it cloud his eyes and blot out the very stars in the sky, as it spiraled out of control and glided, dancing erratically, until it collided with Gerome's chest and cut through him. It enveloped him, cracking the surface of his mask and leaving him dazed as his axe slipped from his fingers. He was wobbling backwards, eyes wide and darkness constricting him.

Owain leapt to his feet, and the Falchion's blade carved into Gerome in a quick, concise uppercut.

Gerome hit the ground, and darkness kissed his tear-slick cheeks before dispersing gleefully.

Inigo fell to his knees. Someone was screaming.

He pressed his hand to his lips, laughter spilling through his teeth.

He realized that it was him.

Owain stumbled to his side. Lucina was staring at them, her mouth parted, her face stricken. She started toward them, her rage cold and palpable. Inigo leaned into Owain's bloody side, smiling and thinking to himself, Gerome's gone, Gerome's gone, we did that, we took that from the world, and we call ourselves heroes.

Noire shouted in shock as a wall of fire erupted between her and Laurent. She turned, and he looked at her. She looked at him. She nodded, and her face contorted in that awful way of hers, and he realized they were alike, in so many different ways that it made him laugh. He laughed, tears blinding him, because he was okay with dying if it meant he didn't have to kill anymore of his friends.

It was going to be okay. He was with Owain, and they'd done this atrocity together. It was going to be okay, because it was what they deserved.

"Lucina, stop."

Oh no, Inigo thought, turning his bloody face from Owain's side. Yarne had gotten between them and transformed back, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless. What is he doing? What is he doing?

"Yarne," Owain called faintly. "What are you doing?"

He turned his face to them, stretching out his arms as though that was enough to shield them, and he smiled.

"Run away," he said gently, "okay?"

Owain lurched forward, and Inigo latched his arms around his waist, dragging him back. They could not lose Owain. They simply couldn't.

Noire was at their side, and he managed to get to his feet, turning his face away as the Levin Sword found its way to Yarne's gullet. He ignored Owain's screaming, ignored his pleas, ignored the pain and the vacancy, in order to help Noire heft their bloody leader up and drag him from the sight of their fallen friends. He was still holding onto that damn tome, somehow, even after all of this.

They collapsed when they caught sight of a pale blot on the horizon line. Cynthia's Pegasus came swooping down, and she reined the beast in, beaming at them and launching into the success of the scouting, how they had horses and there was a barn they could stay in, and oh, oh, oh…

"Oh," Cynthia exhaled, her smile suddenly lop-sided and empty. "Why are you all so bloody?"

Owain had fallen unconscious. Inigo was cradling his head in his lap, clutching the tome he'd saved for dear life.

Noire spoke, and when her voice hit the air, it was like the most beautiful music, the clash war drums.

"Lucina attacked us," she said faintly. "Yarne and Gerome are dead."

Inigo bowed his head. He swallowed a chuckle, and stifled a scream.

Chapter Text

He was getting used to hiding. He hid behind ancient tomes, the crawling scent of must and dust and aging paper smothering him, he hid behind maps and treatises, connect the dots and scritch-scratch scrawls, cities and details, countries and plans, behind bubbles and water and doors and smiles, behind blankets and words and laughter and stares. He hid in his very skin.

So what was he hiding from?

When he looked in the mirror, he saw his skin split open. He saw the mask crack apart, red flames oozing from it, and he saw eyes slip open along the crevices, red and brilliant and gleaming, and he watched his jaw unhinge and his teeth grow long and uneven, sharpened to the point where they caught on his lips and tore right through them.

He looked in the mirror and saw Grima staring back.

He didn't really look in the mirror at all anymore.

He just covered them all up. It was easier that way.

So he hid from himself and he hid from the world.

He even hid from Lucina.

Where had she even gone? He was their tactician! She was supposed to inform him when she had a plan so he could devise a strategy to match it!

Part of him was relieved that she hadn't talked to him.

He remembered the days when things had been easy. When being Grima had meant little to him, when it had just been a part of him, something as natural as the hair on his head. He never thought anything of the voice in his head, the whispers, the sweet lust for destruction that seemed to be ingrained in his existence. It had never seemed like a burden before.

Sometimes he remembered his mother. Not Grima, not the visage that Grima had taken, but his mother, Robin, the woman who could do anything. He remembered her with vicious clarity, and yet somehow he'd forgotten her altogether. It was so cruel. The world was so cruel!

"Good morning, Morgan."

He passed by Nah as he tip toed into the throne room. He was barefoot, shirtless, and he watched his footprints in the dust. He didn't like answering her. It was bad enough that Grima did this, but now Nah? He was haunted by enough people he loved. He didn't need her taunting.

"You know I'm here to help you, right?" Nah looked a little put out, and he tried not to look at her for too long. Even at this hour of the morning it was hot and muggy, dust swirling around in the dipping morning light. He loved this place. He loved the twinge of electricity in the air. He danced along the fallen columns, balancing and pointing, his eyes flickering and revising, reconstructing, replaying. He could pin-point the exact spot where his mother had struck his father with that Thoron spell.

He could almost taste the sparks inside his mouth, bouncing around excitedly, waiting to be expelled.

He jolted to a stop in the midst of his mad dance, his limbs jerking to a stop as his bare feet squeaked across the tile. Nah stood now where his father had stood then. And Morgan?

He looked down at his hands. If he stared at them long enough in this dim, tremulous light, they'd look to be painted a brilliant shade of red.

Not that Nah's death had been particularly bloody.

"That's where my father stood," Morgan whispered, "when he died."

Nah titled her head, a smooth braid falling off one shoulder. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I did it," he explained with a shrug. He didn't want to move. She didn't seem to either. She hadn't any reaction, of course. He figured she was a figment of his imagination, a sure sign of his madness.

"Because you are Grima," Nah said softly. "Is that what you think, Morgan? That all of Grima's crimes are naturally yours because you happen to share the same body?"

"We don't just share the same body," Morgan objected, feeling foolish for arguing with his own subconscious guilt. "Grima and I are one!"

"Oh, shut up!" Nah puffed out her cheeks irritably. "Gods, do you ever listen to yourself? You can't actually believe that nonsense!"

"I am Grima!" Morgan was angry now. He gritted his teeth, listening to his voice ricochet off the empty walls. This place seemed to be built to be ruins. "I am Grima's voice!"

"And I am Naga's!" Nah snapped in return. "And you know how much that means, Morgan? Naga is dead."

"So are you!"

"Yes, and I'll remain dead," she sighed. "Because of you."

Tears of shame filled his eyes. Now he just couldn't take this. It was so pitiful, but she was so innocent to his madness, his horrible nature. She had not deserved to die, but he'd killed her anyway. He'd gone there thinking it would be easy to kill her, and left feeling that living without her would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. And now she was just a constant presence! He was almost sick of her face.

"I'm so sorry, Nah," he whispered.

"That means very little to me now, Morgan. I'm still rather dead."

The tears fell, and he stared at her desperately. She was a funny kind of specter, a hazy figure of light and shadow swaying perpetually in his field of vision. Lovely and awful. Her body would stay in its beautiful vigil forever, and the rest of her was just going to haunt him until he finally put himself to the knife.

He fell to his knees, and he let his entire body fall into a lax position. If he remained nonthreatening and weak, maybe she'd realize how vulnerable he was and she'd leave him alone. Wasn't that a nice thought? Hell. This was hell.

Still preferable to Grima, though, he supposed.

Though he loved Grima implicitly.

And he loved Nah implicitly.

There was just something about being watched and taunted that did not sit well with him.

"I don't know what to do…" he mumbled, dropping his face into his hands. He didn't want to see this dead girl any longer. He just wanted to sink into his despair. He was utterly helpless.

"Go find Owain," Nah suggested, her voice sweet and mellifluous. "Apologize and he'll take you back!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Morgan's words were thick with tears. "He'd never! He couldn't! I'm a traitor, I can't go back now!"

"You don't know Owain," she insisted. "He would make an exception for you."

"No," Morgan croaked, his hands sliding from his tear-slick face. "He'd execute me on the spot. Within good reason, you know."

She turned her face away, and as Morgan looked at her, her expression hazy and troubled, he wondered for the first time if she was real. If somehow he was really being haunted by Nah. If this was his divine punishment for slaying her so underhandedly.

"Well, that's true," she said brightly. "You'd deserve it, certainly!"

He lowered his head, staring at the dusty floor, observing the thick streaks where his feet had smeared the layers and layers away. Here he was, a prince of Ylisse and Plegia, sitting in the dusty ruins of the castle that should have been his. It was apt. He was a royal mess, a massive destructive force. He was heir to a kingdom of suffering.

"Would you like that?" he asked her, leaning closer with widening eyes. Tears still stained his cheeks, cold and moist. "If that's what you want, I'll go to Owain now and let him execute me for your murder."

"No," she gasped, taking a step back. She was no longer standing where his father had stood, and he took comfort in that fact. He sprang to his feet. "Don't be stupid! I just want you to—!"

"You are not real," Morgan snapped at her. "You're just my guilt manifesting in an awful, awful way. No, I will not fall for this. I've done my share of grieving for you, I think."

Nah's eyes were brilliant and shining, and Morgan recalled Ricken's dull gaze when he'd pulled the boy gently, whispering into his ear that he could have been the most loyal subject, that he had so much potential, as his skin was lovingly torn from his muscles.

Not even kissing that girl had made that pain and guilt go away.

He supposed Grima chose a human host to suffer for their sins. While Grima wrought havoc, tearing families apart and razing whole countries to the ground, Morgan was the one who was left with the empty pit in his stomach. Morgan was the one who felt the massive weight of the tragedies he inflicted. Morgan was the guilty one.

Killing Nah had been the last straw. Before that, Grima's slaughtering had felt so distant to him. It was perfectly okay, because it was Grima, and Grima loved him, and would never hurt him. But by killing Nah, Grima had hurt him. Intentionally and unreservedly, Grima had torn something precious to him from the world. To keep him in line. To keep him from straying from Grima's loving side.

But it had the opposite effect. Instead of running to Grima for comfort, Morgan had the veil torn from his eyes. His love for Grima had not, could not change, but he felt sick when he thought of the beast inside of him. That beast that had killed Nah. That beast that had killed his father. That beast that was him and him alone, for his mother had not survived Grima's return in spite of her body being in perfect condition.

He wished he could tell Lucina these things. But Grima had blinded her worse than him. She was utterly ensnared, and worse, she'd dragged so many people down with her. She was meant for greatness, Morgan thought, his entire body trembling as he wandered into the washroom, swaying as he drew a bath. I stole that greatness away. Lucina would never be Grima's servant if she were not so devoted to me.

That was it. Lucina was devoted to Grima because she was devoted to Morgan! He was the one with his hands over her eyes, guiding her hand as she lopped head after head from shoulder after shoulder. It was his fault. His blood. It was his doing.

It had to end.

He thought about Nah's proposal, to go to Owain, but that seemed like far too much work and far too much time for Grima to get wind of what he was doing. No, he would take responsibility for his own blunders, for his own sins.

He dumped flower petals into the swirling water, watching them float around the large, gray pitted basin. He went to his room to retrieve his mother's coat, which he pulled on and smothered himself in, inhaling the long faded scent of her. He imagined she had smelled like Lucina. Had she acted like Lucina? He was at a loss now. When he thought of his mother, he thought of Grima, but he knew that they were as different as Grima and himself. He ached with guilt that it had taken him so long to realize this.

As he walked back to the washroom, he pulled the beautiful brazen circlet he'd had forged from his pocket. He watched Nah's dragonstone glint madly, green and uneven, an ancient, glowing jewel, and the only thing he had left of her aside from the specter haunting him. He'd taken it knowing it would be a good prize to show off, but truthfully he just wanted to keep her close. He placed the crown on his head, and he turned to look in the mirror.

A gauzy eyed boy in a diadem smiled back, empty and sluggish. It was the most beautiful thing Morgan had ever seen.

He climbed into the tub, the water lukewarm and the petals dancing around him, as stark in the dim light as the fireflies had been the night he'd struck Nah with that Thoron. His mother's coat fanned out around him as he sunk deeper into the water. He saw Nah standing before him, beautiful and divine, and he smiled at her, his chin brushing the surface of the water. She smiled back.

"I loved you," Morgan admitted.

"You didn't even know me," she said sadly. "I thought I loved you, but the truth is, I just loved the idea of saving you. And now I'm dead. And now you're hopeless."

"You're wrong," he said, lowering himself further beneath the water, the scent of flower petals overwhelming him. It reminded him of her and her beautiful corpse. "I loved you because you understood me. You know the pressure of being connected to something divine, and you know that it's impossible to live up to the expectations put upon you. You know that I'm weak and vulnerable, and I know you are… you were… too. How else would I have been able to kill you?" He smiled at her brightly. "Nah, I loved you because you and I are exactly the same."

She stood, stunned and speechless. And then she smiled, her visage brightening. There were tears in her eyes, and they were falling strangely, floating away from her eyes and falling upward.

"Thank you, Nah," he told her, his eyes large and bright and his voice filled with excitement. "You saved me."

"How…?" she looked puzzled and amazed.

He laughed. He pulled a dagger from the pocket of his heavy, floating coat and he drew a dripping arm from the water.

Her eyes widened, and she shrieked, a divine sound that rocked the earth. "Morgan, don't!"

He slashed his wrist open, smiling in relief, and submerged himself beneath the water and the petals, watching blood cloud his vision as it swirled and misted across his vision, mingling with the soft waves of his hair and the billowing mass of fabric of his water-trodden coat.

For the first time in a very long time, Morgan felt happy and free.

Run away, okay?

Owain bolted upright, the sight of Gerome's faceless silhouette falling before him, blood spurting in a beautiful arc and splattering across his face. He patted his cheeks and neck and torso, feeling for wetness, but it was only sweat, and he listened to his ragged breaths, ghostly pains still plaguing his sides.

The barn was dark. He was panting, and his entire body hurt.

He didn't really remember the battle. He just knew that he'd killed Gerome, and that Yarne had died saving them. He dropped his face into his hands, taking deep breaths to keep himself from panicking. It was okay. It was okay. But then he thought of Nah, and tears sprang into his eyes.

None of them had deserved it.

If Lucina were on our side, he thought, nausea creeping up on him, if she were the exalt instead of me, this would never have happened. Nobody would have died on her watch.

It was a harsh blow to his ego, but it's not like he didn't already know. He would live in Lucina's shadow until he died. And that had been okay until suddenly all his friends started dropping one by one in a quick succession. He didn't know who he wanted to be, but he knew it wasn't this. How could he fill the shoes of his uncle, of his aunt? How could he possibly be exalt when the people before him were so selfless and so great?

How could he even think he was worthy to take up the Falchion, when he couldn't even protect the people who meant most to him?

It was just simply unfair. Owain had not wanted this. He'd wanted, of course, to be exalt. He knew that part of him had always been envious of Lucina, and part of him had always wanted the Falchion, but this? This was not worth it.

Being exalt was not worth the pain.

He got up, untangling himself from the mass of bodies that had accumulated on the barn floor. They'd found shelter, if not a meager one, thanks to the scouting team he'd sent off before the attack. He wished he hadn't sent them off. Yarne would still be alive if they had been there. Killing Gerome would not have been necessary.

It was a dark, starless night, clouds shifting along the surface of the moon so only its faint outline could be made out. He took the Falchion and began walking, dragging it behind him and listening to its heavy blade drag a scraggly trail in the dirt. He was exhausted, but sleeping was too hard. In his dreams he saw everyone he loved and everyone he'd lost. His mother, his father, his aunt, his uncle, his accursed cousins, Nah, Gerome, Yarne.

Sleep was for the weak anyway.

He could not be weak. Not now.

If he had to kill them all, he supposed he would.

He didn't really have any other choice, did he?

There was no reasoning with them now.

He'd kill them all. Even Lucina. Even Morgan.

He found himself taking to a tree trunk with the blade of the Falchion, driving fast, uneven strokes, listening to the heavy thwunk-thwunk of each blow. Every swing was like a hopeless attempt to bat away each and every fear he'd ever had, each and every doubt, each and every sorrow. He wanted to shed himself of all the guilt and all the pain, but the more he swung, the heavier he felt. It was just getting worse! He could hardly breathe, he was so scared, so frustrated! How could this happen? How could he have let this happen?

He swung the blade, and he felt the weight of his father's hands on his shoulders.

"There." That was the usual grumble, the soft sound of his father's voice as he directed Owain's strength and guided him through the blows. "Quick about it, Owain."

"Gotcha!" Owain had always been such an excited child. He wished he could go back to those carefree days. He'd throw his weight into each attack, and his father dragged him back, swatting his behind lightly with the wooden sword.

"You're too slow. Quick about it, I said. Don't launch yourself, let your steps be natural."

His father had always been a daunting figure in his life, a man of tall stature who was either never there or always lurking in the background. Owain's mother, Lissa, now she was the crown jewel of his memories, stunning and bright, a beacon in the darkness. But Lon'qu had not been a bad father. He'd been affectionate in his own way, preferring small, quiet gestures to the grandiose loving his mother smothered him with. While Lissa squished him with hugs and covered him with kisses, Lon'qu watched him whenever he was home, always watching with curious eyes, watching his feet and watching his arms, watching and watching and watching. Owain hadn't understood it, but his mother explained that his attention was undividedly attached to Owain, and that was something special indeed.

Lon'qu loved Owain. He took him out for walks, letting Owain talk and talk and talk, and he just listened, ever the stoic, ever the aloof figure, but Owain never minded. Sometimes Owain would hug his father's leg, and the man would lift it up, pulling Owain along with it. Lon'qu carried Owain on his shoulders, held Owain's hand while they walked, and he even patted Owain's head when he was really impressed with him. He'd been a good father. Distant, but good.

Owain missed him terribly.

"Got it, got it!" He slid his feet across the forest floor. It had always been commonplace to train with his father in the woods. Two wooden swords and a mountain of learning. Could anything really go wrong? Of course not! Lon'qu was far too skilled, and far too smart! No, nothing would happen to them. Owain bounced over twigs and ducked a swing from his father's wooden blade. He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed, and he had no idea. He'd been so naïve. "Aha! You can't catch me! Bet you can't!"

"Owain…" Even with his reprimanding tone, even with his somber expression, there was amusement in his eyes. That was enough. That was enough…

Owain leaned heavily against the scarred tree, his hair sticking profusely to his forehead, sweat causing his underclothes to become a second skin. He heaved, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and with one last bout of strength he hurled the Falchion away, sinking to his knees and screaming. The sound ripped across the night air and echoed into the trees.

I've already failed, he thought, his shoulders slumping. I've already lost.

A shudder ran through him as a heavy piece fabric draped around his shoulder, a makeshift blanket. He touched it, and it was coarse and woolen. Tears blinded him.

"Inigo?" he uttered, reaching out blindly.

"Nah." The grass rustled beside him, and Owain blinked as Brady's long, scarred face became clear in the midst of the darkness. "Only me. Heard ya get up, thought I might as well check on ya. Make sure, ya know, ya don't go nuts."

"I'm fine," he said impulsively.

Brady stared at him for a long time. Owain flushed, realizing his blunder. He was clearly not fine. Brady knew that. But Owain had said it so naturally, so genuinely, and now the truth was out.

Owain was never truly fine.

"I'm gonna let that one slide," Brady said, turning his face away. "But only because you're pretty damn pitiful right now."

"Thanks, Brady."

"Shut up."

Owain wiped his tears hurriedly, and he smiled at his old friend. His hand was twitching, though he could probably blame it on the fact that he'd cramped it through arduous training.

"What are you doing up, then?"

"Can't sleep," Brady grunted, shrugging.

Owain watched him. He tilted his head, and he scooted closer. "And why not?" he asked.

Brady took a deep breath. He stared ahead. "Nah," he said.

"You can tell me," Owain whispered, his eyes wide. "I'd never tell a soul, you know that!"

"No, Owain, I meant Nah." Brady shot him an irritated glance. "As in our dead friend."

"Oh." Owain wanted to disappear. He smiled, and he laughed. "Right, sorry. I know what you mean. I see her when I dream too."

"I just keep thinking," Brady sighed, "that if… if I was there… I could've saved her. I couldn't determine cause of death, of course, but whatever means it was, it was clean. There was no blood at all, and she was blemish free. M-my guess…" He was shaking, his lips trembling and his eyes cast low. "Thoron. It's Morgan we're talking about."

"Inigo and Noire sensed the dark magic there from the moment they arrived, you know," Owain murmured.

"I noticed they've got the knack for that." Brady closed his eyes. "I just wanna know what kinda monster does that. Nah cared about Morgan, y'know? She really, really did. And she… she…" Brady was suddenly crying, and Owain rubbed his back, smiling and nodding. "Gods! I'll kill that little bastard! She didn't deserve that, Owain!"

"No," he murmured. "No, she did not."

Brady wiped at his eyes fiercely. "I don't wanna hurt Morgan," he said, his demeanor changing suddenly. "But what he did… that's just inexcusable. And now Lucina's gone and done the same, killin' Yarne and all that. Owain, we have to do something."

"I know."

"Then we have to take them out." Brady squeezed his eyes shut. "I hate it. I hate the thought! But if we get rid of the lot of them, then we can settle this. We can get rid of Grima, and we can finally be free of this war!"

"It's not that easy, Brady." Owain patted him on the shoulder. "I don't want to kill my cousins."

"If you can kill Gerome," Brady said, staring into Owain's eyes, "then you can kill Lucina and Morgan."

"It's not that simple…"

"Make it that simple!" Brady jumped to his feet. "I can't lose anyone else, Owain, I'll go mad!"

"I'm sorry."

"Why are ya apologizing?" Brady huffed, and he cracked his knuckles. "Whatever. We'll find a way to win. We have to."

"Yes," Owain agreed, nodding his head. He smiled, and he felt empty. "Right! Exactly."

Brady smiled down at him. He offered out a hand, and Owain took it.

"Please," Brady whispered to him as he helped him to his feet. "Stop pretending, Owain. No one is watching. No one cares if you're falling apart right now."

"You are," Owain gasped, shaking and blinking. "You do…"

"I'll slap ya. I swear to the gods, I'm gonna slap ya."

He smiled, and it was a somewhat real one. "Okay, okay," he sighed. "Maybe I'm acting too much. But what else am I to do? I'm the leader. I have to act unfazed. Cool."

"Owain," Brady said, taking him by the shoulders. He shook him suddenly and furiously. "News flash! Ya aren't cool! You've never been cool!"

"What?" He felt positively heartbroken. "What are you saying? What…? Never?"

"Never! Never once! Not even a little bit!"

"I'm…" Owain pressed his hand to his chest, and he stumbled back. "Oh… oh no…" He threw his other arm into the air. "Heart attack!" He flopped onto his back into the grass.

"Good riddance," Brady sniffed. "That guy was a total nuisance."

Owain twitched, and he snorted. "Yeah, right. You'd be lost without me!"

"True." Brady knelt down beside him, and he offered out a crooked smile. "Feel better?"

Owain flushed, and he smiled back. He kicked Brady's feet out from under him, cackling as his old friend came crashing to the ground. "Now I do!"

"Ow!" Brady sat upright, and he scowled. "Uncalled for!"

Owain laughed. He felt good. He felt really, genuinely good. "Thank you," he said earnestly. He resisted the urge to pull Brady into a hug. "I want you to know that I am going to keep fighting until my very last for a better future. And it's… your faith in me… all of you… that's what makes me want to succeed."

"Glad to hear it." Brady took a deep breath, and he looked at him with a very serious expression. "Now, I gotta ask. What is the plan?"

"Oh." Owain laughed nervously. "Yeah. I have no idea."

"That's real unsurprising."

"Oops?"

Brady yawned, and he stood up. "Well," he said, striding through the grass. "It can't get any worse, can it?" He was a slumped silhouette in the darkness. He picked up the hilt of the Falchion, and offered it to Owain.

"Don't say that, Brady," he sighed, taking the Falchion back and reveling in how light it felt. It was as though Brady had lifted the burden of it somehow, merely by being present right here and right now. "You have no idea what fate has in store for us now."

Chapter Text

It was always a race. Move forward, don't look back, eyes on the prize. That kind of thing. She had to push herself to her limits to keep her lead, to understand that being the best meant sacrificing a bit, like her ability to breathe or walk normally. She had to keep going regardless of how her body rejected this, because she had to win. She had to beat him.

With Gerome, it had always been a contest. I can beat you, she thought firmly. I can beat you, and you can kiss the ground I walk on!

Because he was better than her. Somehow, someway, this boy was faster and stronger and more loyal than she could ever dream. It made her sick with jealousy. It made her sick with guilt. Because he was loyal to her. What a joke! And what had that done for him in the end, loving her unconditionally, throwing his life and dreams away for her cause?

How could Owain do such a thing?

She was struggling to comprehend it. She'd never thought Owain capable of hurting a friend, let alone killing one. And of course she understood that Owain still loved all who betrayed him, there was no question of it. So how? How on earth did he muster up the courage to strike Gerome down?

Lucina was reeling in how undeniably weak she was.

Yarne had been the first. She'd never killed one of her own before him, and her hands still shook terribly. She folded them behind her back when Laurent came stumbling toward the corpse, staring at the severed head that rested at her feet. Yarne's thick fur was matted with blood. She pretended the stench didn't make her feel sick.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back.

How had Owain done it?

How had Morgan done it?

She felt so guilty now for making her brother take Nah's life. She understood now why he'd reacted so violently in despair, rejecting all compliments and care. Killing Yarne had torn a hole in her chest, and she didn't think she'd be able to repair it. She didn't think she could feel anything anymore. She didn't think she could function as a girl, as Chrom's child, as someone who could lead, when she'd ripped herself apart from the inside in order to prove some kind of twisted point. That Grima was all powerful. That Owain, that Gerome, that Morgan, that Yarne, that none of them were stronger than her.

But the cost had been too high, and now she felt faint and distant, like her entire being had half-faded.

She'd made a leap over a chasm and fallen right in. She couldn't even scream as she plummeted. This was what she deserved.

"Take the head," she ordered Severa. The girl was slumped on the ground, bloody and panting, her ponytails drooping and her eyes dull. She stared at Gerome, and her brow furrowed. Like she was confused by the sight of his blood soaked corpse.

"Gerome's?" she whispered.

"Yarne's." Lucina whirled to face Laurent. "Heal Severa and then help me bury Gerome. We can't take his body across the desert, so this will be where he rests."

"He would have liked it better if he were with Minerva…" Laurent seemed to be offering an alternative place, but he didn't quite understand the magnitude of the situation.

"We cannot move him," Lucina said sharply. "He was the strongest, and now he's dead. We bury him here and pray to Grima. Understood?"

"Let's burn him," Severa suggested. Lucina glanced at her, and noted how the girl easily stood up in spite of her injuries. "Burying would be the Ylissean way to go about it, don't you think? Besides, I don't want to see him become a Risen."

Lucina considered her words. Part of her, a sick, whispery part, came crawling from the shadows and latched itself onto her, gnawing at her emotions and chewing them to paste. She was not capable of fighting this monster within her, so she gave in. It was too difficult to be the best now.

"I hadn't thought of that," she admitted, staring at Gerome's corpse. She took a few careful strides through the blood soaked grass, and she knelt beside him. He already smelled of death, and he was already waning from the decay that was settling quickly around him. She stared at him, searching her heart for any feeling, any anguish, but she found that she could find nothing. He was just a man who had loved her, and she was left with this ugly corpse. She pried his mask from his pallid face, and she thought about kissing him, letting him have this one thing in death, for she knew that it was all that he'd wanted.

She gritted her teeth. No. It'd be a waste. He was gone anyway, what was the use in kissing a corpse? What was the use in taking care of one?

No. After death, corpses were just fleshy husks that rapidly decayed. No one got grand burials. Not her aunt Emmeryn, not her father. Gerome was no different.

She fastened the mask to her face, and she stood. She whirled around, waving Severa and Laurent forward.

"Come," she said. "We're leaving."

They both stood, staring at her in shock and mild horror.

"But," Severa gasped, "Lucina!"

"Leave him," she said, marching through the abandoned campsite. "If he becomes Risen, well, that's just another weapon we have against Owain. Let's go."

They seemed so reluctant to follow her. She did not blame them. She didn't want to follow herself either.

Let them call her heartless. It would be true enough, wouldn't it?

She wasn't sure if there was anything left of Chrom's daughter. Lucina was just another empty husk for Grima to fill up with hatred and manipulate into destruction.

The journey wasn't arduous by any means. They were easily sheltered and fed, though it was because the fear of the few living civilians outweighed their palpable hatred. Lucina found herself keeping the mask on, unable to part with it, biting her tongue when spoken to. She was already Grima's daughter, but now she knew she was Grima's toy.

There was no turning back now. Grima was her only option.

Before returning to the castle, Lucina pulled Severa aside, watching the girl blink confusedly. She was distrustful of Lucina now. It should have hurt more than it did. But the truth was, Lucina didn't care. Severa was just as lovestruck as Gerome, and that was enough.

"I want you to do something for me," Lucina said, clenching Severa's bicep.

And Severa, quick as ever, batted her eyelashes and quipped, "Anything for my majesty."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Severa," Lucina sighed. "I truly just need you to do a task for me, is that manageable? Or would banishment serve you better?"

Severa grew very quiet. That was a joke, Lucina ached to say, but she realized it was too late, that there was no way to salvage their relationship. That what she'd done to Yarne and Gerome had severed her bond with this girl.

"What do you want me to do?" Severa asked, her tone very tense.

Lucina stared at her through the confines of her mask, and she whirled around. She gathered her great mass of blue hair together, and she tilted her head back. "Cut it off," she said.

Severa was very quiet. And then, hesitantly, she obliged. The sound of her knife sawing through the thick strands made Lucina wince. Perhaps she was more attached to the hair than she'd been to Gerome! How unbearably sad and laughable that was!

When she was done, Lucina felt as though a weight had lifted off her chest. She touched the shorn locks, running her fingers through the choppy strands, and she relaxed a bit. This was a good look. With a mask and shortened hair, she could fully forsake the girl who'd grown in Ylisse, the future exalt that went astray. She could let herself be someone else.

"How do I look?" she asked Severa.

Her friend merely stared at her. She held the knife gingerly, and her soft face only seemed to harden the longer she looked upon this new Lucina. Perhaps she was thinking how much she loathed her.

"Like someone else," Severa answered curtly.

Lucina smiled, and it felt misplaced and twisted.

"Good."

She returned home, ignoring Laurent's stares, and she took a deep breath of thick desert air. It felt different somehow. Her skin felt too tight, and her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. She was trapped in this husk, and she realized that she felt imprisoned by her own lack of will.

"Morgan," she called, peering into his room. She found it empty. She paused, staring into the depths of it, and something seemed to twist in the pit of her stomach. The atmosphere was all wrong. The ambience that her brother set, the restlessness that pervaded from the room, was gone. She stepped inside, and she let her boots glide across the cleared floor. He'd cleaned the books and the papers and the maps and the ink bottles, and everything was suddenly neat.

She felt as though she'd fallen into a crypt. She could feel the ghosts of things she knew here, and it made her ache inside.

"Morgan…?" She wandered around the room, listening to her own hesitant footfalls, her own heavy breaths, thinking that maybe she shouldn't have left him alone, thinking that she should have brought him along, thinking that she was the worst sister in history, the worst daughter in history, and she was thinking that maybe she deserved this. Without Morgan, who was she? Without that boy, without his sweet smile and his innocent words, where did she belong?

Perhaps he'd run away.

He wouldn't go to Owain, she thought firmly, whirling around and around and around, her feet circling one spot as she spun, spotting her movements like a dancer. Inigo would be proud.

She was struck by a terrible thought, and she halted, hair choppy hair falling into her face. He wouldn't. He couldn't!

Until this moment, she hadn't realized how frightened she was of being alone.

"Morgan!" she cried, bolting from his room and into the hall, navigating the turns and the staircases, frantic and foolish and fearful. She felt like a child again, tears burning her eyes, like she was playing hide and seek and Morgan had beaten her. "Morgan!"

Severa skidded in front of her, holding out her hands and pushing Lucina back when she tried to get past her. "Tell me what's wrong," she demanded.

"I…" Lucina felt faint and dizzy. "Morgan… Morgan, Severa, Morgan!"

"What about Morgan?"

"I don't know!" Lucina shoved Severa aside, marching past her and shouting her brother's name once more.

"Lucina! Calm down!" Severa ran after her, biting her lower lip and hovering by Lucina's shoulder. "He's probably fine, just calm down for a minute and think—!"

"I shouldn't have left him alone!" Lucina kicked a wall, and then when that did not release any of her rage, she screamed. She screamed because she was angry, and she screamed because she was empty, and she screamed because there were things in her head that made her want to escape, like she was being caged up inside of her skeleton, like something was inside her, pinning her to this maddening rhythm of Grima's dance.

"Lucina!" Severa held both of her arms, and when Lucina finally let herself go, Severa caught her, pulling her close and hugging her tightly. She smelled like blood and sweat, but she had strong arms, and she seemed to genuinely care that Lucina had lost herself, which was reassuring somehow.

She felt weak. Was that normal? To feel weak. Helpless. Alone.

She wanted to cry, but she didn't think she had the will to.

Mother, she thought helplessly, sinking into Severa's arms. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect him and I'm sorry that I let this go on for so long. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to fight Grima. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…

"Lucina?" A familiar voice seemed to shatter her very mind, breaking through the haze that clouded her thoughts and withdrawing her from the vicious smoke, the poisonous smog. She blinked in shock and peered past Severa's shoulder. Morgan stood there, his head tilted as he watched her. "Why are you screaming?"

"Morgan," she gasped, leaping to her feet and running at him. She scooped him into her arms, pulling him to her and squeezing him tight. He smelled nice, the scent of flowers clinging to his skin, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, smiling to herself as she let the feeling of his pulse lull her into a state of negligence. He did not hug her back.

"Well," he said, "I can't say this is unexpected. Do explain, Lucina, won't you? You're squeezing me very hard."

"I thought you were dead," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"What put that idea into your head?"

"I…" She found herself pulling back slowly, staring into his face. He watched her with large, innocent eyes. "I'm not sure. I just felt like something bad happened to you."

"That's very impressive," he admitted. She stared at him. He could not see her expression, but somehow he knew she was confused. "There was a bit of a mishap a few hours ago, but I'm quite alright now. Oh, but do me a favor? Dispose of that damn crown."

"Crown?" Lucina shook her head furiously. "What kind of mishap? Morgan—!"

"Would it disturb you to know I've been seeing Nah lately?" Morgan asked her suddenly, turning away. Lucina froze. "I see her everywhere I go, and she just talks and talks, as if she were a real girl and not some awful apparition. Disgusting, really. It has to go away."

"He means the circlet he brought back from when he killed Nah," Severa explained, stepping up beside Lucina and folding her arms across her chest. "It has her dragonstone in it."

"Oh." Lucina had forgotten all about that. Why did it matter if he had that or not? Honestly, this boy made no sense! "Okay, Morgan. Just tell me where it is."

"In the bathtub." Morgan waved at her as he strolled away.

A cold feeling spread out through her, unfurling its wings and beating at her chest. She wanted to believe in Morgan, but she was not a fool, and she felt little of his presence but a great wall rising between them. She wanted to speak with him, to tell him that she understood his anguish over Nah's death, but she realized it was too late for that.

I've already lost him, she thought, scrambling to reassemble herself. She shrugged off Severa's touch, letting herself regain some semblance of composure, and she lifted her chin high.

"Tell Laurent to meet with me in an hour in my room," she told Severa curtly. Severa merely looked puzzled.

"I'm not a messenger, Lucina," she said coldly. Lucina glanced at her, watching her boots slide unsteadily backwards as she moved away. "Tell him yourself."

There was a straining sickness knotting up in the pit of her belly. She felt what it was to be hated.

She made her way to the washroom, thinking of her mother's face, sweet and warm, and thinking that she could hardly remember her father at all. Maybe she just didn't want to see his face in her head and know that she had failed him. It was truly pathetic, how scared she was of her father. Her mother was Grima, her mother was Robin, but her father, he… he was a piece of the puzzle that did not fit, and it terrified her.

She was terrified. Perpetually terrified.

Of the future. Of the past.

Of her fate…

The world around her seemed fake, and she wondered what it would have been like if she'd had a different mother or a different father, if her fate would be something else, if she'd be walking through this hall, or walking to her execution. She wanted to know this world, what it meant, what she meant to it. She wanted to know what was left to fear and fear for, if Grima was hell bent on destroying everything.

She'd never once thought of what Grima's ultimate goal could be.

What was the use of ruling a world with no one in it?

Lucina came upon the washroom, and she stared vacantly into it. The sickness in the pit of her stomach toiled and rumbled and she pressed her hands to her lips shakily, taking slow steps toward the tub, her mind running back, back to when things were simpler, when her mother had found her with Tharja and the blood had stung hot inside her mouth.

There was a long trail of blood swept through the room, a zig-zagging path that led to the marble basin. When she neared it, she saw the swirled mass of a stain that clung to the white surface of the tub. So much blood that the stench curled through her nose and scratched at her throat. She bent down, and she plucked up the crown that lay at the center of the great red smear. It dripped as it was disturbed from its murky puddle, and the light of the green dragonstone was properly diminished, splotches like rust clouding its surface.

She clutched the circlet, and she realized she was shaking. It bit into her fingers and made her want to bleed out for her sins.

"Oh, I did make a mess, didn't I?" Morgan asked from the doorway. She straightened up and glanced at him. He was smiling.

"Why?" she whispered. "Lord Grima, you already have a host. Why did you take Morgan? Was my mother not enough?"

"Child," Morgan cooed, their eyes narrowing. Suddenly, Lucina saw Morgan differently. Not as her brother, not as the sweet boy she knew, but as someone else entirely. They looked at her through those clever eyes, and they were her brother and someone else and something else. "I am your mother. Are you forgetting that so soon?"

"But you have a host!" She just couldn't fathom it. Her mother had been Grima, so why was Grima now Morgan? It made no sense! "I don't understand! You were my mother, so why take my brother as well? Grima—!"

"Silence," they snapped. Lucina shut her mouth and bowed her head. She felt like a child. "Is it any business of yours why I have a new body? Perhaps I merely wanted it."

"Morgan's been nothing but a loyal subject to you," Lucina whispered.

"Which is why I gave him the ultimate gift." Morgan cocked their head, and they strolled into the room, minding the blood and circling her slowly. She could feel their eyes, and she felt sick, as though they were looking right through her and seeing into her very soul. "This is what he wanted."

"Then why is there so much blood?" Lucina gasped. "Grima, I love you, you know I love you, but answer me! I must know what happened to Morgan!"

"He's right here," they said, blinking at her innocently. The way their voice lilted, the life in their eyes, it almost fooled her. She was crippled by her own love. Who do I love more? Morgan or Grima? "I did nothing but save his life, Lucina. I don't know why you're so upset."

"You took his body, and now I don't feel him anymore," she whispered. "Lord Grima, please. Let him have control of his body again."

They hummed, leaning back against the sink and peering up at the ceiling. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she prayed silently. To who? It didn't really matter at this point. Any deity that would answer her prayer.

"No."

"No?" Lucina gasped. She found herself bristling in her rage. "Well, why not?"

"Because I quite like this body. It's so young and lively. So… pure."

Oh gods, Lucina thought, bile stinging the back of her throat.

"What does that matter?" she asked in a low, strained voice. "Was my mother not pure enough for you?"

"Again, Lucina, I am your mother. And your brother. And your sister. And, if you like…" They pushed off the sink, striding toward her and reaching out. Lucina stumbled back, her heel slipping against the slick puddle of blood, and she failed to regain her footing, plummeting backward. They caught her mask before she fell, tearing it from her face, and she gasped as pain burst through her head, a blinding shock of disorientation and an explosion of stars. The back of her head had hit the ledge of the tub, and she lay in an awkward heap, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them, Morgan's face floated eerily above hers, their eyes murky and red. Their breath tickled her cheeks. "I could be you as well."

She could not steel herself from her horror. She pushed her brother off her, and she vomited into the tub, her body overtaken with spasms, the scent of blood too strong and the pain in her head blinding her senses. She retched, her vomit sloshing and swirling along with the spiraling red puddle, and that sight only made her puke more, her stomach aching and her back arching. Morgan's laughter filled her ears, filled her head, and it served as the music to her despair.

She slumped in defeat, blood seeping into her thigh and bile trickling from her lips. She wiped her mouth and rested her sweaty forehead against the cool stone basin.

"Was that too much?" Morgan asked, plopping down beside her. "I'm sorry, I think I got a bit carried away. I have no use for your body, so if that scares you, do not fear. You were not made to be mine."

She bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Did that mean that Morgan had been?

"Oh, yes," they answered her thought. "You were made with Chrom's interests in mind, but Morgan… well, I wanted something that suited me perfectly. He played his part very well, and I'll give him credit where it's due. This body is amazing."

"Is Morgan still in there?" Lucina whispered, unable to look at her Lord. "Please, just… answer me true. Did you kill him?"

"Lucina." They grasped her chin and forced her to look into their large red eyes. "I am him. I am Morgan. He is me. One cannot exist without the other. Do you understand?"

"I think so," she whispered.

"Good." They dragged her face closer and kissed her, their lips careful and precise, their teeth sharp and vicious, and their tongue searching her for lies and stealing away all her tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she forced their lips apart. Morgan laughed at her as she half fell over the side of the tub and hurled her guts out once more. "Oh, I forgot. Humans find this kind of thing indecent between kin, right? That's a shame."

She heaved, blinded by the pain in her head and by the tears that clouded her vision, making her face hot and sticky. They just wouldn't stop. The pain, the sickness, it just wouldn't stop.

"Calm down," they said flatly. "I want to speak with you candidly. If you cannot handle that, then I will not speak with you at all."

Very quickly, Lucina reined in all her emotions, smothering her tears with her sleeve, and she rested the circlet in her lap as she sat up attentively. Morgan nodded in approval.

"Now," they said, licking their lips. "I've done enough human kissing, I think, to understand its effect. You're the first person to ever vomit, but I suppose I'll overlook it. Other than the bile, you taste like your father."

That made her feel even more nauseated than before, if possible. She watched them with large eyes.

"Does that make you sick?" Morgan sounded so amused, their red eyes flashing brightly. "Humans are so strange! I just do what is customary action for you, and you get uncomfortable about it! I made you, Lucina, don't act so shy about it."

"Humans don't kiss their kin like that, Grima," she whispered.

"Well, I am not human," Morgan replied vacantly. "So I don't care. I'll do what I like to whomever I like."

She shuddered. Morgan rolled their eyes, and sighed. "Don't get so antsy about it, this body is still too young to be clouded by sexuality. That is a predominantly human trait that only concerns me when procreation is involved. You need only concern yourself if I need another host."

"Not with me," Lucina snapped. "I may serve you, Grima, but I am not my father. Find someone else."

"It would have been Nah," Morgan chuckled, as though they were simply joking about current events. "But unfortunately she has more power over this body than I initially anticipated. Which is truly unfortunate. A manakete body would be perfect for me, and I'd no longer have to worry about something so fickle as human procreation."

"You killed her," Lucina murmured. "Not Morgan."

"I am Morgan, Lucina."

She was finding it harder and harder to believe that.

"Then you must have loved her too," Lucina blurted. "I know Morgan loved her. But did you, Grima?"

"She was persistent and stubborn. I hated her." Morgan shrugged. "She tasted like Naga, and everything about her seemed poisonous to me. But I'm still disappointed that I had to waste her."

"That's disgusting."

"That's realistic." They smiled at her brightly. "If I could have swayed her to my side, she could have lived very comfortably, but unfortunately she was much like your father. So I disposed of her similarly and let it be."

"Grima," Lucina whispered. "What was my father like?"

"You don't need to know that."

She stared vacantly ahead of her, bringing her knees to her chest and feeling emptier than she had in a long, long time.

"If Morgan is your host now… what about my mother's body?"

"Morgan has always been my host," they said. "As has your mother. They are both my hosts. I am not hindered to one body like you humans are."

"Oh…" Lucina could feel Nah's dragonstone pressing to her stomach as she hugged her knees tighter to her chest. It felt warm. Lucina knew she could never destroy it.

"I'll help you destroy Owain and the rest," they said, rising to their feet. "He will die, and we will prosper. Soon this will be our world, Lucina. You are my blood, so I will welcome you into it. But do not think of betraying me."

"I could never," she admitted.

Morgan smiled, and it seemed so right on their face, their red eyes multiplying as the room glowed red.

"I'm glad!" they laughed, the sound ricocheting off the bloody floor. "I love you, Lucina!"

"I love you too, Morgan."

Chapter Text

The ground was warm and the day was bright as her mother ran a comb through her hair. It was so mild and pleasant, a perfect day, where light dripped from the sky, shivering and descending like misting rain across the field. The comb parted her hair into small sections, smooth and even, and the feeling was like fleece blankets and hot cocoa and butterfly kisses. Her mother's touch was soft and warm.

It was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

The sky crying light, pale shafts of white columns wavering through the air, and feathers fell around them, tickling her cheeks and gathering around them like soft, warm snow.

Everything was perfect.

Warm and bright and soft and perfect.

Cynthia awoke to shouting, the cold ground beneath her, straw sticking to her cheek, and the world was blackened with night. She exhaled, and her breath misted back at her. She shivered, plucking up her lance from her side and bolting upright.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her thick voice betraying her sleepiness. Brady grabbed her by the arm and rushed her from the barn.

"We're busted" he whispered fiercely, shoving her toward her Pegasus, who was curled outside the barn door, peaceful and asleep.

"Busted?" Cynthia whirled to face him, her hair whipping against her cheeks. "What does that even mean? I thought this place was safe!"

"Not anymore, it ain't!" Brady dug his staff into the ground, glowering up at the sky. "Gods… I don't even know, I guess Lucina put out a price on our heads! She really wants us dead."

Cynthia's heart sank. Luci. She doesn't, she thought desperately, backing away from Brady slowly. She doesn't want to kill us, she's just confused! She's still Luci! She's still our friend! But the words, they were so brittle and worn out, they just crumbled on her tongue. She choked on them as she turned and bolted from the barn, dropping to her knees and easing her Pegasus into rousing.

"Oi, oi," Inigo greeted brightly, appearing on the other side of her Pegasus. "You know the cover of midnight does wonders for the shade of your hair."

"Are you trying to say something about my hair?" Cynthia asked, frowning at him and tugging on a loose orange strand.

Inigo shook his head furiously, making a sharp choking noise. Cynthia sighed. "It's okay, Inigo," she said. "Just help me with this girdle, kay?"

"Certainly!" A short silence spread out between them as Cynthia saddled the Pegasus, Inigo quick to fasten the buckle, tying it off nimbly. He was very quick about things. Efficient and smart. Cynthia appreciated it a whole lot. He was brave too. Cynthia wished she were brave. Really brave. Not the pretend brave she threw out into the air, expected everyone to catch and latch onto. It always just fell to the ground and shattered.

"Do you know what's going on?" Cynthia asked. She noted the tome on the ground. Inigo had hardly parted with it since the incident that had destroyed the camp. But she didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to know the details. She didn't want to hear about how Luci had slit Yarne's throat, how Owain had cut Gerome down. She didn't want to think about it.

If she just ignored it, wouldn't it just go away?

She thought so!

"Just your run of the mill villagers come to run us out of town." Inigo shrugged, scooping up his tome. "We'll be on our way as soon as Owain returns from wherever he ran off to."

"Is he not here?" Cynthia blinked rapidly. She listened out, and she heard the shouting in the distance. "Is… is that a mob? Who's holding them off?" She looked around. "Noire? Kjelle?"

"I suppose."

"Inigo!" She whacked him with the butt of her spear, and he yelped. She then climbed up onto her Pegasus, shooting him a glower. "Get on."

"Oh." Inigo grimaced, eying her Pegasus and laughing meagerly. "I'm not really—"

"I said," Cynthia cried, raising her voice very high, "get on!"

"Okay, okay!" Inigo hesitantly neared the Pegasus, wedging his tome under his arm. Cynthia offered out a hand as he struggled with the stirrups. He took it hesitantly, and she yanked him up, pulling with all of her weight so his was distributed onto her Pegasus. He yelped, his knee digging into her side as he scrambled to find purchase, and she fastened the reins.

"Hold on!" she shrieked, clicking her stirrups and yanking on the reins. Inigo's arms flew around her, and he buried his face between her shoulder blades as the Pegasus's hooves clopped rapidly against the ground, the air slashing at her face, awakening her fully for the first time, and she grinned as the great beast's wings unfolded, long and steady, feathers gleaming in the dark, and they began to beat at the wind, soft whooshing that grew steadily louder, harsher, until the wings bore thunderclaps upon the sky.

And then they were in open air.

She laughed, her hair fluttering around her cheeks, flaccid and ugly, nothing in comparison to the perfectly coifed pallor of her mother's curls. She'd always been self-conscious about the texture and the color of her hair, the way it fell flat around her ears, how it had no sheen unless greasy, how length only added to split ends, making her look perpetually frazzled. How the color blanched her, dried her out, made her look clownish.

Severa used to mock her hair. "What a gaudy color," she'd snicker, her sharp eyes flicking from Cynthia's scalp to Cynthia's elbows, where her hair had once sat. "Really, Cynthia, it washes you out. It's not even actually red, it's that ugly orange hue that your thief of a father's got."

When Cynthia had run crying to her mother, Sumia had just hushed her, smiling and smoothing those ugly, frizzy locks of hair back. "She's just jealous, I think," Sumia said thoughtfully. "Severa has Frederick's hair, you know. That pretty chestnut brown color of his? Yes, I think Severa's just annoyed that your hair looks rather like Cordelia's. Even the texture of it, since Severa's hair naturally curls up like that… oh don't make that face, Cynthia, you'd notice these things too if you spent as much time with Cordelia as I do."

She didn't want to think about it.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of flying, Inigo!" she laughed as he clung to her. His face was still burrowed in her spine. His arms were digging into her ribs, constricting her breathing, and the winds lapped at her cheeks and chewed at her hair. There was a book pressed between his chest and her armor. It sank into the small of her back.

"I'm okay," he breathed, pulling back. "Quite alright, really, I just… ah. You smell very lovely, Cynthia, you know."

"Wow, thanks!" she chirped. "It's just a mixture of, you know, sweat, fodder, and cow shit."

"Oh. Well." Inigo cleared his throat. She laughed at him, reining her Pegasus and swerving her down below, twirling her lance in one hand. There were villagers crowded all around the shifting forms of Noire, Kjelle, and Brady. She swooped down, letting the beast crash into the circle, and she brandished her spear in a grand swoop.

"Back!" she cried. "Back, the lot of you!"

"Thank the gods," Kjelle breathed, snatching Cynthia's lance and tossing it toward Noire. "Noire, now!"

Noire took a deep breath, cautiously grasping the weapon, and Cynthia watched her body go tense. Then her muscles coiled, and she let out a high pitched cackle, lightning ripping through the air, pulsing through her and zipping through the lance, taking a life of its own as it careened through the villagers. They screamed.

"Noire!" Cynthia cried through the shrieks, the snapping of jaws, the violent sounds of bodies convulsing together, the heavy hiss of electricity going wild through the air. "That's enough!"

"No," Inigo whispered.

"No?" She twisted to face him, baring her teeth, hoping to look intimidating. "Excuse me?"

"I only mean," he said quickly, smiling at her wanly, "that we must get out of here somehow."

"By murdering countless villagers?" Cynthia snapped. She elbowed him harshly, leaping from her mount and letting her boots sink into the sand. "That makes us no better than Grima!"

Inigo said nothing.

She walked up to Noire and drop kicked her to the ground, lightning going berserk as the lance clattered at her feet. Cynthia toed it as the villagers began to drop. One stood upright, wavering as she stared, open mouthed. Cynthia kicked up her lance, whirling it in place, and she pointed at a lone woman in the crowd of limp bodies. She was not quite elderly, likely not even all that old, but her face was thoroughly lined from what Cynthia could tell were battle scars.

She knew this woman.

Cynthia lowered her lance very slowly. Her eyes moved to her limp left sleeve. A missing arm. A barrage of battle scars. A difficult face to forget.

A shadow shifted behind the woman, and Cynthia saw her eyes shift calmly as Owain's arm hooked around her neck, and the Falchion gleamed against her throat.

"Owain, no!" Cynthia gasped, stumbling forward. But before she could do a blessed thing, the woman reached back, and one handedly flipped Owain over her shoulder using the scruff of his neck. He shouted in shock, rolling onto his side and blinking rapidly up at the woman. She was peering down at the Falchion.

"I know this blade well," she said. She found Cynthia's eyes, and she smiled tightly. "Worry not, young ones. I would not dare harm you."

"Who…?" Inigo asked softly, sliding off Cynthia's Pegasus.

"She owns the barn," Cynthia explained hastily, helping Owain upright.

"She's betrayed us," Kjelle hissed.

"My apologies," the woman said, bowing her head. "Someone must have seen you. I am at fault, I'll admit. I did not think to conceal you. I did not imagine you so… hated."

"Yeah, well," Brady huffed, "we ain't exactly loved in these parts!"

"We should get out of here," Kjelle suggested, scooping Noire into her arms. Cynthia realized this was probably the first real experience Noire had with using magic. And she said she hadn't the talent for it. Or, was it, she didn't have the disposition? Ah, Cynthia didn't really know for sure.

"Come," said the woman, turning her back on them. "You may use my horses to escape, if it please you."

"Who is this lady?" Brady muttered, trudging over the heap of bodies. It was difficult to resist following her. They were all curious beyond belief.

"You knew who we were when you sheltered us," Owain clarified, jogging up to the woman. She gave a curt nod. "How?"

She cracked a half smile, all her scarred face allowed, and she lifted her chin high. "I admit, I make it my business to ken your whereabouts from time to time. You are hardly stealthy. Assassin's son."

Owain straightened up, his mouth falling open. Cynthia watched him. Yes, that's right. She was a thief's daughter, he was an assassin's son, and that was the legacy gentle folk remembered. It was always the ugly things that people held on to. No one cared that Owain's father had been one of the best swordmasters in the world, and no one cared that Cynthia's father had given up his cheap tricks quickly enough. No one cared about how powerful their mothers had been.

It was just the burden of a legacy.

"Do I know you?" Owain blurted. "I mean, you act as if you know me, and I… I'm not sure. There's something familiar about the way you speak."

She led them up to the stables attached to the barn they'd slept in. Cynthia listened to the distant cry of crickets, the chilly breeze curling at her back. The woman was smiling fondly, and as she lifted the hatch on the stable door, she chuckled softly.

"Aye," she said, an almost boastful syllable bursting from her lips. "It would sound familiar to you, my lord. I hail from the land of your father."

"Ferox?" Owain said faintly.

"Fie!" she barked, sounding vaguely offended. "Valm. Chon'sin, to be precise." As she walked, her empty sleeve swung at her side. Cynthia noted how her friends seemed to freeze, and for a moment she was very confused. She nudged Brady, whose eyes shot down at her. He was gaping.

"I don't get it," Cynthia announced. "Did you know Lon'qu, or something, miss?"

"Dummy," Brady hissed. "That's Say'ri!"

"Say…ri…?" Cynthia had to think about it. Then she jolted, feeling electrified. "Wait, that Say'ri?"

"I cannot imagine any other willing to save your hides," Say'ri said. Cynthia remembered her vaguely. A tall, beautiful woman, a princess with the elegance and the grace to prove it. Cynthia remembered how star struck she'd been with her mother had introduced her. But now that beautiful woman was scarred and crippled, and Cynthia could not even remember how or why. It must have been late in the war. Perhaps after her parents had died.

Even so, it seemed as if her grace had not left her. She held herself proudly, her chin raised and her gait easy.

She was the last living member of Chrom's army.

Suddenly Cynthia wanted to cry.

"Well," Owain announced, his eyes very wide. "Shit."

"Can you prove you're Say'ri?" Kjelle asked, still carrying Noire carefully in her arms. Say'ri glanced at her, and Kjelle shrugged. "Look, we don't want trouble, but we all honestly thought you were dead."

"I was injured," she admitted. "Gravely. I don't recall much of it, but I was of no use when I came to." She gestured to her missing arm. Cynthia winced. "I let myself fade into the shadows, returning to Chon'sin to seek some form of refuge but… my country was in ruins… and Grima is to blame."

"But can you prove it?" Kjelle asked sharply. "Are you really the heir to Chon'sin?"

Say'ri nodded. "I will prove it," she said softly. "But I do have a condition."

"Of course you do," Brady muttered.

"What is it?" Owain asked her, undeniably awed by her presence. He'd probably kiss the ground she walked on if she would tell him a story.

"I should like to accompany you on your journey. If only for a short while." The way she spoke was even, as though she'd regulated her voice to sound perfectly level and calm. Cynthia couldn't understand it.

"Are you certain?" Inigo asked, his voice heightening a bit in surprise. "It's rather dangerous with us. Plenty have died on our journey."

"You need not prattle me with talk of death, child," Say'ri said sharply. "I am no stranger to it."

"I can't put you in danger," Owain said quickly. "I'm honored, but…"

"Let me serve you," Say'ri said, blinking at him. "I am not so senile as you think me. Fie, hardly old, either. You must think so little of me, for all my disability, for all my scars. But I am strong still, young lord, and it would be my honor to protect you with my life."

Owain stared at her, his eyes wide and his expression falling flat in shock. He stood for a moment, utterly baffled, and then he let his shoulders drop. "If you can prove you're the real Say'ri," he said softly, "then who am I to object?"

Say'ri whirled about, brushing past them and marching toward the door. "I'll be right back," she said. "I only need one thing, and then we can leave this wretched place."

"Why live here if you hate it?" Cynthia murmured confusedly.

But she'd already disappeared.

"What do we do?" Inigo asked. "We can't just leave her."

"Give me a good reason why not," Kjelle said.

"Um, she's Say'ri!" Cynthia cried, throwing her hands up. "What other reason do you need?"

"It's not like any of us actually knew her," Kjelle responded stiffly. "We're just running off assumptions!"

"Regardless," Owain cut in, swiping his hand through the air to break the tension, "we should allow her to ride with us. At least until we find a safe place."

No one objected this time. Inigo wandered to a horse. There were three of them. So Noire could go with Kjelle, Inigo with Owain, and Brady with Say'ri. Unless someone wanted to hop onto her Pegasus.

"Of all the things," Owain said, breaking the heavy silence, "I honestly did not expect this."

"Well, yeah." Brady shrugged. "We all thought she died with the rest."

"Could it be there were more survivors than we thought?" Cynthia asked eagerly.

"It's plausible," Inigo said, blinking at Owain. "After all, we weren't well acquainted with those in the army who did not have children. Like Say'ri. We didn't know for sure that she died. We just stopped hearing about her."

"Yes!" Cynthia bounced on her feet. "Yes, exactly! So there could be more!"

"Hold on, hold on," Kjelle gasped. "Don't get your hopes up. We don't even know if she's the real deal. This could be a trap."

"Fie," scoffed a gravelly voice from behind them. They turned to see Say'ri standing in the entrance, her shadow yawning across the floor of the barn. "A trap? I could do far better than lock you in a stable."

"Comforting," Brady remarked dryly. "So, what'd ya get?"

"Tend to the horses as I show you," she said, clenching a fat, ratty bundle of cloth to her chest. "The villagers are rousing. It won't be long now until they realize where you are."

"I'll do it," Inigo said. He hurried toward a stall, and Cynthia watched him curiously. He was good with animals. Why did he hate flying so much?

"What is that?" Owain asked, pointing to the bundle in Say'ri's arms. Cynthia could tell he was excited by the way his entire body shifted forward, slumped and on edge, his eyes large and his lips parted into a perfect O. It looked as though he already knew, which made Cynthia anxious, because she wanted to know too, immediately, as in, right that very moment.

Say'ri unwound the cloth carefully, a spotted grayish fabric worn down from what was likely years of storage. Cynthia saw the gleam of metal in the dim light, prongs peaking out from the folds of the stained, frayed covering, and for a moment she thought she was staring upon the Levin Sword, its mighty zig-zagging shape branded into her vision. But she saw quickly she'd been mistaken, and the cover slipped away to reveal an entirely different weapon. The prongs were plentiful, branching off the blade sharply, and the entirety of the sword's appearance seemed so surreal and mystic that Cynthia could hardly stop staring.

"Is that supposed to impress us?" Kjelle asked flatly. Owain, however, had his hands over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he bounced excitedly in place.

"Amatsu," he shrieked, his voice muffled into his hands. "Oh gods, that's Amatsu! Inigo, that's Amatsu! Brady, that's—!"

"I heard," Brady cut in.

"Can I touch it?" Owain gasped, lowering his hands and taking a few quick strides toward Say'ri. "I won't smudge it or anything, I promise!"

"You are more familiar with my brother's sword than I expected," Say'ri admitted, her eyes wide. "How is that?"

"My mother told me all about Yen'fay and my father about Amatsu," Owain said quickly, never tearing his eyes from the sword. "Is it an ancestral blade like the Falchion? It's so pretty. I mean—!" He straightened up, his face growing rather red, and he coughed. "It's a very handsome blade! Worthy of its wielder— and former wielder!"

Say'ri smiled her half-smile, and she looked genuinely pleased.

"You may hold it if you'd like," she said, offering the blade out by the hilt. "But bid me hold the Falchion."

"You can have it!" Owain cried, pulling the Falchion from his back and trading it off. He took care after remembering that Say'ri only had one hand, and he did not let go until she had it firmly by the grip. Even then its point fell to the stable floor. Owain gasped the grip of Amatsu carefully, fingering the pummel and the curves along the hilt, thumbing the insides of the prongs and looking beside himself with joy. "It's so light!"

"I suppose compared to this," Say'ri said, lifting the Falchion so it was upright against the ground.

"Thank you, Say'ri," Owain said, offering Amatsu back to her and bowing his head low. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"I am honestly touched by your enthusiasm," she said, trading off the Falchion for her own sword. "I feared not one of you would recognize it."

"Don't doubt Owain's knowledge of swords," Cynthia remarked. "If it's got a name, he knows it."

Owain flushed an even darker red, and he opened his mouth to object, but Say'ri cut in.

"A fine quality to have," she said, nodding in approval. "One cannot know too much about swords."

Owain beamed at her.

"Um," Inigo said, popping his head out of a stall. "If Owain is quite done, I've finished tending to the horses. As in, we can leave. Now."

"Cool," Cynthia chirped. "Let's get out of here already!"

"You take Noire," Kjelle said, resting their unconscious friend on the back of Cynthia's Pegasus. "I'm done carrying her."

"Well, fine, then," Cynthia scoffed. She mounted her Pegasus, adjusting Noire so she could wrap her arms around her and secure her safely. Her head lolled against Cynthia's breastplate. Her hair was pale and her breath was ragged, and Cynthia realized she was hurt. Whimpering. "Brady!" Brady looked at her, alarmed. "Noire's all shaky and breathing heavy and… and you should heal her!"

Brady ran to their side, but as he leaned closer to look at Noire, his frown deepened. "Ya sure?" he asked. "It looks to me like it's just a nightmare."

"Well, whatever it is!" Cynthia shook her head furiously. "Make it go away!"

"I can't do nothin' for a nightmare, Cyn'," he said softly.

Then what good are you? she wanted to snap, but she bit her tongue, and she fastened her arms tighter around Noire's middle. It wasn't fair. Noire was the gentlest of them all, regardless of her weird blood and thunder persona. They all knew it. None of that violent crap was real. The real Noire was the one who smiled shyly and stared off into space and liked cooking.

She was trembling. What was Cynthia to do?

"So you're coming with us, right?" Owain asked Say'ri eagerly.

"Aye," Say'ri said. "That was my intention."

"Well, let's hurry then."

When they headed out, the wind howled at their backs, and Cynthia hugged Noire close and prayed to Naga to give them a safe place. It seemed that no matter where they went, Lucina found them. Lucina, who had always been so strong. So kind. Luci. Luci, her friend. Luci…

Luci. Grima's daughter.

It just didn't fit!

Cynthia was preoccupied with flying. It was so easy to just forget when the open air met her cheeks, freezing all thoughts and tugging away all fears. It was nice to be washed of anxiety, to feel free for just a little while. The wind pulled her, lulling her gently, and it was all the troubles in the world just releasing like cords snapping. She was unfettered. At least for a little while.

But then she was signaled back into reality, a hand waving below, a white dot shifting on the blackened ground. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, and it gleamed in her eyes, the white circle expanding slowly as it broke ripples into the broad navy night.

She let her Pegasus glide downwards, lowering itself by swooping in a soft arc until finally its hooves collided with the earth. She yanked on the reins, and Noire fell to one side, twitching feebly.

Cynthia was scared. She was terrified of losing Noire.

Not just to death. To magic.

She knew what Noire's talisman did to her. She saw what the magic had done to her. She could not bear to lose anyone else to the grips of darkness, and Noire… well, she was just about drenched in it.

Cynthia had hardly been exposed to real darkness.

She was a product of tricks and treats and that was fine, because that was what she knew, but she felt like she'd missed something crucial. Like her world view was narrow, and she needed to think bigger, see more, see beyond. But she couldn't.

It was easy to just pretend that Lucina hadn't changed, that something was just wrong, that she was being controlled.

Wasn't that the truth? Wasn't Lucina just being brainwashed, or something?

Could Cynthia really keep lying to herself like this?

"Are we camping?" she asked eagerly, letting her Pegasus trot up alongside Owain's horse.

"We're heading back," he said.

"Heading back where?" Cynthia asked confusedly. "The village? No way!"

"Owain," Say'ri said sharply. He would not look at her. She sat impatiently on her horse, and she turned her face forward. "I see."

"What's going on?" Cynthia was terribly out of the loop. She'd been on her own for hours, traveling at a leisurely speed with the unconscious Noire settled against her chest. Of course she hadn't heard a word of the conversation below her.

"I inquired the whereabouts of the Voice of Naga," Say'ri stated. Her words were clipped and her voice was rigid. Owain stared down at his reins. He looked a little ill.

"The… Voice…?" Cynthia sat in her saddle, thinking over this, thinking over it twice, and she couldn't wrap her head around it. "Like, Lady Tiki, you mean? But she's dead, isn't she?"

Say'ri stiffened considerably, and Cynthia winced, feeling as though she'd said the wrong thing as she hastened her horse's trot. "Aye," she spat, her voice so coarse that it tore from her throat as though a growl. "Lady Tiki perished long ago. Though, for her it would have only been a blink of an eye."

"Then I'm not sure what you mean, Say'ri," Cynthia gasped. "How could the Voice be anywhere if she's dead?"

"The Voice does not die, child," Say'ri said, calming down a bit. "Lady Tiki's death only triggered the need for a new Voice. I had assumed you knew. Did she never tell you? Naga must have spoken to her."

"Who?" Cynthia asked eagerly, aching to understand all this cryptic babbling Say'ri was doing.

"Nah," Brady said softly.

Cynthia turned to look at him. He was not looking directly at anything or anyone. Sadness crept through the air, and it stole away inside Cynthia's throat, squeezing until there was no air left inside her, just an aching emptiness.

Nah. Of course. Who else?

"Oh," Cynthia whispered.

"She was young," Say'ri said, her shoulders squaring fiercely. "That girl… I knew her. Lady Tiki used to… used to play with her, when she was just a babe. Aye, a babe she was, until her very last. She was hardly out of the cradle by manakete standard."

"Yes," Owain whispered.

"I want to understand," Say'ri hissed. "I must understand why this is. Why such a life, a life meant to span millennia, is outlived by me twice now. I must see her."

"Are ya sure of that?" Brady asked uncertainly. "We couldn't give her a burial, or nothin'. We don't know what her corpse will be like."

"I must know."

"Certainly," Inigo said, smiling at Say'ri brightly. "But I must ask… what now? You say that Nah was the Voice, but Nah is dead."

"The Voice does not die," Say'ri said firmly.

"But…" Inigo leaned back, looking alarmed.

"Say'ri," Cynthia called. "Does that mean that there's a new Voice now?"

"A new Voice." Say'ri nodded. "Aye. A new Naga, even."

"A new Naga?" Cynthia shook her head furiously. "Is that even possible?"

"I cannot say." Say'ri glanced at Cynthia, her scarred side facing her, a myriad of fleshy lines crosshatching her pretty face. "I speak only hypothetically, from only partial knowledge bestowed upon me by Tiki herself. But, if I am recalling correctly, should the Voice die, a new Voice will take her place. This was a contingency plan for Naga herself, in case her own mortality be jeopardized."

"So…" Cynthia nearly stopped her Pegasus. "Who is the new Voice?"

"I wish I could say," Say'ri murmured.

"More importantly," Owain said vacantly, "who is the new Naga if the old Naga dies?"

No one could speak up. No one knew the answer.

Chapter Text

Thrumming, drumming, running madness. Sweet and salty delight. Rushing, crushing, hushing sadness. Timid and tipsy fright.

Round and round and round it went.

And no one was the wiser.

One and two and three they go.

And they were none the wiser.

It wasn't like having another personality. It wasn't like that at all. He didn't think? He supposed not.

He was Grima. Grima was him.

But Grima was also Robin.

And Grima was also Grima.

Round and round and round they go.

And none of them could stop it.

Morgan supposed he regretted it. Or Grima regretted it. One of them regretted it. All of them regretted it. This whole host thing? It was torture. They hurt. Grima hurt. But they had to be stronger, the strongest, they had to be, so there was no sadness there, only vague, tickling pain. For Robin, there was nothing. She'd died. Her soul was no longer really mingled within them, but her presence sang with every thrum of a thought, and she was there, somehow, even if she wasn't. For Morgan…

For Morgan, living was a nightmare.

He heard Grima inside him, or… or maybe now it was him inside Grima. He didn't know. Everything was tipsy. Topsy turvy. The world was all feathers and blood. Red and tainted. Soft and sloppy. He didn't know anymore.

It was only when Nah appeared that he truly felt like himself.

And he was convinced she wasn't even real.

"Morgan…" She was standing in the corner, a good distance away from him as he peered at his mirror, touching his cheek, prodding it gently. Where did the eyes go? His other eyes? "Morgan, you're… different."

"Yes," he admitted. He let his fingers linger on his skin. He didn't really feel it, but he knew it should be warm. He rubbed his fingers together, hoping the friction would allow him to feel something, but no. Nothing. He stared at his open palm, flexing his fingers and frowning deeply. "Nah? Is this normal?"

"Is what normal?"

As she drifted closer, he could sense her gentle presence, and it washed over him like a cold press against feverish skin. He wanted to lean into that sensation, lean into her, let her pull all the bad out of him and bring him to peace. He'd do anything to just let her fix him, make him whole again. He stared into her face, round and soft looking, rosy cheeks and large eyes, and he was half in love with her all over again.

Grima was too.

That was the funny bit. They couldn't really differentiate now. So as Morgan loved Nah, so did Grima.

But equally… as much as he wanted to press his lips to her pallid throat, he'd love to just… tear it open… to drag his lips across that tender flesh and use his teeth to rip through the papery layers and let the blood and sinew dribble and dangle from his lips.

Not that he'd be able to feel it. Not that there was any blood left.

He licked his lips, turning his eyes from her throat to her eyes. They were narrowed at him.

Oh, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He smiled at her weakly. "I can't feel anything," he said as casually as he could. He wanted it to be nonchalant. Yeah, so he'd lost his sense of touch. No big deal!

"What else is new?" she asked him coldly.

"Ouch," he cooed, straightening up. "Sounds like someone's bitter."

"Grima's stronger in you now," she spat. "You shouldn't have tried to kill yourself Morgan. You may have already lost."

"There was no fight, Nah," he said innocently.

"Of course there was!" She looked so angry. Her little face pinched up, and her teeth bared at him. It was almost as if she was real. "You just gave up. I can't believe you gave up, Morgan. You're stronger than that, and you know it!"

"If I was stronger than that," he said softly, "you'd still be alive."

She looked surprised. How did a dead girl look surprised?

He wanted to cry, but he hadn't the tears.

She took a step back. He took a step forward. Whenever she was around, everything felt better, and he wasn't as muddled. She was a beacon. Beautiful and blessed. He was drawn to her because she was light, and he was completely shrouded in darkness. But she wasn't real. And he was breaking.

"That's…" She couldn't deny it. She knew it to be true. "Morgan… there are just some things you can't change."

"I didn't want you to die," he whispered. "I don't want anyone to die. Except maybe me. But I can't die. I tried. Nah…" He stared into her face, which was absolutely stunned. "You should have killed me before I could kill you."

"I just wanted to save you, Morgan."

"Look how much good that did us," he snapped, turning his face away. "You should have killed me. I want to die."

"Don't say that…" Her voice was swimming in his head, light and airy, blowing away the hiss of Grima. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to fall into her arms and cry and repent. "You seem better now. Do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?"

She scowled. It was so funny. She was so stern, even now. He smiled at her, and it felt misplaced on his cheeks. He resisted the urge to touch his lips to be sure he was actually smiling. It wouldn't help. He wouldn't feel it.

"You're infuriating," she huffed. "Grima, Morgan! Do you want to talk about how Grima controls you?"

"I am Grima," Morgan said absently.

"They've convinced you that's true," she said heatedly, moving forward. The presence, that cool healing air that wafted toward him, grew stronger, and he was overwhelmed with the sensation. He swayed as she came closer. "You are very much your own entity, Morgan. You can live without Grima. Grima can live without you. You are not the same."

"But we are."

"But you're not!" She reached out, and her cool hands cupped his cheeks. That he felt. He shuddered, her fingers prickling his skin and sending chills down his spine, his heartbeat accelerating, his eyes widening. It was so real. It was the sensation of her presence but amplified, pulsing through his skin and melting through him. He stared down into her eyes, and for a moment he was convinced that she was real.

"You're dead," he whispered, tears burning his eyes. "What do you know?"

"I know you," she said. "Isn't that enough?"

"Not really. You're not really real, so…" Morgan leaned into her touch. It was so relieving to feel something. So utterly… utterly relieving…

She stared up at him, and he felt the heat of her gaze. His mind was swimming with the cool sway of her presence and the burning of Grima toiling within him, gnawing at his thoughts and emotions and preying on his love and fear.

"You don't think I'm real?"

"You're dead," he answered simply.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not real." She held his face firmly in her hands, beginning to stroke his cheekbone with her thumb. "You said you can't feel anything. Can you feel this?"

"Yes," he breathed.

"Then I must be real."

He shook his head. He had to keep shaking it. Tears were clouding his vision, and his body was shaking, and his mind was slowly flipping, a hot mist bubbling up within the catacombs of his thoughts, muddling his remaining senses. He shook his head. He could feel her cold fingertips, and he wanted to scream, because if she was real… if she was real…

"No," he croaked. "You can't be real."

"Why not?" she demanded. "What's so bad about that? You can't really hurt me any more than you already have, Morgan. You realize that, right?"

"No!" He stumbled back, balking at her words, balking at her touch, rejecting all senses and sensations, because his head and his heart were not aligning and the words she spoke made sense to only half of him. "Stop! Don't say that!"

"Say what?" Her voice drifted toward him, but he hardly heard. He buried his head in his hands. He was shaking so badly, and Grima shuddered. Oh, he wanted to tear her fucking tongue out. Oh, he wanted to cry and let her kiss his tears. "That I'm real?"

"Yes!" He took a deep breath, dragging his nails across his skin, wishing to feel the pain of his flesh tearing, but understanding that he had probably lost that ability forever. "What… what are you doing to me? Why do I feel so bad?"

"That's Grima," she replied, "not me."

"No, it's you, I can tell!"

"You make no sense," she snapped. He moaned, sinking to his knees. "Gods, you're pathetic. Stop succumbing to it. You're only making it worse on yourself."

"Stop!" He gasped, shaking his head furiously, cupping his ears and digging his fingers into his scalp. "Stop telling me what to do! Leave me alone!"

"I can't."

He could see only red. He took a deep breath, his bones shifting and quaking as he lurched upright, his knees wobbling and his eyes aflame. He looked at her, and he tasted the sweet haze of warmth as blood pooled in his mouth and ran thickly down his throat. He was drunk on the memory of her father, of her mother, of that glorious day when he'd taken them and gnawed away at them, lovingly and loathingly, just simply ripping apart the very essence of them. He looked into her face, and he saw her father, his eyes cloudy with pain and resignation as death crept up slow, and he'd done nothing to speed up the process.

He stumbled toward her and grabbed her by the neck. His fingers latched upon her throat, her skin marble-like and frigid, stinging the pads of his thumb as he caressed the contour of her jaw.

"I should kill you again," he whispered giddily. His eyes, all six of them, flickered greedily along her face. She stared up at him, her expression eerily serene. He wished he'd made a mess of her, ripped her open and let her scream as she bled out. They wished they'd done more to make her suffer. Knowing now that this was her fate, that they'd triggered this beautiful, sickening thing, they wished they'd made it worth their while.

"You can't," Nah said flatly. "Sorry. I know that must really piss you off."

"Oh, don't think you're beyond my reach just yet!" They were electrified and torn. Love was burning in their eyes, love for this girl that could not be quelled, but all the same a primal hatred was freezing through them, and they could not quite fathom the dichotomy, could not quite fathom their own nature. Now, Grima supposed, they were regretting it. This human was a mess of bloodlines, and as their blood and mind belonged to Grima, they could feel their heart beating for Naga. Naga's thoughts and Naga's tears and Naga's fears and Naga's very own Voice.

"Let Morgan go," she said softly, raising her hand to their cheek. She thumbed away a stray tear that had appeared in one of their many eyes, and he tightened his grip on her throat until her eyes widened a bit in pain.

"I am Morgan," they laughed, more tears gathering, their red tinted vision growing bleary. "Can't you see that? I can't stop being Morgan just because you hate this part of me. You know I hate you too."

"I think you do," she whispered, her eyes narrowing. "But you can't really completely hate me. Because you chose Morgan. You idiot."

They wanted to throw her to the ground and crush her windpipe. But their fingers trembled at her neck, and the tears were falling steadily, and they realized that what had worked once could not work again. Their lips trembled.

"I have another body," they reasoned.

"Like I would show myself to Robin," she laughed, a wispy little chuckle that made him weak and frightened. Morgan. Not them. Oh, Morgan loved this girl. Oh, Grima loathed this girl. Oh, they were so… so out of touch with reality now. She couldn't really muddle their plans, could she? She wasn't that strong.

"Then," they reasoned once more, leaning close, savoring in the chill of her flesh, not knowing if they'd ever get this opportunity again, "how can I make you suffer?"

She stared up at them. He was so giddy with these revelations, giddy with the humanity of Morgan and giddy with the cruelty of Grima and giddy with this overwhelmingly pure presence of hers. Ah! They'd nearly forgotten how Naga's presence truly felt. They were exhilarated. Her very essence was scraping through their lungs as they breathed, and they could almost taste her, all almost divine and all almost dead.

"If you truly are Morgan," she said brightly, "how willing are you to die?"

They laughed in her face. They had to remember that she loved Morgan, and that this… was not hurting her. This was not intimidating her. She might even be enjoying it.

That was sickening.

"Tried the suicide thing, remember?" They grinned, resting their forehead against hers and letting their eyes dig holes into her, forceful and direct. She blinked profusely. Yes, this was working. "Oh… I think I know exactly what'll hurt you."

She looked suddenly wary. As though she was truly comprehending what was before her, as if she was finally getting it. She was in love with Grima, and that could not change. They dug their fingers into her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her choke.

"Let's go back," they said gleefully, their nose bumping against hers, "to a world with just you and me. Shall we?"

Her eyes widened.

Round and round and round they went.

And no one was the wiser.

"Wait…" she uttered faintly. They squeezed her neck tighter, rubbing their nose against hers and laughing joyfully.

"Yes, I think that's just what I'll do!" They saw the tears in her eyes, and part of him felt guilty. "I think I've finished this stint at politics. No more. I'll pick off the stragglers and put it all to torch!"

"No…"

"Yes!" They clenched her throat until she was forced to disperse, bursting into a pale green haze, like the mist over a sea. They stared at the place where she'd been, their fingers twitching at the air. "It's long past time that this world ended."

"She is… very small."

That was all Say'ri could say when they arrived back at the shrine that was Nah's corpse. Nothing had changed. Whatever Morgan had done, it stuck. She was untouchable.

"Yeah," Brady drawled. "Well, she was y'know, like a toddler in manakete years so…"

Say'ri drew closer to the shrine, but Owain immediately yanked her back. Sunlight was beating down on them, and Cynthia felt as though she was baking in her armor. There was no breeze to cool her, and she kicked at the long grass and glanced at Noire. She had not spoken since she'd awoken from the small coma that using magic had put her in. Now she was simply standing and staring at Nah.

Cynthia didn't want to be here. The air tasted thin and it made her feel lightheaded and small. Nah's flowery grave sat like a tumor in a place meant for worship, a dark bubble without air or life. When Cynthia glanced at her, she looked so at peace, her little body slumped casually between the grooves of the broad tree trunk. Flowers and sunlight bathed her, turning her auburn hair alight like live copper wires, and as Cynthia stared she realized that this was it for Nah. This girl, this little clever friend of hers, she had been meant for more than this sad little fate. Dead before her life even really began.

Nah and Yarne… and Gerome too… Gerome too…

She didn't want to cry. She had to be strong. She was a leader! She had to be strong!

But everything was looking so bleak, and just seeing Nah's serene little face peeking out beneath the trimmings of flowers made Cynthia sick.

The scent of flowers made her sick.

"Mother, mother!" There were frames in her memory, like a faded painting left to rot away in an airless, lightless room, and there her mother stood with her back always facing her, strong and straight and striking. If Cynthia got close enough, the scent of flower petals, something like tulips or roses wafted toward her and floated around her head. A heavy aroma that pervaded her nostrils and tickled the back of her throat. It made her dizzy and giddy. "Mother, read my fortune! Mother!"

Now the scent made her stomach turn. It burned her nostrils and scraped at the back of her throat.

Flower petals made her dizzy and nauseous.

She hated feeling so awful. She hated that even this small, peaceful part of her mother had been tainted by Grima.

"Say'ri," Cynthia called, jogging up to the swordmaster, bouncing on her feet in spite of the rotten feeling that clung to the pit of her stomach, and clenching knot of festering emotions. Bad vibes clumping together, lumps of guilt and grief clogging her vitals. She ignored it. "I know… I know that Lady Tiki meant a lot to you but… I still don't get it. Why did Nah become the Voice?"

Say'ri had been overwhelmingly quiet on their journey back here. Everyone had been, in fact. No one really wanted to admit how terrible things were going. The weight of the deaths of their comrades and enemies were falling upon them, clouding their vision with overwhelming guilt. Gerome and Yarne. How could they really be dead? And Nah? Her body was only meters away, and yet Cynthia could scarcely bring herself to admit that her friend was truly gone.

"I was not informed of the details," Say'ri said softly. She was staring at Nah's pretty little corpse, her shoulders sagging. Cynthia had so much to ask. About her mother and father, about Lady Tiki, about the war. But the words were stuck inside her throat, caught between the tickle of roses and the burning of tulips. "Lady Tiki only… well, frankly, she was never quite clear when she spoke. As wise as she was, she could also be an infuriating tease."

"I think that must be a manakete thing," Cynthia laughed softly, her eyes trailing sadly to Nah's face. "Nah could act kinda like a little kid sometimes!"

"Cynthia," Say'ri said, raising her dark, jaded eyes and setting her mouth so the scars upon her cheek twitched mildly. "She was a child. You all are still children. And it saddens me that you must bear such hardships."

"We'll manage," Cynthia said weakly. In another place, in another time, she may have exclaimed it with gusto, spouted it as a fact. But here and now it was just a soft spoken lie that she needed to cling to in order to keep together.

"Fie," Say'ri murmured. "If I believed that, do you think I would be here?"

It was a little bit of a blow to her ego. She couldn't deny it.

"Well we came all the way back here for you, Miss Say'ri," Cynthia said stiffly. "So I mean, if you can offer up any guidance at all, that would be great."

"Aye. We may soon leave. I only wished to see her with my own eyes, to see the girl Tiki chose as her successor." Say'ri turned to face Nah, her expression crumpling. "And I find myself even sadder than before."

Cynthia's heart stung with guilt, and she touched the woman's shoulder gingerly. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I'm sad too. All the time, really. But we can't let that stop us from moving forward!" She clenched her fist at her side, and took a deep breath. "I want to make Nah's death mean something! I want to make sure that this world is free from Grima, and I'll do anything to make that happen, so please, please, please, Say'ri, tell me what you know!"

The woman looked down at her, startled a bit it seemed by how loud Cynthia was. And then her shock melted into a strange sort of fondness, her scarred face softening considerably, and she smiled. She touched Cynthia's cheek, her callused thumb sliding to her chin.

"You are very much like your mother," she said finally.

Cynthia's heart stuttered a bit. A peculiar warmth filled her, expanding within her like a balloon, and she bit her tongue to keep from giggling madly. Her? Like her mother? Oh. Oh! That was just the best thing. The best thing Say'ri could have possibly said to her.

She flushed with satisfaction.

"Thank you," she said, her voice weak from giddiness. "Thank you very much!"

Say'ri laughed a bit. It was a strange, throaty sound. "Oh," she murmured, dropping her hand. "I forgot how nice it feels to laugh. You are lovely company, Cynthia. But I am afraid I haven't the information to satisfy you."

"Nothing?" Cynthia croaked.

"Not of particular use," Say'ri admitted sadly. "I understand about as much of this manakete business as you, I expect. Lady Tiki could be irrationally cryptic. So here I am." She waved to the pretty, flowery corpse, whose childlike face glowed in the bath of sunlight that dribbled from between the lazing clouds. "Picking at decade old scabs, opening old wounds, and one can only hope I spill a clue or two along the way. I haven't the faintest, Cynthia. Nah was certainly the Voice, but now that she is dead? I often wonder if the Voice even exists any longer." She stared forlornly at the brilliant shrine. "After all, the race of manaketes seem to be lost forever."

Cynthia wanted to say something, to object and say that there had to be hope, that there had to be some manaketes left, but it was a heavy blow to understand that there was no hoping, and that the truth had been delivered to her frankly.

Manaketes and taguel were extinct.

And humans were next.

Owain announced that it was about time to move on. Cynthia's heart had sunk too low to care. She stole one last glance at Nah before mounting her Pegasus. This girl who had loved too much, who had loved Morgan until her last, who had tried and tried and tried but could not fix this mess of a world on her own. Tears burned Cynthia's eyes, and she could not take another day of this crippling sadness.

She could not take anymore of this. Of everyone she loved dropping away, bleeding out and falling apart. Death was just too final. She needed more time to love them. To let them know they were loved.

It just wasn't fair.

Her father had told her once that it was okay to lose sometimes. That everyone lost a little, and it was up to her to gain a lot. His words rung in her mind, his smooth face and narrowed eyes, his lazy smile as he ruffled her hair and mocked her, calling her an assortment of awful pet names.

She thought about him as they moved on. Hopped from barren wasteland to barren wasteland. The only saving grace was Say'ri and her stories. Noire didn't really talk anymore, and Owain had no cheer left to sustain them, and Brady could hardly look anyone in the eye, and Inigo did nothing but thumb through that damn book of his, and Kjelle… Kjelle was unchanged. Steadfast as ever. So yeah. Cynthia really did cherish Say'ri's stories.

They were making their way back to Ylisse through Feroxi lands. They figured the less time they spent near Plegia, the better. When they camped out for the night, Say'ri launched into another story.

It was how Lady Tiki had died.

"It was my fault," Say'ri admitted, lowering herself onto the ground and staring forlornly into the fire. Cynthia watched her with pity and awe. "Our numbers had dwindled and our morale was low. On top of that, Chon'sin…" She bowed her head shamefully. No one moved. No one spoke. After a minute or so of an aching silence, with only the soft spitting and hissing of the live fire to fill the empty space, she continued. "I felt very much alone. Lady Tiki convinced me… begged me… to take her to Mount Prism. To pray, she said. But only us two."

"Was she an idiot?" Kjelle asked sharply.

Say'ri shot Kjelle a furious glare. "You'd best hold your tongue," she snapped, raising her chin high. "Tiki was far bolder and far cleverer than any of you could possibly conceive. Don't dare mock her in my presence again."

Kjelle was shocked into silence, and Cynthia was grateful. Say'ri continued without hesitation.

"I decided to oblige. I thought nothing of it. Tiki was prone to spontaneity. As we journeyed there, she told me what her mother had told her. That to keep the balance, the world must always have a Naga and always have a Tiki." Say'ri sighed, and she closed her eyes. "Aye. Even if they are not truly them. A Divine Dragon and a Voice. That cannot change. The world will always have them."

"Didn't we go over this?" Brady rested his cheek on his fist. "Nah became the Voice when Tiki died. And… well, we don't really know what happened to Naga."

"It is our job to find the new Voice," Say'ri said firmly. "Manaketes may well be gone, but the Voice may very well remain. We cannot defeat Grima without the Voice's guidance."

"Okay," Owain said. "But… finding them is going to be hard. It could be anyone, really."

Cynthia didn't want to point out that Say'ri herself had admitted doubts about the Voice's existence.

"No," Say'ri sighed. They all stared at her vacantly. "It is not a random selection, young lord. This is what I was attempting to explain, you see… Lady Tiki told me that day that she chose little Nah to succeed her. She said the me that there was something about her, from the moment she had met her, that drew her in. Familiarity?" Say'ri hummed, touching her forehead gingerly as though to draw out the recollection. "Mm, aye. Something of that sort. Now this… this greatly bemused me. A successor? For what purpose? Tiki may not have been a child like Nah or a teenager like Nowi, but she was ample young for a manakete. And yet she made her will and her grave, and did not consider that she may very well live."

"She must've known," Brady whispered. "She had to have, y'know? She was telling you so you coulda… I dunno, helped Nah adjust, maybe?"

"If I'd the chance," Say'ri murmured bitterly. "We were ambushed of course. Everything after that was a blur, but the result…" She shrugged her empty sleeve and gestured to her scarred face. "I survived by chance. Tiki died as a dragon, and… there'd been some sort of blast. Made by Grima, likely. Her body shielded at least part of me. And… in the end…" Her voice broke off. She sounded unbearably sad, her voice trailing softly in the air, crumbling into dust and coughing into the wind and smoke.

"Manaketes haven't got a single care for themselves, do they?" Brady muttered, bowing his head.

Say'ri didn't reply. Cynthia suspected she couldn't. The woman seemed to be on the verge of tears, but too stubborn and too proud to let herself go. And for that, Cynthia couldn't blame her.

That night she was tasked with guard duty. She was fine with that. A brigand or two, a Risen or three? She could handle it. She was strong!

But as the night drew on, she thought about her father more and more. She grew anxious as the bitter air lashed at her cheeks, froze her in her armor, bit her ears and chapped her skin. She paced back and forth, trying to rid herself of his voice, of his scent, all sickly sweet and nauseating. She loved him and her mother dearly, but all the memories of them were so tainted now. For they were all soft and light and sweet, and all of that had become hard and grotesque in the passing years.

She began to cry.

She had to take a walk.

Her father's voice floated in her head.

"Hey, honey bee." Gaius had winked, gathering her up and laughing as she squealed.

"Father, I told you not to call me that!"

"What do you want me to call you, then?" He'd ruffled her hair, the same striking orange hue as his own, and he gave her that lazy smile, his heavily lidded eyes beaming down at her. "I've got a whole list of sweets for you."

"Father, no!" She'd shaken her head. "No sweets! I don't want to be a sweet thing, I want to be tough!"

"Tough, huh?"

"Uh huh!" Cynthia had nodded firmly, clenching her fists beside her face. "Just like Mother!"

Cynthia wiped at her eyes furiously. It was dark and cold and empty, trees reaching up around her and stretching toward the sky. She looked around, but she realized she'd lost the path she'd taken, and had ended up somewhere in the heart of these thick, labyrinthine woods. The wind was crawling all around her, but nothing made a sound, and she was swaying, feeling emptied of all her courage and all her cheer.

"Hello?" she called into the darkness.

She knew. She could sense someone there.

She held her lance firmly, gripping it for all that was in her, and she gritted her teeth.

She wasn't going to play nice. She was so exhausted of playing nice.

"Come out!" she cried, leveling her spear, watching the thick trunks and the sliver of black gaps that hung between each and every one; darkness sweeping around her, over hear, beneath her.

Someone was clapping.

She spun around. And around. And around. And around. The tip of her spear was revolving, a needle on a dial waiting to halt, to pick its kill. She exhaled shakily, and the darkness stole her breath.

From the shadows, a woman appeared.

Her silver hair seemed to be illuminated somehow in the darkness, her dark face glowing with a devilish glee.

"Robin…?" Cynthia nearly lowered her lance. And then she realized, her heart dropping like a stone, exactly who this was. "Grima!"

They giggled, their slender fingers brushing their lips. And their eyes flashed a dizzying red, their smooth cheeks cracking open with a hiss, and two more sets of ruby red eyes glinting madly at her. Steam was rising from the fissures in their cheeks.

"Cyn-thi-a!" Grima sang. "What a long way from the pack you've wandered!"

"Did you lead me here?" Cynthia snapped, leaning forward and pointing her spear at the creatures awful, mangled face. "Why? What could you possibly want with me?"

"You're easy to confuse," Grima cooed. They clasped their hands together, and shrugged. "I just wanted to see you, is all. And here you are. Tell me, is it true you gained a little follower? I thought I squashed all of Chrom's banners, but oh well. I'll enjoy it more this time."

"Shut up!" Cynthia was fuming. She couldn't think or breathe. She felt as thought the darkness was squeezing her, slithering up and latching onto her legs, stabbing into her joints and locking her in place. She was shaking as she stood. Her fingers trembled at the shaft of her lance. "You know… you know what? You can't get to me. You can't warp my mind like you warped Lucina's, and Laurent's, and Morgan's, and Severa's, and…" She swallowed thickly.

Grima's chortle echoed across the air, slapping her once, twice, thrice, like a blade swiping across her cheeks. It was venomous in the air, and she swallowed that and felt it settling in her bones. Decay was suddenly inevitable.

She was going to die.

"Say it," Grima whispered, gliding toward her, using Robin's pretty, mangled face to stare into her face and leave her feeling as though she'd been positively emptied of all sense of herself. "Gerome?"

And then the air constricted. And the leaves behind her crunched. The ground shifted.

She turned around, tears pooling in her eyes, and she let herself quake and tremble at the sight of him, not so much lurching, more like creeping toward her, his eyes hollow and his skin sallow and his cheeks sunken in, and he was so close so suddenly that she hardly had time to scream.

She dropped her lance.

His tattered clothes and grimy armor, his blood caked axe and his matted hair. He was hardly recognizable and yet… part of Cynthia was glad to see Gerome's corpse. Seeing his face gave her some vague twinge of joy and some vague twinge of horror. And she began to sob. Because there was no way.

There was no way she could fight him.

She felt so measly. She was so ashamed. She turned around to face Grima, but they were gone.

She dropped to her knees and screamed. She screamed so loudly, so fiercely, that she hoped it'd rock the whole earth and send the world crumbling. Send Gerome back to the grave.

But it didn't.

She squeezed her eyes shut as one of his arms wrapped around her, the stench of him burning her nostrils, turning her stomach, leaving her blind. Rotted meat was sloughing off the bone. She swallowed hard.

He was hugging her tight as the cool blade of his axe bit into her neck.

Chapter Text

Strings crooned eerily amongst the dim cell, a luxurious chamber made of satin and ribbon, purples and blacks, bruises for the sorceress, bruises for the welp, bruises for the princess, the prodigy, and bruises for the slumbering boy whose smile still turned about his lips, bruises for the boy who tucked his chin to mahogany and swiped a flaxen sword in a peculiar waving, sawing motion. Bruises for the children and bruises for the corpses.

Bruises for the losers and winners both.

She sat with her hands on her knees, the white lace of her dress flaring across the velvet floor. She watched the boy's hands as his fingers danced, holding down strings and rapidly changing positions, placing pressure where it was due and letting the music guide him in ways that she could not imagine. His fiddling drowned out the sounds of her mother's voice as she spoke in tongues, braiding the thick blue hair of their Exalt's daughter.

On the floor beside her the smiling boy slept, his chest rising and fallen, a mighty sword lying at his back. It was larger than him. It was larger than life. It glinted in the dim light, sinking into the velvet carpet and burning through the floor. She watched him as the music drifted, strings creating such pleasant, whispery sounds, chords colliding and little hands discovering some simple symphonies.

She wanted nothing more than to melt into the sound and to rid herself of the burden that was her mother's twisted infatuation with the princess of Ylisse.

With a clap of thunder, Brady's tiny hand slipped, and the metal strings screeched as the melody smashed to pieces and hung dead in the air, swinging softly as it faded. Lightning sparked, illuminating the shadows of the dark room and sending a pulse through the air, baking her very breath, and a boy appeared before her, a child with a dull expression and blood caking his neck and bare torso.

Owain awoke with a yawn.

"Gerome…?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Where have you been?"

Gerome did not answer. He merely stood. There was an oblong gash stretching the length of his chest, festered and ugly, crooked and brown. His eyes were dull. She stared at him, at his gaunt face, and she felt a disturbance. Magic. The lightning and the thunder clap, the screech of the violin, and her chanting mother, all flooding together, a cocktail of chaos inside her head. She smiled as Gerome fell to his knees. She stood as Inigo stood, appearing behind Gerome with his dark cheeks flushed, his snowy hair askew, and his smile timid and tired.

"Gerome," Inigo said soft, his voice shaky and thin. "Oh, Gerome, get up, won't you? We haven't had our fun yet."

"Gerome?" Brady lowered his violin, standing slowly and holding his bow like a sword, hunching defensively. "Hey now, why are ya looking at us like that?"

"Gerome…" Noire whispered, tears flooding her eyes. "Why did you betray us?"

The boy looked up at her.

He opened his mouth, and he let out a sharp, agonized cry.

His skin unraveled at his fingertips as he brought them to his lips, doubling over as his bare back shuddered, the bulbs of his spine protruding through ripping skin. The sound of flesh tearing filled the air, vicious and quick, grating to the ear but pleasant to the soul, and they all watched, listening with their tiny eyes large and their tiny mouths open, as Gerome began to unwind.

He lowed his skeletal fingers, and they watched his half-shredded lips part.

His teeth wobbled, loosening quickly and unexpectedly releasing.

His teeth fell out one by one by one.

"We need to stop this," Brady said suddenly, raising his bow and pointing it at the writhing little mass of discarded flesh on the soft velvet carpet. "We need to stop this right now, ya hear?"

"Yes…" Owain whispered. He looked traumatized. Noire smiled, and she placed her hand on his shaking shoulder. He looked at her sharply.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "We'll take care of it."

Inigo smiled that small, shy smile of his. He snapped his fingers.

Gerome disappeared with an earth-shattering screech.

Like a violin bow slipping on the wrong string.

Noire stood shakily. An emptiness was crawling through her, expanding like black ink dropped into water. A thick, swirling cloud of darkness exploding in slow motion within her. She swayed, and he swayed, and the magic danced between them. Soft words. Her mother's tongues and his father's laughter.

She grinned. She laughed.

What would her father say? What would he think when he saw her, when he saw what a horrible little creature she'd become? Did it even matter? Did she even care?

No. She felt very little now.

"This is wrong," Brady said suddenly. He looked between them, horrified. Owain simply stood. A spectator. An accomplice. He was part of their crimes.

He was a monster too.

They were all monsters in the end. Weren't they?

Weren't they?

Gods, she thought dazedly, turning and walking drunkenly toward the eerie words, the low sung chants of her mother. Help me. Help me. Help me, please!

Even if all the voices in all the world cried out this plea at once, she doubted it would be answered.

No one listened to such nonsensical things.

For one to live, to survive, one must become their own savior.

She stood numbly, watching her mother comb Lucina's hair lovingly. She did not even glance Noire's way, and there was a prickling bitterness there, a jab of self-hatred in the swelling pit of darkness within her.

She marched up to her mother. She tapped her on the shoulder.

"Mother," she said.

She did not look. The world was growing hazy at the corners, grime clinging to the frames of Noire's vision. She wanted to wash it away, scrub herself clean, but it was too late for that. This was the foulness of magic. The new reality she'd made herself. The new Noire, whose view had been shadowed and shaded. Overcast with a flume of dust.

"Mother," Noire sang, touching her mother's hair, leaning close so her cheek was pressing to her mother's ear. "Mother… did you know?"

Lucina tipped over, her body clicking at the joints— a marionette. That was all she'd ever been. Dyed straw brushed against her painted wooden face.

"Mother!" Noire laughed, kissing her mother's cold, lifeless cheek. There was darkness expelling from her chest, liquefied and projectile, like blood and fire shooting through the air. "It's just like you said! Love is the ruination of human existence!"

She awoke to a chill shooting through her, a sharp pain focalizing around her heart, and she stared into the hazy dawn, dew gleaming on the grass and mixing with the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks. She sat up, swiping the wetness away fiercely, and she glanced around at the bodies littering the camp. The fire had died in the night, and the cold had left a layer of frost upon their clothing. Her pantaloons were stiff and unyielding as she stretched her legs.

The dream was fading fast, but her heartbeat was still accelerated, and her vision was swimming with unshed tears. Her mother's voice cooed softly in her ears, breaking up and echoing backwards, rocking and teetering and setting Noire's teeth on edge.

How irritating.

They were all still trying to figure things out. How they were going to defeat Grima and all that. They could always try to find the Fire Emblem. That was something Say'ri had suggested recently, but Noire doubted it was still around.

Grima would have used it by now if it was.

And besides, Naga was dead.

Wasn't she?

Noire stood, turning her face toward the gray, murky dawn, and she stared. She felt as though there was something very bad out there. That the world had shifted overnight, that there was something impossible occurring at that very moment, as she breathed and blinked. The immense dread that washed over her made her feel sick.

She counted the sleeping bodies and noted they were one short.

This prickling unease that plagued her grew into a vicious ache that erupted in her chest, in the very heart of the pit that had grown inside her chest. It exploded.

Cynthia is dead, she thought numbly, turning her eyes from the ground to the sky to the gnarled forest that surrounded them. She shuddered, dark magic thick in the air, lying upon her skin like summer heat, like early morning humidity. Her mother's face glowed beneath her eyelids when she closed her eyes, when she bit her knuckles to keep from screaming.

This was not fair. They were doomed to fail.

She wished she could be her mother's daughter and play for a different god. To love Grima and serve their children. But instead, she stood with her father's light burning her back, baking her skin and blackening her bones, and she could not bear to leave it.

Gods help her.

She crept close to Owain, crouching to touch his shoulder, to rouse him and tell him what she suspected had happened. But she paused. His face was so serene, black hair falling upon his forehead in little wisps, dew wetting his cheeks and frost stiffening the fur that trimmed his tunic. She exhaled, and mist unfurled around her face.

She turned from him, kneeling before Inigo instead. She shook him far more roughly than she would have shaken Owain.

He let out a soft moan, waving his hand in her face. "Mm… no, no, darling, five more… min…" He curled into the frozen grass. She prodded him harshly with her bow, and he bolted upright, his mouth opening to cry out. She clamped her hand over his mouth.

His eyes were large as they darted to her face. His brow furrowed, and his body slowly began to relax. She released him, and he took a deep breath.

"What," he breathed, "in Naga's name—?"

Noire stood. She waved him to stand. He slowly obliged, grabbing his tome and blinking tiredly down at the rest of their camp. Brady, Kjelle, Owain, and Say'ri.

What a sad, small bunch they'd become.

She walked toward the forest, and Inigo followed her silently. "What's happened?" he whispered, shooting a glance back at the camp. "I feel… sick. Gods, it's wretched. Why does magic feel so bad?"

She shrugged. She thumbed her talisman in her pocket, but she felt no exhilaration, no rage or fire. She simply felt numb.

Inigo stood beside her, his handsome face dark with a sudden revelation.

"It's Cynthia," he said vacantly.

She nodded.

He walked at her side quietly, and he hugged his tome, turning his face so his lips pressed to its ancient, yellowed pages. He looked just as numb as she felt.

"Why did you not wake the others?"

The forest floor was frozen solid, sticks and leaves cracking like joints beneath the hardened soles of their boots. The air was unbearably thick from the residual dark magic, the hissing threat of death, the stench of something risen in the air. But it was frigid, wind chilling their cheeks and striking their flesh like the sting of a whip.

"Inigo," she said softly. Her voice was broken up, hoarse from disuse. "I'm sick to death of losing people."

He bowed his head. They moved through the trees, parting a thick fog with every sharp step they took, with ever snap and crack of a twig underfoot.

They stopped as their trail went abruptly cold, the heat of the magic dissipating sharply. They came to a patch in the woods were the ground was rotted and the trees were twisted in a gnarled canopy of bark. In the shivery light of dawn, dark patches stained the frozen dirt, large, uneven blots where blood had soaked into the ground.

Cynthia's lance sat a meter or so away from the bodiless carnage, abandoned and alone. Noire tested the ground, toeing it hesitantly for a sign of a ward or hex. Something similar to that of Nah's shrine, perhaps. But there was nothing, so she strode into the shadowy alcove, overstepping the bloodstains and plucking the steel spear from the dirt.

"Well," Inigo whispered, leaning against a tree. She turned to face him, and saw that he was growing pallid in the shivering morning sunlight, white rays turning his hair silver and his face chalky. "I suppose this answers that."

"Not really," Noire said, pointing to the bloodstain with the lance. "That's a lot of blood, yes… yes, but…"

"No body." Inigo perked up considerably, and he leapt into the alcove. "Noire, could she have been taken prisoner? Do you think?"

Noire stared at the ground. She felt sick with all the toiling feelings within her. Conflicting vibes— magic gone stale, life waning, and her memories crumbling with every second that dropped away from her. It was all too much. She felt like someone had torn her personality away.

And there was no righteous fury to replace it.

No blood and thunder left to fuel her.

She was just an empty vessel now, it seemed.

"Maybe," she lied. She didn't want to tell him that she very much doubted it. He still had a lot of life and a lot of love inside him. How could she be so cruel as to rip that away?

"Then we'll rescue her," Inigo said firmly. He clapped Noire on the shoulder, and she jumped, glancing up at him. "We mustn't let anything or anyone scare us."

But fear was what drove her. It kept her mildly sane to fear the unknown, to fear Grima, to fear her own death. To not fear was unhealthy, and Inigo did not seem to grasp that.

"Inigo," she said softly. "May I see your tome?"

It was her tome, technically, so she didn't see how he could refuse. He offered it to her hesitantly, and she snatched it, marching up to the bloodstained ground and stabbing the spear into the center of it. She knelt, throwing open the tome and leafing through the pages rapidly, the papers shuffling, letting out raspy sighs as they slipped through her fingers.

"What are you doing?" He knelt down beside her. Magic was so very strong within him. Especially as of late. She could tell that he was entrapped by it. Enticed and entombed. He had no hope of becoming anyone but his father's son now, and that made her sad.

He'd once dreamed of being a dancer.

Had he forgotten already?

"My mother was very good at hexes," Noire murmured, letting her fingers and eye flicker and fly, taking in and moving on. "Cursing objects is an easy feat. Or at least it was for her. I'm no Tharja."

"You're very good," Inigo told her lightly, pressing his hand to her back and rubbing small circles into her spine. "Marvelous, even. You have incredible power."

"No." Noire shook her head. "No, no. You see, that's just it. I don't. I cannot possibly cast hexes. It's just not within me. I'm too weak."

"Nonsense!"

Noire found the page she was looking for, and she pressed her palms to it. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"It's the truth," she whispered. "I'm no good at magic, but… I know it. I know it very well. It's a part of me, you see…" Her eyes opened slowly, and she turned her gaze to his face. "As it's part of you. Only you are capable of using magic. It doesn't make you sick and weak immediately after you use it."

"Well…" Inigo shifted uneasily. "I… suppose it's just…"

"It's a matter of talent," Noire cut in, sliding the tome into his lap. "Curse the lance, Inigo."

"…What?" He shot her a slight grimace, his upper lip rising and a tooth glinting at her. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were wide.

"It'll be easy for you," Noire insisted, pointing to the page. "You're a natural! So say the words."

"I don't even know what I'm doing," he said flatly. He glanced at her desperately. "What am I doing, Noire?"

"Just say it."

He looked very nervous. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, laying his palms flat on the pages. He relaxed a little, and as he gained confidence the words blended together, a powerful rhythm falling from his lips and spilling across the air. The magic was pooling around them, colliding with the spear and turning it faintly black, the metal suddenly appearing corroded and ugly. It then burned bright white.

And then, Inigo left the hex with a staccato note, and the lance returned to its original color. Noire stood as he swayed, snapping the book shut and hugging it to his chest.

"What was that?" he whispered.

"Just a hex," she answered simply. She chuckled to herself, plucking the lance from the ground. "This will be a fine weapon to use against Lucina."

"Now wait a minute," Inigo said, jumping to his feet. "What did I do?"

"Don't worry," Noire said, turning to face him. "It'll be fine. I'll use it, and no one else will have to get hurt. We can end this."

"Oh, really now?" Inigo's eyebrows shot up. "You think some lance is going to put an end to Grima? Get a grip, Noire."

She rolled her eyes. "Come," she said, waving him forward. Her sadness over Cynthia was quelled by the pervading sense of emptiness that swallowed up everything inside her. She clutched the lance, and she thought about it, about how scary this was, but it did not do a thing for her. Fear was there, but it also wasn't. She was living in an unbalanced in between state. Her heart hurt.

He followed her back to camp. Everyone was up now, and as they approached, Owain ran up to them. He threw his arms around Noire, squeezing her tight and exhaling heavily in her ear.

"Gods," he breathed. Her heart, as shredded and shattered as it was, began to stutter in shock. "I thought you were gone… I thought…"

She placed her hand on his cheek. And then she pulled away, bowing her head and brushing past him. He immediately ran for Inigo, doing the same thing. He hugged him, squeezed him tight, and Inigo looked far more pleased than Noire had, smiling and reassuring Owain that he was fine.

"Where's Cynthia?" Owain asked, clutching Inigo's arm and looking around. His eyes fell on the lance in Noire's hand. "Hey… Noire…"

"I sensed dark magic," she uttered softly. Inigo looked away. "We decided to follow it. When we found the source, there was nothing there but blood. And this." She held out the spear.

"No…" Brady whispered. He backed away slowly.

"But you didn't find a body," Kjelle cut in, marching between Noire and Owain. She glanced fiercely at the spear. "I will not accept this."

That seemed to alleviate all forms of grief within their party, much to Noire's dismay, and Brady nodded.

"Kjelle's right," he gasped. "We can't just assume she's dead, can we? No." He shook his head furiously, and Noire gave him a long, pitying look. "Fuck no! I'm won't believe she's dead. Not until I see her corpse with my own two eyes!"

"That's the spirit," Inigo said brightly. "Cynthia could've easily been ambushed and captured. How are we to know?"

Owain took a deep breath. She begged that he would see reason. But he smiled faintly, and he nodded, and Noire closed her eyes.

"You're right," he said firmly. "We can't give up on Cynthia. Gods know she never gave up on us."

That was true enough. Cynthia had been the life of them, the one to always smile, to always have an optimistic take on a situation. But Noire was not Cynthia. Noire simply could not believe in something that she viewed as hopeless. Cynthia was a lost cause.

Noire lowered the lance. She wanted to believe it. She pleaded with the universe to give her a reason to.

But the universe gave her nothing.

And so she grieved alone.

At some point— some crucial point in her short, menial existence— she'd realized the undeniable truth.

She had nothing left to lose.

She could rule the entire planet, and it still would not fill the chasm that had cracked open her ribs and savagely torn up the delicate tissue, the gummy flesh of her lungs and heart, leaving a great, yawning hole where her vitals should have been.

She could be a queen. She could be an exalt. She could have any man or woman, to be hers, to be her own loving chew toy, a pet or a plaything, but she knew that would not quell the aching, sate the yearning, or alleviate the sadness.

She could be anything she wanted.

Except the person she used to be.

And that was the worst of it. She looked into the mirror, and she saw a boyish looking person, a round face framed by choppy blue hair and dull blue eyes, a brand within one that no longer glowed, no longer shone, and when she thought about who she used to be the boyish looking person only looked sadder. The bruises beneath his eyes sunk deeper into her skull, and her skin waned, the once warm brown flesh becoming a sickly yellow, like an old bruise spread out all along her body.

She sometimes tapped her cheeks, awaiting unwanted extra eyes to pop out and cry jagged red tears.

The longer she spent in this unbearable state, the more she found that she could not find it within herself to care any longer. When she saw Morgan… Grima… whatever or whoever they were, there was no love or hatred burning within her. Only sharp resignation.

"Lucina," they addressed her brightly, like any good little brother or mother would. The more she looked at them, the less real they seemed. Like every day that passed further transformed Morgan. He was becoming someone she did not recognize.

But she too was someone unrecognizable.

Such was their fate, she supposed.

In her most desperate of states, she prayed to Naga.

Give him back, she begged the dead divinity. Let Grima have me as a host instead. Let Morgan live his own life, free of this burden, this curse, this fettering. By my name, by my father's name, make this all a bad dream. Take us somewhere safe.

When she got in some training, she sometimes raised the Levin sword to the fat white sun, watching it turn to a shimmering bolt of lightning in the waves of heat. She imagined that the sharp angles could melt, and that the plump old sun bleached the gold and turned it sleek and silver, and that in her hands she could bear not the blood-soaked relic her mother had stolen from some mad king, but an ancestral right, a great sword forged by her father's fathers. The Falchion had been hers once. And she'd let Owain rip that from her.

If it were still mine, she thought bitterly, could I slay Grima with it?

She listened to the heat waves cry as she sliced them to ribbons.

If it were still mine, she thought viciously, could I save Morgan with it?

She stepped with smooth steps, a rhythmic dance of her soles finding easy footing, the quickest way toward the kill.

If it were still mine, she thought desperately, could I finally be me again?

She stopped, her breathing irregular and her shorn hair falling in ragged clumps into her eyes and her mouth.

If it were still mine, she thought despondently, could I make my father proud?

She let out a cry of rage, and she flung the Levin sword across the courtyard, listening to it skitter across brittle, ruined cobble. She felt the magic stirring in the air, lighting wisping around her ears, sizzling and snapping, dancing and laughing. She banished it all, a flourish of her fingers snatching the swords power and devouring it inside her hollow heart.

If she were still worthy of the Falchion, she supposed this hunger for power, this natural ability to consume all things worth anything, would dissipate in a violent flash.

Like lightning.

"Angry?"

Lucina whirled around. Severa was lounging against a fallen pillar, her pigtails curling up in the thickening humidity. She wore very little, and her skin was gleaming vaguely from sweat.

Perhaps she would make a Grimleal yet.

"Only vaguely," Lucina said briskly. She smoothed her hair back from her sweaty face, and she eyed Severa curiously. It wasn't like her to wear such Plegian garb. Even Lucina steered clear from traditional dark mage clothing, preferring something more practical and battle ready.

"Only vaguely," Severa mocked in a high, derisive voice. "Is that why you're throwing things and screaming and practically exuding Thoron spells?" She scoffed.

"I'm only tired," Lucina said stiffly.

"Mhm," Severa hummed. She rolled her eyes, and then her shoulders. They were pale and freckled in the feverish sun. "Morgan's been quiet lately."

"He's had a lot on his mind." Lucina turned to fetch the Levin sword, praying Severa wouldn't see through her lie. She didn't know what would happen if Severa knew what Grima had done to Morgan. She'd probably turn on them once and for all, call Lucina a monster for not caring that her own brother… her own brother…

"You've been quiet as well." Severa's voice carried across the thick waves, smashing into Lucina's back like a blow of an axe.

She lifted her head, and the pompous oaf of a sun, and she closed her eyes. "Have I?" she uttered in a voice that made her sound awfully vapid.

"Oh, don't play dumb," Severa snapped. "You've been avoiding just about everyone. Even Morgan." She paused, and Lucina heard that brain of hers that was so admired working at an alarming pace, connecting the dots, tying the strings. "Especially Morgan."

"Morgan told me himself he wanted some space," she lied, turning her face innocently to face Severa's. "It'd be cruel not to oblige. I'm his sister after all."

"And what a magnificent one you've been," Severa said coolly.

Lucina lowered the Levin sword sharply, her eyes locking on Severa's pristine face. She dared her to speak again, to say one more word bathed in that icy cocktail of sarcasm, scorn, and salted sweetness that seemed to compose her rotten core.

I could very well hate you, she decided, glowering into Severa's pretty face. The girl's smirk was nauseating. Did she think Lucina loved her so that she would take such blatant insolence? What was Severa doing questioning her? She'd done her best for Morgan, and who could fault her for not doing enough? She only wanted the best for him. And now he was, she supposed, the best he could ever be.

Just not himself.

Lucina walked slowly toward her, the soles of her shoes clapping on the cobbles, resonating with the air waves and rattling them like a snake's undulating tale.

"You must think it terrible of me, to be so closed off when Morgan is in this state," she said, her words floating over the melody of her rattling footfalls. Severa leaned back against the pillar in alarm. "He's been quiet. Reserved. Smiling too big and speaking only in riddles. Sometimes looking at him is too much. It feels wrong. Unbearably, unspeakably wrong." Lucina closed her eyes, and she clenched the Levin sword. If she thought very hard, and pretended with all her might, she still found that conjuring up the image of herself holding the Falchion was impossible.

Being her father's daughter was impossible.

"What?" Severa's face pinched, and she looked irritated. "You notice all those things and you still ignore him? Lucina, you've really got to get a grip and start seeing—!"

Lucina dropped her sword and pinned Severa's shoulders to the pillar, hating her dearly for not understanding that she saw very, very clearly— too clearly in fact— and that she should have let herself be blinded a long time ago. She hated Severa for being so awake, so wary and disapproving, so nagging and doubtful, and yet so unwaveringly faithful to Lucina's cause.

Gerome had been a pawn. Blind and dumb and unwitting.

But Severa… oh, Severa knew every chink in Lucina's armor. Every play and every trick. She knew the façade and she knew the masks and the courtesies better than anyone. She knew that Lucina was broken inside, and she knew that all it'd take to break her were a few simple words. She could easily snap Lucina in to. Smash her skull in with a sweet truth or two.

But she only ever threw the knife around and teased her skin with the flat of the blade.

There was never any real threat.

Severa was too loving to take the stab and go in for the kill.

So her biting words meant little more than a grain of and fluttering in the heat waves.

Lucina squeezed her shoulders, her hot skin sticking to her palms.

Grima had already taken everything. Her home, her friends, her father and mother, her birthright, her mind, her heart, and even Morgan. Even Morgan.

So what did she have to lose?

This girl was just like Gerome. Her love was a veil that fluttered over her eyes.

"What?" Severa whispered, her eyes darting up at Lucina's face. "That's an odd look for you. Do you hate me now too?"

"That's an odd question," she whispered.

"No, no," Severa laughed, her smile sharp and her eyes dulling with sadness. "No it's not. You've got that look about you. Bloodlust. Complete…" She grinned, and she relaxed her back against the pillar. "And total… bloodlust."

"Is that what you think?" Lucina asked in a thick, whispery voice. She was not wrong.

"It's what I know," she declared haughtily, her eyes flashing in the white-hot sunlight. How dangerous she was when she was sad. "Kill me, then! Let all my blood spill out, and my guts bake in the sun, or whatever!" She threw her head back and laughed. "I guess it wouldn't be so bad if it was you."

"Don't say that," Lucina snapped.

"Say what?" Severa cooed, raising her hand and pressing her sticky palm to Lucina's cheek. "Kill me? Kill me, kill me, kill me? Just do it already, Luci, before I die of boredom."

"Stop saying that!" Tears burned her eyes, and she watched Severa's face transform, confusion and awe and sadness enveloping her expression. I hate her, Lucina decided. These are tears of disgust. Anger. Hate!

"That's so weird," Severa exhaled, her slender fingers dragging down Lucina's cheek. She gave a lopsided grin. "It's almost as if you care."

Lucina kissed her. Harshly. She had kissed Gerome once, but she'd only been playing with him then, toying with his dumb boyish feelings. Now she was kissing Severa to make her own empty chest stop fighting her, to make everything in her head stop rushing, to make the pain ease some, at least some, at least for now.

She was determined now to make Severa pay. This girl who clearly loved her, who dearly loved her, would pay for that love in some cruel way. Grima had taught her that love was weak. It was fear that made the masses crawl at their feet. So fear was what Severa would receive.

Not love.

Never love.

No love. Not ever.

Not for Chrom's daughter.

Look where love got him, she thought feverishly, pinning Severa in place with her lips, feeling her jaw work effortlessly to pry open her mouth and toy around with her tongue. This must have been what Grima had felt, playing games with her father, luring him into bed and making him the unwitting father of fell spawn. How weak and jittery Severa was. She was responding almost greedily, tugging at Lucina's tunic, grinning against her mouth, biting her lip and dragging her down farther and farther to meet her cold, sharp demands.

It was certainly love for her.

For Lucina it couldn't be anything but loneliness. It was hard to feel anything but a raging emptiness, a cold sadness sweeping through her as she was forced to swap positions with Severa, her back slamming against the pillar and her breath lingering heavily in the air as her numb lips trembled and tears flattened the obese white sun. Severa's mouth was working very diligently at her earlobe and then promptly the sensitive skin beneath it. As if she had read Lucina's intentions, she did not do anything gently, and in fact hastened her movements so even the gentlest of kisses felt like brush burns.

Lucina gritted her teeth. Painful kisses from a painful girl. Fine.

Two could play at that game.

She dug her nails into Severa's back, feeling the vibrations of her lips as she chuckled into her jugular. Lucina dragged her nails down her back, feeling her buckle against her, her very spine dipping and jerking beneath Lucina's touch. The fabric of her top was dragged with her fingers, and it was so flimsy that it could come off at any given moment.

The remarkable thing about love?

It truly made people utterly mad.

Enough love, and a person will do just about anything.

"That's enough," she murmured in Severa's ear as she managed to unbutton the front of Lucina's tunic. Severa hummed in irritation, but stopped in her tracks anyway. Her cheeks were flushed and her pigtails were loose about her shoulders. Her shirt had slipped, but Lucina managed to focus on her face and not her breasts.

"Oh?" Severa's hands slipped beneath Lucina tunic and rested on the curvature of her waist. She was pulled even closer, somehow, much to her dismay. "So what was this then? A bribe?"

"Is that what you think of me?"

Severa smiled. It was a small, sad smile.

Lucina turned her face away. "This was fun," she said. Her voice was flat and devoid of emotion. It felt so stale coming from her mouth, she almost vomited.

"Sure," Severa said brightly. "And so is murder, right? Kicking puppies?"

"Severa—!"

"Please," she snapped. "Save it. Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. That's what I owe you, right? For this little show?"

"That's not—!"

"Come on," Severa whispered, kissing her hard and leaving the taste of sweat to sting on Lucina's tongue. She pulled back. "Tell me what you want." She kissed her again. Her jaw. Severa left a bruise there, less of a kiss and more of a smack. Her lips rumbled as they dragged down her skin, her teeth catching on her throat. "I'll do it. But you knew that when you kissed me, didn't you?"

How perceptive. Lucina sighed, resigning herself to it. Severa could never be kept in the dark about her intentions. She always saw the worst in Lucina.

And she loved every bit of it.

"I said enough," Lucina stated sharply.

"Yeah." Severa sighed, pulling back. Her thumbs massaged Lucina's hips for a few seconds before Severa withdrew them from the tunic. "I guess I just got carried away. It's not every day someone gets to touch you."

"There's a reason for that," she said darkly.

"Is it because you're incapable of love?" Severa retorted in her usual flippant fashion.

Lucina found herself surprisingly offended. The urge to slap her was strong, but she decided a different type of blow would suffice.

"You were right," she said, reaching out and adjusting Severa's top so it covered her breasts. "I want you to do something for me."

"Of course you do." Severa licked her lips, and she shrugged. "Okay. I'm game. Give me a challenge."

Lucina took a deep breath. She stared into Severa's eyes, and she smiled vacantly. "Bring me the Falchion," she said softly.

Chapter Text

It seemed pretty damn impossible. A challenge, a test. An impossible task for a wavering subject. Her loyalty was being questioned, and that was not any surprise to her. She openly opposed certain little Grima things, and she always spoke her mind. She would not let the madness that pervaded the world strike her down. And if that became her downfall, well, so be it.

At least she had some dignity left in her.

Unlike Gerome.

She thought through all the ways to go about this mission. An ambush? But they'd tried that, hadn't they? No, Severa would need to be as quick and inconspicuous as a shadow sliding across a wall. There was no real way for her to defeat all of them at once. So she'd have to catch Owain alone.

And… then what? After she stole the Falchion, what then?

Part of her was terrified to find out. The world was already over. She needed to stop pretending like she had any sort of hope.

So, she thought to the startling sunlight as she led her horse carefully toward the bed of a river, her boots sinking into the soft clay. I guess I'm all alone now.

That was okay. Severa wasn't one of those people who went mad with the notion of quietude, of seclusion and silence. She thrived on it. She could think clearly now without the heavy suppression of Grima's little minions hanging about her day in and out. She loved Lucina and all, but holy shit was that girl gone. Severa could sense that madness had scooped her brain clean out.

She pulled her boots off carefully, discarding her thick socks and letting her toes squish the reddish river clay. Icy water lapped at her ankles, and she gave a soft sigh of relief. She'd been riding for days, and all of her muscles were locked and sore. The quick caress of the river current made her shiver with pleasure.

Of course it had crossed her mind to just betray Lucina and head over to Owain's side, but what was the point in that? She'd probably die faster working for that straggling band of resistors, and Severa didn't particularly want to die. It wasn't even about her love for Lucina—which was, admittedly, annoyingly strong, yes. But it was all about survival, and all about…

She slumped.

"You need to understand, Severa," her mother had told her once, disappointment glimmering in her eyes, "that not everything is about you."

"Fuck!" Severa kicked at the water, and it splashed through the air, glittering like shifting little diamonds and falling fast. The water splashed and guttered, and she gritted her teeth. Not all about her. Gods, her mother had been so preachy!

Not everything was about her? Nothing was about her!

Had her mother not even realized that? Had she been so fucking blind?

Nobody really cared for Severa. Her mother had left her to her own devices, and her father had loved his king and queen more than his own family. She'd grown up realizing that her own feelings were nothing to anyone, that her own state of being was just a weird societal formality, so she had to make something out of nothing. Who the fuck was gonna care about her, huh?

Her. It was all her.

It was all about her, right?

She slumped a little. Her mare had raised her pretty eyes to meet Severa's. They were wide and curious. Severa rolled her shoulders, and she sniffed. "What are you looking at?" she asked, pouting a little.

The mare blinked slowly and dipped its head back to the streaming water.

She took a deep breath, resting her palm against her forehead and glancing up at the sky. Why did she even try? The world was over. Grima had it all in their pinching, slimy grasp, and they were all basically dead anyway. Why did she want to survive so badly in a world that had already discarded its desire for humanity?

Why did she cling to her humanity in a world that had discarded the necessity of morality?

Why did her mother's voice ring steadily in her head day in and day out?

She was making a mockery of herself.

What pride did she even have at this point?

Dignity? Is that what she called this? This greedy grappling for approval, this constant desire to be loved and loved and loved by someone who had lost all sense of the mere concept of feeling?

Gods, it was so laughable! Why did this always happen? Why was Severa consistently breaking her back for the love of someone who clearly just could not attune themselves to paying attention to her?

It would be easier if she were as self-absorbed and arrogant as she pretended to be.

As long as she could remember, Lucina had been there. A sort of guiding hand in the dark, a kind face to turn to in times of crisis. Severa didn't know what life was like without Lucina, and that sometimes terrified her. Because when she looked into the recesses of her memory, it was always Lucina who'd dragged Severa out of a nightmare, always Lucina who had wiped her tears and given her advice and patched her scrapes.

All her mother and father had done was leave her alone in a world where gods ate away at little girls' minds.

Oh, she hated Grima. She hated Grima for taking her past— devouring all hopes of a childhood with an attentive mother and father— and for taking her future, with all her hopes and dreams residing in the people whose minds had been festered with only thoughts of pleasing this huge, demonic beast of a deity!

But what could she do? She was trapped by her own mortality.

Her father had taught her how to fight. He'd taught her all about weaponry and chivalry, all about protecting what mattered. To him, what mattered was Chrom, Chrom, Chrom, protect Chrom, listen to Chrom, don't let Chrom fuck himself over, blah, blah, blah. And her mother was the same. All about Chrome, none about Severa. It was awful.

But sometimes she saw that awfulness in her own actions. In her own feelings.

Did she not throw away all sense of honor to follow Chrom's daughter into the abyss and back?

She hated her parents for cursing her with this burden of loving someone unequipped for loving anyone.

When she looked down into the restless river, her distorted reflection peered back. Scraggly brown hair and soft skin marred by the sun's vicious touch. Freckled and spotted and burnt beyond recognition. She knew how pretty she was, how fair and lovely she seemed to be, but the Plegian sun had made her wretched, and she picked off her flaking skin with the tip of her nail, grimacing irritably. Pretty, pretty, pretty. How easily the prettiness molted!

A voice in her head was singing softly. Just like your mother, hmm?

It sounded an awful lot like Lucina.

She splashed her face and counted to ten.

One. Smiles. Her mother and father had never worn out of smiles. It was a sickening thought.

Two. Laughter. Did people even laugh anymore? Was there any real laughter left in the world?

Three. Stories. Little whispery tales of long fought battles, her cheek resting against her father's chest as he bounced her on his knee.

Four. Songs. Had her mother really sung to her before bed, really smoothed back her ratty brown hair and somehow plaited the unruly strands into sleek little braids? Had that really happened? Was Severa making up this bullshit in some feverish attempt to feel better about her lousy childhood?

Five. Lies. "We'll be back soon, Severa." Smiles. Laughter. Stories. Songs. They all disappeared with a cough and a scowl.

Six. Blood. Nobody could tell Severa she wasn't good enough, wasn't big enough, wasn't smart enough. She ripped through them with her words, tore at them with her nails, clawed and tore and snarled her beastly little tongue off while they all came to fear her and worship her. Even Lucina. Even Lucina…

Seven. Death. Oh, she'd known before she'd been sat down. She'd known it before the messengers came. She could just feel it in her heart and feel it in her head. Like something had been ripped from her somehow. Like she'd lost something. Like she'd never find anything worth having so she sought the unattainable.

Eight. Goodbyes. When Lucina and Morgan had left, no one had known what to do. They'd all lost their minds in trying to understand what had happened. But Severa had figured it out. Lucina had broken. Her resolve to never be a pawn had shattered, and now she was gone. And Severa hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

Nine. Truths. She'd known from the very start that Lucina and Morgan hadn't been playing at anything when they'd joined Grima. It had been real from the start. But Laurent hadn't. Gerome hadn't. And now look at them. Now look at her. They were all doomed.

Ten. Loss.

She'd lost everything.

Severa didn't even know who she was anymore. Had Lucina and Grima taken away her identity too?

It was all kinda hazy at this point.

Well, she thought, pulling her socks and shoes back on and leading her horse from the water. At least I still have Lucina. As fucked up as she is.

Not that Lucina cared that much anyway. Severa was just a pawn to her, as she was just a pawn to Grima. And to Grima, Severa was… gods, less significant than an ant, probably! That was sickening.

They'd all grown up without the influence of their parents. Instead, they'd influenced each other. No wonder they were all running around like headless chickens. They were so out of their depth, and that was just because this was nothing but another schoolyard game. Only the stakes had been raised.

They were whacking each other with sticks and tossing dice with their lives.

Severa thought of Nah as she passed a field of fresh wildflowers. She stopped her horse to pick some. She lazed in the tall grass, relishing in this bit of nature that she'd assumed had been lost by this point. That Grima had burned all the flower fields and bled the rivers dry. But it seemed to her that not even Grima could really change nature.

She made a crown of wild tiger lilies and fat red tulips, and she considered the idea that maybe there was hope yet for the world.

Nah would be the one to say it. If she were still alive, she'd take the crown of flowers from Severa's hands and stare into her eyes. She'd hum softly, and then laugh her little girlish laugh, a child at heart, and she'd drop the flowers upon Severa's head.

"The world's not over yet," she'd say firmly. "Don't count us out until the end, Severa."

She stared at the crown, and she thought about the circlet Morgan had gotten made from Nah's dragonstone. What purpose had that served? How sick was he that he'd needed a souvenir from that girl's murder?

The crown crumpled in her fingers, dew smearing against her gloves as the petals bent awkwardly, succumbing sadly to their deformities. She tossed the crown away, wiping her hands off on her trousers and scowling at the dusty earth. The dirt would not give humanity food, would not bear substantial fruit, but it was more than willing to allow flowers to grow.

It was cruel. Humanity would die with dust clinging to their lips and flowers sprouting from their hollow bellies.

Why am I still here? She let herself fall away from reality as her horse trotted away at the beaten road. Is this really about survival? Is that really why I keep fighting?

She didn't even know where her lies began and where they ended. The lines had been kicked and treaded on until they disappeared altogether.

It had been Gerome who had decided to follow Lucina and Morgan. One night, years ago, Severa had caught him slipping sneakily through the halls, his boyish face all masked up. She thought him some kind of fool, playing dress up in the dark. But she realized quickly what his intentions were. So she caught him by the shoulder.

"Lucina needs me," he whispered at her, shoving her back into a wall. Severa remembered being surprised, her eyes widening slightly from the force, and then narrowing from contempt. "Don't you dare try and stop me, Severa. Or I'll— I'll…"

"You'll what?" she'd whispered back fiercely. "Gut me? Ha!" She'd rolled her eyes back in her head. "Go ahead and try."

"Damn it, Severa…" His grasp had been overwhelmingly light, and she'd known he was all talk.

"Listen," she'd whispered, leaning in closer and peering into the dark sheen of his mask. "Let me go with you."

He'd leaned back in shock. "What…?"

"You can't find Lucina by yourself," Severa reasoned, smiling at him wryly. "Come on. With the both of us, we'll definitely find her." What we do with her is the question, she'd thought darkly. Sometimes even now Severa was bitter. Grima was responsible for her unhappiness. But Lucina… Lucina had always alleviated the pain. It wasn't fair.

Gerome had been reluctant. It had taken Laurent's logic to persuade him that working as a group would bear more success. And Laurent, for whatever reason, had wanted desperately to accompany them.

Sometimes Severa suspected that he'd been trying to uncover the truth about what had happened to his mother.

She wondered if he'd found it.

"'Lucina needs me,'" she quoted in a soft, taunting voice. She glowered up at the cloudless blue sky. "No, stupid. You were the one who needed Lucina."

And what about her? Was she not exactly the same as Gerome?

Being alone on the road sucked. All the things she'd been avoiding were flooding her brain all at once. And she didn't want to deal with it. There was guilt that could not be quelled, and there was grief that had not dissipated. She was going to go mad from all this rapid, rushing, raging thinking she was doing.

All her thoughts were colliding. They were fighting one another for dominance and exploding in her head.

Why did silence sound so fucking loud?

On one hand, all she had to do was grab the Falchion and run. On the other, that wasn't all that simple. She was sorely outnumbered. And she wasn't fool enough to think she could beat them all, even if talent was put to the test. It wasn't a matter of if she could kill Owain or not— though that wasn't something she wanted to do. It was more a question of power than anything else.

What she feared most of all, though, was really facing them. Being trapped not in a battle, but in a confrontation. Where she'd need to actually face them. Speak to them. Where they'd hurl their questions, their assumptions and judgments, and she'd just have to sit and take it.

It was agonizing to even think of.

She followed a road of rumors, travelling at a somewhat leisurely pace and isolating herself further from the murmurings of Lucina and Morgan and Laurent and Grima. She knew she'd never fit in there. She never had, she never will. It was just a sad truth. So she asked herself. Over and over and over.

What the hell was she fighting for?

Her thoughts turned to her mother. Her beautiful, perfect fucking mother. How mortified she'd be to have a defector for a daughter. How disgusted and ashamed she'd be. Perhaps that in itself made all the wretched things she'd done worth it.

But oh, then there were the screams. She could not pretend she was guiltless. She'd lost count of the victims, but she could see their faces painted bright red on the backs of her eyelids, and it made her sick just to close her eyes and doze. Because once she let herself nod off, the screams began. And they could never stop.

But it was totally okay, right? It was totally fine. Because it was for Lucina.

It was okay right? To be a murderer. To be a traitor. To be a defective daughter, and desperate dog on a glorified leash. It was totally okay.

It was fine.

She was fine.

This is fine, she thought, tying off her horse's reins on a tree, wind biting at her cheeks and toying with her hair and kicking dust into her eyes. It's fine. It's all fine. I'm okay with this.

Lying to herself used to be easier.

Who thought it was a good fucking idea to let her go out on her own? To be alone for days and days and days with nothing but her head and her heart and her hopes and her horrors to whittle away at her little by little by little until there was nothing left but an awkward, porous skeleton.

It was fine.

But anyway, the sky was steely and ugly, stained by smoky clouds like film glazing the corners of an old mirror, and she stared up at it for a long while, her mouth parting and her eyes glazing over. Is it going to rain? That'll make things difficult. Her thoughts moved through her head but did not halt and did not take purchase. She was thinking without thinking and moving without meaning and that was fine.

Wouldn't it be nice? To know with every step that she was doing the right thing? Wouldn't it be nice to be nice without thinking about niceties and thinking about thinking?

Wouldn't it be nice to not think at all?

The sky was steel and the trees around her were twisted bones stretching up toward a metal prison. Skeletal fingers reaching toward the bars of their cage, left to rot with age.

A makeshift campsite. Nothing really to call their own. They were poverty stricken losers, no real bite to their little campaign. They were practically already dead. It was a little sad. Couldn't she just put them out of their misery? Wouldn't that be the nice thing to do?

End them before the world did. It was a sweet thought. They could thank her in another life.

Lucina would probably be angry. She'd want to pick them all off herself. Especially Owain. So why not get the Falchion herself? Was she scared? Scared of losing? Scared of dying?

What the hell did fear even do, anyway?

What the hell?

Well, anyway, it was fine. They were all dawdlers anyway. All Severa had to do was wait. They got distracted easily enough. Then she could get the Falchion. Ah, but… no, she couldn't… it was always strapped to Owain's back. She watched. When he moved, it was there, glinting in the grayish light.

That was fine. She could wait until nightfall. She'd waited this long.

She'd settled herself between the skeletal trees, the air crisp and tinged with a wintery bite. Like death threatening to crawl out from hibernation and devour all living things in sight. Trees and leaves and all forms of mewling creatures would die soon enough. Wasn't that the truth? That everything died? Was she supposed to be sad about that?

Sadness required some semblance of feeling. She'd gone numb somewhere along her journey. Her nerves were shot and her eyes were clouded with visions of things that were, things that are, and things that could be. She was struck with her own incompetence. Everything in her head was rattling, words collapsing on each other in a race to dash themselves against the walls of her brain. Dash, dash, dash, and the brains, and the brains… they just spilt upon the floor… little bits of shattered skull fragments floating in the goop…

Dash, dash, dash.

It was fine. She wasn't planning on running. Dash, dash, dashing away with her tail between her legs. But she was loyal to a fault. A loyal little attack dog.

Right?

Right?

Right?

She could probably laugh. It was laughable! Wasn't it? How funny and absurd it all was? This fight? This whole living thing? It was laughable. They were all so fucking laughable for even trying! Who would remember them when the world was nothing but dust, when humanity was nothing but fossilized skeletons protruding from the dusty ground, tiger lilies and tulips sprouting from their hollow bellies?

This wasn't fine. This was hell.

She could watch Owain's camp for hours and hours and hours. Days could pass and the leaves and trees could wither away, but that… that wouldn't make it any easier to sneak up and snatch that cursed sword. Gods! Why her? Why was Severa the one that had to be lucid? Why couldn't Gerome see sense and hate himself for what he'd done, for being too weak to resist temptation? Why couldn't Laurent wake up and see himself for the monster he'd become? Why was she alone?

Why was she always alone?

Why? Why? Why?

She rose to her feet unsteadily. She was sick to death of this game. Of being the one who got to weigh lives and judge who got to live and who got to die, and it was so, so, so sick, wasn't it? That she was alive, and the rest… her mother, her father, Nah, Gerome, Yarne, that they'd died and she'd lived, it was just too horrible, because she was horrible, they were all horrible, living under Grima's heated gaze was horrible, and she wanted it all to just stop already, for the deaths to cease, for the confusion to go away, for the whispers in her head to stop, for the gnawing at her heart to go away, for the guilt and pain and grief to just wash clean from her blood caked skin.

But it was just fucking fine, right? Right?

Right?

Right!

A little death, a little more, a few screams or a thousand, what did it even matter at this point since they were all dead and the world had ended and none of them had any hope to spare anyways, so why not do a little worse and bleed a little more and laugh it all away? How about that?

If she could scream and laugh and bleed herself hoarse and breathless and dry then she would in a heartbeat but she couldn't think with all these words committing suicide in her head by throwing themselves into the walls of her brain and crushing themselves up, crumbling and dissipating just as she caught a hold of them.

If she killed Owain, what would it matter?

Would she even care?

Could she even care anymore?

Did she even feel anything?

What made her different than Gerome and Laurent? Was she not just as much of a mindless puppet as them? Could she not just go against an order? Disobey Grima's sweet, loving command?

Grima? Lucina?

It was all muddled up inside her head.

So maybe… if she acted quickly, she could do it. Kill Owain, steal that dumb fucking sword, and then promptly run like hell. But what'd it matter? She'd still be in Grima's awful eyes, and Grima's awful eyes would be on her. There was no escaping it. The longer she spent away, the more she realized that Grima was always inside her head, even if she'd thought otherwise, even if she'd assumed she'd been different than the rest, smarter, stronger, better. That Grima had no influence on her.

How wrong and stupid she'd been!

Kill Owain. Steal the sword. Simple. Easy. Not even a challenge, really! It was totally fine. She was fine.

But the moment her boot slid across the ground, an unsteady step forward, something clicked in her brain, her hair prickling and standing on end, and she realized all too late that there was someone standing behind her, that the wind was not beating at her back and there was something wrong with this picture. She was being attacked. But by who? Who was missing? Owain, Inigo, Noire, Brady, Kjelle…

Severa's eyes widened, and her stomach clenched anxiously. In her cloudy, dreamlike state, even she could recall what it was to have a heart. And it hurt. It hurt so badly to think and feel and wish and hope again. Whispers in her head had turned to screams. The longer she stayed away from Lucina, from Morgan, from Grima's painful gaze, the more potent their grip on her became.

She whirled around, and her voice broke against the chilly air. "Cynthia…?"

A frightfully scarred face hovered over hers, and the golden hilt of a sword came crashing down upon Severa's skull. Pain burst through her head and stars lit up across her vision, swirling across the grimy, steely clouds, and she gasped as she was forced to the ground, her face smashing into the dirt, and she inhaled the dust that she knew she'd one day be and she blinked wildly as blood filled her mouth.

Her head was being forced into the warm, bloody dirt. She smiled vacantly.

"So," the scarred woman spat after she'd properly disarmed Severa, "shall I kill you now, or let the lordling decide your fate?"

Severa couldn't help it. It was all so stupid!

So she laughed through the blood and the dirt and she laughed through the blinding, starry pain, and she laughed because it was the only thing she could do to fill up the hollows inside her chest.

It was very quiet now. The ruins were all vacuous and dusty and brimming with a terrible silence, the kind that choked the life out of all that was living just to feed the monstrous void of the quiet dead. Without Severa, life around the castle seemed… barren.

Perhaps I shouldn't have sent her out like that, Lucina thought more than once, strolling around aimlessly, thinking and not thinking her days away. Laurent appeared and disappeared on whims. He said he was making progress.

With what, she wondered?

She turned Morgan's circlet over in her hands, sitting in her room idly, hoping for something to happen so she could take action. Sometimes she hardly ever saw her brother, and she wondered what Grima was up to, what was going to happen to her when all was said and done.

Maybe it'd be better when they were all dead and the world was nothing but a pile of ash and dust. Then, at least, all the suffering would end.

Lucina sighed. It didn't make any sense. She had the blood of Grima running through her, Grima themself a shadowy figure by her side, and yet it felt as though she was losing. How could that even be possible? The entire world was in her hands!

The entire fucking world. And what had she done with it?

Let it rot.

She turned the circlet so the dragonstone faced her. She found herself slumping, her thumb dragging across its uneven surface. There was still blood caked to the facets of the stone, rusty patches burnishing its shimmery green glow.

"What have I done, Nah?" she whispered, gripping the sharp coppery coils of the crown, and wishing for some feeling to return to her heart. "I've made myself and… and everyone I ever cared about into monsters."

Of course, Nah was dead, and of course, Lucina was desperate. She missed Morgan. She felt as though she'd failed as a sister, and that she'd lost him forever, and that was unfathomable. How could she continue to follow Grima when they'd stolen every person she'd ever loved from her?

Her mother? Her father? Morgan?

She couldn't do this. She couldn't do this anymore.

"What were you trying to do?" Lucina stood, wandering over to her mirror and tilting her head. Her hair, all bulky tufts of uneven blue strands, swishing at her dark cheeks and across her sweaty forehead. She pushed it from her eyes gently, wishing for her mother's cool fingers to press against her warm skin, for her mother's bright laughter to echo in her ears. Silly Lucina. You've made a mess of yourself again! Well, nothing a bath can't fix.

Why had Grima stolen that laughter away? Stolen laughs and stolen smiles and stolen hearts. All Lucina wanted was her family to be reassembled, but every time she grasped at the pieces her fingers were shredded and her blood was soaked up by the hungry earth.

"Nah…" Lucina gritted her teeth. She wanted to throw this damn thing away. What had Morgan been thinking, stealing that dragonstone? Making this ugly crown to remind her of her failure as a ruler, her failure as a friend. It was bloody and bent, and it made her disgusted. "Why did I do this to you? Why didn't I think before I gave the order? Why…?"

But Nah was dead.

No easy answers came to the girl who could only regret herself into madness.

Or… was it sanity that she was feeling now?

Her head was pounding.

"Stupid," she spat, tossing the circlet aside and running her fingers through her knotted, unruly hair. It clattered against the wooden surface of her vanity, and she whirled away, sucking in deep, rattling breaths. Why did everything feel so heavy all of a sudden? Why did it feel like she'd crashed into a pit of snarling words, all these monstrous accusations falling upon her skull at once?

You killed Nah.

You killed Yarne.

You killed Gerome.

You are responsible for all the death. All the destruction.

Doesn't it hurt?

Pain.

It's a part of life. So be alive. Open your eyes.

You are no longer numb to it.

Something was tapping at the back of her throat, little clawing fingers growing more urgent as they applied more pressure and made her breath hitch.

Oh, gods.

She regretted all of it.

But she couldn't go back now. This was her fate. Who was she to fight fate?

There was a soft tapping at her door, and her head snapped in that direction, blue hair flying about her head, her fingers caught in the tangles. She couldn't tell who it was by the knock, because it could only be Laurent or Grima, and neither would knock so delicately at her door.

"Come in," she said in a voice so strained that it grated her ears.

The door swung her way, and Morgan walked in with hollow eyes all bruised and baggy. He waved at her. She waved back, tearing her fingers from the cropped mess of tangled that had arranged itself atop her head.

"You sound terrible," they said vacantly.

"What do you want," she snapped.

"Huh?" They blinked at her. They shrugged, strolling in unsteadily, and they sighed as they turned about, empty eyes searching her room. "Oh. I heard you speaking. I thought I might come soothe your pain."

"Oh please."

The glanced at her. A soft little smile broke on their dry, flaky lips, and they laughed.

"Sorry," they said, wandering to her bed and plopping down. "I just thought you might want me here."

"I don't want you anywhere." She spoke boldly. Too bold. Their eyes flashed to her face.

"Shall I leave you to your own devices, then?" they murmured.

"Can you not use my brother's body to taunt me, Grima?"

Their eyes widened. "I'm still your brother," they said sharply. "Why can't you understand that?"

"You're not my brother," she hissed, glancing away from their face and feeling sickened and shaky and— and shamed. She couldn't breath properly, because some stupid little hands were wringing her throat, and there were tears in her eyes, and she just—! She just wanted this nonsense to end!

"Yes I am," he gasped, his brow furrowing. "Don't you dare. Don't think you can just cast me aside, Lucina. I'm not dead! You don't get to pretend like I'm gone just because I'm…" He looked down at his hands. He held one up shakily, and she found herself staring at its back, Grima's mark branded upon his warm skin.

"Because you're Grima?"

"Yeah."

"How could you expect me to believe you?"

"Because I'm your brother," he said flatly. "Do you want to fight? Really? Because I'm ready to go, sis. Let's go."

Okay, she thought, blinking rapidly. This definitely sounds like Morgan.

"I don't have the time for tricks," she whispered. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you're really Morgan, not Grima—"

"I am Grima," they said blankly.

"You're both?" She groaned. "At the same time?"

"Yeah. I guess so. Does that bother you?"

"It's really confusing," she breathed, sitting down at her vanity. "I think I need a moment to process it."

"That's fine." They nodded quickly. "I didn't come here to confuse you. I just wanted to alleviate some of your pain." He glanced away. "This is more Morgan talking, but… I think you're putting too much of the blame on yourself. We don't want you to feel that way, Lucina."

"Yes," she said thickly, her eyes narrowing. "Because you and Grima make me feel so much better about the things that I've done."

"You can still change," said the boy before her, blinking with large eyes and a kind smile. "Isn't that what's troubling you? All the feelings that you've been suppressing? Come on, Lucina. You know you feel guilty because you know you've made all the wrong choices."

"What the fuck are you playing at?" She jumped to her feet. "Lord Grima, I am no fool. I won't be tested, and I won't be insulted. Get out."

"Sorry," Morgan laughed, rubbing his head sheepishly. "So many voices, it's a little hard to understand, I guess. I'm only speaking what I'm told."

She stared at him with the most incredulous gaze she could manage. He held up his hands defensively.

"I'll leave you," he said, standing up and nodding steadily. "I can't make you choose a side any more than I can make myself. It wouldn't be fair."

"Gods," she huffed, shooting him a fierce glare. "What are you talking about?"

He laughed again, and it was weak and sheepish and thin. "I don't know!" he laughed, unshed tears brimming his dead eyes. "It's all a mess inside my head, and I can barely understand it, but I do know this. You are loved dearly. And I speak for more than myself when I say that."

"Grima cannot love."

"I am Grima," Morgan said tenderly. "And I love you, Lucina."

She sat back down, her knees wobbling weakly and the cushioned bench absorbed the shock of her fall. She stared at her brother's face, and his image was swimming.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

"I'm just trying to help."

"You're not helping me, you're making it worse!" Her voice had raised multiple pitches, and she buried her face in her hands. "Go bother Laurent! Make him feel something for once!"

"Okay," Morgan said, "if that's what you want." They marched over to her and reached over her head. She felt the need to push him, to tackle him and start punching him, like they were small children again, pulling at each other's hair and gnawing on the other's fingers. Let go, let go, let go!

They dropped the circlet upon their head, letting the copper burrow into soft blue curls, and they bounced it from side to side.

"Ah," they sighed, their shoulders drooping in relief. "Wow. I needed that. I'll go bother Laurent now, if that's what you really want."

"Yes."

"Okay." They turned toward the door. "Mm, by the way, Severa was captured."

"What?" Lucina nearly jumped to her feet again, but she was so shocked that she knew she'd just topple to her knees and scream like a wounded animal. She felt crazed. "Why didn't you say anything? What… oh gods, oh gods…" She clapped her hands over her eyes. "No, no, no! I did this!"

"Yes," Morgan said dully. "I have no idea what your motivation was, but now Owain has Severa. Grima's not really pleased about it."

"We have to get her back," Lucina mumbled. "I have to get her back, I… I can't… do this anymore, Morgan… I can't keep losing people…"

"Grima's taking care of it."

Lucina shuddered. That made her feel worse. She was no longer simply horrified, but also sickened.

"Morgan…" She rubbed her eyes, and when she glanced at him he was nothing but a dark blur shuddering in the watery film of her vision. "Why do I feel so bad?"

He turned to face her. He walked very slowly toward her, and she felt the urge to recoil from him. What Grima had done couldn't be undone. She felt like screaming, crying, snarling, but it would not erase the damage inflicted upon both their minds.

He knelt before her, taking her face in her heads. Tears welled up. And suddenly her cheeks were wet and warm, and her lips were trembling pitifully.

"I know," he whispered, bowing his head. "We've both done our share of terrible things, haven't we?"

"Don't be Grima," she pleaded, grasping his hands which grasped her face, tears flowing more and more steadily, and she felt a sob building up in her chest. "I can't stand it, Morgan, I can't bear to watch you suffer. Let it be me. I'll— I'll be Grima's vessel, and, and you can go and do whatever you please. Atone for the sins that have made you so… so sad…" She hiccupped, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to staunch some of these awful, unending tears. "I don't want this, Morgan, I never wanted this!"

"I know," he sighed, his breath hitting her face. "I know you didn't. It's not your fault. We were… we were both tricked by fate into these wicked roles. But I can't stop being Grima."

"But you aren't Grima now!" She sounded like an impudent child, and she wanted to tear her throat out if it meant she'd shut up. "There must be a way!"

"There is no extricating my soul from Grima," he murmured. "But I am thinking clearer now, and I know I can handle it. I have half a clear mind and half a clear Voice still. So don't mourn me yet, Lucina." He pressed his forehead to hers, and her entire body shook with a sob. She was shaking, quaking, and breaking apart as he spoke to her with a kindness she had almost forgotten existed. "I am alive right now, and so are you. Whatever happens now, we're together. Isn't that enough?"

"I—I don't know."

"It's enough for me."

He dashed her tears away with the pad of his thumbs, and he smoothed her hair back as another sob ripped from her throat, soft and unrestrained, timid and unforgiving. She felt like she'd lost herself completely to the void of numbness, and now that pain had resurfaced inside her heart she could no longer bear the ever swelling vacuum of her mind. A dark, cavernous place where only sad voices spoke, where all that stood was her father's back turned to her. As she'd turned her back to him.

"It's enough," he whispered, his own voice hitching. "It's enough."

But it wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted to feel whole.

She wanted her family to be whole.

She wanted her friends back.

She wanted her life back.

Severa, she thought, another sob rising in her throat. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't think, I didn't…

But to say she didn't know would be a lie.

She'd known full well the consequences of her decision. But she'd been blinded by greed, by envy, by a desperate need to feel her father's presence somewhere in this empty husk that she called a life.

And Severa had gone. Because she loved and loathed Lucina like no one else.

Because she'd wanted to get away.

"I want to go back," she croaked. "I want to go back, and I want this all to be a bad dream."

"Me too…" He held her head so it wouldn't droop, and when she opened her eyes she saw his eyes were watery too. "I hate going to sleep and gods filling up my dreams with their endless game of war, and I hate waking up and realizing that it's no dream, that my body is just a battle ground for anything and everything divine to bleed over."

"I'm so sorry, Morgan," she gasped, reaching out and pressing her hand to his cheek. "You deserved better. A better life, a better fate. If I could alleviate your suffering in any way I would."

"We pay for our sins in any way we can, Lucina," Morgan told her gently. He pulled her face closer and pressed his lips to her forehead. She sniffled, and she wished she could scream. This was, after all, absolute hell. The more pain she felt, the more her mind seemed to be fizzling up, sparking rapidly and becoming utterly fried. The prospect of paying her debt, of repenting and letting it all soak in? That was utter torture.

Morgan pulled back, and he rose to his feet.

It all seemed so pointless now.

"When our battle is over," Morgan said, a little boy with a lopsided crown tangled in his hair, "I would like to see our father again."

She did not answer.

I will not let that happen, she thought fiercely.

She could dream of Chrom and of lost redemption all she wanted, but for Morgan? He would have life eternal, and that was a promise.

What was the use of Grima taking his body otherwise?

She rested her arms against her vanity and buried her face in them. She let herself be overtaken with heavy, wracking sobs.

For friends lost.

For the friends she would soon lose.

And for herself.

For her doomed fate.

Chapter Text

She stared at the rope that roughly chafed the insides of her wrists, binding them closely together and rendering them useless. They were all staring at her. Pathetic. The lot of them were pathetic.

They should all just fucking die.

Thinking back, she'd been rather feral when that woman with the scars had dragged her to Owain's camp. She'd been pulled down in incline kicking and screaming, dirt and blood clinging to her face, smeared like warpaint, and when her long lost friends turned their fearful eyes toward her, she'd laughed at the shock in their faces.

"Severa!" Owain had tried to approach her first, and she'd just fucking lost it. Like, who the hell did he think he was? He deserved that fucking black eye. He deserved more, more than just that ugly little discolored patch of skin crawling beneath his eyelid, no, he deserved his entire body to be that ugly burnt plum hue, he deserved to bloat up and exude liquids and unravel in his untimely decay.

Deserved it all.

And of course they called her a mad dog. Rabid. Better put her down.

None of them called her that.

It was her own voice speaking such vicious, disgusting things.

Kill me, kill me, kill me.

I fucking dare you.

It would make her happy to just disappear.

They had attempted to clean her up after binding her, but she'd just snapped her teeth at them like the dog she was, and they'd backed off. She wondered how long this would last. How long she could stand this. She didn't really understand it. It was all crumbling inside her head. Like something had taken her brain and scrambled it.

Interrogate her? Torture her? Taunt her?

No. They did none of that.

She was losing her fucking mind just waiting for them to make a move.

Somebody please, she thought, her fists clenching as she shot a bloody sneer at Noire's face. Just fucking hit me.

Noire watched her with drooping eyes— sad, drooping eyes that echoed all the piety of her priestly father, and it made Severa just so sick to even look at her precious little face, gods, did she need a good punch, why did Severa's hands have to be bound, this was so unfair, gods!

"Stop looking at me," Severa snapped.

Noire lowered her gaze to her hands. "I'm sorry," she said.

"That's right." Severa rolled her shoulders, and she looked around at the faces of Owain's camp. They were all tired gazes, all of them on her, and she felt her stomach flipping about, doing rapid somersaults, because she hated this scrutiny. How could she avoid all these gazes? Stop looking at me, she thought furiously. Just stop it! Stop! Stop, stop, stop! Please! Stop it!

But they didn't stop.

Her entire body was shaking.

Rage, she told herself.

She just wanted to tear them all apart.

That was all.

"What?" She tilted her head, blood caking her lips as she cracked a grin. "What? What is it? Something on my face?"

"Well," Inigo said brightly, "yes. Quite a lot of blood, actually. If you quiet down, I'm sure someone would be obliged to clean that up."

"Didn't ask for help, pretty boy," she said flatly. "Let me go."

"So you can run back to Lucina?" Inigo grinned, and he rested his face in his hands. "Severa, darling, I think you're a little more practical than that."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Testy, testy."

"Inigo." Owain held up his hand. "Enough. She's been through hell already, and she could probably do without your patronizing."

"Gods," Severa cooed, "aren't you just the peacemaker. Does that imaginary crown you wear boost your ego that much?" She rolled her eyes back. "Actually! Thinking back? You're way, way, way humbled. It's kinda boring."

"Hold your tongue," the scarred woman snapped.

"Bor-ing," Severa sang, licking her lips and grimacing as the flecks of dried blood and clots of soil hit her tongue. Disgusting.

"It's okay, Say'ri," Owain told the scarred woman gently. That name sparked some recognition, waking up the tender child who slept soundly in the cavernous, rocky depths of her jumbled mind. She could see them all now with some vacant clarity, like something was clinging stubbornly to her eyes, something foul and ugly that was flaking away with every minute that passed.

"Say'ri," Severa repeated, glancing at the scarred woman and sinking into awe. "No way. You're dead."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Say'ri said, "but I am quite alive."

"How…?" Severa tilted her head, gnarled hair falling into her mouth. "How could you escape Grima…?"

"Grima is not so powerful as you might think, young one."

She scoffed. She didn't need anyone to lecture her about Grima. Grima was the worst. The worst. She knew that. But somehow, somehow that monster had gotten into her head, and now she was thinking all funny, and she couldn't stand feeling so utterly lost, like she'd left part of herself somewhere along the journey and now she was breaking her bones to try and fill up the empty space.

"Is that why all your friends are dead?" she asked bitterly.

"Gods, Severa," Brady snapped. "Can't ya have a little respect?"

She held up her bound hands, and she splayed her fingers out, waggling them at him. "Sorry, what was that?" She leaned forward and smacked her hands against her knees. "You want some fucking respect? Well maybe you should untie me!"

"Severa, you're unstable," Owain said. He was looking at her with sad, pitying eyes. Gods! Just grow up already!

"I'm not unstable," she said, she lied, she lied, lied, lied, "I'm pissed! Let me go, Owain!"

Kjelle stood up. Severa blinked as the girl strode up to her and grabbed her by the arm. All her words and all her ferocity seemed to die in her throat, and suddenly her mind was blank. There was a knife in Kjelle's hand, and Severa was terrified. Death seemed so far off and yet so close that it was kissing her dirty, bloody cheeks and bidding her to just please, please stop. Stop this fight. Stop this meaningless barrage of words and madness.

The chords around her wrists loosened, and in the fog of her mind, in the clogged up cavern of her ears, she could hear the knife sawing through the rope at a vicious pace.

The binds fell to the ground, frayed ends of rope dusting her muddy boots, and she swayed in place.

Kjelle yanked her roughly by the arm and shoved her forward. Nobody objected.

Is this my execution?

Severa's gut twisted in fear.

She didn't want to die a traitor. She didn't want to be remembered by these people as the mad dog they had to put down.

Tears filled her eyes as the camp drifted away, a sad little blot on her mind, a stain on her conscience.

They were moving into the forest. Perhaps so no one would hear her scream.

She rubbed the raw circles that the ropes had licked into her skin, and she looked up at the sky as leafy trees passed her by, tall and twisting and telling tales with their scarred faces and their awkward placement. It seemed to her that there had been a great battle here once, and there were paths scorched into the earth, ashen, barren, serpentine roads clawed through the massive expanse of greenery.

She was moving without thinking, because her mind was half a darkened void. She didn't know how this could have happened to her. She'd been so clearheaded and confident when she'd left Lucina's side, but now without Lucina it was all so hazy and frightening and she just didn't understand. This wasn't fair at all. She wanted to go home, but Grima was too strong to the desert, and Lucina was too far gone to save, and Laurent was a lost cause and Morgan— oh, poor Morgan, he'd never even had a chance or a choice, and Severa couldn't breathe because she felt so immensely guilty. This was all her fault. She shouldn't have followed Lucina, she shouldn't have let herself be sucked into the madness, because she'd never once been fooled to think that this was for the good of the world or humanity.

She'd simply done it because she loved Lucina.

Was that so wrong? To love? To feel?

She should have died. She should have let herself rot in the earth before letting Grima soil her mind and her soul.

This feeling, like something was festering inside her chest, it was the most despicable, disgusting feeling to ever plague or grace her, and if she could rip open her chest, pry open her rips, and cut out the infection before it spread, she would gladly do so.

"Kjelle," she croaked as she was pulled to an abrupt stop. Her eyes had been closed nearly the entire time, and her head was pounding from all these awful thoughts bouncing around inside her busted brain. "Please, just… kill me quickly."

"I'm not going to kill you, you idiot."

Severa jumped, her eyes snapping open. As her vision swam with tears and her mind rearranged itself to accommodate to actually observing her surroundings, her senses returned to her, and she could hear the soft roar of a river or a creek.

"What?" she blurted, her watery eyes flashing to Kjelle's face.

"We've lost too many friends, Severa," Kjelle said, leading her toward the bank and taking a step back. Severa stared at the water, and she was acutely away of how terrible she felt. How much grime was clinging to her flesh and to her insides. To wash herself clean of it all would be a blessing. "We will not lose you too. Not so easily, anyway."

"Oh…" Severa blinked. And then, with shaking hands, she unbuckled her shield from her arm. "That's… sickeningly sweet, honestly. Please, Kjelle, say something nasty. You're frightening me."

"I'm frightening you?" Kjelle sneered. "That little performance back there could have cost you your life, Severa. Thank Naga we're not Lucina."

"Yeah, yeah, thank Naga all you want." Severa tossed her shield to the ground and stretched her arms above her head. "Like that's ever helped."

"And I see Grima's helped you right along the path of utter madness," Kjelle deadpanned. Severa shot her a fierce glare.

"I'm not crazy," she snapped.

"You could've fooled me."

"You don't get it!" Severa exhaled sharply, and she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, her eyelids sore and itchy from exhaustion. "I never acted like this before! I don't know what's going on with me, Kjelle, but I can't… I can't be crazy! Who goes crazy that quickly? I'm not crazy!"

"Okay," Kjelle said calmly. "You're not crazy. But you're not okay either. Severa, you're still loyal to Lucina, right?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"Just answer," she sighed.

"Yes," Severa snapped. "I am still loyal to Lucina. Will you kill me now?"

"No." Kjelle folded her arms across her chest, and she lifted her chin high. "I'm calling your bluff, though."

"What fucking bluff?" Severa threw her arms out, and her voice broke against the dull roar of the river current. "I have spent half my life throwing down my morals for Lucina's sake! You think I'm lying? You think that I didn't know exactly what I was doing? I'm not stupid, Kjelle! I knew!"

"Then why aren't you running?"

Severa leaned back. She stared for a moment, dazed and confused as she tried to process it all. Running? What? Was that even an actual option? Could Severa even dare it? Could she manage it? She was so confused and lost and hopeless. She wanted her mother. Just… her voice or her hand, maybe, just a little sign of Cordelia's old brilliance to guide Severa right. But Cordelia was long dead, and Severa could only bitterly regret all the days spent living with a woman who had died loving everyone but her daughter.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" Kjelle sounded bored. Bored, bored, bored, her head cocked and her eyes narrowed and her lips pouty. Bored, bored, bored. No way. This wasn't happening. No way. Why did Severa always end up looking like such a dumbass all the time? Why did she have to be such a dumbass all the time? Gods!

"You took my weapons," Severa said, "remember?"

"Oh gods, yeah, like that'll stop you?" Kjelle snorted. "Sure. If you really wanted to go, you would've gone by now."

"You held me prisoner!"

"I cut the rope." Kjelle was scowling now. She looked irritated. "I brought you here, in the middle of the forest, alone. No one followed me. Because no one wants to hurt you."

"You're morons, then!" She stamped her foot angrily. "Just kill me already!"

"What is with that?" Kjelle bared her teeth, and Severa took a step back in alarm. "Do you honestly want to die? Get a grip, Severa!"

"Ugh!" Severa kicked the dirt, feeling like an impudent child, and she wheeled around. "Fine! I'll leave!"

"That's not what I wanted, Sev', and you know it!"

"Oh, don't call me "Sev" like we're all buddy-buddy!" She huffed, pausing in her march. She didn't know what she was doing, but everything felt wrong, and her head, her head, her aching head. What could she do? There were songs of sadness and bells of caveats ringing inside her head all like a painful melody striking into her skull. "I let Yarne die, remember?"

"Lucina killed him," Kjelle said quietly. "Not you."

"I watched! I did nothing!"

"Owain killed Gerome!" Kjelle's voice raised furiously, all her anger shaking inside her tone. "None of us are innocent here, Severa! We all care about each other, but we're killing each other anyway! I know you're not the monster you're pretending to be, so drop the act! You are no dog, and you are no pawn of Grima. Let us help you."

"And what about the others?" Severa sneered, whirling around and ignoring how her limp, grimy ponytails flew at her face. "Laurent and Lucina and Morgan? Are they worth bargaining with?" Good luck bargaining with those poor suckers, Kjelle, they'll fucking skewer you, she thought, a little delightedly, a little disgustedly.

"I don't know," Kjelle sighed. "Are they?"

Severa shot her a chilly glance. She lifted her shoulders, and she let them drop, like dead weight rolling from her bones.

"No," she said. "You won't have civil conversations with them. Lucina is loyal to Grima, Morgan even more so. Laurent is merely… loyal to logic, I suppose. He knows when to grovel and when to pick his battles. But unless you make a really fucking good case, I doubt you'll get through to him."

"That's good to know."

Fuck, Severa thought frantically. Did I just spill something I shouldn't have?

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Severa declared.

"Then don't." Kjelle rolled her eyes. "Gods, you act as though I'm forcing you to speak under torture, or something. You're blurting out everything on your own, you know."

"I'm not listening." Severa's eyes fell on the guttering river, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek, debating her options. She could run off and regroup with Lucina, or… or she could take a bath.

A bath seemed so much less demanding.

"What are you doing?" Kjelle asked curiously as Severa untied the frayed, beaten strings that held her boiled leather vest together at her navel. She tossed it aside, a nagging voice in her head chiding her softly, softly, ever so softly, that she should fold her clothing neatly, for it was only the lady-like thing to do, and Severa was a proper lady, right?

Her mother was always haunting her every waking thought and every sleeping dream. It made her skin crawl, because her damned mother would be so disappointed if she could see Severa now, and she'd thought, she'd… she'd thought that this was what she'd wanted, to disappoint her, to soil that perfect image of her, to turn the good blood bad, but it hadn't worked.

It just made everything good inside her explode from the strain of all the evils that she'd done.

Her brain couldn't handle such immense pressure.

To go mad would be such a relief.

"I'm going clean all this bloody and gunk off me," Severa said, yanking at the drawstrings of her breeches. Ladylike, ladylike, ladylike. Well, that wasn't an option anymore, was it? Ladies didn't execute innocent people in cold blood. So she wouldn't be a lady, she wouldn't be her mother's daughter, she wouldn't be anyone worth anything.

That was how it always was, how it always will be.

Accepting it was hard, but she had lost herself and her mind and now she decided she did not care about her future or her past.

She just wanted to scrub all the blood away already.

"Ah." Kjelle plopped down on a rock, and Severa shot her a scathing look. "What? That's why I brought you here in the first place. Would you like me to turn around?"

"Why don't you leave instead?" Severa offered in a biting tone. "Since you clearly trust me oh-so-much!"

"Don't be stupid." Kjelle tossed her head to the side as she lounged back on her little rock. "Of course I don't trust you."

Severa was nearly consumed by a spark of pure, unfathomable rage. What the hell did she think she was playing at? Severa was completely at her mercy, and yet she was toying with her, throwing out bait and yanking it back, tugging on her pigtails like some annoying, bratty child, and it was just like they were back in Ylisse again!

It was just like none of the bad things had ever happened, and it hurt so bad that Severa could barely breathe.

"Whatever," she growled, gathering the fabric of her shirt in a bunch and yanking it over her head.

She kicked off her breeches and let her bare ankles sink into the cool, spitting rush of the river. The icy spray bit at her thighs, and she ignored the steady bite of the current as she let herself sink deeper into the shallows until suddenly her feet slipped from the raised, algae covered rock she'd been edging along, and she was sucked beneath the chilly tide of foam.

The water was clawing at her throbbing nose and busted lips, tearing at the tender skin and threatening to further rip open the gaping flesh. She let herself sink for a moment under the knifing, berating weight of it all, the cold sending a thousand little scattering voices straight into her head. They all screamed for her to get the fuck out of this freezing water.

Her bare toes brushed the cushioned clay of the riverbed, dirt coughing up in swirling ribbons that licked up her calves, tickling her numbed joints.

She kicked off the bottom of the river and kicked herself up until she buoyed on the surface of the river like a cork. The current spat in her face, spraying foam in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, water obscuring the edges of her vision.

Oh, gods almighty, that was fucking cold!

Her head felt like it was about to roll right off her shoulders from the sheer weight of all the icicles clinging to her brain!

Severa floated for a moment, water lapping at her grimy, mud caked skin, and she felt suddenly very strange.

Her head was clear.

As weighed down and freezing as she was, everything in her head seemed to align all at once, and the veil of wax that had hardened over her eyes was cracking. She rubbed at it with her knuckles, twisting her fists into the hollows of her eyes and relishing in the cool relief of water washing the wax clean from her sight.

What on earth had happened to her?

She scrubbed at her face, splashing water into her nostrils to clear out the blood, and she coughed when it shot up into her nose and caught inside her throat. She smoothed her hair back, her eyes widening as she stared at her beaten, distorted reflection in the surface of the water.

This girl had long, scraggly tangles of stringy brown hair, two dull, swollen eyes and a nose that seemed to be pushed inward, strings of red snaking into a monster mouth of shredded flesh. Ew.

She could feel the blood staining her skin, seeping deep into her pores, and she knew she'd never wash that away, but it wasn't bothering her like it had before. She could live with the guilt of it all. She was awful, yes, and she knew it well.

That was just who she was.

Severa could only ever be the worst.

So she rubbed and rubbed and rubbed all the lies from her eyes, and she pushed herself forward without thought.

Yes. She was sane. Perfectly sane. Whatever lapse she'd just suffered, she needed to get past it.

She would not be a pawn in anyone's game.

Not any longer.

She waded out of the river and shook out her hair, fighting against the sucking river clay to get to her clothes.

Kjelle tossed a blanket at her, and Severa wrapped it quickly around herself, flushing angrily. How had she gotten roped into this? Any of this?

"That was quick." Kjelle watched her vacantly, a glint of concern sparking in her narrowed eyes.

"It was cold," Severa sniffed, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. Kjelle rolled her eyes, and Severa's anger was triggered for a moment. "Oh, ha ha! Why don't you go jump in the river, then, if you're so damn tough!"

"Yes, because I would really jump in the river, leaving myself vulnerable so you can run off." Kjelle rolled her eyes. "Okay, Severa."

"Please." Severa swiped at her face, the taste of blood burning her tongue. Metallic tangs seemed to be the only familiar taste she knew. Her stomach was growling in revulsion. "Listen… you were right."

"Hm?" Kjelle smirked at her, cupping her ear and leaning forward. "Come again?"

"Forget it!" Severa wheeled around, her heels digging into the dirt, and she gathered her breeches and her leather vest together, her face burning from embarrassment and rage.

She dressed herself hastily, tired of Kjelle's incessant gaze, and she flung the blanket back at her head. She deflected it easily.

"I'm tired of this," Severa declared in a hoarse voice. "If you want me to talk, I'll talk."

"How traitorous of you."

"Or I can just not tell you anything." Severa marched forward back onto the path, her feet stamping into the dirt viciously. "Or I can do that!"

"Calm down, I was only teasing."

"Don't tease about that," she hissed. "I am a traitor. I'm betraying Lucina for all of you, so you better not fuck up!"

Kjelle fell silent. Perhaps because she felt guilty or perhaps because she was surprised. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Severa needed to just focus on what was happening now.

There were a few different scenarios involving Severa's future.

She could return to Lucina and adore her unconditionally. Die for her, for that honor and glory that came with a dutiful death.

Or she could stay here and die at Owain's side. A traitor's death. A coward's death.

But a death all the same.

It was her conscience now that had to decide.

Could she truly bear the horrors of Grima any longer?

So many people and things had fallen into obscurity because of that damned dragon.

So much beauty and love had been lost because little foolish mortals were weak in the face of gods.

Even nature seemed to fall to the inevitability of death. The trees were bony and bare, and those little flowers she'd seen on the road, the tiger lilies and tulips, they were long gone. Severa wondered if she'd dreamed them up. A thought of Nah, so far beyond the reach of life, and suddenly life was bewitching itself into her reality. Unwelcomed and uninvited.

As she walked, her hair clung wetly to her neck and cheeks, a mild discomfort in the wake of her throbbing nose and shredded mouth and aching muscles. She pushed it from her face, inhaling the scent of the dead leaves and the moist soil as cool air stung her wet cheeks, fresh and biting. She walked with an awkward gait, pain shooting to her joints with every step, something that she had to ignore in order to keep moving.

In the end, it didn't matter what or who she chose.

She would die either way. Into the dust she went. The tiger lilies and tulips would spring from her hollow belly as her skeleton molded into the earth.

Such was life.

"You're back," Inigo observed. A twinge of a smirk and a tired wink enough to pass for some meager act of flirtation. It was clear his heart wasn't in it. "Took a dip in the creek, I see."

She ignored him. Her feet were moving on their own accord, and they marched her straight to Owain.

Suddenly all that good nature, all that amiability, it was all gone, and she was cut off by a blurring figure, a scarred face suddenly inches from hers and a pronged golden sword pressing precariously to her throat. Severa took an instinctive step back, and her back smacked straight into a hard chest. She whacked an arm away as it tried to encircle her throat.

"Oh my gosh!" She shoved Inigo back furiously, and she noted that even Noire had a bow trained on her. Even Brady had taken up a weapon, an axe weighing heavily in his fists as he glowered at her beneath his heavy brow. Or, perhaps, he was just staring. She could never tell with him. "Will you guys calm down? I'm not going to murder your precious leader!"

"It's not that we don't trust you, Severa…" Inigo smiled at her softly. She noted he had no sword on him, but there was a tome open in his palm, and that sent a cold shudder through her, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. To lose a friend to dark magic was like losing a finger to frostbite.

"It's just that you don't trust me." She threw her hands up. "Listen, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. I've done awful things. But, you know what?" She shot him a grand, vicious smirk. "So have you."

His face fell.

The guilt of it all was eating him alive, and she could see it writhing beneath the surface of his pretty features, dulling the light in his eyes and turning him into something cold and lifeless. A corpse strung up and left to do a dance with the living.

She felt a conviction like no other.

Something was snapping inside her head.

Her emotions were doing a roundabout, and her mind fell back into the cloud of madness she'd clawed herself out of. Her heart was not hers to command. How could she be so foolish as to believe she had any sort of agency over her own fate?

No. She'd sold herself to Grima long ago.

And so she grinned.

"Oh," she laughed. "Come on! What's that face for? Didn't you enjoy it?"

"Excuse me?" Inigo looked astonished, and that only fed the fire that had sparked within her brain, consuming all thought and feeling and forcing her to relinquish all her sadness.

Such was life.

Her head was filled with such despicable thoughts. There was only one solution.

Die.

"Magic is all alive in you," she said jerking a finger at his face. "Dark magic pumping into your heart instead of blood, turning your sweet disposition all sour, turning all your kind thoughts to ashes, and you like it! You like feeling the edge, the branding sort of high that blazes through you when the magic licks your senses clean, and all you taste is the blood of your kill in your mouth, burning the back of your throat, ceaselessly reminding you that you!" She flicked her wrist up toward the sky, her index finger pointing accusingly at the heavens. "You enjoyed watching your friend fall upon a sword!"

Inigo's mouth had fallen open. Tears were in his pretty eyes, and a pink tinge had graced his dark cheeks. The tome in his hands was shaking, for he was trembling, and his fingers were quaking so badly that the book slipped between them and collapsed upon the ground.

"Severa!" Owain called to her as though he were scolding a bold little child. He called from behind the safety of Say'ri, and that made her somewhat relieved, but there was something poisonous inside her head that told her that this was an obstacle, that Say'ri had lived on stolen time for far too long, and now it all must end.

She turned her head toward him, and perhaps he saw the wickedness that had crawled inside her head within her eyes, but perhaps he didn't, because he continued on.

"Don't you dare," he snapped at her. "Gerome's death was my doing, and I'll take the blame for it! You don't get to point fingers, not when you've let yourself fall so low! You can't call us out on any slip of morality, not with the blood on your hands!"

"But dark magic is practically bleeding out of this little camp," Severa said. "Can't you feel it? It's all around you! In the people you love the very most!" She laughed. "Oh, isn't that just how it goes? Love a person enough and that love with poison them. Nothing can be sacred for you, exalted pretender."

"Leave." Owain's voice was firm, and that made her furious. She wanted his voice to shake and break from horror, from terror, from shame. "Run back to Lucina, Severa. Tell her to come if that is what she wants. Come kill me."

"I can do that quicker, I think!" Severa kicked a log out of the fire pit, catching it in her hands and smashing the end of it into Say'ri's shoulder, watching the embers flicker against the cool air, darting like the dying light of fireflies as the wood split and as coughed back into her face. It blinded her for a moment.

She toppled onto her side dodging a swipe from Say'ri's sword.

"You…" She laughed, throwing her head back as tears filled her eyes, "you were right! Not to trust me! You were right, you were right!"

"Silence!" Say'ri spat. "No more of this. You will tell us why you came here, and you will not raise a hand to any of these children again!"

She pushed herself shakily to her knees, laughter still spilling from her lips. Her face was on fire. Her eyes were burning, punctured by white-hot needles, little knives streaking over her vision, and she heard crackling, like glass crunching underfoot. Her cheeks were throbbing. Crackling, cracking, crack.

No, no, no, she thought frantically. No, Grima, no don't take my face, don't…!

Her fingers flew shakily to her cheeks, which were wet and hot from an onslaught of tears, and her laughter only heightened into hysterical, unbearable sobs.

There were talons in her heart and tearing her insides to ribbons and she wanted it all to go away.

"Enough!" Brady sounded furious and she knew it was him because his voice slipped through her ears in a scathing drawl that clawed impatiently down her skull. "At least tell us where Cynthia is!"

Cynthia?

She was on her hands. Her laughter had become erratic.

The sobs were heavy and uneven.

Cynthia.

You took her too, didn't you?

A grin split across her face.

She knew that because she was no longer even inside her body.

She'd been evicted.

Her mind was floating somewhat uselessly inbetween planes, wavering between void and corporeality, and nothing seemed to faze her but how ugly and twisted her face looked in that moment as she stared at it, the way her lips snagged up near her busted nose, how her crazed eyes widened and rolled, utterly captured by the staggering force of Grima's sheer madness.

Possession was a funny thing.

Severa's mouth opened wide. The smile never faltered.

"I killed her," she sang.

Severa, standing in a state of purgatorial terror, was suddenly overcome by the most unfathomable rage.

No.

No, no, no.

Grima didn't get to steal her face and besmear her name.

"You liar!" She shrieked. The earth shook and shattered. She was staring through her own eyes again.

Her own words hung limply in the air like a corpse swaying on a noose.

She bowed her head. They were all staring at her, and she could feel their hatred. Her skin was sloughing off. She'd outlived herself, and now her body was gone, and she felt like everything and everyone had been stolen from her, and she'd known from the minute she'd gone on the road that Grima had gotten bored of her, and now she was just a fucking nuisance.

"No…" Severa whispered, her voice thick and her vision bleary. "No… I didn't… I didn't…"

How blind she'd been to reality. She was no better than Gerome. Her heart had been Grima's to toy with the day she'd bent the knee to their children.

Cynthia… dead?

It seemed absurd.

This all seemed so absurd.

There was no feeling to the revelation.

There were no feelings left inside her.

Just as there was no feeling when the lance pierced her spine.

Grima exposure was, apparently, quite deadly.

Who knew?

She found herself falling backwards. Her head rested upon a pillow, and she sighed. Everything was warmer, and there were fireflies dancing in her eyes, tickling her cheeks as her vision was cleared of tears. She realized her pillow was a lap.

Nah smiled down at her, her face as smooth and childlike as ever. She rested a crown upon Severa's head, a lopsided little wreath of tiger lilies and tulips, and she laughed. Her laugh rung like twinkling little bells, and tears sprung to Severa's eyes. She reached up, her fingers brushing her old friend's face, and when she realized that this girl was solid, that this girl was real, a disbelieving smile fell tremulously on her lips.

Finally.

Some fucking relief.

Chapter Text

"Someone has to save her," Kjelle said. The cursed spear had appeared in her hands before Noire could speak. Laughter was cracking like deadening wood in a fire pit, spitting and caving in. "Grima's inside her head! We can't just let Severa get stolen from us too!"

Inigo was eying her, his expression unreadable. He watched her muscles work with every flick of her wrist. His eyes were trained on the spear. Would he say something?

"And killing her will do what exactly?" Brady snapped, his voice heightening in pitch. "If she's really being controlled—!"

"There is no if!" Kjelle's eyes flashed dangerously. "She was about to tell us everything. She told me she was going to tell us everything, and then she went and snapped like this? No. No, Grima's been waiting for her to crack."

Inigo breathed in sharply. "Put the spear down," he whispered. "Kjelle. Don't do this."

"Inigo is right! Is this not exactly what Grima wants?" Owain gasped, tears glistening in his eyes. He had no sword nor shield nor even the Falchion. He was listening to Severa's terrible, screeching laughter, and every peel send a lash down his spine. Noire saw it. She felt it. He was being tortured by his friend's descent into madness. "Killing her is not the way!"

"She wants this," Kjelle said, whirling the lance in her hands. "She would rather die now then become a pawn of Grima's. I know that. I won't let her succumb to it."

"Kjelle," Noire choked, her fingers trembling against a loose drawstring. "Don't…"

"Don't try to stop me!" Kjelle marched up to Severa, who sat in the grass, tears streaming down her beautiful face as it broke with a twisted laugh.

"Kjelle, it's cursed, the blade, it's—!" Noire had spoken too late. Inigo flinched as the blade was sheathed in Severa's back, the laughter choked upon a sudden swell of blood. Noire felt the magic pulse through the air, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. That was supposed to be me, she though in horror as Kjelle was struck with the same blinding force of strength she'd inflicted upon Severa.

Kjelle fell to her knees. She held the shaft of the spear with both hands as it sunk deeper into Severa's spine, the sound such movement made too horrid and indigestible to fathom. The width of Kjelle's shoulders trembled, hunched over and bent at inclining slopes. Noire was pressing her knuckles to her lips, thinking rapidly that this image before her was a horror of her own doing. Thinking, as the blood bloomed across Kjelle's back, that this could have been her.

"What…?" Owain sounded distant and faint, as though he were standing on the other side of a wall. Instead, he was only a meter or so away from Noire. His eyes were glistening from the shock of grief. It was striking him twofold. Such despair was expected. She had caused it with her dark magic and dark heart.

"Noire," Inigo uttered vacantly. His eyes did not rise from the ugly sight of Kjelle and Severa bleeding out. "We made a mistake."

She nodded mutely. Owain rounded on Inigo, his eyes flashing in horror.

"This was you?" His voice broke. How pitiful. "Inigo, what were you thinking? Undo it!" He stumbled toward Inigo, his feet falling heavily upon the earth, and he snatched Inigo up by his lapels, shaking him furiously. "This was you and your dark magic, wasn't it? If it was you, then you must know how to fix it!"

Inigo was throttled against the air, his beautiful hair falling upon his forehead like a swan's feathers plucked and ruffled. His dark face betrayed not a hint of alarm or fear, but a distant gleam of sadness that touched only his eyes, drooping the elegant curl of his lashes, wrinkling the angled precision of its corners.

"I can't fix it, Owain," he said softly.

"Yes you can!" Owain's jaw clenched, and Noire felt her ribs crushing her heart, crushing her soul, because she was responsible for this fury that must have belonged to some great man or king, but not Owain. "You're powerful, I know you are! You did this, so you fix it!"

"I can't."

Owain stared, his mouth moving but no sound came out. He turned his eyes to Brady, desperation gleaming there, and Brady managed to stumble toward Kjelle before she coughed wetly.

"No," she spat, her body shuddering as she supported herself upon the cursed lance. "You can't help, you… you can't. I know that. I knew. It's okay…"

"You cannot expect us to truly believe that!" Owain cried, his voice shaking and his fingers looping tighter around Inigo's lapels. "Kjelle, we need you! This isn't fair. This isn't right! Neither of you should have to die!"

"Severa's… dead already…" Kjelle's words were thick from the blood lacing them. "She died. I did that. This is my punishment."

"That's ridiculous." Owain exhaled, and he turned his eyes to Inigo again. "No one deserves this. This kind of magic is why we lost Lucina and Morgan in the first place! This isn't right. It isn't fair!"

He sounded like a child. He pleaded and moaned, his eyes so large and gleaming that he truly seemed to be a decade younger, innocent of all the horror that sunk into the world around him. He was begging. Not for Kjelle, but for himself. He begged for the world to stop turning so he did not have to grow up and lose himself to the strain of disillusionment.

"I'm sorry," Inigo said.

"No," Owain gasped. He twisted to look at Kjelle, and he stared at her back. She'd slumped forward, her fingers locked together around the spear that burrowed into Severa's back. "Kjelle. Get up. Please, stand up."

Kjelle sat in her slump, her forehead resting against the shaft of the lance. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, iron pressing to their tongues and burning their nostrils. Death was hovering over them, looming like a gaping shadow.

Owain released Inigo, whirling and stumbling, stepping as though blinded toward the strange, crumpled forms of their fallen friends. Noire's eyes flashed to Inigo's, and she stared at him, the force of her gaze peeling back his eyelids in horror. They met the same conclusion.

This dark magic could not touch Owain.

She cut between him and the blood soaked corpses, her arms falling open at her sides in a guilty offering. In the same motion, she was preventing him from coming any closer to the death and darkness that hung around the cursed dead, so thick and heavy that it shimmered in the air like heat radiation.

"Stand aside," Owain said, his voice hoarse and heaving. She did not miss the hint of a bite there. He was furious.

"The curse hasn't left them," Noire said, her throat constricting at the sight of his contorted face. This was her fault. This was all her fault. "I'm sorry, Owain, I—"

"I don't understand." Owain was shaking, his shoulders shuddering as his lips trembled. "I don't get why this happened! Why would you curse the spear? What purpose did this serve? You killed Kjelle!" Owain's index finger wavered over her face before prodding the bare flesh between her collarbone and breast, as close to her heart as he could manage. "You know I can't let this simply pass. I can't. You did not think it wise to perhaps inform us that the spear was cursed? You must have known this would happen. No. I can't let this go unpunished, Noire. I can't."

She swallowed thickly. She understood.

It was all her fault. She knew that well.

So she bowed her head. Tears were hot in her eyes, stinging beneath the heavy lids. Her chest was closed up, like massive hands were squeezing her ribs together, desperately attempting to make them crack.

"And what punishment do you plan for her," Inigo drawled, "oh mighty king?" His tone held a perpetual sameness that could not be weathered by the sight of death. Did he not care for Kjelle and Severa? Did he have feelings at all? What has the magic done to you? Noire wondered, nausea churning in her stomach.

Owain sucked in a shaky breath. When Noire looked up, she saw his dark, doe eyes, filled to the brim with tears. His long, flat nose was turning pink, a flesh that traced the light cluster of freckles that dotted the outline of his protruding bones.

"I…" Owain choked. He didn't want to punish anyone. He didn't truly see the point in punishment. What was he the king of? The ashes of the corpses that littered the streets of Ylisse, and the dust the clung to the skin of those less fortunate to have not been burned before the Risen's grotesque curse found them.

But Noire had made a truly catastrophic mistake.

They'd lost more than just two dear friends. Kjelle had been their strategist. Their tactician by any other name. What could they possibly do without her? Without her strength and wit, without Cynthia's optimism and ingenuity, what chance did they have?

"Perhaps we should make it simple." Inigo moved fluidly, rounding perimeter of their cursed friends. He walked with a deliberate haughtiness to his steps, as if to prove that he was unaffected by this turn of events. Noire watched, her tears seeping through her lashes and falling without protest against her dark cheeks. Inigo lifted a large iron spoon from their pile of makeshift culinary tools. He lifted the spoon over the fire, and he thrust its end into the heart of the writhing flames.

"What in Naga's name…?" Brady croaked. He'd been quiet until now, standing beside Say'ri and wiping his eyes furiously. "Inigo, put that damn thing down!"

"Hm?" Inigo lifted the spoon from the fire, and its end hissed in protest as the red hot metal glowed against the chill of the air. "But this is what our king wanted, is it not?" He smiled brightly, stepping forward and letting the grass bow beneath his feet as he strode past Noire's teary face and stood right before Owain. He waved the iron spoon lazily, a smile resting vacantly on his lips.

"I…" Owain's eyes darted from the glowing red bulb attached to a burnished iron stem to Noire's face. "I did not mean… Inigo, I won't hurt Noire. That is not the kind of punishment she deserves."

"Did you not just accuse her of killing Kjelle?" Inigo laughed, a tinkling sound, like a bell tied to the throat of a kitten she'd once owned. It pierced through her, ricocheting on the walls of her skull, and she felt that he was unearthly now, with his haughty laughter, a sign of detachment from the bony hands of grief. "If that were true, then this justice is merciful. Don't you think?"

"No." Owain's voice was thick. His tears fell in fat, limp lines against his splotchy cheeks. "What you're suggesting is punishment for thieves and rapists. Noire… she— she made a mistake. I will see to her punishment. But it will not be this!" Owain waved his hand fiercely at the cooling spoon. Inigo continued to smile, and cool twitch of his muscles made her stomach turn in horror.

"You said Kjelle was killed," Inigo said, smile bright, eyes drooping, iron spoon hissing in his fist. "I agree. Her death was a terrible mistake, not murder but a form of manslaughter. The guilty should be punished accordingly." Inigo offered up the brazen spoon as though it were a scepter. "You shouldn't flinch so easily from your duty. You're the Exalt, Owain. It is your job to punish the guilty, when the guilty is one of your own. And I am guilty."

He bent to his knees, and Noire exhaled, letting out a puff of breath that had been lodged inside her aching throat.

Owain's mouth opened. No sound came from his parted lips, but tears continued to fall, and his jaw moved as though struggling to find speech.

"Inigo," Noire whispered, crossing her arms and clenching her fingers over her heart.

"I cursed the spear," Inigo admitted in a breathy, dry voice. "I was fully aware that I was doing something terrible. I did it anyway. Now, are you going to do this?" He lifted his head, tilting it curiously. "Best be quick before the metal cools."

"I don't…" Owain sounded so faint and strained. He was speaking from a distance. He was not in control of his body, which seemed bewitched by Inigo's offer of pain for pain. Noire couldn't speak up, couldn't bear to object. She was too terrified. Of Inigo. Of the pain he was begging for. She saw now what his unearthliness was, and it was not lack of grief that inspired it.

Inigo grieved.

He grieved and grieved and grieved, and he wanted that grief to be extinguished by the power of pain, by the solace that punishment could give. He was so ashamed. So ashamed and grief-stricken that it turned his wits inside out.

And Owain could see that.

Owain saw that clearly.

That was why he took the spoon gingerly, and then promptly hissed in pain, tossing the glowing hot iron into the grass and waving his burning fingers out into the air.

"Stand up," he said, touching the crown of Inigo's head, his blistered fingers disappearing beneath the downy white feathers of his hair. "I'm not going to say this again. There is no reason for anyone else to suffer over this…" Owain's eyes flashed to the sight of Kjelle and Severa, bodies slumped in the grass.

Inigo's jaw tightened. Noire watched him say absolutely nothing in response.

"This... if this terrible accident has proved anything, it's that we hardly communicate." His eyes rose to Noire's. Guilt swarmed her, bees vibrating inside the pit of her stomach, and she could not bear to look at the bodies any longer, because she knew, she knew, she knew it was her fault, and how could she even possibly begin to face this mistake.

Kjelle was dead.

Kjelle! She'd done this to Kjelle! Of all people!

Why didn't I say something? She glanced around, her thoughts knocking on the inside of her skull, jittery and unsettled. Why couldn't I just tell them what I did to the spear?

Because she was scared, she supposed, that someone would have stopped her from using it on Lucina.

Or, maybe, she was scared that no one would.

This was a terrible fate. To be responsible for such an enormous tragedy simply because fear had prohibited her from speaking up and speaking out and now Kjelle and Severa were dead because of her weakness.

Her mother would have been proud.

"From now on," Owain said, his voice thick and distant, "we have no secrets with one another. I will not allow any of us die by our own hands. Not like this. Not again."

Inigo let out a short, rattling breath. Noire watched him, the way his shoulders shuddered and his spine bent as he hunched over before Owain, half in prostration before his king, half in utter anguish over what had just transpired. And she was guilty, because she had done this to him. She'd forced him to say the incantation, to curse the lance, to bring this end upon them. And he suffered dearly for her manipulation.

But still, she felt little more than guilt. A twinge of uneasiness. Nothing more.

If she had to rot in this darkness, than he too would feel the decay bite into him.

Her eyes flashed away as Owain knelt in the stiff, dead grass, taking Inigo's face in his hands. His voice shook and shot through her, grazing the surface of her brain.

"Stand up," he said softly. "Stand and fight with me. We have only Lucina, Morgan, and Laurent now to face. If we are to win, then I need you by my side. Do you understand?"

Envy panged her chest, and arrow lodged between her ribs, but she kept still and silent as stone, her throat burning and her tears of shame catching in the glaze of her eyes. She forced them back. How simple tears were. Simple sadness for simple people, she supposed. Her mother would not take kindly to the tears of a guilty, envious little girl. Pining for a king. No, there would be no more of that.

Whatever love she bore Owain, this was where it ended.

She would fight for him. Die for him. But she would distance herself from him, and cut a chasm where a tether had once been.

Noire felt her emotions and her heartache and her feverish guilt drain from her quite suddenly.

This was quite like the feeling of her talisman taking over, consuming her with nothing but a fit of toiling rage.

But this was calm. This was empty.

This was peace.

Noire cupped her hands together, listening the air moan as the oxygen was sucked from it, pooling in her fingers as fight guttered into life, inhaling a garbled, hissing breath. The fire grew bigger and hotter and wilder, and she felt it licking her callused skin. It tickled, and she smiled, a tight smirk, a dark grimace, and she turned her eyes away as the flung the vat of flames upon the thicket of dark magic that clouded the corpses she had made.

The fire caught upon the vapors, the excess dark material, like it was kerosene. Everything as consumed with a violent roar, a great hurricane of light and heat that flickered and hovered and spat. The bodies were instantly devoured by the waves of flames, toiling high and low, sending slithering little tongues into the grass.

The entire world was red.

She bathed in the glow of it, rocking back on her heels, and she tasted the death and the dark and the dry curls of smoke.

Goodbye, she thought. To who or what, it was impossible to tell.

Perhaps she was saying farewell to everything.

Surviving was simple. Evaluate the most powerful player, make yourself an asset, and then never allow yourself to become anything more than something valuable to keep and bargain.

It was simple logic, really.

Even if it was a little lonely, loneliness was better than dying.

Perhaps that was why he spent most of his days alone, busying himself with spells and strategies, moving pieces across a table and realizing more and more each day that he'd aided in the apocalypse.

But none of that mattered much. He was alive and grateful.

Simply put, he was blinded by the glory of it all. The glory of winning. Winning, of course, meant surviving. It was easy to choose the winner when the entire world fell at your feet.

Following Lucina was the best decision he ever made.

He could do whatever he wished now. No one bothered him. No one asked him what he was doing, prodding him with details, milking him for information. No one cared enough to knock upon his door for a question. To ask if perhaps he wanted to go outside for a bit.

This was solitude. Pure and simple. It filled him up and drained him out.

Gerome's death had been quite a shock. Really. That had been so strange. Inigo and Owain had cut the boy down, and suddenly he was gone.

All Laurent really concerned himself with was the body.

Why had they not burned the body?

Lucina wants him to return, he'd realized quickly. He will be a Risen, and we will have our friend's corpse to toy with like a marionette on jerky strings.

So be it. Gerome had been a fool. A blind hound on a short leash. Lucina had toyed with him in life more so than in death anyway. He'd never had a will of his own, and the Grima in Lucina was something he could not truly see or understand. Not like Laurent.

Laurent saw all.

Laurent knew the truth.

He recalled at first how wary Severa had been. He would listen to her whisper heatedly about how strange and awful Lucina and Morgan had become, how it seemed that they were not playing at Grima's show, but truly believed in the dragon's power.

She had not been wrong. Laurent had seen it the moment he'd arrived. But what did that matter? They were Lucina's companions, Lucina's loyal dogs to call upon for anything. If they were not, then they were dead. And Laurent was not so keen on becoming a marionette corpse, no, no, no, not quite.

"You're being absurd, Severa," he'd said time and again, lifting his chin and lowering his eyes. He knew how he looked. How his pointed face and suspicious expression drove the right message in Severa's empty little head. "Aren't you a little old for this senseless competition? Lucina's your queen. Your Exalt. Do not presume to know better than her."

It was a thinly veiled caveat.

Stop this talk, Severa, he pleaded with her internally. You will serve Grima and you will like it, or else you will be too dead and gone to care.

She was certainly smart and certainly proud, and that was a bad mixture for someone who was so very keen on survival. She'd follow Lucina, sure, but not Grima. Never Grima.

Perhaps that was what had gotten her into this situation.

Morgan had entered his chamber briskly, his feet clapping coolly against the weathered stone. Laurent did not betray his surprise to him. No one came to his rooms, not unless something was terribly wrong. He stood as he entered, lowering his head reverently.

"I have a task for you," Morgan declared. His hair was blue and wispy, a little shorter than Lucina's, but curly around the fringe. A circlet dug into his brow, Nah's dragonstone shining bright in the dimness of the room. Laurent found himself staring. He had not really seen it before now, and it filled him with a strange swell of warmth. And the more he looked, the more his eyes burned. It was intoxicating.

"Would you like a potion for your dreams?" Laurent offered vacantly, sunspots blotting his vision as he tore his gaze away from the gleaming green gem. "I've already made a few, in case you came calling." He turned quickly, his feet moving thoughtlessly toward a cabinet shelved with all sorts of strange concoctions he made in his spare time.

"Oh, no thank you," Morgan said brightly. "I'm okay with dreams right now. They've been quite pleasant as of late."

"Oh?" Laurent did not betray his suspicion. He turned about, lifting his eyes and head and brow. "That's very good to hear. I feared you might never recover from executing Nah."

Morgan's expression dampened a little at the suggestion of his soiled hands. Laurent supposed that was out of turn, but he was known for being blunt and not realizing his bluntness, so he knew that this would be overlooked. And Laurent was quite bitter about this particular thing. Nah had… not been killed in a fair way. She had not been given a fair fight. At the very least Gerome and Yarne had died in battle. Nah had been murdered without cause. So what if she had killed Gerome's old Wyvern? That thing had been ancient, and her life for the life of a beast did not seem equal.

Laurent never spoke his opinions on such matters, of course. He was far too good at keeping his head down and his mouth shut.

"I've come to terms with Nah's death," Morgan said with a shrug. "It was necessary. I understand that."

"So she no longer haunts your dreams?" Laurent inquired. Morgan seemed different. Calmer, for certain, but also lighter and airier than he'd been in a long time.

Morgan hummed softly, offering nothing but an indifferent shrug. "I don't really want to talk about Nah," he said. "I want to talk about Severa."

"Oh yes." Laurent sighed deeply. "There is the trouble. What would you like me to do about that?"

"Can you do me a favor?" Morgan smiled sheepishly. Laurent watched, and his instincts were howling at him to keep away from this devil of a boy. "Lucina's made a mess of everything. We're short on men, and Severa can't possibly defeat Owain and the rest by herself. Couldn't you help her out?"

"You want me to aid Severa in wiping out Owain's army?" Laurent asked dully.

"Oh, don't call them that!" Morgan plopped down on a table littered with phials and half filled cauldrons and diced ingredients. He swung his legs jauntily, and Laurent did not miss the way they snapped awkwardly at the air. He was too old now, too big to be behaving so frivolously. "An army implies that they have men or power. They're a band of resistors. Just take them out!"

"You must trust my abilities quite a lot," Laurent murmured stiffly.

"I believe in you," Morgan said gently, his eyes big and bright. "I believe that you can do this little thing. Bring Lucina back Severa, and she'll love you dearly for it."

"You presume I have any interest in Lucina's love."

"You're human, aren't you?" Morgan's voice was innocent and soft, a sprig of confusion dashed into the mix. Laurent knew he was just a boy, that he didn't know the strangeness of love and lust just yet, but he was clever enough. He knew what had driven Gerome and Severa on this dirty path, and he simply assumed Laurent was here for the same reason.

Laurent had a haughty notion that he was more complicated than that.

"I suppose I am," he said. "I cannot deny that humanity has its tethers, and that I am tied to a certain expectation of longing for companionship. But I do not expect anything from Lucina, nor do I want it."

"Ooh!" Morgan's eyes were large with awe. "How eloquently put! I forgot what a wordsmith you are."

"And you?" Laurent's eyes moved like lightning, eying Morgan from his deep blue curls to his swinging feet. From the twinkling crown stabbing into his brow to the scuffs on his boots. "Do you ever feel such human inclinations?"

"I love as any human would," Morgan replied.

"Is love enough for you?"

"I love more than I suppose is healthy for someone of my birth," he laughed. "I love. I hate it. It's such an awful pain, and it makes me want to die a hundred times over. But I am capable of it, Laurent. Is that what you're wondering?" He tilted his head curiously. "Are you doubting my humanity because you can sense my divinity?"

"I'm merely curious, my lord," Laurent said carefully.

"You want to know my intentions with this request," Morgan clarified, nodding slowly. "I'm not stupid, Laurent, I know you don't trust me. Let me give you some peace of mind. I am not Grima's pawn, and I do not wish for you to die for me. I only want Lucina to be consoled that Severa will not die because of her own selfishness."

"Because you love her," Laurent said vacantly.

"Of course." Morgan blinked rapidly. "She is my sister, you know. I love her, and I love all of you. I love Owain as well. I love everyone."

"You're quite the confusing fellow, aren't you?"

"I love because I am human," Morgan admitted, "and I hate because I am divine. Can you not figure that I cannot help either?"

"And did you love Nah?" Laurent asked sharply.

"Do you find that so difficult to believe?"

Laurent stood upright, his shoulders squared and his chin pointed. "I believe only in what I know for certain," he said firmly.

"What a funny way to live," Morgan hummed, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. "What would you like me to say? I love Nah dearly."

"But you had no trouble killing her."

Morgan's shrug was quick and indifferent. "It's done. I can't change it. I'm sad, you know, that it happened, but what do you think I should say? I didn't want her to die. I would have done anything to die in her place. But there's nothing I can do."

"I don't think I believe you," Laurent said, "but I suppose that matters little at the moment. Whatever. I'll do as you say."

"A wise chose," Morgan admitted, his smile soft. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to do this."

"It doesn't matter what I want." Laurent turned, snatching a jacket from a hook and pulling a tome from the table. "I will be back."

"I count on it," Morgan chirped.

And that was what sent Laurent quick on Severa's trail, moving at a level pace through and through along the map, using magic and tricks to hasten his pace. The journey was easy. He made it just in time to watch Severa get skewered by Kjelle.

That should have made him furious.

Instead, he felt an inexplicable wave of sadness.

He stood by and watched it all happen, never lifting a finger to stop it. He could taste the dark magic here and there, but that was from the cursed lance.

If he continued to watch, if he kept up this charade of apathy, would all his friends simply diminish? He wondered Morgan's true reason for sending him. Had he known Severa would fail, and that Laurent could not save her? Had he figured Laurent would feel despaired by his friend's death and break upon seeing such a pitiful display?

But Laurent could only be sad. He could only feel that something had been wasted, that years had gone on and on without meaning, and he had wasted all his time.

He gripped his tome tightly, watching Inigo in his despair trying to get some satisfaction in being punished, a true masochist. It didn't work, of course. Owain did not care to hurt anyone if he could help it.

Laurent felt like a ghost. No one saw him. No one knew him. He hardly even knew himself, a figure on a hill, a dark and foreboding omen of the death and destruction to come. And he knew what would happen if he opened the tome, if he released all his fury and all his despair.

And then the world would crumble at his feet because he'd let Grima devour it all.

Resisting the beast for as long as they had, that was true power.

And Laurent was considering it. He was truly thinking to himself, Well, perhaps Grima will spare me.

But he was not anyone's favorite, and as valuable as he was… he wasn't quite enough.

Nothing was enough.

But did that matter?

Owain could not win. Laurent was no fool. Owain could not possibly slay Grima without the fire emblem, which had been lost somewhere, some place, by the past generation.

But Laurent had a heavy heart. Full of human misery. Full of human love, human pain.

And the past was a difficult burden to bear.

He could not possibly fulfill such an unfair demand.

He thought about Nah's death, and it terrified him. The amount of cruelty it would take astounded him.

And as quiet and submissive as he was, he did not think himself cruel.

The bodies went up in flames, and the dark magic danced with them.

Laurent prayed to any god that would listen for the souls of Kjelle and Severa. He prayed that perhaps he was wrong. He prayed.

And he remembered his mother.

She had never prayed. She'd believed in only the things she knew. She believed that there was no luck, no chance, only numbers and probability, and what had that gotten her? She'd disappeared one day.

He wasn't a fool.

He understood that she was dead and gone with the rest. Though seeing Say'ri, with her scars and her missing arm— that gave him some semblance of hope. He did not approach her though. How could he? He was unwelcome. A traitor.

Laurent needed logic on his side. And logic dictated that he went back to the winner. Played the game to the fullest.

So, with his heavy heart and his tail between his legs, he returned to his mistress and prayed.

He prayed for salvation for them all.

Chapter Text

"Won't Lucina be angry?"

Morgan lifted their head. They'd been lounging in the heatless sun, letting it kiss his bare arms and legs as he laid himself out on a bed of rubble and dust. Their eyelids felt heavy, and they yawned, dismissing the little girl with a languid wave of his brown hand. Be gone, restless spirit, he thought with a hint of amusement, leave me to my beauty rest.

"Morgan, don't wave me off!" Nah dropped to her knees beside him, which they found amusing, because Naga would never. Nah is not quite Naga though, Morgan thought delightedly. That makes her so much better, doesn't it? Yes, yes, she's absolutely divine, and absolutely dreadful, it's amazing! She's amazing.

"Did you want something?" They propped themself up on their elbows, blowing a few stray blue curls from his eyes. "I was just getting to sleep, too."

"Don't give me that." Nah huffed, her cheeks blowing out impatiently. Morgan found themself surprised. How very like a child she is, they thought, feeling squirmy with discomfort. A part of him found it quite funny, this revulsion. Come now, Grima, does it bother you that you are infatuated with a manakete girl so young she's practically in infant in comparison to us? To you? Come on! Don't tell me you're adopting some human values!

Morgan shuddered. They groaned, and curled up onto his side, a great shiver running through him. All of a sudden they were feeling a little nauseous.

"Morgan!" Nah did not touch them. He wished she would, because he missed it, that tender sensation of feeling another person's skin. Feeling! Of all the things in all the world that he ached for, he never thought he'd be filled with the unbearable longing to simply feel something again! "What's wrong with you? Gods, you've lost your mind. Why do I even bother?"

"You love me," he giggled into the dirt, coughing dust into his eyes. They watered, though he didn't find the grit rubbing against his eyeballs to be any discomfort. "Mmm, I wish you didn't. And I certainly wish I didn't love you any."

"Morgan…"

"But!" They sat up. They smiled at her brightly. She recoiled. "Nothing we can do! Are you here because you're curious? About how I'm gonna end the world?"

"I don't want to hear about that again." Nah's fists clenched at her knees, and Morgan stared at her vacantly. Their eyes were all red and bright and flashing in the sunlight. They shrugged.

"Okay," they said. "What do you want to talk about?"

Her nostrils flared in frustration, which they found immeasurably funny, and they choked a giggle into their hand. What fun this was! When did they ever have fun anymore? Not that they felt particularly good, they were quite unwell on the inside, but this was all great fun, wasn't it? Nothing seemed so perfect as getting on the nerves of this unsettling little girl.

"Laurent, Morgan! Listen to me, will you?"

"We've got more things on our mind, Nah, daaah—ling," he sang, his voice tense and taut and twittering. He barked a laugh at her wary expression. "Oh, don't give that look, it's not bad at all, and we don't want to hurt you none, no, no, we just want to hear you talk a bit."

She took a deep breath. "Grima," she addressed, her voice empty. "Let me just ask you something. Did you send Laurent to his death?"

They stared at her vacantly. The silence bled on as they folded their legs beneath them, a tiny pout forming on their lips.

"I dunno," they slurred, offering a shrug.

"In Naga's name…" Nah buried her face in her hands, as though that might help her comprehend what was spilling from Morgan's mouth. He laughed at her.

"Naga's dead!" he said brightly, turning his head at a sharp angle to peer up at her. "Deader than you, even. You can't pray to any god when you're half a god yourself, you know."

Nah dragged her hands down her face. There were tear tracks glistening there.

"Are you going to tell me," they asked in a loud, giddy whisper, "that you don't know what to do?"

Nah's jaw was tight. "I could stop talking to you," she said coldly. He felt that like a slap, and he shrunk back. "I don't want to. I know it would hurt you. But to cause Grima some type of pain, I'd do it, Morgan."

"Please don't," he whispered, his eyes wide.

"Then shut up," Nah hissed, reaching out and catching him by the front of his undershirt, "and tell me why you sent Laurent after Severa."

They glanced down at her hand tugging at the cotton fibers of the beige shirt, his face succumbing to a giddy flush as a second set of eyes opened at his cheekbones.

"We like this side of you, little one," he murmured. Somewhere in his voice, if she listened carefully, she'd find a hint of shame. He didn't want it to be like this. He thought about his crown, and he wanted it back, he wanted his clarity back, his soul, his heart.

"You make me wish you'd killed me efficiently," she spat, shoving him so hard he collapsed onto his back, his head colliding with the concrete. It didn't hurt so much as her words did.

"You want to know why I sent Laurent off after Severa?" Morgan let himself lie on the ground, watching the blinding white-blue sky as the sunrays licked it dry. "I was curious."

"That's not an answer," Nah said coldly. "He could very well kill them all! Have you not thought of that?"

"Ye of little faith. Whether he kills anyone or not is his choice!" Morgan bolted up straight, anger flashing in their eyes. "Don't pester me with your obnoxious morality! Ugh, you're such a pest sometimes! I don't know what Laurent is going to do, and I honestly don't care. Let him join Owain! Let him burn them all! Why is that my problem?"

"Because you ordered him to go, you fool!" Nah clapped her hands over her head and shouted in frustration. "You are a godly creature, Morgan, but you act as though the hand you play in the destruction of the whole world is simply fate!"

"Is it not?" he offered weakly.

"No!" She jumped to her feet, and her dress shimmered in the sun, pale fabric billowing like wisps of smoke. "No, you idiot, you are causing the apocalypse and chalking it up to destiny. I won't allow it."

"Like you can stop me," Morgan said faintly. It was not spoken tauntingly, or incredulously. He was merely whispering a fearful fact, something that made his skin crawl, something that gnawed him up on the inside.

"Stop you?" Nah spat. "Or stop Grima?"

"What's the difference?"

"You're deluding yourself, Morgan," she said coolly. "Grima does not love me. Grima doesn't offer any comfort or love or sadness or regret. You do exist without Grima, I promise you that."

"You don't understand," Morgan said, shaking his head. "I haven't the slightest idea where my mind ends and where Grima's begins. I am me and I am us."

"You shouldn't toy with people's lives so frivolously," Nah said darkly. Morgan ran his fingers down his face, not feeling the stroke of it, but still comforted by the movement. "Lucina regrets sending Severa, but you don't seem to care at all what your actions might cause!"

"What does Lucina's regrets have to do with me?" Morgan asked innocently. "I am not Lucina, you know. I don't need to mourn over my mistakes."

"This is ridiculous," Nah breathed. Morgan's vision swam, the world flashing an unholy red for a moment, and tears fell hotly, slipping against his cheeks and causing laughter to bubble from the pit of his chest. He laughed in the silence, his head pounding viciously, and he laughed and laughed, garbled and bright. "Morgan…?"

He dashed the tears away, blinking through the veil of crimson. He looked down, and saw that his fingers were smeared dark red.

Blood.

He was crying blood.

"Oh…" He laughed faintly, swaying slowly. "Oh, I feel so funny… this is so funny…!" They clamped their hands over his mouth, and Nah's pretty face splashed against the red of the world, hazy and distorted, like it was lost in a crimson fog. His body felt weak and wobbly. "Oh… come on… what's that face for?" They all giggled at once. "Didn't you enjoy it?"

"Morgan…"

Her voice was music to him. He heard it, and it tingled inside his ears, caressing his brain and making the headache seem less intense than it truly was. He laughed, sitting and standing and blinking through the blood.

He tasted the bad energy. It was him. He was the bad thing. He needed to get it all out. He needed to find a way out!

Die.

Now, now! That was a little extreme, no? Why not try to suffer it? Or better yet, give in to it!

He laughed, rocking back and forth, the blood falling faster from his eyes. More had appeared. Eyes. They were plentiful. As was he. Them. Her.

"Magic is alive in you," they taunted. Alive, alive, alive. A funny thought, to be sure. "Dark magic is pumping in your veins instead of blood, turning your sweet disposition all sour—!"

"Morgan!" Nah grabbed his face, and he felt her soft fingers press against the blood smeared sockets of his excess eyes. "This isn't you speaking! You know it, don't you?"

They laughed. Her hands were so soft. Soft, soft, soft! What a mystery feelings were, touches were, and she just gave it to them! Such a lovely, stupid girl.

"… all you taste… is the blood of your kill in your mouth…" Morgan breathed shakily, laughter dying in his throat. The fog was beginning to lift, and the giddiness he'd felt was depleting, and it made him feel so bad. He listened to his own breath rattle. Nah's face was a pale, smooth beacon amongst the sea of red. "Oh…"

"That's right." She dashed the blood from his cheeks. "You understand. You are not the one who is speaking, Morgan."

She's not worth our time, he thought. They thought. He felt sick, and he choked on a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

"You're not worth my time," Morgan mumbled, raising his shaking hands and pressing them to hers. He could feel her knuckles. Her bones beneath warm skin. Was that real?

"What are they doing to you…?" Nah whispered. He stared. And he let his thumb stroke the protrusions of her knuckles.

"Nah…" he choked, clean tears slipping from his eyes. "Nah, why can't I feel anything?"

"I don't know, Morgan."

"Don't lie to me," he said thickly. "You know. You must know… you…" He sighed. He heaved a deep breath dizzily.

He blinked rapidly as she kissed him. His cheek. And then the corner of his mouth, so soft and chaste he wondered if it had even actually happened.

"Grima is draining you," she murmured into the crease of his lips. It made his skin tingle. "You say you are Grima, but that is not fully true. You are too human to wholly be Grima. So they are draining you of your humanity. Starting with your sense of touch." She raked her fingers through his hair, and he could only tremble in horror of what she was saying. "Gods don't need that sort of thing. Pain and pleasure are irrelevant."

"But I like those things…" Morgan sank into her arms.

"Maybe you aren't so much Grima as you thought."

He closed his eyes. He rested his head in Nah's lap, and she smiled down at him. It made him happy to see her smile.

"Severa is dying," he whispered, reaching up to touch her face. She stopped him before he could, grasping his hand.

"Yes," she said in a low, lofty voice. "I know. I am with her."

"How can you be with her when you are with me?"

"I don't know," she replied with a shivery little laugh. She lifted his circlet, which he'd discarded somewhere, he could not remember where, and pressed it into his curls. A warm sensation washed over him. He let out a breath of relief. "Grima can be inside you and the puppet that was once Robin, can't they? I suppose it's the same."

"So you really are Naga." Morgan closed his eyes.

"I am not, nor will I ever be Naga." Nah sighed. "My situation is not like yours. You were… planned. Grima created you. For me, it was… more like a promotion without any real training."

"So you really don't know what you're doing." Morgan smirked at that. "Good to know."

"Likewise, you were promoted," Nah continued, ignoring him, "as manaketes are a dead race, and you are… not quite a manakete, but I'm not picky. I got to choose you."

"You shouldn't have done that…" he moaned. "Stupid. Stupid, Nah. Why would you choose Grima to be your Voice?"

"Who better to listen to my lectures?"

"No one is going to hear you if it is me speaking your words!" Morgan coughed, and he rubbed his eyes miserably. Blood and tears stained his skin.

"There's no one left to listen anyway."

Morgan closed his eyes. She began to hum softly, pushing the hair from his face, and then she began to sing. He listened to the words, and they took him away, far, far away from Plegia, and they took him to his cradle, where his mother sat and hummed and murmured words to the tune under her breath, too self-conscious to sing properly.

Nowi used to sing. He remembered that. She'd sing loudly and off key. This very same song, she would sing, a lullaby to dragons, a sweet little tune meant for a lyre, meant for quick fingers to pick up as a mellifluous voice twittered off the soft words. To you, little one, I offer you all the world, Nowi'd crowed, dancing as though with an invisible partner. To you, little one, I offer a thousand wings unfurled. To you, the sky is a gift, and to you the stars are meant to pluck. To you, to you, only to you, do I offer all the riches and all the jewels so that they might bring you luck.

"To you," he sang, lying on the deteriorating stone ground, "I'd give a hundred years, a thousand years, a hundred thousand years…"

"Morgan?"

He heard Lucina's voice, but he was too tired to get up, so he let himself lie there, his hoarse voice scratching upon the air.

"To you, little one, I offer you my millennia, so you may dry my tears…"

"Morgan!" Lucina had grabbed him at one point, and his face was against her stomach as she cradled him. "Morgan, what… you— you're all bloody! What on earth happened?"

"To you, to you, to only you," he sang, "to you, to you, to only you…"

"Gods!" Lucina's voice was strained and distant. Suddenly Morgan was in the air, being hefted up and carried away from the bright sun. "You're burning up! Morgan, can you hear me? Say something."

"To you," he sang through tremulous lips, "to you, to only you…"

In the shivery daylight, Morgan sat, clutching a battered cloak to his chest as the snow fell, blanketing the ruins in a soft, pure white. No one could see the scuff marks. The scorch marks. The blood stains. It was all pure and soft, like a new baby being born. The air was thin and sharp, and it knifed through his lungs as he walked, listening to the own rattling of his breath in the vacuous space left in the wake of his fallen home.

Owain stopped a few meters from Morgan, his eyes big and his mouth parted as he watched the snow gather in the boy's curly blue hair like a circlet. Every step Owain took, it got harder and harder to breathe. The air was so thin here. Who had put the fires out, anyway?

His feet did not make footprints in the snow, but he felt as though he'd been treading for miles.

"What are you doing here?" Morgan asked innocently.

"I…" Owain looked around confusedly. There was no one. Just them. Them, and whiteness stretching for miles. "I don't know."

"No?" Snow caught in Morgan's long eyelashes. His skin was so dark, it was hard to believe they were really cousins. Owain had soft, porcelain skin, freckled lightly from his mother's fairness, but smooth and free of other blemishes due to his father's genes. "Well that's alright. Nobody knows, really. Do you want to sit?"

"Not really." Owain shuffled uneasily. "Aren't you going to try and kill me?"

"Kill you?" Morgan blinked rapidly. He laughed, and the sound rung for miles and miles and miles, and the snow froze in midair just to stop and listen to the beautiful sound. "I love you, Owain! I'd never ever want to kill you!"

"Really?" Owain gasped excitedly. The world was spinning, and he was grinning, and Morgan's face became round and chubby. He grinned a gap-toothed smile, and he hopped off the ground, dashing through the grass on his stubby legs and snatching him by the wrist.

"Don't be silly!" he gasped. "The justice cabal doesn't kill their own! Anyway, you're missing the fun!"

"Fun?" Owain asked distantly as Morgan dragged him forward through the neatly trimmed grass, under a fully formed archway and down a set of marble stairs. It didn't occur to him that a moment ago, he'd been standing in the ruins of this place, watching the snow fall.

"Only the most devilish fun," Morgan snickered. "Come on! The others are all waiting!"

"Others…" Owain nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, right. Is Severa there?"

"Of course!"

"And Kjelle?"

"Duh!"

"Cynthia…?"

"Come on," Morgan groaned digging his heels into the dirt to make Owain budge. "Let's go! We've waited long enough, I think!"

"Stop being so pushy," Owain laughed, "or I'll push you back!" He tackled the boy to the ground, relishing in his alarmed shout. Morgan was slippery though, and he wiggled out of Owain's grasp, dashing through the courtyard, his bare, dark feet clapping against the polished rock. The soles of his feet were a lighter brown and callused beyond reason.

"Morgan?" Owain was lying on his stomach in a cool mosaic courtyard. Sunlight filtered in through a skylight, shooting fire across crushed red stones, glinting oceans waving along the walls, gray mountain peaks shining in the distance. All of this was purely an illusion created by the thousands of glittering stones inlaid in grout, creating designs that made Owain's eyes glisten.

"Don't you love it here?"

He pushed himself upright and twisted his head. Sitting amidst the centerpiece of the mosaic floor, an onyx and pearl solar eclipse, Nah hugged her knees to her chest. She stroked the smooth stones beneath her, and her auburn hair glinted like strung copper in the sunlight.

"It's pretty," Owain said vacantly.

"Yes," she agreed. "This was my favorite place in the entire palace when I was young. I learned to walk here. Before I was sent away."

"I remember that," he murmured. "I cried."

She smiled faintly. "I cried every night," she said. "I missed home so much. And when I finally returned, it was gone. Life is cruel that way."

"This is a beautiful place…" Owain turned his head, admiring the pretty mosaics. "Hey! Are you gonna play with us? You totally should, it'll be great!"

"I'd love to," Nah said, rising to her feet. "But you must promise me something."

"Yeah, sure, anything for an Immeasurably Beautiful Dragoness such as yourself!"

"Don't hurt Morgan," she said, looking up at him with a sad smile.

"I'd never!"

She stared at him. She seemed to relax in relief. "Of course you wouldn't," she murmured.

"Okay, let's go!" He snatched her by the little hand and dragged her through an open pass where they were plunged into darkness. When the light came back, he was splashing through the shallows of a creek, and his hand was empty. He looked around confusedly for Nah, but she was nowhere in sight, and that made his stomach twist into knots.

"Nah…?"

"Owain!" A head full of bright orange hair came into view and he nearly toppled into the creek as Cynthia shoved him, laughing brightly as she danced between the slippery rocks, singing that nobody could knock her down.

"Cynthia!" He beamed at her. He followed her path, hopping slippery rocks, rocks that should have made him slip, because, you know, they were slippery, but they didn't. "Where are we going?"

"Who cares?" She flashed him a sly grin. "We're just going!"

"Okay!"

"Owain!"

He stopped. He knew that voice. His heart seized in distress, and he whipped around. "Noire?"

"Owain, help!" She was thrashing in the middle of the creek. "Severa and Kjelle pushed me in! Help me! Owain!"

"I'm coming!" Owain gasped jumping from his rock and falling into the bottomless pool of water that seemed to reach inside his head and wash out all his thoughts. When he resurfaced, gasping and choking and coughing, it was dim, and he had to squint to even see along the surface of the water.

There was a figure standing at the bank. Owain's heart leapt with joy, but simultaneously sunk in terror. He swam uncertainly, an hour or two passing, exhaustion creeping up on him, and he collapsed at the figure's feet.

"You're late," his father remarked.

"It was hard," Owain gasped, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "I'm no good at swimming! What does this have to do with fighting?"

"Let's go." His father turned away, and Owain jumped to his feet, trailing obediently at his father's side.

"Do you know what Myrmidon means?" Owain asked his father as they moved quickly through the forest.

"I don't."

"Ant men." Owain beamed at his father, who simply glanced down at him, puzzled.

"Why?"

"Who cares?" Owain burst into a fit of giggles. "Isn't it fun? Ant men!"

"It sounds silly. Move quicker, Owain."

"I'm going as quick as I—!"

"Shh."

"What?"

"Shh!"

"Father, I—"

"Owain, get down."

"Huh?"

"Get down!"

"I…"

He was lying on the ground, a heavy body pinning him to the dirt, and the sound of thwipping arrows echoing in his ears. The hollow sound of an arrow burrowing deep into flesh was hard to mistake. Another arrow. And then another. How many? How long had Owain lied there, breathing in the scent of death, waiting for it to take him too?

They'd dragged the body off, but Owain had lingered. They wanted him to go back. He needed a hot bath. Warm bed. New clothes. Come on, Owain. Time to go, Owain. Time to say goodbye, Owain.

A tiny hand wrapped around his.

"I'm leaving soon," Inigo told him quietly.

"Not the best time."

"I'm going to war with my mother and father."

"No you aren't."

"It'll be safer for me with them, I think."

"Don't leave me."

"And I'll learn a bit about dancing and other stuff along the way."

"I don't want to be alone."

"I'll send you lots of letters."

"Please…"

"Besides, you've always got Brady."

"I need you here. Please."

"And that— what'd you call it? The justice cabal."

"None of it really matters anyway."

"You should stop going into the woods by yourself, though. Without me here to protect you, you'll only get into trouble."

"It should have been me."

"You're being awful quiet, Owain. It's honestly frightening me. Are you ill?"

"I wish it had been me."

"And what is it that you wish, Owain?"

He cracked his eyes open. They'd been sealed shut from salty tears. When he took a breath, cold air knifed through his lungs, and he shivered. He'd fallen asleep outside. Had he been keeping watch? He couldn't recall. He touched his cheek, and found it wet.

"Owain?"

In the dark, he could make out Inigo's face. It was very distinct, smooth yet sharp, always jutted at an angle as if he were smiling at something indistinct. Owain let out a soft, exhausted sigh, and he ran his fingers through his matted hair.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"I don't know, I just got out here." Inigo watched him, his eyes flickering fast. He smiled widely. "Let's take a walk."

"Okay." Owain wasn't really in the mood to go walking, but he needed some air, and his entire body felt stiff and achy. He stood, wobbling a little on his feet, and Inigo steadied him, pulling him by the hand away from their makeshift camp and into the woods. It felt familiar.

"What were you dreaming about?" Inigo asked as they walked, careful not to snap twigs underfoot, following a trail of shrubbery.

"A bunch of things." Owain shrugged. You left me. I wanted you to stay so badly, and you left me. He put on a brave face though, and he smiled. "I played with Morgan and Nah and Cynthia. It was nice."

"And then…?" Inigo's voice drifted into the cool night air. Owain blinked at him. "Oh, come now. I know that's not all. You were crying, you know."

"Tears of positivity, my friend!" Owain gasped. His voice had broken in the middle of his great feigning of bravado, and he stumbled. He found himself gripping Inigo's bicep as he gasped for air.

"Let's… rest for a bit," Inigo suggested, pulling Owain toward a tree and resting his back against it. Owain slid down to the ground and pulled up his legs, burying his face in them. He listened to his breath rattle against the chilly night air, and he was reminded of the dream, which was fading now, where he'd stared at Morgan, his breath rattling amongst the snowy ruins of Ylisstol.

"We're making good progress," Inigo said. "We should bee in Ylisstol within the week."

"Great."

"Try to sound a little more enthusiastic," Inigo said gently. "I know it's hard, but you need to put on a brave face. A lot of people are counting on you."

"Three."

"Four." Inigo sighed. "Brady, Noire, Say'ri, and me. Don't forget me, I'm unforgettable."

Owain raised his head. He offered a vague smile, and then he chuckled. "Well, I mean…" He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "I guess."

"Say'ri says she's going to leave us once we reach Ylisstol." Inigo smiled weakly. "You have anything to do with that?"

Owain turned his face away from him. He took a deep breath.

"She fought her war, Inigo," he said. "I won't make her die for mine."

"Is… that what you think?" Inigo leaned forward, his eyes big and wide and full of terror. "That we're going to die?"

Owain bolted up straight, and he waved his hands quickly, furiously, stumbling to amend his mistake. "No! No way, we're gonna totally survive! I just don't want to—!"

"I don't actually care," Inigo said blankly, his eyes still big and wide in the bright, childlike innocence of his childhood. "I think it's a really good thing for you to do. Selfless."

"Oh." Owain flushed, and he sunk against the tree trunk, shifted so he wasn't sitting on protruding roots. "No, it's not really selfless. If we fail, she'll be dead soon anyway. If anything it's more selfish. I don't want to have to see it happen."

"You're a good Exalt." Inigo moved. He resituated himself so he was sitting across from Owain instead of beside him. They stared at each other's faces. Their coloring was completely opposite of one another, Owain with his porcelain skin and black hair, and Inigo with his rich brown skin and snowy waves. He smiled much easier than Owain, too. His were easy lies. Owain found it difficult to keep the lie up nowadays. "I wish I could have seen you rule more than just a broken world."

Owain watched him quietly. He moved his eyes to and from Inigo's face, his thoughts racing. No, he thought. I am a terrible ruler. Lucina is the natural Exalt, she shines at this position, and she captured the whole world with her skill. I can barely hold together a handful of people, let alone an entire nation. But what could be done?

"I miss everyone," he whispered.

"We all miss everyone."

"Not the way I do."

"That's so self-centered, Owain!" Inigo grinned broadly. "Gods, and they say I have a big ego!"

"You do, though?" Owain rolled his eyes. "You wanna fight? I have the Falchion, I'll fight you, right here, right now."

"Oh yeah?" Inigo smirked. "Sure. Let's fight. You won't win, though."

"Of course I will," Owain scoffed. "I'm the Exalt, remember?"

He turned, pulling at the sheath of the Falchion strapped to his back. He then considered something, his fingers drooping from the grip. "Wait…" he said confusedly. "Inigo, do you even have a sword?"

When he turned around, Inigo was standing. He offered out both his hands.

"If we fight," he said brightly, "we fight my way. Take off that heavy thing."

Owain unclasped the sheath and set it aside, taking Inigo's hands and jumping to his feet. "What are we doing?" he asked.

"Dance with me."

"What?" Owain's eyes widened. And then he gasped delightedly. "You're gonna dance? In front of me?"

"No, I'm going to dance with you." Inigo clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, closing his eyes. "There's a huge difference."

"Well, yeah. I can't really dance for real, you know. I can just do silly stuff." Owain gripped Inigo's hands tightly. "Can't I just watch?"

"No, you're going to dance with me." Inigo took a deep breath. He swung Owain's hands. "Ready?"

"Not really, but let's go."

They began with simple steps. One, two, three, one, two, three, like a waltz. Inigo guided his feet, holding Owain's waist and gliding easily from one position to the next. His feet hardly touched the ground. They moved slowly, but it didn't feel like an agonizing pace. They moved, drifting through the silence, and in focusing on Inigo and his steps, it made it hard for Owain to think of anything else. For that, he was gratefully.

The pace grew faster then, and Owain snorted when Inigo twirled him, stopping him just so his back was against Inigo's chest. He was breathless now with the constant switches in pace, and he slumped.

"That was fun," he breathed.

Inigo responded by pressing his lips to Owain's neck.

Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end.

"Can we try something even more fun?" Inigo's whisper tingled the sensitive skin beneath Owain's ear. Owain licked his lips, his heart thundering in his chest, and he wondered if this was something he really wanted, if it was something real, or if he was just sad and desperate. His breath hitched as Inigos fingers trailed down his chest.

How could it even matter at that point?

His nod was more like a shaky bobbing of his head, and he blinked as Inigo whirled him around, dragging him by the front of the jerkin. Inigo's back bumped into a tree, and he pulled Owain downward a bit so that their lips could meet. And then Owain remembered. Don't leave me, he'd thought desperately, his fingers squeezing Inigo's. Please. Inigo hadn't been shy then, hugging Owain tightly, nuzzling his shoulder and kissing his cheek. And Owain had smiled, even though he'd wanted to die on the inside, because Inigo was smiling, and he had to match that.

Inigo's lips were very soft. He moved quickly, his lips drawing quick breaths between kisses, avoiding biting down on Owain's lips, or searching his mouth for too long. He was already fumbling at the clasps of Owain's jerkin, and Owain traced the line of his arm to his chest and down his side until he felt Inigo's hipbone. Inigo yelped a little when Owain's hand reached beneath his shirt, and he slipped, taking Owain down with him as he slid against the tree and Owain collapsed on top of him.

Owain snorted into Inigo's shoulder. Inigo was buckling from his laughter.

"You're so bony," Owain gasped moving his hand from Inigo's back to his ribs. He drew his thumb along the ridges, feeling Inigo shiver. It was kinda funny. "Are you eating enough?"

"Probably not." Inigo's teeth were white in the darkness. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"Sure?"

"I've never slept with anyone before." Inigo flicked one of the clasps of Owain's jerkin. Owain stared at him blankly.

"Okay." Owain looked down. Swallowed thickly, and then he looked back up at Inigo. "Neither have I."

"Well that's obvious." Inigo didn't sound as confident as his words made him seem. He flicked another clasp. He paused. "I don't know what to do now."

"Are you serious?"

Inigo glanced up at him. He smiled sheepishly, and Owain could see him blushing even in the dim shadows.

"You, the greatest flirt there ever was… not knowing how to proceed?" Owain shook his head in faux disappointment. "Okay, I guess I'll help you. Take your shirt off."

Inigo stared up at him. His face broke into a very silly grin, and he obeyed without objection.

Chapter Text

He woke up with frost to his eyelashes. They peeled open, sealed by the frigid morning air and the heavy pressure of sleep. The sky was milky behind the ribbing of black tree branches that hovered overhead. Scars cracking across a bone. His eyes drooped as he became acutely aware of his surroundings. The uneven ground beneath him, the tree root digging into his spine, Owain’s hair tickling his neck as his breath warmed his collarbone and sent shivers shooting through his chest.

It all came swinging back like a punch in the gut.

His mouth was dry. He watched Owain’s chest rise and fall with ease, his nightmares beaten back by whatever comfort he’d received in the night. That should have relaxed him, but it really only made him feel more anxious. He didn’t want anyone else to find out about this, and he already felt silly for initiating it the way he had.

At the same time, he didn’t want to leave this spot for as long as he lived.

He tried to reach for his shirt, but Owain began to stir. Inigo froze.

“It’s morning,” Owain murmured into the hollow of Inigo’s collarbone.

He couldn’t answer. He chomped down on his lower lip, and the sweet metallic tang of blood filled up his mouth.

“You were right,” Owain laughed weakly, shifting his weight so he could bury his face in Inigo’s neck. “That was really fun.”

Inigo took him by the chin, pulling his face until he could lay his mouth on his. And Owain, so blindly trusting, immediately opened his mouth to receive the kiss. Inigo felt his recoil as he got a mouthful of blood, and he heard the sharp intake of breath through his nose. He tried to pull back, but Inigo caught him by the neck, his fingernails digging into his nape and behind his jaw. He had a thumb against his throat, and he did not loosen his grip until he felt Owain’s adam’s apple bob, signifying a heavy swallow.

When Inigo pulled back, he left a trail of bloody saliva dribbling down the corner of Owain’s lips. He looked dazed.

“What was that?” he asked distantly.

“A kiss,” Inigo said, smiling brightly. “For luck!”

“Mm…” Owain wiped the blood from his mouth. “Okay. You should’ve warned me, though.”

“And ruin your reaction?” Inigo laughed brightly. As he did so, blood stinging on his tongue, his mind began to turn, and he could see his father’s beaming face reflecting his own. “Not a chance.”

“That’s not fair at all!” Owain’s eyes flashed, and he sat upright. “Well, I guess I can probably forgive you.” Inigo smiled. Owain glanced at him, and a wicked smirk appeared on his lips. “But you have to let me do something to you.”

“Me?” Inigo wasn’t really sure. He didn’t know what Owain had in mind, and it was a little frightening. But he wasn’t about to admit that. “Sure. Go wild.”

Owain threw his leg over Inigo so he was straddling him. He bent his head, his lips landing against his jaw, and his voice vibrating the sensitive skin beneath it. “Do you remember when you left?”

Words fell into Inigo’s ears, only his to hear, not the wind’s, not the tree’s, simply his. He closed his eyes and listened. Owain was kissing his earlobe, his teeth dragging up his jawline.

“Kinda…” Inigo sighed. His heart hurt. It was the strain of magic. It was hurting him. He could feel the darkness taking root, coiling around his insides and chaining him to the words he’d spoken. Spells were so complicated.

“It was right after my father died.” Owain’s breath beat at Inigo’s skin, and his lips left hot trails everywhere they touched. He was dancing on Inigo’s nerves. Sending lightning shocking through him with every kiss. “Remember?”

“Ah…” Inigo let his head tip back, and Owain twisted his fingers into his hair, pausing his quest to burst Inigo’s blood vessels only to speak. “Yeah, that… you didn’t say bye or anything, and you completely ignored me…” He sighed. “I thought you hated me.”

“I was sad.” Owain lifted his head so it hovered above Inigo’s, and he gave a weak smile. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Inigo’s heart clenched from an invisible chain yanking. It was a warning. He could feel his chest seizing up. He nodded, tears stinging his eyes, and he smiled back.

“But I still left,” he whispered. Just like my father, he thought bitterly. “I’m sorry, Owain.”

“All I wanted was to die,” he said, lowering his head to plant a kiss against Inigo’s collarbone. “It would’ve been better. If I had died and my father had lived.”

“Don’t say that!” Inigo gasped. He tried to look at Owain’s face, but he was hiding it from Inigo’s view, laying kisses down his chest. “Owain stop. We should talk about this.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Owain rose his head, and Inigo was met with a simple smile and a pair of dead eyes.

Inigo couldn’t speak.He couldn’t think. He shook his head furiously, tears seeping through his eyelashes, and he saw Owain gape as they fell, sending trails down his dark face.

“Oh…” Owain reached out and thumbed a tear. Inigo bit back a sob, his lips trembling. “Maybe this was too mean.”

“Owain, that wasn’t funny!” Inigo blurted. “I don’t want you to ever feel like that ever! It’s not who you are at all!”

“Neither of us act like the people we really are, Inigo,” Owain stated innocently. He blinked his big, dark eyes, and he threw on a broad smile. “Will you dance for me?”

“No way,” Inigo choked, flushing as he dashed his tears away. “Not gonna happen!”

“But you danced last night!” Owain’s finger flew to Inigo’s hips, his nails dragging into the dip of his hipbones. “Please? I’ll do anything!”

Inigo’s breath hitched. It was enough to be aware of their positioning, to know exactly what Owain was doing, but to feel his fingers digging into his skin and watch his movements made Inigo unable to resist temptation.

“Later,” he promised, his voice thick and his eyes flashing away. “It’s getting late. They’ll be looking for us soon.”

“Oh, yeah.” Owain tilted his head back. “I guess we should head back, huh?”

Inigo was disappointed when Owain unwound himself, shaking leaves off his shirt and throwing it over his head. His stomach was in knots, and his heart was enchained, and he wanted to cry some more out of utter despair. He would follow Owain to the end of the end, but with that vow, with that wish, with that curse, he felt like he was probably betraying Owain as well.

“Hey.” After Inigo had pulled on his own shirt, he took Owain’s hand. He stared into his eyes, so big and sharp, made for wonder and wisdom and wishing. “When my mother died, I wanted to die too.”

“Oh,” Owain laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “When my mom died I didn’t want to die at all. I just wanted to watch stuff burn.” He smiled big. “It was pretty cathartic.”

“Um…”

“My dad died because I was weak,” Owain explained quickly. “My mom died because this world is a mess, and I was glad to watch it fall apart. It was kind of like my mother was the glue that held the world together, and when she died, the world was suddenly nothing but ashes. So I watched it burn.” Owain swung Inigo’s hand idly.

Inigo took a deep breath. He got down to his knees, still holding Owain’s hand, and he bowed his head.

“What are you doing?” Owain asked cautiously.

“None of us properly swore fealty to you,” Inigo exhaled, holding Owain’s hand in both of his. “I want to be the first and the last. I want to be by your side until the very end.”

“You don’t need to swear me any oath to do that, Inigo.” Owain looked delighted none the less. Well, that was no surprise. Owain took great joy out of theatrics, and Inigo was catering to the dramatic flair in him with this show of loyalty.

“We’ll be together,” he swore, closing his eyes and rolling the words and the actions over and over and over in his head, like a coin upon his tongue. “I’ll be by your side as long as you live, even if you can’t see me, or think I left you. We’ll always be together.”

“That sounds really nice,” Owain said, crouching on the balls of his feet so they were eyelevel. “I like the sound of that. Wanna join the justice cabal?”

“Not a chance,” Inigo scoffed. “I’m only concerned with you, Owain.”

“I’m the only one left anyway.”

That sent a stone plummeting into Inigo’s stomach. He seemed to have forgotten. Cynthia was dead and gone, and Morgan was simply gone. A traitor. Too far away to even consider reaching, let alone grasping. There was really no hope at all for him.

The only one left.

Inigo wrapped his arms around Owain. He buried his face in his shoulder, and hoped he had enough influence over Owain’s emotions that his presence was comfort enough. He had nothing to really say, nothing to really do that would make this better. All he had done up until now was make everything worse. Severa was dead. Kjelle was dead. Whose fault was that?

Noire had meant well. She really had. Inigo had known that he had taken part in something distinctly dark in practice, but he had not balked away from it. He’d done his part. He’d handed over a loaded weapon, knowing that it would be used to spill an enormous amount of blood. And it would suck the blood out of its wielder without hesitation.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That was the way with dark magic. Old magic.

To deal a heavy blow, a price must be paid.

“I want to cry,” Owain mumbled into Inigo’s hair. “I want to, but I can’t.”

Inigo didn’t answer. Tears had sprung into his eyes, wetting the cloth of Owain’s jerkin. He felt like he was crying enough for both of them.

“When you tried to get me to punish you for Kjelle’s death,” Owain said vacantly, “you really meant it, didn’t you? You wanted to suffer.”

“Noire loves you,” Inigo said hoarsely.

Owain pulled back. He searched Inigo’s face, as though his gaze was attempting to detect a hidden lie. But he smiled, and it was something sad and fond.

“And you don’t?” he offered in a weak, playful tone.

Inigo laughed. “Noire loves you far more, for far longer, for the purest of reasons.” He grasped Owain’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, and he closed his eyes contentedly, resting his forehead to his.

“And your love isn’t pure?”

“Nope.” Inigo felt Owain’s breath hitting his face, the warmth of it sending a flush crawling across his cheekbones. “Everything I love about you is purely superficial.”

“Well, yes. Have you seen me?” Owain made a show of flexing his muscles, and more specifically his hand.

“Entirely too much of you,” Inigo quipped, rising to his feet. Owain grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Inigo was so embarrassed that he wanted to kick leaves into Owain’s smug fucking face.

“Okay, bye,” Inigo muttered, turning away sharply.

“What?” Owain called after him. “I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Well,” Owain huffed, “fine! But don’t forget you owe me a dance!”

Damn it, Inigo thought, feeling flustered and mortified. He didn’t want to dance in front of Owain. Dancing with him was way different. Dancing with him made Inigo feel like he was in complete control of the situation, like he couldn’t mess up, like he could only impress. But with Owain on the sidelines, not particularly focused on his own embarrassment, he’d be acutely aware of everything Inigo did wrong.

He was worrying about what people would think of him, even on the brink of the apocalypse.

Some things really just would not change no matter what.

He returned to camp to find Noire stoking the fire. She didn’t look up as he moved silently to her side, sitting down in the grass beside her and eying the forest. Owain hadn’t made any movement to suggest he’d followed Inigo back, but he couldn’t be sure.

“You’re up early,” he remarked, watching her slender arm bend and straighten. Her tired eyes moved to his. They were hollowed and dead.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was hoarse and cold. It reminded him of her mother’s. “Did it work?”

His eyes immediately shot to the forest, and she gave an irritated sigh. “He can’t hear us. No one can hear us.” She tore her attention from the fire, and she turned to face him fully. “Tell me. I need to know.”

“I did everything I needed to,” he said distantly, trying to think back on it, but drawing blanks. “So essentially it should work.”

“Good.” She closed her eyes. She didn’t seem to have any other expression aside from dull relief. Rest easy, Noire, Inigo thought to her grimly. This time there’s no way it can backfire on us.

“You’re not jealous?” Inigo couldn’t help but ask. She cracked an eye open, and she smiled.

“It wouldn’t have worked if I had tried it,” she admitted. “You were the one he wanted. We both saw that when it came to his reaction to our… mistake.”

“He never wanted to hurt you,” Inigo whispered. He knew it wouldn’t make her feel any better, but he had to try.

“But he did.” She hugged her knees to her chest, staring into the small flare of flames and smiling. “It makes me feel less guilty for tricking him.”

“I have no regrets.” Inigo’s eyes flew instinctively toward the forest. As far as he could see, Owain had still not returned.

“I hope your one night of fun was worth it, Inigo.” Noire didn’t say it with any sort of malice, but there was a distinct caveat to her tone. She glanced at him, and he saw her sadness, her envy, and most of all, her pity.

“It was worth every second,” he said firmly.

There was nothing quite so terrifying as being completely and utterly alone.

Lucina spent days and days and days taking mechanical steps, taking perfunctory tasks, taking herself to Morgan’s bedside and praying for an answer. The hours slipped through her fingers, the thoughts passed through her mind, and the silence drilled holes into her skull. She felt her personality seeping through the cracks. A completely natural lobotomy. She was being attacked by the things settled inside her sick little head.

She wanted to disappear.

But if she did, what would happen to Morgan?

So she kept herself at his side, reapplying wet cloths to his sweaty forehead, wandering through the ruins and feeling less and less like a real person. Her body was just another marionette. Grima tugged on the strings, and she obeyed with no real complaint. She lived to serve. She lived to please.

Morgan was breathing shallowly. He inhaled and he exhaled and it sounded so painful, like he was taking rocks into his lungs and coughing them out. She dribbled water into his lips, but nothing helped. He was fading away in a tangle of white sheets, and nothing was working and nothing was going right. Part of her wanted to take a pillow and smother him. At least then they’d both be out of their misery.

When he was slightly lucid, all he did was stare past Lucina’s face and call Nah’s name.

It hurt. It hurt to be the unwanted one.

“She’s dead,” she’d tell him without any real emotion to her words, feeling nothing and falling flat. “I’m the only one here, Morgan. Me. Your sister. Please. Come back to me.”

He didn’t. He fell back into tremors and fever dreams. He shouted at night, and he laughed and cried and choked upon his own madness. He slept and never fully woke.

One night, when Lucina was at her vigil, back slumped against his bed and dead eyes cast upon the door, the room shuddered. She felt the earth turn over, and a pair of slender hands slid against her back. Arms wrapped around her tightly, and she was pulled into a lap, unable to fight the overwhelming presence that had captured the room.

Her mother’s face was dark and warm as she pressed her cheek to Lucina’s.

“My daughter,” they purred, kissing her temple. Of course Lucina could not move. She was entangled in Robin’s grasp, half inside that tattered cloak, half asleep against their shoulder. “You act so very strong.”

“Grima…” Lucina’s voice was hoarse. She hadn’t much use for it as of late. There was no one to talk to but the vegetative body of her brother, and that never gave her much comfort. “Lord Grima, my brother… please, he’s--”

“Dying.” They smoothed back her hair with a branded hand, Grima’s eyes pulsating on their skin. “Yes. It’s so unfortunate. I never expected something like this to happen.”

“What’s happening?” Lucina gasped, turning to face her mother sharply. Their face was a mess of fiery eyes, sharp lines cutting across dark skin and peeling back muscle so the dark magic could flow properly. “What happened? I don’t understand! You took him from me!”

“Shh.” Their hand snapped over her mouth, and her eyes widened as she stared into their many eyes, their many gleaming, monstrous eyes, and she felt that they were seeing through her, into her soul, into her emptied head, and now they knew exactly how to fill her with nothing but hatred and disgust. “He was mine to toy with from the start. As were you. I bore you, I named you, I made you what you are, so do not think you are so high and mighty that you can claim what is rightfully mine.”

Lucina had nothing to say. They were right. They had her. She was theirs. It was not a question. It made tears of shame and terror burn her eyes, but she could not do or say a blessed thing. The brand in her eye made her tears fall faster.

“The problem, of course,” they continued, “is that by blood you are sworn to Naga. That makes things complicated. You are my blood, through and through, but you have a bloodbound duty because of who I chose as your father. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded, though she didn’t particularly understand at all.

“Morgan is my true vessel,” they sighed. “Not this flimsy form. He is tied to my blood, to my soul, and that makes him immensely powerful. However, because of Naga’s right to him, he’s been… tampered with.”

She stared. She didn’t understand. Her mother’s face was all twisted and veined, eyes flickering over her face, one set, two sets, three sets, all moving as one, fire brimming against skin. It was horrifying.

“Because of Naga’s influence, my power has decidedly become sentient. It is working as though Naga’s magic is a virus. Thus he is suddenly feverish.”

Lucina nodded quickly, taking note of this and thinking back to how she’d found him. He’d been lying on the ground with that damn circlet on, singing an old song that she knew from somewhere. It had been Nah’s dragonstone in that circlet. It had been Nowi’s song he had sung.

Manaketes.

Naga.

So that was it, then.

“Is Naga still alive?” Lucina asked, pulling Robin’s hand from her mouth and staring up at the ceiling.

“That is difficult to answer.”

“I’d say it’s simple enough,” she spat, her brow furrowing in mild fury. “Why is Morgan succumbing to Naga’s spell now?”

“Because he is me,” Robin said tenderly, stroking Lucina’s cropped blue hair. “Because I am him. Because he loved Nah. Because Nah loved him. Because I am him, I must also feel what he feels. Because Nah loved him, she also loved me. And so here we are.”

Lucina wanted to scoff, but she didn’t. “Love…” she murmured. “You love Nah? Really?”

“It’s not a choice I have.” Robin’s lips were parted, and their teeth were plentiful and fanged. “Morgan’s heart will not relent. The trouble is with Naga, she never felt that she needed to possess anything or anyone. She was so very condescending of my methods. My followers give me their hearts, but that is out of fear or out of some blind devotion caused by my power and my power alone. She felt it was cheap. For all of her soldiers flocked to her side willingly. The Brand of the Exalt was delivered out of pure devotion, and while she could have easily used that brand as I have used mine, she refused to inflict such suffering upon her beloved followers.” Their fingers dug into Lucina’s scalp like talons. “So she came up with a different method. A power hierarchy of sorts. Neither she nor I are invincible. So upon her death, the next potentially divine dragon takes her place. Usually this dragon acts as Naga’s Voice until their death.”

“So… Lady Tiki is Naga now?” Lucina could not think clearly. Her mind was muddled by the fire of Grima’s eyes.

“Naga’s whelp died years ago,” Robin chuckled, nuzzling the nape of Lucina’s neck. It didn’t make her feel anxious or fearful as she expected it to. She felt void. Void was all that filled her. “For quite a few years now, Nah has been the Voice of Naga.”

“Nah?” Lucina asked dazedly. “If you knew that… if you knew of this magic, why did you kill her?”

“I wasn’t aware of its depth until the new Nah manifested.” Robin didn’t sound bitter. Grima didn’t sound angry. They sounded almost… entranced. “Killing her was a mistake. I should have captured her. Made her suffer for millennia.”

“And she did this to Morgan…?” Lucina felt sick to her stomach. No. No, no, no. She wouldn’t allow this to happen. She’d already lost everything and everyone, and she couldn’t, she wouldn’t lose Morgan too. “There has to be a way to save him. You must tell me! How can I protect him from Nah?” She reached out and clung to her mother’s coat, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?”

Lucina’s heartbeat accelerated, her mouth going dry as their voice slithered through her ears and latched onto her soul. Anything, anything, anything. Her life. Her heart. She would give a thousand lives for Morgan’s one. She’d raze the world to the ground. She would protect him. She would not live a moment longer than when he drew his last breath.

Robin’s lips moved to Lucina’s ear, and words filled her head and emptied her heart.

She could save him, of course.

She was Grima’s daughter. Nothing was impossible for the right price.

The night drew on as she kept her vigil, Robin disappearing into the emptiness of her hollow chest, and Morgan’s uneven breaths the only song in the silence.

Eventually she stood. She changed the cloth on Morgan’s heated forehead, and she walked away.

The halls were barren. The stones were catching wisps of shadows, the ceilings dragging her along on invisible strings. She was left to be a husk of a girl who used to be. She moved to Laurent’s room, looking around and feeling nothing but boredom and loss.

She examined his bookshelf. The dark magic was so palpable here. She could drink it from the air.

“Tharja,” she sang to the empty room. Her old teacher would not answer. She’d died years ago. How? Lucina couldn’t recall. She hadn’t been there. Noire had, though. Ah, Noire. Weak, simple Noire. Lucina had felt her jealousy from behind closed doors, behind sheer curtains, behind brick walls. Was that girl even still alive? Well, if she was, she wouldn’t be for much longer. “Tharja would love what you did with the place, Laurent.”

“My lady.”

He was standing at the doorway. He sounded empty, speaking as though he knew how she felt. She plucked a book from the shelf and hopped onto a stool, letting it fall open. The pages were yellow and thin, crinkled and weathered with age. They felt like they would fall apart in her fingers.

“Where did you go?” she asked absently, flipping away at the pages.

There was a sharp intake of breath. Not so empty. Yes, that was good. He was restraining his emotions, trying to cast emptiness into his tone, but it would not work.

He had no idea what true emptiness felt like.

“I went to pursue Severa,” he said briskly.

A pang shot through her heart. That was almost enough to jumpstart it up again, to warm it from the grips of Grima’s chilly talons. But the void stayed.

“Oh?” She shot him a cool smile. “How was that?”

“She is dead.” Laurent removed his hat and clenched it over his heart. He genuflected, fast and fluid, his head dipped toward the floor. “I apologize. I thought… It was within my parameters of reason that I might have been skilled enough to save her. I miscalculated.”

“You are very skilled, Laurent,” she told him vacantly. “Severa’s death was my own doing. I was selfish. I wanted what I cannot possibly have.”

He let his eyes rise to meet hers. She watched his brow furrow confusedly.

“Why did you send her?” he asked very cautiously. “If I may be so bold, my lady, you knew she had the potential to defect.”

“I loved that about her,” she recalled. “I liked the challenge. How do you get an unruly dog to follow orders?” She closed her eyes and she rested her hand on the book she’d drawn. “You tempt it with treats until it’s loyalty is proven.”

“Ah.” Laurent’s nod was nothing but a jerk of his chin. “But that doesn’t explain why you sent her. What was to gain?”

“I wanted the Falchion.” Lucina offered a shrug. She looked down at the book, and found the page she wanted. “Does that surprise you?”

“It is yours by birthright,” Laurent murmured. “It does not surprise me at all.”

She nodded. “Laurent,” she called to him, scooping up the book in her arms. “Why do you serve me?”

He stared at her from his kneeling position, his eyes growing wide behind his glasses. “I don’t understand the question,” he said thickly.

“Why,” she said, hopping off the stool, “have you stayed with me all this time? I have nothing to give you but death.”

He said nothing. She dropped down to the ground so they were eyelevel, the tome falling between them, and she took him by the lapels.

Her lips landed on his cheek. He’d turned his face sharply away when she’d pulled him in for a kiss.

Oh, she thought numbly. How strange.

“Please let go of me,” he murmured.

She released him. He slumped, his head bowing, and she watched him with wide eyes as he hugged his arms around his stomach, looking disturbed.

“You are not like the others,” she murmured. It caused a twinge of despair to stir within her. “You don’t want my body.”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want from me,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek, the very same one she’d kissed. “Please. I need to know what I can do for you.”

He was still bowing his head. Slowly he shook it, his arms tightening around his stomach, and she listened to his breathing as it came in shorter puffs. He was afraid.

“Why…?” He raised his eyes to hers. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“I care about you.”

“Do not presume you can lie to me as you lied to the others!” Laurent’s nostrils flared in contempt. “Lucina, I wish I could say I stayed for love or for lust of you, but truly I cannot say how I feel about you.”

“That’s probably for the best.” She sighed, letting her hand drop into her lap. “Loving me is a death sentence.”

His jaw tightened. “There is no way around this, is there?” he whispered. His voice was thin. His words were hollow.

“Let me do something for you,” she said.

“Will that make you feel better?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing at her. “If I let you kiss me, fuck me, would that make this easier for you?”

She leaned back. She nodded.

“Well,” he exhaled, pulling his glasses off and setting them upon the tome. “That won’t happen. There is nothing you can give me, Lucina. It’s been an eternity since I’ve desired anything.”

That made her furious. She let her hands sit in her lap, balled into tight fists, and she glowered at him.

“I need to do something for you,” she hissed. “Tell me what to do.”

He watched her with an exhausted gaze. There were heavy circles bruised beneath his eyelids, and his stare was gauzy and drained of life.

“Kill me quickly,” he whispered.

Tears had crept into her eyes, a curse of her brand, a curse of her heart, and she felt her lips trembling. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this if her hands were shaking. She couldn’t give him what he wanted if her hands were shaking!

He reached across the tome, open to a page decorated with an elaborate illustration of a human heart surrounded by runes. He placed his hand over her shaky fists, and he stared into her eyes. His gaze tore through her far more intensely than Grima’s had. It made her heart break. A great wave of despair filled her chest, and a sob broke from her lips.

“I don’t want to!” she cried, clapping her hands over her eyes. “Please! Please, Lord Grima, there must be another way!”

“Oh.” Laurent sounded defeated. “I see. This was Grima’s order, then?” He sighed. “That makes it worse. I was holding out some hope, I suppose, that you might find it in your heart to be merciful. But that’s meaningless now.” He grabbed her hands and tore them from her eyes, forcing her to look into his face. Everything was bleary from tears, and she listened to herself heave a gasp, air hardly filling her lungs. This was so unfair. Severa was dead. Gerome was dead! Her friends. Her friends. She’d treated them like servants because that was how Grima had expected her to treat them, but they were so much more than that! They were her precious companions, and Laurent was the very last of them. “If Grima requested you kill me, then that is what you must do.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered, tears falling at an unsettling pace. “I don’t want this. I want to go home.”

“Lucina,” Laurent said gently. “I am not a fool. I understand when I can fight a battle, and when I’ve already lost. I knew from the moment I saw that page that it was the end.”

“You’re the only one left…” She watched her hands dangle limply in midair. “I’m terrible. I’ve been a terrible leader. All I’ve done is killed you all.”

“I cannot deny that.” He stared at her. She could see the tears in his eyes, glittering beneath his lashes. He held her trembling hands gingerly, and he brought them carefully to his mouth, kissing her knuckles chastely. His murmuring voice vibrated against her skin. “I wish I could say I love you, but I don’t particularly feel like lying for your benefit.”

“I love you,” she murmured, slumping as her tears began to slow. “I loved all of you, and I let you all die.”

“I suppose I’m already dead, then?” Laurent closed his eyes, nodding firmly. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, and he smiled. “So be it.”

“You know why it’s necessary,” Lucina gasped, “don’t you? Morgan is--!”

“I am aware of what this spell is for, Lucina.” His eyes snapped open. “Stop this. Stop torturing me. I know I am going to die, so just kill me already!”

“I don’t want to!” She jumped to her feet, whirling away from him and pressing her hand to her heart. She felt it pounding against her chest, and she hiccuped.

“You’re so selfish,” Laurent said absently. “Gods, you’re nothing but a selfish, greedy child! You asked me what I wanted! Give me my quick death, Lucina, and let me go find my mother in another life.”

She swiped her tears from her cheeks, staring ahead of her and thinking that his words were whips lashing at her spine. She could not shake them. Everything inside her hurt. This was her punishment for being the spawn of Grima.

“Will you forgive me?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess that’s fair.” She turned to face him. She smiled sadly. “I wasn’t lying. I love you. I loved Severa. I loved Gerome. You weren’t dogs to me. You were my friends. You are so… so dear to me…” She knelt down again, watching the tears gleam in his eyes. “I don’t blame you for not loving me. Grima stole everything from me worth loving. So if you don’t forgive me, I understand.” She took him by the shoulders. Another tear slipped from his eye.

She pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around him and feeling him go rigid in shock.

“Morgan is all I have left of my family,” she murmured. “I can’t lose him. No matter how much I love you, no matter how much I don’t want this, I need Morgan. But… I will see you soon, Laurent. I will come find you. I will make amends.”

She closed her eyes. He rested his chin against her shoulder.

“That sounds… satisfactory.” He leaned his head against hers, and she felt the tears on his cheeks. “Okay. That’s a deal I will take you up on.”

“Then,” she said brightly, adjusting her arms so one hand fell against his chest and the other against the back of his head, “let this not be a goodbye. Let it be a promise."

“I suppose I’ll be following you through hell,” he murmured. “So be it. Until we meet again.”

“Yes.”

She felt the magic spring through her fingertips, pulsating from her hand into the back of his head, a violent thunderbolt piercing his brain and causing him to convulse in her arms. He did not make a sound. Her fingers dug into his chest, talons of a literal kind slipping into his skin and cracking his ribs. Blood swam against her fingers, muscle tough to tear though, but she managed to wrap her hand around his heart. It had already stopped beating.

She tore it out, severing valves and veins with clean swipes of her elongated nails. Blood hit her face, hit her chest, splattered across the open tome and flecked the glass of Laurent’s spectacles. She gripped his heart in her hand, one arm still hugging him to her. Carefully, she lowered him to the ground.

His eyes were closed, two streams of tears drying upon his bloody cheeks, and on his lips was a small, contented smile.

Her throat closed up.

A quick death. That was all he’d wanted.

She stood shakily, her body swaying, and she glanced down at the heart in her fist. Alone. That was her one truth.

On her way out she snagged the tome, drifting through the halls as though in a trance. Nothing looked familiar. Where was she? She feltlike she was in a dream. A ruined castle on the other side of the desert. A beautiful place once, but now it was a house of nightmares, and she wanted this one to end. Home awaited her. Ylisstol and all its colorful walls and rooms and courtyards, a town filled with life and hope, and a future where no one died.

She was lost in her own fantasies. Life would not give her that future. She was trapped by fate.

When she reached Morgan’s room, he was still twisted in his sheets, his shallow breaths ricocheting off the walls. The heart was cooling in her hand, slippery and sticky and leaving trails of blood as she walked. She was completely drenched in it. She’d never be able to scrub Laurent out from under her fingernails.

She tossed the tome onto the floor.

“Awaken,” she snapped.

Morgan bolted upright. His eyes peeled open. They slid toward her.

They were as red as the blood dribbling down her arm.

He kicked back the tangled sheets. In a swift, demonic motion, he twitched into a crouching position. He jumped upon the floor, his cheeks cracking, leaving veins of fire upon his dark skin. He began to crawl toward her, another set of eyes snapping open, black and red and clouded with hunger. He rounded her. He circled her like she was prey.

“Stop.” She glowered at him, and his head jerked to the side violently. Grima bared their teeth at her, and they opened their third set of eyes just so they could glare at her in disgust.

“Give it to us,” they rasped. Bloody tears slid down their cheeks. Blood was everywhere. She watched it slip from both his nostrils and dribble out of the corner of his mouth. His pores were exuding blood. Every orifice seemed to be rejecting Naga’s presence.

Or maybe, she thought dully, it’s Grima’s presence that the body is rejecting.

It made no difference. Whatever it was, it was killing him.

So she crouched down, and she began to murmur the spell under her breath. Grima waited. They watched. Blood continued to pour out of Morgan’s body.

Her words rung in the air and seeped into her skin, and when she was done, Morgan snatched the heart from her fist and closed his teeth around the veined muscle. He tore a piece away with vicious force, and he gnawed at the raw, bloody skin like a rabid animal.

Chapter Text

His skull felt leaden and his brain felt mushy. He could not properly comprehend it, but his mind was hazy and his limbs would not obey his commands. His tongue would not move, and the inside of his mouth tasted so foul, so acrid and metallic that it made him want to gag.

He couldn’t quite recall what he’d been doing. There had been some confusing talk with Nah, as usual, but beyond that he was lost. Had he fallen asleep? It certainly felt like it. But this sensation was different from the toil of his subconscious. He was completely aware of his surroundings, startled by the unease of the unknown.

Suddenly he was upright. His legs were moving without any such command, and he was walking forward through a black corridor, listening to his heels clip the imaginary floor as though it were tile. He was still so confused, but he could not stop moving forward. He felt that he was enchanted. He could only go forward, and never look back.

The blackness became shadows, and with shadows came light, and he watched them dance beneath his feet, skittering wildly like snakes. He was blinded by a great beacon of light, like sun streaming in through a hole in the ceiling, and he realized that he was in the castle still, that he’d wandered his way right into the ruins of the throne room.

A silhouette stood behind the altar, cloaked in the very same twisting shadows that writhed beneath his feet.

Morgan could only continue to walk forward.

He stopped. He could not move any farther forward. His legs did not bid him that movement, so he was stuck, watching in horror and fascination as the figure turned to face him, and the shadows fell apart in the soft glow of the afternoon.

All Morgan wanted to do now was step back. Step back, turn around, and run far away.

His eyes were wide, and he wondered if he looked as fearful as he felt.

His voice was thin and raspy in his shaky shock.

“Father?”

The man looked puzzled. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, as though he assumed that Morgan was addressing someone behind him. When he saw that there was no one, he immediately went rigid, his eyes flashing warily over Morgan’s face.

“Sorry, what…?” Chrom’s hands raised as though to defend himself, his lips quirking into a sheepish smile, and he looked around the ruined room with light dancing in his eyes. “What… am I doing here?”

Morgan couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry and his eyes were wide and he realized that he was probably frozen in his absolute terror, his eyes nothing but round white saucers inlaid in his dark face. He was not wearing his mother’s coat. In fact, he was swathed in black fabric, sheer cloth rippling at his chest, traditional Plegian garb chaining him to his dark fate.

Chrom seemed to really look at him for the first time, and his eyes widened. “Are you a dark mage?” he asked, sounding wary but curious. He moved closer to the altar, his face illuminated by the shifting sunlight.

Morgan was shaking. He didn’t like this. He didn’t know what was happening, because this was too real to be a dream, too vivid and stark against the haziness of his mind. He could feel the heat of the Plegian sun filtering through the gaps in the walls and the ceiling, baking him in his airy black clothes. He folded his arms across his chest, the sheer fabric chafing his ribs, and he shook his head furiously.

“You’re not?” Chrom looked at him in wonder. “But you are Plegian, aren’t you?”

Morgan stared at him.

Chrom stared back. He winced, rubbing the back of his head and averting his eyes. “Stupid question,” he admitted. “It looks like I’m in Plegia. I don’t remember this place, though. Sure I saw my fair share of ruins, but not quite so… ornate?” Chrom sighed. “Well, it’s pretty beautiful here, anyway.”

“Beautiful?” Morgan blurted, choking out the word like it was poison clogging his throat. Father, he wanted to cry out, this is where you died!

“You don’t think so?” Chrom looked around, his brow furrowing as he stepped around the altar, his feet clapping against the dusty stone floor and sending echoes crashing off the broken rafters. “Oh. Sorry, I guess I just have an outsider’s perspective. I’m not from Plegia, and Ylisse doesn’t have many ruins like this.”

The entirety of Ylisse is ruins, father, Morgan thought sadly.

Morgan was still stuck, frozen in his hazy stupor as he listened to his father’s footsteps become louder, louder, louder still, until they were thundering inside Morgan’s ears. He was only a few meager feet away. Morgan’s breath was stuck inside his throat.

“Wait, wow…” Chrom sounded a little shocked. “You’re way younger than I thought you were! How old are you?”

Morgan hugged his chest, itchy fabric clenched in his fists.

“Are you scared? Of me?” Chrom exhaled sharply. “Shit. Right. Ylisse. Listen, I promise I won’t hurt you! I’m a little confused right now— I don’t really remember how I got here, but you look way more afraid than I am. If you want, I can help you.”

“Do you…” Morgan couldn’t even say it. He couldn’t even look at his father, let alone speak to him. Shame was whittling him away, and he was trembling in horror and terror and disgust. Do you really not remember me?

“What?” Chrom wasn’t quite so fearless that he would come any closer, but out of the corner of his eye, Morgan saw that he’d raised his hands up in surrender. “You really don’t have to be scared. You said you’re not a dark mage, right?”

“No…” Morgan’s voice was so high and thin it pierced his own heart and made him wince. “I’m… I’m a tactician.”

Chrom appeared suddenly directly before him, his eyes alight with curiosity.

“Really?” he gasped. Morgan couldn’t step back. He was too scared. “But you’re so young! You must be incredibly intelligent if you’re already a tactician! You should definitely come with me, my wife is an amazing tactician, and I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

The fear inside Morgan turned brittle, fading into crippling anxiety. Tears stung his eyes as he stared up into Chrom’s face, realizing with every passing moment that he’d never… really… seen this man so close before. He’d always been half a stranger, in truth, someone who was known to Morgan like a fairy tale. Only in stories.

So now that he could see the man’s face clearly, he was sick with the revelation that he’d never even known him to begin with.

“I…” Morgan was unable to remove his teary eyes from Chrom’s face. He looked a lot like Lucina. The way he smiled, the way his eyes softened when the corners of his lips quirked, the way the tension in the air receded when he relaxed. It was so surreal to just be… looking at him. The be in his presence. How could this not be a dream? “I think we’ve already met.”

Chrom’s face fell, and he watched Morgan bemusedly. Suspicion had finally crept into his eyes, and he stepped carefully backwards.

“Who are you?” Chrom asked cautiously.

The words electrified Morgan’s bones. It jumpstarted his heart, and he felt it pounding furiously in his chest. Was this not real?

“Do you really not recognize me?” Morgan whispered, a chill shooting through him, leaving his limbs weak and wobbly. He still could not step back.

Chrom’s eyes widened, and he stared at Morgan, his mouth opening as though to defend himself, but it seemed he had no defense to give. He watched Morgan desperately, and then he seemed to break.

“Wait a minute,” he gasped, “I’m sorry, I’m usually pretty good with faces, but— do I know you?”

Morgan’s tears were hot against his cheeks, his lips trembling as he realized that not only had he truly shamed this man, but he’d changed so much that his own father couldn’t recognize him. It was unfair!

“Oh. Oh, no, no, no…” Chrom sounded vaguely panicked, and he reached out, awkwardly patting Morgan’s shoulder. “Please don’t cry! I’m so sorry. It probably must sound like such an empty apology to you, but truly, I am. Please, tell me who you are. You seem familiar, I must know you from somewhere. Please. Oh…” Chrom was sounding more and more distressed by the passing second, and his awkward patting turned into a firm grip. And Morgan’s tears only increased, the sound of his father’s voice sending his emotions into a frenzy. He didn’t know if he should be happy or devastated, angry or scared, disgusted or shocked. He supposed he felt all of these emotions at once, and that made him want to scream. Instead, a wispy sob escaped his lips. “It’s okay. It’s okay now. Please tell me your name. Please, I must know your name.”

The only thing that left his mouth was another sob. This one came like a choking gasp, his tears flooding his cheeks and leaving him quaking against Chroms tight grip.

“Please…” Chrom sounded fainter now. Scared. “Please… I… I know I… I know I know you…” Morgan bowed his head, feeling nauseated by his own disgrace. “No… no, please. Look at me. I know I know you.”

There was nothing but the sound of his own uneven breaths, his wailing reaching far up into the rafters and crashing back down on top of him. He was so sorry. He was so sorry. He was so, so sorry, but it didn’t matter at all, because his father was already dead.

So he cried. His tears fell fast and hard like rain, and his sobs hit the air like crashing thunder, and he wanted to hug this man, but he knew he didn’t deserve him. He’d never deserved him. How could he have ever deserved to have such a kind person for a father? It hurt to be touched by him. It was so unfair! Morgan had never gotten to even speak to the man before, and yet he was so… welcoming, so unwavering, and it made Morgan sick from guilt.

He’d killed this man.

Grima had toyed with him, used him, and then tossed him away.

It was all his fault!

“I know I know you,” Chrom repeated in a soft, disbelieving mantra, “I know I know you…”

“L-let go…” Morgan hiccuped, raising his hands shakily to cover his wet, splotchy face. “Let g-go! Let me go…!”

The pressure on his shoulders released, and that only made him feel worse. It made him angry. He wanted this, but he couldn’t have it, and that made him so unbelievably furious with himself. His father hadn’t been there for him. Why should he feel so guilty about what had happened? He didn’t even know this man!

He felt Chrom’s hands land gingerly on his wrists. His thumbs drew carefully across the back of Morgan’s hands, sending a shudder coursing through him. He couldn’t step back. He couldn’t run away. All he could do was cry some more.

“Morgan…?”

He was struck frozen, a sob caught inside his throat.

His father pried his hands from his tear-streaked face, and he stared down at him with an unbearably shocked expression. And Morgan figured his face mirrored that shock, his eyes so wide that they were stinging from the strain, tears flowing freely from them, his mouth open and his heart racing, and he didn’t understand how this could be happening.

Chrom’s expression was suddenly stricken with pain.

“Oh gods…” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan sobbed, rocking back and yet, still unable to move. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-I-I’m so sorry, father, I’m so-sorry, I—!”

He was suddenly yanked forward, his legs forced to move, and his face hit Chrom’s chest, his body suddenly trapped inside the man’s tight embrace.

“Morgan,” Chrom whispered, “Morgan… oh gods, you’re—!” He was shaking. More tears escaped Morgan’s eyes. And then Morgan realized that Chrom was laughing. “You’re so big! You must be what, fourteen? Oh gods, that’s amazing! This is amazing!”

“Father…” Morgan choked. He found himself gathering the warm blue fabric of his father’s shirt and bunching it in his trembling fingers.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” Chrom murmured, rubbing Morgan’s back gently. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting my toddler son to appear like a teenager in front of me. I don’t really understand how this is possible, but…” Chrom patted his head affectionately. “I’m really grateful.”

Morgan couldn’t take it. He found himself falling to his knees, taking Chrom with him, and he gripped the front of his father’s shirt for dear life. He shook his head furiously.

“Don’t you…” Morgan choked, wiping his eyes on the scratchy cloth of his sleeve. “Don’t you understand? Father, you died!”

Chrom was very quiet.

Then, very carefully, he took Morgan’s face in his hands. He lifted it so they could stare at each other.

“Oh. I suppose I forgot about that.” He offered a small smile, and it was so unbearably sad. “It feels like that… that entire memory had been removed from my mind. But now that you mention it, yes. I am dead.”

“W-why are you so calm?” Morgan cried, his voice wavering. “Father, I hardly even knew you! I feel as though I’ve never spoken to you before in my life!”

Chrom’s expression seemed to crumple. He closed his eyes, and he sighed. “That’s… probably true.” His jaw tightened. “I wasn’t a good father. I suppose I was barely a father at all to you. But make no mistake, Morgan.” He smiled down at him softly. “I love you. Even in death, I’ve loved you. So please don’t cry anymore.”

“No… you don’t get it.” Morgan hiccuped, and he leaned back. “Father, I failed you! The world… it’s gone. It’s ending. All our friends are dead or soon to be dead, and Grima… Grima is me.” He held a hand over his chest. Somehow, for the first time, saying this felt like a lie.

“Grima?” Chrom snorted. “You? Sorry, what?”

“Grima is me,” Morgan repeated. “I am Grima.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Chrom sounded so sure. This is why mother killed you so easily, Morgan thought bitterly. “You are my son. And don’t think me so much a fool that I don’t understand what this mark means.” He lifted Morgan’s left hand, which bore the Mark of Grima. “The point is, Morgan, that just because you have this mark doesn’t mean Grima owns you. And it certainly doesn’t mean Grima is you.”

“You don’t understand…” Morgan moaned. “I’ve done so many horrible things…”

“Grima has control of your body,” Chrom sighed, “right?”

Morgan stared at him with large eyes.

“Yeah.” Chrom rolled his eyes. “I know about that stuff. You think I didn’t know Grima could possess your mother?”

“Well…” Morgan hiccuped, and he flushed. “Honestly… yeah?”

“Morgan, I was completely aware of the danger surrounding your mother’s existence.” Chrom pushed Morgan’s hair back from his forehead smoothly. “She wanted to die more often than not. But I convinced her to stay. I thought maybe I could save her…” He looked bitter now. “Save you, too…”

“You… knew?” Morgan was struck dumb. “You knew all along?”

“Well, not the whole time?” Chrom grimaced. “We found out when your mother found out. And when you were born, well…” He scratched his head. “I mean, we both knew what the mark meant. But the good thing was, your mother stopped wanting to die when she realized you were the same.”

“What?” Morgan watched his father in complete and utter awe. “But… why?”

“Because,” Chrom said, smiling at him encouragingly. “She realized that claiming it was a necessity that she should die meant also condemning you to the same fate. And she would never do that.”

Morgan found himself smiling. There was a strange, warm feeling buzzing through him. He couldn’t help but feel loved.

And then he felt inexplicably sad.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan sighed. “I think… I think the world would’ve been way better off if we’d just died.”

It wasn’t something Chrom could plausibly deny. It was just a fact.

But he shook his head anyway.

“I won’t believe that,” he said firmly.

“Father… mother and I… Grima…” Morgan took a deep breath. “The world is doomed because of us!”

“Because of Grima,” Chrom said sharply. “Not you. Never you. There’s a difference, okay?”

“The world is gone, father,” Morgan whispered. “It’s gone, and I ended it.”

“It’s not over,” Chrom told him firmly. Then, he reconsidered his words, and he grimaced. “Well, maybe it’s over for me. Are you dead, Morgan?”

He stopped to consider that.

And then, like a curtain being yanked from a window, his memories resurfaced.

The fever and the flood of dreams and the fading of his life into nothingness. And then the awakening. The way his mouth had watered looking upon that human heart. The taste of it as he tore his teeth into the grisly meat and ripped it and chewed it and swallowed.

And then he remembered nothing.

Just the sound of laughter. Grima’s laughter. Echoing inside his head.

So… was he dead?

Had Grima finally evicted him?

“I… I don’t know…” He found himself sinking his face into his hands. “Father… I… I don’t know. I guess… I guess I must be if I’m speaking to you now, right?”

Chrom ran his fingers through Morgan’s hair, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. There were none to respond with.

His father cradled him in his arms until Morgan relaxed, resting his head on his shoulder and letting the calm wash over him.

Because this?

If this was what death felt like, Morgan wished he’d died a long, long time ago.

This was not the Ylisstol she remembered.

The city of bustling streets, cobbled stone, and endless markets was a dusty husk of crumbled buildings and cracked streets and abandoned ruins. Gravity lined the jagged walls, cursing the fell dragon, cursing the dried up world, and cursing the Exalt. It was a broken place. Empty. Bereft.

She could taste the blood of her fallen comrades pooling in the cracks of these dusty streets.

It was almost a comfort. She felt like she was near them.

Certainly she’d done an awful job looking after their children. Most of them were dead now, and the ones who were alive had already given up. Even Brady seemed to have lost his will to approach things at a different angle, his passion for medicine fading with every loss dealt to him.

She never spoke to any of them about their feelings. She was hardly the type of person who would be of any help. Her own emotions got the better of her more often than not, and she had to rein herself in before she snapped at her Exalt for being so needlessly childish.

He was a child.

She kept forgetting.

They set up camp in a moderately stable building, and Say’ri half expected them to declare the desire to explore the dilapidated remains of their former home. But she’d miscalculated their fervor. Cynthia was gone, so they had no motivation to do exciting things any longer. And after the nightmare that had been Severa and Kjelle’s deaths, she supposed they just did not have the energy to continue any longer with such childishness.

It made her sad. She liked seeing them act like the world was not on the brink of total destruction.

Now they seemed to know the reality of the situation.

“Without the fire emblem, we might as well kiss our lives goodbye,” Owain admitted on their second morning in Ylisstol. The daylight was bright, warming the broken walls and the beaten cobblestones. Sunlight caught on the boy’s sleek black hair, his dark freckles stretching on his cheeks, and Say’ri thought he was looking more and more like one of her kin with every passing day. “So… I won’t blame any of you for leaving.”

“Y’know,” Brady spat, shooting Owain a cool glare, “if ya think any of us are leavin’ at this point, ya probably need a good ass kicking.”

“Hey, hey!” Owain gave a delighted little laugh as Brady struck and missed his head by a hair. “I’m just making sure you guys know you aren’t obligated to stay!”

“No one is leaving, Owain,” Noire murmured, hugging his knees to her chest. She’d been overwhelmingly quiet for the past few days, though Say’ri felt she knew why. The girl was soft and shy with a frightening mean streak, but most of all she was loyal. She loved Owain with all her heart, and so she was distancing herself from him.

Say’ri distinctly understood such a sentiment.

“You probably should though.” Owain’s eyes moved to meet Say’ri’s. She watched him vacantly. Ah. So it came to this. “Especially Say’ri.”

She rested her hand against her lap, flattening it out calmly. “I understand,” she said.

Owain’s eyes widened. “You do?” he gasped. He looked relieved.

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “You believe that I will fight and die for you. That is correct. I intend to, in fact. Ah.” She lifted one finger as she listened to his voice pipe up in objection. “I am not yet done speaking, lordling, so permit me to continue.” She didn’t wait for his response. “You believe that I am not obligated to fight in your battles. This being your war. But you are wrong.” Her eyes snapped open and she clenched her fingers into a fist. “You children are fighting my fight. My war. The war of your fathers and mothers, the war that we could not end, the war that you inherited. It is unfair. We were the incompetent ones, and I am the last of them.” She took a deep breath. “So please. Let me finish this fight.”

It seemed as though Owain had no real response. He stared at her, his eyes softening considerably, and he smiled.

He had such a sweet, kind smile.

“Okay, Say’ri,” he said gently.

And that was that.

Later on, Noire, Owain, and Brady decided to find dinner, leaving Say’ri with Inigo. The boy had been equally as distant as Noire, though his reasons were far more mysterious. She watched him flip through his book idly, sunset shocking his snowy hair yellow.

Say’ri sat down beside him.

“It must be weird for you,” Inigo said without meeting her eye, “being back here after so many years.”

“If I may be honest,” Say’ri said cautiously, “I’ve only been to Ylisstol once or twice before. This is a place that was never important to me. As, I imagine, it is important to you.”

Inigo smiled. His lips stretched, and she noticed a small scab that seemed to be having trouble healing. She didn’t point it out, but she was curious about what had happened there.

“This place felt like home,” he admitted. “But I left when I was pretty young, if you remember.”

“I do.”

He nodded. “Well, seeing it like this is no surprise. I’ve accepted that this city was lost a long time ago.”

His voice was very soft, falling like flurries of snowflakes upon the air, and she could only nod. She understood that feeling, that honest despair at the revelation that home was no more, and that you’d accepted that at some point, at some time, so insignificant that the details blurred.

She knew he was sad, but he would never show it.

“You must know,” Say’ri murmured, “that this will not end happily.”

Inigo lifted his eyes to hers. He smiled at her kindly.

“I’m actually kind of counting on it.”

Say’ri wasn’t sure how to take that. He seemed quite sure, but even so that didn’t quite add up. Because if he knew something, then he was purposefully leaving it out to further his own agenda. He shouldn’t have his own agenda. He was here to protect Owain at all costs.

Inigo’s eyes shot suddenly toward the sky. His eyes had widened.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Grima… is connected to their host, right? Like Robin?”

Say’ri watched him. She nodded slowly.

“So what happens when they leave their host?”

Say’ri thought back on it. Well, when Grima had been released from Robin, the dragon had wrought so much havoc upon the world.

“Grima would become a dragon again,” Say’ri replied vacantly. She thought about it for a moment, and she looked down at Inigo sharply. “Inigo, could it be possible to bind Grima to their host?”

“I…” Inigo was still watching the sky. He swallowed thickly, and he glanced at her. “Oh gods, I hope so…”

He then pointed. Before she could even follow his gaze, she could hear the beating of wings, so loud that the sound shook the cobblestones beneath her feet. Her heart nearly died on her, shock and fear and fury toiling together inside her. It had been a long time since she’d seen that god awful beast flying overhead.

The memory of Tiki’s final moments, her unending determination even as she coiled herself around Say’ri to protect her from Grima’s assault, came crashing into her mind. She was jolted to her feet, her hand at the grip of her sword. The great beast had already enveloped the sky, blotting out the sun with its enormous, leathery wings.

As it flew over the distant ruins of the palace, a broken silhouette on the horizon, the beast was enveloped in a great shock of blood red flames. The fire spat across the sky, sending ribbons of flames unfurling toward the ground. Say’ri left her sword at her side, and instead tackled Inigo to the dusty cobbles, using all her strength to grab him with one arm.

The flames had managed the lick the caved roof tops around them, black smoke billowing into the air, and Say’ri raised her head. The sky was nothing but smoke, fading gray wisps swirling like overanxious clouds above them.

And Grima was gone.

“What on earth…?” Inigo gasped, raising himself up beneath the cover of her arm, his eyes darting across the sky. “Where did it go?”

Say’ri could only shake her head in disbelief.

“I do not know, young one…” She could feel his shoulders trembling in terror, and she sighed. She pulled him closer, offering a one armed hug as he watched the sky fearfully.

“What are we going to do…?” He sunk into her embrace, and she realized how scared he truly was. “Owain… where’s Owain…?” He didn’t move. Perhaps he was still processing the severity of the situation. “I have to find Owain…”

“We will find him,” she promised.

She didn’t want to look at his terror stricken face any longer, so she took him by the back of the head and buried his face into her shoulder.

“Fear is only natural,” she said quietly. “However, you must be strong. We all must be strong in the face of Grima.”

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, clinging to her cloaked. This shocked her. She could not tell if he was crying, but he certainly was trembling from fear.

“Fie,” she barked. “We do not know what fates are in store for us, do we? Lift your chin up, boy. You are alive now, are you not?”

He lifted his face. There were tears glistening in his eyes, and his dark cheeks had turned ungodly pale. And he smiled at her sadly.

“Would you have died?” he whispered, loosening his grip on her cloak. “If you could have saved Lady Tiki, would you have died?”

“Of course.”

He exhaled sharply. And then he smiled wide.

“Of course,” he said brightly. “So, I guess, I think I’m going to die. But that’s okay, isn’t it?”

Say’ri couldn’t respond because he’d already jumped to his feet, a bounce in his step as though nothing had even happened.

“Come on,” he said, offering out his hand to her. She took it warily. “Let’s go find the others.”

Chapter Text

Inigo was having a slight breakdown.

Smoke was drifting through the deserted streets, wind sweeping through the dilapidated buildings, flames licking the concave rooftops, and dust skittering beneath their feet. Home was a warzone, and he was staring into the depths of hell simply by standing amongst the wreckage.

When he inhaled, the ashes of home clung to the back of his throat, and it made everything inside him hurt. How could he continue on? How could any of them go on when their lives seemed to reflect this old, empty city?

He could see himself, a small, lonely child, staring into the distance at the far reaching castle, and wishing for nothing more than to return. The train was continuing on without him, footsoldiers marching, civilians cheering them on. He'd had tears in his eyes, his stomach in knots as the footsteps grew heavier and heavier, and he was left behind.

All he did was wish and wish that he could just go back.

Even then. Even now.

Why was he so damn predictable?

In the end, his father had scooped him up and dumped him on his shoulders. "You trying to get squashed?" he'd laughed, bouncing Inigo up and down excitedly. He'd shrieked in fear, snatching his father by the head.

"Dad, stop," he gasped burying his face in Henry's soft white hair. "Dad. Father. Daddy, stop it—!" And then Inigo had found himself laughing, falling into the rhythm of his father's jerky steps.

He wondered what his father would think of him now.

I hope you're proud of me, he thought at the screen of smoke that filled the sky. You're everything I never wanted to be. And you're everything I've become.

"Come, Inigo," Say'ri gasped, snatching him by the bicep. She dragged him away from the middle of the smoky, cobblestone street, leading him down a narrow, shadowy alley. This was just as smoky, but at least they were hidden. Say'ri took a deep breath, her fingernails digging into his upper arm and holding tight. "We must understand what just happened. If Grima has arrived, then why did the beast disappear so quickly? With such power, it would be a simple task to level the entire city and take us with it."

Inigo didn't know. Something wasn't adding up, and he had to consider what Lucina might be thinking. She'd lost all her men but Laurent. And what about Laurent? What could he do? Come out here and die like all the rest? Or would she simply keep him by her side, like a precious pet she feared losing?

He rubbed his face tiredly. He didn't know. Truly, he didn't know.

"Maybe they don't know we're here?" Inigo offered.

Say'ri exhaled sharply. "No," she said distantly. "I doubt that's it."

Yeah, Inigo was at a loss. How could they even know that they'd arrived in Ylisstol? Unless they'd simply made an assumption. Then he was just pissed that they'd been so predictable. What were they supposed to do? How could they fight Grima now? Surely it was only Morgan, Lucina, and Laurent. Could they really take them?

I have to find Owain, he thought numbly. I have to find Owain before anything else.

"Come on, Say'ri," Inigo gasped, waving her forward. "They must be nearby, right? We should find them before this gets worse."

Say'ri studied him with her tired eyes. Sometimes Inigo forgot how much she'd suffered. How much this war had taken from her most of all. Inigo was still living, still breathing, still steadily marching forward, because he had found a reason to keep believing. But Say'ri had lost that reason years and years and years ago. And yet, here she was. Still fighting. Still carrying on.

"Grima must have a goal," she murmured. "Is it to wipe us out? Or does it go beyond that?"

"Like destroying the world?" Inigo frowned. "I thought that was already established…?"

"I have prayed to Naga every day," Say'ri said, her eyes downcast. "What will become of us, I wonder, without her guidance? Without her Voice?"

Inigo had not thought so much about this. He wasn't really religious, and he didn't exactly feel connected with Naga. All he really cared about was that there was an afterlife he could escape to when this was all over. Where he could see his mother again. And, maybe if he was lucky, he'd see his father too.

"I honestly haven't a clue," Inigo said, taking a few quick steps and peeking out around the corner of the alley. "Okay, gamble time. Do we head toward the city gate and risk the chance that Owain, Noire, and Brady are still in the city, or do we head towards the castle and possibly get roasted?" He hummed thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the crumbling brick. "Oh, the possibilities…!"

Say'ri exhaled sharply. She grabbed him by the back of his vest and dragged him from the alley. "The gate," she decided firmly, her voice quick and soft and resigned. Inigo had yelped, a little astonished by her strength. He looked up at her, at her scarred cheek and her weary eyes, and he realized how much she'd probably grown to care about all of them.

I see, he thought numbly. You found something to believe in too, Say'ri. A new reason to live. And it's us.

So he let her drag him through the hazy streets, the smell of old wood being devoured by flame ghosting the air. He kept close to her side, coughing as he inhaled more and more smoke, his eyes watering from the fumes. She tore the sleeve off her missing arm, the sound of ripping fabric beating beneath the soft roar of flames in all directions. The fabric felt too hot against his mouth and cheeks and he found it hard to breathe, but it was better than inhaling the dark swaths of smoke that came tumbling from the sky.

They were moving at such a feverish pace that Inigo was beginning to realize they were fleeing for their lives. His traitorous heart was palpitating, leaving him shaky and breathless, sweat seeping into the cloth that he pressed to his nose and lips to keep the smoke from searing his lungs. He clung to the fabric of Say'ri's sleeve like a child hiding behind his mother's skirts. He couldn't help it.

Grima made children of them all.

Say'ri skidded to a stop, her arm flinging out and forcing Inigo to stumble back. The air was beginning to clear, this being a part of the city where Grima had not hit. The smoke was dispersing, leaving the world in a strange, murky haze. There was a film over everything, a shimmery screen where light filtered in and burnt the cobbles yellow, baked the bricks red, and smoked the air gray.

In the shivery miasma, a silhouette had appeared.

Excitement tingled inside him, and he lifted the cloth from his mouth to cry out. "Owain!"

Say'ri clamped her hand over his lips, muffling his gasp with her bony fingers.

Another silhouette had appeared.

And another.

And another.

Inigo realized his mistake.

As the prickling scent of smoke began to fade, a new aroma replaced it. A wet, heavy smell. The smell of rot. The scent of flesh decaying, of organs withering, of hair clotting and falling out. Bodies bloating and expelling all its liquids, leaving nothing but loosely clinging skin.

Risen.

So many Risen.

"Well," Inigo gasped, grabbing Say'ri by the wrist and yanking her back. "Let's go the other way, shall we?"

"We will be chased throughout the city!" Say'ri cried, following him only not to waste any time. The Risen were clearer now. And they had seen them. Heard them. They'd started forward jerkily. "Should we not fight? Are we not warriors?"

"We're kingsmen first!" Inigo shook his head furiously. "I must find Owain. I can't waste time here, fighting these monsters!"

Say'ri watched him sadly. Her jaw tightened, and she looked back at the hoard that had begun to rush after them, heavy footfalls clapping, rusty chainmail jingling and screeching, armor shifting. The sound of flapping wings over head made Inigo pause. He jerked Say'ri to the right and threw himself to the left, his body skidding across the hot, dusty cobbles. An axe clashed against the road, sparks spitting into Inigo's face.

He pried open a satchel buckled to his back, and he tore his tome from the leather bindings, letting it fall open in his lap and feeling the undeniable rush of euphoria as the dark magic slithered beneath his skin, rushing to the tips of his fingers and bubbling up until it was burning the nerves wound tightly around his hands. He glanced up at the rider above him, a rotting wyvern molting skin as it rocked jerkily in midair.

The spell he'd used made the air grow hot, golden chains criss-crossing behind his eyes and looping around the floating wyvern upon his quick command. With a flick of his wrist, Ruin was initiated, and the wyvern reared back, sliced by the deeply contorted energy the hex had conjured up and inflicted upon it.

He sent another spell, a quick dash of thoron, which sent his nerves into a frenzy, and made the air light up, and the wyvern screeched as the lightning rods pierced through its rotting flesh, pumping volts upon volts of electricity into its dead heart. It crashed to the ground, teetering on its jerky legs.

Inigo met the glassy eyes of its rider.

His tome slipped through his fingers.

"Gerome…?"

His face was sallow and thin, bruised and broken and busted in places, blood vessels popped and skin sagging. His eyes were visible, his mask torn away to reveal his sad, youthful face, sunken in death. Dark shadows were ringing the holes in his skull, and his eyes were cloudy and distant from the settled rot. His clothes were caked were dirt and mud and blood, mysterious stains clinging to the dark plates of his armor, leaving him looking wet and weary.

There was a stark line of shredded, discolored flesh slashed across his chest, leaving nothing to the imagination. His skin was bruised and caked with blood, startlingly pale and blotchy. The gash was so deep, so unbelievably deep, that his cracked bones were visible to Inigo, his torn up lungs shriveling up on the crags of his ribs.

From behind Gerome's head, he could see Say'ri moving. More Risen had appeared, and she'd unsheathed Amatsu, slicing through carcasses with the precision of a butcher and the grace of a dancer. Her feet moved expertly, gliding across the cobble and kicking away any Risen that dared to get to close, cleaving their skulls in half and flicking the brain matter into the face of her next victim.

Meanwhile, Inigo was struggling to rise to his feet.

"Gerome," he gasped, tears welling in his eyes. He grappled at his tome, and he skittered back against the wall of a building. He was trying to push himself up, but he was failing. His breath was caught inside his throat, and he thought he might begin sobbing. "Oh, gods… Gerome, I'm sorry, I… what can I…?"

His axe came slashing toward him. Inigo ducked, rolling out of the way just in time for the blade to scrape against the wall. He fumbled with the pages of his tome, magic toiling inside him, and he moved fast, jumping up and casting his hand out toward the wyvern once more. The Ruin hex came with its coiling chains and its slashing force of heavy energy, and he felt it in his chest, the weight of it as it crashed down upon the dead beast.

He couldn't bring himself to aim at Gerome.

Not again. Not again...

"Gerome!" He cast a low level fire spell, watching the flames lick the leathery, porous skin of the dead wyvern. It made an awful shrieking sound, and it collapsed into the dirt. Gerome toppled off the mount, his body a pile of gangly limbs, and he made a low groaning noise. Inigo found himself in a stupor, crouching in the dirt, grasping his dirty face in his hands. "Gerome, it's me! It's Inigo! I… I'm sorry, I… I'm so sorry, I never meant for this to happen! I didn't want this! Please, Gerome, please, listen to me, I… I want to take it all back! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm… I…!"

His glassy eyes moved, slowly searching his face. He opened her mouth. His breath was foul, rotten flesh beating hot into Inigo's face, and it made him nearly gag. Gerome raised his fingers tremulously.

They latched around Inigo's throat and clenched so hard that his breath was stolen from his lips. Asphyxiation was so painful, and his strength surprised him, his fingers tightening and squeezing the life out of him, making strange squelching noises with his flesh beneath his nails. Inigo was listening to his own harsh choking noises, his hands still gently holding Gerome's face, and he wished. He wished so hard, because this wasn't right. He couldn't die yet! He had to find Owain first!

He had to die by Owain's side!

His hands fell away from Gerome's face, and his vision swam, white dots blotting out the world like sunspots.

Something wet and warm splashed against his cheeks. The grip slackened. It loosened completely. He could hear nothing but the startling ring of his own head, pain stretching through him, and he coughed, his vision returning in rapid bursts. He saw. He saw, and then he didn't, and then he saw.

Gerome's body was slumped on its side. There was no blood to pool beneath the stump that was his neck. It just was there. Immobilized.

His head sat in Inigo's lap. Pale hair soaked with blood, eyes gauzy with weeks, months of death, and nothing in his face, not a single emotion at all. He was as stoic in death as he'd been in life, and that made it all the worse.

Inigo exhaled shakily. He found himself shaking, his eyes darting around him, his lips moving and soft, desperate whimpering sounds escaping them. "Ah…" He picked up Gerome's head, staring at it numbly. "Ah…" He dropped it. It made a meaty smack as it hit the ground.

He screamed.

He was being yanked to his feet, his tome stuffed inside his satchel, and he reached for Say'ri, reached for her desperately, his fingers tugging at her sleeve, her tunic, begging for something, anything, a hug, a pat on the head, a shoulder to cry on, anything, anything, but instead she simply shoved him away.

"Go!" she rasped, her scarred face twisting in despair.

"I…" He wasn't crying, but he felt dead inside. He was shaking so badly, and his vision was swimming, and it hurt. It hurt to be alive. He wished. He wished that Gerome had killed him, as Inigo had helped kill Gerome. Forget it. Forget it all! He should just die already!

What was worth this?

This was hell!

"Inigo," Say'ri breathed, smiling at him sadly. "You are so very brave. Please. For once, be a coward."

I'm not brave, he thought numbly. I'm sad and in love and that's blinded me.

"Leave me behind!" Say'ri shouted, smashing the hilt of Amatsu into the face of a Risen and catching its ear in a spike. "It will be all well, Inigo. We will see each other soon enough!"

"No…" But Inigo was stepping back.

Say'ri met his eye. "You must find Owain," she said, her voice breathless and hoarse. "Is that not right? Well. Go then. Go find him!"

"Say'ri, please—!" He took another step back, his whole body quaking.

"Go!"

He stumbled back, his eyes wide as the Risen kept coming, more and more marching onto the streets, and he was at a complete loss. Everything was too much. This world had turned on him, and he was having trouble understanding his own emotions, his own feelings. He felt half mad with guilt and grief, his heart pounding against his chest and his throat aching so badly that his whole head throbbed.

And all he could do was whirl away and run from the battle like a fucking coward.

But he ran.

He ran as fast and as hard as he could.

Because Owain was still alive out there somewhere.

And Inigo would find him. He had to.

His ears were ringing.

In his mind, he was somewhere else. A far off place, a battlefield, his small feet sinking into the dirt and soot. He could smell the crisp stench of sizzling meat, smoke burning his eyes and making him lightheaded. His stomach ached. He was trudging through the smoke and dust, feeling lost and lost and more lost.

He followed the sound of wailing until he was standing, teetering on his tiny legs, before Owain's crumpled little body. He was kneeling in the dirt and the dust, clutching something in his hands, and he shook so badly that he looked like he was about to fall apart.

Brady gently placed his hand on the Owain's back, unsure of what to do, unsure, unsure, so unsure, and the world had made certain to silence him as he began to shake as well, his eyes darting to the bodies lying in the dirt, half scorched, almost beyond recognition.

But Brady and Owain, they knew better.

They'd recognize their mothers anywhere.

Brady came back to reality with a violent gasp, smoke and soot filling his mouth and causing him to cough sharply. He clutched his head, finding it to be pounding harshly, a sharp ringing still rattling inside his ears. He tried to push himself upright, but a wave of nausea crashed into him, and he collapsed back onto the hot, battered road, coughing bile and saliva into the dirt.

When he removed his hand from his head, it came back red and warm and sticky.

Fuck, he thought mildly. He closed his eyes, and he exhaled sharply. Shit!

The world was on fire.

And who was to blame?

He remembered watching the wings of Grima beat overhead, his eyes wide and his body frozen in terror. He remembered being dragged back by Owain, his friend's arms looping around his chest and yanking him away as the world erupted with fire, and the buildings around them were set ablaze. Rock flew into the air, entire walls shuddering and crashing down in a great flume of dust.

Suddenly there was nothing but smoke and dirt, and they were all sent flying.

Must've hit my head on somethin', he thought, heaving deep breaths. It only made him cough more. He felt around blindly for his staff, blood seeping into his eyes, and instead his hands found the soft fur fringe of Owain's jerkin.

"Y-yo…" Brady gripped his friend's arm, and shook him hard. "Get up, ya… ya useless prince…"

There was no response.

Brady raised his head, ignoring the splitting pain that drilled into his skull, flashing blinding white lights into his retinas and blurring his vision. He hissed, and he squinted into the thick smoke that blanketed them.

Owain was being pinned to the ground by a boulder.

"Fuck!" Brady snarled, jerking madly to his feet and all but flinging himself at Owain's side. He could barely see the damage done, but it looked… he didn't know. The bone might've been splintered. Could he fix that? Ah, gods, what the fuck? What the fuck was he supposed to do? Brady was concussed, damn it! He couldn't heal himself and Owain! And what about Noire?

That made him pause, his heart beating hard against his ribs, and he exhaled shakily. "Noire…?" He was gripping the leather of Owain's jerkin with bloody, shaking fingers. "Noire! This ain't the time for your goddamn shrinking violet shit, speak the hell up!"

He heard a soft groan nearby, but he could barely turn his head without his vision swimming.

"Brady…?"

"Follow my voice," he gasped.

He listened to the soft sound of fabric shuffling. Noire's face appeared through the thick screen of smoke, and he sighed in relief. Blood was leaking profusely from both her nostrils, pooling around her pouty mouth, but otherwise she looked fine.

"Help me," he croaked, moving his hands quickly to the boulder. "I… I think I've got this, I can move this damn thing on my own, but yer eyesight is better than mine right now, so can ya find my staff?"

"Yes," she gasped, jerking to her feet. "Yes, of course!"

Brady fumbled with the great slab of rock, his wet fingers slipping on its sharp crags. He was dizzy and he was desperate. He needed to lift the boulder without causing any further damage to Owain's leg. Could he even do that? Was he that strong? Fuck! He didn't know, damn it! He sucked in as much breath as he could manage, smoke filling his lungs, and he gripped the boulder tightly, his nails digging beneath the stone. He hefted with his back. He lifted with his soul.

He heaved the boulder up, gritting his teeth and huffing as he hurled it away. Then he dropped to his knees, his vision swimming and gleaming red as blood pouring from his forehead into his eyes.

"Hold on, man, I've got ya," Brady muttered, tearing up the hem of his robe and rolling it into a wad. He pressed it to the busted leg, closing his eyes as he applied pressure to the crush, bleeding leg. Owain whimpered in his sleep. Brady would heal him. He had to. He had to do this. "Yer pretty damn banged up. Gods, aren't ya an idiot?"

"Brady!" Noire returned with his staff in her hands, and he snatched it. He needed it to channel his energy, to focus on the healing process. He wasn't that good. He wasn't that strong. He needed a conduit.

He gripped the staff with his crimson hands, blood staining up his forearms, and he closed his eyes. If he thought too much, this would all fuck up, and he couldn't let that happen! No fucking way!

The energy it took to envelope Owain in a healing aura was astounding. As Owain was healed, wrapped in a cocoon of light, Brady felt like he was fading. His heart was stuttering, and his grip on the staff slackened, and he was struck numb. The pain in his head didn't matter anymore. It all felt so far away.

When it was over, Brady nearly toppled onto his side, but Noire caught him. She supported him gingerly, throwing his arm over her shoulder and letting him lean his weight against her. Owain coughed feebly in the midst of the smoke, curling up into a ball and groaning.

"Ahh…" he mumbled, slapping his face with his hands. "Ow… I feel absolutely terrible!"

"That's probably because your leg was smashed to pieces a few moments ago," Noire said in a flat, empty voice. "Thank Brady."

Owain's eyes widened, and they flashed to Brady's face. They softened, and he smiled weakly. "You look rough," he said quietly.

"You shoulda seen the way you looked, pal," Brady snapped right back.

Owain chuckled, rubbing his neck sheepishly as he sat up. He seemed at a little bit of a loss. "I guess I didn't dream Grima up, like I'd hoped," he sighed, glowering at the smoky gray sky.

"Nah," Brady coughed, wiping the blood from his eyes into his sleeve. "Looks like we've got a whole heap of trouble on our hands, huh?"

"We should regroup with Say'ri and Inigo, right?" Noire looked into Owain's face, her eyes growing distant. "We'll need them."

"Yeah…" Owain sighed. He glanced at Brady, and he smiled weakly. "You up for a walk, buddy?"

Brady glared at him. He forced himself to rise unsteadily to his feet, and he shot Owain a sneer. "What do ya think, I'm some weak shit? C'mon."

Owain smiled at him gently, and he laughed. He helped Brady steady himself, patting him gently on the shoulder and glancing around the smoke-ridden street, squinting into the dust. Noire spat a glob of blood and spittle into the dirt, leading the way down the hazy path. Debris and flaming chunks of fallen walls littered the ground, and Owain had to drag Brady out of the way of the more hazardous paths.

"Grima's here," Noire said suddenly. Her voice was quiet. Shaky and distant, reflective of her anxiety and fear. "Did they follow us?"

"I don't want to think about it," Owain said firmly. "First and foremost, we have to find Inigo and Say'ri. We can figure out the Grima situation later."

Brady didn't want to be the pessimist, but it seemed to him like Owain was avoiding their imminent deaths.

Of course they were going to die. It felt so obvious at that point. Like, Brady wasn't dumb. He knew his days were numbered, and now he felt the pressure of death like a bony hand digging into his shoulder.

Tick fucking tock.

He didn't mind much. It was like, ya know? He'd get to see most of his friends soon enough, so that wasn't something to be sad about. He'd see Nah, and Cynthia, and Yarne, and Kjelle. Severa and Gerome too, maybe. He'd finally be able to tell them off for being such ungrateful assholes.

The air got a little clearer as they reached the building they'd been camping out in. Brady slumped on a stoop, coughing sharply and wiping the blood once more from his eyes. If he lived long enough, it'd add another ugly scar to his harsh features.

Well. Whatever.

Noire and Owain were checking out the inside of the building while he waited outside, leaning heavily against his staff. He felt like he already knew. Inigo and Say'ri had already left, likely to find them. What could they do?

He sighed. He was too tired to heal himself, which was probably really bad. If it came down to it, he'd probably tell Owain and Noire to leave him behind. Should he even keep going? Or should he stay here?

No, that'd just make him worried. He'd rather keep trudging along than wait in pure anxiety as he wondered if any of his friends were still alive.

"They're not here," Owain announced, ducking out of the building and glancing worriedly around the street. There were fires everywhere, smoke billowing toward the sky, and Brady bit back a snide remark. Of course they weren't here! Like, clearly they'd all had the same idea to regroup, and incidentally gotten more split up because of it!

"Let's keep moving," Noire suggested, clenching her bow tightly in her hands. "I don't like the idea that they're out there alone."

"Me either," Owain agreed. He looked down at Brady, who once more pushed himself upright, his vision a little hazy, but otherwise he was able to hold his own. "Which way do you think they went?"

"Ain't no way they went toward to castle," Brady sniffed, glancing up at the tall, hypnotic stone ruins of the castle's silhouette.

"Let's keep going down this road," Owain said, starting forward. "They can't have gone too far, right?"

So they moved on, marching quickly through the ruined streets of Ylisstol, their eyes peeled for any signs of life. None of them were worried about Grima at the moment. Even if they all knew they would soon regret not focusing on something so important.

Noire skidded to a stop, snatching an arrow from her quiver and notching it. Brady realized quickly why she was suddenly so defensive. He could practically taste the rot in the air.

"Right," Brady gasped, shoving Owain back. "Time to find another way!"

"Agreed!" Noire loosed her arrow, whirling around and hustling them into an alleyway. They moved quickly, ducking into the shadows and coughing as they inhaled too much smoke. "Damn it… if there weren't so much fire all over, we'd be able to navigate a lot better!"

"Maybe we should head toward the castle," Owain suggested. "The Risen are coming from the direction of the gate, right? Meaning the deeper into the city, the less Risen there are."

"That's all well and good," Brady muttered, "but you know who is there? Grima!"

"Yes," Noire sighed, squeezing her eyes shut. "It seems to me like this is a trap. We're being lured toward the castle."

Owain was quiet. He looked torn, as though he couldn't quite believe this was happening, that he had to make this call. Throw them to the Risen, or risk being caught in Grima's trap? It was clearly not an easy call, and Brady was beginning to feel the terror of the oncoming battle, the realization that they were sorely fucked, like they would never leave this godforsaken city again.

It was so jarring. He wanted to cry, but he was too shaken to pull forth such a soft emotion.

"We'll continue to the castle," Owain said firmly. He stepped out of the alley, squinting up into the shattered rays of sunlight that broke through the smoke screen that had layered Ylisstol's skies. "If Grima wants us, then Grima will have us."

Brady and Noire glanced at each other. Whether they agreed with Owain or not was irrelevant. He was their leader. They would follow him. Into death, into hell, into oblivion.

They managed to outrun the risen for awhile, though Brady was growing too tired to keep up the pace. His vision was bleary, and he was coughing violently, but he couldn't stop, not for a minute. Neither of them told him to heal himself. They knew he couldn't. And plus, he should save his magic, right? For them. They would need it, wouldn't they?

He was scared. Dying seemed so far away and so close, and he didn't want to know.

Accepting death was different than the agonizing slope into it.

Brady was hit with a crashing wave of nausea and he teetered on his feet, doubling over and overcome by the onslaught of vomit that rose up in his throat and splashed against the dusty road. Owain was quick to his side, gently rubbing his back. The even strokes did enough to calm Brady down, but he was still overwhelmed with the shivers and the dizziness.

"Come on," Owain said, leading Brady slowly to the side of the street. "You need to rest."

"We ain't got the time!" Brady rasped, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Blood was still seeping through his head wound.

"Brady's right." Noire sounded vaguely horrified. "The Risen are bound to catch up with us before we make it to the castle!"

"It'll be alright!" Owain looked at her, his eyes flashing desperately. "It will! Okay? Believe me!"

"Owain…" Noire was clearly defeated. Brady couldn't blame her. He could also taste the bitter defeat that had crashed upon them. What could they do?

"You guys should keep going," Brady said hoarsely.

They both glanced at him sharply. Owain looked shocked, and suddenly furious. "No," he gasped, "no way! Brady, why…?"

"I ain't any use to you all fucked up like this!" Brady gritted his teeth, and he jerked away from Owain's grasp. "I ain't makin' it to the castle, Owain, ya know it. Leavin' me behind is the smartest thing to do."

"Brady, we… we can't…!" Noire had tears in her eyes, and it made his throat constrict. Nuh uh, this wasn't how it was going to go down! He didn't need her to get all emotional on him, 'cause he was just gonna end up crying too, and that was a nightmare!

"I won't leave you." Owain grasped Brady's shoulders, staring desperately into his eyes. "Please… I'll… I'll carry you!" He moved to pick Brady up, and Brady shoved him away, scowling at him.

The tears had come. They were rolling, fat and warm, down his cheeks.

"Just fuckin' get outta here!" Brady choked, leaning heavily on his staff. "Find Lucina, find Morgan, find 'em and teach 'em a lesson!"

"I can't…" Owain's voice broke. His face had crumpled. His eyes widened, and his own tears fell fast and sure. "Brady… you'll… you'll die all alone if I leave you here…"

Brady opened his mouth to verify that he didn't mind. He'd been prepared for this.

"I'll stay with him," Noire stated in the strongest voice she could manage. Both Owain and Brady stared at her vacantly, shock settling in. Brady made a move to object, but a soft, broken voice called out to them.

Brady and Owain turned to look, while Noire merely closed her eyes. Inigo was standing down the street, jogging up to meet them. He looked… well, Brady couldn't see very well, but his silhouette was rather red. Fuck, was he bleeding? That'd be bad.

"Inigo!" Owain's relief was palpable. His lips broke into a tremulous smile, and as Inigo drew closer, he reached out to clap him on the back.

Inigo enveloped Owain in a sharp hug, burying his face in his shoulder and letting out a shaky sob. Owain looked mildly shocked, but he returned the embrace without thought.

"Hey…" Owain's own tear streaked face broke into a gentle smile. "Hey, it's okay. What happened?"

Noire exhaled beside Brady. "Say'ri," she murmured, turning her face away. Perhaps she didn't want them to see her cry.

Owain must've heard her. His eyes widened, and he slumped.

"I…" Inigo was clutching Owain's jerkin, his nails digging into his back. "I didn't know what to do… I'm sorry, Owain, she told me to run!"

"I understand," Owain murmured.

"Gerome was there…" Inigo was shaking so badly. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

Owain was struck frozen. Brady saw the terror in his eyes. Very slowly, with trembling hands, he took Inigo's face and lifted it up to face his own.

"Inigo," he said softly. "It's not your fault."

Inigo's face was splotchy and wet, his lips trembling. Brady had never seen him in such a state, never in his entire life. It made him feel small. It made him feel hopeless.

"How can that be true?" Inigo whispered.

Owain smiled, and he shrugged. "It just is," he said. "Please don't cry. Our journey isn't over yet."

"For you." Noire stared at them. Brady felt sick to his stomach, and not simply because he was concussed. He understood what she meant. It was likely that she'd seen Risen beginning to lurk toward them. They were working on a time limit.

Inigo's eyes slid sharply to her face, and his tears seemed to immediately stop. He looked frigid. His jaw tightened. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You two have to get to the castle," Noire said, lifting her bow and taking a deep breath. "I can slow down the Risen and stick by Brady."

"Brady…?" Inigo looked sharply at him, taking in the sight of his bloody face, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Can't you just heal yourself?"

"Took too much damage, used too much energy." Brady offered a shrug. "Ain't got enough juice left in me. If I could rest for a bit, recharge, sure, but we ain't got the time."

"Maybe I could do something!" He reached behind his back, fumbling at his satchel. Noire scoffed.

"That book hasn't any useful healing spells, Inigo," she told him curtly. "Honestly, unless you're looking to steal someone else's health and heal yourself, you won't find anything in there."

"I don't want to leave you," Owain gasped, turning to face them. "Guys… please. Please don't make me leave you to die!"

"You have so much fuckin' faith in us," Brady snapped. "Just listen to yourself! Gods, stop wailin' and just move on already!"

"We're okay, Owain," Noire said, smiling thinly.

Inigo touched Owain's shoulder. Owain shook him off, his eyes flashing wildly between them. He wrestled Brady up in a hug, which caused him to stiffen in shock. Initially he wanted to shove Owain off him, but he realized that this, by all means, could be the last time they ever saw each other. Oh gods, he thought, tears prickling his eyes. Gods, why?

"Why didn't you heal yourself before you healed me," Owain whispered, sounding shaky and thing. "I don't want to lose you, Brady. I don't want this…"

"I guess…" Brady sighed, and he returned the hug cautiously. "I just, y'know, figured yer life was more important."

"Brady, no…"

"Don't sweat it." Brady sniffled, pulling back and coughing awkwardly. "Seriously. It's fine."

Owain shook his head in disbelief. Then, slowly, he turned to face Noire. She was staring at her shoes.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" he whispered.

She glanced up at his face. She smiled sadly, and she closed her eyes. "You'll manage."

"No." He pulled her into a tight hug. "I won't."

Brady saw Inigo's face. He looked sad, and maybe a little guilty. His eyes turned toward the ground, his teary face crumpling.

Noire tentatively hugged him back. It seemed to Brady that she felt out of place.

"I love you," he told her, kissing her hair. "You know that, right?"

She seemed to be frozen. Very slowly, she took Owain's face in her hands. She searched his face tiredly.

"Love," she said, "is the ruination of human existence."

Then she kissed him. Brady felt the need to look away, like he was intruding on something. Like he didn't belong here. Noire's thumbs graze Owain's cheeks, and he didn't even look surprised. Just resigned and sad. When he kissed her back, Noire immediately pulled back, and she bowed her head.

"Inigo," she said. Her voice was shaky. She dropped her hands at her side, and she looked at him sharply.

"Yeah." Inigo was staring right back at her. It seemed like they were communicating without words, like they could read each other's thoughts.

"Okay." Noire took a deep breath. "Now go."

Owain looked ready to object, but Inigo caught him by the arm.

"I'll see you guys soon," he promised. His tear stained face broke into the most unbelievable smile. And Brady didn't know whether to punch him or to cry.

Chapter Text

Love is the ruination of human existence.

How true. How unbearably true that simple statement was. Noire's mother had spoken in tongues, in twisted words and stolen voices, but she knew a thing or two about the truth, and when she spoke it, it braided itself into the earth's core and became life itself.

Love was the reason she'd found herself knotted up in this war to end all wars. Love was the reason she was here now, standing in the middle of a smoky, desolate road, notching arrows and drawing back as an army of Risen approached her.

Love was the reason she was throwing her life to the ground.

This time, it was not for Owain.

It was for Brady.

No one deserved to die alone.

"Ya know we can't stay here," Brady said as she released an arrow and notched two more, letting Risen fall left and right.

"Brady," Noire said, stepping to the side to aim for the jugular of a far off Risen. "Do you want me to kill you?"

She practically heard his neck snapped as his head turned to stare at her.

"Excuse me?" he gasped.

Noire couldn't spare him a glance. The Risen were rapidly coming closer and closer, leaving her with little options. She had to keep notching, keep releasing, even though her arm was throbbing from the kick of the drawstring, from the strain of drawing. She was an archer at heart, but even archers grew weary when the notching and drawing and releasing came in an endless succession.

"If we die here," she said, thoughtless and focused and feeling that she couldn't remember the last time she felt like herself, "we will become Risen. You know that."

"Does that mean ya gotta kill me?" Brady squeaked. "Really?"

Another notch. Another draw. Aim. Release.

"Yes."

Bullseye.

"Bullshit!" Brady grabbed her by the shoulders, and he made her tear her eyes away from the Risen. She was shocked, her head cocking back, her fingers twitching at her bow as she glanced toward the steadily approaching enemies. "Look at me, Noire!"

"Brady, this isn't the time—!"

"Look me in the fuckin' eye!"

She looked.

His tears made his shadowy blue eyes glisten big and hazy, like a pool in a storm. His lower lip trembled, and he was squeezing her shoulders tightly with his bloody hands.

"Yer not gonna kill me," he told her in a thick voice, "'cause I won't let you die alone."

Noire felt like her veins had been filled with ice.

Her throat closed up. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.

The tears welled up in her eyes, and she couldn't stop them. She smiled tremulously, her breath escaping in a great burst, a great sob erupting as she realized how desperate and how desolate this all had become. She found herself leaning into Brady's hug as he wrapped his arms around her, his collarbone cushioning her cheek.

"We can't die like this," she whispered shakily, swiping at her nose and her cheeks as she sniffled. "We have to keep the Risen away from the castle…"

"Ya know what?" He placed his hand on her head, breaking away just to nod. He looked a little disoriented. "Yer right. We gotta give Inigo and Owain some time. So let's fight together."

"Brady…" Noire knew how bad he was. His condition was merely worsening, his blood pouring into his eyes, his body language suggesting pain and lethargy. He was smiling though, his lips drawn back forcefully, sheepishly, his eyes lidded heavily and his head held high.

If he could be so strong in the face of death, then why was she so damn scared?

"Okay," she whispered hoarsely.

And then they were fighting again. Noire had to take a few steps back as the Risen came closer and closer, while Brady had ran to a corpse and picked up a bloody battle axe, stumbling in his concussed stupor and hacking through the straggling bodies that had managed to catch up to him. Noire notched another arrow, taking out a few Risen as he fell back to her side. He looked exhausted, like he didn't have much fight left in him. But he was trying.

There were so many. So many faces, so many dead, so many piling one after the other in a jerky succession, and she'd forgotten how difficult it was to fight without all her friends beside her. Notching and drawing and releasing was a chore. Brady was sluggish and beaten, but he was fighting anyway because he didn't want her to be alone.

She was so focused on her job, on this endless notching, endless drawing, endless shooting, she couldn't really keep her eyes on Brady. So when he cried out in pain, she nearly screamed.

There was rusty lance poking out of his chest.

In her panic, she drew and notched and shot blindly, not really looking at her target as she half ran to Brady's side, breathless and horrified.

"Brady," she gasped, yanking him back from the Risen that had attacked him. His face was smeared with the blood that ran from his forehead, and his eyes were wide with horror and sorrow and agony. They were stuck on something far off, glazed over and distant as though already struck with death. But he was not dead just yet. His shallow breaths hit her face, hot and unsteady. "Look at me, Brady—!"

"Cynthia…"

Noire's fingers slackened against his biceps, her body tensing as she heard the name echo inside her head, beating at her skull until it cracked and her brain began to ooze out. She tentatively turned her head, her breath caught in her throat.

Standing only a few meager feet away was their old friend. Her face was different. Pallid and flecked with dirt and blood, discoloration in her chapped, busted lips, soulless eyes sunken deep into her skull. The unparalleled brightness that had always seemed to outshine the sun was so faded now that it had become nothing but two soul-sucking black holes. They devoured all light, all thought, all emotion from the air around them.

Cynthia's neck was open, shredded flesh hanging against her collarbone as she lifted her chin. She lowered it. She bared her teeth. Her gums were black.

Brady's legs gave out. Noire dropped her bow to continue holding him, to cradle him close to her as the black cloth around the protruding lance became very damp and heavy, blood spreading thickly over his chest. His breathing was ragged and uneven, heavy and thin. His eyes were unfocused, red rimmed and teary.

"Brady…" Noire's voice seemed to fade into white noise, not really existing, merely serving as a filler in the great thrum of the world around them. Her heart, which she had nearly forgotten had existed, was swelling with sorrow and rage, and she couldn't do a thing about it.

He was watching her. He was opening and closing his mouth uselessly his tongue unable to form words through the crushing pain.

She knew what he was trying to do.

He was trying to apologize.

Because now she would die alone.

"It's okay, Brady," Noire murmured, hugging him close and resting her cheek against his damp forehead. "I won't be alone."

She knew he was gone because the hot, rattling breath against her neck had ceased. His body was heavy, but she didn't want to let it go.

This was just too damn much.

She watched Cynthia's hand come down, reaching for the lance imbedded in Brady's chest. Noire snatched it. It was cold and clammy. Cynthia's nails dug sharply into Noire's wrist. She drew blood.

When Noire looked up into Cynthia's hollow eyes, she could not find a trace of her former friend. Only death remained.

So Noire smiled.

And she laughed.

And she let the flames unfurl from the very pit of her soul and engulf them all.

The castle was so dismal. There were enormous, spidery cracks that crawled through the old stone walls, parapets with gaping chunks missing, and frescos that were singed and faded. Ceilings had caved, leaving massive rocks and debris cluttering their path, littering the once vacuous corridors. Little fractions of light peeked into corners, but once seen, it immediately skittered back into the recesses of the fallen stronghold.

Their footsteps were heavy. They did not try to mask their presence. They knew there was no point. What did any of it matter now? They would be heard. If not their footsteps, then their screams.

Because they moved, they knew that they were alive. But it was so difficult to tell when it was only the two of them. Everyone else…

How had it come to this?

"What do you think will happen now?" Owain asked Inigo softly.

Inigo smiled. His dark face seemed to shine in the darkness, a beacon in the depths of their solitude. It seemed as though he had never been crying, as if he had never mourned. "We will fight a glorious battle," Inigo said, "and the bards will sing of us forever."

"What kind of story will they tell?" Owain wanted to know. He needed to know. He had always wanted this. As a child, this was the dream he'd fashioned his future out of, the dream epic tragedies were made of, the poetry that was written and slaved over by the famous historians that had lived in the ages of heroes. But now that he was living it, now that he knew the cost, he could not find even a glimmer of satisfaction in the ending of his tale.

He was sick to death of playing the part of the valiant hero.

He'd trade the Falchion for even a second with all of his friends again.

Inigo glanced at him. His snowy hair fell messily into his eyes, sweat gleaming on his brow. He exhaled. It was a soft, fond little sigh.

"You will be remembered as the truest Exalt to ever live," Inigo said, his voice quiet and smooth, sweet to listen to, like honey drizzled over oats. "When songs are sung in future days, they will be sweeping ballads of your life, your love, and your loss. No hero could live up to what you have done, or what you have been through. The songs will not forget that. They will not forget you."

Owain was chilled by these words, like a child receiving an award for good behavior, a physical medal draping around a tiny neck. Inigo's words were a prize to be cherished.

"And you?" Owain was enrapt and eager. He leaned forward, his forehead brushing Inigo's hair. "What do they sing of you?"

Inigo smiled softly, sadly, nothing about it quite reaching his eyes. "What do I matter?" he laughed. "I'm just the shallow lover. They will forget I existed, or forget I was so close to you, and when they sing of your triumphs, they will sing of my failures."

Owain stopped. Inigo kept moving for a step or two more before he turned, shooting Owain a smile so easy and content that it made his blood boil. This was not the time for such self-pity. This was the time for pretty lies, and Owain wanted to hear them, he wanted to hear all the decorated stories of how they would be the heroes sung for generations to come.

"You matter," Owain said in a low, empty voice. "You matter so much more than I could ever… than I…"

"Owain." Inigo stared into his eyes. There was something oddly hollow about them. The light had left them, and he was empty. "Mattering to you doesn't equate to mattering to the world. I'm as disposable as a heap of trash." He smiled, and he lifted his hand, his fingers grazing Owain's cheeks. They tickled against his jaw. "But you? Owain, you are the beacon that dragged us from the depths of despair. You are our sun. Without you, we'd be lost. Drifting aimlessly in a great, gaping darkness."

Of course he knew what he was to his friends. He was the leader. He was the only thing that gave them hope. But he'd never been so haughty as to call himself the sun.

And if he was the sun, what did that make Inigo?

He took Inigo's hand, and he squeezed it tight.

"I don't want to be your sun," he said in a hoarse little voice. "I don't want to be a hero. Not if it means you… all of you…" Owain was cracking. He heard it in his voice and he felt it in his soul. There wasn't much left to him now, except for this, except for Inigo's hand against his cheek and Inigo's smile as he told Owain lies. "I never wanted this."

"No one did, Owain," Inigo laughed. "We made a mess. There was no way we could actually clean it up. It was just impossible."

Owain closed his eyes. He felt the pressure closing in on him, the pressure of the world, its weight pressing into his shoulders and upper back. He didn't know how to keep it upright. He was not a hero of old. He could not carry the world upon his shoulders.

He was only one man.

Not even a man. He was just a boy.

Nobody wanted to admit it, but they were all still just children.

And children could only take so much before they cried.

Owain let go of Inigo's hand. He started forward blindly. These halls had been his home once, as ugly and torn as they were. He'd walked this path a hundred times, and time could not change that imprint left upon his brain.

"I feel like we're walking with ghosts," Inigo murmured.

That was true enough. Owain could hear them. Feel them. They were rattling the walls, sighing upon the backs of their necks, and slithering in the shadows. They were here, and then they were gone.

Humans were like that.

They found themselves led to a throne room, a crumbling waste of space that spread what seemed to be a league of land. There was a boy sitting on the throne, small and flimsy, like he'd been painted into the scene. He was sleeping.

Owain exhaled. He didn't know why they'd come, why they'd chosen now, but it couldn't matter. He unsheathed the Falchion, and he held his breath.

He started forward. His legs felt stiff, and his movements jerky, because every move he made felt like someone else's. Was this predestination? He couldn't even think properly. This was just the way things were, and when he moved, there was nothing certain but the fact that he could not stop.

A dark, masked knight dropped from gods knew where, her feet barely scraping the floor as she struck the Falchion with the Levin sword.

Oh. Lucina.

For some reason, he'd practically forgotten about her.

They stood, their swords locked, and Owain exhaled shakily.

"You—!" he began.

She shoved him back, and he stumbled, his feet squeaking against the dusty floor.

"Why do you want to die so badly?" Lucina spat, leveling her blade. "You fool."

"I have to do this!" Owain lifted his head high, his expression blank as his voice echoed off the busted rafters.

"You have to die?" Lucina stood straight and strong. Her mask was dark blue and smoothly plated, forming easily to her small face. "Fine. Fine, Owain. Die if you must. But don't say—!"

Her words came to a startling halt.

Her body buckled. She coughed, a deep, throttling cough that knifed through her lungs. Her knees shuddered, her feet jerking forward and back in a violent little dance of shock. She swayed in place, and the Levin sword slipped from her trembling fingers. She raised her hands shakily to her face.

She pried the mask away, and Owain nearly dropped the Falchion in horror.

Trails of the darkest, thickest blood leaked from Lucina's beautiful blue eyes, smearing her warm face red. It trickled from her nostrils, long strings, long thin rivulets that gathered around her parted lips. She coughed.

The mask clattered to the floor.

The sound crashed like thunder in the night, reverberating through the empty hall and beating her lungs to bits.

Blood spewed from her gaping mouth, into her shaking fingers, draping across her shuddering palms.

"Lucina—!" Owain tried to catch her as she collapsed to her knees, vermillion tears streaking her face, caking her eyelashes and turning the whites of her eye a watery pink. The blood was overflowing, splashing like a pocket sized water fall onto the dusty old marble floor. Her mouth was open wide, and blood was pouring out.

It hurt to even watch.

But they did.

They watched the blood spew out of her, every orifice leaking hot, sticky red liquid, and the sound of her battered breaths, her choking gasps filling the whole cavernous hall.

They were so horrified, so captivated, that they didn't even notice Morgan had risen from his throne.

He'd risen. His body wasn't so small as Owain remembered. Now he had long limbs that he used to glide toward them, never making a sound as his feet grazed the floor. And he stopped before Lucina, his head held high and his eyes burning red.

"Oh, darling," he cooed, raising his foot and planting it on Lucina's back. "You are such a disappointment. Don't you know not to mess with blood magic?" Lucina was kicked, her body curling into itself as she skidded across the floor. "Foolish child. You may be of my blood, girl, but you were simple from the start. Who takes a blood oath from a turncloak mage?"

Lucina could do nothing but curl up, blood leaking out of her eyes and mouth and nose, sliding down the side of her face and into a pool beneath her head.

Morgan scoffed.

"Pathetic." His eyes slid sharply to Owain's face. Instinctively, Owain lifted the Falchion. "Oh. You really won't need that, boy. What was your name?"

Owain's whole body seemed to clench up. Not in fear, but in a cold rage.

Because he didn't matter.

There was resignation in that fact.

All of this effort, all of this struggling, and he didn't even matter in Grima's grand scheme.

He was worthless.

This was all so worthless.

"Owain," he spat, his shoulders squaring as he lifted up the Falchion. "My name is Owain. I'm Morgan's cousin, you godawful beast! What have you done to him?"

"He was conversing with little dragon girls on different spiritual planes," Grima said simply. "I was not too fond of our shared feelings. I did not like having such filth clog my heart. So I put Morgan away for a little while."

"Away?" Owain's grip tightened, his fingers clenching as he exhaled. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I'll accept him back into my heart when he's learned his lesson about love," Grima said. "As for you two…"

Morgan had such a beautiful face. He was such a beautiful boy, filled with such life and fervor, like nothing in the world could bring down his happiness. But Morgan was gone. All that remained of him was this beautiful shell, and even that was cracking, the surface of his skin splitting open and shuddering as eyes flew open and fire licked his open flesh.

"You make him so weak," Grima said, voices lilting, a hundred of them, warping and twisting and shivering like lightning clouds. "Would you like to know, Owain? How I have hurt him?" Grima stepped forward, and Owain pointed the Falchion at his chest.

"Don't come any closer!"

Grima glanced down. He cracked a smile, and it split his whole face, a fiery crack stretching to his ears. "You think you can kill me?" They giggled, their fingers twitching at their lips, and the sound was like little knives pricking your skin, a thousand little knives pricking the epidermis, slowly picking away your flesh until you are nothing. "Kill this little flesh of mine, sure. But will that stop me? Owain? Do you think by murdering someone you love you can stop me?"

Owain's mouth was dry. What could he say? What could he do? This was Morgan!

Morgan still owned this body!

Right?

"Owain," Inigo said sharply, his hand clapping against Owain's shoulder. He couldn't help but jump. He realized he'd started lowering the Falchion, his shoulders going lax, his eyes glazing over. He was entranced.

This boy… this beast… it was so hard not to listen. He was a devil, a demon, a being of temptation and deceit, and Owain wanted nothing more than to hug him. He wanted to kneel. He wanted Morgan to take his face in his hands, and kiss his forehead, and tell him everything would be alright now. Because they were together. Because Morgan loved him. And he loved Morgan. Even though he'd done terrible, horrible things. Even though all their friends were dead because of him.

He still loved Morgan.

He still wanted to save his cousins.

Was that so wrong?

Owain stepped back, raising the Falchion once more and glaring down at Grima's awful, distorted little face.

"You are not Morgan," he hissed.

Grima's eyes, all of them, brightened in a burst of flame, their face cracking in blackening with embers. They laughed, not a giggle, but a high pitched cackle that seemed to be stolen from every murder of crows that ever graced the steely skies.

"You are such a little fool!" Grima shrieked, their eyes shifting around their face, following each other eerily, follow the leader in hot, vibrant lines. "Do you think Morgan can exist without me? Do you think you can destroy this body, and Morgan will live?"

"Of course not," Inigo snapped. "But if Morgan dies, he will be free of you!"

"Inigo…" Owain's eyes flashed to Inigo's face worriedly. Because he had not yet come to that conclusion. Because to Owain, Morgan's life was still precious, still salvageable.

"Owain," Inigo whispered. His bony fingers were digging into Owain's shoulder.

"Ah-ah," Grima sang. "Having second thoughts, Owain? I could not blame you. After all, this is not your fight. That is not your sword. This is not your story."

"Shut up." Owain's voice was hoarse and thin. He did not have the conviction to bellow from his core. He did not have the heart to fight.

He did not have the heart to win.

Killing one of his cousins? Morgan? Lucina? Could he really be so cruel?

"Owain," Inigo gasped, a voice drifting through his ears, soft and distant like a midnight melody, a mystery sound that he'd never quite grasp. "Listen to me! This is just a trick! Morgan is gone! Lucina is crazy! We can't afford to be merciful!"

Owain didn't want to hear it.

"Why are you fighting?" Morgan's soft, warm palms pressed to Owain's cheeks. Owain stared into those glowing hot eyes, wondering if his skin was searing under that indescribable heat. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to shield them from the light. Owain realized how close Morgan was. He realized that the Falchion was mere centimeters from skewering Morgan's fragile body. And yet, he was rendered immobile. Why? Why, why, why, why…?" "Why don't you look at me? Why don't you love me anymore, Owain?"

"Shut up!" A great shuddering crack resounding as lightning slithered around Inigo's hands and crackled about his face, his snowy hair floating on end with every snap and hiss. The lightning was propelled in a shivery sphere of unsteady rods, striking Morgan's side and causing the boy to skid backwards.

Owain didn't even gasp when Grima's shiny black talons ripped his cheeks open. Torn flesh stung so bad, but Owain didn't even care. Blood was trickling from the long lines that trailed from cheekbone to jaw. He stood with his eyelids half shut and his sword weighing heavily in his fist.

"Owain!" Inigo's hands were cold and callused in comparison to Morgan's. They cooled the heat of the lacerations dragging down Owain's cheeks. The blood gathered in the space between their skin. Such little space. Such little time. "Stop listening to it! Don't you get it? Owain, look at me! Listen to me!"

Owain's eyelids peeled back, and he saw the desperation in Inigo's dark face, the way his eyes seemed to melt despairingly as Owain drifted farther and farther from reality. He exhaled shakily, and he let his head droop, his forehead brushing Inigo's. Their hair brushed against each other, black and white feathers intermingling.

"What are we doing, Inigo?" Owain whispered. He felt the sting of Grima's claws against his skin. He felt the heat of his own blood as it pooled into Inigo's palms.

"Trying."

Why? Owain wondered, staring past Inigo's face into something far off, far away, far, far down a well and drowning out the noise with mouthfuls of water. Why did we do this? Why did we keep trying when we knew we would inevitably come to this point? There was no succeeding for us.

This felt so hopeless.

Why had he ever had hope?

Why?

WHY?

"I don't want to lose," he blurted.

I don't want to lose you too.

Inigo smiled.

He stepped back, and he held up his glistening red hands, blood sliding down his arms and staining the cuffs of his shirt.

"There's nothing left to lose, my friend," he said in his brightest voice.

Not true.

Not true at all.

No, no, no.

Owain wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw the Falchion to the ground and watch it shatter.

He wanted to win and he wanted to die.

This job was so thankless.

This life was so pointless.

He'd made his grave with a smile.

And now he would lie in it gladly.

He turned his attention back to Grima. Morgan's body had shifted. It seemed like that body was casting a shadow, a great slithering beast of a shadow that rose up and brushed the arches that dipped into the concave ceiling. Owain knew that this was Grima. This was really Grima. A monstrous beast that stretched and clawed and made demons out of the bad feelings toiling up inside the hollows of your chest.

Owain wanted to give up.

But he rose his sword.

And he sprung forward.

Emptily, he fought.

Even as he swung, he knew there was nothing there to swing at. He was brushing up against death while batting at the air.

Lucina, he saw out of the corner of his eye, had gathered herself up. She was watching with her blood smeared eyes. Tears made all the red seep together against her sallow cheeks, and she looked awful, like a victim of a terrible massacre. Vacant and cadaverous, she dragged herself toward the exit.

And then she was gone.

Away, away, away.

Where did she go?

Why had she abandoned him?

Again?

Grima was a shadow and Morgan was a puppet and the world around them seem to warp into a strange stage where the man behind the curtain was a visible mass that writhed and hissed, while the main attraction was a small boy, just a little boy who had not known any better, strung up on steel strings and dragged around until his skin split some more, until he was bleeding on the floor.

Morgan was suffering. Owain could tell.

So when the first spell struck him, he didn't flinch. It was okay. Because he knew. He knew Morgan had it worse.

But then another spell hit him. This was fire, and it seared his arm, making him buckle and stumble and nearly fall. He jerked back, and Grima's laughter filled him up, overflowing out of his ears and pouring onto the floor.

He wanted to laugh too.

Would that make Morgan happy?

But he was fighting fire, he was fighting air, and he'd known from the very start it would end like this. With a useless legendary sword, and a death that didn't so much creep but loom.

The only unexpected variable was Inigo.

Owain didn't know why. He supposed Inigo was simply unexpected in all aspects.

Owain realized what was happening. He was focusing on Morgan, lurching toward the boy and missing him by a hair. While Inigo was battling the beast.

While Owain focused on what he thought mattered, Morgan's body, Morgan's empty home, Inigo knew that the battle was really with something bigger.

Inigo fought shadows while Owain fought a puppet show.

He didn't know what he was doing. It felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts, or lack there of, moving with little intention, and thinking to himself, I will prove the universe wrong. I will defy my fate.

But he was not that kind of hero. He was not a hero at all.

Who could really look up at the stars, find fallacy in the way they were placed, and then decide to reach up and rearrange the constellations?

Who could be so arrogant as to rewrite what the gods had written?

He was playing a game of predestination, and he'd won.

He'd rolled his die.

This was his fate.

An invisible claw tore through his shoulder, and the Falchion clattered to the floor.

He didn't want to do this anymore.

That was why.

He looked at the fallen sword, and he realized that he hated it more than he hated even Grima.

Why had he picked it up in the first place?

Why, why, why?

He and Inigo had both stopped in their tracks. The shadow of Grima's talons gleamed in the shafts of sunlight that shifted through the broken ceiling.

Blood was pouring out of him like words he'd never had the heart to speak.

I'm sorry and It's all my fault and I never meant to hurt you and All I wanted in the world was to save you and Can't we just be me and you and let nothing else come between and I hate this and Take your fucking sword, take your fucking fate, I don't want this anymore and Love me, love me, tell me that I am loved and I should be so much more than what I am and I wish you could all see that I can't be the hero you want me to be and Let me die in peace, please, oh gods, let me die in fucking peace.

He wondered if Inigo was having a similar experience. With the thoughts that had built up like screens of dust, only becoming apparent when the sunlight shifted through an opening and lit up the wall like a shifting mass of glitter. He wondered if Inigo saw the faults in himself as he recognized the force of his mortality.

He wondered if he was just a terrible person, and that was why his brain beckoned his worst feelings forth in what should be his finest moment.

This was a death of kings.

He was leading a life of a song. Bards would lament this for a century, a millennia to come.

It was hard, knowing he had to keep going when he felt like he was already dead. He dragged himself forward. He huffed and he puffed and blood was blown from his mouth, scattering the dusty tile. It tasted the way winter nights felt.

He was looking at Morgan's face. He realized his folly. Because Morgan suffered.

And Owain would die.

And Morgan would suffer some more.

And more.

For how long?

An eternity?

What a mess.

"What a pest."

The voices came from all around him. They were in his head. They were in his heart.

They were in his mouth, and they tasted like his sins.

"Lie down now, Owain."

The whole world was shifted, and his breath was stolen, pulled from his lips and sealed up inside his lungs. He was thrown onto his back, pain shuddering through the entirety of his body, pressure points escalating at his chest, at his arm, fire erupting in pinpricks around his legs and making him feel like he'd been set on fire.

He coughed, and blood pooled against his teeth.

This. This was the way stars felt when they were being formed. The mass of so many other dead stars swirling about them, knowing that they were all dead, that they'd become nothing but dust in a massive void. It was not sad. Gravity pulled the dead things in, and created something new.

And then that star died, and it expelled its stardust as it collapsed, and he knew that the stardust that escaped would find itself a new home.

He would become a star in the sky, and he would be sung about. In dreams. In tales to children. He would be looked upon when a traveler sought direction. He would be the light the guided a lost soul home.

The worst part about dying was that he wished it wasn't him.

He thought of Lucina, her blood pouring from her eyes and her mouth and her nose, her whole soul seeming to be leaking out of her.

He wished this fate upon her.

He wished he could have followed her to this death. It would have felt so much more fulfilling.

When he stared up at the ceiling, he saw a haze.

Like fog had seeped through the open holes where Grima's claws had torn through the rooftops. He sighed. In the daze that clouded him, he knew someone was fumbling for his hand, fingers trembling against his knuckles.

He let his head loll. Inigo was lying beside him, blood smeared up to his neck and around his cheeks. His eyes were watery and dim.

"Hey… old friend," he laughed, closing his hand shakily around Owains. He held it tight. So tight. Owain sighed. "It's been fucking crazy… hasn't it?"

Owain coughed, blood and phlegm dribbling against his chin. He watched Inigo's face, the way the blood crept up on his jaw line, flecked his cheeks like deep red freckles. He was beautiful. Even now.

"I'm sorry…" Owain tried to drag himself closer to Inigo, but it was such a chore. He could hear his blood smearing across the floor as his wounds scraped and scratched and opened further. "This… is all my…"

Inigo gripped his hand in both of his.

"You and me," he whispered, "until the very end. I'm with you, Owain. Take a breath. Take look around. And when you look at me, don't be sad. I think… I know it's unfair of me to say so, but I couldn't bear it if you were dead. This is selfish. And I think I might be cruel. But you're dying, Owain. And I'm scared to be alone."

"You won't be…" Owain rested his forehead against Inigo's arm, nudging it gently. "You won't be… I… won't let you be…"

Inigo's expression was so pained.

"You might not forgive me," he whispered, "but please… don't forget to smile. Okay?"

Owain couldn't help it. The corners of his lips twitched.

"Go fuck yourself, Inigo…" He sighed a contented sigh, blood filling up his throat and causing him to choke up. Tears blurred his vision, wetting his bloody cheeks. Everything hurt so much that the pain became a dull roar, like the noise hell might make, torturous to the point where it was just normal. Normalcy in the flames of hell, hell in the doldrums of normalcy.

It felt soothing to slip away. He felt like he was floating. He saw hands reaching for him, and he was reaching too.

"Daughter to dragons," he found himself saying, Nah's beautiful face floating above him. She smiled warmly. Her hair was electric, like copper wire set to electricity, and she seemed to thrum with life.

She was reaching, and he reached back. She caught his hand, and it was so soft and light, like feathers pressing into his skin. He was so content here.

And then her eyes widened. With a splat, an oozing black liquid was slapped against her pallid skin. A handprint was left on her skinny wrist. Then another. Then another. She was thrown back, and their hands were pried apart by some unseen, oozing black beast.

Owain fell. He knew he fell from heaven. He knew he fell right to hell.

Chapter Text

He'd forgotten what it was to feel happy.

Thinking back, most of his existence had felt like a bleary dream. Like he'd been wishing on stars for the whole of his life, wasting up all his potential on wanting and wanting without ever reaching out to grab at what could be his.

He found himself at peace here, in a ruined throne room, sitting with his father and talking, talking like there was no time to lose.

And to Morgan, there really wasn't any time. He had nothing left to lose, so he let himself go, let himself be happy. For once, he felt the luxury of freedom. It was like a dream.

And he never wanted to wake up.

Where had the time gone, he wondered, kicking his feet idly and letting the words his father spoke soak in. He wanted to believe that no time had passed, but part of him knew better.

He knew better. Didn't he? Than to be comfortable with things?

"If I had known dying was all it would take to be free of Grima and meet you," Morgan laughed, "I would have done it a long time ago."

He didn't mention that he'd tried. His father didn't look all that amused either way.

"Wishing for death is like being dead all your life, Morgan," he said quietly.

"Then I've been dead for fifteen years," Morgan replied, "until this moment."

"Don't say that…" Chrom sighed, closing his eyes tiredly. "I don't like hearing how much you've suffered because of my foolishness."

"What?" Morgan glanced at his father bemusedly. "Father, none of this is your fault."

"All of it is the fault of my poor judgment, Morgan." Chrom looked down at him sharply. "I was the Exalt who brought about the end of the world. That was me. I am responsible. I left my war, my doomed world, and I dropped it on Lucina's tiny shoulders. And I know it was too much for her."

"We were the ones who destroyed the world!" Morgan cried, clapping his hands against the altar and searching his father's worn face. "Father, it was our actions that caused this. I listened to the voices spinning round and round inside my head, and then I sucked Lucina into the madness of it! I never knew what freedom felt like until I came here and met you!"

"And that," Chrom said sadly, "is exactly the point."

Morgan sat, feeling that he had missed a very important bit of information somewhere along the way. He looked down at the backs of his hands, the Brand of the Exalt and the Mark of Grima twisting on his skin. White and black, soft and sharp, good and bad. The dichotomy of his life was laid out before him, and he listened to his own thoughts move listless through his mind, reminding him that he was himself and no one else.

"I don't understand you, father," Morgan laughed, rocking his feet giddily. "But I won't play this blame game any longer. I know my own sins, thank you very much!"

Chrom looked at him with disbelief knitted across his young, war weary face. Perhaps he could not understand why Morgan was so pleased, but then, he could not know the burden of being one half of a whole for fifteen years. Morgan had always believed, for whatever reason, that without Grima he would feel a sense of loss. As though he could not possibly be real, or feel complete without that drumming sensation of their toying, whispery madness clawing through him. But right now, he felt so weightless and relieved. He could not fathom how he'd lived so long as two people in one body. One mind was quite enough.

"You suffered so much," Chrom murmured, "because of my mistakes— our mistakes. I died and let my people, my friends, get cut down one by one. It was because I was so scared of letting your mother go— even when it was the only thing she wanted. And now she suffers too, because of my selfishness."

"We never blamed you," Morgan said gently. He reached out to touch his father's shoulder, but the man was too far away, and the space between then was too great. "Father, mother and I, we love you."

"I believe that, I do!" Chrom's expression was strange and pained, distant and longing. "But I have been waiting here for so long… I wonder if she ever started to blame me."

"I don't think so." Morgan blinked rapidly. "What have you been waiting for, father? There is nothing here but death and bad memories."

"It's not always here," Chrom admitted, looking up at the shapeless ceiling as though light might pour down from it and illuminate his hazy state of being. "I wait in gardens, in shipyards, in timeless canyons. I wait in ruined mansions and abandoned villages and spaces that cannot exist but somehow do. But no one ever comes."

"That must have been very lonely," Morgan remarked.

Chrom shot him a sad smile. "Not any lonelier than being trapped with Grima for your entire life, I imagine." He offered a shrug. "I suppose when I saw you here… I was very excited, you know, just to see another face. Even though I knew you might be an enemy, I wanted nothing more than to speak with you." He laughed, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "I've been dead for so long, but I still can't shake this habit. Like I have to befriend everyone."

Morgan laughed as well. "A bad habit," he agreed, "for a king."

"Oh," Chrom groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Don't remind me. I know all too well that I was a bad ruler— I trusted too easily, I know, I know, I know. But I never wanted to rule. I was never supposed to be Exalt, Morgan— I knew nothing of how immensely straining it is to lead a nation. The tough decisions you make reflect on you forever. So I guess… I decided it was better to trust too much than to not trust at all. To be the opposite extreme of who my father was."

"I can't judge," Morgan said. "I ended the world."

"Oh, Morgan…" Chrom winced. Morgan just smiled and kicked his legs. It was so lighthearted. Yes, he'd ended the world, and he didn't care. That was probably awful— it was probably the most selfish and despicable thing, but Morgan did not care because he had never been so happy.

If the whole world had to burn for this single moment, then so be it.

And then the moment ended with a shuddering crack. Chrom buckled, tripping against the unstable floor, and Morgan looked around wildly.

"What?" he gasped, gripping the altar as the world around them shuddered and hissed, shaking like shadows in a dream. They were all writhing, the shapeless ceiling and the fallen pillars and the worn stone floor. It was twisting and turning like a body under a knife, cracking open like the earth in a quake, and the sound was a scream edging on a scream edging on a scream.

"Morgan," Chrom gasped, lurching toward the altar. His arms were outstretched.

"Father…?" Morgan blinked rapidly. The stone beneath him split, and he felt the whole world crumble around him, scattering like dust as he fell into open space, a scream edging on a scream edging on a scream lodged inside his throat as everything whirled and whistled around him, leaving him breathless and empty.

He was falling, tumbling through infinity, and in the white, jagged hole above him his father stared down, his name etched on his lips for an eternity.

And then he wasn't falling. He was frozen in a fall, his body nothing but a memory, his soul nothing but a fraction of what it should have been.

His wrist had been caught by a shimmering light.

Angelic and distraught, Nah's face hovered over his, her coppery hair loose and wild around her glowing face. Her fingers dug into his wrist. Her body was not all there, and that was perhaps because she was not a body but a spirit. Her light did not reach far enough to show him all of her, so she was not much more than a series of wisps dancing around him.

"I can't hold you long," she whispered, her eyes dazed and glassy. "I'm so sorry. I lost… I am losing so many of you today… to the dark magic…"

"I don't understand," Morgan gasped. His body was frozen, and though he ached to reach toward her, to touch her cheek and tell her that it was not her fault, he could not. "What's happening?"

Nah's fingers shook as something dug into Morgan's stomach and tugged.

"It's Grima," she murmured. "Grima… Grima wants you back. Morgan, don't—!"

The claws sheathed themselves in his gut and ripped him from her grasp, pulling him down and down and down until there was nothing for him to see but the gaping abyss.

She had not asked, "Why here? Why now?" She had not asked, "Are they here? Are they gone?" She had not even asked, "Are you Morgan? Are you Grima?"

She knew all the answers.

In another world, in another life, she could have been one of them. It was a funny feeling, to long for a certain death, to believe with all your heart that all who died that day had a better fate than she.

The funniest thing was that she had forgotten all about the curse. The blood hex placed on her by Tharja when she'd been nothing but a fledgling mage, dipping her fingers into forbidden waters without understanding the damage she had done.

Being home made it all so much worse. She saw familiar sights, a wall she and Owain had once climbed, a tapestry she and Severa had ripped, a piano she and Inigo had played, brightly saturated memories suddenly sullied and stained from the bleak reality surrounding her. She was so tired, so drained, and she couldn't see a foot in front of her. It was all just Grima. Grima's words, Grima's voice, Grima's eyes.

It was all, and it was nothing, and she was lost in a haze of her own imaginings as she sat beside the throne with her sleeping brother and her waiting master.

And she prayed.

Naga, she thought, save me.

Blood seeped through her teeth and leaked from her eyes and made the whole wide world swam in the bleary redness of it all. She was choking, wheezing, clawing at her own eyes, drawing crimson streaks over her cheeks and coughing thick vermilion globs into her palms.

The fact was that it was she who had ordered the Risen here, and it was she that had prompted them to attack, and it was she who was culpable for any and all deaths that became of this action.

Noire was dead now. The blood of Tharja, which had graced Lucina's lips and burnt her cursed tongue, was now poisoning her inside out. Her insides bled, her tongue swelled, her eyes burned. She spat her lungs into her hands, and she heaved breaths to no avail.

Owain had reached out to her when she'd fallen. She saw that through the streaks of red that filtered her vision. His hands fluttered over her face, fingers falling through the feathery tufts of her shorn blue hair. She heard his frantic footfalls beneath the din of her own thudding heart, beneath the guttural groans that escaped her torn up throat. In the end, he still cared for her.

Naga, she thought blindly, if my fate is to suffer and die here, slow and painful, then please. Let his death be quick. Let him know only Aunt Lissa's smile, and let him dream a good dream.

Grima kicked her back, sending her buckling on her hands and knees, blood pouring onto the floor from her eyes and mouth and nose. They spoke in their voices, their endless whispers, "Oh, darling, you are such a disappointment. Don't you know not to mess with blood magic?" Lucina was kicked, her body curling into itself as she skidded across the floor. "Foolish child. You may be of my blood, girl, but you were simple from the start. Who takes a blood oath from a turncloak mage?"

Naga, she thought, I know I'm praying to a ghost, but have pity. If there is a hell, then I must be living in it. And if there is a hell then there must be a heaven. So I'm begging you— or anyone who may listen— let it all end here. Let it all die here. Let us rest.

She curled up, pain encompassing her like fire licking from her fingers up into her brain. Her nerves were unraveling piece by piece, bit by bit, and she was drifting between conscious and unconscious states. Wavering between realities.

"Up you go, Lucina," her father told her, his hands closing around hers, massive and all consuming. She was lifted, unsteadily, her feet wobbling against the tile.

Papa, she giggled, up, up! Let's go!

"Up, up," her father laughed, pulling her by her tiny arms and leading her tiny feet. "Up, up. Time to go!"

The walls were all aglow, white and bright with the midsummer sunlight, and she was so happy because his face was washed with the warmth of it, and the floor was shifting in the heat, and she was so happy here. Nothing could spoil a perfect day.

She was up, and she was moving, and the bright whiteness, the silvery haze of a dream of a dream of a dream was guttered out.

Lucina stood swaying in the doorway, her bloody fingers slipping against the busted door. She turned, blinking blearily into the throne room.

Two boys lay dying on the floor. Owain's dark hair was plastered to his bloody skin. His fingers twitched, and Lucina exhaled shakily as the tips of them drew over Inigo's dark cheek. Inigo's chest rose and fell at a rapid rate, one that she could not fathom, for her breaths were slow and sluggish, impeded by a throat full of blood.

If her throat had been free, would she have screamed and screamed and never stopped?

It was hard to know now.

She turned, whirling in a dizzy shock of guilt and grief and shame. She stumbled, shouldering the walls and sucking in deep breaths to clear her spinning head. Everything tasted like iron, flakes of metal dancing behind her teeth. With every breath, the metal plunged into her heart and punctured a fraction of its surface.

It was just too much.

Owain, who she had wished dead a thousand times over, was dying on the floor with her little brother standing triumphant over his soon to be corpse, and she was more than simply upset. She was crying real tears, clear and streaming and clinging to her bloody face. Her fingers slid against the craggy walls, her knees wobbling as she dragged herself, hiccupping and rasping, through the desolate corridors. Tile was cracked, walls were torn away in great heaping chunks, parapets were toppled, tapestries were charred and torn.

Her home was a ruin and her life was no better.

She spilled herself onto the floor of an old courtyard, one she had often happened upon as a child. It was a mosaic masterpiece, the floors and walls shimmering with faded old blue glass, oceans of old glittering in the sun. It was so dusty now, covered with years of accumulating dirt and overgrown weeds poking through the grout. But it was beautiful in an archaic sense, and sad in a nostalgic sense, and ugly in all logical sense.

Her blood blotted out one or two or three little glass panels. She sniffled, wiping her face with her hands and smearing more blood across her lips. She swayed dizzily in place.

Last time she had been here, it had been before Nah had been sent away.

This was her place, after all. Where a tiny dragon girl would speak stories of old, read aloud from books that looked impossible for someone so young. Her stubby copper braids twisted around her ears, her face half flushed in the summer sun. Lucina could almost see her now, white dress pooling around her bandaged knees.

She raised her eyes to Lucina, and she smiled warmly.

"Let the burden fall," she said, her small voice and small face all aglow.

In this light she was all white and all bright and everything about her seemed to shine.

And then she was gone in a jolting red blink, and Lucina sunk into the dirt and the glass and listened to her own frantic breaths.

I'm sorry, she thought numbly. I'm so sorry, everyone, I… I failed you. I couldn't be the friend or the sister or the cousin or the daughter you needed me to be. I couldn't be a leader, and I can't pretend like anything I have done was right.

The wind was whistling at her back, a heavy presence like a man standing tall and reassuring.

Repent, the wind sighed. None are blameless in this game of fate. Repent and be free.

A voice was singing. A thousand voice, whirling all around her.

They said, Lucina, Lucina, Lucina…

She could sit here forever. Forever was not so long for her now, anyway. Her blood was pooling on the tile, and the dirt beneath it drank it all up eagerly.

Well, it was a fair death. She was cursed in life, and it was a curse that would end it. That was all there was. That was all there would be.

And then?

She regretted so much. But most of all, she regretted Morgan.

After all, if she felt so spent and helpless, it was difficult to imagine what the mind of the boy who had hosted Grima for an entire lifetime faired.

Regret was a funny thing. It was eating at her, and she was helpless to it, but regret would not bring back the lives that she had taken, the lives that she had ruined, the life that she had not lived.

It was all so very much, wasn't it? Death did not give her clarity so much as an existential crisis.

And then, death kicked her in the back and sent her sprawling across the tile. She bit stone and dirt. Blood smeared over the dusty mosaic.

Dust coughed up around her like sand. A familiar sight for a desert wretch.

She raised her head shakily. Her fingers bit into the dirt, her breaths heaving and rasping against the dusty air.

A boy stood before her. He was blood soaked and dead eyed, black hair askew, freckles vibrant against his sallow skin. He stood like a puppet on strings, half slumped, jaw slack, fists closed. There was a sword that should have been hers in his hand, the tip of it dragging against the tile and the dirt.

Lucina stared. Through the residue of blood in her eyes, she thought perhaps this was another trick of the light. But Owain was anything but aglow, and instead was cast in shadows, dark dips beneath his hollow eyes, seeping into his skin and sucking him dry of all life. His chest rose and fell heavily, as though he had been running for a long, long time.

She drew herself into a slumped, upright position. She lifted her head, her chin tipping toward the sky. Dust clouds and smoke blotted out the sky.

Was it too much to ask for one last look at the sun?

"So," she said in a rasping, shivery voice, "you're not dead."

Owain held the Falchion with both hands now. His fingers shook against the grip, his dull eyes widening and narrowing.

"This is the end," he said. His voice was different. She heard it, and she thought, Oh the whole world could bend and break and bow before him.

"So it is." She stared at him. She wished to see his face as it had been years ago. She wished to hear him as he was when he was truly Owain, and not some awful creature that she and Morgan had pawed together out of blood and clay.

He was still shaking. The Falchion in his hands, he shook and he trembled, and she couldn't help but think him spineless. Kill her or don't. She would die either way.

"You won't fight me?" he asked dully.

Lucina did not dignify him with an answer. She merely closed her eyes and listened to the wind snarl at her back.

His boot landed against her spine, colliding sharply and forcing her to her hands and knees.

Her exalted cousin leveled the sword with her face, and he did not smile when she glanced at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the folded steel.

"I've thought about this," Owain told her, his voice so different from the last she'd heard of it. Often times, when alone, Lucina had closed her eyes and thought she'd heard Owain's lofty little voice calling out to her, battle cries from a long forgotten play, a war of dirt and sticks and biting, scratching, hair pulling combat. She'd thought about it in her darkest of states, and felt as though she had been removed from that memory in order to observe as an outside. She's thought about this. She's terrified of it. "I wanted to speak to you so badly, because I thought… I only let myself fancy a dream where you'd return, listen and understand, that you'd realize how misguided you were and return to us. But I was wrong. I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong to have faith in you!"

She was scared to die as much as she was scared to live.

So she took her best shot.

"Faith," Lucina said, closing her eyes. "Dreams. Love. Honor. They do not exist, Owain. They're a fabrication. A lie. Just like you."

And it pierced him like a saber through the heart.

"Oh, shut up," he spat, digging his heel into her spine and kicking her face into the dirt. "I heard your patronizing loud and clear, Luci. But you just don't get it. You're the one living a lie. You and Morgan both, you served this great and powerful illusion, like it could somehow save your souls from the devastation Grima's caused! You cannot fathom the pain and suffering you've dealt already, and yet here you are trying to inflict more! You're… you're despicable— you're a disgrace!"

Every word he spoke was a nail in her coffin. She knew, she knew, she knew it all to be true. There was nothing happy here. There was only memories buried beneath the rubble, and a sword leveled at her neck.

He lifted the Falchion. He whispered a prayer.

Silently, she prayed along.

Death had done nothing but empty him.

He dragged the bloodied Falchion back to the throne room. It had been seconds, minutes, hours, centuries since he'd woken up there, Inigo at his side, and no Grima to be found. He had laid for what had felt like several eternities, fingers intertwined with Inigo's, searching that grayish face for a miraculous twitch of life. And then it truly all came together with a brutal click.

He'd sat up, grasping Inigo by the shoulders, and he'd screamed.

He felt like he was still screaming.

Owain didn't know how or why he was still alive, but he could guess.

The Falchion sliced a scraggly path through the corridors, sparks hissing at his heels and screaming at his back.

He didn't know how Inigo had done it. He supposed it didn't matter much now. What was done was done. Only one of them was left alive now.

One, of course, and Grima.

He stepped as though the ground was giving out. Heavy, unsteady steps, stumbling in a dazed manner through the hallways and reminiscing with a grave heart of all the happy memories these walls held. He looked down at his swordhand, and he watched it twitch and tremble without a hint of amusement.

"Inigo? Inigo!"

He thought it was his own voice echoing a long dead plea.

"What have you done," he'd gasped, grasping Inigo's pallid face, thumbing the cold curve of his cheek. His voice was faint and dull from his own death. "What was this for? I don't understand. How could you do this? I have nothing here anymore!"

But that was a lie if he'd ever heard one.

He'd had two cousins who needed to know that he still loved them.

"Inigo…?"

A tiny voice broke across the throne room, echoing like thunderclaps against the rafters and the bloodstained, shattered tile.

Owain stood tiredly in the doorway, Falchion in his fist, watching Grima try in vain to resuscitate Inigo's corpse.

He walked slowly. He lifted the blade to the boy's neck, and watched the child freeze up.

"I've always wondered," Owain said softly, "what would happen to you, Grima, if Morgan died."

Grima's eyes were set ahead in stark shock, lips parting shakily. They darted up at Owain's face.

Ah.

Tears filled Owain's eyes.

"Shall we find out?" Morgan asked weakly.

Lucina's blood was still fresh on the blade. He didn't know that Owain had killed her. How could he? All that was here now was the remnants of a battle fought with Grima, where Morgan had been absent. Owain saw that in his eyes. Sweet and sad and sunken. Morgan saw Owain, and what he saw was true. Owain saw Morgan, and what he saw was heartbreaking.

The Falchion slipped from Owain's fingers and clattered upon the tile between Owain's feet and Inigo's body.

"Why…?" Owain's eyes flashed wide, and he whisked a bloody hand through his hair, clutching at it madly, deep breath pouring from his mouth. "Why can't I do this? I just… I did it… I tried… I can't—!"

"Owain," Morgan said gently. "It's okay. Grima is sleeping. They won. They have all the reason to celebrate. They killed everyone. But that… wasn't me. Well, some of it was me, in the beginning, but not this time. Do you believe me?"

"Yes." Owain squeezed his eyes shut. He dropped to his knees on the other side of Inigo, breaths still falling rapidly from his lips. "You… take turns, then? Switch who is in control?"

"That wasn't how it worked originally." Morgan's tired eyes flickered down to Inigo's face. "I was in control, but… it was like I was having my every action whispered to me. And I just did what I was told because it would hurt less that way."

"So when you killed Nah," Owain said heatedly, tears beginning to stream heavily, "that was just you following an order. Nothing personal?"

Morgan recoiled as though Owain had struck him.

"I… deserve that." Morgan drew his hands up to his face. Owain saw they were shaking as badly as Owains were. "It wasn't like that. I… I love Nah. With all my heart. With all my soul. I don't know what I wanted then, but Nah wanted to help me. And I was going to let her. Truly, I… I felt the warmth of the dragonstone, and my mind was clearing away, and I saw. I knew what was happening. To me, to Lucina, to our mother before us. Grima killed her, not me."

"How can I believe that?" Owain murmured.

"I don't expect you to trust a word I say," Morgan sighed. "But you're listening. And that means enough."

"You killed me," Owain informed him curtly.

"Huh?" Morgan's eyes widened. "Me…? Grima? Grima killed you?"

"I'm alive now because of Inigo." Owain glanced down at the corpse, and it stirred a wave of heartache and nausea within him. "He wanted me to live for whatever reason. Cursed me."

"I'm familiar with this curse." Morgan touched Inigo's forehead gingerly. "It's performed by a mage willing to risk everything for their lover. When the lover dies, the mage's life is drained and deposited into the lover. Dark mages don't use it often because it requires a certain selflessness that many don't possess. It's also clearly unfair to the lover. You, in this case."

"Thanks, I gathered that."

"Ah." Morgan flushed. "S-sorry. Um… so… you were in love?"

"I don't see why that matters now," Owain sighed.

"I would like to know," Morgan gasped. "You were always so elaborate, Owain! Tell me about your love before I die."

"What about when you kill me?" Owain said flatly.

"No, no, you have to kill me." Morgan shook his head. "I don't want to live anymore. Owain, when Grima pushed me out of my body, I saw my father. He was waiting for me. I want to go back to him, so we can find Mother and Lucina together."

"How do you know Lucina is dead?" Owain asked.

"I can tell." Morgan sighed, bowing his head. "Don't tell me how it happened. I'll see her again very soon, and then it will be happy, and Nah will hold my hand, and I'll never fall again."

The tears were so copious now that he could hardly see.

"Is this the you that Grima's been keeping from us all these years?" Owain whispered, his voice trembling.

Morgan looked up at him, and he smiled.

"Kill me," he said, reaching out and pressing his small hand to Owain's cheek. "Free me."

A small, soft sob left his lips. It crashed and echoed, it shivered and shook. Morgan's expression fell. His lower lip trembled.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears filling up his eyes. "Owain… It's my fault that this all happened."

Well, Owain couldn't deny that.

"Make it right," Morgan gasped. "Set me free."

Owain reached up shakily, taking Morgan's small hand. He remembered being entranced not so long ago, wishing for nothing than to gain this boy's approval.

He gingerly brought Morgan's knuckles to his lips, noting the surprise and delight in Morgan's face. "As you wish," he said softly.

He did not pick up the Falchion. He pulled Inigo's old tome into his lap, still holding Morgan's hand. "Are you still with me?" he asked, flipping through the pages.

"Yes." Morgan watched intently. "Thank you for doing this."

Owain had already killed one cousin today. One more was no trouble.

Even if it hurt worse than death.

"Pick your poison," Owain declared, offering out a page full of basic spells at the front of the tome. Morgan smiled, and he pointed to one. A lightning spell.

Fair enough.

"Let this be the end," Owain said, gathering his courage and gathering his strength and gathering what faint feeling he had of the veil to foster some touch of magic within him. He had the ability. He'd always had some bare talent for it. But all that had gotten him was some healing spells his mother had taught him that he had soon forgotten after her death.

"And let us meet again," Morgan whispered, smiling a teary smile. "Now. Do it quickly, before Grima realizes. You won't kill them. Destroying the host merely creates an inability to manifest directly. Grima will be free to creep along like a ghost."

"I understand." Owain squeezed Morgan's hand. "I… have a question. Did Lucina… regret anything?"

Morgan looked down at his lap. "I'm not a mind reader," he sighed. "But, yes. I believe she felt remorse. Grima tortured her, and I… I was no better. We were one and the same. One cannot fully exist without the other. So it goes."

"So it goes." Owain wiped his tears hastily. "I was so angry at Lucina. I was so angry that Inigo was dead and I was alive. Morgan… I—"

"Please." Morgan's eyes were swimming. "Let this be enough."

"Forgive me," Owain begged.

"There's nothing for me to forgive."

Owain couldn't stand it. He leaned close and kissed the top of Morgan's head, feeling lost and disgusted with the world and with himself as he drew energy from all around him, drawing from death and from his very heart to forge a lightning bolt that numbed his fingertips. The static thrummed around them. And then he let it all go.

It collided with Morgan's chest, seizing him with tremors for a moment before he swayed and swayed and swayed and smiled.

"Thank… you…" Morgan uttered softly.

Owain was still holding his hand when he collapsed on his side next to Inigo.

The whole world grew dark with a yawning shadow that had been jolted away. Owain didn't care to look. He folded Morgan's hands gently over his chest before taking up the Falchion in both his hands. He listened to Grima's inhuman screech as the shadow leaked across the floors and along the ceiling and twisted. Eyes snapped open, hot and slithering across the surface of the walls.

It made no difference now, anyway.

He raised the Falchion and angled it to some degree of discomfort, knowing that an incorrect movement would lead to eternal suffering.

He smiled.

And so the Falchion found its final sheath.