Archive of Our Own

It was Sumia, first.

Libra had met her that day in the Plegian sands, each of Chrom's Shepherds still trying to recover from their encounter at the castle. He, newly among their number-- as much of an outsider as any, but still did his heart ache for the woman who had fallen so gracefully, who had been an emblem of peace towards the citizens of Ylisse, towards the followers of Naga. But so, too, did the devout fall, Libra's eleven fellow monks and clerics-- and then the Exalt herself, whom they had failed to save on their pilgrimage.

( And , Libra thought, his feet feeling heavy as they marched through the sand, their deaths had been for naught, and O Naga, why had he lived ? Perhaps, perhaps-- perhaps he had not been pious enough to share a deathday with this holiest of saints. And his heart, too, weighed heavy in his chest, and he felt so horribly, horribly alone .)

It was Sumia, first, who'd spoken to him that night when they'd laid down for camp at last, praying that the Plegian pursuit would not find them until morning came. He had exchanged words with others in camp, of course-- the prim troubadour who'd directed him to see to the others' wounds, the young mage (too young to be fighting a war) who had been wounded, the gruff myrmidon who had refused treatment-- but Sumia was the first to truly speak to him.

"Don't worry," she smiled, hesitant and shaky. "Our Commander, Lord Chrom... he's a good man. I believe in him. Things may look rough now, but they'll turn out okay."

Libra turned his head quizzically, wondering if perhaps he had not been mistaken for someone else, and then, "Pardon me?"

"Oh, no, you're fine! I'm the one who's being weird here, talking to you out of the blue," Sumia shut her eyes, leaned towards the night-watch fire, and sighed. "But you're new to the Shepherds, and you looked down, and so I thought I should say something... I'm Sumia. Sorry for bothering you... Libra, right?"

"You are not at fault," Libra answered, shaking his head. "I was merely confused... and I am grateful for the sentiment. I think, perhaps... many among the Shepherds were upset by what happened there, at the castle. You seem very... optimistic."

"I think," Sumia sat up again, the campfire's light reflecting in her eyes, "Even if things seem bad now, we can't ever give up. Even if... even if it was horrible to see Lady Emmeryn die, we have to persevere. I... When it was still light out, I did a flower fortune. And it said that we all need to keep trying... even me, even though I'm clumsy and not very good at fighting."

"A flower fortune?" and Libra's eyes, quizzical, could not see understanding. In the street-bowels that had been his cradle, in the alleyways that had been his nurse, flowers were few and far between.

"You haven't heard the story?" Sumia asked-- for she, with all the innocence of nobility, could not imagine a world without them. A smile, small but genuine, danced upon her lips. "My mother used to read it to me... The Little Flower-Girl, it was called. It's my favorite."

"I've never heard it," answered Libra. He wondered, faintly, what it might be like to have a mother who read you stories.

"It's about an orphan who had nowhere to call home, who walked a mile to the field and a mile back to the city every day, and brought an armful of flowers to sell each time," Sumia volunteered, and Libra could not bring himself to tell her that, a mile from the city, there were only rickety cabins and dirt, compacted by hoofbeats, too hard to grow anything.

"It sounds like a lovely story," he settled upon saying, careful not to ruin her belief. Tried not to think that he, too, had not ruined his prayers to Naga with that same seed of doubt nestled in his heart.

"Oh, it is," Sumia sighed, half-dreaming. "One day, a handsome prince takes his coach, drawn by two white horses, on a ride through town, and he almost runs over the little flower-girl by mistake when she trips in the street. But then, he helps her up and buys all of her flowers as an apology, and that's when she falls in love with him. And so every day, afterwards, when she has flowers left over-- the ones that are most bedraggled and worn, the ones unwanted by the people of the town-- she plucks their petals off, one by one, saying 'he loves me, he loves me not' in turn. And, always, the last petal falls on 'he loves me.' And, the next time the prince takes his coach, drawn by two white horses, on a ride through town, he's combing every street for the same flower-girl he met last time, because he hasn't been able to keep his mind off of her since then. Then, he marries the little flower-girl and makes her a princess, and they live happily ever after forever more."

"That's... very nice," Libra answered.

But he had paused too long, and Sumia fretted, "You hesitated... oh no. Please, you don't have to say you liked it to spare my feelings! And here I've been, just yammering at you about this silly children's tale... I'm so sorry."

"No, no, I really did like it," Libra hurried to assure her, for the orphaned child he had once been would have loved such a thing. The orphaned child he still might be, he realized, recalling that the monks and clerics of his cloister, his family, now lay dead as surely as Emmeryn herself. His heart ached, and he could not stop himself from voicing aloud: "It only seems... unlikely. Too difficult for me to believe. Perhaps... perhaps I've outgrown such stories."

"I don't think it's possible to outgrow fairytales," Sumia frowned thoughtfully for a moment before brightening once more, "That's okay, not everyone likes every story. I know another one that's really different, about a man who buys these magic beans..."

And Libra, perhaps, might have said something, if not for the quiet crunch of boots upon sand, a noise that very nearly startled him until he realized that, oh , it was only that hour's change of watch.

A quiet cough, and the same gruff myrmidon who'd refused healing before. He stood, still, ten feet from the flame, and two words: "Stahl's late."

"Oh fiddlesticks," Sumia rubbed at a sleepy eye. "That's the second time this month..."

"You can go on ahead," Libra offered, thinking it was the least he could do when she had offered him an attempt at reassurance, his first fairytale. "I don't mind waiting until the other one arrives."

"Really?" Sumia looked relieved for a moment, then, "I mean... I'm sure you need the rest as much as I do."

"I truly don't mind," Libra answered, and firmly, "May your dreams be blessed."

"All right... goodnight, then," and Sumia retreated, stumbling a bit in her sleepiness.

It wasn't until she was almost completely out of sight that the myrmidon made his approach, and in the dim light Libra could at last see the bandaging job of his wrist, sprained. The medic in him cringed at the shoddy bandaging job, the bloodstained strips of cloth that held the injury in place clearly reused from some earlier wound.

"You ought to use clean bandages to bind your wounds," said Libra, frowning. "It reduces the risk of infection."

"They're clean. I washed them," the myrmidon grunted, adding, "I've been using them for years. No need to waste new ones."

"At least," replied Libra, rubbing his forehead just slightly. "At least let me tie that correctly. It looks as if it's about to come loose."

"... I would prefer it if you didn't stand any closer," spoken with a scowl, "It's been fine... so far. But I might... have problems . If you come closer."

"Have I wronged you without my knowing?" Libra felt oddly concerned, faintly affronted.

"I haven't... managed to stand this close to a woman," he coughed awkwardly. "Not. Not in many years. But it. I might. If you get too close."

"Oh," Libra sighed, at least relieved this was an issue he knew how to deal with, if only in this particular case. "I suppose, from a certain distance, in a certain light, I might appear as such... but I assure you, I am a man. Now, if you would, your arm?"

Cautiously, the myrmidon inched over-- perhaps, as if he were expecting it to be a lie. Wordlessly, he held out his arm and tensed momentarily. He seemed almost to sag in relief when Libra undid the bandages and he did not have any averse reactions.

"I have seen Risen with cleaner bandaging than this," Libra tisked, rummaging through his pockets for a fresh length of linen, and retying the injury properly. "You ought to be changing your wound dressings each day. If you'd become ill or lost a limb due to infection..."

"I said there was no need to waste new ones," but still, spoken with resignation, and he had , after all, held his arm still long enough for Libra to replace his bandages.

Libra was silent for a moment, focusing wholly on completing the task, but then he was finished. Perhaps, merely for something to say, he started, "I don't believe I've properly introduced myself. My name is Libra."

"I know," was the reply, curt and awkward. As if by explanation, "I heard. Sumia said it."

"You were listening to our conversation?" Libra's voice bore a twinge of surprise (and perhaps concern).

"Couldn't sleep," he answered, and the progression clicked in Libra's mind-- he would have come here early, then, and accidentally overheard. Sumia, after all, was far from the quietest among them.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Libra replied, and the part of him that recalled his education in clerical herb lore decided, "There are a few remedies I know, if you needed a sleeping draught..."

"There are no draughts," the myrmidon cast him an odd look, then, and with his next words became the second to truly speak to Libra. "None that prevent dreams."

"What is it," Libra's breath caught in his throat, and he tried, tried not to remember that which haunted his own dreams, the wound on his neck and the gutters of Ylisstol that had been his tutor. "What is it you dream of?"

"Girls who pick flowers, a mile from the town," he replied, after a moment's pause. "Whose blood stains those same fields."

Libra opened his mouth. Closed it. And saw, within his mind's eye, the girl of Sumia's fairytale, bloodied and broken, and daisies, buttercups, stained red like the gutters of Ylisstol that day the heretics had been whipped, the Crusader King that came before Exalt Emmeryn utterly merciless in his executions. But they had been grown men and women, then, when Libra had seen them die-- hiding himself behind a stack of crates, little more than a child, terrified, confused-- and the thought of a girl, cut down so gruesomely in the bloom of her youth, turned his stomach still.

"I shouldn't," the myrmidon turned away, "Have said anything."

"It's all right," answered Libra, once he had at last found his voice. "I didn't... I couldn't believe the story, either."

"You?" inquisitive, bearing a mote of surprise. And then, softly, "What do you dream of?"

"Orphans," Libra breathed, inhaling the flame-kissed air. "Who have nowhere to call home. Who know... without asking any flowers... Who know that their family loved them not."

"... I see," and then he was silent, for a moment, before he spoke again. "I'd be willing... to take on more foes together. If it pleases you."

"It would be an honor," Libra turned his head to the side and tried to search for understanding with his eyes. "It would be an honor to... to help you protect them both. If that is, indeed, your meaning."

"There are few sights I hate," he said, by way of reply. "More than the blood of an innocent."

"Then, may the gods bless us both in this endeavor," and Libra bent his head, and prayed, and prayed again that the speck of doubt he held in his heart would not hinder it from coming true.

Perhaps, perhaps one of them might have spoken again in the moment that followed. But perhaps, neither of them wished to end the serenity that lingered there, in that night, for both knew these moments of peace were few and far between at war. The Plegians, they had not forgotten, had killed the Exalt, daughter of gods, and were in hot pursuit of her siblings.

The moment broke as the silence shattered, padding boots upon sand and a waving hand, a yawn, "Lon'qu! Sorry I'm late."

The myrmidon scowled, "It's not me you should be apologizing to."

"R-right, sorry about that," and a hand scratched at a messy bedhead. The man turned to Libra, nodded apologetically, "I'm Stahl; thank you for covering for me. Sorry we had to meet like this. Uh, um... Tharja, right?"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," and the monk shook his head, let something like a false smile grace his features. "I'm Libra, the other new recruit. Please, don't fret too much about it... This is far from the longest time I've spent awake."

"I'm sure you must be tired now, though," Stahl replied, running his hand through his hair and mussing it up even further. "I really owe you one. If you ever want to swap shifts with me on anything, just let me know and consider it done."

"No," and Libra thought briefly on his conversation with the swordsman (Lon'qu, he corrected himself, Stahl had called him Lon'qu), and within his mind thanked the gods that Stahl had been late, that he had been given this opportunity. "I'm afraid it is indeed that I am the one who owes you . I'll take my leave, though... May the gods grant us an uneventful night."

"If you're sure," Stahl replied, faintly befuddled by the answer. "But the offer still stands, if you change your mind later."

"Somehow," answered Libra, his eyes flickering over to where Lon'qu sat. "I don't think I shall."

"Goodnight," Lon'qu grunted, acknowledging him with a nod.

Libra's heart beat-- once, twice, in a quickened flutter. And, perhaps, he thought faintly, this was what it was like to have your heart stolen, the way clerics of old had writ in the Caedic Verses of the Hero-King's prayer. There had been a part of him that did not believe those lines, though he knew he ought to believe the verse in whole if he wished to be closer to the gods, those lines about how the Hero-King's heart had left the ground each time his Queen, pegasus-borne, took to the skies. But here, with both of their feet planted firmly on the ground, he could feel it, and too did he doubt less-- just slightly, less.

"Goodnight," he whispered back, low enough that Stahl could not hear, and swept away from the watch station.

It was Tharja's wedding that Libra first conducted-- the Plegian dark mage Chrom had turned to their side nearly in the same minute he had recruited Libra, followers of Naga and Grima alike drawn to his leadership. It seemed fitting, he thought, that he should be the priest to hold the ceremony, a hurried ceremony at the end of their latest victory. At Tharja's insistence, indeed, mere minutes after the proposal, with Gangrel's personal guard still bleeding out on the battlefield before them, and all who remained, still, in surrender.

"You're sure?" her fiancé had asked, less than ten minutes into their engagement. "Here? Now?"

"You aren't backing out, are you?" and she closed her question with a grim chuckle. "You'd better not... not when you said yourself that you couldn't wait to begin. Unless... you were lying ?"

"We could, if you wanted," he began his reply. "We could have any celebration you wished for. I don't care much to stand on ceremony, myself, but..."

"I'm sure," Tharja answered, definitive. A slow smile, then, strange but beautiful upon her lips-- "It seems... fitting. To marry on a battlefield."

"Like how we met," he answered, a brilliant beam spreading across his face, and stood upon that field with his blade still in hand. Faced her, and let her place her hands over his, disregarded the point of her nails.

And Libra, there, in the first wedding ceremony of his clerical career, married Tharja to the Prince of Ylisse, vows sworn over the Holy Blade Falchion. Ylisseans, Feroxi, Plegian survivors alike watched on as they were wed and--

Perhaps some part of him felt like it was fate. Perhaps, indeed, the gods had planned for the three of them to meet, that terrible day at the castle: Lord Chrom, and Tharja his Queen, and, too, Libra, the man who would proclaim them wed. Perhaps, even, he could believe the words he spoke, those Caedic verses that had stood in Ylissean tradition for hundreds of years.

"May your hearts be as wings," he prayed-- and for once, knew what those words could mean. "May they beat evermore in tandem, that together you may soar to new heights of joy, that you may strengthen each other for as long as you live. And may you find peace in each others' love, for these are the same words once spoken by Her Exalted Grace, Lady Elice, and too carry her blessing, the same once given the Hero-King and his bride. And so may the gods let it be."

"Hear, hear!" Vaike catcalled from where he stood in the audience, closing it with a sharp whistle and eliciting a few rowdy cheers.

It was this interruption that forced Libra to glance up from the prayer. The groom, a prince in shining armor, hurriedly polished and buffed by Frederick as soon as he'd heard of the wedding, and the bride in flowing, diaphanous silks that bore still stains of blood. And then, his mind summoned another verse-- a mercenary's verse, and little known, but o, how beautifully it suited them.

And, when he spoke again, it was to the verse: "May your arms be as fangs. May they strike evermore in tandem that together you may protect all you have built, that you may strengthen each other in the battles yet to come, be they battles of the blade or battles of the soul. And may you find safety in each others' trust, for there are the same words once spoken by Her Majesty, the Wyvern-Princess Minerva, and too, carry her blessing, the same once given the Hero-King and his country. And so may the gods let it be."

Libra hesitated, for a moment, the expression of surprise upon Chrom's face giving him pause. But Tharja, something like a mischievous smile playing upon her lips, stroked the back of the hand she clasped, nails clacking upon Falchion's hilt. And then, when he smiled back, there were no verses existing that could describe how they seemed, then. And Libra's eyes softened, and he spoke from the heart.

"May your dreams be as flowers," he said, simply. "May they grow, and flourish, and beget more of their kind-- that together, your dreams may form a garden you can call home. Though they may not always match, may you achieve them together, and I pray to the gods that be to bless these words. And so, if any among you has just reason to object to this union, speak now or hold your peace evermore."

His words, he thought-- perhaps they were only platitudes, in the wake of blessings from those greater than he. But they, at least, were words Libra could believe, words that rang genuine in his own heart and the echo of the memory, his own pulse. And, at last, with the truth of his belief spoken, there was nothing else he could say, and the only words left belonged to vows exchanged between the pair themselves.

"I meant it, you know," Chrom offered, earnest. "How much I want to make the castle a happy home for us both. You've been... patient with me, maybe more patient than I deserve. And... I know things may be difficult at first and that it may take a while for Ylisse to get to know you as I have, but I believe from the bottom of my heart that, once they do, they'll love you as much as I do."

"I hope not," Tharja tisked. "It would be inconvenient to have an entire nation proposing marriage to me."

"I just hope you don't change your mind about me if someone better looking asks," Chrom joked, looking awkward, and rather more his age than he'd seemed ever since Emmeryn had fallen.

"Never," Tharja answered, tightening her grip on his hand but never enough to scratch him. "You're the one who decided to trust me, who asked me to join you instead of fighting me. Nobody... nobody's done that before. You're my top priority, now that we're married... and I'll destroy anything that comes between us, love."

"Then," he beamed, giving her fingers a slight squeeze back, "I'll make sure nothing comes between us."

And when rings were exchanged, when Libra had at last pronounced them husband and wife, the armies disbanded-- the Ylisseans, Feroxi, and Plegians alike-- to bury their dead, and this battlefield wedding that had been planned, decided, and completed in less than an hour seemed to all the world a surreal dream. And it was only a quiet whisper, exchanged between Cordelia and Olivia, that reminded Libra the event had truly occurred at all.

"A prince who forsakes status," Cordelia sighed, "To follow his heart, and marry the woman he truly loves..."

"I-it's like something out of a story," Olivia smiled back, timid, but pleased that someone wanted to talk to her.

"The dream of every child," Cordelia agreed, and sighed even more deeply. "So romantic..."

He set himself back to work, taking the trek to the convoy and gathering together skeins of bandages, the palm-sized jars of ointments and poultices, preparing to make his second round among the Shepherds, whose stave-healed wounds were surely beginning to ache and fray by now. Libra was about to look for something he could use to carry them, when someone held an empty crate out to him.

"We're out of vulneraries," Lon'qu grunted. "Nobody will miss the crate."

"Oh, thank you," and Libra smiled softly at that faint act of kindness.

Lon'qu gave pause for a moment, in the midst of rummaging through the boxes once more. He said, "How much?"

And Libra, for all his perspicacious ability, could not understand his meaning-- "Pardon?"

"How much," Lon'qu began again, "Do you think the old Exalt is turning in his grave?"

"You're Feroxi, aren't you?" Libra eyed him curiously, and swallowed the fear that bubbled in his throat still. The dozen lash-scars that marred his back tingled again, the memory of the time he had been caught stealing food, and he said, "What do you know of the old Exalt?"

"I wasn't always Feroxi," and Lon'qu's gloved hands massaged his gloved wrists subconsciously, another memory entirely. "I know... enough."

Libra glanced at those gloves and wondered what they concealed. He nearly asked, but it was far from him to force a man to face his bad memories, and so answered instead, "I'm uncertain which would unquiet his soul more... that his son married a Plegian or that he married a practitioner of the dark arts."

"And yet, you married them," Lon'qu replied, choosing every word slowly. "Though you follow his religion."

"I think," sighed Libra, packing away a bundle of herbs. "There are very few of us who worship the Exalted who agree with the Crusader-King's methods completely. And... I feel as if Her Grace, the Exalt Emmeryn would have approved, if only that Lord Chrom followed his heart."

"Would she?" Lon'qu levered him with a serious glance.

Libra bit his lip and thought about the ages of bad blood between Ylisse and Plegia. The towns, the cities, the villages that had been raided by Plegian soldiers. To have a Plegian as queen... the people could riot. Lives could be needlessly lost, and was it not the peoples' lives Exalt Emmeryn placed first, even above her own safety?

At last, he said, "She would have wanted, in her heart, for him to be happy. That gives me peace enough."

Lon'qu nodded, once, and spoke: "It's going to rain. We should make haste."

"You're certain?" Libra gathered his crate in his arms and stepped outside hurriedly. "Lon'qu, there isn't a cloud in the sky..."

"I'm certain," he exited the convoy immediately following, bearing in his arms the canvas and frame of a pavilion tent. "There is... a saying. That reapers herd black sheep."

"Black sheep...?" Libra wondered for a moment, and finally, "You mean clouds... thunderstorms."

"Yes," he replied, shortly, and marched forth in silence.

And when they arrived at the field of battle, Libra felt the soft mist of a drizzle, shrouding the skies in lieu of a bride's veil. He smeared an anesthetic poultice over Chrom's arm, sealed it by tying a bandage there in lieu of a groom's corsage.

"Thank you for doing the wedding on such short notice," and the prince whose armor shone-- nay, a king now-- smiled at him. "You've helped us greatly... We're both very happy, even if Tharja never tells you so."

"If you are both happy," Libra answered, finishing his knot, "Then that is all the thanks I could wish for."

Chrom watched, for a moment, as Tharja stalked around the battlefield, muttering to herself and looking as gloomy as ever in the intensifying rain. He lifted his uninjured arm, the one which bore the symbol of his Holy Blood, and waved, each effort more enthusiastic than the last until she noticed. Her scowl, then, intensified-- but still, she lifted a hand and waved back, once, flushing faintly at the public display of favor.

"We're happy," Chrom confirmed, and his smiling eyes followed her until she at last grumbled her way into one of the other tents on the battlefield.

Libra's only reply was to nod softly, heart aching from the want of such a love. May you live happily ever after , he thought, and prayed those words would preserve their tale forever.

Libra did not consider himself a habitual liar... but, too, was he merely human, and too was he capable of concealing details he did not wish to reveal-- particularly to certain thieves who scoffed at his attempts at generosity and the pile of awkwardly-sewn poppets held in a crate near his quarters.

Perhaps, he thought, he was not doing this for the orphans who had asked for something to hold, something that would ward away nightmares-- but for the child he had once been, long ago in the past, and for the nightmares that haunted him still, today. And, maybe, if he could prevent even one child from this same pain, could let them know there was someone who bothered to go through even the motions of caring... it would be worth it, he thought, and so he sewed on.

(And if it filled up the empty hours, alone in the abbey after their return to Ylisstol, Libra was grateful for it. The silence of the halls echoed, each time he stepped within, and what a blessing it could be to forget how horribly, horribly lonely it was to be the last of his cloister.)

It was frustrating work, his untrained fingers meeting the tip of the needle just as readily as needle met cloth, and Libra hissed as the sound of a knock upon the abbey door drove his needle into his finger once more.

"Good heavens," he sighed and sucked on the wound briefly before hurrying down the hall, lest he lose a rare visitor by making them wait. His habit tangled around his legs, and he remembered that he was no longer in battle, in the garb of a war monk, but in a priest's robe-- and almost heard the echo of a fellow monk, reminding him that haste made waste, until he stood at the door. Realized it had been but a memory.

He took a breath to steady his nerves, and opened the gate.

A familiar face stood there, waiting for him, and a taciturn greeting: "Libra."

"Lon'qu," the priest found a smile gracing his face, and for once, it came easily, without a moment of thought. Anything was better than this solitude, today. "What a pleasant surprise! Please, come inside... I did not know you would be in Ylisstol this summer."

"I didn't, either," Lon'qu replied, wearing a solemn expression. "Khan Flavia's second, Raimi, has business with Ylisse. I had orders to escort her to the castle, then stand aside."

"I see," Libra replied, slow, thoughtful. "Please, let me make you some tea... It's no short trek from the castle to here, and a very long journey indeed from Ferox to the castle. You must be exhausted."

"... do as you like," Lon'qu replied, a faint mumble of assent as he followed Libra to the mess hall at little more than a shuffle. "I should... apologize. For intruding."

"You need not fret," Libra looked upon him softly, and recalled how wonderful company could be. "It can get lonely here, at times. This abbey was quite crowded, when a dozen of my Brothers and Sisters In Faith lived here, but by myself... I don't think I'd ever realized how spacious this place could be, until it was almost empty. Besides... when the Shepherds disassembled after the war, did you suppose I gave you my address for no reason?"

"... letters, maybe," Lon'qu answered, his eyes absorbing the details of this kitchen, and how vacuous it seemed with only two people within. As if by explanation, "I don't write well."

And gentle, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he set the water to boil, "I wouldn't have complained... but it was because I wished to see you. If you don't mind my saying so... I enjoy your conversation."

"I, um," Lon'qu coughed awkwardly, fidgeted with the hemmed fringe of his glove. "That's, uh. Nobody's said that to me before."

"Then I am blessed," replied Libra, turning just enough to make eye contact. "To be the first."

Lon'qu's heart nearly stopped, then, when their eyes met, shocked by the sheer openness of Libra's expression, the belief behind those words, and that he, of all people, had been the one allowed to see it. He was quiet, for a moment, then-- and his heart beat, once, twice--

"I... enjoy our conversation, as well," he at last started again, when his courage found him once more. Ventured a smile-- timid, slight.

"I'm glad to hear that," Libra answered and slid a pair of mugs upon the nearest table. "Please, sit."

"All right," and Lon'qu, as if he were afraid to tarnish the furniture by sitting on it, sat down gingerly. A piece of fabric, messily stitched, lay haphazardly atop a basket, drew his eye, "... this. A project of yours?"

"Oh! I'd forgotten about that one," and Libra flushed, recalled that he'd sat at this very table yesterday evening to sew by the afternoon sun. "Yes, it's a project... for the children of the orphanage near the town center. I'm afraid nothing I've made is very good... I only recently learned to sew, and my efforts are clumsy at best..."

"You do wrong your hand too much," Lon'qu spoke and lifted a scrap of wool, black, that yet could not hide the bloodied mistaken pinpricks. Proof, as much as anything, of a devoted heart.

"Or, perhaps, my hand too much does wrong," Libra replied, staring into the depths of his cooling tea. "To offer a child comfort with the same hand that bore an axe in battle... Perhaps it is fitting that I be terrible at sewing."

"The same hand that heals?" Lon'qu replied, snagging a needle from the basket, deftly threading it. A frown. "None deny that you've saved lives."

"And none, I think," and Libra laughed, bitterly guilty, "Would deny that I've taken them, as well."

"No more than any other," spoken in a clumsy attempt at comfort.

They were silent for a moment, then, Libra processing those words in his mind. Uncertain of what they meant. And then, Lon'qu, with a note of finality, dropped the fabric, riddled with Libra's blood, upon the table. Silently put the needle back within the basket.

Libra stared at it, momentarily, in surprise-- the outline he'd drawn in chalk stitched tidily, evenly, so that it would only need to be turned inside out and filled before it became a complete poppet. "How... ?"

"Who did you think," Lon'qu answered. "Repaired Khan Basilio's clothes?"

"I... I don't know what to say," and he glanced between the stitchery and Lon'qu, surly and tall and scarcely what he would call domestic , and wondered in awe. "Perhaps... I thought, someone of lesser rank than his champion?"

"Men don't become champions overnight," Lon'qu grunted, trying to forget how Marth had done just that by besting him. "And a needle's only a sword. But tiny. Made to stab fabric, instead of flesh."

Libra shook his head and could not help but chuckle, "I have several pinpricks that would say otherwise."

"Invest in a thimble," Lon'qu offered and at last took a mouthful of his tea. It was wildly over-steeped. Just as bitter as he liked it.

Libra mirrored that action, sipping at his own mug. He winced and immediately dumped in several spoonfuls of sugar, "My apologies... I'm afraid that making tea isn't one of my talents, either."

"That's fine," and Lon'qu, as stoically as if he were going in to swordsmanship practice, drank another mouthful. "I... don't talk well. If that helps."

"I suppose the gods indeed bless each of us with different assets and flaws," Libra mused, taking another sip, furrowing his brow as he realized it was by far too sweet.

"The gods have no role in it," Lon'qu frowned. "You have little practice with needles. I... have even less with speaking."

"Now that you mention it... I've always wondered," Libra mulled over his next words, then, "When we were with the Shepherds, you practiced very much. Sometimes, I could hear the sounds of your blade well into the night."

"I could say the same,"  Lon'qu replied, momentarily hesitating. "About your prayer."

"Particularly in times of war," Libra answered, casting a curious eye in his direction. "I find it reassuring to ask the gods to watch over and protect us all."

"My reasons are the same," said Lon'qu, simply, picking at the place where his gloves frayed. "Except I demand it of my hands. Instead of the gods."

"Nobody would fault you if you asked the gods for help," Libra spoke, slowly, uncertain if he was indeed reading Lon'qu's words, his body language, correctly.

"I don't," and Lon'qu's jaw tightened, and tried to push away the image of a girl, her blood, her viscera, staining the white of church-clothes just as surely as it stained the flowers below her feet. He flexed his hands, gloved, as if willing himself to grasp onto the moment. "I don't place faith in what I can't see."

"That's," Libra almost argued, but faltered-- recalled his own pious Brothers and Sisters, how their blood had been spilled across the blighted white sands, and Lady Emmeryn, the most Exalted of them all, the sound of her bones crunching against the stone where she fell. The hollowness of the abbey's halls, and the edge of hollowness that had stolen into his prayers' truth. He swallowed, "That's fair. But... if you cannot ask the gods, I must entreat you... Please do not hesitate to ask me , if you require assistance. I wish to help you in any way I can."

"You have a strange way of saying it," said Lon'qu after a brief moment of silence. "But I... consider you an ally. I'll accept. If you allow me to do the same."

"I think," Libra smiled, and watched as Lon'qu's gloves, frayed, lifted the mug to his lips again. "That would be lovely."

And Libra, that night, slept with his cheek upon stitches like swordplay, each soft inhale filled with the scent of steely blood. He thought on the hands that had sown those stitches, and the hands that had bled upon them-- perhaps, even, what those hands might accomplish together.

Blessedly, that night, he did not dream.

Libra did not know what it was that had shaken Lon'qu so badly, that day when they'd ventured into Fort Steiger.

Only that he had faltered, then, standing too near a valkyrie who had wasted no time in blasting him with a Rexcalibur, ice like knives rending his skin to ribbons. Blood bloomed, spreading slowly upon the stone of the floor, white like the Plegian sands, like the cloth of a priestess' robe, and it was all Libra could do to occupy their foe as Lon'qu stumbled into a retreat, already numbly groping for the concoction he'd been assigned in order to bring his blood loss to a halt.

And then when Walhart's General had fallen at last, when Libra had been freed of his duties in battle to heal the wounded-- Lon'qu was nowhere to be seen and something like fear gripped his heart. Chrom gave the signal for a retreat, to escape this place before it was overrun by the Valmese military, and Libra could feel his blood pump in his ears, pulse thudding-- once, twice-- and then, redoubling his search efforts, at last, finding Lon’qu at the front gate, parrying away the blows of a token resistance.

"Lon'qu!" Relief edged his voice as he raised his stave, repairing the worst of the swordsman's wounds. "There you are! I'm sorry, I..."

"Talk later," Lon'qu grunted, taking in a sharp inhale before joining the rest of the Shepherds in their retreat. "When it's safe."

"You're right, of course," and then, as if to make up for his inability to do so earlier, Libra blocked a sword meant for Lon'qu's side, carefully healed him again.

"I..." Lon'qu seemed, momentarily, as if he were about to argue against the assistance. Then, recalled their agreement, and replied instead, "... you have my gratitude."

Perhaps, Libra thought, it was only his earlier worry that made him feel this way. But, indeed, there was some string of tension within him that loosened with Lon'qu by his side and answered, perhaps a bit too cryptically, "As you, too, have mine."

When the Shepherds at last found a garrison of relief, a safe enough place for them to recover from the battle and plan their next move, he guided Lon'qu to a clean enough room, something close enough to a medical area, had him sit on an abandoned nightstand close enough to a chair. He had a real candle, at the very least, and, thought Libra, lighting it, Thank the gods for small blessings .

"You took," Libra started, rooting through his supplies for an antiseptic. "You took quite an attack last battle. Please, if you would just allow me to check your wounds..."

"They're fine, Lon'qu mumbled, fidgeting beneath the scrutiny, however clinical it may have been. "... The ice shards melted. You healed the cuts."

"There is often far more to a wound than merely waving a stave at it," Libra replied, his thoughts beginning to veer towards into a scar of his own, long-ago healed over in the flesh but yet one that bled still within his recollection. Bit his lip, hard, to bring himself back to the moment. "Like how it was obtained, for example."

"I was... careless for a second," Lon'qu replied, a brief expression of pain crossing his features. Libra did not miss it. Then, more curtly, "It won't happen again."

"Would it surprise you if I told you that how a wound is dealt affects how it is healed?" Libra asked, eyes soft. He did not press for further details. "I would not heal a Rexcalibur wound and... for example, a Thoron wound in the same way. In any case-- you'll have to remove at least your shirt. Your gloves, as well. You have quite a few cuts that extend to your chest and back."

"... if I must," Lon'qu, in a swift motion, shed his swordsmaster's robe and then his undertunic. Hesitated, momentarily. Removed his gloves, and what Libra saw beneath made his eyes widen.

"That is," he began, trying very hard not to look at Lon'qu's left hand. Tried to instead devote the entirety of his attention to daubing an ointment over the raised seams where Lon'qu's wounds had been healed, earlier, coagulated blood clinging to his skin like crystals. "That is certainly a very large scar."

"It was a long time ago," Lon'qu could not maintain eye contact either. "During a bandit attack. We... were unarmed. I tried to catch a blade with my bare hand before it fell on her..."

"Oh," Libra inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's," Lon'qu took a breath, and, tersely. "It's fine. I... They looked alike."

And Libra, for all he tried to understand, could make neither heads nor tails of those words. He let his fingers hover over a long line that had ripped over Lon'qu's wrist, almost like a seam re-broken, "Who are you talking about?"

"The girl who died," he answered, still yet unable to say her name. "And... the foe that did this."

Something horrible formed a lump in Libra's throat, "Was she...?"

"No," Lon'qu replied, staring down at his boots. "But they looked similar enough that... I hesitated."

Libra swallowed, uncertain what he could say, and, "If it weighs heavily on your heart... please, be assured that she is with the gods now and loved among their company."

"Do you believe that?" and Lon'qu's voice did not merely seek reassurance, but genuinely asked .

"There are... times when I do," Libra admitted, whispered, like a secret. Thought on the hatred in the heart of the soldiers that had killed his fellow monks, the hatred that had run rampant in the streets of Ylisstol, the hatred that had been in his own parents' hearts when they had abandoned him. "But even I... even I sometimes doubt."

"I see," Lon'qu answered, simply, and only when he moved his arm again did Libra realize he had been touching him this whole time.

Libra left, briefly, upon finishing with the ointment. Silently, he rummaged through his supplies for a length of linen, but then recalled that they hadn't managed to find an Anna shop in weeks, and with wool (black, he thought, just like the poppet he kept still), bound over the seams of Lon'qu's wounds with something close enough to a bandage. Wondered that his skin did not crawl each time he brushed past to make another loop, Lon'qu's arm, Lon'qu's chest, and indeed-- wondered when, exactly, this had happened.

"Is this," Lon'qu began, furrowing his brow, "Is this necessary? I'm not bleeding."

"It's... a little bit of a precaution," Libra admitted and marveled that his heart beat steadily. Perhaps touched Lon'qu's skin for longer than entirely required, just to make sure. "Normally, we go around with staves two hours after the battle has ended, to make sure any healing work done in battle sticks, and then again four hours after that. However, given that... Well, you have a bit of a history with not attending stave therapy at the appointed times. And these wounds in particular... they're quite severe. How are you feeling?"

"... Cold," Lon'qu replied, at last, after a moment's pause. He was not dangerously hypothermic, he decided, but the Rexcalibur, too had taken its toll on his body temperature. And then, "I would, you know."

"You would what?" Libra turned his head, curiously. Searched through his supplies for a blanket and realized that, quite ignorantly, he had managed to cut up the last of his supply due to the lack of bandages, the lack of non-Anna merchants who were willing to sell to the army currently invading Valm.

"I would attend," Lon'qu replied, and anxiously, his next words caught in his throat. Then, forcing himself to speak them slowly, "If... if you were the one who asked me to."

Libra let those words sink into his mind, those words and the weight with which Lon'qu had spoken. His lips parted, as preparing to make a reply-- but discovered, then, that there was nothing he could say that would be adequate. Nothing, at least, that existed in the mortal realm.

There were princes, Libra knew, idealists in shining armor, heroes who seemed as if they had stepped down to reality from the pages of a fairytale. There were many, still yet, who had held to that dream. Sumia in her endless novels, Walhart in his endless conquest, even Emmeryn in her endless peace. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps they could afford to.

But long, long ago, in a faraway land, Libra had outgrown fairytales. And Lon'qu-- a real, tangible man of bone and flesh and blood, blood that stained when he bled, blood that Libra never wished to see spilled again-- Lon'qu was better than a fairytale in that moment, flickering light dancing over his jaw, his cheek, crevasses of hair as soft as wool.

And Libra, perhaps a bit absurdly, let his hand drift out. Let his fingers slip into Lon'qu's, hesitant, unsure, but Lon'qu squeezed, briefly, and it felt like a moment of shelter after years of stormy weather.

"Is this," Lon'qu began, eyes flickering to their hands, joined. He could be nothing short of warm, then. "Is this all right?"

His heart beat. Once, twice--

And Libra answered, "Yes."

Epilogue

"Long, long ago," the clerics would say, "When this abbey's filled halls lay barren, when this abbey's courtyard lay still unflowered, there lived a beautiful but lonely priest."

"The priests are boys," sometimes, a child might interrupt, "Why wasn't he handsome, like a prince?"

"He was beautiful for the light of Naga shone upon him," the clerics would answer, as they themselves had been told in their youths. "But though he was loved by the gods and held Naga herself within his heart, the priest still yearned for human company, denied him by those who thought he was too holy for mere mortals such as you or I. But then, one night, a warrior appeared upon the abbey's steps-- wounded, and bearing the blood of battle upon him."

Perhaps, then, if there was a child who was better-versed in tales among their number, "Like the legend of Owen Dark, the hero whose sword literally drank blood--"

But then they would be hushed, and the tale would continue.

"Not quite, perhaps, like Owen Dark," an older cleric might chuckle. "For this warrior knew that, upon his hands, he carried the sin of war. But though he was dirty and scarred and unkempt, the beautiful priest knew that men who fought wars sinned only to protect those who could not, to keep safe the innocents of each country. And so, when the priest invited him in, he served him a meal and tea and washed his wounds with holy-water, that it might cleanse him of blood in both body and soul."

And, unknowing of the truth, another cleric would say, "And when the warrior had been washed clean, from head to toe, he too could see the light of Naga that shone upon the priest. He, too, could see the love of Naga within the priest's heart. And so, too, there he swore to protect this abbey for the rest of his days, and with it, the beautiful priest within. That the walls of this abbey never be lonely again, the two found children from all across the land-- lonely, without a family to call their own, just as the priest had been. And so together, they lived... happily ever after."

The orphans who had found their respite within, then, would call for another story-- sometimes, if it were not yet dark out, the clerics would assent. Sometimes, to the disappointment of all, they would regretfully tuck each child into bed, each bearing a poppet in cloth, soft and woolen, made with the same pattern the abbey had used for hundreds, thousands of years.

And there, in Saint Libra's Abbey, children whose cradles had been the bowels of the street, whose nurses has been the alleyways, once…

There, those children were allowed to dream.