"Donny!" His mother cried as the ashes of the village fell around him like a black snow. "You fool boy – save y'self!"

"Y-yer know I can't do that!" White knuckles trembled around the splintered wooden spear– the blunted, rusty steel pointed shakily forward. "I- I ain't leavin' you ma!"

"Well how about that?" A brittle cackle sounded through the burning village – like a rockfall on a rigid mountaintop. "I respect your resolve lil' piglet. Really, I do…"

The body belonging to the brittle cackle lumbered his way, casting a steep shadow which swallowed him whole. "But jus' look at the state o' you, boy - tremblin' like a fresh-born fawn. What are you gonna do?"

"I ain't s-scared of you none!" It was like speaking to a giant, the tin pot over his head nearly sliding backwards. "N-now get away… 'f-fore I makes ya!"

The thunderous cackle made his ears ring – the rugged figure easing the lance aside on his way down. A toothy grin, yellow and pocketed smiled at him, capable of consuming him whole. "Listen well, lamb. I'm gon' give you ten whole seconds for you to scarper 'fore I skewer yer mother on this here blade of mine."

That dastard grin started to blur as tears began to form. "M-m…a!"

"'less you wanna join 'er, I reckon you should get going."

His mother shrieked something at him. Her voice was so distant – as if he were drowning slowly underwater, sinking further with every passing second. He heard the fear, if nothing else. He could hear the tears and the emotion – anger, grief, shame – all of them, even if not the words entirely.

He couldn't run – there was no way he could. The grief, the guilt, would it ever leave him if he turned tail now?

The tall figure rose and strode toward the struggling silhouette of his Mother, held for the slaughter by two equally imposing giants. "Ten… nine… eight…"

What was he doing? His legs started to carry him backwards – this wasn't what he wanted!

"Sevensixfivefourthreetwo!" He laughed as the axe rose.

"Roddick!" Somebody threw themselves between the axe and his Mother – a familiar figure with a voice he had been hearing all his life.

"Pa!"

"Gods, Brook!"

"Git yer Ma to safety, son!" His father roared at him as he tackled Roddick to the scorched earth, driving a broad, calloused fist into his ribs. "Go!"

The words of his father rallied him.

Tiny legs scrambled toward his stricken Mother, the sight hurting his frail heart dearly. He mustn't cry, he had to be strong – for Pa!

"Come on mama!" He pulled at her frayed sleeve with all the might he could muster, but she refused to budge. "Leave it to Pa – jus' like always, mama!"

He knew his words were lies this time – but he knew also that they would work, there was no time for a standoff.

"Dastards!" His Mother wept as she finally conceded. "Damn you all to hell!"

The first few steps were difficult for them both, but his Mother eventually started to carry herself through the scorched fields of their village.

He knew he shouldn't have, but he did anyway.

Donnel looked back with fearful eyes as his dear Father fought against the ruffians, leaving the stricken Roddick writhing on the floor with shattered ribs. This should've been a sight to fill him with hope.

And it would have been too – if it weren't for the hatchet which was still buried deep in his father's chest…


"Pa!" Donnel bolted upright - flinging the frayed linen bedsheets aside in disgust.

Sodden and cold, he quickly sought back the blankets warmth as the wind howled against the outside of his tent – the rhythmic pattering of rainfall calming his pounding heart. The weather was not kind to the border of Ylisse and Ferox.

"Gods… again?" He rubbed his temple with calloused fingers, falling back onto the thin pillow beneath him. The nightmares were coming back - just as they had been just a few days after he left the village.

And his Ma.

"Gosh, I hope it ain't no bad omen." He twisted on the straw bed for comfort – had leaving been the right decision after all? Either way, he was going even further tomorrow – through Breakneck Pass and then to Ferox. Never will he have been so far from his family and home.

Turning one last time – Donnel closed his eyes to let sleep claim him once again.


"Rise and shine, Shepherds!"

The sudden unceremonious rattling of pots and pans thundered from outside his tent – tearing him into consciousness. The familiar routine of a certain Frederick the Wary.

"Especially you – Donnel!" The voice of aforementioned Frederick came from directly outside his tent, drawing the hairs on the back of his neck to attention. "Time waits for no one."

"Yikes!" Yelled Donnel, scrambling out of bed and into his clothes – never forgetting his trusty tin pot which fit firmly over his head. "I-I'm a comin', Mister Frederick, sir!"

The outside was frigid – the rain no less unrelenting. It was nothing Donnel wasn't used to – in fact, if anything this was considered prosperous weather for farmland. Maybe the crops he'd been planted were ripe for the picking by now…

"Just had to be raining, didn't it?" A fiery-haired cavalier with an even hotter temper mumbled as Donnel emerged from his tent. "Damn the Plegians."

At her side, the sheepish Stahl scratched his head. "Yeah… I'm not sure it's the Plegian's fault, Sully."

"Are you an idiot!? Course it is - the work of one of those "Dark Mages", this is."

Stahl only grunted lazy acceptance, flashing Donnel a friendly wave. "Morning Donny."

"Mornin' to ya." The bed-headed farmboy returned, placing his steel pot firmly over his curly, purplish locks. "Lovely weather for my crops, I reckon."

"And yet not for soldiers – still, we will proceed." A gauntleted fist rattled his helmet, sending reverberations straight down his spine. The perpetrator stepped firmly into view with his dishevelled brown hair and sharp eyes watching him carefully. "You got changed quicker than usual, Donnel. Two and a half seconds faster if you wish for exacts – today shows promise."

"Reckon I'm glad what you think so, Mister Frederick, sir!" Donnel stood attentively before the Great Knight who nodded his acknowledgement.

"Indeed. You must be in tip top condition for the march into Plegia." The stoic gaze drifted to the horizon – the daunting cliffs of Breakneck Pass less than a days march away. "Her Grace's safety is in our hands. Mistakes are not an option."

The Exalt – Gods. Donnel had barely grown accustomed to being the in the presence of Chrom and Lissa much less the esteemed Exalt Emmeryn herself. Had anyone from the sticks ever even been that close to an Exalt before?

"I won't get in the way, Mister Frederick."

The armoured Knight was already leaving, pots and pans in hand – heading no doubt to rouse the rest of the camp. "That is why we train, Donnel."

Rainfall rattled against his steel pot as Donnel grabbed a sparring lance and headed for the allocated training yard. If he was to come good – he'd have to put the time in. Boy was he pumped!


"Okay, Donny!"

Donnel watched with a lump in his throat as the somewhat graceful Sumia twirled her lance deftly between her two hands – a tantalizing display of lancefaire which came before a combative stance. "Here goes!"

Donnel could've sworn she almost dropped it a couple of times.

Intimiated regardless, Donnel decided against the finesse and simply spread his legs over the sodden ground. "I'm ready for yer!"

The weapon he held was still foreign to him. He understood the basics of the Lance – even if barely but that seemed to do him little good. His technique was clumsy, predictable and his defence worse – and that was when the weather was hospitable.

Donnel grimaced.

How could he hope to hold off someone was graceful, gifted and beautiful as Sumia? She was lightning quick and a natural Lance-wielder while he was just some mucky old farm hick from the sticks.

A breath in, then out again. "Come on, Donny…"

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as Sumia suddenly sprung forward at great speed – the pokey-end of the training lance headed straight for him.

Thick rainfall hindered his vision as he retreated. How could he spar one on one when he could barely even see his own opponent? Anger rose. He grew up on a farm – how were the elements getting the better of him and not Sumia? With the utmost respect to her, of course.

He should've listened to his Ma back on the farm. He was a Shepherd alright – just not the fighting type.

"Wagh-!"

A loud, permeating splat followed – accompanied by the rattling of a discarded lance.

"Wait, what?" Donnel peered down at a Sumia-shaped body, face down in the Plegian mud. "Sumia!?"

He dropped to his knees, setting his own lance aside to tend to the stricken beauty. It was a known thing that the Pegasus Knight was prone to slipping, but he hadn't believed a word of it! Someone was graceful and elegant as her…

"Impffh okpfhay Donny." The defeated figure replied – head buried deep in the earth. Almost like an ostrich.

"Gosh, I din't realise what ground was slicker n' the Greased Pig Run!" He scratched his head. "I mean… fer one as graceful an' elegant an' pretty as you to go over like a cow in storm, Lady Sumia it had to be!"

A sharp laugh brought his attention an imposing silhouette amidst the storm. For a minute he thought Frederick had returned to reprimand his technique.

"That's a contradictory compliment, Donny."

That royal blue hair and trusting eyes of similar shade. This wasn't Frederick!

"Y-Your Royaltyship!" On his knees already, Donnel bowed his head nearly as low as the startled figure beside him.

"C-Chrom!?" Sumia cried with him – a mud-coloured face staring up at the Ylissean prince. "I- I mean Captain!"

"Peace, both of you." The heir to the Halidom of Ylisse and next in line to be Exalt flashed the two of them an exasperated smile. "Training is off. You can go and dry in the mess."

"Trainin's off?" Donnel scratched his head again, staring up at the imperious figure. "But Mister Frederick said what we're trainin' through the wind, earth, fire an' all, yer Graceshipfull!"

"Well – Frederick is currently busy taking down some posters he thoughtlessly decided to put up around camp." The smile on the Prince's face seemed to edge on a grimace. "That, and the word of the Prince comes first – I would believe?"

"O-Of course! Understood, your Majestyful!" Donnel bowed in reverence to the Crown Prince of Ylisse. It was as if the rainfall avoided him on the way down – so bright of a beacon was he.

"W-will you be joining us, Captain?" Sumia had risen to her feet, dusting herself down. The coat of mud over her face failed to hide the scarlet which burned on her cheeks.

"Perhaps later on." Chrom rubbed his broad jaw, turning in the direction of the war room. "I need to review some maps with Robin first – please, eat well. A long campaign awaits us."

"I-I'll bring some food to you!" The struck Pegasus Knight called out after him. "Oh! And for Robin!"

Donnel could hardly blame the girl for falling head over heels for Chrom. He was strong, cool, charismatic, blue-haired, kind - everything. Plus he didn't speak like a hick or grow up on a farm.

"Gosh, I'm soggier n' a pig in slop." Donnel could already feel the water filling his boots. "Reckon I'm off to dry, Lady Sumia."

Sumia smiled at him – looking no less dry herself. "Okay, Donny – see you later!"

She left hurriedly as she could manage when walking like she was on a tightrope. "Don't trip…"