Coming of Age

Day 3: Gift

On the day that he came of age, Crown Prince Xander was escorted to the central hall of Castle Krakenburg just as the timekeepers sounded the midday bell. His retainers fussed over him, helping him into the heavy ceremonial gown, and urging haste as they strode towards the hall.

The great double doors were thrown open, revealing that the massive chamber was filled to overflowing. Officials, nobles, courtiers, servants, people of all every stripe packed the halls. His family was also there – his mother, father's concubines, and his siblings, all staring at him with mixed expressions of anticipation and envy.

But his attention was arrested by the lone figure that sat at the far end of the room, on a great throne of gold and red. He stood, and the room fell silent.

"My son." Garon did not raise his voice, yet it seemed to carry through the vastness of the entire hall. "Come forward."

And Xander suddenly felt his knees go weak. He tried to keep an impassive look on his face as he strode forward, and tried to project the image of a worthy crown prince to the people assembled in the hall.

Once before King Garon, he tucked his knees, kneeling before his father – the king – and set his gaze firmly on the ground. In some ways this was easier; he didn't have to look at anyone and it would be harder for anyone to see the expression on his face.

"Today is my son's coming of age." The speech was a rehearsed one, and Xander tuned it out in favour of wondering if he had made a faux pas of any sort that would make him look ridiculous, like having food stuck to his teeth. "He has grown from a babe to a boy, and today, he takes his first step into becoming a man."

As his father continued to speak, Xander drew in a sharp breath and wondered what his father was thinking. At twelve years of age, Xander's achievements in life were still few. He knew his trainers were still displeased at his slow progress with the sword and lance. He was passable at riding, but hardly excelled. He fared little better at lessons on history and languages, oftentimes forgetting basic facts that he had studied just the day before.

Xander knew that father received daily reports on his progress. And he knew that father had to be disappointed that the crown prince, his eldest son, had exhibited so little talent.

Did he mean those flowery words he speaking right now? Could he possibly mean them?

And then-

"Stand, my son." The tone in father's voice changed, carrying the subtle nature of a command. Even that was rehearsed – they knew by now that speeches could be long, and this was a signal to regain lost attention.

Well, that was natural. They had arrived at the main focus of the ceremony.

The gift.

When a prince or princess of Nohr came of age, the king would present to them a gift. Something that reflected the hopes and aspirations they had for their child, something that could be used to guide them in the future.

Xander's gaze rose at the same time he did. And it took all his self-control not to let his mouth fall open in shock.

King Garon stood in front of him. And in his outstretched arms, he held a long scabbard, deep maroon in colour.

Even if Xander had not seen the intricately carved hilt, the power that hummed within the sword was unmistakeable for anything else.

Siegfried.

The shadow blade.

A legendary weapon forged in the days of the First War. One of Nohr's greatest treasures.

In some distant corner of his mind he had always accepted that he would indeed wield that blade one day. But to be presented it here, now? To be saddled with the weight of the sword and all the duty it represented, the first day of his journey into adulthood?

For a moment he wanted to cry out, to say he was not worthy of it. To refuse his father's gift to him.

Instead he reached out, feeling numb as fingers closed around the offered sword.

"Xander, my son." Garon nodded, every inch the proud, loving father. "You are Nohr's hope. You are Nohr's light. And with this blade, may you carve a path to greater prosperity for our people and our home."

As cheers erupted all around him, Xander could do nothing but fight the urge to let his dismay show.

Later that night, long after the ceremony had ended, Xander found himself alone with his father in his bedchamber.

"You wished to speak to me, Xander?" Garon did not lift his head from the desk. "Is anything the matter?"

"Yes, I..." Xander paused, took a deep breath. "Father... the Siegfried... are you sure you want me to have it?"

His father did not reply for a long moment. Then he lifted his head and turned to look at Xander.

"My dear boy, of course I am! I once bore that sword as well, you know. And I can think of no better gift to bestow upon you."

"It's just that... I'm not a great warrior. I know I've just come of age today, but... I still wouldn't be able to put the sword to proper use."

A moment of silence, and then King Garon laughed, a loud booming sound that seemed to echo through the room.

"Land's sakes, my boy!" And he stood, walking over and clapping Xander on the shoulder. "What did you think 'coming of age' meant? That you would know everything of ruling, be at the peak of your strength?"

No, of course not, but Xander knew that giving such an answer was not needed, and so he merely shook his head once.

"Of course not! What it means is that you're ready to take your first steps out into the world as your own person. You'll continue to grow, to learn, to change. But now, you can do it on your own terms."

Garon's voice grew softer, and he crouched until he was eye level with Xander. The hand that was on his shoulder squeezed once, a gesture of affection.

"Xander, my boy..." he took a deep breath. "If you don't think yourself worthy of Siegfried now, then grow. Grow into a knight, a prince, a man, worthy of the sacred sword, and worthy of leading our nation. I know you can."

Xander licked at lips that suddenly felt too dry. "You... do you truly think so, father?"

"I have no doubt." His father's smile widened. "I only hope that when that day comes and you become a truly great leader of our proud nation, I will be there to see it for myself."

In the room, lit in a warm orange glow, and staring at his father's kindly face, Xander could almost believe that to be true.

On the day that she came of age, Princess Camilla barely remembered it at first.

There were more pressing matters on hand. Such as survival.

Backstabbing and infighting had become the way of the royal court. After a long while she had been able to almost believe that this sort of thing was normal. Their mothers all fighting to curry favour with King Garon. Their children, to be used as tools and rungs to climb the ladder to success in the upper echelons of the court. Camilla had almost learned to live with it by now.

So naturally they had decided to up the ante. If the children were their rivals' tools to jockey for positions and power, then it was only natural that they seek to remove those tools.

Now it seemed every other week brought new reports of another child or concubine found dead, whether in their own chambers or in an isolated corner of the bastion. And now it seemed that Camilla couldn't walk anywhere without looking over her shoulders, wondering if this would be the day one of her brothers or sisters decided she was an obstacle that needed removing.

So it was natural that thoughts about her coming of age were barely on Camilla's mind as she spent another miserable day in the halls of Castle Krakenburg, trying to keep a low profile and trying not to jump at every shadow.

And it was quite by chance that she ran into King Garon near the lower gardens.

The two of them looked at each other in silence for a while before Camilla remembered her manners and hastily moved to curtsy.

Garon, meanwhile, took a long moment to struggle to his feet. "... Camilla," he said after a pause, as if the word had been on the tip of his tongue. Likely he'd needed a moment to remember which one of his daughters she was.

It surprised her how dispassionate she felt about that thought.

Nevertheless, she lowered her head further. "Lord Father," she said, putting as much respect as she could into her voice.

"You may raise your head," the voice was soft. And as she did so, she beheld a face that looked... worn. Exhausted, and older than the actual years that had sank into the skin.

How much was their father to blame for the pit of vipers that now comprised the Nohrian Royal Court? For the rest of her life, Camilla would never be able to find a satisfactory answer to that question. All she knew was that he had retreated from the chaos and the bloodbath, retreating deep within himself.

Yet now he stood, walking over to her.

"What brings you here today?" He cupped his chin as he looked down at her, his expression thoughtful. And Camilla was about to reply with a non-answer, simply that she was wandering about and had nothing better to do, when her father nodded. "Come to think of it, today was supposed to be a special day for you, was it not?"

She was surprised enough that a blink was her only response for a moment. Special? It was her birthday, certainly, but...

A sigh, and a sad, watery attempt at a laugh. "It really is getting harder for me to keep track of things. And after I went through the trouble of making preparations for you, too!"

"P – preparations, lord father?"

"Indeed," Garon smiled at her and reached out a hand, "come, walk with me, daughter."

And in years to come, when the castle grew ever colder and emptier, when Garon no longer smiled and instead sat cloistered in his chambers nursing ambition and pride, when wizards and charlatans had the king's ears, and when blood became the currency of the realm, Camilla would sometimes reach back and remember, that one afternoon her father had smiled at her and held her hand as the two of them walked towards the stables.

"And there she is!" Garon smiled as they stepped into the room. Two handlers looked up long enough to bow.

"Is she ready?"

"Yes, your majesty!" The senior member saluted before his gaze travelled to Camilla. "Is she...?"

"Indeed she is. Come, bring her out."

"... Are you sure she won't be frightened? It's – I know it's still an infant, but-"

Garon's smile had vanished by now. "My daughter," he said, emphasizing that word, "is made of sterner stuff than you know. It is not in your veins that the blood of the ancient dragons flow. Now, bring her out."

"Y – yes, of course! At once!"

And Camilla, young and curious, watched as the man turned around and shouted instructions. And then her eyes widened in delight and wonder as she saw what the men were bringing out.

It was small – as the man said, still an infant. But it was still almost the same size as he father, and its shape was unmistakeably that of-

"A wyvern!" she gasped out, unable to control herself.

"Yes... I do recall you telling your mother you'd always wanted one." Garon patted her on the back. "Go on. Get acquainted."

And suddenly, looking at the beast up close, Camilla felt a rush of anxiety. "Is it... is it safe?"

"Indeed, wyverns can be ornery beasts." Garon nodded. "But they're loyal. Treat her right, and you'll have a companion for life."

The thought appealed to Camilla; a relationship defined by a simple mutual affection. And so she stepped forward, offering a cautious hand to the creature.

The wyvern eyed her as well, before lowering its head. And Camilla found herself running her hand along its neck.

It let out a sound not unlike a purring cat, and Camilla found herself laughing.

For a moment, it was possible for her to forget the backstabbing, the treachery, the murder. It was just her, receiving a gift of a new pet from her beloved father the king.

One week after meeting her new wyvern pet (and she had trouble thinking up a name for him), she awoke to the smell of blood. One of her brothers had snuck into her room with a knife, acting on his mother's orders to rid them of competition. The enraged wyvern drake had jumped on him and promptly torn out his throat.

One year before his coming of age, Leo had noticed an aged book in the library. It was resting on a raised pedestal, a squad of four guards flanking it at all times. Even at this distance, and even as rudimentary as he was in the arcane arts, he could feel the sheer amount of magic radiating from the tome.

Brynhildr, he learned. One of the legendary weapons from the First Wars. One of Nohr's greatest treasures.

"If you've an eye on claiming that tome for yourself, I suggest you perish the thought," Iago had sneered when he noticed Leo's eyes travelling to the book. The court mage of King Garon, he was also currently Leo's magic teacher and had made it abundantly clear that he considered this task a waste of his time and his talents. Leo would have agreed except it would mean accepting the idea that the man had any talent whatsoever.

"I looked at it. That doesn't mean I want it," he said, keeping his words short and curt.

"Well, good. Because it takes more than a few drops of dragon blood in your veins to be able to lay claim to ancient magics." Iago's lips curled back into an unpleasant grin. "Even with my teaching, I'll be amazed if you can pull off a simple Fire spell by the time you've come of age!"

Leo found he could not disagree; with Iago teaching him, it was long odds on him ever being able to master even the most basic spells. But he kept his words to himself, and kept his gaze lowered to his books for the rest of the lesson.

Yet the thought would not pass from his mind. Late that night, as he tossed and turned in bed, he kept returning to the idea.

A legendary tome. An ancient magic.

Why shouldn't he be able to lay claim to it?

Thought he had been too young to remember more than the vaguest details, he knew that Xander had been given Siegfried when he had come of age. He must have shown amazing skill with a blade even then, if it had been personally granted to him by father... certainly King Garon wasn't the kind of person to do something because he'd wanted to be magnanimous or anything of the sort.

And so he had practised. More and more time of each and every day was devoted to studying magic, even if he was still careful not to neglect his riding and swordfighting lessons. Iago was useless, and so Leo spent long hours alone in the library, poring over book after dusty book, learning how to conserve, draw upon, increase the reserves of power he held within himself.

It was easy, honestly, to find long uninterrupted hours to practice. The palace was silent and empty now, the wars of concubines jockeying for power having long since burnt itself out into a hollow shell of nothing. King Garon had grown sterner and harsher as the years went on, meting out fearsome punishments to those who defied him, and demanding Nohr's industries turn once more to being prepared for war.

Access to Brynhildr itself was prohibited, for Leo was still technically a child, and so he studied books written about the legendary tome instead, about how it had the ability to manipulate earth and darkness, about the incantations and spells previous holders of the tome had crafted from the raw magic that pulsed within.

Finally, on the day that he came of age, he demanded to be given the right to prove himself.

"Preposterous!" Iago sputtered. "You can barely manage to summon a bolt of lightning and you think to wield Brynhildr? Are you trying to make a fool of me, boy?"

"You can rest assured I don't care how I make you look," Leo fired back. "I've come of age. I've the right to demand a trial to test my worthiness. And I do demand it."

Nohrian law was blunt on that matter at least. And so Iago made the arrangements for the ceremony, grumbling all the while that this was going to be a colossal waste of time and that Leo was merely going to fail and embarrass himself, and he had no one but himself to blame.

When the time came, Leo stepped forward. Brynhildr lay open on the platform ahead of him. He could see chains forged of pure ether holding the book in place – he would not be allowed to actually lift and hold the tome for himself unless he proved himself worthy.

Further ahead, the bound Faceless growled, a deep sonorous sound, and Leo pursed his lips in distaste. Ordinarily all he would have had to do was call upon enough of the book's power to create a spell of the earth. But Iago had apparently decided that he'd need to show he had enough power to slay a Faceless as well.

Oh well. That wouldn't be too much of a problem-

A shriek of tortured metal giving way rang in his ears, and Leo lifted his head in time to see the Faceless rise, the monster's restraints falling in a broken heap around it.

The creature charged him, raising a fist that was easily the size of Leo's entire body.

He would have about two seconds to save himself. Maybe less.

Leo rested his palm on Brynhildr and uttered a single word of command.

A burst of verdant light, and a forest of leafy spears sprung out of the ground, stabbing deep through the charging Faceless and halting it in its tracks. The creature howled its rage and agony, before stumbling back and falling to the ground with a thud that shook the earth.

Suddenly, Leo realized he had been holding in his breath, and he released it in a rush. He made a half-turn to glare at Iago, who at least looked rather pale and had already opened his own tome. He would have been too late to save Leo, but... well, he'd tried.

A flash of movement from the shadows in the balcony above them caught Leo's attention, but as he raised his eyes to look, he could discern nothing there.

He was just about to leave the chamber when an aide rushed up to him, and bowed deeply.

"What is it?"

"His Majesty King Garon would like to convey that he was impressed with your mastery of the tome, Prince Leo. He decrees that henceforth, Brynhildr is granted to you, as it was passed through the royal line of Nohr in days past."

Leo blinked. Father was... watching?

He supposed he shouldn't have felt so surprised by that fact. And he supposed he should have been happy father had decided him worthy of being granted the tome.

But still, a tiny part of him couldn't help feeling upset that King Garon had apparently not found it necessary to come tell him in person. To say that he was proud of what Leo had achieved.

Would that have been too much to ask, father?

The chains binding Brynhildr in place faded away, and Leo lifted the book, tucking it under his arm as he turned and strode from the room.

One week before the day that Elise was to come of age, Xander had appeared in the doorway, telling her that they would soon be making a trip to the Northern Fortress, and that she should get herself ready.

Likely he'd anticipated her whoop of delight, and so he'd merely smiled (and barely winced at all) before leaving to make his own preparations.

Elise had quickly found and informed both Effie and Arthur, who had nodded and rushed off to get everything ready for the departure.

And now they were on the way there, to see Corrin again! (And Arthur had only gotten himself lost and had bricks from the ceiling dislodge themselves and fall on his head twice.) Elise was practically vibrating in her seat with excitement.

At her side, Leo kept his head buried in a book, only glancing out occasionally. The snow had fallen, thick enough that everything around the road was covered in a blanket of pure white.

Xander rode at the vanguard, keeping watch for any signs of trouble, while Camilla flew overhead, checking the roads ahead for anything that might delay their journey. That was how they had always travelled. The elder ones moving ahead, but always being sure to stay close by.

Always together.

And eventually, they all arrived safely at the Northern Fortress, just the day before Elise's birthday. She saw Gunter standing at the entrance to welcome them, alongside Flora and Felicia. Jakob appeared next, telling them that Corrin had had a late night and needed rest – but just a moment later their sister had appeared in the doorway, practically flying as she tackled Elise and wrapped her arms around her in a bear hug.

It was always like this, Elise thought happily. They were able to visit the Northern Fortress often – but never often enough. So much so that everyone was able to quickly settle into the routines, to unpack in the rooms allocated for their stay and to seek out old haunts.

Here, they were finally complete. Here, they were a whole family once more.

Late that night, Elise had stayed up chatting the hours away with Corrin despite Camilla's not-so-subtle hints that they two of them would be better off going to bed. Leo and Xander were sitting together heads bowed over a strategy game of some kind. And then Leo raised his head.

"Oh, it's past midnight already."

"Is it now?" Xander turned to smile at Elise – an expression that had become rarer on his face, of late. "Well, happy birthday, sister!"

"Happy birthday!" And for the next few minutes there was the sounds of joyous laughter and people congratulating her.

And after it had died down, Camilla heaved a sigh.

"What is it?"

"Oh, I was just thinking... you know, it used to be a tradition that when we came of age, our father would present a gift to us. They used to make a big deal out of it."

"True..." Xander's eyes drifted to Siegfried, still lying in its scabbard. "It still seems like yesterday I received this sword."

Elise blinked. She'd certainly never heard of this tradition herself, and she turned to Leo for clarification. "So, what happened? I never heard about being given gifts."

Her brother snorted and shook his head. "It stopped. I suppose our father lost interest, what with..." he trailed off, glanced at Camilla and Xander before continuing. "Not knowing if there would still be children to give gifts to."

He was speaking in veiled words again, discussing things that they did not want Elise (and Corrin) to know about, and Elise frowned. Corrin shrugged in response, leaning back in her chair as she sipped at her mug of hot chocolate.

"I guess I wouldn't know about that," she admitted. "After all, I've never even seen father before."

A silence fell upon the group of them until Camilla broke it with an indulgent sigh. "Well, whatever the reason, that particular tradition has stopped. But!" she continued, a smile on her face. "There's no reason we can't make new ones!"

"Ooh, that sounds fun!" Elise jumped up. "So? Like what? What kind of traditions?"

"Oh, there's no need to make it complicated," Camilla laughed into the back of her hand. "For example, we could have a tradition... where no matter what happens, we'll always come together to enjoy being a family again."

Elise laughed at that. "We already do that, silly!"

"And if we all find it enjoyable and fulfilling, then I see no reason to stop." Xander's expression was warm.

"I think it's a great idea!" Corrin smiled, sitting up straighter in her chair. "I mean... you really don't know how much it means to me, having all of you come to visit so often. It's... well, your being here is like a present, all on its own."

"Family is precious, after all." Camilla nodded, and for a moment, her gaze was distant.

"Indeed it is," Leo nodded. He raised his own glass. "Well then, to family!"

The siblings smiled and laughed as they raised whatever they had been drinking with.

"To family!"

Outside, the snowstorm continued to howl.

Inside, there was warmth, and laughter, and smiles, and love.

Elise didn't know much about the traditions of old. But if there was supposed to be a gift given to her on her coming of age?

This. This was already all she could ever ask for.

Story End

Author Notes: This was originally conceived as a really short piece. In fact it was supposed to be shorter than my Joshua and Gerik entry.

As you can see, that did not happen.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this! Reviews and comments are most welcome!