Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Duchess

Haar/Jill

Pining; post-canon

Chapter 3: Farmer

Elincia & Ranulf

Stardew Valley AU

Chapter 4: Tears

Jill/Mist

Hurt/comfort, mid-game

Chapter 5: Sleep

Ike & Greil

Family bonding

Chapter 6: Friendship

Micaiah & Yune

Character/relationship study

Chapter 7: Tension

Elincia/Heather

Character study, yearning

Chapter 8: Flight

Rhys/Ulki

Comfort

Chapter 9: Fireflies

Kurthnaga/Pelleas

Mutual pining

Chapter 10: Innocence

Ike/Soren

Ace Attorney AU

Chapter 11: Hunger

Zihark/Ilyana

Developing friendships

Chapter 12: Tides

Greil & the Greil Mercenaries

Modern AU, lighthearted

Chapter 13: Shopping

Mist & Jill

Fluff, developing friendships

Chapter 14: Apocalypse

Janaff

Pre-canon, apocalypse AU

Chapter 15: Breakfast

Meg & Brom

Domestic fluff, post-canon

Chapter 16: Commander

Titania & Ike

Found family, character study

Chapter 17: Respite

Sigrun/Tanith

Napping together, nonsexual intimacy

Chapter 18: Coffee

Sigrun/Tanith

Coffeeshop AU

Chapter 19: Frost

Petrine/Titania

Doomed relationships, angst

Chapter 20: Sunset

Makalov/Astrid; Makalov & Marcia

Modern AU, lighthearted fluff

Chapter 21: Branded

Stefan, Amy, & Callil

Fluff & angst, found family

Chapter 22: Journey

Ike/Ranulf

Post-canon, fluff & angst

Chapter 23: Library

Sanaki & Micaiah

Post-canon, character study, developing friendships

Chapter 24: Treasure

Oscar/Kieran

Pirate AU

Chapter Text

He hadn’t seen much of Jill since she got her fancy new title. It was just as well—he had deliveries to make, and she had a whole region to oversee.

As Haar strapped another crate to his wyvern’s harness, he considered how that wasn’t completely true. He saw her often enough, as he traveled across Talrega with one shipment or another. She was impossible to miss from the skies, in her new dresses and with her hair down. She’d cut it shorter after the war, but it still fell to her waist when it wasn’t tied up. He’d never thought to tell her it looked nice that way.

As he took to the sky, he scanned her usual haunts—the main road, where she talked with the townsfolk; the market, buying meats and produce. She wasn’t at either that day as he flew over, but she could be anywhere. He passed the manor atop the hill, too modest for a duchess if anyone were to ask him, but Jill claimed it too big to live there on her own. Her wyvern dozed in the eyrie in the back, but that didn’t mean she would be home.

Haar shook his head. He’d flown in the wrong direction, again, but couldn’t blame napping at the reins this time. “You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, urging the beast around.

It shouldn’t have taken so long to arrive at the clothier at the edge of town. The crate was large, but it was light; it took little time for Haar to unfasten the straps and buckles that attached it to his mount.

“Haar?”

She had waited for him to finish the whole unpacking ordeal before announcing herself, the crate safely on the ground at his feet. He spun around. “Jill? What are you doing here?”

He still wasn’t used to seeing her in dresses, at least up-close. It wasn’t fancy, but it was yellow, which always looked nice. She wore her hair down, and was mindlessly twirling one strand through her fingers.

“I’m picking up a new dress,” she replied.

“That’s right,” he said. “You have that party at the manor this weekend.”

Jill nodded. “It’s my first one on my own.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. She stopped playing with her hair, clasping her hands instead. This is stupid, he thought, watching her not make eye contact. She watched his wyvern instead, a distant look in her eye.

Haar cleared his throat. “Why'd you never invite me to one of your parties?"

Jill was never one for a loss of words. But the silence stretched between them, so long that he regretted saying anything. Finally, she unclasped her hands, arms limp at her sides. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I be interested?”

Jill opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her assessment was fair—not once had he willingly attended a social gathering in all his years in the army. She knew that better than anyone alive. “In that case,” she replied slowly, “Will you accompany me to the dinner party this weekend?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

It was a lifetime ago that Haar had last attended a social gathering. He knew enough to bring a gift, clutching the neck of the wine bottle as he approached the manor’s door. His old formal dress mostly fit; riding had kept him in well enough shape, even if he was a little soft around the middle. He’d put effort into polishing the brass buttons, but nothing could help the stiffness around the collar.

He swallowed before knocking on the door.

It swung open at once, like Jill had been waiting. She immediately took a step back, her gaze sweeping from his combed hair to polished boots. “Captain.”

The sweat on his neck was already unbearable. “Oh, knock it off.” He offered the bottle of wine, which she accepted in both hands. “Begnion,” he explained, as she studied the label. “I try to refuse, but they keep including one with payment.”

Haar had visited the manor only once, when he’d helped move some furniture. She’d outdone herself in the short time she’d already lived there—rugs and floral arrangements and gas lamps, and one very large table that would host an equally large number of guests in less than an hour.

Jill’s skirt had more layers than a skirt should have, embroidered with small red flowers. Vines wound around the bodice, where he tried not to stare. She wore a little rouge and lipstick, which he didn’t think he’d seen before, and her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders. She glanced at his brass buttons and who knew what else as he stood by that excessively long table.

“I like your hair like that,” he said, to break the silence.

Her cheeks flushed despite the rouge, smoothing down the back of her hair. “Thank you.”

He distracted himself with the table, suddenly interested in the crystal plates and silverware polished to a high shine. A folded card sat at each setting with a name in script; it didn’t take long to find his own beside the head of the table. He tilted the card upward, studying her careful lettering that he didn’t see often, let alone in his own name. “So who am I meeting at this event?”

He would never remember their names. Baron this, Duke that, names that didn’t fit as neatly on a placecard as his. He had to remember Jill was one of them now, this Duchess Talrega, who was twisting a corkscrew into a bottle of Begnion wine. He hadn’t expected her to save it for dinner—she probably had enough wine already—but expected even less when she swiped two glasses from the head of the table, expertly pouring a splash of wine into each.

“Are you ready to do this?” Haar asked, as she offered him a glass.

She looked down table, at the identical place settings over a starched white tablecloth, tapping pink fingernails on the wineglass. They stood side by side as Jill leaned on the back of her chair. He noticed now the sheen of sweat on her collarbone, and the light floral scent wafting from it.

“I think so.” She hesitated, still tapping that glass, before adding, “I’m glad you’re here.” The perfume assaulted him when she leaned over, pink lips quickly brushing his cheek. “Are you ready?” she added, before his mind caught up to what had just happened.

He glass trembled slightly as he took a sip of wine, which was too sweet for his liking. But when he rested a hand on the small of her back, and she leaned into his side, he thought, Maybe I am.

Chapter Text

Elincia never knew country air could feel so... refreshing.

There were a lot of things she never knew, and it was overwhelming to learn them all at once: the timetable for the bus; what to pack in a small duffel bag; where Stardew Valley was at all. She had never known her grandfather, but a letter had arrived from the distant land with word of his passing—and of the farm, her inheritance.

Thus she had learned to work. She learned the joy of rising before the sun, and of dirt under her fingernails. She learned how to plant seed, and to harvest wheat. She learned how to wield a hoe and a pickaxe. She cut her hair short, but still long enough to tie into a small ponytail.

She met the locals gradually, unsure how they felt of a foreigner. But they were friendly, never asking too many questions, as if they, too, had histories they didn’t want to divulge. It was Ranulf who asked more questions than the rest, who was friendly with everyone and lived in the center of town. He would stop by the farm as she worked, admiring the neat rows of newly-planted seed or offering advice on building and outdoor décor. He knew a lot about the local fauna, and she welcomed his perspective on where to plant what bushes and trees where.

“Where in Crimea are you from?” he asked one day, as they sat on her front porch. She had made lemonade that they shared, the sweating pitcher between them.

“Oh,” Elincia stammered, twisting her glass in both hands. “My family is from Melior.” She prayed he wouldn’t pry further.

“A city girl!” Ranulf beamed. “I’m surprised you would move all the way out here.”

“It is a very different lifestyle,” she admitted. “But I like working on the farm.”

“And you’re very good at it.” He swept an arm over her neat rows, newly protected by the wooden fence she had built herself. “This place hasn't looks this good in a long time.”

Ranulf didn’t visit every day, but when he did, he often brought a gift. They were small trinkets, of food or recipes he liked, or trinkets for the house itself. But one morning he was more proud of himself than usual—he sat on the porch as Elincia harvested the wheat, insistent that he didn't mind the wait. It was a pleasant fall morning, the kind where the air was cool but the sun warm, a final hint of summer before the land descends into winter. Ranulf leapt to his feet to help carry the wheat harvest to the mill, for which she was grateful; it would’ve taken several trips without his aid.

When Ranulf procured a wrapped parcel from his shoulder bag, Elincia couldn’t help but laugh. “That can’t be another gift! I very much appreciate them, but Ranulf, this is too much.”

“Please, just this one,” he said, extending the parcel in both hands. “I think you'll like it a lot."

They settled across from each other at her kitchen table, Ranulf leaned over slightly as he watched. The parcel was heavy, and she unwrapped it slowly because it was secured fast with tightly-knotted twine. She tilted her head, curious, as she peeled back the brown paper to reveal the edge of something a deep, rich blue.

"I found it in the gift shop in the desert,” Ranulf said, leaning farther over the table. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a hot plate, but it doesn’t need to be plugged in or anything.”

Elincia held the disc up to the light. It blue surface reflected like something metallic, and it was warm to the touch. “It’s beautiful,” she marveled, tilting it back and forth to catch the light. “It’s too pretty to actually use it!”

“But I insist.” Ranulf sprung from his chair. “Let me make some coffee to demonstrate.”

She was unused to someone else working in her kitchen. But Ranulf was expert at the coffee machine, even though it had taken Elincia herself months to get the right proportions down. It wasn’t long before the scent permeated the kitchen, and Ranulf was pouring two steaming mugs for them both.

Elincia set the blue plate in the center of the table, even though its carved surface didn't seem stable enough to hold anything stead. Ranulf carefully set her mug down on its center with a flourish, sweeping hands over the steaming mug as if procuring magic. And it <I>was</I> magic, like Elincia had never seen&mdash;the coffee remained upright, and the steam continued to steam. They sat for a long while, Ranulf sipping his own coffee, and Elincia watching hers, like something would happen. After some time, she touched her fingers to the mug itself, which still burned like it had been freshly poured. She leaned closer to inhale its intoxicating scent, which reminded her most of the coffee vendors back home in Melior.

“This is fascinating,” she said, grasping the mug's handle, for the surface of the mug itself was still too hot to touch. “I wonder how it works?”

Ranulf sat back in his chair, sipping his own coffee, and shrugged. “No one seemed to know. But it’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Mist knew that Jill had just lost her father.

Jill hadn’t been with the army that long, but Mist thought she knew her better than anyone outside her mercenary family. So it was hard, seeing Jill perched on that mountain with her wyvern, alone. Mist had traded dinner duty with Oscar so she could stand outside camp, watching Jill on that mountainside. She was almost too high for Mist to see, but her red armor was shining in the setting sun, with her beastie lying right beside her. Mist didn’t think she could sit there herself—Jill was right on the edge of the rock, and it was really high. But Jill was a good soldier, and definitely not afraid of heights.

She had gone to a place up high on purpose, maybe so no could reach her, or maybe she sat there so one of her friends from Daein could see her. But Mist had been standing outside of camp for a long time, and hadn't seen any other wyverns. At that moment, she hated that old man with the eyepatch. He had come to her before the battle, but didn’t have the guts to find her afterward.

Maybe she was being unfair. But there was nothing else to do besides watch Jill.

Then Jill stood up, and Mist released a breath she didn't know she was hold. Jill stroked the wyvern’s head, then climbed onto the saddle.

When they took off, they hovered for a moment in the air. She was faced toward Talrega, which was still a short distance away. People would still be there, busy packing or trying to salvage what remained. Mist held her breath again, unsure what Jill would do—go home to help, or return to the army with people she had only just met? Mist wouldn't blame her if she went home; Jill could pick up from where her father left off. That's what Ike was doing, after all, and what Mist longed to do herself.

Then, Jill spun her wyvern around, and looked right at her.

Well, Mist wasn’t completely sure Jill saw her. She would be a small speck in the dark, standing at the edge of a row of brown tents. But she started flying—toward camp, toward her, not looking back again at the ruined farmland and muddy earth. Jill did see her, then, because she smiled, a smile Mist hadn’t seen all day. It was the same kind of sad smile that Ike gave her sometimes, the kind that wanted her to be happy even if he didn’t feel it himself.

So Mist did the same thing. She smiled her widest smile, raising an arm to wave Jill over. Mist felt the rush of wind on her face as the wyvern landed, the ruffling of her hair that she tried to smooth back down. When Jill dismounted, she wore that same sad smile, with dried tears on her cheeks.

“Jill,” Mist said, before she had a chance to speak, “I am so sorry.”

The false smile fell. Her face scrunched up, and she visibly swallowed the renewed flush of pain.

“I know how you feel,” Mist whispered, her voice catching. “You’re allowed to cry with me.”

She gasped when Jill fell to her knees. Mist was suddenly on her knees, too, as Jill covered her face with both hands, shoulders shaking as tears dripped down her wrists and arms. Mist didn’t know what to do; Jill's armor made it hard to do anything, so she settled on hugging one of her arms. Her shoulders stopped shaking a little, even though she still cried, and Mist stroked her hair, brushing her fingers through the wind-swept fringe.

“I- I wanted to go back,” Jill muffled into her hands. “They’re simple people, and I could help them. I’m supposed to help them.”

“Jill—”

She raised her head, which cut off Mist's thought. Her face was wet, eyes bloodshot, but she smiled a real smile, wiping damp hands on her thighs. “But I have a duty here. I know what I’m supposed to do. Mist...” She paused, biting her lip. “Will you help them, when the war is over? Will you help me?”

“Yes!” Mist nodded, gripping harder to Jill’s arm. “We’ll do it. We'll do whatever they need.”

Chapter Text

He was too old to wake up crying in the middle of the night. Not that anyone said that, but Ike didn’t think his father would be pleased with his babyish sniveling. Instead, he pressed his face into the thin mattress, even though it was hard to breathe that way. But it made the crying quieter, and maybe he wouldn’t wake up Mist in the next room, too.

But Father knew everything, so Ike wasn’t surprised when there was a light knock on the door. He didn’t even wait for an answer before coming in, which Ike didn’t mind, because it made it easier to decide whether he wanted company or not. There was only a little moonlight through his window, so Father was only a black shadow when he crossed the small room. Ike pretended not to be watching, peeking out from folded arms as Father’s distinct features came into view—his wide shoulders and square jaw; his messy hair, which mean he’d been sleeping at some point recently.

Father sat on the corner of the bed, which definitely wasn’t big enough for both of them. Ike squeezed into a smaller ball to make room for him, which didn’t do a lot.

Father didn’t say anything about the crying, so maybe he didn’t know yet.

“It’s really quiet here,” Ike said, voice muffled by his folded arms.

Father didn't say anything for a while, maybe because he wanted to see that for himself. There were no sounds of the night in Crimea, not like there’d been in Gallia. He heard no crickets or frogs, and there wasn’t even a rooster to wake him in the morning. Crimea was boring, but Ike knew better than to say that out loud.

“I haven’t been sleeping either,” Father finally said.

Ike peered up again. Now, Father was looking at him, but he didn’t look mad or anything. He was smiling, but he also looked sad, which didn’t make sense. But if Father looked sad, that meant Ike could be sad, too. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet didn’t reach the ground yet, but one day they would. Ike looked over the edge at his father’s feet, firmly planted on the ground like it was no big deal at all.

“I miss Mother,” Ike said.

He didn’t know why he said it—Father hadn’t talked about Mother at all since they left their old house, and would get really quiet when Mist cried out for her. So Ike didn’t talk about her, either. But Mother would know why Ike couldn’t sleep. Maybe she would even know why Father couldn’t sleep, because Mother was always good at things like that. Ike was starting to wish he hadn’t said anything, because the room felt even quieter than before, and the last words he said were jumping around in his head.

“So do I,” Father replied. He patted Ike’s head, his hand so big that it squashed all his hair at once. But Father didn’t move, so neither did Ike, even though the hand was really heavy. “I'm sorry I can’t sing you to sleep,” he said. “I was never very good at that.”

“That’s all right,” Ike replied. “Father, do you think... you could stay here? Until I fall asleep?”

Ike was freed of his Father’s hand, and quickly shook out his flattened hair. “That, I can do. Where is your blanket?”

Father had never tucked him in before. But he did a better job than Ike did at laying out the blanket, making sure it reached both edges of the bed. He even tucked the blanket around him like a cocoon, not the same way Mother had but it was still nice.

Then Father sat on the floor by Ike’s head, because both of them would definitely not fit on the bed together with Ike lying on his back like that. He didn’t say anything else, but Ike heard him breathing, which was really loud in the quiet room. It wasn’t like the sound of crickets or frogs, but when Ike closed his eyes, he thought it might be enough to help him sleep anyway.

Chapter Text

It was strange that Micaiah could both remember when she’d first met Yune, and also felt she’d always been there. Because she hadn’t always been there. There’d been a time in her life—a very long time, if she were being honest—that Micaiah didn’t have that titter at her ear. Sleeping alone in a cold Nevassan alley, curled under a scrap of fabric she’d filched from somewhere. The little orange bird appeared after the war, as if from the rubble of Daein itself, a flash of a promise on a bleak landscape. Micaiah hadn’t known why she could understand the bird or, more accurately, why other people couldn’t. But now that Yune had taken over her body, and she’d allowed the goddess to speak through her... well, now it was everything else in the world that didn’t make sense.

Micaiah?

She didn’t hear the voice so much as feel it. She was still getting used to the lack of accompanying birdsong.

Hello, Yune. Yes, I am still awake.

It was curious how the bird had lingered. She’d remained when Micaiah fell asleep that first night, and was present when she woke up; Micaiah knew for sure it was a she, but couldn’t explain why. There were many things she couldn’t explain—why she could discern a language, where others heard a song. Or why she knew the bird’s name, as familiar as her own. Or why she experienced visions, which she first believed to be wayward daydreams, however impractical that explanation had been.

You should be resting, Yune chided. You will need your strength to overcome my sister.

How did it come to be like this? Micaiah asked. Where did we go wrong?

Micaiah had feared Yune would leave when she began to meet other people. Friends, people she could see and touch and who looked the same as she did. But her visions—farsight, Yune had called it—said they were good people. Honest people. People like Micaiah. Yune said they could remain, and thus Yune remained, too.

Yune's turmoil roiled in Micaiah's mind. It is... my own fault. We were so young and inexperienced.

Yune, no. Please stop blaming yourself. We will fix this together.

There hadn’t been a need for permission when Yune borrowed her body. No, not a dark god; Yune had always abhorred that name. Simply a god, one that permitted Micaiah to rest as she explained all that she instinctively knew herself. For Micaiah was so, so tired. And Yune knew. It was a rest superior to a tattered scrap of fabric on the street. A rest warmer than the huddle of friends on a cold Daein night. A rest more genuine than the false order inflicted by Ashera, the glow of a Tower that promised a life they didn’t truly want.

Yune had been silent for a very long time. Sometimes, the goddess would rest herself. But Micaiah knew this was not the case; her presence lingered at the edge of consciousness, weary though it was. Micaiah closed her eyes, resigned to the sleep that Yune was urging her toward.

Micaiah, her name faint, tentatively like she’d never known Yune to be. Do you consider us to be... friends?

Friends? Micaiah smiled outwardly, despite there being no need—Yune shared her warmth, the glow in her chest that spread to them both. Of course.

Chapter Text

Peacetime was harder to navigate than war.

In some way, Queen Elincia knew this would be the case. Many had claimed as much, when she’d marched with the army: Battle is easy. This side is good; that side is evil. War becomes a routine, until it’s secondhand nature, simple as waking up and putting on your armor and marching.

Now, Elincia was home again.

She prayed this was truly the end of it all, though was uncertain to whom she prayed.

There were more soldiers stationed around Castle Crimea, despite the war's end months prior. General Geoffrey had insisted, and it was a simple request to accommodate. It was one of the things that made peacetime complicated—they wanted to believe there would be no more conflict, but Elincia wasn’t so naïve to believe that true. Just as it was easy to say Crimea would be rebuilt, until faced with a shortage of supplies and fewer workers who could handle the hard labor.

When her retainers would ask after her health, she spoke in half-truths. They were all weary, of course, but she wouldn’t admit just how weary she was. She was grateful for Bastian to take on foreign affairs, and for Lucia to handle domestic disputes. They were absent for stretches at a time, which allowed Elincia moments of rest that quickly became lonely. With Geoffrey overseeing security, there were few outside their closest allies who even considered stopping by Castle Crimea.

Few, except one.

She should have reported the first time Heather appeared on her balcony. But perhaps Elincia had instigated it—her sudden appearance hadn’t been a surprise, after they'd spotted each other through the barred castle gates. Elincia had said Heather had an open invitation, but thought she would arrive through more customary channels. Regardless, she had unfastened the balcony door, though she suspected Heather could have done that herself. The woman did have a mind for privacy, after all, keeping a respectful distance when she entered the queen’s personal chambers for the first time.

Despite everything, Elincia was still a young ruler. She’d become a hardened veteran, skilled in the sword, but still needed to hone her skills in diplomacy. She made mistakes, as many a young ruler will. The citizenry had its own opinions, whispers that infiltrated through the castle walls—the queen should leave military relations to the military. She queen should do more to aid restoration in the countryside. The queen should swallow her pride and take a husband.

Most rumors were rooted in a modicum of fact, albeit ignorance. But the prospect of marriage made her giggle when she would open the balcony door, the white curtains billowing in a slight breeze. When Heather would appear with a grin and a bouquet of flowers that she’d filched from the side of a road. If her retainers ever noticed the flowers, as they likely did, they didn’t ask of their origin. It could be Elincia herself who had picked them, as she arranged them in a vase on her vanity.

“You look tense, Your Majesty,” Heather whispered. They always spoke in whispers&mdash;someone was stationed outside her chambers at all times, and Elincia could feign talking to herself only so many times.

Elincia massaged a shoulder, unsurprised by Heather's observations. “The days are so busy,” she admitted.

Heather often spoke in touches in lieu of whispered words; a hand on the shoulder, or a gentle brush on the forearm. As of late, she had taken a particular liking to Elincia’s hair, which she often helped unbound from its coiffured perch. So it wasn’t unusual for Heather to hold her wrist, but it was different when she held Elincia's shoulders, gently pushing her down to sit before the vanity. Heather expertly worked at the pins in her hair, spreading each out on the vanity in a neat row. Heather's fingers entwined through the loose coils, massaging the back of her head. Elincia thought to watch in the mirror, but she allowed her head to drop as those fingers trailed the back of her neck.

In these moments, with Heather working the knots out of her shoulders, Elincia was not a queen. She was a hardened soldier with aching muscles; she was a woman who enjoyed spending quality time with an old ally.

—An ally who was now digging knuckles at her shoulder blades, at the stubborn knot of tension that always seemed to rest there. An ally who now squeezed both her biceps, the muscles she still trained in sword fighting. Elincia lifted her head, seeing first the vase of roadside flowers before meeting Heather’s eye in the mirror.

A smile crept over her pink lips, which now rested close to Elincia's ear. “Is there something you need, Your Majesty?”

Elincia considered the question. There were many needs, most of which were to better Crimea. She watched Heather’s face as she worked, hands trailing down her back, then back up to her neck. “Yes,” she whispered, as those fingers threaded through her hair again. “I need you to call me by name.”

Heather’s gaze dropped, watching her own fingers through the queen’s locks. “Of course. Elincia.”

Chapter Text

There were always sounds, especially in the night. Not only those nocturnal beings, but of life itself—the cacophony of snores, which all living things were susceptible to, even if most denied it. The ruffling of a blanket, whether throwing it off a sweating body or inadvertently swiping it from a partner.

Ulki had mostly learned to drown them out, but they irritated him tonight. The snoring and blanket-rustling was loud, even this far from camp. Alternately, perhaps he was focusing on them as a distraction, because there was one very overwhelming and seemingly improbable sound right at his side.

It was unlikely anyone else would notice the noises. They were hardly anything at all—the soft rattle of persistent phlegm in the back of a throat. A slight wheeze through a narrow nasal passage. A rustle of leaves as a slim body turned over, shifting to sleep on the other side.

Ulki wasn’t quite sure how they’d ended up out there, anyway.

That wasn’t completely true—he knew perfectly well how. More accurately, he was uncertain why, when he loathed transporting people. Ulki was not a mount, but the sickly beorc had been so charmed by the mere presence of wings. So he had agreed, flying farther than he’d intended.

We are at war, Ulki thought, listening to that slight wheeze of Rhys’s nose. This is... frivolous.

But it had been many long years since he’d allowed himself to fly for the joy of it. Though he was unaccustomed to the added weight, and Rhys kept shouting directly in his ear, the experience hadn’t been wholly unpleasant.

The flying had been simple—take wing; don’t drop the beorc—and the landing simple enough, even if he couldn’t breathe with Rhys’s arms around his neck. But the recovery had posed a challenge. Because in the several hours since their feet touched ground, they hadn’t moved. Rhys had curled into a pile of leaves after dismounting (he cringed at the word), rattled with a dry cough that Ulki was powerless to do anything about. And Rhys had lied about everything being fine, because his cheeks were red and his eyes bloodshot. Ulki didn’t think it was entirely because of the wind.

When he’d fallen asleep, Ulki figured that was best. When the sky began to grow dark, he’d considered several different ways to get them back safely. When no immediate solution came, he lay down instead, even though the hard ground did a number on his wings.

But they had to return to camp.

Ulki sat up with a sigh, shaking the leaves out of his feathers. Rhys emitted a little snore around that stubborn, persistent phlegm. Ulki had already accepted that flying back was unacceptable, especially if Rhys would be drowsy. Resigned to his fate, Ulki stood. He stared for a while at the sleeping figure at this feet—sleeping on his side like only beorc could do comfortably, curled into the leaves like a nest. Finally, he crouched with a sigh, sliding one arm beneath Rhys’s shoulders.

Despite his best efforts—or perhaps it was inevitable—Rhys’s eyes fluttered open.

Ulki froze. Rhys was slight, but was still heavy on his forearm; from his crouch, it was an effort to prevent his feet from sliding over the leaf-strewn ground.

It was impossible that Rhys hadn’t noticed Ulki hovering over him, but he stared up at the sky first. His eyes were a little less red now, as far as Ulki could tell. “It’s nighttime, isn’t it?” Rhys asked.

Ulki gazed up at the moon, which was small at its highest peak. The answer was obvious, but maybe Rhys was delirious. Or maybe he was really asking something else, in that indirect way beorc did. “Yes,” he simply replied.

“What are you doing now?” Rhys asked.

He wasn’t sure why any of these questions needed to be asked. “We’re returning to camp.”

“Oh.” Rhys nodded, his eyes drifting closed again. “That’s a good idea.”

Ulki waited until he’d fallen asleep again, which was harder to discern than most people. He didn’t snore like the others did, but that little nasal wheeze returned, his body going slightly limp. Standing up was slow going, careful with Rhys occupying his arms, and his sandals sliding over the leaves. But the standing was half the battle. If Ulki was untrained in human transport, he was even less skilled in carrying them—there was no good way to hold all those layers of robes, which threatened to slide from his arms. He hooked an arm beneath Rhys’s armpit, who miraculously continued to lightly wheeze as his face mashed against Ulki’s shoulder.

He turned in the direction of camp, cursing himself for waiting until dark to move. In that moment, he was grateful for the distant snoring, of the blanket-swiping and mutters of people who couldn’t sleep. He sighed, clutched Rhys to his chest, and started to walk.

Chapter Text

Kurthnaga never knew you could see so many stars in Daein. He didn’t imagine there could be anything like Goldoa—perched at the edge of the world, nothing but the expanse of sea and stars from his balcony. Daein wasn’t anything like that, but as he wandered to the edge of camp, marveled in its unique beauty. They sat on the edge of a plain, the flat land stretching out toward the distant mountains. The sky was bluer here, even in the dark, dotted with the innumerable stars that seemed to disappear behind those mountains.

He'd heard the footsteps that approached from behind, but knew it was no foe—the steps were too tentative, and he sensed no trace of malice. When Kurthnaga turned, though, he hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with the prince of Daein himself.

Though Kurthnaga had been the one lying in wait, it was Pelleas who yelped on being noticed. He stopped short, hand reaching for a tome at his belt that wasn’t there. He scrabbled at nothing, until smoothing down the side of his robes like that had been the intention all along.

“Prince Pelleas,” Kurthnaga said with a smile. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Pelleas let out a long sigh, but kept his distance. “Prince Kurthnaga. I didn’t expect to see you, either. I”—he hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal—“I like seeing the stars, when I can.”

Kurthnaga nodded, turning back to the stretch of night. He waited for Pelleas to advance, his soft footsteps tentative, until he stood at his side. “It’s so much different than home,” Kurthnaga said. “There are all kinds of noises we don’t have in Goldoa, too. Are those... crickets?”

Pelleas’s smile was sad. Kurthnaga didn’t know the man well enough to ask why, but felt he should apologize for something—dredging up an old memory, maybe, something he preferred to remain concealed—

“Those are cicadas,” he finally replied. “They only come out every few years, so it’s special that you’re here for them. They were always the first sign of summer for me.”

Pelleas took another step away from the camp. Kurthnaga thought to stop him—they should venture too far, especially at night—but he seemed so... at ease. More than he’d ever looked during a war meeting, and especially in battle itself. He turned his face toward the sky, like he was reading the stars themselves.

Kurthnaga didn’t want to interrupt, but there was a flash of light at the edge of his vision. He spun around, searching, wondering if he’d imagined it. Then, there were more—scattered bursts of light, twinkling on and off. He stared out over the field and thought to alert someone, but—

Pelleas seemed unaffected, staring at the same field of twinkling lights. He held out a hand as if to catch one of them, but they disappeared so quickly that Kurthnaga couldn’t tell whether he caught any of them.

“What is that?” he finally asked, standing beside the prince.

Pelleas’s smile brightened. They were a good thing, then, Kurthnaga thought with relief. He noticed the slight crinkle at Pelleas’s eyes when he smiled, which he didn’t think he’d ever seen before. “Fireflies,” he answered. “I guess you don’t have them in Goldoa.”

“They’re... insects?”

He nodded. “Isn’t it beautiful? Someone told me they light up to find a mate.”

A firefly zipped past Kurthnaga’s field of vision. He laughed, trying to track it in the dark, until he couldn’t discern it from every other firefly that littered that open field. He stood beside Prince Pelleas, watching the twinkling show of lights, the insects calling out to each other. Pelleas cupped his hands, extending them out before him. Kurthnaga could only watch as a firefly landed in his open palms, the flickering light reflected off his pale palms. When he peered closer, he could see its little body and the tiny bulb of light at its tail, flashing rapidly in search of something he hoped it would one day find.

“Do they also come every few years?” Kurthnaga asked, as the firefly again took flight.

“They come every year.” Pelleas paused, then added, “You can come back, after the war. If you’d like. Summer in Daein doesn’t last very long, but that’s why I treasure it.”

Kurthnaga smiled. “I would like that very much.”

Camp would be packed up again the next morning. They would march to their next battle, scream and fight for victory, make camp again if they survived. Kurthnaga knew they were all sleep-deprived and should return to their tents to rest. But they stood at the edge of camp instead, watching the fireflies across an unnamed field in Daein, under a canopy of stars. And he decided he would return one day, if the goddess permitted it, for there was so much more yet to see.

Chapter Text

Not guilty.

The defendant released an audible sigh, her eyes fluttering closed.

The prosecutor knit his brows, mouth set in a hard line.

The defense attorney wasn’t entirely sure what to do. The echo of the judge’s gavel rang in his ears, accompanied by unceasing cheers from the gallery. Someone was tugging on his sleeve, but the courtroom was so loud that he couldn’t hear whatever was being said right beside him.

“What?”

It was Mist, of course, who was clutching the sleeve of his blazer—the blazer that she herself had ironed that morning, because for some reason she’d been appalled that he’d left it on the office floor all night. “You did it, Ike!” she said, tugging on that freshly-ironed sleeve. “We won!”

The gavel was still banging, a failed attempt to get the gallery under control. But even Ike could understand why they were now throwing confetti (did they bring that with them to court?), hugging one another and leaning over the railing, trying to catch the attention of the client he’d just proven innocent beyond all doubt, their beloved Queen Elincia.

Ike brushed a scrap of confetti off his shoulder as Queen Elincia opened her eyes, which were brimming with tears. But even though Ike was facing the witness stand, and the woman who was trying to speak to him over the celebration, his attention drifted—because the prosecutor himself flitted at the edge of his vision, now rapidly crossing the courtroom toward the defense bench, faster than he thought any man should be able to walk.

“Soren,” Mist said, as if Ike hadn’t noticed.

Soren’s black suit shone under the harsh lighting, his cravat tucked neatly into the collar. His hair, black as his tailored suit, was tied back from his face, which allowed a clear view of the scowl on his face. The defense bench was slightly elevated off the ground, which forced Soren to glare upward at Ike, who was already a head taller.

“I don’t know how you pulled that off,” Soren said, as the noise of the courtroom began to die down.

“Soren,” Ike replied. He knew the prosecutor hated that tone he used, where he didn’t gloat and wasn’t angry, when he just spoke like normal. Even at the mere mention of his name, it made Soren narrow his eyes further. “You can’t really believe Queen Elincia could be guilty of murder, could you?”

Soren crossed his arms. “Verdicts are based on fact, not feelings.”

Ike wanted to dispute. He knew Soren was wrong; even facts pointed to Queen Elincia’s innocence. But this wasn’t the place to argue that point. Not when the defendant was celebrating her victory, turned toward her people in the gallery as they reached across the divider that separated them. For many of them, it was the first time they’d seen their queen in person. They had arrived at the courthouse long before Ike had, lined up outside the door like this was some exclusive event. Maybe, in a way, it was.

Soren sighed, uncrossing his arms. “Regardless.” He brushed a piece of confetti from the defense bench with visible disgust. “Congratulations on another victory.”

“Thanks, Soren.”

Soren turned to leave, at the same time Mist leaned over the bench. “We’ll see you tonight, right?” she said.

Soren glanced over a shoulder. He was eye-to-eye with Mist, who leaned over so far that she was practically lying on the bench, close enough that she could tug on Soren's sleeve, too, if she wanted to irritate him further. “Of course,” he replied, turning back for his own bench.

Chapter Text

Zihark failed to find humor in the black cat that followed him around camp.

Being this close to Sienne, the sheer number of stray cats didn’t surprise him. Other beorc were amazed by them, as if they’d never seen a cat before, or at least one that wasn’t out to claw their throats. The older cities were usually overrun with strays, lurking in narrow alleys and scattered ruins. But this one decided enemy camp would be his new home.

“Stubborn little fella, aren’t you?” Zihark muttered, staring down the black cat curled outside his tent.

It was a minor inconvenience, considering. He delicately stepped over the cat, pulling back the tent flap with one hand while balancing his bulging parcel in the other arm. He wasn’t sure when he’d started bunking with Ilyana, spying the mound of purple robes curled on the ground. There’d been no formal arrangement when she’d started coming by, but he hadn’t pushed her away, either. It was almost nice, he thought, crouching to rest the parcel on the ground. Her eyes fluttered open at once, and she rose to all fours, crawling on hands and knees toward him and the offered food on the other side of the tent.

“There’s so much of it,” she said, picking at the twine that sealed the parcel closed.

“You missed the traveling vendors,” he replied. “I flagged them down on their way to Telgam.”

They had offered him a good deal, for reasons he didn’t understand. For anyone else, he’d have worried the food might be spoiled, goods they were desperate to get off their hands. But Ilyana had a stomach of iron. She hadn't bothered to peel the orange she now sank her teeth into, swallowing rind and all.

“Slow down,” he said with a laugh, procuring an orange for himself. It smelled like an orange, and its juices ran down his wrist when he peeled back the skin, and he hadn’t seen food that wasn’t roasted meat or a potato in several weeks.

Ilyana was neck-deep in the sack of food when the mewling began. She lifted her head, clutching the sack to her chest as if someone had arrived to steal it. Zihark only sighed, watching something poke and prod the bottom corner of their tent flap. He’d secured it well enough from beorc and laguz invaders, but there was nothing to prevent the small, black head that wiggled its way in through the slight gap. The head emerged, wide-eyed and innocent, the black points of its ears popping up to attention.

“Aww.” Ilyana sat up, but not before swiping a pack of strawberries from their bounty. “How cute.”

“Something like that,” Zihark muttered.

The cat was a slinking shadow across the beige tent floor, sniffling the air like it didn’t know exactly where the food would be. Ilyana popped a strawberry into her mouth, and the cat stopped, watching like it had never seen something so curious as a beorc consuming food. Ilyana studied a berry, twisting it in her hands, its deep, red flesh on the brink of spoilage. The cat mewled when Ilyana swallowed that berry, too, without removing the leaves.

Zihark broke into a laugh, deep and throaty.

He’d nearly forgotten what the sound was like, that laughter. The black cat spun his attention toward Zihark now, this strange beorc making these strange noises.

“It’s just a cat,” Ilyana said, mouth full of strawberries.

“I like you, Ilyana,” he said, as the cat began to rub its face on Zihark’s folded knee. “And you,” he said, wrapping both hands around the feline’s middle, “you picked the wrong tent if you’re looking for something to eat.”

The cat didn’t squirm in his hands, its black eyes mirrors as Zihark glared at him. He had half a mind to bring him outside, to better seal up the tent so he wouldn’t get back in. Instead, Zihark sighed, cradling the cat in the crook of his arm. It was only a kitten, after all; it curled into a little black void, warm and soft on his arm. Ilyana had cradled the strawberries in her own arm, but Zihark filched a berry from her hoard. “I don’t know if you should eat this,” he muttered, as the cat pawed at the strawberry, but resigned himself to his fate when it swiped the berry from his hand.

Chapter Text

The beach reminded Greil of childhood. It wasn’t a time in his life he often dredged up, but the moment Greil took exit 12 off I-92, the salty air brought it all back. There was a collective groan from the back of the van as he cranked all the windows down, the wind whistling through the van to dispel the scent of several flavors of potato chips. Ike muttered something along the lines of he does this every time, which Greil pretended not to hear as he flashed his parking pass for Delbray Beach.

In the old days, Ike would be the first to bolt from the vehicle, forgetting the entire beach bag that his mother had packed for him. Now, it was Mist and Rolf who sprinted for the sand first, precariously fast in the flip-flops that desperately tried to cling to their feet.

“They forgot— oh dear.” Rhys adjusted his straw hat as he emerged next, the oversize bag of beach towels and sunblock perched on his arm.

“They’ll be fine,” Shinon called from the back of the van.

The annual beach trip was the one thing Greil was stubborn about. As the years passed, it grew more difficult to schedule the pilgrimage at all—coordinating jobs and vacation time was a task unto itself. But as Greil finally stepped from the van himself, inhaling the fresh salt on the air, the weeks and months of planning were worth all that trouble.

Oscar and Titania helped gather their bags from the back. Boyd was working on setting up the oversize umbrella, having miraculously found a spot in the sand big enough to accommodate them all. Soren was already seated on a towel in its shade, sunglasses perched on his nose as he carefully watched the tottering umbrella. Mia was missing already, shouting somewhere from the ocean, where a lifeguard would inevitably blow a whistle because she swam out too far. Shinon and Gatrie still lingered in the parking lot by the van, watching the rest disperse. They had their own annual tradition, of Shinon griping over the trip at all and Gatrie pretending to feel the same, but both would find themselves with the rest in due time.

Titania lay out her towel, far from the shade of the oversize umbrella that none of them were certain would stay upright. Though seldom found in the water herself, she still wore a swimsuit and would end the day with a tan to last the rest of the summer. “It’s a perfect day this year,” she said, watching Rolf and Mist pile sand that might become a castle.

Ike had ripped off his T-shirt, standing in front of Soren with his arms crossed, a silent plea to get in the water, you might enjoy it!

“How much longer do you think can do this?” Greil asked, as he settled beside her. He never used a beach towel himself; eventually his skin got accustomed to the burning sand.

Titania’s expression was indiscernible behind her sunglasses. “Longer than you might think,” she replied, as Boyd kicked at the beginnings of a sand castle, and Mist started shouting. Titania glanced over a shoulder toward the parking lot, and smiled. “Look,” she said, peering over the rim of her sunglasses. “They’re earlier than usual.”

Gatrie bolted past in his swim trunks, a peal of laughter in his wake. Oscar, who’d been trying to mediate the sand castle argument, leaped aside to avoid collision. Shinon wasn’t too far behind; he wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling, either, which was improvement enough.

“I lived by the beach when I was a kid,” Greil said, watching the tide slide in and out. Out on the ocean, Mia raised her arms, riding the crest of a new wave. “I was there every day over the summer.”

“Is that nostalgia I’m hearing?” Titania asked.

Greil leaned back on his arms. Ike had been unsuccessful with Soren, but had recruited Boyd for a game of frisbee. They took turns wading into the ocean when the breeze blew it off course.

Maybe these days wouldn’t last forever. Perhaps, like childhood, it was fleeting, reduced to a glimpse of memory as they grew older, as things changed, as people moved on. But when he closed his eyes, with the burning sand on the backs of his legs, he considered maybe it was worth all that effort.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t often that they made camp so close to a town. They tried not to—it made civilians nervous, that obvious reminder that the entire known world was at war. But sometimes it was unavoidable, people trying to live normal lives as the army slept on the outskirts of their homes.

But pitching this close to town did mean one thing: shops.

How Jill wound up in these shops was another matter.

Or, it wasn’t a mystery at all, watching as Mist picked through a crate of colorful fabrics.

Jill hadn’t minded when the other soldiers dispersed for the town, eager for a reminder of life before the war. She hardly knew anyone in this army yet, so the silence was a blessed reprieve. It meant she could sit in the tent alone, without the other women whose names she sometimes forgot. It meant she could remove her armor without feeling watched, this traitor who looked different than everyone else.

But the silence hadn’t lasted long. Because Mist had slipped into the tent, announcing herself like it hadn’t been her tent to begin with. She’d invited Jill into town like things really were that easy, because it had been so long since she’d gone shopping, and never with a girl her own age.

“Oh, Jill, look at this one! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Jill snapped back to attention. Mist was holding an orange dress to her neck, peering down like she imagined herself wearing it. It was much too long for her, the ends pooling by her feet. “It would need a hem,” she added with a laugh.

“It’s... a nice color,” Jill offered.

Mist hummed in what she assumed was agreement, holding the garment out toward Jill instead. “You should buy it,” she said.

Jill couldn’t help but laugh. “Me? I... when would I wear it?”

“You can’t wear armor all the time. Come on, we’ll both get something!”

She studied the dress that had found its way into her hands, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. It was nice, she thought, a deep orange with yellow stitching. It would be comfortable for a domestic life, easy to move around in.

“Mist, I”—she swallowed—“I’ve never owned a dress.”

Mist spun around, a new garment in her hands, blue like the scarf around her neck. “Never?”

“No.” Jill shook her head, running a thumb over those yellow stitches. “I grew up around the army. I only ever wore trousers.”

 “That settles it, then.” When Mist took the garment back, Jill’s hands felt oddly empty. “I’ll buy your first dress for you. When the war is over, we’ll wear them out to go shopping again. Deal?”

She wanted to refuse. Mist gathered both dresses in her arms, the orange and the blue, a jumbled mound of colors. She waited, as if Jill’s opinion really did matter, as if they were true friends on a frivolous shopping spree. This would be frivolous—like most of them, Mist wouldn’t have a lot of money. But she smiled over the bundled fabrics in her arms, hugging them tight to her chest, and Jill wondered how that soft fabric would feel on her bare legs.

“Deal,” Jill finally said. “But I’m paying next time.”

Mist beamed, spinning around for the shop owner. Jill watched as she dug through her coin purse, the shop owner folding each dress neatly before securing them in brown paper. They were treated delicately, like they were silks or royal robes, tying each tight with a strip of twine. But when Mist passed one of them to Jill, the package that contained a simple orange dress with yellow stitching, it felt like something special. As they continued down the bustling street toward the next shop, matching parcels under their arms, Jill looked forward to the time when they could wear them together.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t much left to forage. There wasn’t much left of... anything.

Janaff had grown used to the persistent scent of burnt feathers. That was nearly all that remained in Serenes—the lingering scent, the reminder that they’d been too late. Morning and evening was indiscernible; he slept when he grew weary, and woke when he’d had enough of sleep. He’d had enough now, lying flat on his back with a view of whatever stretched overhead. He supposed there was a sky beyond the charred remains of trees, beyond the gray smoke that never seemed to dispel. It was ironic, not being able to see it. The red cloth cinched around one eye was annoying, but it was better than the open wound that still bled tears.

Regardless, he had seen enough. For once in his life, he didn’t want to see anything.

The bloodred armor that blended into the fire; the singing tears and smoke in his eyes; all that shouting; scattered wings and feathers and the choking scent of burnt flesh; roasted like common game—

“Come find me, you stupid bird,” he muttered.

Janaff sat up with a groan, feeling centuries older in only a few weeks. Or was it months? He leaned against a tree for support, the black char flaking and unsteady. He felt much the same as he rose to stand, shaking the flaking remains of whatever had lodged in his wings.

Then, he continued to walk.

The herons had always went on about the forest speaking to them. It would’ve been nice to hear any voices at all, even if it was just some trees. He wondered if Ulki would’ve heard anything out here. He hadn’t even found a river, or if he had, it would've dried up with the fire.

“Blasted beorc,” he said, loud enough to startle songbirds if there were any left.

He thought there was a whisper of an answer: I’ll agree with you there.

“Great, now the forest is talking to me.”

“You think I sound like some trees?”

Janaff whipped around. He wished he hadn’t been so stubborn about beorc weapons; a knife or something small to hide would’ve been nice at that moment. He wasn’t used to his partial vision yet—he quickly spun from side to side, the twigs beneath his feet snapping with every rapid movement. He hadn’t tried shifting in... however long he’d been abandoned in this forest. He didn’t think he had the strength for it. He curled his hands into fists, hoping whatever survivor was sneaking up on him was weak and soft so he could do some real damage.

“Janaff, calm down.” A voice, familiar. “And stop calling me stupid.”

He froze, squinting, cursing his obscured vision. “Ulki?”

His legs gave out as the two shadows came into view, side by side like a dual harbinger of death. He leaned back against a tree, the black bark shattering like a thousand pieces of broken glass. It could be a vision, the last hallucination before death—Tibarn, in tattered scraps of that green coat; Ulki, sleeves torn off and tied in strips around bare, wounded arms. There was little left of the tree for Janaff to grab onto, clutching handfuls of char that lodged under his fingernails.

“This is the end for me,” Janaff said, wailing into the sky he couldn’t see.

“Janaff.” For a hallucination, Tibarn’s exasperation was unexpected. “You’re not dying.”

He squinted his one good eye. Ulki was holding something out to him, something like... food, indiscernible, but Janaff didn’t need feline senses to tell it was some kind of meat. Ulki all but pushed it into his mouth; the gnarled pleading of his gut prevented Janaff from protesting.

“It’s good to see you’re alive,” Tibarn finally said.

His mouth watered around the leathery meat, too tough to chew though he tried. “Where did you come from?”

The words were muffled around the meat, but Tibarn seemed to understand as he shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. Everything looks the same.”

Janaff gave up trying to chew; the wad of meat hurt on the way down.

“What happened to your eye?” Ulki asked.

Janaff frowned. “What happened to your ears? I’ve been calling you for... never mind that.”

He stared at them both, as if seeing them for the first time. The shadows beneath their eyes said they’d been sleeping as well as he had. Their wings were listless, almost faded, weak with disuse. They had found food somewhere, which meant there would be more. They were eating well enough to be standing fully upright, which was more than Janaff could say for himself.

“Enough of this standing around,” Tibarn said, crossing his arms. “Are you two ready to see what else is out there? Because so far, I haven’t been impressed.”

Janaff tightened the strip of cloth around his head. He shook out his arms, then his wings; he squinted into the sky, trying to see beyond the clouds of lingering smoke. “Ulki, can you hear anything?” He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that, and it sparked a glimmer of hope.

He shook his head. “We came from this way”—Ulki jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“so we should keep moving that way.”

Janaff spun around, which made him mildly lightheaded. He tried to see past the scorched remains of Serenes, the twisted, gnarled trees and blacked dirt. His uncovered eye stung in the dry air, his stomach churning around the only thing he’d eaten in several sleep cycles.

Then, he continued to walk.

Chapter Text

Before the war, Meg did anything she could for the homestead. She worked harder than her brothers; she’d grown almost as strong as her daddy, which made enlisting in the army pretty easy with her natural strength. Brom had talked to her every single day, over breakfast and on the fields. She’d been his right-hand gal, doing all the chores together like two peas in a pod.

But since coming home from the war, she hadn’t said a whole lot to him.

Oh, she still worked, all right. She worked even faster than before, with the digging and plowing. The old barn had needed some repairs, and Brom hadn’t even seen when she'd put up that new door. Meg was all grown up, and as Brom watched her farming from across the field, he wasn’t sure how to talk to her anymore. She didn’t say much, either, so he let her work on her own, and sometimes they saw each other from far away.

So Brom was surprised to find her in the kitchen one morning, already up and dressed long before sunup. She stood by the stove in her overalls, the basket of freshly-gathered eggs sitting on the counter. “Daddy,” she said, before he could say anything first, “do you want to make breakfast with me?”

Brom hadn’t realized her muscles looked like that. She’d been all covered up during the war, but now her sleeveless shirt showed off arms that probably made it easy to raise that barn door all by herself. She was smiling, her hair tied back in those two ponytails, and Brom smiled wider than he had in a very long time.

“That’s a swell idea,” he said.

A loaf of bread was already in the oven, and the fire roared under a skillet for the eggs. There were few things he enjoyed more than the sizzle of eggs on a hot skillet, that warm scent of a new morning. Brom cut up some dried sausages, and Meg chopped up the green peppers he’s picked only yesterday. If anyone in the house was still asleep, the doughy scent of fresh bread was sure to wake them now.

Brom loved his entire family. He loved his wife, and all his children, but at that moment, he hoped they wouldn’t come into the kitchen right away. Because he stood beside Meg, who pushed the cooking eggs around the skillet with her spatula, carefully watching them. His Meg, who accepted the sliced sausage with a smile, tapping them into the skillet for the hash. The sausage popped and sizzled, dancing across the skillet.

“Meg,” Brom said carefully, as Meg tapped chopped peppers into the egg-and-sausage mixture, “are you doin’ all right? Are you... happy?”

“Of course I am, Daddy.” She opened the oven door, the dry heat making her cheeks pinker. She inhaled deeply as she took out the bread. “But... I thought things would be a lot different when we came back.” She closed the oven, but didn’t look at him. “It’s a little weird that it feels like nothin’ has changed. Mamma and the boys don’t act like somethin’ big happened.”

Brom picked up the spatula, turning over the eggs in the skillet. “Do you remember when I came back from the Mad King’s War? How’d it feel then?”

Meg crossed her arms, still wearing those pink oven mitts. “I guess... it didn’t feel a whole lot different. But I knew you were a hero.”

“A hero!” Brom grinned. “You’re more a hero than I’ll ever be. How’d you get all the way to Daein on your own, anyway?”

It was Meg’s turn to smile, the kind of smile that spread across her whole face. She dove into her own tale of treachery, of traveling the countryside and all the places she’d camped along the way. She laughed, and she smiled, and she sliced the fresh bread as Brom plated the egg hash.

Maybe everybody else was already outside, doing whatever chores they’d been assigned to do. Because their laughing and the scent of fresh bread didn’t bring anyone else into the kitchen, which was fine by him as they sat across from each other at the table. Because Meg kept talking, and Brom laughed along with her, and things were finally starting to feel normal again.

Chapter Text

“Deputy Commander?”

Titania didn’t know how long Ike had been addressing her. It was unlike her to lose focus during a war meeting, crowded around that table and the worn map of Tellius. Ike stood across from her, staring, a slight furrow in his brow as she tried to grasp the last threads of conversation she remembered.

“Apologies, Commander,” she resigned. “T-The mountain range.”

It reminded her of school, the relief that she’d surmised the correct answer as Ike nodded. Soren’s frown was more pronounced, but he was more focused on the map than on her, trailing a forefinger along the mountain range that bordered Sienne. If that frown had anything to do with her wandering mind, she would never know.

Because sometimes, Ike really did remind her of Greil.

Titania thought she’d only imagined it at first. She told herself she was projecting, that it was a means of coping with the loss. She had followed her fallen commander’s son, because that’s what you do. Greil had said long ago that Ike was to inherit the company; she hadn’t outright shared this with anyone, because undoubtedly some of the company would disagree with the move. So she was merely following orders, at first. She was being supportive, as the boy she’d helped to raise became Commander, doing only what his father had intended all along.

“Titania is correct,” Soren continued, hand flat on the map. “These mountains will pose a challenge.”

Ike still stared at her from across the table, though she didn’t lift her eyes to acknowledge it. It was at war when he had really started to resemble his father. It happened most when he was simply doing what had to be done, despite his initial reluctance at taking command, issuing orders before he understood the power that held. Three years wasn’t so long, but it was enough for Ike to grow into the role Greil had intended for him. It was enough that Titania should have overcome her grief.

But lately, marching over the Begnion countryside, it had only grown worse.

Ike managed to corner her after the meeting dispersed. He, too, needed rest, but he offered to walk with her to her tent. The tent she shared with the other girls wasn’t far, but it was a clear evening, and they’d seldom had a quiet moment for just the two of them. Ike’s heavy trod was keenly familiar, those steps that made it impossible for him to sneak up on anyone. As they walked side by side, it was clear how much he’d grown in the years he’d taken command, both in statue and strength. It was enough that her heart lunched when glimpsing him in shadow, when they stopped to face one other at the tent. A slight glow of candlelight danced on the tent walls, which meant someone inside could be listening.

Ike kept his voice low. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “It’s not like you to space out during a meeting.”

“Forgive me, Commander,” she replied. “I... I think I just need some sleep.”

Ike crossed his arms, that old familiar stance she knew from long before Ike was even born. “Why don’t you really tell me what’s going on?”

Titania smiled. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I? Just like your father.”

He uncrossed his arms. In that moment, he was like a child, small in the way his shoulders slumped. But he wasn’t the young boy she’d helped to raise anymore. She couldn’t take him into her arms; she couldn’t wrap a bandage around a wound in any way that could help.

Ike sighed. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot, too.”

“It’s impossible not to.” She watched the glow of the candlelight on the tent wall. “I was lost in my memories, that’s all.”

Ike would never hold the same memories; there were some of his she wouldn’t know, either. But he nodded, and that constant hardness of his expression softened, just a little. She rested a hand on his forearm, which was a far cry from a real embrace, but enough for that expression to crack a small smile.

“It’s getting late, Commander,” she said. “You should rest.”

“You too, Deputy Commander.”

Ike gently twisted away from her touch. But he paused a moment, still wearing that small smile, before turning away for his own tent. Titania crossed her arms, watching the sweep of his cape, listening to that heavy footfall. No, he didn’t look exactly like Greil. His father had been broader, a little wider in the shoulders. But one day, maybe, as he disappeared into shadow. When he, too, grew older.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t like Tanith would’ve gone anywhere else. It was her duty to notice things, and it was curious to pick up on all the things she noticed in war. Not so much in battle—that was a different skillset she rarely thought twice about—but the things after battle: who paired off when they thought no one was watching. Who formerly paired off, but were now actively avoiding each other. Who gazed longingly at another across a firepit or training grounds, and if the object of desire noticed.

It was strange to consider any of her own actions could be noticed. Tanith revealed nothing herself, but there were enough people in the army whose jobs it was to notice. Certainly someone had noticed when she strode into the tent she shared with Sigrun, which she would claim was official business. And it was to a degree. They discussed strategy; they discussed who needed rest or reprimand. But lately, more often than not, Sigrun had started to suggest they collaborate in the middle of the day when there was no battle. Tanith would comply, but only after her other duties had been completed. Camp was bustling when she strode for her own tent, ignoring the curious eyes of anyone who noticed when she disappeared within.

Sigrun would typically be seated at the small table they shared, dressed for battle like she always had. But Tanith halted at the entrance, eyes widening to see Sigrun seated on the floor instead, her armor piled beside her. Despite her initial surprise, she knew what was coming.

“You need to follow your own advice,” Sigrun said, patting the ground beside her. “Will you please sit down and rest?”

Tanith clenched her jaw. “There is hardly time for that, Commander.”

Sigrun smiled that easy smile, the one that Tanith could never pull off herself. “Do I have to issue a command?”

It wasn’t that Tanith didn’t want to spend time with her, but even as she sat cross-legged on the ground, felt the stabbing guilt of a luxury they couldn’t afford. Sigrun shifted to kneel behind her, sliding a hand beneath a pauldron for the release clasp she knew was there. She had never officially issued a command. Tanith could just as easily protest; she could twist away from the hand that lingered much too long on her shoulder before unfastening the breastplate. Instead, she sighed, raising her arms as Sigrun lifted the armor over her head.

“You must be weary,” Sigrun said, grasping both of Tanith’s shoulders hard. “You hardly put up a fight.”

Tanith didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, not when Sigrun’s thumbs massaged that stubbornly thick muscle at her shoulder blades. She lowered her head as Sigrun worked up the back of her neck, threading her fingers through the finer hair at the base.

“I do have a request,” Sigrun said.

“A request?” Tanith asked. “Not a command?”

“That’s correct.”

Those hands slid back down to her shoulders, and Tanith bit back a yelp of surprise when she was pulled backward without warning. She fell back into Sigrun, who snaked her arms around her shoulders to catch her, tucking Tanith’s head beneath her chin. Her ponytail dangled in her field of vision, brushing the side of her cheek. “Commander,” Tanith said, fighting to keep her voice even, “What in the name of Ashera are you doing?”

“We’re resting,” she simply replied.

Tanith glared at the underside of her chin. “This is very nearly a chokehold.”

 But it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, when Sigrun shifted to lie beside her. She cradled Tanith’s head, her cheek forcibly pressed to Sigrun’s clavicle. And it remained forcible, until Tanith resigned herself to this fate. She draped an arm across Sigrun’s belly, yielding to the fingers that one again threaded her hair.

“This is highly reckless,” Tanith muttered.

It was Sigrun’s turn to ignore the protests. This respite was, after all, not a command. Tanith could rise whenever she wanted; she could put her armor on and find any number of duties that needed to be done. Instead, she closed her eyes, and would later deny nuzzling Sigrun’s neck. Because she was asleep, after all, and couldn’t be held responsible for what might happen during that time.

Chapter Text

Tanith always came in at the same time, every day.

The woman had never actually introduced herself. She’d never said much of anything, outside her coffee order—large black, no cream or sugar. Sigrun wasn’t certain why she spent the eight dollars on a simple black coffee. Once, she had tried to offer the bags of beans displayed on the counter, the same beans they ground every day, packed in tidy bags of one- or five-pounds for take-home use. It was the first time Sigrun had heard her say anything besides “large black” and her name, which Sigrun wrote neatly on a cup in permanent marker. Sometimes, she thought of that “no, thank you” as she set Tanith’s coffee on the pickup counter.

Tanith never remained, either. She would pick up her coffee, heels clicking as she crossed the tile floor for the exit, and Sigrun had never even seen her drink it. She didn’t know how much Tanith enjoyed the roasted beans, the full-bodied experience of their signature Begnion blend, locally grown and harvested. Sigrun watched her back—squared shoulders in a blazer, slim legs in straight, pleated trousers—until the door jingled and closed behind her.

“That lady scares me,” Marcia said from behind her.

Sigrun peered over her shoulder. Marcia was at least trying, wiping a splash of milk from the counter with a freshly-laundered rag.

“Are you judging the customers,” Sigrun asked, “or are you making fresh coffee?”

“T-The coffee, of course!” Marcia grabbed for a new bag of beans under the counter. It was the same bag of beans another customer was admiring near the register, contemplating whether they should finally just buy it for the twenty dollars, or spend another eight on a fresh cup right now.

“Can I help you with anything?” Sigrun said with a smile.

The coffeeshop hadn’t been her first career choice. Perhaps that was why she watched Tanith every morning, in the same routine. Sigrun had had that routine, once, or so she imagined—an alarm set for six a.m., a laptop bag and an ID card dangling from her belt. The law office had the same burnt coffee in a pot every day, so she’d started bringing her own. Next thing she knew, she had connections with a local farm and a small following around the office. It simply made sense to open her own shop.

Sometimes she missed it, but she loved the scent of roasted beans in the morning and the way people dragged themselves across the threshold in the early-morning hours. They always apologized, like she also wasn’t there and awake at six o’clock in the morning. But Tanith was never bedraggled—she strode in confidently in her heels and, if there was no line that morning, Sigrun was already pouring her large black before she reached the counter. That was the case that particular Thursday morning, the day before a long weekend, when Sigrun set the cup on the counter with a smile.

Tanith stopped several feet from the register. She studied the large cup of coffee like she had never seen one before, or had never noticed how sometimes it materialized before she spoke. It wasn’t that Tanith never made eye contact—but when she looked up that morning, Sigrun spied the half-moons under her eyes, the slight crease between her brows.

“Thank you,” Tanith replied.

“It’s on the house,” Sigrun said.

“That’s”—she frowned—“That’s unnecessary.”

“Please.” Sigrun carefully slid the cup closer to the edge. “I insist.”

Tanith wrapped her long fingers around the cup, like the scalding temperature was no bother. Her gaze was steely, and Sigrun imagined how she must look in her eyes: smiling behind a coffee counter, crisp gold apron over a white shirt, styled ponytail slung over one shoulder. Outside the coffeeshop, the scent of roasted beans certainly clung to her, though she never detected it herself. Tanith finally lifted her cup, inhaling before taking a sip, and Sigrun realized she’d never actually seen the woman drink the coffee.

 “Why did you leave Law?” Tanith said.

Sigrun’s eyes widened in surprise, but she remained still otherwise.

“It’s a waste of natural talent,” she continued.

“How would you know that?” Sigrun asked. “I didn’t stay long enough to have a case of my own.”

“Word travels. But I will admit”—she took another sip—“you make a damn fine cup of coffee.”

Sigrun tapped her clipped nails on the counter. She was conscious of Marcia rummaging in the back room; she would have questioned why it was taking so long by now, but could only stare across the counter. Tanith’s steady gaze wasn’t accusatory; she was merely curious, as she sipped a large cup of freshly-brewed black coffee.

“Then that is why,” Sigrun replied. She motioned to the display of bags at the counter, the neat row of vacuum-sealed packs. “Can I offer my hand-roasted beans to take home with you?”

“No, thank you.” Tanith smirked. “I can hardly boil water, let alone make coffee.”

“I could teach you, if you would like.”

Tanith tilted her head, as if considering it. At the same time, a crash sounded from the back room, the telltale sound of toppling cups and the “Oh, crackers!” that followed. Sigrun closed her eyes and sighed.

Tanith set down her coffee to rummage through her shoulder bag. Sigrun recognized the business card case right away, the same style as the one she received for her first job—the polished silver edges, the black front with bold letters that declared the law firm’s name. The case snapped open; the inside of the lid would be mirrored, a quick check of teeth or lipstick before a case. Instead, Tanith slid a business card across the counter.

“In case you want to talk,” she said, picking up her cup again. “I might also take you up on that offer.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Tanith turned on her heel, clicking across the floor like she always did, the bell over the door jingling as she pulled it open. But she glanced over her shoulder before passing through, and Sigrun had just enough time to offer a small wave.

Chapter Text

Petrine hadn’t looked her in the eye.

Naturally, she wouldn’t—not when Greil was standing right there, his mere presence leaving the rest of them in shadow. But it was impossible that Petrine hadn’t noticed her, second-in-command to the man she was itching to fight. No, of course Petrine would have seen her already, same as she’d seen everyone in the company. But she’d intentionally, pointedly, ignored her.

It was just as well. What would Titania have said, anyway?

“A royal knight, huh?”

“Well, what about you? Don’t you want to make your mark on the world?”

Daein was much colder than she’d expected. Titania wasn’t sure why she’d traversed the border, especially the week before training began. The journey had been slow-going, her horse unaccustomed to the spring snow.

“As if they would want me.” Petrine pulled back the collar of her low-cut shirt, stabbing the green mark on her breast. “Do you think this is a pretty decoration?”

Titania stared into the fire instead. She thought of her horse in that dilapidated stable, wearing the coarse blanket that would do little to keep her warm. There was a trace of guilt in the roaring fire they sat by, and Petrine’s clammy skin as she traced circles on Titania’s biceps. There was no affection behind the touch, one tapered fingernail gouging deeper and deeper, until Titania was certain she’d drawn blood.

Petrine hadn’t stood a chance against Commander Greil, not that Titania would’ve warned her if given the chance. If Petrine had looked at her at all before riding off, Titania didn’t notice—she’d turned the other way, finding some thing or another to say to Gatrie, who happened to be the one standing closest. But the scent lingered, that charred fragrance that she regretted remembering, as Gatrie replied to whatever she had said to him.

Petrine had isolated herself in that cabin nestled on the Daein-Crimea border. Titania hadn’t seen a soul in several hours, but was still shocked when Petrine opened the door in little but a brassiere and garter belt. Her laugh had always held something malevolent, chocked in the back of her throat. But Titania couldn’t help but laugh, too, bundled in her overcoat with fur collar pulled around her face.

Petrine leaned one hand on the doorframe, blocking the entrance. “If you say one word about that damned academy,” she said, “You’re going right back from where you came from.”

A frigid wind stung Titania’s cheeks. “Does that mean I shouldn’t offer to put in a good word?”

There was that laugh again, deep and throaty. “What did I just say?”

The cabin smelled of firewood, the stove burning hot in the corner. Titania had never seen a flame lance in person, but its form was unmistakable—it stood propped in the corner, glowing as brightly as the stove itself. Petrine slid up behind her, sliding hands around her torso to unfasten the buttons of her coat.

“It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?” Petrine whispered in her ear, smelling of woodsmoke herself.

Perhaps it was better that Petrine hadn’t been there when Commander Greil died.

Petrine wouldn’t share why or where she fought or trained. She denied being a mercenary, but her body told otherwise—the protruding scars on her back and legs, and more than one memory of a pierced arrow. It was the one thing that never bothered Petrine, when Titania would trace those scars. They were a memorial of something she’d never know, as her lips grazed snow-white flesh. They were the only marks Petrine allowed her to touch, proud for whatever they stood for.

“You’re a little bold today,” Petrine said, lazily turning over onto her back.

“Is that a problem?” Titania replied, fingertips fluttering her collarbone.

Petrine swatted the hand away when it reached her breast.

Titania never knew if the brand felt different than the other marks.

Anyone could see that lance from a distance if they tried. Titania could almost smell it, the lingering scent of woodsmoke. And the laugh, as they crossed the bridge, the scent of scorched fur making their eyes water. She should have told the new recruits to stay back, to not rush the revenge they sought. Instead, she watched Petrine fight, bloodied and bruised with black lips laughing, wearing that absurd low-cut armor to reveal the Brand she’d always hated.

Titania advanced faster than she intended, but jerked the reins just out of reach of that lance.

“Petrine.”

Petrine had always been skilled at both glaring and smiling at once. She put on a decent show of being surprised, effortlessly spinning the flame lance onehanded. “That’s General Petrine to you.”

Titania hadn’t been stupid enough to expect a different reaction. “You foolish woman.” She shook her head, even as the battle roared around them. “It didn’t have to end this way.”

“End?” Petrine raised a single brow. “The only end here will be yours.”

It would be the last time she heard that laugh, and Titania would miss it.

Chapter Text

Marcia loved how much Makalov hated hiking. It almost made up for the sweltering heat, but didn’t make up for her seething rage at how much his new girlfriend clung to his arm.

“New” was being nice. It suggested there had been other girlfriends, so Marcia corrected herself—girlfriend, one singular girlfriend, ever. Astrid was sweet, and pretty, and Marcia couldn’t figure out why she’d chosen a man like her brother.

She inwardly cringed. “Man” was also being nice.

“Are we there yet?” Makalov groaned.

“Oh, Makalov.” Astrid giggled. “The hike is the adventure! I love being out in nature.”

“O-oh, of course! I love it, too!”

Marcia was leading the trio, so neither could see when she smirked. It was a trail she’d hiked often, and could do it with her eyes closed—and had, to a degree, when she’d once gone out too late after sunset. But despite the growing humidity, it was the perfect day to take to the woods. Marcia had gotten sick of Astrid watching Makalov play XCOM—poorly—and dragged them both to the trail. One had been more willing than the other.

“Marcia, wait! I— oww!”

Marcia grasped the straps of her hiking bag in both hands. “What now, you dimwitted cheesebrain?”

The only respectable reason for a lack of response was that they hadn’t heard, a prospect that didn’t seem feasible given how close Marcia was standing to them both. But when she turned around, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud—there was Astrid, one arm propped under Makalov’s armpit, helping him lower onto a boulder. Makalov threw her a look that Astrid didn’t see, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him.

“Astrid,” Marcia pleaded, “don’t—”

Makalov’s yelp cut her off. Astrid was cradling his foot in her lap, carefully picking apart the double-knotting hiking boot. When she grasped the ankle to remove it, Marcia prayed to whoever would listen that she wouldn’t remove the sock, too. Makalov’s sweat was bad enough in this heat, but a damp woolen sock would be even worse. To her relief, the sock remained on, but she still grimaced when Astrid touched his foot, massaging around the ankle.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

Makalov frowned. “A little.”

Marcia threw up her hands. “Walk it off! Come on, we’ll miss the sunset again if you don’t stop whining.”

The second half of the hike was slow-going. Makalov wasn’t entirely to blame, despite his supposedly weak ankle. The trail was new to Astrid, who stopped at every flower and tree, asking him what they were. None of his responses were anything close to what they were, but Marcia had to admit... it was funny, listening to his asinine names of imaginary foliage.

“This one is starting to bud!” Astrid said, gently tugging a tree branch. “I wonder if it will flower?”

“That’s the prettiest tree in Crimea!” Makalov declared. “That’s the... ratsamog tree, that one.”

“That’s so interesting.” Astrid tilted her head, admiring the bud. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“We’re almost there,” Marcia said loudly, lengthening her stride.

 She did like Astrid, especially when she picked up the pace to walk beside her. The trail may have been new for her, but so was cresting the peak of this mountain, knowing the sunlight was beginning to wane. Makalov was either feeling better or had forgotten about his bum ankle, matching their pace several feet behind.

“You seem to know this trail well,” Astrid said to her.

Marcia nodded. “We came here all the time as kids. It’s got the best view of Begnion, too.”

Miraculously, they hadn’t missed the sunset. Marcia knew right away as they approached the summit, the sky overhead still a bright blue. But the horizon slowly came into view as they climbed, the gradient of that vibrant blue to orange, and it wasn’t until they crested the hill that they could see the glow of the sun begin its descent behind the mountain range.

“Wow,” Astrid breathed, and Marcia grinned.

Makalov panted as he came up behind them, grabbing Astrid’s shoulder for support. Marcia looked away when they held hands, focusing instead on the gradual setting of that orange sun, disappearing behind the mountains and the desert beyond. The elevation brought a slight breeze, cooling the dried sweat on their faces.

“I’m glad we could see this together,” Makalov said. “It’s almost as pretty as you.”

Astrid leaned against his shoulder, and Marcia rolled her eyes. She tried not to think about going downhill in the dark.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that no one knew Grann Desert existed. Nothing was the same anymore after the wars finally ended—Stefan had taken a risk in joining the army, in whispering the desert into the ears of people like him. Some of them he expected to see there later, and some he hoped to see but knew he never would. But Calill was neither of those people, so he was surprised to see her traverse the desert.

Stefan remembered her well enough. She’d been quick on her feet, especially in the sands, so naturally he had noticed. He noticed now, too, as she wandered into the settlement, confidently striding down the main thoroughfare. It didn’t take long for Stefan to see why she visited—it wasn’t Calill, but the little girl who clung so desperately to her hand. He remembered her, though they’d never spoken. He couldn’t forget the aura, nor the twin brains that bobbed as she walked beside her mother.

“Calill,” Stefan said, meeting her in the road. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“See, Amy?” She squeezed the girl’s hand. “I told you he’d remember your mamma.”

Stefan dropped to one knee, though it wasn’t quite low enough to meet her at eye-level. “Amy, is it?”

She nodded, wide-eyed.

“I remember you, too.” He rose with a smile, brushing the sand from his knee. “Why don’t you both come inside?”

Amy’s shyness faded once they were inside. She bounded from corner to corner, admiring each shelf and surface in minute detail. His collections were a source of pride. Many were items acquired when first locating to the desert,: fossils of indeterminate creatures and fragments of structures long since destroyed by sandstorm and age. Some were spoils of war, jewels and ancient tomes, with one ceremonial knife hung high out of her reach. Calill had accepted the iced tea and figs graciously, but Amy’s remained untouched as she explored.

Stefan stood nearby as she peeked into a jewel-encrusted box, which contained only a few ancient coins. “Can I share something with you?” he asked.

Amy tilted her head up at him. “Ok.”

He glanced at Calill, who nodded her assent. Calill watched, too, when Stefan pushed the hair off his forehead, brandishing the green mark at his temple. It amused him to consider she was the first he’d fought beside who had seen it.

“Cool!” Amy stood on her toes. “Can I touch it?”

“Go ahead.” It didn’t feel like anything, but of course someone like Amy would know that. Her small fingers tickled his skin, plunging into his hair to glimpse the edge that crept beneath the hairline. “You have one too, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.” He didn’t have to ask; Amy rolled up her sleeve. “But it’s really different. And it’s red!”

He’d seen enough that looked similar in Grann—the colors often varied, but the shape was familiar, its hard angles and the curve at the bottom that resembled a tail. “It’s very pretty.”

Amy twisted her arm around to see. “Mamma says so, too.” She rolled down her sleeve, like she already knew to keep it hidden.

Stefan urged her into the bedroom, where there were more treasures to discover, and she was rushing off before he finished speaking. He sat back at the small table across from Calill, taking up his iced tea, as Calill stared off into the bedroom.

“When does it begin?” Calill asked.

She didn’t have to elaborate. “It varies.” He leaned back further in his chair. “She’s cat-blooded, so she’ll live a normal life through her teenage years. It is amusing to look youthful for a while after that, for a time. Until they notice.”

Calill twisted a fig between her fingers. “Will you teach her? She’s starting to ask questions.”

“Of course. But, Calill”—he paused, watching the door to the bedroom—“you know things are different now. Perhaps we’ll be accepted by the time she begins to show. We’ll certainly be an independent country by then.”

Calill nodded, visibly relieved. “I had hoped. But if she needs someone to talk to...”

He grinned. “I am always here, for both my people and old allies.”

Stefan popped a fig into his mouth, chewing as he crossed the room for the bedroom. Amy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, an ancient tome spread out before her. She traced the Ancient letters with her finger, like she was painting them herself.

“Can you read it?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Are these letters?”

He nodded, leaning against the doorframe. “They’re very old letters. I only understand a little.” Amy slowly closed the tome, using both hands like she knew it was something precious. “Do you want to meet some other people?” he asked. “People like us?”

She scrambled to her feet, the tome suddenly uninteresting. “There are more?”

Stefan grinned, holding out a hand. Her palm disappeared within his, tiny fingernails digging into his skin. “Let’s have an adventure.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Ike. What would you do, if you have to do it all over again?”

It was colder than they’d expected beyond Hatari. Perhaps they should’ve known, after the winter months spent in northern Daein. Ike pulled the fur tighter around his neck with one hand, the other prodding the campfire at their feet with a long branch.

“What do you mean?” Ike asked, though he knew exactly what Ranulf meant.

Ranulf stretched out on the ground beside him, propping his head on interlaced hands. “D’you think things would’ve been different, if you knew what you know now? Any big regrets?”

A wayward spark landed near his foot, and Ike watched it burn away. “I don’t regret anything.” After a brief pause, he added, “At least anything I could control.”

“Ha! That’s just like you.”

Ike tossed the branch into the fire. It roared well enough to warm them for a while, at least until the sun came up again. They didn’t follow any sort of schedule, per Ranulf’s wishes—they traveled when they wanted to travel, and stopped when they were tired. I’m sick to death of schedules, he’d said, to which Ike couldn’t argue.

Ike leaned back on his elbows beside him, stretching his legs out beside the fire. “Well, what about you?” he asked. “What would you change?”

Ranulf stared into the sky, though there wasn’t much to see. The night was cloudy, with only a faint glow of an unseen moon. It was a habit Ranulf had started once they’d crossed the desert: not looking at him when he asked questions. And there were a lot of questions; there were things to know about each other, things they couldn’t discuss openly when trying to win a war. But to his surprise, Ranulf looked at him now. Not straight-on, like he used to before. Only his eyes shifted, but didn’t look away when Ike clearly noticed. Ranulf smiled, one of those small smiles that didn’t show teeth.

“Plenty,” Ranulf finally replied, staring back at the sky. “But most people have a running list of stupid things they did, wishing they’d done something different. I guess you’re not most people.”

Ranulf closed his eyes. He must’ve known by now that these were the times Ike really looked at him, studying him like he was trying to figure something out. Ranulf seemed wholly unbothered by the sudden drop in temperature, wearing that same single layer of clothing with that same sleeveless shirt. Ike had asked about it once, and Ranulf reminded him he was a cat. He didn’t have all that fur unshifted, but it must still keep him warm somehow. Ike was cold just looking at him, at his bare arms and the open collar that he’d loosened a little.

“Why don’t you snuggle up already?” Ranulf asked, eyes still closed.

It was Ike’s turn the stare into the starless sky. “What are you talking about?”

“I can hear you shivering.”

“I’m not shivering.”

It was impossible not to think about everything that had happened, especially traveling with Ranulf—at first, he’d talked about the war. Often. He’d talked about Gallia, and what he was leaving behind. He’d talked about Skrimir and Elincia and Tibarn, and he told stories about things Ike already knew. I was there, Ike would say, and Ranulf would laugh it off, but finish the story anyway. Maybe it had something to do with closure. Maybe Ranulf was starting to miss it all, as they trekked further and further away from their homelands, as they passed through Hatari and marveled how there were still lands to explore.

“Maybe there’s one thing,” Ike said.

Ranulf didn’t stir, but that didn’t mean he was asleep. He kept talking anyway.

“I would’ve talked you into this sooner.” Ike lay flat on his back, his head beside Ranulf’s. When he turned his head, Ike wasn’t surprised to see he was being watched. For once, Ranulf’s side-eyed glance wasn’t accompanied by a smirk.

“Fame was too much for you, huh?”

Ike grunted. “I’m not answering that.”

Ranulf’s movements were decidedly feline-like, even unshifted, as he curled onto his side. Ike stared at that faint glow of the moon, hidden behind dark clouds, as Ranulf slid closer. Maybe he did get cold, slipping an arm beneath Ike’s shoulder and pressing his face into the fur. Ike wasn’t particularly tired. He watched the sky, wondering when it might snow, and tried to think of something else he would change if he could do it all over again.

There was the slight flick of Ranulf’s tail, and a low purr in the back of his throat. At that moment, Ike changed his mind—he wouldn’t have changed anything after all.

Chapter Text

Mainal Cathedral was one long, dark hallway after another. Sanaki knew its history, that foundation from when the world itself began. Its memories lingered in the walls, hovering around every corner. As she turned into another long, dark hallway, same as the rest of them, the journey was starting to make her dizzy.

She had only herself to blame. She chose the cathedral’s library herself as their meeting place, tucked into its far, quiet corner. She hoped Micaiah would like it, too.

When Sanaki opened one of its double wooden doors, Queen Daein was already there. Sanaki wasn’t used to the purple robes on her yet, that massive fur collar that only made sense in the north.

“No entourage?” Micaiah asked, turning from the shelf she'd been studying.

“I could say the same to you,” Sanaki replied, closing the heavy door behind her. “Where is your shadow?”

“Sulking in our rooms. Sothe is not pleased we’re meeting alone.”

“You’re the queen,” she replied sharply. “He’d do well to remember that.”

Micaiah sighed. “He’s trying his best.”

Sanaki guided them toward a seating area in the back. Outside the privacy of her favorite back corner, it offered a chance to show off the library as well—the dark shelves had always towered over her, the highest ones only accessible by ladder. The tall windows were frosted, allowing just enough filtered light to see. Her seating area was compact and intimate, with two overstuffed chairs and a small iron table between them. Sanaki liked the dark this alcove provided, even in the daytime. Micaiah seemed to agree, admiring one of the chairs before laying out her robes to sit.

“I could spend hours in here,” Micaiah said. She stared down the narrow aisle of shelves visible from her seat. “Daein could stand to learn much from what’s in here.”

“You’re welcome to it.” Sanaki settled into the other chair.

After the war, they’d agreed to purely political relations. It was simpler than trying to create something otherwise, a bond neither knew how to develop while also leading neighboring nations. But in the faint morning light, with Micaiah and her robes seated across from her, Sanaki wondered if they’d made the right choice. She had initially proposed it, to which Micaiah readily agreed—they’d been of the last few to disperse when the war ended, standing together in the open and bloodied field. Now, Sanaki sighed, and wondered how deep Micaiah’s empathy could go.

“There is the matter of Grann,” Sanaki said, pushing wayward thoughts aside. “Stefan has petitioned several times for its independence.”

“I don’t see why not,” Micaiah replied.

“The proposed territory borders Daein as well. I thought you might be interested.”

Sanaki resented the drab flow of conversation. She hadn’t expected bonding, but she could speak only of what she knew—politics. She continued to speak of Grann Desert and the positive influence such a country could have. Sanaki cared, certainly. She cared about peace between nations, and eliminating prejudice, and all the other idioms Queen Micaiah now crammed into a monologue. Sanaki hadn’t realized she groan aloud until Micaiah stopped.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

Sanaki gripped her arm rests, resisting the urge to leap from the chair. Instead, she whispered, “How can you stand it?”

Micaiah folded her hands in her lap. “Stefan has done nothing you or I wouldn’t do ourselves.”

“Not him.” She rolled her eyes. “This.”

She willed Micaiah to understand on feeling alone, because she didn’t want to admit how lonely she’d been. When it had just been her and her retainers, everything had been fine. It was the only thing she knew. Now she had friends, and family, and still lived in this big, dusty cathedral without any of them.

Perhaps Micaiah could read her thoughts. Or perhaps she felt the same way, smiling as she shimmed out of that ridiculous purple robe. She looked like herself without it, in that golden dress with the exposed shoulders.

“What would you like to do?” Micaiah asked.

“I want to call for a pot of tea,” she replied, “and some of those little chocolate cookies. Do you like chocolate cookies?”

“I—” For once, Micaiah was taken aback. “I can’t say I’ve tried them.”

“Then you must!” It was a small relief to leap from her chair. “And I want to sneak into the kitchens to obtain them. Come with me.”

Micaiah opened her mouth like she would argue. Instead, she rose from her chair, smoothing down the front of her dress. She glanced at the pooled robes left behind, the matted velvet from where she’d sat on it, then followed Sanaki down that long, narrow aisle of shelves.

Chapter Text

It had been an age since Oscar walked on dry land. He didn’t like how unsteady the ground felt, the soft grass and moss that should’ve been solid. The island was more humid than he’d expected, the air heavier than the sea. He looked over his shoulder at the tangle of trees he’d passed through. Though he couldn’t see the ship beyond them anymore, he knew it was there, solid as those gnarled trees. He’d told the others he would scout the island first. I’ll check for danger, he’d said, promising they could follow once he’d declared it safe.

Oscar smoothed down the front of his jacket, feeling for the hidden inner pocket. He knew the map was within, but breathed easier to feel the slight bulge at his breast. The concealed pocket was silent when he smoothed his hand over it, the paper worn soft from age.

“You thought you could hide from me, Captain Oscar?!”

Oscar froze, cursing the watery sway of his legs.  He couldn’t discern the direction of the voice. Its needlessly riotous volume bounced from all angles, scattering small birds hidden in the trees. A single blue feather drifted into his field of vision.

“I smelled you when you disembarked that busted ship. I could smell you from a league away!”

Oscar gripped the hilt of his sword, which was securely fastened to his hip. “If you’re looking for a fight,” he replied, “you should show yourself.”

A cluster of bushes rustled to his right. The tri-corner hat emerged first, that familiar red leather caught in the branches. Oscar sighed as the hand emerged next, holding down the hat as the partially-hidden man angled to rise from his inconvenient spot. Oscar crossed his arms, leaned against a tree, and waited.

“Blasted bushes—!” the man shouted. “Ha! There!”

Captain Kieran bounded from the foliage, not without a fight with the bushes themselves. Even from a distance, the blossoming blood on his forehead was visible. If Kieran was bothered by it—or noticed in the slightest—it didn’t show, planting both fits on his hips. “How dare you show your face on my island?”

Oscar raised his eyebrows. “Your island?”

“Yes! I was here first.” Kieran swiped the trickle of blood before it slid into his eye. “And if you even think you’ll get your hands on that treasure—”

“So, the rumors are true.”

Kieran frowned. “If there is treasure, it’s mine!”

Oscar was admittedly doubtful about the old map. It’d been discovered in an abandoned chest, tucked into a forgotten corner of the hold. The parchment was worn where it had been creased for generations, the ink barely legible anymore. His brothers had marveled at the prospect of treasure, which Oscar had claimed a fantasy. But he hadn’t expected to find the island. Certainly there could be no harm—

“Hand over the map,” Kieran said.

Oscar was grateful for the tree he leaned against, for his wobbly legs would’ve given out otherwise. How could he possibly know about the map? He rubbed a thumb over the carvings on his hilt, studying their surroundings—the ground was littered with fallen trees, the jagged remains of stumps scattered between them. It wasn’t the ideal location for a scuffle, if it came to that.

“That map is legendary,” Kieran went on. “It has been rumored for longer than you’ve been alive!”

“That means you, too,” Oscar pointed out.

If Kieran noticed the quip, he ignored it. “When I saw your ship, I knew it was true. That treasure belongings to Crimea’s royal family, not some lowly pirates!” He unsheathed his sword, pointing it squarely at Oscar’s nose. “I challenge you to a duel.”

“Kieran.” Oscar sighed, pushing himself off the tree. “I am not going to fight you.”

“Coward!” He thrust the sword out farther. “You know what the old song says: ‘Treat me like the sea, oh so salty and mean!’”

Oscar frowned. “I don’t think that’s a song.”

“Ignorant fool! I will sing it for you, before your death.”

He would’ve preferred otherwise. Kieran cleared his throat, all while keeping the sword outstretched. If the treasure map was legendary, Kieran’s singing voice was more so—it was said, late at night, that the rattled off-key could be heard across the ocean, in a distorted sort of lullaby. Oscar had heard it only once before, and never this close. He braced himself once again as self-declared opponent stood straighter, staring Oscar straight in the eye.

“Take all that you need

Like my sign says, ‘For free’

'Til it's gone, 'til it's gone.”

Kieran tipped his tri-corner hat, grinning in mock performance.

“Well, discard whom you please

Like the leaves off a tree

A-ha-ha, a-ha-ha!

Let's shake hands if you want

But soon both hands are gone!”

The world itself seemed to halt. If there had been any birds singing, they stopped; he heard creak of neither cricket nor frog, the island mute with horror as the last notes drifted away.

“That was... very interesting,” Oscar replied.

“Now hand over that map!”

Kieran lunged faster than he could register, bounding over the jagged stumps and logs. Oscar twisted away from the sword point that was suddenly right before his face, unsheathing his own sword at the same time. He narrowly missed a wicked gash across his throat.

“Kieran,” he gasped, “what are you doing?”

“I challenged you!” he cried. “Fight back, you dastard!”

The littered ground made their slow circling difficult. Oscar alternated between watching his feet and watching Kieran, whose blade was clean and sharp and glinted in the scant light. It was more a challenge of defense than a proper duel; Oscar crouched low, one hand steadied on whatever fallen log was closest, sword arm raised to block Kieran’s attacks. Navigating the cluttered clearing made Kieran slow, too; his feet tangled in discarded branches, which gave Oscar just enough time to find his footing.

“This is ridiculous,” Oscar said, ducking away from another jab of his sword.

“The treasure belongs to Crimea!” Kieran shouted, shaking a knot of leaves off his ankle.

Oscar hadn’t meant to hit him, not really.

Kieran hadn’t noticed the new gash his coat sleeve, and the blood that trickled down his wrist. His wailing was of a man in battle, rather than in pain; he crouched behind a log for cover, though Oscar had made no motion to attack again. He was panting, red-faced, that cut on his forehead reopened. “Do you not care for your honor?” Kieran asked, absently wiping the smear of blood over his eye.

Oscar lowered himself to the ground. He studied his sword, slowly turning it so the sun caught the slight smear of blood. It was not for his own inspection—he paused, waiting for Kieran to notice. It took far too long for his eyes to widen, and for him to finally see the matted and stained gash on his own arm.

“What— No! Curses!”

Oscar slowly wiped his sword with the hem of his jacket, smearing the trace of blood. Kieran gripped his injured arm, a failed attempt to staunch a free-flowing wound. When he flopped to the ground, wincing with a pain only recently noticed, Oscar sheathed his sword.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kieran asked.

The ground was a disarray of broken branches, a wary trod to where Kieran sat. He hardly moved when Oscar settled beside him, looking away when Oscar pried the hand off his wound. The gash was shallow, but stubborn, dotted with fresh blood.

“Take off your coat,” Oscar said.

Kieran twisted away. “I will not!”

“Listen to me for once, please.”

He opened his mouth, but closed it again. Oscar gripped his shoulder as Kieran twisted out of the jacket, trying not to upset the wound. It would be too much of an ask for him to remove the shirt as well, but the sleeve was cut through enough that it took little effort to rip off the rest. Oscar used the partial sleeve to wipe the blood from his arm, though it did little but smear it without water or antiseptic.

“You’ll have to get it treated properly,” Oscar said, wrapping the fragment of sleeve around the cut. “But this should stop the bleeding.”

“I need no help from you,” Kieran weakly replied.

At some point, the birds had returned. They remained hidden, but they sang from the treetops, offering a solitude as Oscar caught his breath. Kieran examined his arm, twisting it carefully to inspect the tight knot on the back.

“You know,” Oscar began, “treasure maps usually don’t lead anywhere.”

It was a long while before Kieran nodded, though Oscar knew he would never verbally agree. “Then why are you here?”

Oscar shrugged. “It can’t hurt to look.”

“Well, you know what the old song says—”

“Please, don’t.” Oscar stood, smoothing down the front of his coat. The bulge in the inner pocket was still there, solid as the ground he stood on. “We could look for it together.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Kieran snapped. “That treasure belongs to the royal family.”

“The royal family can have it,” he replied. “I only want a small portion for my family. My brothers deserve a good life.”

When Kieran looked up, Oscar’s own shadow was cast over his face. He narrowed his eyes, grasping the injured arm. “That would be decided by her royal highness. But”—Kieran shrugged—“I might be willing to request it.”