Because it was always going to end this way. Falling back into the grip of Bern, so tight you couldn't tell if it was embracing or killing you.
Eliwood's army was marching closer to the finish, and everyone knew it. The air was sharper with the taste of danger and no one seemed to be escaping any battles unscathed, often leaving Serra, Lucius and Priscilla running nonstop, back and forth between injured units. Their army clashed against an all new breed of evil, against twisted Kings and cold-sworn killers that were raised on the taste of blood, against enemies that attacked in a rage with madness glinting off their swords.
It would have been so easy to give up, for many of them to sheath their weapons and turn their backs. But these were the types of people for whom failure was a faraway option and so they pushed on, following a trail of death and fighting that led them to the snow-peaked mountains of his home - his former home. Where Heath had first met love and betrayal at the hands of a country that he had promised loyalty and his life too, and in return had been thrown chaos and corruption.
Morale had lowered as Lyn's tracking had led them higher and higher into the biting air and frequent snowfall. Most of the horsemen traveled now with an extra foot soldier perched behind them, the heavy snow making it almost impossible to walk at some places. Movement was slow and nights were cold and painfully long. Much of the group slept close together, huddled in tents and bedrolls, trying to conserve as much heat as possible before the greedy cold stole it away. Heath, strangely, didn't use his his tent, instead sleeping propped against a curled Hyperion. Just like they used to, back when he was a sworn Knight of Bern, when his regiment used to sweep across the skies. They used to make a sight so grand, twenty young knights on the backs of wyverns, swords and scales gleaming in the pale sunlight. Peasants and farmers below would stop and stare after their shadows, used to feel pride at the display. That was when the wyvern knights were still protectors of the land, before they were bent and re-sculpted to an unhinged King's will.
It's been a long time since then, Heath would think on the back his wyvern. Hyperion knew home as well as Heath did, and the wyvern reveled in the higher altitudes and familiar bedrock. The cold didn't bother Heath like it did the rest of the trope. After all, he'd been raised with it, and the familiar temperature cast itself across him like an old set of armor.
In spite of the politics and in spite of the judgement branded across him, Heath could not deny he was home.
Isaac, Lachius, Belminade. The names tumbled over and over in his mind as the days wore on, their faces growing fresher as Lyn led them deeper into the mountains of Bern. Isaac, Lachius, Belminade. Vaida's raiders.
Some nights it rested uneasy on Heath. He had deserted, yes, he had fled his law's punishment. But hadn't the law turned itself against him, first? When they coiled it up and used it like a whip on him and his unit, to force them against innocents? Was he still a man of honor? A martyr was one thing, a deserter from Bern was another, and he'd made his choice long ago.
But now here was, catching snowflakes in his hair and sleeping under the constellations with the names Bern had given them. Here to save the Prince of a King that he was no longer sure what he owed. What was honor now? Isaac would know. Isaac had always had things to say, things to ponder on. They all used to joke about it, poke fun at Isaac who they said would lose his head over philosophy before a battle axe any day.
It had been an arrow in the end for him, though. A torrent of arrows from Bern's finest archers, and they left Bern's finest mind a stabbed and bleeding body, wrapped in the dead wings of his wyvern.
Lachius and Belminade fell so soon after, telling Heath to run, telling Heath to turn around, telling Heath what was it all for if every one of them died out here? So he ran, again, and lived, again, as a deserter twice over. Maybe life wasn't so noble, but at least he was alive. How sweet could honor be when you could only taste it with death's lips anyway?
Besides, for all his running and hiding, where was he now? Where was he now but stuck somewhere in an honorless limbo, watching the sun set while propped against his wyvern's back, feeling the slow chill of anticipation for tomorrow's battle. Where was he now, but back in Bern?
Isaac, Lachius, Belminade.
It was worse than anything they had yet faced. Their army was spread out across a battlefield that more resembled a labyrinth of mountains and buildings. Black Fang members crawled in from all sides while snow barreled down on the weary army. All their tactician's carefully laid out plans were blown to pieces in the snowy torrent, with every man fending for himself, and Jerme's unsettling laughter drifting towards them on the wind.
No one was doing well. As Hyperion glided over forts and mountains, Heath watched the sporadic fighting taking place beneath them. Kent and Raven were driving back a whole force of generals, while Priscilla attended to a dangerously pale Wil who lay sprawled across the snowy ground. Eliwood and Hector were pushed between a wall of rock and row of Black Fang soldiers, Hector wheeling his axe around with pure force while Eliwood ducked and darted, jabbing at one enemy before quickly withdrawing to tackle the next. In another clearing Matthew and Guy were fighting back to back, Guy almost seeming to be supporting a wounded Matthew who was standing on snow that was far too red.
Heath himself wasn't well off. A well thrown javelin from earlier had torn a huge gash down his left arm earlier, and the best he'd been able to do was improvise a bandage with a bit of torn cloth from his tunic. He was feeling light headed, and he could almost feel the tiredness in his wyvern as they soared further. They were tired and they were injured, but so was everyone else. Heath gripped his lance tighter, jaw set in determination as he spurred Hyperion upwards, their last orders from the tactician pulsing in his mind: Always push forwards. This wind was nothing. This snow was nothing. Bern's wyverns were born into freezing lands and learned to fly on hurricanes. Knights and wyverns learned that nothing short of death itself could stop them, and even that wouldn't be accepted as an excuse by their commanders.
Steel on steel rang out from dangerously close by, the source hidden within the thick veil of snow. Heath could only push forwards.
Kent called him Lord and promised him a position as a Caelin Knight. Both thoughts amused him. That someone still felt him deserving of the title of 'Lord,' that he could leave behind life as a mercenary to pick up a crested shield, defend a House and Country.
The offer shimmered on the edge of his dreams like some far off mirage. Return a Knight. The very thought made him swell, put an old straightness in his spine and ferocity in his fighting. He had been bred to fight a noble cause, not strike up seedy deals in taverns to protect caravans or work with mercenary groups that killed children the same as men, so long as the coin was good. 'All gold shines the same' they used to say when Heath felt his morals resurfacing like something unpleasant in his throat, 'Don't think - just do your job.'
So now he flew into battle as a Caelin Knight, as a servant of Lady Lyndis. And he fought with newly-determined honor.
He'd found the source of the sword fight, and it made his blood run cold in a way Bern's snowstorms' never could.
How Lady Lyndis had wandered this far onto the front, alone, Heath couldn't even begin to answer. How she had managed to wander this far out and engage in battle with Jerme, he didn't have time to think about. Even from his distance, the situation was painfully clear. His Lady was alone, wounded, and losing.
"Hyah! Go, Hyperion, go!"
He slammed his boots into the wyvern's thick side, spurring Hyperion forwards. The air came slashing at his face, blowing back his hair and forcing his eyes to water, but he kept himself focused on the scene ahead. A laughing Jerme, fresh in the battle, who danced around and jabbed playfully, drawing out the fight while Lyn, exhausted, panting, and burdened with her own share of wounds, refused to back down.
Then Hyperion was roaring onto the scene, diving towards a startled Jerme who only just ducked out of the way, rolling backwards before popping back onto his feet, staring in front of him.
"My Lady!" called Heath to Lyndis, "Are you alright?"
She was practically leaning on her sword for support, but she nodded, saying, "I'm fine, Heath, but -"
He didn't need to hear the rest, wheeling his mount around to face Jerme, who was smiling in a way that made Heath felt sick. Beneath the layers of madness, some flash of rationality gleamed.
"A wyvern rider, eh? One of Bern's own." A twisted grin unfurled itself across his face, and Jerme waggled his sword at Heath as though scolding a child, "Fighting here?" He giggled. There was a sinister streak in the way he moved, the way he talked and laughed. Something was distinctly off-kilter about the man, made all the more worrisome because you couldn't see it. Madness was hidden about him like a shadow in the dark. Heath tightened his grip on his lance, grit his teeth against the pain in his wounded arm, tried to block out Jerme's words. "Fighting here! Fighting in the wrong skin, I can see. Well..." A grin like steel. "I'll just have to cut it away!"
The man dashed forwards, and Heath had to attribute the man's gall to rush a mounted Wyvern to his clear madness. Hyperion roared and lunged forwards without prompting, jaws snapping towards the man. But Jerme was quick and darted swiftly to the side. Shouting gleefully he raised his sword up but, instead of bringing it down in an arc Heath had expected, he simply kept it pointing straight upwards. Suddenly there was a surrounding crack in the air, and a streak of lightning shot straight down and through Hyperion's left wing.
The wyvern reared quickly, roaring in the pain, and Heath's mind was racing. Hyperion's wound was bad and needed treatment; the wings of a wyvern were perhaps the place where they were most vulnerable, considering the thick veins that ran through them. But he had no time now, not when the homicidal Jerme was already darting swiftly about again, moving to Hyperion's right, beginning to raise the glowing blade once more...
"Coward!" roared Heath, launching a javelin at the man. Jerme dodged it easily, but it distracted him from summoning another deadly bolt. It gave Heath just enough time to dismount from the wounded wyvern, launching himself onto the ground across from Jerme, a blood-stained lance clenched firmly in his right hand. The pain in his left arm screamed at his sudden movement, and behind him he could still hear Hyperion's heavy pants, each gasp tearing at the one shared part of his heart.
Lyndis was still leaning on her sword, torn between her need to fight and her body's inability to comply, while Heath's own body ached and cried, the both of them forced to weariness from the battle's harshness. Meanwhile Jerme, fresh in the fray, had not a single mark on him. Heath shook his head, trying to banish the dizziness he felt. How far away were they from the army's main body? How long would it be for them to arrive? Before he could be sure of Lyndis's safety?
"I'm the coward?" called Jerme, starting to circle around the wyvern knight. Heath, unused to fighting with the ground beneath his fight, followed the slow movements, lance at the ready. The madman was unsuccessfully stifling chuckles, uncontrollable little bursts of laughter that seemed to slip from the sides of his mouth. "So says the wyvern rider who fights against Bern! What kind of a rider is that? Hehehe!"
He bolted forwards, sword swinging wildly. Heath braced his body against the stroke, blocking with his lance. Jerme fought with a style tainted with a certain sort of craziness. His movements were swift and erratic, sloppy yet powerful. Heath's whole body shook with the force with which Jerme attacked, only for the madman to jump back and jump forwards, back and forwards, moving quickly, angrily, each stroke of the sword coming down with the same mad weight that made Heath's arms quiver.
"Heath! Be careful!" cried Lyn from the sidelines - useless advice, really. But he could sense in the strain of her words a sort of apology. It was so unlike her warrior nature to be stuck on the edge of the battle, unable to help.
"Oooh, yes," said Jerme slowly, standing at the ready. His breathing was a little more labored, though it was nothing compared to Heath's. "I can't wait to peel the flesh from the pretty girl's bones...I love the way they melt, ooh, gives me shivers!"
That was enough. This man was insane. This man was threatening his past and his future. Heath suddenly moved forwards, feinting to the right and slashing across Jerme's left when the man twitched away from the knight. Fresh blood glistened on the top of his lance as Jerme pulled away, howling in anger.
"Don't worry, traitor," spat Jerme, an acute realness flashing across his face. Somehow it frightened Heath more than his insane babbling, "I'll take care of you first!"
He was back upon him, a flurry of slashing, glowing steel. Heath was constantly moving backwards, throwing his lance against every swing, grunting as he conceded more and more ground. Jerme seemed oblivious to the free flowing wound on his left side as he continued to attack. He was a whirlwind, a tornado that was slowly circling itself closer and closer to Heath who was drawing on every last reserve to keep his arms up, his weapon forwards, to try and pierce through any part of Jerme's defense. But in his days before the plight of insanity, Jerme had been a top notch swordsman. And even in the haze that plagued him now, some of those instincts stuck with him.
Think of Lyndis, repeated Heath to himself, gritting his teeth as he thrust the lance forwards and towards Jerme's left, the swordsman easily sliding past the blow and swiping at Heath. The wyvern rider moved too slow, and he felt a fresh burst of pain as the sword's edge came away with his blood and skin. Think of Lyndis. Just survive enough to protect Lyndis. In the distance, through the wind's howling and the clash of Jerme's sword against his own weapon, he thought he could hear the faintness of a horse's hooves against the snow. Please, please let it be one of ours.
For some reason, as Jerme continued to take away scratches and jabs from Heath, who was fighting almost entirely defensively now, the image of Vaida came to mind. She would be furious with me, he thought, and he idea of it made him smile. The image of his Captain, all fury and vigor, yelling at them when they were still new recruits would never be lost on him. Heath! Stand up straighter! Grab that lance tighter! Who do you think's going to hand you a new one when you drop yours after your wyvern turns over in the air? NO ONE! You'll have no one but your own sorry self to blame when the enemy sticks one in your head! Well? Why aren't you gripping it tighter! You're the most pathetic knight I've ever seen!
He grinned, as Jerme tore at his right shoulder, leaving a new bloody wound. Vaida would be beside herself with anger. As he braced himself against Jerme, Heath couldn't help but realize suddenly how alone he was. How he was all that was standing between Jerme and Lyndis, and how he wasn't sure how much longer he'd remain standing.
I would've liked to see Vaida one more time, he thought, ducking Jerme's sword, I don't know if she's dead or alive - guess I might be finding out soon.
The hoofbeats were louder now, and looking over Jerme's shoulder Heath could just make out the shape of a horse and its rider, charging forwards from the snowy mist. As the knight got closer, Heath could see clearly now from the bright red armor and renewed charge that it was, thank the gods, the knight Kent who rode towards them.
And that was all it took. The welcome sight of another soldier, the solid realization that Lyndis would be fine, that this murderer wouldn't touch her - all the pain and tiredness took a renewed hold on Heath, who realized his job was done. He'd saved his Lady's life.
And it was all Jerme needed. While Kent was still plowing forwards, heels kicking at the side of his horse's mount, Jerme took advantage of Heath's dropped guard, dashing sideways, slipping straight through Heath's defense, and driving his sword up through the rider's ribs.
Jerme had only a second to grin at his triumph, before Kent was upon him, sword cleaving through Jerme like he was made of nothing more than paper.
God, it hurt. It really hurt at first, one unbelievable, tearing bite of pain. Heath wasn't sure how it happened, but somehow he'd ended up on his knees, and he seemed to still be moving further down, slamming against the ground. The earth made no sound, only his heart's last beating seemed to echo in his ears. Then someone was moving him, he was on his back, someone may have been yelling for him, for something. And he became conscious of the feel of something powerful and scaly hovering over him, something very familiar to him. His throat felt dry, his body broken. His head was swimming and in spite of how he tried, he couldn't seem to focus on any one thing. Vision was too much a burden in and of itself. All he really wanted to do, it seemed, was close his eyes.
What a fool he'd been. Bern was an animal that sunk its teeth in you and never let you go, even when you could no longer feel the pain. He'd never truly escaped, never truly deserted. How fitting to be dying here, in the land where he'd been sentenced to death. It had his life now, but at least it was in his own way. At least it wasn't a life stolen, but his to give, for the Lady Lyndis and Eliwood's army, for the freedom of these lands and for the future of his first home - for the future of Bern. It felt right, almost, to be lying in this empty mountain, watching as his country's snow took on the color of his blood.
"I fought with honor..." He said it so softly, maybe he hadn't said it all. But then, the blurring shapes above him had stopped at the sound of his voice, "I can ask nothing more."
Heath gave up one last smile, closed his eyes as Hyperion lay his head gently across his chest, and let Bern's snowy winds sweep away his last breath.