Archive of Our Own ^beta

Noire is shouting.

That isn’t new. Severa’s used to this; either that girl’s going to whisper or she’s going to scream. She prefers the latter, it’s easier to find her when she’s loud. She has an affinity for getting lost. It’s simply always going to be Severa’s job to find her. Self-imposed, maybe, but that hardly matters. She’s older, she’s tougher, she fights at a closer range. Their relationship has a foregone conclusion.

Some soldiers are tools made for war, some are unwilling participants; Noire is the latter. She isn’t dead weight, though, just the opposite. She’s the best archer Severa’s ever met. Her eagle eyes and dextrous fingers would make her an incredible hunter, if only they weren’t the ones being hunted. She’s just always being set up for failure. She may be hard to grasp for most people, but Severa gets her just fine. Of course there’s an obvious, notable duality to her. Anyone unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of one of her sudden tirades knows it. No doubt she’s on one now, judging by the way she’s dramatically waving her arms.

The best way she could hope to describe her would be that Noire is simply a gentle creature thrust into a violent world she doesn’t understand, and all she’s done is adapt. Cornered animals fight back. Even if she exists in halves, she’s not any less of a whole person for it. When she can’t reconcile the two, Severa will be the pillar in between. Even after innumerable inconveniences, that’s how and why they still work. She knows what it’s like to exist in your mother’s shadow; she doesn’t know what it’s like when forced to become it. Noire’s pain is inconceivable. This is all she can do for her, and it’s more than that witch ever did. Even if the Tharja of this timeline isn’t as openly malicious, the fact that Noire can grieve someone like her is irrefutable proof of how good she really is. Good things like her need to be fought for, held close, kept safe.

It takes a few more moments for it to register that Severa hasn’t been listening to a single word being said this entire time. Everything she was just looking at is now reduced to simple motion, like watching magic cast from afar. A comet shooting across the great, empty sky; a daytime miracle. Little spots crackle and fizzle out of her vision, impossibly bright before it all goes dark.

Noire’s voice goes from muffled to completely absent, like she’s run away again. Severa valiantly attempts to focus, imagining herself squinting into nothingness, and tries to find her there. It does more harm than good.

Dozens of images flood through her head, and absolutely none of them are what she needs in this situation, where she can’t even tell if she’s still awake. Deep down, she knows she can’t fight it, otherwise she would’ve tried.

Of all the things to think about, as always, her mother is first in line. If comparison were a contest, Severa would still come in second place. She’s accepted that. She imagines her mother, or the words you’ll have to go through me, or the dress she’s always wanted to sew, orange. She can’t tell the difference. It could be wings, or the ground, or her legs, running. She doesn’t know what it is she thinks she’s running from. Everything blurs together.

The most vivid thus far— she’s presented with a game. Some instinct tells her she’s only got three tries to win it. She doesn’t know what the game is. It’s at a festival she’s never been to. There are a great number of people she’s never met in attendance, their faces obscured by her lack of knowledge about them, the number of stalls even greater. Only one calls her attention. By the time she’s tried to put a name to what it’s meant to be, the game has already finished.

There’s a target split by an arrow, colorful canvas frayed down the middle, and the eventual loud chime of a bell to signal the lucky winner. There’s no prize, they don’t know who the winner is. The crowd looks to her instead. She says doesn’t know, says she just wants to feel her body again, tells them she’s looking for her sister. It’s not coming back nearly as fast as it should. They turn away. Neither sensation nor spotlight return. All is gone but the obvious. Severa remembers she is an only child.

The weight of her sword has defined her every day since she chose it, but it’s all wrong when she tries to recall how it felt to hold. She imagines the handle longer and heavier than it should be. She should be angry, she isn’t. It hardly matters if she can’t use it. If she focuses enough, she can feel the slightest pinprick sensation in her fingers– which she swears she knew the purpose of, but it stays on the tip of her tongue, the place where all good things she’s capable of go to die. Her mouth stays shut, like she’s forgotten how to spit the venom she’s learned to protect herself with. The blade rusts with time, as if she never picked it up in the first place.

The pictures come back faster. The ocean, pulling her in and pushing her back, trying to get her to dance with it. A needle that pokes through fabric as it threads a pattern, in and out, over and over. It’s the dress she’s been dreaming of. It’s red. Someone’s repairing the target, though she’s not sure what for. She could’ve sworn it had been knocked over. The bell rings again and she still isn’t being given her prize. If she isn’t the victor, then who else? She’s earned it, hasn't she? Someone calls her name, she ignores it. It’s two letters off from perfection, just like her. Someone tells a terrible joke about severity. She doesn’t laugh.

Being this numb isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s neither hot nor cold, loud nor quiet. In a way, it’s soothing. She’s too used to being the perpetual forest fire; something about being unable to see it for the trees. The phrase is lost, it didn’t matter anyway. She feels lost. She doesn’t want to feel lost anymore. She wants her sword back. She wants the chance to prove she’s been good. She wants to waste it again, again, and again. She wants a great many things and she wants them from people who do not want to give them to her.

She wants to open her eyes.

By some miracle, she realizes only now that she still can. It’s the first time the world has deemed her worthy of recognition and it’s been wasted on this. No more wishes left.

She blinks. There is no sky. Noire is long gone.

Blotting out the sun is a priest in dark, unflattering robes– Brady, uncomfortably close. She’s a little impressed with herself for being able to recognize him so fast. Every other one of her senses is still eerily absent. She doesn’t know where she is, but she knows Brady, and that’s enough.

“Stop movin’ so much,” he grunts. A single bead of sweat trickles down his neck, disappearing into his collar. He’s straining himself.

He’s got that scar that runs jagged down his eyelid, that ridiculous haircut, his permanent scowl. He makes another noise of exertion. She doesn’t understand what his business is standing so close to her. Sitting? They might be sitting.

She tries to say, “My sword,” but it comes out slurred, like her mouth’s stuffed with cotton. She thanks the gods the person in front of her is someone who could decipher any awful manner of speech, seeing as his is the absolute worst.

“How’dya have time to be worrying about that crap?” He staggers. It would be amusing if he didn’t look so worried.

“Shit! Severa, you need to hold still. We don’t have time.”

She wants to argue that they still have more than enough time, she’s been here as long as she can remember, but the mental image of her wriggling like a worm on the ground is just too gross to ignore. She hopes there’s no dust in her hair. She can still barely make use of smell, taste, or touch. She thinks there might be someone else next to him, but all she can see is the only priest she cares to remember the name of, the only friend she knows truly capable of saving her.

He really does look worried.

“...Alright. For what it’s worth, I’m real sorry about this next part,” Brady warns. His expression is more focused than she thought him capable of.

She has no idea what he means until the dull sensation across her whole body is ripped from her– actually ripped– and it all turns into pure, agonizing heat.

Her side feels scorched as it’s torn open, a dissection without a table, suddenly gutted while she still has everything left to lose. With her shock of clarity comes the realization that an incision has been made already, so that comparison’s not too far off. Whatever’s left of her is liable to spill right out, too wet and too vulnerable and utterly excruciating. There are more hands on her than there ever should be; she quickly learns to hate the number four. She’s not sure why it comes to mind, but in this moment she knows with absolute certainty all good things come in threes. This is too much.

She knows she’s screaming, but she can’t hear a thing. She wants to wipe her mouth, revolted by the idea of her agony manifesting through disgusting spit and humiliating tears. Her pain is supposed to be her own, and here it is, for the entire world to see. Her pride turns an act of rescue into one of voyeurism; she’s been cut open and put on display like she’s the prize her competitive streak was looking for. Piercing isn’t the right word for how it feels, she’s already been pierced, this is what comes after. This is the forceful retreat of something that never should’ve been there in the first place. She can’t tell her body apart from it. She can’t let it go without feeling like something’s being taken from her.

Severa remembers now that death is everywhere, behind her, following her through time. She can’t believe how stupid she was to have forgotten. The Risen that killed her parents are inescapable, inevitable, surrounding her even now. This isn’t a battlefield, it’s a cemetery. She’s struck by the revelation that this is the clearest she’s ever been able to see it all, an army of undead and their scattered weapons, wildflowers trampled underfoot by sheer numbers. She feels death inside of her; she feels her friend trying to keep it there before it kills her, too. There’s unyielding pressure against her side, in her sinuses, trapped inside her ribcage. She watches in her peripheral vision as an axe cleaves through a reanimated corpse, falling down into the soil like it’s made of mud. She prays that’s not what’s coming out of her, but she’s too scared to look.

She retches, propelled upwards by the sheer force of it, wishing that she could have just stayed wherever she was before when she couldn’t feel anything. One of the too many hands firmly forces her back down. She’s dimly aware of the fact that she was lucky to have someone competent enough to retrieve the arrow surgically, but it hurts enough that she wishes it had stayed with her, where it was meant to be. Brady tosses the intruding object aside and gets to work. It drips with a substance too thick to be just blood, like tar.

She feels white magic write her back together, warm and bright like the sun she still can’t see. When her eyes close, they don’t open again for a long, long time.

—

To say she wakes up with a start would be an understatement.

The first thing Severa does with reestablished control over her body is seal both hands over her stomach, bearing them down as hard as she can. It forces her into a violent coughing fit, but it does the trick. Her lungs ache with the strain it takes to regain her breath, but it’s enough to prove she’s alive, and that’s all that matters. Her eyes water from the discomfort it brings her.

Next to her, she hears a shocked little yelp and it takes her less than a second to register who it came from.

“Noire,” she rasps, throat much drier than she remembers it being. She coughs a few more times, and the girl in question looks at her in horror. It only makes her feel worse.

Noire scrambles closer to her side, almost spilling the canteen in her hand all over Severa’s cot. “Drink this,” she insists, forcing herself to sound as demanding as she can.

Severa’s not too stubborn to take the offer. She obeys, taking advantage of the container’s capless state to immediately gulp down fast mouthfuls of water. She lowers her hand, wiping the side of her mouth with the heel of her palm, handing it back to Noire for safekeeping.

The left side of her torso hurts like hell. Maybe it’s because she just irritated a fresh injury by pressing on it so hard, but she thinks it might just be because of how severe the hit was. She’s assuming it didn’t mess up any of her internal organs for them to have been able to take the arrow out so quickly, unless she was unconscious longer than she thought, which she doubts. She could always ask Noire, but something tells her that would be ill-advised.

The girl in front of her can barely make eye contact, which isn’t particularly new, but Severa knows what differences to spot. She’s fiddling with the edges of her gloves, which is never a good sign. Every part of her body language screams that she’s looking for an exit, her talisman, or her mother. It might be all three. Even if she wasn’t so visibly distressed, her face looks ghastly, like she hasn’t slept in days. Severa takes the time she has left before she inevitably snaps to observe their surroundings, confident in their safety enough to lay back. There’s no one else here. It’s just a normal healer’s tent, typically for situating multiple cots at once, due to its decent size. It makes sense that she would be the one to disrupt the norm.

She goes to speak, but Noire beats her to the punch. Severa thinks she’s about to get called insolent while having to listen to her rave on about thunder, but all Noire does is burst into tears.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she sniffles, resting her forehead against the shoddy setup of the sickbed. It causes the feather she wears to lightly graze Severa’s ear. “I was so scared. Please don’t do that again.”

She continues, taking an attempt at a deep breath, falling flat. It seems to work her up even more, impossibly faster than it should. “I know you always protect me, but– this is just too much. This is wrong. What did you expect me to do if you died?”

Severa winces on instinct. She wasn’t expecting this part to happen so fast. “Noire, relax. You’re not making any sense.”

“Bite your tongue! You’re the one who’s not making any sense! Why would you jump in front of me like that? You fool!” Noire snarls, pivoting from meek to furious like an animal pet in the wrong direction. Her shoulders shake with clear effort as she stomps her foot for emphasis.

The air of confusion cast over Severa’s mind completely dissipates, the outburst assisting her as she suddenly recalls everything that transpired before she was healed. It’s not a full picture, not entirely, but the feeling is enough for her to complete the puzzle on her own.

She remembers it like this:

Noire, needing her. Noire, standing a decent number of paces away and vulnerable enough that any attack would be her undoing. Noire, so focused on what’s in front of her that she doesn’t see what’s coming, unprotected and more alone than she’s ever been, none the wiser.

Severa, hands full enough already with a broken shield, watching it about to happen. Severa, feeling her muscle memory as it kicks in– The arrow is the pegasus’ greatest enemy, didn’t you know– racing across the battlefield before she can fail anyone ever again. Severa, coming without being called, jumping in front of the intended target before the killshot is even delivered from its string.

She remembers feeling relief. Indescribable relief, even as Noire turned to see her, shrieking loudly enough that it rattled her eardrums, the last real sound before it all went quiet. Fear, love, fulfillment. Numb enough to forget desperation, reassuring herself that she made sure Noire was safe, over and over again, in a moment that stretches on for eternity. That was the only thing that really mattered. That was the only step she had to take to redeem herself. How could anyone blame her for doing what needed to be done?

Impulsive as ever, Severa just can’t bring herself to resist arguing back. She sits up, disregarding her body’s protests, driven now by the need to defend herself. The words spill out of her mouth before she can consider them any further than that.

“What, so I should have just let you get killed? Don’t be stupid! You’re too frail to suffer an injury like this. You needed me! What else was I supposed to do?” She rebukes, jabbing an accusing finger in Noire’s direction.

Noire jumps, her already unsteady composure crumbling beneath her. She moves away even further, drawing back like she’s aiming to fire, a silent shot in the dark from a great and terrible distance between two.

Severa prepares herself, righteously refusing to yield. She’s already taken the hit once, she’ll do it again if she has to. These are the kind of necessary sacrifices she needs to make to keep people safe. It’s the only virtue of a knight that she has ever understood, made wholly her own by her honest will to win every single fight she starts. She will not perpetuate a cycle of suicidal chivalry in a situation where she can help it, she just refuses to let either of them die. It’s that simple.

“That’s not fair! You know I wouldn’t survive in a world without you, you’ve said it yourself.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have a choice,” Severa hisses. Normally, she can’t stomach the idea of being mean to her. It’s different when she’s fighting back. Her side throbs in spite of herself, a war of body against heart. Then, to reassure herself of her decision, she repeats, “You needed me.”

Noire shakes her head fiercely, unable to protest in any way that matters. “I need you now.”

“Gods, I’m not your mother, Noire! Why are you making this so difficult? Why can’t you just– I don’t know, thank me or something? Gee, Severa, I’m so glad I’m not dead! How hard is that?”

Severa knows she’s being childish, now. She’s trying to hit where it hurts, kicking the one person she thought she never could. A very selfish part of her finds it horribly cathartic. She feels irrationally angry, like even she knows this is too much. Her heart pounds in her ears, sending wave after wave of adrenaline through her body, forcing the turmoil to the back of her mind. Now more than ever, she needs to be right.

Half a second passes before Noire is leaping at her, sending Severa further down.

She prepares for a fight, and all that comes is the flimsy pressure of gangly arms wrapped around her shoulders. The cot hardly makes a creak, like there isn’t enough weight being placed on it for it to realize it’s seating two people at once. Severa could push her off if she wanted to. It wouldn’t be difficult. They both know she’s stronger. The only thing stopping her from truly considering it as an option is a sudden and renewed surge of pain, worse than the last. She pushes past it, more focused on her feelings of uncertainty over what to do with her hands.

Noire is bony and wire-thin like she’s made of sticks, she runs cold, and her hugs are awkward at best.

She’s needy but doesn’t know how to speak up for herself unless she’s screaming. She always needs her hair trimmed before it can touch the back of her neck or she throws a fit. She hardly eats unless she’s reminded to, and when she does, she takes half an hour to finish her food no matter how large the serving is. She breathes so quietly that sleeping next to her is like sharing a tent with a corpse. She’s petrified of the most mundane things, like bugs and going to the bathroom by herself at night. She’s reactionary but holds no conviction in her anger, like even her outbursts are something to be ashamed of. She’s always ashamed. She’s always afraid. Still, she always pushes past it. She’s a walking contradiction.

She’s shaking even now, despite being the one who initiated the contact. She clearly knows she gives dreadful hugs, there’s no doubt she knows Severa is angry, and it’s more than likely she’s aware that no one else would think of holding her like this. She’s just brave enough to do it anyway.

Severa loosely wraps an arm around her waist, incapable of doing much more. Noire flinches, just like she always does when she’s touched without warning. She knows not to clarify that it’s nothing personal; they’ve been close too many times for it.

Her weak grip around Severa tightens, like the action gave her the courage to speak. “Thank you,” she whispers, barely audible enough to exist in the air outside of the embrace. “Severa, I’m so glad we’re not dead.”

They don’t let go of each other for a long while, both of them unsure of just what else to say.

—

Not long after Noire’s reluctant departure, Brady visits to check up on her stitches. He analyzes them with all the meticulousness of someone attempting to neutralize a particularly powerful curse, and he isn’t wrong to do so. Severa feels a few ticks away from complete detonation. Even if it wasn’t her intention, Noire got the last laugh. A few of them have absolutely been pulled already, a real symbol of business left unfinished if there ever was one.

Brady is not pleased.

“Good grief,” he grumbles, like he isn’t the one choosing to personally attend to her of his own volition. His mother would’ve done just fine.

Maybe not. Severa’s not entirely sure she’d get along with Maribelle, as graceful and skilled as the woman is. In fact, she thinks that might be because those are the first two traits of any person she’s ever got into a memorable argument with. Not that it’s all that relevant. The real reason is that she secretly thinks the whole noble superiority bit is incredibly annoying. She’s glad it’s not hereditary. If she doesn’t want to think about Noire, pretending to dislike a woman she’s barely met is distraction enough.

“Were the stitches really necessary? This is so gonna scar, now. Or was I not worth some higher grade healing? Only scraps for Severa, is that it?” She taunts, because that’s kind of the only way she knows how to make conversation.

“Be serious.”

“I’m always serious! What dignified lady wants a nasty mark like this across her side? Not this one!”

“Well, not like anyone’s gonna be seein’ it.”

“Excuse me? Just what are you insinuating?”

“Does everything have some sorta secret meaning with you, or what? Just simmer down and let me look at this.”

Severa complies, and she certainly does not pout. That would be immature and unnecessary. She does, however, let out the loudest, most exaggerated sigh she can. It’s only fair.

Every time she doesn’t take Brady seriously, she’s met with a much needed wake-up call by the controlled way his hands guide over a wound that needs treating. His staff, which is resting against the edge of her cot, responds to whatever he does. It emanates a blue-tinted glow, not strong enough to be used as a light source, but just enough to be visual proof of the work he’s putting in. Even now, she’s a little intimidated by what healing looks like from up close. Magic is hard to understand for someone better suited to practicality.

That’s actually why Brady stuns her so much. He’s got a no-nonsense attitude that rivals even hers, and here he is, his whole utility on the battlefield relying on a concept that requires faith. She’s more than a little envious that he still has enough for the job.

His brow noticeably furrows as his hands pause their initial slow movements. He reaches up to tousle his own hair in frustration, making it even more unkempt than it was before. It’s a commendable feat. Severa surmises that healers just don’t care what is and isn’t possible, and that includes their shitty blonde haircuts.

“You’re not gonna like this.”

After the experience she just had, she thinks she’s more than capable of handling it, giving him a pointed look that conveys just as much.

“I’m gonna need to take off the bandages. I won’t force you to take your shirt off, just… it’s tough tryin’ to assess an injury like this.” He pauses like he’s looking for the right words, staring intently at the flame in the lamp next to her head like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “Ma’s in the tent over.”

Severa isn’t stupid, she understands the sentiment. Maribelle’s probably tending to several wounded at once right now, but he’s willing to bother his mother for the sake of her comfort. It’s gentlemanly of him. She’s surprised he’d think to offer.

It’s not like his concerns are entirely unfounded. She does value her modesty a great deal. However, in this specific instance, she can’t bring herself to care all that much. She knows she’s a real piece of work, but she considers Brady a friend and would like to imagine the feeling’s mutual. She doesn’t think he would suggest it unless he absolutely needed to.

“It’s fine. You dressed the wound yourself, didn’t you? Nothing you haven’t already seen.”

He nods, the tension all but leaving his expression. “It’s always different on the field, though. You’ve got one job, and it’s to stop the bleeding. It’s kinda like the only thing left to see in the whole world is red. Not a very pleasant color. Er… no offense.”

“I’ll have you know my hair is a delightful shade of orange, thank you very much. But none taken. Do you want me to sit up for this?”

For just a second, Brady’s permanent scowl edges a little closer to something to a genuine smile. It would be easy to miss if he didn’t reveal his hand in the way his eyes brighten, a little rough around the edges but warm and kind all the same.

“Just stay the way you already are. As relaxed as possible, got it?”

—

Some people just never know when to leave Severa alone.

She’s been venturing to do as Brady told her already and just get a few hours of sleep in. Apparently, she was healed just in time– she’ll be mostly recovered by their next march, so long as she keeps resting. If anyone was planning on interrupting that sacred time, then it should be Noire, not…

“Heeey,” Cynthia sings, failing at sounding as cutesy as she is surely trying for. She closes the tent flap behind her and Severa immediately feels her headache grow substantially worse.

She rubs at her temples, racking her brain for any possible meaningful reason to this visit, coming up empty. “Can I help you? You remember I’m stuck here, right? It’s important to me that you remember that. Do you see my bandages? I’m not wearing these for fun. Not all of us want to accessorize like morons.”

Cynthia giggles. “You know, now that we’re friends, you’re pretty funny. I would’ve gotten all mad before, but you’re just trying to make me laugh, aren’t you?”

“You’re delusional.”

“Sure, sure. Can I say my thing already?”

“You’re going to do it anyway. Out with it.”

Cynthia practically skips over to seat herself at Severa’s side, messy strawberry pigtails bouncing with every irritatingly energetic step. Both Severa and the cot groan in protest.

“So… how’re you feeling?”

“Why? Are you planning on putting me out of my misery?”

“Uh, no. Perish the thought! Like, right now. Both hands on the hilt and just… swing! Slash it down the middle.” says Cynthia, doing an embarrassing one-armed gesture to pair with it. Severa is almost positive that’s not what the phrase is supposed to mean.

“Your form is terrible. Try holding a sword like that on a battlefield sometime! You and I can be tent buddies. Seeing as I’m going to be here for the next hundred years, I’ll save a spot. See? Riiight here.” Severa loudly pats the space next to her on purpose to draw attention to her hand. The second she’s got Cynthia’s eyes on it, she sticks up her middle finger.

Cynthia’s nose wrinkles. It’s easier to see her freckles this close, like distant little constellations across her round face, too light to notice otherwise. “You’re still a villain. I’m actually here on a noble mission to deliver an important message, you know. So take me seriously.

“Open your hand,” she demands, dramatically making her voice about two octaves lower for emphasis, like a loser.

Severa reluctantly obliges, gingerly holding out her open palm like she’s about to be cut. With the way Cynthia’s been holding an arm behind her back this whole time, she may as well be, as revenge for their prior rivalry or something equally childish. She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Perfect. Now…”

Whatever’s placed in her palm is much lighter than she thought it’d be. She unclenches her jaw, looking down.

Before she can stop the words from coming out, she mutters, “Flowers?” in disbelief. She looks to Cynthia for confirmation, and then back down. In her hand is just that, an odd number of wild daisies that look to have been plucked straight from the grass. Not a single of them is missing any petals, and they’re impressively white, like they’d never been in dirt at all.

“Yep. Wanna guess who they’re from?”

Severa shakes her head, forcing her tongue to the roof of her mouth so it won’t feel quite so heavy. “If it’s Inigo, I don’t want them,” she says, but her voice nearly cracks and she knows she doesn’t sound convincing enough.

Cynthia crosses her arms in a giant ‘X’, causing her gauntlets to clink together gratingly. “Nope! Want another try?”

“This game is stupid and I won’t entertain it.”

“Ugh, I forgot you were like that. Well, they're from Owain, so… betcha didn’t expect that one, huh?”

Severa coughs so terribly she almost starts choking. She knows the longer she takes to reply, the more genuinely rattled she’ll appear, but she can’t bring herself to make any snappy comments. If her tongue felt weighted before, it feels enough to force her jaw agape, now. She chews on the inside of her cheek instead. The warmth that spreads through her entire body is enough to make her feel like she’s made a full recovery only to fall to a mysterious illness, one that makes her stomach flip and turns all of her insides out.

“That’s not funny,” she croaks, trying in vain to ignore how dry her mouth feels.

Cynthia makes an offended noise. “It’s not a joke, silly.”

“He told me to tell you he hopes you feel better. He picked these with his sword hand, he got the flower idea from Inigo– um, I wasn’t supposed to say that part. Oops. Turns out you weren’t super far off, though, right?” She doesn’t pause for a response, moving on, emphatically gesturing with her hands as she talks.

Her expression suddenly turns serious. “Don’t get rid of them because of that. I know you’re all hurt and stuff, but I’ll kick your ass if you do. Owain was out late into the night getting these, you know? We kept watch.

“Anyway, he picked these with his sword hand because his, uh… I think he said the dark energy emanating from his blood was sure to transfer onto ‘em, and they’d keep you safe from now on because he feels bad that he couldn’t, even though I said it definitely isn’t his fault you took off so fast, but… hey, why are you crying?”

Severa’s lips part, doing her best to think of a rebuttal, but Cynthia is right.

She can only manage a squeak as hot, wet tears slide down her cheeks, faster than she can even think to resist them. She scrambles, making a futile attempt to wipe them away with her sleeve, knowing they’ll refuse to stop. “I’m not,” she argues. “Stop looking at me.”

Her face burns with embarrassment. She looks down at the daisies in her hand, loosening her grip on their stems so she doesn’t crush them by accident, swearing under her breath. She almost feels bad for how concerned Cynthia appears as she awkwardly looks in the opposite direction. If she has any reputation to keep up as an ice queen, here it is, completely melting. The irony almost makes her laugh. She knows it’s debasing, she knows she’s being hysterical, but she can’t stop. This ridiculous gesture has completely broken her. Worse, the three most annoying people in this entire army are the ones responsible. The most annoying of them all painstakingly gathered each one, all for her, all because he feels guilty that he let her endanger herself.

The flowers are beautiful. She doesn’t want to die. She was sure she knew what that felt like before, when all she could do was tell herself it can’t end like this, but that’s the thing. She’s discovering that being unable to die and not wanting to are completely different things. She’s lived through the apocalypse. This is her second war. She’s tired. It feels like a betrayal to admit that part of her may have decided to leap in front of Noire because she just didn’t want to do it anymore. She holds the petals close to her chest, like they’ll fix something horribly wrong inside of her heart for feeling that way.

The revelation feels so dumb, like she’s always known but never been able to admit it straight out, because she knows she never gets what she wants– what if she says it out loud, and that’s what dooms her? She knows it’s the worst thing she could possibly conceive, that this is the most awful thing she’s ever thought, but she doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t even know what the stupid daisies she’s been given are supposed to represent. She needs to stick around long enough to ask. Noire was right; she’s so glad they’re both alive.

She’s startled out of her thoughts by the feeling of a gloved hand laid over her own.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cynthia says, giving one of her fingers a reassuring little squeeze.

Severa sniffs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

—

Cynthia makes her exit with an obnoxious pat on the shoulder, promising to deliver a heavily altered version of events to her fellow flower arrangers. The last thing Severa needs is the village idiots learning that the stunt they pulled caused her to break down. It might be a little funny to see Inigo despair for a few moments, but she just feels bad about the idea of doing it to Owain.

She receives more guests over the next few hours. Laurent calmly informs her of the exceptionally grim circumstances she arrived back to camp under, and if it weren’t for the worried set of his eyebrows, she might’ve been insulted by his matter-of-fact delivery. Nah provides her with a book that has a lengthy summary on the back she can’t be bothered to read, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless. Morgan insists on hearing her recount what she remembers in exact detail, so they can fill each individual gap their parent left empty in the strategy that almost got her killed. Noire returns with Yarne in tow, the two deciding to provide and eat dinner at her side, despite the latter being very obviously intimidated by Severa’s shirt being soaked through with dried blood.

She supposes it was only a matter of time before one of her parents decided to visit. The odds were split in half, it’s just her luck for it to be her mother first. Fortune has never favored her, especially not when she’s been worn so thin. She just wasn’t expecting it to be this late. The sun’s beginning to set.

“Severa, are you awake?” inquires the Cordelia of this world, too young to sound very motherly at all. Courteous as ever, she doesn’t even open the tent flap to check.

Severa would consider pretending to be asleep, but she’s had a very long day and she isn’t in the business of refusing any comfort being offered to her. She wants her mom. “Yeah,” she replies, adding, “You can come in,” because she knows her mother always feels the need for an invitation, even when she obviously belongs somewhere.

“How are you holding up?” Cordelia asks, crouching as she steps inside. She stands straight like she’s about to receive orders, both feet perfectly parallel to each other. Severa bets she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

“Fine. You can sit, you know.”

“Ah, but I’m afraid I don’t have any desserts this time, dear. Will that give cause for you to change your mind, I wonder?”

Severa exhales through her nose. It’s an awkward attempt at humor, but it’s worth some acknowledgment. She can’t remember the last time her real mother told a joke. “Oh, that changes everything, actually. Get lost, lady.”

Cordelia giggles to herself, demurely folding her hands over her lap as she sits down. Severa’s leg brushes against hers.

The reminder of her tangibility is appreciated. Severa likes knowing she isn’t going to disappear out of thin air. They sit in relative silence for a few moments, a rare stalemate. This is the closest to true mother-daughter bonding they’re ever going to get.

“I know you don’t want me to praise you for your courage,” Cordelia admits solemnly, “and I know you don’t want me to scold you for your recklessness, either. In all honesty, I’m at a loss. Your mother isn’t very good at this sort of thing.”

Severa doesn’t tell her she appreciates being reminded of her fallibility, she has a feeling that’s exactly why she’s saying it. “Guess I had to get it from somewhere.”

“Perhaps,” She sighs. “Severa, may I confess something to you?”

Severa has no idea where a sudden confession from her mother of all people might lead. She nods. Cordelia takes a few agonizingly long moments to arrange her words together.

“I hate archers. I know you probably don’t think I’m capable of hate, do you? But, I am. The bow is a coward’s weapon. Every single one of my knight-sisters are gone; most of them to arrows. It rattled me very deeply when I realized you had been struck by one.

“And then… I wondered. I wondered if I had fallen in the same way, taken from you too soon in the same manner you were nearly taken from me. I’m so sorry. It must have hurt. I’m overjoyed that you’re alright.”

Severa swallows, counting the seconds it takes her to remember how to breathe. She’s too tired to unpack what any of it means, she just tries to appreciate the olive branch for what it is. “Noire’s an archer,” she mumbles, her instinctual need to be defensive overriding her desire for comfort.

“Oh. Yes, she is. I didn’t mean to insinuate…”

“I know what you meant.”

“Right, then.”

Her mother shuffles closer, tilting her neck so she can see better. Severa makes herself a bit more visible, unburying half of her face from the crummy pillow it was previously in. She grumbles, the kind of bratty indulgence she’s always wanted to get away with. She hopes she can understand that she doesn’t really mean it, but makes no effort to clarify.

Cordelia reaches forward to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, smiling softly. Her face is devoid of wrinkles, a trait she shares with her older counterpart. Her skin has always been enviously perfect. By that age, Severa knows she’ll likely have the worst frown lines imaginable.

“You look so much like your father,” she says, quiet and full of awe, like she’s just seen her baby for the first time, even though Severa’s a grown woman she’s met plenty of times before. “and me, of course. But your father, too. You’ve got his eyes, even if they’re not the same color. No use comparing, but I think yours are even lovelier.”

“Daddy wouldn’t be very happy to hear you say that.”

“No, he wouldn’t. I suppose that means you’ll have to keep it secret, won’t you?”

Severa can’t name a time she’s ever seen her mother like this, smirking conspiratorially like she knows she’ll get in trouble, as if she was ever made for trouble in the first place. She guesses this might just be one of the many sides of Cordelia that she had never really gotten to see, one buried deep beneath her ingrained sense of duty and moral obligation to save the world. For just a moment, she allows herself to feel lonely, knowing her only real chance to find out is long gone.

“What if I don’t?” Severa asks, testing the waters of whatever classified playfulness this version of her mother has sought to show her. It hardly feels real. Of course it only comes out when they’re talking about this world’s Gaius; she has a history of doing stupid things for love.

“Ah. Then, I’ll have to buy you both back with sweets. That’s another thing you’ve got in common.”

“Are you serious? Mother, you of all people would resort to bribery?”

“Well, when you call it that, I do feel conflicted…” Cordelia trails off, as if genuinely troubled by the thought. “We can leave the swindling to your father, then.”

The conversation falls back into silence, mostly stunned on Severa’s part. She feels as though she’s uncovered an important truth she can’t hide from. Her mother, an exemplary ideal that she could never live up to the achievements of, behaving so normally. It’s uncanny. Worst of all, it’s perfectly average.

“Say, are you and Olivia’s boy close?”

Severa stammers, searching herself for a response to the seemingly random question, disoriented enough as is. “Inigo? I— he’s…” She tries not to think about what Cynthia said earlier. He got the flower idea from Inigo. We kept watch. “Well, obviously, he’s a pest. He flirts with any woman that has a pulse. Why?”

Cordelia purses her lips, visibly conflicted by her response. “He was the one to kill the man that attacked you. To be frank, it was lacking in the grace I’ve come to recognize him for. One moment, he was back-to-back with Sumia’s son, the one with the mask, and then…

“Suffice to say he was far more impassioned about the fight than I’ve ever seen from him. It was beautiful, in a way, even if it wasn’t elegant. I could never grow tired of watching a dancer fight. He is a dancer, isn’t he?”

“Just what are you implying when you say the word impassioned?” Severa demands, attempting to sound as affronted as physically possible.

“He made haste with the kind of vengeance I can recognize as… hm. Well, I think what I’m trying to say is that I just know what a knight looks like. Are you sure he’s a simple mercenary?”

“Why are you asking so many questions about him? I hardly see how he’s relevant. Besides, that arrow was meant for Noire. I think all of us would think to protect her like that,” Severa deflects, though she knows it’s obvious she’s flustered. Inigo, vengeful for her sake? Are they even talking about the same person?

“I’m sorry, dear. I won’t pester you about it.”

Severa lets out a breath she doesn’t know she was holding. She doesn’t know how well she’d fare under interrogation right now, well-intentioned or not. She’s all out of steam to clap back with.

“I just think it’s wonderful that you all care about each other so much. You’re like the Shepherds, in a way. Your home is each other.

“While you were sleeping, just about every single one of your friends drifted in and out of this tent,” Cordelia muses, caressing Severa’s cheek. “Sully’s girl has been on a real warpath, or so I’ve heard. She nearly snapped a lance in half. Even Lucina made a great fuss to Chrom about not marching until you were ready.”

She grins, barely noticeable crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. “You are so very loved, Severa. I hope you know that.”

—

Cordelia leaves her alone with the rest of the evening to pass by afterwards. Severa’s not entirely sure what the real purpose of their conversation was but she hardly has time to think about it. All of her wondering has given her more than enough energy to stay awake. She laces up her boots with one hand, palm flat against her bandages with the other like it’ll help if her guts decide to start spilling out. She pushes past how green she feels at the thought, deciding to focus instead on how convenient it is that she doesn’t need to worry about her usual armor.

She’ll get an earful from Brady if she’s found out, but she has something she needs to know and someone she has to hear it from, and may the gods help anyone who plans to stop Severa when she’s got an agenda.

As she’s about to step out, she takes a pause. She must look ridiculous right now. Her hair’s undone and hanging loosely at her back, knotted to hell. She should’ve asked her mother to help fix it. The woman’s a beast with a brush, it’s in her job description.

She frowns at herself for implying similarities between her own hair and that of a literal flying horse.

Even with that ridiculous line of thought aside, her undershirt is still stained with blood. She absolutely looks like she’s falling apart. Normally, she would march straight into the nearest body of water, but she really is afraid of her stitches pulling again. She doesn’t really know how fragile they are, and she’s not about to find out in a situation where she’s completely naked.

She utilizes her free hand to test her grip on her sword, thankful that it was returned to her from where she lost it. She’s not entirely confident in her ability to fight like this, but it’s better to go out armed, just in case. It’s a habit she’ll never break.

Just before she goes, she picks one of the daisies from her bedside for luck, mumbling quiet thanks to the empty air. She secretly presses the disc to her lips and tucks it behind her ear, careful to not ruin any petals.

Severa trudges through camp with all the speed she’s capable of, which isn’t much, considering how careful she’s trying to be. Emphasis on trying. She’s one of the fastest people she knows, she could run a mile in her sleep. Trying to fight that is a losing game.

The moon doesn’t hang high enough for every soldier to retire just yet, so she naturally defaults to sneaking around. If she has to dart behind a few trees to do so, that’s not exactly preventable. She mentally categorizes each color based on how much she needs to run if she sees it atop someone’s head, starting with blue. Or red. She’s got a lot of people that she doesn’t want to run into right now.

She’s got a bit of a clue as to where she’s headed, thankfully. It’s just about getting there before she’s caught. She considers herself lucky to have inherited her father’s wit for these kinds of things. She could probably steal a few coinpurses here and there, should she so please, but she prefers to do things the neat way. Contrary to what some may believe about her, she doesn't do most things for the sake of a reward.

It takes a bit of trial and error, and more than enough close calls, but she eventually finds who she’s looking for. It’s just ridiculously inconvenient.

Atop a large rock lays Gerome and his wyvern, staring up at the sky. Well, she assumes he’s staring. Maybe that mask is just a way for him to pretend he’s awake. If that’s the case, she thinks he might be a genius. Severa didn’t imagine herself quiet enough to slip past his notice, but it turns out even he has his blind spots. Whatever he’s so deep in thought about must be troubling him greatly. She doesn’t think her sleep mask theory is correct, as amusing as it sounds. He’s bouncing his leg, clearly awake. It occurs to her that she’s never seen him fidget before.

She rests her sword off to the side, trusting that if she wakes his wyvern won’t immediately swoop down and swallow her whole for the disturbance she’s about to cause. She clears her throat.

“Gerome!” she yells, only slightly recoiling at the pull of her muscles as she stands on her toes to see him better. “Hellooo, are you alive?”

The man in question startles like nothing she’s ever seen before, reaching for his axe faster than he can even sit up. His wyvern, too, shoots her neck upward and straightens out her intimidatingly large wings like she’s prepared to take flight immediately. Severa admittedly feels bad for scaring them both.

“Severa.” replies Gerome, visibly annoyed before seemingly remembering the circumstances she was under the day prior, which he seems more concerned by. After a moment of what looks like consideration, he leaps down, landing perfectly on his feet. He steps a few times, as if to settle himself from his fall, taking a deep breath. It sounds slightly unsteady. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be resting.”

His wyvern, on the other hand, seems to relax the moment he does. She folds her wings back into their prior position, blinking slowly like a large cat. She huffs through her nostrils and lowers her head once more, likely trying to fall back asleep.

Severa glowers at him. “Do you really think I came here to have you of all people fret over me?”

“It matters not. I have half a mind to take you back to your tent myself.”

She knows by his insistent attitude that he is not very happy with her for interrupting a rare moment of true solitude, but his worry for her outweighs his dissatisfaction. She appreciates his kindness, but it’s really annoying and it has to go. Right now.

She has an idea.

“Well… if it matters not, I guess I’ll just run back, then. Thanks, Gerome. You were a big help. Oh, and when I say run, I mean it. I’m sure I’ll be fine! I’ll take off now.” She turns around on her heel to emphasize her point, reluctantly lifting her hand from her bandages. She really has to sell this. “I see why everyone thinks you’re so cool.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asks cooly.

She resists the urge to bark out a laugh. “Um, no? I’ll be on my way.”

He cuts her off, hand comically hovering in the air behind her back. “Wait.”

She smirks just before she turns herself around, a private celebration to herself. She didn’t think it’d be so easy.

Gerome drops his arm, settling it somewhere on his hip, which is unusually sassy of him. “Cut the theatrics and just get on with it. Why are you here?”

“I need you to tell me something.”

If she could see his eyes, she’s sure he’d be rolling them by now. “About?”

“Inigo.”

Gerome straightens even more. He tilts his head down at her in confusion, causing a single brown curl of hair to fall out of place. “What about him?”

Severa actually rolls her eyes, fully visible for him to behold, in all their glory. “Don’t be thick.”

“I am not being thick, I’m asking you to elaborate,” he says, seemingly less keen on exercising patience with her now that he’s verified her complete safety, which is not cool at all.

“Ugh. I’m trying to ask you about… y’know. Don’t make me say it.”

“No, I don’t know. Your stubbornness is not helping me figure it out any faster.”

“Gods! I’m asking about the battle! Did he kill the bastard that did this to me, or what?” she huffs, using her free hand to very aggressively point at her injury. “This!”

Gerome takes a single step back, as if winded by his own exasperation. His lips part and then close, like he had a retort of some kind, only to decide against it at the last minute. He looks away, which is silly of him because they aren’t making real eye contact, anyway. “Yes.”

“That’s it? Just yes? Can you not tell me literally anything else?”

“What more do you want from me? I told you what you wanted to know. I will walk you back to your tent, now. Wordlessly. I can have Minerva do it if that makes you more comfortable.”

Severa gapes, dumbfounded by how utterly impossible he is to talk to. “First of all, neither you nor your giant pet lizard are doing that! Ever! Second of all, elaborate. I didn’t survive being shot in the gut just to be given simple answers. Do you think me a fool? Is that it, Gerome? You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“I do not— Minerva is not a—“

“Just tell me what happened!”

Gerome sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose, long-suffering. Whatever part of his nose that isn’t covered by his absurd superhero mask, anyway. Severa really wants to see him take it off at least once, but unfortunately, now’s not the time to insist upon it. She makes a mental note to do so later.

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

Without hesitation, Severa replies, “Yes.”

He paces for a few moments, deliberating where to start. She’s sure storytelling isn’t one of his top skills, otherwise he wouldn’t be so hesitant.

He begins, tone informal and deadpan like he’s reading off of a script. “The field was shared by Risen and human enemies alike. Inigo and I were fighting together. You were flanked by the two of us and Owain, your partner.”

Your partner. Severa adamantly reassures herself that her heart does not skip a beat at the innocent terminology, shifting her focus back to the subject at hand. “I know that part. I’m asking about what happened when I was out of commission.”

“I’m getting to that,” he continues, “Noire was south of the four of us, closest to Kjelle, whose armor is far too heavy to have been able to reach her fast enough in an emergency if necessary. The fact that no one covered the ground in between was a very poor oversight on our tactician’s part.”

Severa hums her assent. She likes Robin a lot, but she likes her friend being alive far, far more.

“You sprinted roughly one hundred meters in about fifteen seconds to get to her. You were just barely in time. Owain was not fast or aware enough to follow, otherwise I am sure he would have.

“Minerva and I had been protecting Inigo when you ran as you did. The arrow was shot by a sniper closer to our group, somewhere off to the west. I suspect that’s why you were able to predict its target, though I have no idea how you made the connection so fast. It is also why,” he inhales, “Inigo was then readily available to charge at your assailant. Lest you forget, this all happened in the span of a minute. You collapsed immediately after taking the hit.”

“You’re not telling me the full story,” Severa insists.

“I’m not,” Gerome agrees. “I don’t think Inigo would want me to relay this information to you. Ask him yourself.”

Severa wants to argue, but she has a feeling there would be very little point in doing so. He sounds far more resolute on this than anything else, and he’s already been stubborn enough– he looks completely worn out. Not any more than she is, obviously, but enough that she decides to let the subject rest for now.

She sticks up her nose about it anyway, lifting her sword from where she left it. “Alright. Fine. I’m going.”

“Wait,” Gerome commands.

“Ugh, what now?”

“You clearly could have dispatched the enemy yourself instead of attempting to shield Noire. Why didn’t you?”

Severa didn’t anticipate that question in any of her plans for how this conversation was supposed to go. She finds herself standing still, paused mid-step. “How is that any of your business?”

Gerome crosses his arms. Severa ascertains that he’s more emotive than anyone gives him credit for, he just doesn’t show it on his face. He perfectly plays the part of a man completely sick and tired. It’s a natural look on him. “I answered your questions. The least you can do is answer one of mine. You aren’t stupid. You know that would have been the smarter move. Why?”

“I just wasn’t willing to take any chances, I guess,” Severa says. It sounds like she's lying, she has yet to decide if she is. “Maybe your sister will be able to tell you.”

“What does Cynthia have to do with this?” he asks, more openly bewildered than she’s ever heard him. His shoulders raise defensively, like hers is the only name truly enough for him to showcase real doubt when invoked.

Everything, she wants to reply. She brought me flowers today and I realized that I want to live. She doesn’t say anything, instead opting to fully turn her back to him once more. And she’s my friend, the voice in her head supplies, albeit belatedly. There are a dozen ways she could answer his question, but she answered one already, and she doesn’t feel like she owes him another. She puts one foot forward.

“Your injury is still fresh! Don’t be so reckless.” he barks, shocked by her audacity.

Severa peeks at him from over her shoulder, already beginning to walk. “You aren’t going to try and stop me, are you?”

Gerome’s frown deepens, if such a thing was even possible. “I could.”

“That doesn’t mean you will,” she argues, moving further away. He doesn’t reply, signaling her victory. She’s played more than enough games with him where she was meant to be the heartless villain, and even if they’re a whole world away from where it all began, she’s always been good at reprising her roles. She almost wants to bow for him– but he has no flowers to throw, and she’s already got plenty.

After a moment of silence, he calls after her. “Be safe, Severa.”

She raises her left hand as far as she can without wincing, passively waving him off. “I know.” When she’s put just enough space between them, she yells back. “You too, loser!”

She imagines that she might have heard him laugh.

—

The second trip around camp is a less covert operation than the last. The later it gets, the less worried she has to be about the potential of getting caught. She’s actually kind of shocked Gerome let her leave without making a fuss. Even Severa herself knows what she’s doing is unwise. She guesses she really must’ve tired him out, or something. Maybe he trusts her.

Dissatisfied with her current findings, she starts for the one place she was hoping she wouldn’t need to, taking slower and quieter steps the closer she gets to the edge of the woods. Intuition tells her that Inigo is likely to be somewhere around here, wherever the light shines best for his own visibility but it’s still dark enough that it’d be difficult for anyone else to spot him immediately. Yarne should be grateful she has very little to say to him right now, otherwise she’d start a real streak disturbing the peace of every shy person she knows tonight.

She takes cover in the shadows, careful to not leave herself in the open in case he’s nearby. She dismisses the itching feeling that she’s looking for a needle in a haystack.

Everything hurts. She’s been ignoring the pain for a while now by drifting between sleeping, conversation, or walking, but it’s getting harder to tolerate. Likely due to the fact that magic is most immediately effective on superficial cuts and scrapes– The deeper the injury, the longer it takes to heal. Puncture wounds are some of the toughest, especially those in the torso. Brady said there wasn’t any internal bleeding after the initial field operation, she must have some luck left. Unfortunately for her, lucky or not, she’s pushing it. Her body is telling her as much with each step she takes.

It’s just as she truly starts to contemplate retiring for the night that she spots him.

Inigo is just where she’d expected he’d be, basking in the moonlight and framed by the tallest trees at the Northern edge of camp. He’s picked the grove with the most clear vegetation; she should have guessed he’d be dancing here. She hides herself to the best of her abilities, focusing watchful eyes on him in the dark. She unconsciously decides to fix her hair, running nervous fingers through a particularly tangled strand.

The routine he’s following is slower than others she’s seen, notably different from that of the invigorated on-field dances his mother supplies their allies. He seems more focused on his footwork than anything else, and that’s easy enough for Severa to follow. Normally, when she’s training, she initially falls out of rhythm a couple of times– but he hasn’t, not once. He’s radiant with intent focus and grace, bathed in a blue glow like his namesake. She doesn’t know if she should be looking, but she’s reluctant to even blink. She could learn this routine if she wanted to; his movements aren’t particularly intricate. The thought sends a thrill down her spine, her body’s instinctual revulsion at the idea of dancing with him.

Severa’s grip on her hilt tightens. She feels hesitant to let go of it this time, if only because Inigo himself is unarmed. If she can get away with lurking like this, what’s stopping anyone else? She eyes him as he just barely tucks his chin and folds his lithe arms inward, biting her lip restlessly. She suddenly finds that she doesn’t want to watch anymore. Not like this, while she has everything in common with a potential threat.

She decides to make her presence known, stepping outside of her hiding place. “Inigo.”

Inigo nearly jumps out of his skin, letting out a high-pitched yelp as his dancing grinds to a halt. Just like Gerome, he operates on instinct, sword hand grasping at empty air. The moment he recognizes her, he doesn’t let out a relieved sigh like she had expected. He doesn’t even bother to give her one of his usual easy smiles.

“Severa?” He gasps, “You should be resting. Wait, your shirt is–!”

She is not going to take this from him, of all people. It was aggravating enough when Gerome did it. She decides to graciously ignore whatever rude comment he was about to make about her appearance, opting to speak for him instead. “Covered in blood, yeah, I know. It’s dry, idiot. Do you really think I’d come to you if I was bleeding this much?”

Inigo’s response dies in his throat, forming a weak noise of discontent instead. He takes a few cautious steps closer. “You’re alright?”

“Obviously. I need to talk to you,” she demands, in case he thought it was a question.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Anything you need.”

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this level of earnestness. He’s serious about this. She steps into the light, ignoring how self-conscious she feels about her appearance. “You didn’t come visit me today.”

Inigo blinks a few times, temporarily stunned by the choice of subject matter. “Pardon me?”

“You didn’t. I’ve seen or heard from everyone but you,” she lies, “Except for Owain, but he had Cynthia deliver me flowers.” She readjusts the daisy behind her ear, the most honest thing about her right now. Mentioning his name makes her grip her sword that much harder. “Why?”

Her mother told her about Lucina and Kjelle, but neither of them sought her out, either. She had to initiate a conversation with Gerome on her own. To say every single person but Inigo visited her is a blatant untruth on her part, and there isn’t a world where she would want them to, either. What she does want is information, and she knows this is the best way to get it. She hates not knowing anything, especially about his vague relation to the conversation surrounding her attack. She knows she’s being manipulative, but she just wants to know this one thing. Then, she’ll cease bothering everyone she knows to go lick her wounds in private.

“Did you want me to?” he asks, voice small and nervous.

She isn’t willing to entertain this. “I asked you first.”

Inigo clears his throat. He offers her a wide grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Severa, darling, if you wanted my presence so badly…”

Severa scoffs and takes a step back. She guesses that they’re both liars, in a way. At least she actually means the nice things she says, on the rare occasion she gives voice to them. He’s just flattering her for whatever selfish reason she hasn’t the patience to figure out just yet.

He withdraws back into himself at her wordless rejection. The fake smile drops, just for a moment. “I– I mean… no, I’m sorry. I can be serious. I’m just not entirely sure where to start. Are you sure you’re alright? You look terribly pale.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she retorts, though he isn’t entirely wrong. The exhaustion is catching up with her. She wants to get this conversation over with as soon as possible so she can just get to sleep already. “I know you killed him.”

Inigo hardly flinches, taking a ragged breath that ends in a defeated sigh. He isn’t confused as to who she’s talking about for even a second. “I did,” he concedes, practically hanging his head. “It wasn’t different from any other fight, I’m just ashamed of the way it happened. I should have protected you, not…”

“What are you talking about?”

He stares past her, like he can’t bring himself to answer the question. “How is Noire?” He asks, pointedly not making eye contact. His automatic smirk seems less and less like a conscious decision the more he does it. It’s like his relentless optimism is nothing more than a parasite, forcing his real self deep underneath layers of deceit and idle flirtation.

Severa feels the most impatient she has in ages but decides to at least allow him this. She’s the same with her pessimism, just another parasitic infection that ruins everything. For every part of himself he hides, she’s hiding even more. She puts so much dramatic emphasis on her own personality that she’s nearly detached from it– Her anger is hardly her own anymore. She feels a modicum of sympathy for him, one host to another. “She’s fine. I still need to see her for something tomorrow. You haven’t spoken to her?”

Inigo huffs out a sad-sounding excuse of a laugh. “I don’t think she likes me very much,” he admits. “I end up on the business end of her bow more often than not. I’m not so sure I would have helped.”

She staggers, attempting to gauge how much of that statement is a lie. She’s disturbed by the fact that for once, it doesn’t sound like there is one. “You seriously think that?”

“Should I not?”

She’s taken aback even further. The rapidly building pressure behind her eyes isn’t something she can dismiss anymore. “You think Noire doesn’t like you,” she states, like the words will make more sense if she says them out loud. She’s more upset by this than she thought she’d be, though she’s not sure why. “You think Noire doesn’t like you?”

“Well, I don’t think she hates me. I would certainly hope not, anyway,” he chuckles awkwardly, stilting the flow of conversation even more. His voice wavers like it can’t decide if it wants to follow his will to sound cheery or not. He steps on a twig as he moves backwards, sheer instinct telling him when and where he needs to start running. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing fine. She’s a lovely lady.”

“What is wrong with you?” Severa snaps, loudly confirming all of his apparent suspicions. Her head is pounding like a marching drum, like the real war was inside of her all along; a soldier turning everything into a fight. She can’t afford sympathy like this, not when Inigo only looks at her with deep and immediate remorse, like he understands just how stupid he really is or what he even needs to apologize for. “Noire likes, like, basically everyone! Even me!”

He dances himself further into the hole he’s dug, smiling at an apex predator with her jaws open like she’ll forgive him if he’s cute enough. “Err… of course she likes you? I was under the impression that you two are incredibly close. I’m just not so sure someone who’s constantly threatening me is exactly… fond?”

“Don’t be daft, Inigo! I meant what I said. Everyone.” She steps closer to him, spiraling further down, letting the anger take over because she’s tired and hurting and she really does not like him right now, if she ever has. Her shaking hand triples the pressure on her side like all her thoughts will spill out of this wound that’s already been sewn shut if she doesn’t hold it hard enough. The soreness dissipates and it stings in a brand new way, destabilizing her breath even further. All the blood that hasn’t left her in the past twenty-four hours rushes to her head. Her skull feels like it’s about to pop.

“Severa, I don’t understand.”

“Everyone, just like you smile at everyone even though they don’t always want or even deserve to see you smile, okay? Everyone! She’s kind and patient and it’s not fair that she has to fight, she doesn’t even want to, but she always tries so hard, and,

“And she almost died, so don’t say something stupid like you feel bad you couldn’t protect me, because this isn’t about me! This is about her! Gods, I don’t care anymore. So what, you killed a guy? Great! This is war, I do that all the time! You’re not special! Everyone has been so worried about me all day, but what about her? What does Noire get?

“Noire didn’t get flowers, and Noire doesn’t have a mom that will ever come into her tent to share secrets or laugh with her, and Noire didn’t even get an apology from me, even though I almost left her to live the rest of her whole entire life all alone. And she needs me! You don’t have any idea! She likes you. She still likes me after everything I’ve put her through, even though she knows I’m just– even though–”

Severa heaves, nearly falling to her knees from the exertion it took to yell that long without taking a single breath. She unsteadily sways on her feet where she stands. Still panting, she leaves her last sentence unfinished.

Inigo surges forward to catch her. “You need to get back to your tent,” he urges, conviction and anxiety one in the same. His arms hover in the air in case she needs to fall into them, inviting her, despite knowing she’s just a blade that wants nothing more than to wedge itself between his ribs. If she’s always been more weapon than woman, he’s always been more shield than man. They paint such a sad picture.

“I don’t need your help,” she protests. She’s lying; she can barely keep her grip on the stupid hilt of her stupid sword. The pommel knocks against her slipping wrist. Her mouth feels dry again. She regrets not bringing any water with her. This whole thing has been completely pointless. She meant what she said, she doesn’t care who Inigo killed or why. It doesn’t matter anymore.

“Take my shoulder,” he insists. “Please.”

She would love to refuse him, seeing as she’s still got plenty of pride left and she just screamed his head off, but she knows her limits. His spoken permission breaks the frayed remains of her restraint; she collapses forward against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

Inigo catches her with little thought or effort needed. He reaches down to pry her fingers open one by one until she finally decides to let go of her sword. “I’ll take good care of it,” he whispers fervently. “Trust me.”

The first thing she notices being this close is that his heart is beating even faster than hers. She props herself up so she doesn’t have to hear it anymore, taking a reluctant step forward with his assistance. He mutters her praises like some sort of ridiculous appeal to make her relax, cooing at her like she's some temperamental beast. Infuriatingly, it works. She grumbles, frustrated at being reduced to this while she’s still perfectly lucid. She cranes her neck up to glare at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He winks as he helps her upright. “You know me. That’s my middle name.”

—

They shuffle their way through camp together, Severa leaning half of her weight on him like she’s had too much to drink. She thinks he may have bit off more than he could chew by the way he nearly struggles to hold her up, making it even more obvious when she puts too much pressure without warning him first. She’s greatly amused by it. She’s glad he knows not to suggest something as foolish as carrying her, a rare smart move on his part.

Severa gestures to the tent that she’s been staying in, completely indistinguishable from all the others. She wiggles out of his grip, pushing the flap aside on her own. She’s sure to grab his wrist and drag him inside with her before he can even consider awkwardly lingering at the entrance, sparing them both of that conversation before it can even start.

Taking a few steps forward, she lets him go the second she reaches her cot. She rolls her shoulders, which rewards her with a few satisfying little pops, a noise she actually enjoys hearing for once. The lit flame from the lamp flickers like it’s about to go out, and she levels it with a stare that dares it to try.

Inigo gently sets her sword off to the side in a place she can reach for easy access if needed. He stands at the edge of the tent, patient like he’s awaiting her demands but close enough to the exit that he can slip through her fingers if he feels compelled enough. She doesn’t plan on letting him.

“Why are you just standing there?”

“Did you want me to leave?”

He’s even worse than Gerome. She hates having to be the one to say everything that should go unspoken out loud. “Well, duh, but not right now. You could, like, come sit, or whatever. Or not. See if I care.”

Inigo nods shyly, tiptoeing forward with none of his regular finesse, wading through the awkward air he’s responsible for creating. A pathetic display if there ever was one, he sits down even more sheepishly than her mother did a few hours prior. The cot welcomes him with its customary screech. “So… Do you come here often?”

If she wasn’t so exhausted, Severa swears she would have strangled him then and there. She rolls her eyes, the next best thing. “Stop that before I kick you out myself. I don’t care how many stitches I pull in the process.”

“Righto, milady,” he says, incorrigible.

They sit together for a few moments, likely having the same realization that this is the quietest they’ve ever been in each other’s presence. The silence is hardly comfortable, but it’s new, like a freshly forged shield that has yet to prove how many hits it can really take. Inigo’s making a concentrated effort to look at his shirt, like if he stares hard enough he’ll spot a stain that requires his immediate attention or a missing button he needs to replace.

Severa doesn’t care if he wants to talk. She busies herself with combing her fingers through her hair, trying not to tug at it too harshly because she’s got a sensitive scalp and her head is already bothering her enough.

Apparently, he does. Inigo finally gains the confidence to look at her, seeing what she’s preoccupied with. He squints. “What are you doing?”

She glares at him. “I don’t know, what does it look like?”

He raises his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Simple curiosity, your highness. Don’t you have a brush?”

“Do you think I would be doing this with my fingers if I did?” She returns to her prior activities, ignoring how searching his gaze is as it lands on her like a bug she can’t swat off.

“You know,” he starts. She prepares herself for the dumbest proposition she has ever heard in her entire life. “I don’t think my tent is very far. I could… if you wanted, I mean…”

“Just spit it out!” she cuts in, far too tired to deal with his floundering.

“I have a comb!” he spits, suddenly dark red to the tips of his ears, an admittedly very complimentary color to the pitch black of his hair. He doesn’t bother to finish the rest of his statement, letting unsaid words float in the air with the rest of the tension he’s decided to introduce.

Severa laughs, startling even herself with it. She clears her throat, trying to get rid of the taste of joy inspired by him, of all people. “Oh, really? Have you ever used it?”

He rearranges his fringe, as if he feels a bit exposed by the insinuation that he doesn’t. “Certainly. I was simply offering my lady the chance to make use of it, perhaps? If she so pleases. Erm. I could go and fetch it for you, I mean. It wouldn’t take very long.”

She considers the offer. Normally she would rather die than be indebted to him, but she’s already started a tally tonight, and she’s struggling to take issue with the idea of just one more. That, and she knows that if left unkempt, her hair will be absolutely unsalvageable by sunrise. It’s too tempting, she’s feeling impulsive enough to accept. “What’s in it for you?”

Inigo says, “I’d just like to help. Though, if I can be greedy, maybe I can get you to smile for me?”

She shoves him as hard as she can, forcing him onto his feet. “Go fetch, then,” she demands, turning her head the exact opposite direction as his field of vision. She doesn’t need to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. She curses her mother’s genetics, her complexion does her no service in hiding it.

He bounces forward a few steps, nearly falling flat on his face in the process, making sure to give her an embarrassing thumbs up on the way out.

As predicted, Inigo doesn’t take very long at all. He returns as quickly as he said he would, brushing past the tent flap while holding his retrieval up like a prize. If she were any other girl, she’s sure he’d attempt to hand it to her while on one knee; she’s surprised he’s smart enough to just simply toss it to her.

Her whole face scrunches up in disgust when she catches it. “Inigo. Why is it wet?”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I rinsed it off with water?”

“Oh. Okay.” She dismisses every prior thought she had in the last ten seconds, deciding instead to begin the process of combing her bangs as distraction. It’s smaller than the one she typically uses, clearly intended for use on thinner textures, but it’ll work. She’s made do with worse.

“Severa…”

She nearly groans. “What is it now?”

“Nothing!” he squeaks, like a man who has everything to say but none of the words to say it. “I was just imagining… ahaha. No, it’s nothing. Carry on.”

The realization Severa has causes her to whip around fast enough that it sends a very harsh and uncomfortable reminder of her circumstances straight through her torso. She hisses through her teeth, pushing through it like the fierce warrior she is. “Oh,” she repeats lamely, not sounding very fierce at all. “You… wanted to?”

“If you’d let me,” replies Inigo. He has yet to sit down.

She’s struck with the sudden and incredible urge to throw the carved piece of wood in her hand at him as hard as she can. Instead, she pats the space next to her, hand moving completely independent of what she actually wants, a newer parasite she cannot be bothered to name. If she kept track of all her impulses, her hands would be full with more regret than she would ever know what to do with.

He returns to his prior position with even more hesitation than before, gingerly taking the comb from her open palm. “Could you turn around?” he asks, acting like it isn’t just a very soft spoken command on his part. She indulges him, resisting the initial shudder that comes with anything grazing the back of her neck.

“I’m quite skilled with this,” he murmurs, beginning to part each thick strand of her hair. His voice sounds less clipped like this, no more friendly chirps and sharp vowels, just smooth like honey and deeply sincere. “When I was very young, my mother… I can remember helping her, I think.”

“I still give Noire haircuts,” Severa says, willing to exchange one story for another. Then, in an effort to not sound completely obsessed with the issue, she adds, “My mother used to do the same for my father.”

Inigo dedicates himself to the task at hand, beginning to delicately guide his wrist downwards so as to not catch on any potential knots. “Ah, so the noble Severa comes from a distinguished line of hairdressers. Who would have thought?”

“Ugh,” she supplies, because she knows he can’t see her scowl.

“You trim Noire’s hair?”

“Yeah. I have for a long time. She really hates when it gets too long, you know? She’s finicky about that stuff, always has been.” She’s also incapable of sitting still when too close to a pair of scissors, though Severa doesn’t mention it. She’s never understood why. Tharja was never so wicked as to threaten her daughter with that particular kind of violence, even if that means very little by comparison. Regardless of the real reason, it just means that the process of actually cutting it has always been messy.

Inigo uses both hands to guide his fingers through her hair after each swipe of teeth from the comb, testing how many tangles he’s successfully won against. “Gerome told me a bit about how he had to stop Cynthia from hacking away at her lovely locks with a dagger, once. Apparently, she had gotten sick of the length, too.”

“That sounds like her,” she sighs. Inigo doesn’t know Severa is the one who cut her own hair like that first, during a time when she was all out of options, both unaware of her audience and when Cynthia was even more impressionable than she is now.

“Doesn’t it just?”

There’s one thing she doesn’t know. “So, does that mean he does her hair now?”

He muses. “A good question, if there ever was one. I can’t recall. Part of me wants to say he does, at least on occasion. I have a feeling.”

Severa smirks. “Well, he isn’t very good at it. She’s got split ends you could spot from a thousand feet away.”

“To each their own,” he comments, always sharing some opinion no one asked for, “but I think she’s dashing.”

She wouldn’t say it out loud, but she agrees. She’s relaxed enough to admit it to herself– Cynthia is dashing, in a simple-things-done-best sort of way. She lacks the traditional beauty of both her mothers and Severa likes her like that, always dawning a few cuts and scrapes like they’re badges of honor. She grew up practically joined to the other girl’s hip, they’ve seen each other at every major stage of their lives. Severa was there when she was utilizing even more imaginative ways of cutting her hair than a mere dagger. Some part of her is always going to envision Cynthia still missing a few teeth, bright and beaming with pride, small hands holding up the smallest fish ever caught. Inigo has no idea how pretty she really is.

Severa can’t handle looking up at her now, radiant and blocking out the sun atop a Pegasus she’s never been able to ride herself. There’s so much more to see when they’re eye to eye, so much she’s missed in the years since they began fighting both in war, and with each other. She believes that true beauty is and should always be within reach. Anything else is just an idea, something to be left to the dreamers and the visionaries and all the people she’ll never truly understand. Severa’s always wide awake if she can help it, and if she needs to squint her eyes too hard, she’d rather just close them.

She tells herself this as she catches them drifting shut, eyelashes fluttering with every accidental drag of his nails against her scalp. “Inigo,” she calls for the umpteenth time tonight, incapable of saying his name in any way that doesn’t sound accusatory.

“Yes, darling?” he answers, the first time it’s ever sounded this tolerable, incapable of just being normal and saying her name back.

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, knowing the gesture is useless without him capable of seeing it, striving to make a point to herself more than anything. “I want you to tell me what happened.” She wasn’t lying before, she mostly doesn’t care for the subject anymore, she just wants to indulge her curiosity one last time. She regrets it the second his wrist stops moving, the remnants of her dignity fighting off the base desire she has to whine in protest.

He hesitates, but prepares himself to speak anyway, similarly emboldened by the anonymity brought by her facing away from him. “I killed him,” he declares for the second time, unnecessarily repentant for someone Severa would have cleaved in half if given the chance. “I knocked his bow out of his hands when I charged him and I ran him through.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath. “I didn’t stay my hand until I knew he was dead. It just kept moving upward,” he mutters, growing quieter, secretive and so terribly ashamed. He keeps guiding his fingers through her hair, down, down, down. “Those few moments lasted me a lifetime, but it was a lifetime without you, and that’s why I looked him in the eye. I… hadn’t done that before. I always try not to.”

Inigo confesses, “I twisted my blade as harshly as I could on the way out. I wanted him to remember me, in case he dared to forget you.”

She doesn’t face him. She has a feeling that whatever lingers between them is something sacred that they will never be able to face each other with, the kind of confession reserved for devout followers and the gods they trust to guide them. She steels herself to ask her next question, attempting to share in some of the courage he’s shown thus far. “Why?”

He goes quiet, no longer strong enough to say anything more.

Notoriously disdainful of people telling her what to do, Severa betrays everything she has just deemed holy by turning around anyway. She decides in the span of a single second that she will never be revered as anything she isn’t, unwilling to be raised on a pedestal when she couldn’t even revel in the climb up first. She wants her praise where she can see it and all the secrets she gets to keep told to her face. The required shuffling is a little awkward, but that gives Inigo more than enough time to look away if he really needs to. He doesn’t. His hands fall limp and ball into tense fists at his sides, comb slipping uselessly out of his fingers and somewhere neither of them care to search for it.

Instead of making eye contact, Severa reaches up and behind her ear, proud that her good luck charm has yet to fail her by falling apart. The center droops a little bit more, delicate stem pushed to its absolute limit, but no less beautiful. She grabs one of Inigo’s hands, prying open his fingers one by one until she can place it in his palm. “Do you know what daisies represent?”

Inigo makes an ambiguous noise, like either he doesn’t know or he does and he just doesn’t feel like telling her. He gazes down at where their hands meet, completely still.

“Oh, come on, of course you do. Do you seriously not read about the symbolism behind the flowers you go around giving girls? Aren’t you supposed to be a romantic?” she taunts, because she knows that’s how she makes conversation best, and right now, she isn’t ashamed of it. She seizes the upper hand, taking back what’s rightfully hers.

“There are multiple meanings,” he argues, oddly pedantic. He still seems on edge, both corners of his mouth trembling where he attempts in vain to raise them. “This could have been picked with any of them in mind.”

“Tell me the most common ones,” she insists. “I just want to know.”

“Innocence, gentleness, love… loyalty, beginnings, femininity… common flowers get the most—“

She interrupts, “I’ve decided. This represents that last one.”

He tilts his head slightly off to the side, a quizzical expression on his dumb, pretty face. “Femininity?”

“No! The one about beginnings. I stopped listening because that’s the only one that really matters. I’m giving it to you, okay? And that’s what it means.”

Severa brushes past the heat she feels in her cheeks, busying herself with meeting Inigo’s eyes, determined to make her point. “I don’t care about innocence, or whatever else. I care that tomorrow’s going to come, and then the day after that, and the day after that, too. I care that we can always start again.

“You gave Owain the idea, and Owain gave these to Cynthia, so Cynthia gave them to me, and now I’m giving it all back.”

Inigo swallows nervously. “You’ll create a cycle,” he quips, trying to get her to smile, even now. His tone carries itself back into something more genuine. “I can’t just take this. I’ll give Owain more ideas. He’ll have to gather you loads of flowers for the rest of his life. Cynthia will never leave you alone.”

She folds his fingers shut and shoves his fist back, causing it to softly thump against his chest. She doesn’t resist the smile that finds its way onto her face, rewarding him for his effort. “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” she replies. It’s not the first she’s made today, but it’ll be the last, and it’s with real belief she couldn’t carry for all the others. “None of you will ever be able to get rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Inigo rises from his position at her side, tucking the flower in the pocket of his shirt, resting just a few inches away from his heart. “A world without your smile would be ever so bleak, Severa,” he purrs, cheeks creasing with dimples she’s somehow never noticed before.

She yells the most colorful insult she can think of, banishing him from stepping foot in her tent ever again, barely stifling a laugh all the while.

—

“You are the worst patient ever, y’know that? Inflamed this badly… Are you shitting me?”

Severa coughs into her fist, robbed of her slow morning by the righteous fury of a healer who’s advice has been scorned. She wonders if faking an illness would be the wrong move, in this case. “I was tossing and turning a lot,” she lies. She slept like a rock last night.

Brady stares at her, working his jaw like he’s a moment away from biting her head off.

It’s just as he opens his mouth that the faux doorway shifts behind him, like curtains drawing open to reveal Severa’s free ticket out of the situation. In the low light of the early morning sun is Noire, one hand precariously balancing a tray with two steaming bowls on top. She offers a meek little wave with the other, voice barely higher than a whisper. “Oh. Should I go?”

Brady waves her off, graciously taking the tray from her hands to set it across Severa’s lap, preventing the inevitable disaster they both saw coming. He shoots one more unamused glare her way before turning his attention to the girl behind him. “Naw, Noire, you’re all good. You can take it from here, yeah?”

She nods vigorously, feather bobbing with the movement.

Severa doesn’t like that she has no idea what ‘take it from here’ implies, suspicious of what not just one, but two emotional blondes with low constitution could possibly scheme up together. She’s starting to feel a little left out.

Brady props himself up with his staff, loudly tapping it against the ground a few times on his way out. “Holler if you need me,” he shouts over his shoulder, leaving the two by themselves.

Noire treads carefully over to Severa’s side, barely disturbing the blankets beneath her yet again as she sits down. “Are you doing okay?” she asks, clearly having eavesdropped on the conversation prior to her entrance. Everything about her suggests having been caught red-handed, even though she’s the one who made her presence known first.

“I just bothered the injury a little bit, but it won’t slow down the healing process. I’m tougher than that. I’ll be back to the fray in a couple days. I didn’t scare you, did I?”

“Aww, you know me, I’m always scared. Don’t worry.”

Severa folds her arms. “It’s my job to worry about you,” she proclaims, grabbing a bowl of stew and leaving Noire to the other. “But, the second I sprout a single gray hair, you’re on your own.”

Noire hums thoughtfully, picking up the two spoons on the tray and handing one over, keeping the smaller one for herself. “I think you’d be cute no matter what, Severa.”

She beams, puffing out her chest. “Damn straight.”

The two sit together peacefully, eating bits of the rations they’ve been provided. It’s a stark contrast to their conversation yesterday morning, though the silence isn’t completely comfortable just yet. Severa speaks up first. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes, much better, even if a few things were bothering me.”

She feels her underlying guilt completely make its way to the forefront of her mind, making her uneasy and slightly nauseous. She tucks a misbehaving strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I was very upset with my father yesterday,” says Noire, hanging her head dejectedly.

Severa hums through a mouthful of carrots, letting her know she’s listening. She wasn’t anticipating the conversation taking this direction, but she’s no less curious about it. She’s not entirely sure what the Libra of this timeline could possibly do to anger her, but she knows that once Noire gets going, anyone could be on the receiving end. They’re similar in that way. She gets it.

“While you were still unconscious, he tried to reassure me that the Gods were on your side. I don’t disagree, of course. But after praying all through the night before, to hear someone actually say it… I was infuriated. I told him that if he was wrong, I’d never believe in anything or dare speak to him ever again,” she sighs. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been so blasphemous, at least not out loud.”

Well, that clears things up. Severa’s known about Noire’s problems with her father’s religion for years. Naga didn’t save him for his dedication, and in the end, the rest of the world was out of her divine hands. It’s a constant trouble of hers, and just makes her uneasy around every form magic may take– it doesn’t matter if it’s the hand that feeds or the hand that steals, both hold the potential for harm, indirect or not. Her friendship with Brady is based on a dozen coincidences, two little kids who were always sick and always crying about something who were bound to stick together. She’s probably even more confused about how he manages priesthood than Severa is.

“I think you did the right thing,” she assures her, “I certainly didn’t feel Naga’s presence on the brink. Sometimes I think she’s too busy catering to her bloodline to care about any of us.”

Noire’s shoulders relax like a great burden has been temporarily eased from them. There are some things involving this topic she’ll never say out loud, but the tight leash she keeps herself on visibly slips for just a moment. “I feel like that, too. I know that’s wrong of me. I felt horrible. I apologized to him first thing this morning.”

Severa puts her finished bowl back on the tray, wiping her mouth just in case she missed any stains. She ignores how sweaty her palms feel already. “I have to apologize to someone, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I should’ve done it sooner, but I’m a real jerk, you know? It took a whole lot of different happy coincidences to get my head straight. I think I might’ve even missed my chance to do it,” she admits. She doesn’t think beating around the bush in this particular manner is her style, but neither is expressing genuine remorse. She’s just not sure how to restart the conversation in a way that doesn’t feel like swinging at a hornets nest.

“I don’t think it’s ever too late,” supplies Noire, trying very hard to not appear deathly curious and completely failing. She’s always shown all of her emotions on her face; Severa likes that about her. The fact that she can’t narrow it down based on what Severa has said already says more than enough about the amount of people she pisses off on a daily basis, but she pays it no mind.

“I’m talking about you,” she clarifies, the most clear-cut attempt at communication she’s probably ever made. “I owe you an apology.”

Noire bats her long eyelashes confusedly, looking around like there’s someone else who’s been wronged in the room, no more enlightened as she makes the obvious connection that they’re the only people here. “...Me? Why?”

Severa’s resolve weakens a little bit with embarrassment, but she nonetheless presses forward, reassuring herself that the hard part will be over soon. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t regret what I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant saving you.” She huffs in frustration, having a much harder time navigating this than she thought she would, trying not to sound so defensive. “But… I almost left you behind, even though I made you a promise, and I was too stubborn to admit that. I’m sorry.”

Noire places her bowl down with more grace than she’s usually capable of, taking the tray and setting it off to the side, right on top of the stool Brady was seated on before. She turns her head to the side, analyzing her surroundings.

Severa barely gets the chance to ask what she’s up to before she is promptly tackled yet again in the exact same fashion as yesterday, though she isn’t so lucky as to not hit her head this time, preoccupied with using one of her hands to shield her injury. “What, are you not satisfied with only pulling my stitches once?” she exclaims, cackling in shock.

Noire gasps, as if the thought didn’t occur to her. “Oh!” She pulls back, looking down in concern. “I didn’t– you’re– I mean–”

“I’m fine,” she affirms, omitting the part about how her head is still spinning from hitting the back of the cot. Minorly concussed or not, she’s fully functional, using her free hand to give Noire’s forearm a gentle squeeze. She smells faintly of lavender.

“Thank the Gods.”

Severa smirks. “I thought we weren’t very happy with them today?” she asks, unable to resist the urge to be smug, even now. Her shoulders shake with restrained laughter.

“Well,” Noire says, barely suppressing a giggle herself, “They do some things right.”

–❀–

Later that morning, Noire emerges from Severa’s tent, proudly donning a dozen little wildflowers braided in her hair and tucked into her headband; an ode to new beginnings.