desperate measures

kiss me, just once, for luck. – phantom/mercedes.

Hundreds of years ago when the Black Mage ran rampant the world was crumbling and chaotic but this –

This is total war. The War to end all Wars. The War of Worlds.

The Alliance is strong – she believes, she believes – and they continue to push on through sheer force and numbers. Perhaps Athena was right. Perhaps, no longer just five souls on a fool's quest, they can do this right this time around –

And then Aran falls, hit in the head by an enemy's lucky strike. The pole arm almost screams and a chill goes down her spine because it is raw, painful and so human-like. The swiftest of the Alliance, she is at the white-haired woman's side within mere seconds praying to the Spirit for her friend to live through this.

The warrior is not, but Mercedes sees that there is no hope. There is a noticeable dent in one side of her head and the long, beautiful snow-white hair is beginning to get dyed a red shade. An ugly, blood-red shade.

"Sorry, Maha," the warrior croaks and then the light in her blue eyes falls dim.

Mercedes stares for a grand total of three seconds before she whips around, guns aimed at the insolent fool who dared to –

Only to see that the culprit lies dead, a thousand cards embedded in his body to the point of being unrecognizable as a former living being. The thief stands over them, eyes not quite visible under his hat.

"Thank you," she says, because if Aran couldn't stand it –

(she chokes at the thought)

Then she would have fallen as well.

Phantom grabs the pole arm, ignoring the streaks of lightning burning his hands, and lays the most magnificent weapon across the hands of the fallen hero.

He dawdles, though. Just when she is about to chastise him for dragging his feet in battle of all places, he says something. "These desperate times call for desperate measures, your highness."

She isn't sure what he means – has it not been 'desperate times' ever since the Black Mage was unsealed? – and is wary at being called 'your highness' when he gives her a quick kiss on the lips.

Then, before she can kill him, he's gone.

. . .

"Is it true that the kiss of a fairy queen brings victory?"

"I'm an elf," Mercedes says immediately.

He gives her a look. "You didn't answer my question," he points out.

She sighs, grumbles and curses Danika because it's got to be the Elder of War who's responsible for this. "Yes."

"Ah," he says and leans back against the tree, sunning himself like a lazy cat instead of training to face the Black Mage.

"Do not attempt to kiss Ephenia," she warns him. "She hates humans as it is. There's no need to make her hate them even more."

"Who said anything about kissing Ephenia?" he raises an eyebrow at her. "But, for the sake of argument, if I kissed her she'd stop helping the Black Mage and hating humans as much as she does. Mr. Sunlight over there, on the other hand . . . ."

Their 'wonderful' conversation is terminated then when Luminous charges at him with his shining rod, intent on killing the thief.

. . .

Embarrassingly, she is knocked out during battle. She wakes in a field hospital, a potion dripping steadily into her veins. Just like how they left Aran after she became injured in the first stance against the Black Mage.

Mercedes rips the needle out of her arm and welcomes the pain. How many? How many has she lost this time?

She regrets asking the question when she recognizes the brown hair and the dragon headband, lying next to the unmoving last Onyx Dragon in the line of dead.

. . .

"Did you kiss Freud?"

That's too far, even for him. She trains her eyes on the crossbow guns in her hand, knowing that she can't shoot him, he's an ally –

And, even if she could justify her action, the thought of the warmly-smiling dragon master stops any attempts of violence. So in the memory of the peacekeeper she does not shoot him. "No," she says and avoids the train of thought's logical destination.

He is anything but clueless. He picks up the hint from her clipped answer, her body language, and leaves her alone.

. . .

Was it her fault? Perhaps if she kissed Freud, just once, for luck then maybe this wouldn't have had to happen. Phantom wouldn't have gotten to the 'desperate measures'. She had been the one to let it get to desperate measures. It's her fault.

Isn't it?

She shoves the voice of doubt away, refusing to wallow in guilt and maybes and what-ifs. Mercedes stands up, ignoring the pain in her legs.

He's in the ruined pavilion of Ereve. The bird lies in the pagoda, eyes closed and tears running down its pain-filled face like twin streams. Ereve is no longer in danger, no longer in need of its protective shields, but even if it were needed there is no way to channel Shinsoo's powers. Not anymore.

The last dragon. The last empress.

His eyes are blank. "It worked," he tells her when she comes close. "I wasn't there – got knocked out cold – but they tell me that he's gone now. It worked."

How many had she grown close to in the short time she'd been awake? How many had she lost?

Far too many. "Did it?"

Phantom pats her back and stands up. There is a blood stain on his left leg, one that is spreading fast, but he doesn't even seem to register it. "Of course it did."

Inspired by Marianas Trench's 'Desperate Measures'.