Disclaimer: I do not own Cynthia or Fire Emblem: Awakening.

When Cynthia was eight years old, the life of a hero fantastically, firmly, finally chose her.

That's what Owain would say, anyways, and Cynthia herself would never have chosen the start to her training. She would never never chosen such a somber way to give up her previous preoccupations with the unassuming hairstyles her own hair never fit into and jewelry a scatter-brain like her wasn't exactly allowed to touch. That wasn't, looking back on it, how she would have liked to begin her journey.

Now, with the mind of an expert, Cynthia knows that she would have preferred to discover her affinity with pegasuses when she was forced to send for help from one end of the party to another across a mile or so in the valley, or with a spear when she found herself sticking one in the back of a bandit about to rob one of the civilian families, or even magic when she spontaneously had to undo a hex Father accidentally hexed on himself or something that accentuated her skill and not…

Not her guilt over failing to show her mother that she would succeed her, not her feelings of inadequacy in battle, not her desperation to stop being weak, stupid, shy little Cynthia whose interest in fighting and drama and the frenzied world of her camps was akin to the interest of any average person in dirty cloth, muddled and indistinguishable.

It passed by her.

But she'd wanted to change. That was what started the whole business with Mother and the spear and how they would construct it together, but progress was lost with the Mother's death, the arrow-head remained suspended in time, and the life of a hero chose her.

That night, Father had held her tight and didn't let go for a few minutes. Cynthia hugged him back, feeling for a moment like she could just keep him here and stop him from dying, too, maybe. Then he separated and asked her what she wanted to say to the other kids.

Say? To them? She didn't exactly know. Death was everywhere, among civilians and her friend Pillen and even Noire's dad, but Cynthia had for some reason never thought at all about her parents getting killed. Could she say that she felt empty, or…?

Cynthia shook her head.

"I dunno..."

"..." he patted her on the back. "Don't worry, Cynthia. I won't let anything bad happen to you!"

That emptiness was filled pretty quickly, though, with her new goal. And that had come on wings! The wings of her mother's pegasus, snorting and flapping and ready to defend his owner's daughter. Cynthia almost cried when she saw him, ran up and hugged him and felt like she'd gained a little trinket back from what she'd lost. She'd gain back so much yet, too.

Cynthia had demanded another pegasus knight teach her how to sit, how to steer, and how to stab rather bluntly. She was rewarded with two of the three. She began to play Justice Cabal with Owain, she put her hair up in two pigtails without trying to tame it anymore, and she never stopped learning one thing: how to be a hero.

Father had no complaints. He was completely supportive of his daughter being a pegasus knight, giving up her girly interests and picking a new one that never left her head, day, night, or evening. Once, Cynthia caught him glancing at a hexed-bald Noire with Tharja approaching and prodded her on. He'd seemed nervous?

In fact, it was her father that was always there to tell her about the latest conflicts a while away from the home, camp, or even castle they currently resided in and listened to her stories about what she would do when she was old enough to fight. He tirelessly praised her for the things she did right in her training, like stabbing a burnt log in it's carved eye, and only offered a sympathetic smile when she failed.

"It's okay, Cynthia! You're doing so much better than anyone thought you would!"

"Like you, daddy?"

"Nope, I always knew you'd be great." He'd smiled. Again, as usual, but to Cynthia it was always genuine.

Cynthia killed her first Risen when she was twelve. It was a swordsman that had almost made it to the tents while the others held its, uh, "friends" back. Cynthia'd seen it though, so she'd swooped in on her pegasus, stuck it in the eye like with training, and saved the day.

Her father had cheered and told her that she really was a hero now, and she'd believed him, and yes, she'd gained something back.

Then she lost it again because he died three days later. Pegasus knights could be foes, too, fighting on the side of the wicked.

This time, her father saw her being as brave and skilled as her mother hadn't seen her, but without him being there to reassure, Cynthia fell back to old insecurities when she demonstrated slow wit or clumsiness.

And she couldn't do anything to commemorate him, after he was cremated and all that was left were some books she didn't understand after her busy pegasus knight lessons.

And she'd wanted to cry, harder than even when Mother's pegasus came back.

"So, do you know what you want to reclass to?" asked Ijimon, the strategist for the Shepherds back before the Risen.

"Yeah!" Cynthia beamed. "I've got an idea."

She wasn't giving up her chance for a new pegasus, having her eye on one that Mother was now tending to herself, but she was also going to do something for her father. And he'd be so surprised!

The master seal glowed and when she was immersed in light, Cynthia pictured herself in the dark flier uniform, holding a generic spellbook that Father nonetheless kept in one hand and steadying her mother's ward of a pegasus with the other.