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The mark of the sword is gone from Ninian’s body. When Bramimond revived her, they must have undone that somehow (and for the action Ninian had not been able to properly thank them, though perhaps in five thousand years she never could have). There is no visible reminder, but none is needed, not when she remembers the clean and sudden pain, not when she sees the moment reflected in Lord Eliwood’s eyes. He still has the sword, has used it for the right end now, and it remains sheathed at his side, to be taken once more to rest.
He cannot forgive himself for that—when there is truly nothing to forgive—but Ninian supposes she cannot forgive herself for not telling him. For lying, for half-revealing her deceit, for everything with Lord Eliwood’s father, and selfishly accepting the love Lord Eliwood had shown her anyway. (And yet, it would have been crueler perhaps not to take it, and if only Nils were here—another thing to weigh down her chest in this strange air.) And with all of that between them, both of them still reach out. It’s a strange thing, but to phrase it that way is almost to dismiss it.
But—she is alive, and he knows everything, and the sword is at his belt. (Ninian will not see it used again in her lifetime; this she knows deep in her bones, from something at once not at all like her glimpses of the future and everything like it.)
His hand is at her back, warm and real and human, and Ninian is waiting to wake up again, for this to all be some convoluted dream, but it is too real. She has lived so long, yet her dreams are still scattered and sluggish and nonsensical; this world has too much logic, too much detail for people she has known not long at all, in brief moments of battle. (It is the quickest way to forge friend or foe, but quicker still would be to fly through the air together, wings flapping in harmony, the motion of which Ninian’s dances are a pale imitation. Here, of course, that’s not an option.)
No, this is all real.
“Does it frighten you?” Eliwood says.
He does not indicate, but he is obviously talking about the sword. Ninian shakes her head.
“Does it frighten you?” she echoes.
“Not anymore,” says Eliwood.
He speaks with truth, colored with a tiny bit of bravado, the kind of thing that Hector would cloak all of his words in if he needed or that Sain would throw in among flirtatious remarks. Courage—someone had told her once—is not a lack of fear, but facing the fear and grappling with it. She leans into him, her shoulder touching his, and almost draws back. She is not afraid of rejection, and she is not afraid of overreaching. She’s only afraid she’s doing the wrong thing, but they’ve made their choices, haven’t they? Even if it is the wrong thing, she has chosen her path, and she cannot fret over that more than necessary, and—and Eliwood had said he does not wish to see her cry, so she won’t.
“Ninian, are we—are you okay at this pace?”
She nods. “I’ve rested well.”
The relief floods his face in a tidal wave, and Ninan moves closer still.
The imprint of the sword lies between them afterward, but it starts to fade. They cannot forget this, but there are moments when they do not think of it. Then, at some point, it changes to the baseline; there are moments when they do think of it. They fade like receding rain into the background. Eliwood holds her tightly, his hand at the place on the back where the mark would be if there was one, and Ninian knows without him saying, and to his credit, he does not try to hide the feeling. He is so open, and so aware of it; his father has—had—always called it his greatest quality, and Ninian still could not have prepared herself for him.
He spars with Isadora on the training grounds, and it’s apparent even there. Unburdened from a fight that holds the world in balance, his worries of family and friends and homeland and everything larger, he swings his rapier freer, guides his horse without a second glance. Isadora, too, fights differently, without looseness or lack of guard but with some other quality about her that Ninian can’t quite name. (If Nils were here, he’d help her, reaching for the words the way he’d hang a necklace of flowers around her neck. Ninian swallows the feeling back. She still has no regrets.)
The ball that Lady Eleanora hosts is supposed to be a small affair, but she is caught up in the strings of politeness like a fish in a net. The guest list has expanded, as has the duration, and Eliwood does not look forward to it. Ninian does—not to the crowd of strangers who will judge her for not speaking enough, nor to Eliwood putting duty and manners before his own relative comfort, but to the dancing.
It’s everything she’d hoped. She twirls on her feet, fancy shoes on a marble floor, Eliwood’s arms around her and his sword a mere decoration at his hip, but if she moves her feet fast enough she can imagine being out in an open field again. Still faster, she’s here, in Castle Pherae, chandeliers full of candles above her and Eliwood, and the people around them are numerous but incidental. She clasps Eliwood’s hand tighter and he smiles, a steady warmth, a fueled flame, and feels alive.
When they had first returned from the war, Eliwood had kept one hand on his sword nearly all the time. It’s a habit beaten in by surprise attacks, like the way Ninian shrinks away from dark corners even when her powers have given her no warning. He doesn’t do that anymore, and she can’t remember when he’d stopped, only that he holds both of her hands in his more often than not when they’re not busy. What makes the dsitance between them is only air, only reaching, only temporary.