They had not bothered to consummate their marriage. He and Cordelia had already made love months prior, when his grief was at its greatest, and her compassion was at its zenith.

Nor had they worried about heirs. Lucina was almost six years old, and it's not as though he needed to worry about Morgan having been conceived.

The future Morgan was still gone. Searching for his mother, no doubt. It's a futile fight. Even if she does come back, there's no room for her. Not when she has already been replaced.

He could still remember the anger in Morgan's eyes when Chrom had announced his remarriage. He's a young man, full of hormones and unfamiliar emotions, he had thought at the time. So he watched as Morgan stormed out of the room, and left shocked silence in his wake. No one had been ready, Chrom then realized. Especially not her own son. Owain had followed, eager to aid his angered friend. Well, they can commiserate together. The rest of us will reap the benefits of moving on. That's all there is in the world, now. Reaping the benefits of the past, and trying to forget the consequences.

"Sacred Swo-ord!" Owain yelled at the top of his lungs. He did feel mildly guilty for not doing something more productive, but both he and Morgan needed the normalcy duels inspired. It reminded them of a time when Nocht was still...

Nocht.

Her face lingered in his eyes. Her twinkling opals never failed to take his breath away. Always, he had been jealous of Chrom. But Owain had known his place. He was the foolish child everyone admonished and chastised. Except her.

She had always praised his creativity. She told him his poetry made her soul lighter, and his fiction made her laugh. She didn't see him as a child. She saw him as a budding author, filled to the brim with creative paraphernalia for his stories.

He had finally heeded her advice, and published some of his works. They were popular - surprisingly so. He managed to rake in quite a lot of coin. The main demographic that fancied his stories were young teenagers and bored middle-aged folks, but he didn't mind. He was simply glad someone out there appreciated his writings almost as much as -

Morgan deflected Owain's sword hand, and conjured a ball of energy between his palms. It swirled like an eddy. Green and blue, mostly, with a hint of deep brown. That must be what the cartographers think the world looks like.

'Earthly . . . Abyss!" Morgan launched the orb. As the frothing mass approached Owain, it grew. So wide was it, that he couldn't dodge.

"Mooooorgaaaaa-"

"Phew, you're finally up. I was worried!"

Owain blinked. His eyes were dreadfully sore.

He was situated upon something soft. A bed, perhaps? Yes, he decided. Definitely a bed.

As he looked up into Morgan's face, a dark feeling of betrayal threatened to blacken his heart. "So, conniving villain! Finally come to finish me off, then? Oh, evil betrayer – so shattered was my soul, I feared I might not wake. Lo, when I glimpsed your features upon my return, I vowed to visit vengeance upon you and all heathens born of you! Alas, the time for retribution is nigh! Die, fien-"

"Owain. The magic was harmless. The reason your head hurts is because you tripped."

Owain blanched, monologue dying in his throat. That's a shame. It was one of his better ones, too.

"Somehow, your head sought out the meanest looking rock in the field. I'm glad you're alright."

Rubbing his neck in embarrassment, Owain smiled. "Well, such is the way when a hero's mind is . . ."

An ominous thud resounded outside the door of their cabin. Turning toward the sound, Owain crept up to the implement of separation. As his hand hovered over the handle, he put his ear to the wood, and heard a pained breathing.

He turned to Morgan, who nodded.

Drawing his sword, Owain turned the handle.

Maidenly fingers curled around the door frame, uncut nails making the already spindly fingers even longer. The hand was pale as death.

When the door swung wider, the world stopped.

Nocht . . .

Her hair was plastered to her body, framing her curves in the dying light. Eyes no longer fluorescent, but dull and sad, held his captive. He couldn't tell if it was the rain or her tears that fell from her cheeks. He couldn't turn away. Her sadness spread into him, flowing over his heart like the tide.

Morgan was the first to move. After running to her, he clutched his mother to his chest, sobbing.

"I thought I'd lost you! I never . . ."

"Morgan," Owain managed. His voice was as distraught as Morgan's, but he tried to stay calm. "She needs dry robes, Morgan."

Immediately, Morgan ran off. Owain wondered if he would come back with Nocht's Tactician robes.

Scooping her into his arms, he avoided eye contact. He didn't want to see the sadness again. Those eyes that should have been happy, or even empty, housed a complete despair he had never seen from her. She had always been cynical, he knew. It had been charming, though. Her dry humor always brought a smile to his face, despite the clash between his optimism and her cynicism. It was one of the reasons he loved -

He immediately stopped. His pulse beat loudly, seeming to resound through the quiet house.

Loved?

He felt something cool caress his face. Finally, he looked down. Her cold fingers traced his jawline, and wiped away a tear he hadn't known he'd shed.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

Nocht's face remained impassive. He wasn't even sure she'd heard him.

Morgan's feet thundered down the hall. Quickly, Owain placed the frail body upon the bed, before he could say anything else too dangerous.

"I'll get her changed," Morgan said, quietly. "You get her some hot water."

Owain simply nodded.

What would she see, when she awoke from her delirium? Nocht seemed to be in shock, much like his mother described when she and Chrom had found her in that field, all those years ago.

Don't hate us. He pleaded silently. We tried. Oh, how we tried . . .