Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It hasn’t been long since Laslow returned to Ylisse. He was welcomed home with hugs and food and love. Tears were flowing, hearts were lifted. He was missed, and it showed in every way.

Laslow reciprocated as well as he could—he missed his friends, too. He missed his family, he missed this very world. The sight of the sun and the taste of the air, it’s always been so precious to him. He cannot, and could not, ever deny as much.

But, yet. There is a pit of grief so swollen in Laslow’s stomach that he wonders how he might go on.

Xander died. Laslow failed him to the utmost possible, not only as a retainer, but as a companion. He wasn’t able to defend him in the moment he needed him most, nor his country. And now Laslow has returned to Ylisse, running away from a sorrow which will haunt him forevermore.

Odin and Selena came back as well. They all left Nohr together, just as they arrived, just as they promised. Laslow wanted to leave right after Xander’s funeral, inconsolable as he was, but... he waited.

Since he’s returned, Laslow’s mother has let him stay in her tiny cottage. She lives here while she’s resting from her travels and dancing, a small home to return to on the outskirts of a city. She isn’t here now, though she isn’t far. It’ll only be a few days before she’s back.

In the meanwhile, Laslow’s begun rotting, and he spreads it wherever he goes. He moans and mopes, unsure of what to do with any part of himself, struggling to comprehend how he failed so totally. He was brought to that world to save it, but rather he watched the country he was loyal to fall, saw the man he served die, and did nothing to forward the mission he was trusted with in the resulting turmoil.

So now, as Laslow sits in his mother’s cottage wrapped up in his negligence, he’s certain the figure of Anankos suddenly standing before him is nothing but a hazy and grief induced vision.

Which doesn’t mean Laslow doesn’t scream. He’s completely startled, nearly tumbling backwards in his flimsy wooden chair from his jolt. Frantically, Anankos waves his arms out in front of him.

“Careful!”

Actually, Laslow does fall backwards. He turns himself enough that he lands on his shoulder instead of anything more important, but he still hits the ground hard. A mess of legs and chair, Laslow scrambles about, lifting up his head and staring.

“M—Mr. Anankos?!”

Anankos relaxes his arms, letting them fall to his sides. “Laslow,” he says gently.

Laslow blinks. Then he squints, as if Anankos may truly just be a figment of his imagination that he might blur out of existence. But Laslow did just fall over and reorient himself, and there Anankos still stands, hooded in his white robe and bits of blue hair spilling out.

“How—how are you here?” Laslow asks, only now with the thought that he should pick himself up off the floor. “I thought you’d used up all your power?”

“There was still a piece of myself I gave to you within that crystal,” he explains, ever patient as Laslow fumbles about. “Even here in Ylisse, I might manifest. I’m sorry for startling you.”

And Laslow—he believes him. He really, truly does. Recovering from his shock, Anankos’s presence is overwhelming. It persists in every sense he has. He knows beyond a doubt that this is reality.

“I’m—so sorry I failed you,” Laslow chokes out, guilt creeping up his throat and spilling onto his tongue. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Fate was working against you. I don’t blame you, nor Odin or Selena. I should be the one apologizing, Laslow.” Anankos pauses, and he clasps his hands together. “Yet, still... I am here to offer you—to ask for—another chance. Should you wish for such a thing.”

Laslow looks at Anankos blankly. A swirling feeling fills his stomach, without any indication if it’s closer to dread or anticipation.

“What?”

“You’ve done something similar to this before,” Anankos continues through Laslow’s confusion, “though it will not be the same as then, I assure you of this. My powers offer something different.”

“What do you mean, something I’ve done before?” Laslow asks, scowl beginning to crawl down his brow.

“To alter the past.”

“Alter—” Laslow’s breath catches, his heart leaps to his throat. “You don’t mean going back in time again?”

“I do.” Laslow’s mouth goes dry. He isn’t certain he can believe what he’s hearing. “I can create such a scenario through a pact.”

A pact. Laslow swallows thickly, eyes down on his feet. It’s almost as if they aren’t really there, like he’s floating away. Laslow has been unable to find himself since Nohr, he lost a part of him there, and now this...

“Mr. Anankos, I... I don’t know.”

Anankos spreads out his hands to either side of him, taking a holy stance. He speaks with kindness. “I understand your concern. You worry this will be a repetition of your experience here, that you will not save your own world, but another.” Laslow’s gaze shoots up to Anankos, tense and shocked. “As I said, I do not offer what your goddess did. We will create no new timelines. You will go back to then as if you are continuing your life now.

“You see, I exist within many times, in many forms and places. In the future and present, it can be nearly indefinite. The past—it’s trickier. I can only go back so far, I may only do so much. But it is within my power to bring you back, if you agree. To our same world.”

Laslow’s not even certain how that’s possible. Their only shot of saving Ylisse was to alter the past and abandon the world they were in. Truly crafting something new. If this had been an option then, things would’ve been profoundly different.

“Bring me,” Laslow says, voice strained. “What about Odin and Selena?”

“They would return as well, of course. Though only you will remember. Only your mind, your bodies will revert to as they were.”

So Laslow would be... alone. “Why me?” He doesn't mean it to sound accusatory, though he does feel that way, a bit.

Anankos turns, directing his attention out the window. Over the landscape that’s so familiar to Laslow, yet so distant as he is now. Anankos sighs audibly. “Ah. I’m drawn to grief. And yours is one that’s potent. You could save your prince, if you so desire. Your same prince, not another.” His head lowers, suddenly sheepish. “...We do hear your prayers, you know.”

Heat rushes to Laslow’s head dizzyingly quick. Oh, Gods above, did Anankos hear all of Laslow’s moping about Xander? Every plea and cry and sob?

But—he could save him?

“What would I have to do?” Laslow asks hesitantly. “I need to—understand. You mentioned a pact?”

“You’ll agree to terms I lay before you,” Anankos explains patiently. “The more rigorous, the stronger the magic, the more we can do. So the contract will be particular, with the intention of sending you as far back as I might reach. Our time frame lessens every moment we stand, so I ask for your haste. As of now, I can still reach the soul of my love, but it will not last.”

His love—that was Queen Mikoto of Hoshido. If Anankos might send Laslow far enough back that she still lives, if this is before her untimely death, that would put Xander... well within reach.

“Would you like me to find her?” Laslow asks, some determination growing inside of him. Anankos shakes his head.

“No. I fear her fate is sealed.” He straightens himself, facing Laslow entirely. “I will send you back. And in return, you will end my life. Each instance that you fail to do so, you will be taken back again to the same point as before. This cycle will not end until my death, and it’s through such repetition that the magic is bolstered. I will not have the power to end this once it’s in motion.”

Laslow tilts his head. “How does ‘every time I fail to kill you,’ work?”

“The cycle will repeat each and every time you meet your end, instead. Only on of us will survive this pact, and it will be you. No matter how many times. Eventually, without a doubt, you will live.”

Meet his end? “Wait, so I’ll go back every time I die?”

Anankos gives a slow nod. “Yes. I know it’s frightening. Think of it as a way to guarantee your success. You will have more than one chance, should it come to it.”

Laslow staggers back, catching himself with the side of the chair. “I...”

“Please, Laslow,” Anankos says. “I have little other choice. I still live now, in my home, and I will eventually wreck havoc on that world. If nothing is done now, no peace will last.”

Laslow’s chest is tight. His heart feels like it may beat out of its place and burst through his body. This is terrifying, he can’t pretend he isn’t scared. But here Laslow’s been, drowning in misery because of his failures, and now he's being presented with a chance to make it right. He got himself into this, and he...

“What do I have to do?”

Anankos takes a step forward, putting his hand on a table. “You already have my blood. I only need to bind you and I to our contract.” Anankos exhales deeply. “Do not ever reveal this to my other self. If he learns of our pact, I fear he would do everything in his power to keep you alive. For who knows how long.”

After another step, Anankos meets Laslow face-to-face, placing his hands on his shoulders. He’s—warm, but in a way quite different from how a person might be. It’s heavier, it’s so present, it’s impossible to ignore.

“Are you prepared?”

Laslow’s mind goes to his mother. How she welcomed him home with opens arms and hot tears. How she missed him, how she cared for him.

But, he too thinks of this little house. How she was alright without him. She’ll have an Inigo of her own no matter what decision Laslow makes.

It’ll be alright, no matter if Laslow fails. No matter if he’s here or not. She’ll be okay.

“I am.”

“Then I will begin.” Magic begins to swell and change around Anankos and Laslow. A cool and watery feeling overwhelms him, dripping from his skin and filling up his lungs. For a moment, Laslow feels airborne, as if his body isn’t touching anything, as if it isn’t anywhere. To be so much and nothing at all, at once.

“There,” Anankos says, grounding Laslow back into himself. He’s returned to his mother’s cottage, to his clothing. Back to Anankos’s hands on his shoulders with his fingers resting at the base of his neck. “It has been sealed.”

Laslow’s a little dazed. “What do I do now?” he asks.

“You die,” Anankos says.

“I—”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it painless.”

Anankos’s hands grip Laslow’s neck. Laslow gasps, searching suddenly for air, but that weight of warmth in his throat is already too much. Afraid and losing his sight, Laslow struggles.

“Good luck, Laslow,” Anankos says, one of the last sounds Laslow can make out. “Dusk and Dawn be with you.”

And Laslow is gone.

Chapter Text

Laslow gasps himself awake.

He bolts upright in bed bleary eyed, panicked, and his breaths quick and shallow. He blinks the fog from his eyes and stares about his room, his barracks, at his things casually thrown around, at his locked wooden door.

He was—Laslow was just—

Ah.

Laslow puts his fingers on his neck gingerly, barely grazing his skin. It isn’t tender, nothing is sore or bruised. Air still fills his lungs as if it was never ripped from him, his throat is clear and open. He’s alright. He’s alive.

And he’s in Nohr.

Laslow jumps to his feet, feeling remarkably steady, all things considered. He begins to search around his room with intent, not wasting another moment on being awestruck. He’s on a hunt for anything which might tell him what’s happening right now, how far was he sent back? If he could just get an inkling of what time it is, so he might settle and focus, he won’t yet have to think of any consequences he might’ve just solidified himself into.

But—everything is too familiar. Damn, it’s hard to figure out, hasn’t he got anything here that could help? Laslow opens his drawers and fingers through folded clothes he never thought he’d see again, wondering what they could tell him. Have they ever torn, can he remember when they did? Or, has he ever bought something brand new, does he know where he bought it, and from who?

Laslow never kept anything like a journal, which feels stupid now. He couldn’t have guessed he’d be doing something like this, though, he can’t blame himself too much. But it sure would’ve been nice, wouldn’t it have been. Hindsight continues to make everything look inevitable.

Eventually, Laslow just empties the contents of his drawers onto his bed. His eyes scrutinize every article of clothing he owns, peeling over each trinket he’s stored away for safekeeping. Nothing goes untouched, he racks his brain for anything at all that might clue him in.

And then, Laslow frowns. Because frankly—he’s got nothing. Except for a big mess on his bed.

Well, great. Laslow folds his arms as he squints at his pile of stuff. Anankos mentioned to him that the queen of Hoshido was still within reach. He assumes that means she’s alive, and as such, that gives him at least a generalization. The war can’t have broken out yet, for what it’s worth. That offers him something. It eliminates a chunk of time, though he remembers the war better than almost anything else.

Laslow supposes that outright asking someone may be an option, finding some maid or another and asking for the lowdown. If he gets over the fact he’ll look like a total idiot, that could be his best bet. They’ll probably think it’s some flirting scheme of his, anyhow. He wonders if that would’ve ever worked.

Shaking his head, Laslow pauses for a moment instead. It begins slowly, but soon a wave of realization washes over him from the ground up. He’s really—he’s really back. Anankos brought him to a Nohr from before the end. And this is only the beginning, really, because Laslow needs to save not only Xander, but the world. He didn’t do it right last time, not by a landslide. So he must change something.

What, though? Where will he begin, what sort of change can he make that might affect this world on such a scale? He tried his damnedest last time, and everything still fell through his fingers. Laslow isn’t going to get out of this dilemma so easily. No, he needs to work out his plan carefully. And that will start, of course, with him figuring out what damn time it is.

There’s a sudden knock on his door, harsh and loud. It rattles Laslow, oh shoot, he’s got this whole mess here out in the open on his bed— “Just—just a moment!” he tries, eying his heap to estimate how much he could stuff into one drawer in an armful.

He’s begun wrapping his arms around his clothes when he realizes this is a stupid idea, ah Gods. He’ll just do this later and deal with the repercussions of the decision then. Laslow strides to his door and tries to act as if he knows exactly what’s happening, certainly, and he’s very normal and not at all suspicious—

It’s Prince Xander standing in his doorway. Scowling at Laslow with a high degree of disapproval, arms folded and impatiently tapping his finger. He’s dressed in light, cloth day clothes that are easy to move around in, no cold armor or metal about him. There’s color in his face, his chest moves softly with each inhale he takes. He’s alive, he’s well, and he looks bright.

Laslow is overcome in an instant. First his breath catches, then his eyes sting.

He’s here. Xander’s here. This is his new reality.

“I shouldn’t have to retrieve you myself,” Xander starts warningly, voice deep and low. But, ah, considering how Laslow is standing before him quite literally in near-tears, Xander’s expression falters into one of confusion. “...Are you well?”

“Yes!” Laslow says too quickly, and his throat has closed itself up too, so he’s sort of garbling his words. He coughs awkwardly into his fist, willing himself to get it together, good Gods “May I just—might I say that I was moved to tears to... see you in good health?”

Which is the truth, actually. That’s his wholehearted truth. Though considering the crack his voice helpfully provided and his nose beginning to stuff up, he’s aware he’s done nothing to come off sincerely.

Xander lifts an eyebrow. His eyes move past Laslow and over his shoulder, towards the mess that’s become Laslow’s room. Ah, yes, the repercussions. They came around quite quickly this time. “You may say so, but I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Laslow says. He looks for an escape. “Let’s, um—uh. Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m quite out of sorts. What was it you needed from me, milord?”

Xander’s signature frown returns to his expression, which Laslow missed beyond what could ever possibly be reasonable. “Practice dueling in the southeastern grounds.”

“Oh.” Unfortunately, that’s mundane enough of a task that it doesn’t reveal what day it might be, or month, or even general time of year. “Of course, silly me! Ha-ha. I’m—ready to go!”

Xander seems... unsure. Laslow can’t imagine why, he’s only acting completely conspicuous, sniveling like a buffoon, and his knees are actually wobbling beneath him. But, he’s also so entirely overjoyed that he could probably dance until he dropped. He would follow Xander anywhere now, just to be around him. So, yes. He really is ready.

Xander turns around and begins leading them away, thankfully without any further delay. Laslow’s quite glad he’s stopped openly questioning him about his—uh, emotional state—because Laslow doesn’t exactly have any answers for him.

Laslow’s expression twists as he walks, eyes on the familiar cobblestone floors he so recently said goodbye to. Would it be wise to tell Xander about this cycle he’s found himself in? Can he, even? Anankos always makes things tricky, and this entire debacle is because of him. Perhaps Laslow would have the opportunity to reveal himself in Valla, in that case. Not that he knows how to get back. Damn, he should’ve asked Anankos about it when he had the chance!

Xander leads them to the training grounds, very empty this fine probably-afternoon. The wooden weapons are all untouched, kept neatly in their spaces, and the surrounding corridors of the area are lonely and without a soul. Xander said they’d be sparring, or at least Laslow’s decently sure he said so, so he grabs a training sword to begin with. Xander follows suit.

Laslow remembers the structure of their personal training drills well. They’d always begin with a warm up, still a fight, but nothing that had much intention behind the blows. Laslow stretches himself out, rolling his shoulders back and falling into habit with ease. It’s funny how familiar this feels, while also being very distant.

Their battle begins without much introduction. And how lucky Laslow is that his body remembers how to move, because his thoughts are still running amok. His mind isn’t on the spar before him, it’s on the foreboding skirmishes that await him, the fights that have been and will be again. He still must figure out a plan and it needs to be quick—and he hasn’t the time, really, to train and sweat and kick when he needs to be plotting his next move.

But still, too, his attention is raptured by Xander, simply Xander. Here before him, his Xander. This is different from the chance they forged in the past Ylisse, this isn't an altercation so much as it’s actually going back. Laslow’s alone now, too. There isn’t anyone searching for him, there’s no one to find. Except, perhaps, for that silent dragon waiting for his chance to lay ruin to this land.

“Focus!” Xander shouts, landing a solid blow onto Laslow’s sword. It entirely knocks the thing out of his hand, tumbling behind him into the dirt.

“Sorry! I’m sorry.” Laslow chases after his mistake, luckily still intact on the ground. He holds the hilt gently, but when he glances up he sees Xander has begun scowling at his own sword with an intensity.

Laslow swallows, and he doesn’t resume his fighting stance. “You seem a tad distracted yourself, milord.”

Xander exhales in such a way that pretty much confirms to Laslow he identified the expression correctly. “My father’s orders are vexing,” he says, weariness at the edge of his words. “Though I recognize them, as well.”

Considering literally everything about the king, Xander could be referring to any number of nonsensical orders. “Ah. Yes, vexing indeed,” Laslow says, and he’s feeling truthful about it, because they probably really are. He ventures forward, trying to grasp onto whatever context he can salvage. “Do you disagree, by chance?”

“Hm.” Xander flips his sword around and plants it against the ground, hands resting on the hilt. “I feel it’s early for an outright invasion, resources for such an order may need to come from places I’d rather not take from. Though, with Hoshido withholding Corrin, we’ve little choice but to retrieve him. I expect his chances of escaping alone are slim.”

Oh. Oh, of course. That actually—that makes sense.

Prince Corrin hasn’t betrayed Nohr yet.

“Mm.”

“I expect better punctuality from you tomorrow morning than what you displayed today,” Xander says, returning right to his hardened frown. “We will not delay our departure for you. Must you run and follow the tracks of our troops until you meet us, so be it.”

“I really do apologize for that,” Laslow says. Xander continues to stare him down, and he relents. “I’ll be on time, I swear it!”

But that gives Laslow a handful of the answers he was searching for, lightening the weight on his heart a touch. They’ll be leaving for the Hoshidan border tomorrow, tomorrow. And then Corrin will offer his traitorous stance, the war will break out, and the devilish path toward Nohr’s downfall will begin to forge itself once more.

Laslow really doesn’t have much time. He needs to figure out how to change that dour outcome they’re steadily marching towards, and he needs to do it soon.

It’s only one step in a field. Only one drop in a pool. But you must start somewhere, and this is his only hand he’s been dealt. He’s no choice but to play it.