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Lucina grew up without either of her parents. All she had to fill in the blanks were a few brief memories and other people’s tales of her father, tales of his bravery and kindness and how he held his chin up high to the very end, the end that came too quick and too soon.
But people were always strangely silent about her mother.
When she was a child she found, hidden away in her father’s old bedroom, a stray photo taken with a snapshot tome. In the background was a woman who obviously wasn’t aware she was being photographed, dressed in Plegian robes and staring down at a map in her hands. Father was standing with her and though he was clearly supposed to be paying attention to the map, he was staring at the woman with a smile on his face instead.
Lucina stared at that picture for hours before finally tucking it away. Over the years it yellowed and frayed at the edges from all the times she would take it out of her pocket and look at it. It was both a comfort and a torturous reminder of what she’d never have. She keeps it with her even now, despite having both her parents around.
And now that she knows her mother, there’s so much that she remembers. She’s always known that her mother must have been around for at least a little while, but somehow she’d forgotten everything. It all comes back as she observes up close.
Morgan calls her Luci. Father – well, Father just calls her Lucina most of the time, reserving any pet names for nights she can’t sleep or wakes up crying after flashbacks to her future, which is fine with her. Hearing him say her name will always be enough. Her peers just call her Lucina, too.
But Mother calls her Lu. Lucina doesn’t know how she forgot that. Whenever Mother calls for her across camp, it strikes at Lucina’s heart how familiar her voice is, and she remembers all at once laughing and being chased across a field as a tiny girl and her Mother calling after her, “Lu!”
It almost hurts.
Sometimes she watches her parents from the entrance of their tent. She can only ever see their backs, but still she sees how their hands intertwine or Father’s arm slipping casually over Mother’s shoulder without either of them even thinking about it. She remembers them never leaving the other’s side as she was growing up. They held hands when they sat at the breakfast table, when they walked with her in the gardens, when they were sleeping. They were holding hands when they left, the last time she ever saw them.
Her mother cries when people are hurt, and clasps her fingers together along with Libra in prayer as she says pleasepleaseplease in wet whispers. Her mother smiles bright like the sun when Father brings her flowers. Her mother rolls her eyes when Frederick stops her so he can pick up the gravel on the path they’re treading. Her mother comes up and holds her tight without Lucina even telling her how desperately she needs a hug.
Lucina remembers all of this in a blur when she unsheathes Falchion and stares down the blade at her mother, and it takes all her strength and then some to hold the sword steady.
She says: “I have no choice. I must kill you.”
Her words are hollow. She should have done this from the beginning, but she wouldn't allow herself to believe that her mother could have killed her father. She knows better, now, and wishes she had never grown attached to this woman.
But this is how it has to be.