Author's Note: This is the start of my story about Lucan (My Unit) and Tharja. I absolutely adore this pairing, and I could never have it any other way. When I first finished Awakening, I couldn't bare to part with them (I still can't, it seems), so I decided to try and immortalise them with this fiction. How far I'll actually get with telling their tale I do not know, but I will try and see it through.

EDIT: FIRST CHAPTER ABOUT THARJA IS CHAPTER 9. FIRST APPEARANCE OF THARJA IS NEAR THE END OF CHAPTER 6. For this story, I felt it was important to cover the experiences of Lucan/the Avatar before the two meet.

In any case, I hope my meagre scratchings can bring you at least a little enjoyment.

Naturally, I do not own Fire Emblem.

PART 1: EX TENEBRIS

1: Awakening

It felt like emerging from an infinite darkness. A black and empty sea, with nothing but rapidly fading afterthoughts of horror and evil and daemonic laughter.

"We have to do SOMETHING," a voice was saying.

He was conscious. It was difficult to compare it with what had come Before, but somehow knew he was conscious.

"What do you propose we do?" another voice said.

This darkness was different somehow. Thinner. A veil already beginning to part. All he had to do was reach out…

Light and colour entered the world. And two people standing above him. They turned and the younger one, a girl with bright yellow hair, gasped.

"I see you're awake now," the left one remarked. A young man with blue hair.

The girl leaned down. "Hey there," she greeted. Uncertain, yet friendly.

"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground you know," the man said. A titter from his companion. "Give me your hand."

He reached out. Had time to register his own bare hand and the striking purple mark upon it. Then he was being hauled up, out of the grass, out of the darkness, out of oblivion. There was a dizzying feeling as the world shifted, before slowly settling into place. He could stand.

"You all right?" the man asked.

The reply was instinctive. It came from somewhere in the darkness, from Before. "Y-yes… Thank you, Chrom."

"Ah, then you know who I am?"

His own response confused him. "No, actually, I…" Something was wrong. "It's strange… Your name, it just… came to me."

"… Hmm, how curious. Tell me, what's your name? What brings you here?"

"My name is…" He reached backwards in his mind, the mental gesture of a man moving to pat a familiar object. But nothing was there. "It's…" He reached back further, sifting through his head for a memory, some kind of remembrance. "Hmm?" There was nothing there. Only a dimly-aching void where the past should have been.

"… You don't know your own name?"

"I'm not sure if…" Panic started to well up inside him. "I'm sorry, but where am I, exactly?" He could see nothing but open countryside all around them.

"Hey, I've heard of this!" the blonde girl piped up. "It's called amnesia!"

"It's called a load of pegasus dung," said a sharp voice. It belonged to a man in an imposing suit of blue-grey armour, striding towards them. He was tall, taller than Chrom, and his expression was as stern as a commander. The windswept brown hair suggested a life of hard riding and mounted warfare. "We're to believe you remember milord's name, but not your own?"

It occurred to him that he could be in danger. "B-but it's the truth!" He realised for the first time that he was armed, a simple sword sheathed at his hip. Had he been in a battle? Suffered a blow to the head? But he didn't feel injured. He looked inside himself again, desperate to find something, anything… He had to give these people something, to make them believe him…

Chrom turned to the armoured man. "What if it IS true, Frederick? We can't just leave him here, alone and confused. What sort of Shepherds would we be then?"

"Just the same, milord, I must emphasise caution. 'Twould not do to let a wolf into our flock."

"Right then – we'll take him back to town and sort this out there."

He felt like a net was closing around him. "Wait just one moment. Do I have a say in this?"

Chrom smiled. "Peace, friend – I promise we'll hear all you have to say back in town. Now come."

They started walking. Between Chrom and the tall knight, he knew he had no choice but to follow.

He didn't like this. They were expecting to hear some kind of explanation when they reached the nearest town, and he did not have one. He tried again to find some recollection. To find himself. Every time he tried, his effort scraped against a black wall and was turned aside, leaving an ugly sensation in his brain. He was lost. No sense of who he was, or where he was, among strangers who were not about to let him go, one who he apparently knew better than he knew himself. What had there been Before, when he was unconscious? He tried to recall, but even that was fading. A great darkness, some kind of nightmare trance. That was all he could tell. No details. Was this permanent? Was his memory gone forever?

He tried not to dwell on that – it was terrifying.

They had been walking for the better part of an hour. He passed most of it in silence, trying in vain to piece something together in his mind. He felt like a blank slate – he had no idea who he was, how he was supposed to act. Somehow he did have an idea of what he looked like, though he had not seen his reflection since waking. A young man of middling height, lean but not scrawny, common muddy brown eyes contrasting with a head of short, tousled hair, coloured an unusual steel blue. Strange, that he should know his own appearance so instinctively, without having to remember. Were there other things he knew, without having to call them to mind? Perhaps not chunks of knowledge gained on any one occasion, but skills he had learned by increments, built together throughout his life and embedded in him on a level deeper than consciousness…

He asked the others questions. In part to pass the time, but mainly to start filling in the immense and yawning gulf in his mind. Was he to be their prisoner? No, but they wanted to be sure he was no enemy of Ylisse. What was Ylisse? Only a fine actor could pretend not to know, but it was the kingdom in which they lived. He was lucky the Shepherds were the ones to find him. Why did they wear armour if they were shepherds? It was a dangerous job. Apparently. He found the conversation a little confusing, but at least he knew their names now. Chrom he was already familiar with from somewhere. The girl was his younger sister, Lissa. And the knight was Frederick, a daunting man who nonetheless deferred to the other two.

That was when the revelation came to him. Out of the darkness, a light. A nugget from Before, as small as it was precious – his name. Lucan. He was introducing himself to the others before he even realised he remembered. It gave him a measure of hope. His name had resurfaced: surely with time he could regain more.

"Chrom, look! The town!" Lissa pointed up into the sky, her face stricken.

Smoke was curling up from beyond the trees ahead of them. Thick, iron-grey billows, some floating up in shadowy arms towards the sky, others hanging low and forbidding over the canopy.

Its meaning was not lost on Chrom. "Damn it! The town is ablaze! Those blasted brigands, no doubt… Frederick, Lissa! Quickly!

"What about him?" Frederick gave him a curt glance.

"Unless he's on fire as well, it can wait!"

"Aptly put, milord."

Lissa had already started forwards. "Let's go already!" she squawked, turning round.

And then the three of them were running, heading towards the smoke and the beleaguered town.

He stood there, dumbfounded. "But what about –" he called after them. It was no use. The fate of the town was their sole concern. "Hmm…" He gazed skywards.

Looking up at that climbing miasma made him feel strange. There was a profound sense of familiarity there… Not with the smoke, but something else. Something associated with it. He watched the tops of the grey stacks as they were carried away by the higher winds.

It called to him. Not the smoke, the other thing – that intimately-familiar unknown. He felt it pulling at him… a whisper of promised violence that did not disturb him as much as it should.

He could run away. His would-be detainers had rushed off and left him. There was nothing to stop him from going on his way.

One foot stepped in front of the other. And again and again, until he too was running towards the smoke.

It was a fairly well-to-do place, from what he could tell. Stone buildings instead of wood or cob. Tiled roofs instead of thatch. Nonetheless, many of the houses burned from the inside, coughing out that grey smoke as their wooden furnishings and rafters were consumed by fire.

He met no one as he ran through the narrow streets. He had expected milling bodies, confused and fearful cries. But the town was oddly empty. Either the townsfolk had fled, or they had been rounded up by whatever people had done this.

He found the others at the edge of the town square. Frederick had reacquired his warhorse from somewhere. They had found the town's attackers and were readying themselves for a charge.

"Wait!" he shouted.

Chrom's head snapped round. "Lucan! You followed us! Why?"

"I… I'm not certain myself," he answered truthfully. "But I'm armed, and I know my way around a fight, if you'll have me."

"Of course – strength in numbers. Just stay close!"

He drew his own sword. He had discovered a magic tome in a large inside coat pocket, but chose instead to try the strength of his arm. The weight of the blade felt familiar in his hand. He did know his way around a fight… But how well? And how did he know that?

He had no time to dwell on it. In an instant Chrom was surging forward into the town square and he followed a step behind.

The nearest of them were barely a dozen metres away, upturning market stalls or hacking idly at the produce while they shouted raucously. The tension in his gut intensified at the sight of the enemy. He could feel his innards twisting and bunching like taut rope.

His eyes widened –

Eleven men, scattered. Five in the square, three close.

– Chrom was running to meet the first of the ruffians –

– 135 pounds, 180 centimetres, hard and wiry, disciplined stance, 12 years' training, as strong as Chrom but faster, sword designed for cutting –

– He saw it even as he ran behind Chrom. Suddenly Frederick was there, lance couched to deliver a devastating blow through the man's shoulder. Chrom reached him a second later, swinging his blade in a killing arc that sent a line of shocking crimson across the cobbled stones –

– Two more in close range, both hardened killers, another two across the square moving in, one a mage, the other five gathered around their leader waiting to see what happens –

– The flood of insight was unstoppable. Numbers. Equipment. Skills. Experience. Intention. It rushed into his brain with the intensity of a storm. The only thing more startling than the wave of information was his ability to process it. His mind stored it all, and with room for more. Even marvelling at what he knew and how quickly he knew it happened in an instant, as if occurring outside of time, and all the while he saw, and thought, and moved.

One of the nearest brigands came at him. A hulking, reeking brute crudely clad in animal furs –

– 210 pounds, 195 centimetres, slight limp on right leg, strong but unpractised, low pain tolerance, simple iron axe: brutal, effective, unrefined, reach 1.5 metres –

– There was no deduction. No scrutiny or careful consideration. He simply saw, and knew.

The man lunged towards him, right shoulder twisted, telegraphing the swing, growling as he brought the axe round in a wild cut.

He stepped away, ducking smartly beneath the attack with reflexes he would not have credited himself with, before flicking a returning jab that must have been practised ten thousand times. It gouged the man's arm, provoking a bark of pain and an angrier swing of the axe. He dodged away again.

Exhilaration. Joyous terror and terrible joy, clamouring in his chest. He did not think, he simply moved. The fighting required no mind, no memory. He was a blank slate, an empty vessel, and it did not hinder him. His brain did not recall the technique, but his muscles did. His nerves did. The draw, the parry, the strike, the sure steps – he felt an emotion for the movements akin to a homecoming. The sensation resonated through his body, until it felt like his very cells ringing with joy at the clash of metal, the contest of skill and death.

Chrom joined him with a cut that swept away one of the ruffian's legs. He stepped close and plunged his blade downwards at the base of the man's throat, ending his life with a bloody squelch and a sickly thrill of triumph.

As one they turned, only to find another swordsman already upon them. A glance was enough to know he could outmatch either of them. The lunge he aimed at Chrom was parried – just – while the follow-up scraped against his silver shoulder plate.

Suddenly the tome was in his other hand. He let the sword drop and willed, pulling something ethereal into existence with a sense he could not explain. His right hand sparked, clenching tight a ball of blinding energy that fought for release.

He let it go, and it flew into bandit swordsman, blasting him to the ground with a scream. The man lay still where he fell, threads of gold lightning flashing over his body before vanishing an instant.

His hand crackled with wicked power. Chrom stood hunched over while his sister healed a gash in his side. They stared at him, disbelieving.

"You know magic?" Chrom asked.

"I… Yes, but…" How could he explain what was happening? "It's strange… Here on the battlefield, I can… Well, I can 'see' things." Across the square, Frederick was riding down one of the brigands as he tried to get away.

"See things? Like what?"

– mage coming for us, powerful tome but not used to fighting, rest waiting at the town hall –

"The enemy's strength, their weaponry, the flow of battle… I must have studied this somewhere." That had to be the explanation, didn't it? Yet even so…

"So, you're saying you can size up the enemy in a glance?"

"Yes, it would seem so. And perhaps more, if I apply myself…"

He did not have time to finish what he was saying. He saw the mage pointing at him and dived towards one of the stalls, narrowly avoiding the incandescent blast which followed. He hurled a wayward bolt of lightning in return, but the angle was awkward and he missed by some distance.

It was enough though. The brief exchange gave Chrom time to close the gap, and up-close the rogue wizard had no chance – faced with a charging swordsman he fumbled with his tome in a panic, and Chrom cut him down with a pair of arcing strikes before he could cast another spell.

With that, the fighting – for the moment – seemed to be over. The four of them consolidated at the other end of the square, Chrom speaking about the battle as Lissa ministered to Frederick's collection of light injuries.

"You've lent us your strength, and that makes you a friend," Chrom was saying to him. He glanced at Frederick and Lissa. "Are we ready? The rest of them are on the other side of the bridge. Stay together, this is where it gets tough!"

– Anger, impatience, trepidation, snarling orders to hold ground and keep close –

"No, wait!"

Chrom paused. "What's wrong, Lucan?"

"The leader wants us to charge them," he said. "He wants us to get in close, so they can finish us off with superior numbers." Over on the other side of the bridge, he could discern the restless shifting, the close formation threatening to break with murderous intent. "We should use his own plan against him. His men are undisciplined. It won't take much to lure them forward and take them out a couple at a time."

Chrom gazed towards the town hall, his expression stern. "Are you sure?"

"… I'm certain of it."

"Then that's our plan."

What followed was a fluid dance of war, a tapestry of false retreats and ripostes, punctuated at its end by a final, fatal counterattack.

The brigands had proven as aggressive and impatient as he'd said, rushing at them with no thought for tactics or group coherence, only eager to inflict their rough violence on the strangers who opposed them. In ones and twos they fell until only a couple were left, too few to save themselves.

Their leader was the last to go, a war-painted monstrosity who goaded them with mocking words even as he grimaced, red-faced and furious, at his lackeys' reckless mistake. Surrounded by the four of them, he did not live long.

Afterwards, he stood staring down at one of the stained corpses. His nerves still thrummed with the ecstasy of the battlefield and the joy of being alive. The vision of death at his feet was startling, but not as much as he expected – he was more shocked at not being shocked. And the act of killing… in the moment, that had held its own despicable glee. He wasn't sure just how sick with himself he should feel at that. Did Chrom and Frederick feel the same, when they killed in battle? He wasn't about to ask.

And then there were the other things. The skills and unconscious instincts, and the cerebral vision with which he had been able to see every detail of the skirmish. To possess the abilities of both a swordsman and a mage must have required long hours of training, and not being able to recall any of it was disconcerting; it raised yet more questions he couldn't answer. Nor did he understand the flashes of insight that had come to him. He must have studied strategy, and diligently, but that couldn't be the whole explanation. Some of the things he'd known he could not have simply picked up from reading books… What was going on? Was this something that only triggered in fight situations, or could he apply it at will?

"Well, that's the end of that," he said absently, only dimly aware he was speaking.

"Lucky for the town, we were close by," Lissa said. The unexpected reply snapped him out of his thoughts. "But holy cow, Lucan! You were incredible! Swords, sorcery AND tactics! Is there anything you can't do?"

"You're certainly no helpless victim, that's for sure," Chrom remarked.

"Indeed," Frederick added. He could already hear the steely sarcasm. "Perhaps you might even be capable of an explanation for how you came here?"

"I understand your scepticism, Sir Frederick. And I cannot explain why only some knowledge has returned to me. But please, believe me. I have shared all that I know." He wanted them to believe him, to know that he meant no harm, and a distant part of his mind wondered why.

Chrom gave him a measuring look. "You fought to save Ylissean lives. My heart says that's enough."

Frederick was not done. "And your mind, milord? Will you not heed its counsel as well?"

Chrom turned to the knight. "Frederick, the Shepherds could use someone with Lucan's talents. We've brigands and unruly neighbours, all looking to bloody our soil. Would you really have us lose such an able tactician? Besides, I believe his story, odd as it might be."

Even if there was still much he did not understand, that expression of trust was warming. "Th-thank you, Chrom."

"So how about it? Will you join us, Lucan?"

In the years that followed, he would often think back on that day and that moment. Even in dark times, when the mysterious power of Destiny appeared to thunder on along its malign course, it would serve as a reminder to him that the path of history was ever-changeable, that lives could be written or rewritten for the better by a single encounter, or by a single response.

Lucan smiled. "I would be honoured," he said.