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One of Owain's earliest memories was of the day his brand surfaced.
After his mother dried her joyful tears, she organized an informal celebration among their family and friends. His recollections of the party were vague impressions of bright colors and cheer – there were definitely yellow streamers around the castle ballroom, because it was his favorite color. Owain loved being the center of attention, flexing his arm and showing off his brand to anyone who so much as looked at him.
It was like a birthday party, only better, because it confirmed beyond all doubt that Owain was of exalted blood, descendant of heroes. Maybe he would be chosen to wield Falchion in the distant future. He would be a great man, someday.
Uncle Chrom knelt on one knee and presented him with a blunted practice sword, real metal instead of the wood he'd been limited to. He dueled with Lucina all over the courtyard until Lissa insisted they take a break for presents. He never once beat his older cousin, he sure remembered that. He was jealous that she was taller and stronger than him, but he was determined to catch up. His other presents were largely forgotten, various toys and clothes, and one thick leather-bound journal he wouldn't appreciate until he was older. (Had it been from Robin? He hadn't stopped to read the name tag.)
He could only dimly recall the adults gathering in the other room, conversing in low, concerned voices – trouble brewing in Plegia, his mother explained, ushering him off to play with the other kids. He let it slip from his mind as an impatient Cynthia and Severa dragged him over to have the first slice of cake. From then on it was a blur of sugar, games of tag, more swordplay, and hide-and-seek in the gardens. (They never did find Yarne.)
The one thing that Owain distinctly remembered about the afternoon was making eye contact with Inigo across the room. Inigo was painfully shy back then, and hadn't dared to creep beyond the safety of his mother's shadow the whole time. It tugged at him, and he moved on instinct without bothering to think why.
Owain brought him over a piece of cake, his bright smile smeared with globs of buttercream frosting.
He was met with silence. Olivia smiled back, but Inigo shook his head mutely, and buried his face into the soft fabric of Olivia's shirt.
"Come on, take it! It's for you," Owain tried, thrusting the cake forward.
Inigo shook his head faster and made a soft noise of distress.
"You're a good boy, Owain. You have a big heart like your mother. Thank you for being friends with my son," Olivia interjected gently, accepting the cake from his outstretched hands. "It takes Inigo a while to open up, so just be patient, all right?"
Owain nodded, crestfallen. As he dashed back to the other kids, he wondered how long he would have to wait before Inigo would be ready to talk to him.
"…Perhaps you should name your next move 'Eternal Chastity'," Inigo jeered, poking a finger at Owain's chest.
"Sure, why not?" Owain retorted, swatting his hand aside. "I've got the perfect teacher for it right in front of me!"
"Why you little-!"
"What, you want to go? Come on, chump! Have at me! My Shinon Strike will wipe the floor with you!" Owain shouted, balling his fists.
"Few things in life would give me greater satisfaction than to knock you on your rear. But one of us has to be the adult here. And it's obviously not going to be you," Inigo called over his shoulder as he strode away.
"Yeah, that's right. Walk away. You just keep right on walking," Owain scowled.
He kicked a pebble aside with a frustrated growl. He missed the days when Inigo was too shy to talk. All he did now was swagger around and flirt, annoying girls and bullying Owain. A little shyness and modesty would be a welcome change.
"…Jerk," he added for good measure.
War with Plegia escalated faster than anyone predicted. Losing Chrom and Robin in the same blow left Ylisse in tatters. By the time he started using his journal in earnest, Owain had attended more funerals than he'd had birthdays.
After the fall of Ylisstol, Exalt Lucina led them on a quest to restore the gems and save anyone they could.
He tried recording the events for posterity, but his quill hand froze up every time he recalled the sound of arrows whistling through the trees, aimed for his heart but striking true in someone else's. He decided he enjoyed writing fantasy more, a world he could escape into when this one became too hard to handle. He wrote by lantern light in his tent of heroes and epics and good triumphing over evil and all the things he could only dream of.
When he wasn't writing or fighting for survival, Owain found peace observing the rituals around camp. His friends had become each others' surrogate family under the shadow of Grima's wings. Lucina tied Cynthia's pigtails each morning, when she was still too bleary-eyed to fidget. Severa complained, but she still walked hand in hand with Noire every time either of them needed to use the latrine. Yarne took to sleeping in his Taguel form, so that the others could huddle against him for warmth when they dared not light a fire for fear of attracting Risen.
If he thought anything was odd about Inigo sneaking off alone at night, Owain didn't voice it. They were all dealing with harsh reality in their own way. He was just left with the hollow guilt that he wanted to help Inigo in some way, but didn't know how to reach him.
Owain was on sentry duty the night he caught Inigo returning. He was in the middle of practicing his special finishing move, and lowered his sword with a scowl, waiting for Inigo's usual commentary. Nothing came.
Owain squinted through the predawn light and saw a strange expression on Inigo's face – a forced smile not reaching his eyes, which were swollen and rimmed with red. Owain sighed and sheathed Shadowdarkness at his hip. It was the same irresistible tug at his heart he'd felt when they were little – a pang of loneliness he didn't know how to ignore.
He offered his hand. Inigo stared blankly at his palm as though he couldn't understand what it was for.
Owain lunged to grab his hand by force, but Inigo flinched back and laughed nervously. He sidestepped as Owain darted forward again, flinging his hands up out of reach.
"Knock it off. I'm not in the mood to play games with you, Owain," Inigo grumbled.
"Hey, I'm being serious," Owain protested, puffing out his chest. His outstretched hand wavered, waiting.
"You mean you're being seriously… childish? Seriously… embarrassing?"
"There's no one else up at this hour, Inigo. You can talk to me."
"There's nothing to say," Inigo muttered and strode back into camp. His blustering tone lacked any real venom behind it, but it stung all the same.
Owain watched him go as his hand fell slowly back to his side. He didn't much feel like practicing anymore.
"…Is this your diary? It's filled with bad drawings of heroes and their weapons."
"Don't! The Manual of Justice is more than your mortal eyes can handle!"
"Oh, that's just adorable! You even named the book and everything! Now let's see what we've got…"
He jabbed Inigo in the ribs with his elbow, but Inigo was quick to kick him in the shins and dance out of the way. As Owain grappled with Inigo in a futile attempt to wrest the journal from his prying hands, he was struck by the observation that at least Inigo's smile looked genuine this time.
Even if his amusement was at the expense of Owain's humiliation, the big jerk.
Owain had his arms wrapped around Inigo's midsection in an attempt to topple him over, but Inigo's footing remained firm no matter how hard he dug his heels in and pushed. His freckled cheeks flamed red as Inigo rifled through the pages of his private sketches, reading aloud the descriptions of his protagonist's special powers and arsenal.
"Either stop reading or just stick a sword in me and be done with it," he whined into Inigo's sweaty stomach.
"Oh please, you're overreacting," Inigo scoffed. He shoved one hand in Owain's messy blond hair to hold him back. "Besides, genius of this ilk must be shared. I'll say this: your bizarre fantasy world is certainly… robust. You go all out on everything, Owain. And in a way, I respect that."
"…R-really? This isn't just a way for you to make fun of me again? Heh heh. Maybe there's hope for you yet," Owain announced, letting go of Inigo's lithe waist. His mortification began to subside, encouraged by the rare compliment.
Hope for us, he added silently, a broad grin plastered across his face.
Lucina was the first.
Owain watched his cousin's silhouette, chest bound, face masked, posture proud, as she was swallowed by the benevolent light of Naga. Abruptly she was gone, and there was no turning back – he would never leave his Exalt to fend for herself in an unknown world. They would all follow her to hell and back. There was nothing but despair left for them here.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat as he took a shaky step forward. The blood of heroes flowed through his veins. He would be brave. He would be the hero he had failed to become in this time. He would protect his mother and father, his future self, everything he couldn't bear to lose.
Without thinking, he took Inigo's hand in his, and squeezed it tight for reassurance. They didn't meet each others' eyes, but this time, Inigo didn't pull away.
The air tasted sweeter here. It was the first difference Owain noticed about this new world, but he was excited to see more and more. The sky was clear, there were trees and greenery not yet blighted by Grima's breath, and there were people, people everywhere.
He had forgotten what villages were like when they weren't boarded up and barricaded against the Risen hordes. People had their own lives outside of survival. They could work and play and follow their dreams.
Owain stopped being excited about the people when they tried to kill him.
It was different from cutting down Risen. His sword hand still moved the same, but after the bandits lay strewn in the fresh air and the green grass, Owain was sick at heart. He was a healer's son, a hero, not a murderer. Or at least, he had been. He didn't feel very heroic now.
He emptied his stomach into the grass a few paces off, then stumbled back to the scene. He buried them, because they deserved better than Risen, and only then he forced himself wearily onward. He had to find Lucina, Cynthia, Severa, everyone. Anyone. His courage could not fail him. It wouldn't be the last time he'd face the living.
He wondered if Inigo was still going off on his own at night, and prayed to Naga for the others to find Inigo first.
When at last they stood face to face, Owain was shocked at how young Lissa looked. He presented her battered old ring as proof, but she readily accepted him with open arms, and gods, had he missed her hugs.
This Ylisse already felt more like home to Owain than the ruined land he'd grown up in. It was a relief to have a family again, to see Uncle Chrom at Lucina's side, though strangely heart-wrenching to see his parents before he was ever born. He knew how they would die. It was difficult not to think of the sound of arrows, the weight of the splinter of staff wood in his pouch. He reminded himself every time the flashbacks plagued him that this was his chance to prevent the same tragedy from ever happening again.
He found Inigo keeping a close watch on the Olivia of this world, and saw a smile that was lighter and more vulnerable than any Inigo had smiled before. A burden lifted from Owain's shoulders. It was good, even better than he'd imagined, to see an honest smile on that face.
It was surprisingly easy to fall back into their banter without missing a beat. Owain thought something felt different between him and Inigo – perhaps an ease of trust they didn't have before, a unique bond forged through their displacement in time – although he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and decided not to waste time overthinking it.
Owain shared himself more readily now that he could – his story ideas, his beliefs, his enthusiasm about weaponry and mythology and names, and Inigo's teasing lost its edge entirely. Inigo didn't quite grasp the power behind naming his weapon, though. That was to be expected from such a novice to the heroic arts. Instead of a fitting moniker, he thoroughly ruined the sword he attempted to carve in imitation of Owain, adorning it with the names of countless girls who spurned his advances since coming to this time.
It was a waste of a sword, Owain frowned, running his fingers along the crude marks gouged into the iron. How did Inigo remember all of those names, anyway? They couldn't possibly have left such an impression on him that he still tried to hold onto each individual name and face. Inigo was sentimental, sure, but Owain half-suspected he was just making them up to try and show off his courage.
He snorted, rolling the pitifully chipped blade between his hands. As if Owain would be impressed by this now-useless junk.
He wasn't sure what he could do with it, but Owain kept it anyway.
"…How many people have you killed? Since coming to this time period."
"Wha-?! Owain! What kind of question is that? If this is more of your usual fun and games, it hardly seems appropriate."
"Do I sound like I'm playing?"
"…Very well. Let's see… Honestly, I… I've lost count by now."
"You too…"
The harvest festival was in full swing once the sun went down. Strings of lanterns splashed color in the busy streets. Brady's fiddle soared above the noise of the crowd, moving the sea of villagers and Shepherds around the town square into a lively jig.
Owain whooped in laughter as Morgan shoved him playfully into the haystack they were standing on. The Justice Cabal had been reunited for a night of carefree mock battling, and Owain would not let the chance go to waste. He grabbed Cynthia's ankle and yanked her into the hay after him, where they both collapsed into a fit of giggles.
A pleasant warmth curled in Owain's belly, spreading down to his fingers and toes. He'd sampled some honey mead earlier, and accepted a stein of cider from the grateful harvest folk after they'd driven off the Risen. He'd never felt this fizzing lightness in his veins before but it was good stuff. He marveled at the array of colorful banners, the sensory overload of food and music and people, and couldn't stop grinning from ear to ear.
He watched Cynthia spring back up to chase Morgan into the crowd with a stick, and dazedly blew straw from his mouth. He was getting a little dizzy from all the running around.
Owain hunkered down on an upturned wagon cart and scribbled into the Manual of Justice. Cynthia's entrance flair was inspiring, and Morgan's innocent betrayal was an excellent plot twist. He felt like his quill was taking a life of its own, recording the next chapter of his grand epic. The words were getting harder to read as his lines ran sloppily together, but Owain didn't want to lose his train of thought.
Once the words stopped spilling onto his page, Owain glanced up, and stilled. There were less townspeople around the fountain now, and as the firelight washed their faces in amber glow, Owain was surprised to recognize one of them.
Inigo was dancing.
Owain had seen it before after rumors spread about his midnight excursions, but only brief glimpses through the screen of trees, hidden away in the darkness of night, never at the center of a town square for all eyes to behold. Inigo was a dancer like his mother, and he was every inch as beautiful.
Owain held still save for the tip of his quill pen tapping in rhythm against the paper. He blinked, then flipped to a blank page toward the back of the journal, hand moving furiously. He sketched the swooping line of Inigo's extended arms, the curve of his spine, the carefree smile as he danced to the tune of Brady's fiddle. He was disappointed by the quality of his illustrations, and turned to another page to start over.
He was a better wordsmith than artist, but he wasn't sure how to do the scene justice with mere adjectives, either. It was simply important that he capture this sight in ink, because it took his breath away.
"…Hey, Inigo?"
"Hm?"
"If you ever need a shoulder to lean on, I'll always be willing to listen."
"Oh? Are you sure? Listening's never been your forte."
"Hey! I'll have you know-"
"Haha, easy now. Stay that sword hand of yours – I was just kidding. I know I can count on you when it really matters, Owain. And I appreciate it."
After Grima fell from the skies, Owain thought the greatest story of his life had ended. Lucina was the first to leave Ylisstol, but Owain was not far behind – too restless to settle down in an era that would never truly be his own. He left the Manual of Justice in his old room – for little Owain, when he was old enough to read it. He'd be writing an entirely new set of adventures, after all.
He had not anticipated standing before the gateway to another world twice in one lifetime. He had not expected Severa and Inigo at his side, either. He thought for sure Inigo would choose to stay with Olivia for as long as he could. Selfishly, though, he was glad to keep him close. There was no one he could trust more.
With Anankos's blessing, they once again stepped into an unknown future. He was stripped of his brand, and with it, his entire lineage and claim to the throne. No longer was he a descendant of the proud exalts of Ylisse, bearing noble blood tracing back to the hero-king Marth. No longer was he Owain, son of Lissa, nephew of Chrom.
The sight of his bare arm made him strangely homesick and anxious all at once, but he was not turning back.
It was the last time Inigo held Owain's hand. It was the first time Odin Dark ever held the hand of Laslow of the Azure Skies.
Their new lives in Nohr took a long adjustment period, longer than their first journey. Odin imagined fighting alongside Laslow and Selena as the soldiers they were, plunging directly into the third war of their lifetimes, but they were instead split up and assigned to different members of the royal family.
They all had to quickly adapt to a demanding set of responsibilities around Castle Krakenburg. Selena was a natural at following orders, given her mercenary background, but Odin wasn't used to servility, having forgone all formalities during his youth in the castle. It was like learning a foreign tongue. He couldn't say he cared for it much.
Nohr was a land enshrouded in darkness – a romantic concept to the storyteller in him, but a reality that took his vision much longer to get accustomed to. And his new master, Lord Leo, was not much like Lucina – both serious and sticklers for the rules, to be sure, but Leo was frosty in demeanor and did not seem particularly charmed by Odin's boisterous energy. Odin was eager to prove his worth and threw himself headlong into each and every task he was given, but nothing seemed to impress Leo so far. And the scrutiny of his senior retainer, Niles, made him more than a little uncomfortable. It was a rocky start despite his optimism.
Odin found himself longing not for Ylisse, but simply for moments to catch Laslow's eye and see him smile like he used to. It meant the world to him to see Laslow with the confidence to dance in front of others now – using his talent to impress the crown prince, of all people. It stole his breath every time, just like it had all those seasons ago at the festival.
It just sent his heart in his throat any time Laslow was sent on a mission without him. After the chaos of his first few months settled into routine, Odin decided to start a new journal, just to take his mind off of worrying.
Mostly he caught himself sketching Laslow whenever he hit writer's block, but at least it passed the time.
"You're as childish as ever, and you're not getting any younger, my friend. I suppose I'll just have to tell Lord Leo you skipped training today. Again. Such a shame. You look terrible in irons," Laslow drawled.
"H-hey! Wait up! Come on, Laslow! Think this through," Odin protested, grabbing his sleeve.
"What is there to think through? You are failing in your duties as a retainer. I'm afraid I've no choice but to report you," Laslow said flippantly, pretending to make his way toward the door.
"I see. How dutiful and virtuous you are," Odin nodded sagely. "Yes, a man of your integrity would never object to my telling Lord Xander anything. Particularly not about his irreproachable retainer skipping training to flirt with girls? I'd say it's been one… two… three-oh no! It's been every day this week, in fact! Scandalous!"
"Wha- You wouldn't dare!" Laslow spluttered, face flushing a healthy pink.
"Then swear upon your sword you won't report me to Lord Leo!"
They collapsed into easy laughter against each other. It felt good to relax, to break character and not worry about being overheard by the wrong ears. Laslow's warmth was a comforting presence against his side, and Odin did not pull away as he let down his guard.
If Laslow noticed Odin's arm slung casually around his waist while they chatted, he didn't say anything about it.
After unending practice, Odin's artistic endeavors had slowly improved. Now the ink sketches of Laslow that graced his journal pages were recognizable, and his obsession had become obvious even to him.
Alone in his bedchamber, Odin felt his pulse flutter faster as he curled over his tome, studying the subtle curves of each and every smile he'd saved just for himself. He supposed on some level, he'd always known, because he was not surprised by his longing at all. He traced a finger along the lines, then let his hand stray under his clothes, as he closed his eyes and sighed.
Later that night, as he was drifting between wakefulness and sleep, Odin thought of the chipped old sword with the hundreds of names carved in it, stashed under his bed in a chest of his most secret treasures. A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He would never truly have a homeland, but as long as Laslow was with him, he felt like he had a home.
Laslow blew on his tea to cool it. Steam wreathed his pensive features as he stared down at the cup between his fingers.
"Something just struck me, all of a sudden. The name 'Laslow'. It's so familiar now…"
"It makes sense," Odin said as he helped himself to a biscuit. "It's been a long time since you've answered to another name. The same goes for Selena and myself. It's hard to fathom… isn't it?"
They had precious little time before the war council, and he knew they would likely be split up for different missions again. Odin had a sinking feeling about the war. He had faith in his liege lord, but King Garon and Iago did not command his respect. He bristled at the thought of Lord Xander, and therefore Laslow, being pulled into dangerous situations for inane political reasons.
"It does feel strange, however… hiding these things from the others. Lord Xander and Lord Leo are good people. It's sad knowing we will have to part ways," Laslow sighed. He sipped his tea forlornly.
"Yes. 'Tis almost enough to tempt one into staying, is it not?" Odin smiled a bit wistfully at the reflection in his teacup.
His first impression of Lord Leo was less favorable, but he felt differently now that the once-distant prince had warmed up to him and accepted his loyalty. He didn't want to see Nohr lose this war. He knew what it looked like to see a capital ravaged by conquerors, a royal family deposed.
He was no longer much of a hero, a savior of worlds, but if he could help turn the tides in Nohr's favor, he would. Odin never meant to get attached to this world, but he could tell by the conflicted expression darkening Laslow's countenance that he wasn't the only one willing to fight for it.
"Y'know," Niles started conversationally, "Nohr's rough around the edges, but if there's one thing it's good about, it's a pretty open-minded place when it comes to men bedding men."
Odin sputtered. "Uhh – I'm well aware of your nocturnal proclivities, my umbral friend, but what exactly are you proposing here?"
Niles chuckled. His good eye lingered on the blush dusting Odin's cheekbones, then wandered back to the courtyard where he'd been caught staring.
"…Not you and me, you ass. Not that I'd mind. But I meant you and him wouldn't have to keep it a secret, here." He jerked his chin towards Laslow.
"Uh," Odin stated eloquently. He meant to protest or feign ignorance, but the words died on his lips. Niles was too observant to fall for a bald-faced lie.
They fell into an amicable silence as they watched Laslow finish his stretches in the courtyard. As the dancer rose to his feet and brushed off his knees, Odin finally tore his gaze away long enough to look at Niles. Even with his secret exposed, he was strangely relieved to have found a confidant.
"You think I should tell him, then?" Odin asked in a small voice, dropping all pretenses.
Niles sighed and jammed his hands in his pockets. He leaned his head back against the stone wall, letting his eye flutter shut.
"Life is short, and life is cruel. If you find something – someone – that gives you a reason to live, that actually makes you happy, you damn sure better fight to keep it. It's not just gonna fall in your lap. At the very least, you should cut back on the stalking, because you're not exactly subtle."
Odin exhaled slowly. His heart was hammering in his chest, palms clammy with sweat. It felt like he was about to embark on a dangerous mission, though he hadn't moved a muscle.
"What about you?"
"Hm?"
"Is that what you're doing here? Fighting to keep the one who brings you happiness?"
Niles cracked his eye open and stared for a long moment, expression guarded. He chuckled again, but there was no mirth behind the self-deprecating smile.
"Something like that," he drawled. "Nohr might accept the man on man side of things, but they're not so forgiving when it comes to social class. You're lucky you're not pining after a royal you're barely fit to lick the boots of. At least you've got a shot."
Odin sank back against the wall, arms crossed defensively. There wasn't much he could say to that, and for once, he didn't feel the need to fill the air with empty prose.
"It's… complicated," Odin finally admitted.
"It always is," Niles quipped.
Odin wiped beads of perspiration from his nose onto his towel. The steam of the bathhouse was dizzyingly thick, plastering wisps of blond hair against his neck.
He had been looking forward to a relaxing soak in private after completing Lord Leo's latest test of his mettle, but Laslow had walked in at the same time, and suddenly his confidence ebbed away. He silently blamed Niles for getting in his head. Odin stood awkwardly to one side, not sure if Laslow realized he had frozen. He was staring – what was wrong with him, why could he not stop staring? – as Laslow hummed and slipped out of his sweaty tunic and trousers.
Lean muscle pulled taut as Laslow gracefully replaced his smallclothes with the modesty of a towel. Laslow's bare skin was marked with scars – some old, like the puckered ridge left by a Risen tomahawk above the jut of his hipbone – some new, like that unknown dark welt along the curve of his scapula. Odin wished it didn't bother him so much that he didn't know who hurt Laslow. Was it a Hoshidan? A Faceless? He used to know every mark by heart. Odin's hand twitched at his side with the phantom urge to map his fingers along the new scars and commit them all to memory.
He had his own, but Odin's wounds were brandished with pride, each one with a story to tell. But Laslow was never meant to be marked by the ravages of war. That body was trained to be a soldier first, a dancer second, but that was not what his heart desired. Would that he could magic the scars away, and all the painful memories with them. And yet, that would efface everything that had brought them together in the first place.
He couldn't forget that this was the path Laslow had chosen, to stay with him. He never had to leave Ylisse.
"Aren't you going to join me, old friend?" Laslow prompted, a shy smile gracing his lips as he sank into the aromatic water. "No yukata purchase necessary, this time."
Odin laughed despite himself, breaking the spell Laslow had over him. "Gods, I'd almost forgotten about that trip. Merchants are wild," he mumbled as he stripped.
He sank into the bathwater with a sigh, letting his eyes close in the steam. Warm water enveloped his sore muscles, and a lazy contentedness settled over his body.
He felt Laslow's fingers gently massage his scalp, washing his hair. Laslow's touch was soothing. His mind drifted, letting his worries ebb away, and leaned into the intimate touch without a trace of lingering embarrassment. Whenever he was with Laslow, that was where he belonged.
"We've nothing left of our old lives except each other and our fading memories… Do you ever think of our original world anymore? The one we were born in?" Laslow whispered.
Odin hummed in agreement. Laslow's fingers casually interlaced with his.
"I do. Mostly at night. I… have trouble sleeping sometimes because of it."
"Ah. So you too, then."
Odin had helped Selena with her bad dreams. If Laslow wished it, he would gladly work the same magic for him. He need only ask.
He rubbed his thumb in slow circles against Laslow's hand as he spoke. "I also think of the other world," Odin admitted with a bittersweet smile. "Of seeing my mother for the first time since… Gods, it was wonderful seeing her alive and well after what happened in our time."
Laslow leaned his head against Odin's shoulder with a contented sigh as they reminisced. Odin squeezed his hand a little tighter, and readjusted his posture to allow Laslow a more comfortable resting place. No matter the time or place, he would always have a shoulder to lean on, after all.
Nohrians congregated at the armory and the stables, buzzing with nervous tension as they readied their weapons and steeled their resolve. Lord Xander ordered all units to prepare for battle with Hoshido at high noon. They wouldn't have much time before formation. Odin moved purposefully through the courtyard, past the rose gardens to find Laslow in the shadow of the castle gate.
Their eyes met, and for once, Odin had no words to impart.
He slowly backed Laslow against the stone wall, one hand resting on the jut of his hipbone, one hand brushing the curve of his jaw as he held his gaze. Then Odin kissed Laslow slowly and sweetly, and sighed as he felt Laslow melt into his touch. Odin pressed firm kiss after kiss to the tip of his nose, to each of his cheeks, then to his lips again, showering him with deliberate, lingering affection. Laslow's fingers threaded softly through Odin's hair as he leaned into the gentle embrace they'd both been patiently waiting for.
Somewhere on the other side of the gate, Niles loudly cleared his throat. After a beat, Lord Leo coughed uncomfortably near him.
A chuckle rumbled in Odin's chest as Laslow flinched back, color rising high along his cheekbones. He looked dazed, eyes dark and unfocused, hair ruffled out of place.
Odin laced their fingers together and pulled Laslow's hand to his lips, pressing one last adoring kiss to his knuckles.
It was the hand that he'd held each time he took the plunge into a new world, a hand he knew to mean comfort and home. He didn't know if one day he would hold that hand and cross the threshold into Ylisse once more, or if they would let go of the past and continue their story as Odin Dark and Laslow of the Indigo Skies.
He only knew that he wasn't afraid of the battle to come, because Laslow would be at his side. As long as they had each other, Odin would fight a thousand wars, and wouldn't care if the bards never sang his praises once. He would follow Laslow wherever he wanted to be.
"Let's get going, Inigo," Odin whispered.
And Laslow smiled just for him.