I've always liked Neimi and Colm as a couple. But I think she has more potential than the weepy little archer in the game. I tend to try and make the characters I think deserved more, strongest in the game so she ended up being a sniper. This is what I think would have happened to her character as the army went along if they had bothered to revisit Neimi and Colm, so I wrote about it.

Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem. I pinky swear. -.-

I always used to tease her when she cried. Pretend it annoyed me and that she was silly. I'd look down in those big magenta eyes that always looked a little bit more purple than pink to me, and then I'd scoff and tell her she was a crybaby. I say she was crying over nothing and that's how I made her feel better, by pretending it was all nothing and that there was nothing to worry about and if on the off chance that there was something to worry about, I'd handle it because nothing could be too hard for me to handle. Her eyelashes would always have little tears stuck to them and her lips would twitch up in a smile/frown that meant she was trying really hard to smile for me.

But now she's grown up. I don't know when it happened or how I didn't notice, but she grew up on me. I can remember lazy days in the meadow by her Grandfather's tiny house. I'd be lying on the grass and breathing in fresh air while she practiced firing her ratty and overused arrows into the big tree. They'd oft go astray, flying into the bushes and landing with thunks into the wrong tree. She'd never be put off, though. She'd just bounce over to the trees and pluck them out and wade into the berry bushes and dig for her now dull shafts. Those were the moments when she was happiest. I can remember the peaceful feeling, the way it felt to close my eyes and feel the sun on my skin. Sometimes when we're marching I like to close my eyes and feel the hot sun on my skin and occasionally the breeze on my face and then I'll pretend I'm back in the clearing. I'll pretend that I just lying there on my back enjoying the sunshine smell and listening to Neimi's arrows fly astray. But then a horse will jostle me or someone's armor will clang and I'll smell the now familiar stench of sweat and blood and then I'll open my eyes and I'll be back at war. I'll look up front, because that's where they put a soldier as invaluable as her and I'll watch the feathery ends of her hair brush against the now tanned skin on the nape of her neck. Her bow is slung over her shoulder like she always used to carry it and I can see the tie of her brown head band that holds off her bangs that she always used to wear down.

I can remember the first time she killed an animal. She was only nine and it was a cute little bunny with a fluffy tail that she had fired her arrow straight into. She had come to me sobbing hysterically, causing her small frame to shake and shudder and she carried the dead thing in outstretched hands in a reverent way, as if she were carrying some holy book rather than dinner. "I-I-I.. K-k-killed h-h-him…" I had sighed, planning what I was going to say in my head and mourning the loss of a good meal. "It's ok to kill stuff, Neimi." Her head snapped up and her wide eyes fixed on mine while her mouth gaped at a loss of what to say. "You eat your Grandad's meat stew, right?" "B-b-but…" She faded off and looked sadly at the rabbit. "Come on," I said while tugging her towards the clearing, "If it's really that important to you, we'll bury him." Her eyes had lit up at this new path of redemption and she nodded. "But just this one time though," I said in a serious voice. She had grinned though the tears and said in her soft voice, "T-thanks, c-colm…"

It's ok to kill stuff, Neimi.

I wasn't stuff she had to kill anymore. It was people- humans. They were brothers, sisters, mothers, aunts, sons, humans. She wasn't firing her arrows into a tiny little rabbit's heart that made a good price in the market. She was firing her arrows into people's flesh. I had watched her fire her first killing arrow. She held the wooden part of the bow (I never bothered to learn the name) with white knuckled fingers. Her hand was shaking and I could see that her face was a deathly pale. Her eyes were filled with raw fear of what would happen if she released the arrow. She would become a killer. A murderer. She would have taken away someone's life. I almost wanted to stop her. To scream, "Don't do it, Neimi!" I wanted to whack her bow down and grab her small hand, then tug her out of this hell and madness I had brought her into. But I knew it was him or us. He could die, or we could die. So I watched as Neimi gritted her teeth and slowly let go. The arrow moved at an impossibly slow pace. I watched it twist as it flew through the air, making small circles as it sped towards its oblivious target. Then it all seemed to speed up and the arrow thudded soundly into the bandit's neck. Blood seeped forth and his mouth opened in a bloody gurgle before he fell in a crumpled heap to the ground. I heard the soft gasp and turned to look at Neimi's wide eyes that were now brimming with shiny tears. But it wasn't silly this time. It wasn't nothing. It wasn't something I could handle. So I did only what I could and stepped forward wrapping my arms around her shaking frame. "I-I-I.. K-k-killed h-h-him…" I closed my eyes at the familiar words and hugged her tighter while wishing the sounds of screaming and the scent of metallic blood away. "It's ok," I said in a quivering voice. But we both knew it wasn't.

It's funny, how I always thought I was the grown up one. I was the mature one. I haven't killed. I've cut flesh and stole, but never killed. I thought I could, I thought it would be simple. But I couldn't. I couldn't bring my hands to move to my will and do it. I couldn't bring myself to actually do the one thing that she had done for me. She had been the one that matured and willed herself to do what she needed to. She had been the one to suck it up and do what I couldn't. She had been the one to protect me. I don't kill. And that was fine in the army, because I'm a thief and she's a soldier and I never thought I'd be the one to let her go.

After battles she used to cry. She'd sob on my shoulder and shake with what I knew was revulsion for herself. I'd hold her and stroke her hair, not saying anything but wishing that she had been smart enough to stay away from a cruel coward like me. After awhile her crying sessions stopped. After battles she would do nothing more than stare off into the distance, seeing something I couldn't. Probably dying faces, crimson flesh.

She'd go and fire her arrows into targets now and I'd sit by, watching her, wished she was firing dull arrows into the tree in the clearing. She didn't bounce up to pick up her arrows like she did when she still loved her craft. She didn't care if she missed because of how much fun she had firing. But now her movements were precise and controlled. She'd walk up to the target and I'd watch as she pulled her arrows out while walking back to her far away spot to shoot again. I watched as the arrows thudded closer and closer to the center and she moved farther and farther away from the target. Now her arrows split one another in the center even though I can barely see the lines on the target. Her movements are smooth and quick. Grab arrow. Notch arrow. Release. Grab arrow. Notch arrow. Release. I close my eyes and remember when she fumbled for her arrows from her rag tag quiver and held the bow loosely in relaxed fingers, giggling when she hit the part of wood on the tree she wanted to.

But now in battle I watch. Grab arrow. Notch arrow. Release. The same pattern over and over again. She swivels around while firing at a remarkable speed. She sprints along with the knights at the front lines, dodging lances and javelins while never missing a beat or a target. She's a sniper. The highest skilled rank for an archer. All her comrades congratulated her for it, her relentless training finally having paid off. But when I smiled and clapped her on the arm, my smile was painful and I felt my throat choke up when she turned to me with her vacant eyes. She smiled absently- as if I were some stranger or mercenary rather than her best friend- her boyfr- No.

She even matches the sniper Prince in skill. The army watches her in amazement, the weepy pink haired girl that stuttered. The lean and strong master of the bow. But they don't notice her empty eyes. The sad perfection of her movements. I dragged her along with me. The girl with sparkly purple-not-magenta-eyes that used to well up with tears.

I watch her take care of her armor and bow unconsciously after a battle. Her eyes are far away and I wonder if she's remembering running through the small town with bare feet in armorless clothing, giggling by my side. I wonder if she is remembering sniffling while I bandaged up a scraped knee from when she tripped while we walked in the woods. I wonder if she is remembering me teaching her how to set up a camp and cook meat on a small fire. I wonder if she is remembering sunny afternoons in the clearing when there was no bloody haze, no screaming that haunted you and no people to fire arrows into. But then I know she's remembering all the blood she spilled and the things she's had to do to grow up.

And then I wish she'd cry. And then I'd wish she'd cry so I could tell her it was nothing and that I could handle it. And then I'd wish we were back in the clearing.