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Frederick stepped forward. The step sent a familiar lancing pain up his leg. He ignored it the best he could.
Before she had left them, Tharja had been the one to help him manage the pain.
Now, Tharja was gone. Frederick had seen her begin to slip, the past few weeks. Her temper had grown shorter than usual. Now, Frederick found himself saddled with another child to manage in the wasteland that had been left to them.
Noire was a timid thing: afraid of her own shadow, clutching her bow in trembling hands. Tharja had said she was an excellent shot with it. Frederick doubted Tharja had ever told her own child so.
He felt a pang of regret: he feared that Tharja had been unkind to Noire. Libra's disappearance had likely been the final straw in her long-frayed sanity. The Tharja that had strode away, vanishing into the night three days prior was not the same woman Frederick had first met on a Plegian battlefield so many years before.
Robin would have helped Noire, Frederick knew. If she had still been with them, still herself, she might have managed Tharja. Tharja's sanity might have frayed less with Robin's support. Tharja would have listened to Robin in a way she'd never listened to Frederick.
Frederick glanced back at Noire. Morgan still held her hand, tugging her along with them. He'd seemed to deem it his responsibility to tug her along.
Frederick was proud of his son. Morgan was a good boy. He was far stronger than he ought to have needed to be. This world was cruel, but he was every bit his mother's son, clever and strong, insightful and kind.
Frederick continued forward. He'd see both the children to camp. There, he'd need to rest. His leg could only carry him so far. The journey to fetch Noire from the remains of Tharja's home had left him exhausted.
Still, it would be unwise to linger at this camp for long. Frederick had his suspicions about where Tharja had gone, now. Any secrets she held would not remain secret for long.
Once, Frederick had been unaware of the true costs of dark magic: it was forbidden in Ylisse, true, but he had not understood till Tharja. He had seen her change from an admirable warrior who had cared deeply, in her own way, for almost every member of their army to a cruel woman who he knew had mistreated her own child and husband.
The power she wielded had sucked the kindness out of her. It had taken and taken, but she had wielded it till the end. There was a heavy cost to it, and Tharja and those she'd once loved had paid dearly for it.
Ahead, Frederick glimpsed Laurent. He stood tall, far too young to be assigned to keep watch in such a dangerous time. Frederick would have been proud to have him as a trainee in a better world.
"Father," Morgan began, releasing Noire's hand to step forward. "You should sit. I'll help to pack up camp. Laurent and I can manage!"
Frederick felt a ashamed at his son's words.
"If you insist," he said, offering his boy a curt nod.
Slowly, painfully, Frederick sat. It was difficult to lower himself to the ground. It would be difficult to stand. It was difficult to walk. His horse was long dead. Even if it had not been, he would not have been able to mount it.
He watched as Morgan marched over to Laurent. Noire hung back as the other two began to gather their meager things.
In the momentary lull, the pain in his leg occupied more of his mind. Frederick exhaled heavily, then inhaled. He filled his lungs the best that he could, keeping his breath even.
It was not enough to distract him, but it would carry him through this moment and on to the next. It would allow him to bring Noire back to the other survivors.
Noire lurked, silent and trembling. After nearly a full minute, she finally spoke.
"You're hurt," she half whispered.
"I was," Frederick replied, nodding slowly.
"It can't be healed?"
"No."
Noire edged closer to him. She slipped a hand into a pocket, extracting a vulnerary. She offered it to him in one trembling hand.
"Here," she whispered. "This might help?"
"I'd prefer you keep it," Frederick said, his voice as gentle as he could muster. "Thank you, Noire."
She slipped it back into her pocket. She shrank back from him again.
"Noire," Frederick began, feeling a surge of fresh guilt at her trembling. "I am sorry we did not come sooner."
"It's alright." Suddenly, her eyes were full of tears. Frederick knew he'd said the wrong thing. "Mother said I wouldn't be any help, anyways. That it'd be better if I stayed hidden—away from the fighting—"
Noire's tears were rapidly escalating into sobs. Slowly—painfully—Frederick stood, using his lance to help himself to his feet. He stepped towards her. He extracted a mostly clean handkerchief and offered it to her.
Noire blew her nose into it.
Frederick felt powerless. His pain, his failures: both had so long seeped into his very existence that the sight of Noire crying—someone who Robin would have helped, would have loved to know, child of two of her dear friends—was enough to strike him in his very heart.
"I am sorry, Noire," Frederick said, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. "I am—"
He broke off, shifting his weight to help with the pain.
"Father? Noire? Is everything alright?"
Morgan stepped closer, his voice as bright as always.
"I'm useless—" Noire went on, sobbing. Morgan stepped forward. He caught her in a hug that made Noire half-shriek before sagging against him, crying all the harder.
Frederick could only watch. What had Tharja said to her daughter? What had she done to her daughter? What kind of world were they cursed to live in now, if this was the kind of thing that Frederick could no longer try to help with? If he could not serve those he was loyal to, if he could not protect them, then who or what was he now?
He had failed far too many times, now. It was a disgrace that he still lived while worthier souls had passed, but while he still lived, he would not rest.
That was all he could do, now. All he could do was press on as long as he could and hope it would be enough to protect his son, to protect the people he'd failed.
How long he could press on, Frederick couldn't know. Once, he'd considered himself indomitable. Now, the thought of pressing on, of taking more steps was almost enough to make him want to sit, to not stand up again.
He watched Morgan as he comforted Noire. Laurent lurked, timid. Frederick knew he had to keep them safe. He had to return them to Ylisse, now sans Miriel and without Tharja and Libra. He'd failed to retrieve any meaningful allies beyond a child.
Lissa should have abandoned him the fateful knight that Chrom died, Frederick knew. When he had been struck, when he'd fallen to the ground, unable to protect Chrom or Olivia or his wife, Lissa had healed him the best she could. She'd healed Frederick, and they had fled with those who still lived.
Frederick opened his mouth. He found himself struggling to speak.
"Father?" Morgan spoke before Frederick could. "We should leave now, shouldn't we?"
Frederick felt horribly grateful for Morgan's wisdom. His son was more a man than Frederick was, now, as young as Morgan was.
"Yes," Frederick said, his voice rough. "We leave now."
"Will you be alright?" Morgan asked, his worry clear.
"I will manage."