Chapter X: Whittling Away

With Freya still recovering from her injury—and Chrom insisting she remain bedridden—the Shepherds temporarily halt the advance toward Regna Ferox. I can't help but feel entirely responsible. I just hope the delay doesn't cause any unforeseen issues. Wisely, Chrom orders hourly patrols along the camp perimeter to ensure no Risen catch us unaware. So far it's peaceful, but Vaiva and Sullivan still prowl about as if every moment is a potential moment to skewer some undead dirt bags.

As for me, I've been using the time to begin work on my first training sword. After a brief stroll through the woods, I managed to locate a broad oak. Cutting down the whole tree wasn't an option (not to mention a complete waste of wood), so I hacked off a low-hanging branch using a borrowed axe from Vaiva. The thickness was perfect, and the quality of the wood outstandingly good for a random tree. I spent several hours stripping the bark alone. It was definitely a new experience working with wood not from a hardware store.

I'm now whittling the basic shape of a blade after having cut the branch into two pieces, one for the handle and hilt and the other being the one in my hands. My own sword serves as the model for this project, and I glance back and forth between it and the wood. I don't know who retrieved it from the battlefield, but I found it among the other supplies with the horses. Guess no one wanted to give it me personally. Not that I'm surprised. The Shepherds are avoiding me like I reek of rotten eggs.

The only one of them that's even spoken to me since last night has been Vaiva, and only because I directly asked her to lend me her axe. She didn't seem particularly keen to associate with me, but once I explained why I wanted it, Vaiva agreed. Other than that, the best I've gotten was a half-hearted smile from Sumner. Which, of course, made it worse. Leave it to nicest guy on the planet, the guy I treated like shit, to show some friendliness to the one person who doesn't deserve it.

I bury my thoughts in the woodworking, letting the pace and rhythm of the motions guide me into a trance. Pieces of oak fall away as the blade takes form, wider at the base and tapering into a blunt point. The dowel extending from the center of the flat bottom causes trouble, a challenging part that can't be too thin or too wide. Thankfully, my knife is sharp and precise, making the task bearable.

Surveying the product, I frown. So rough. Gauges from the knife pockmark the surface, resulting in an uneven sight. A hand planer would solve the problem, but I have no idea how to acquire one. Freya almost certainly has one, considering she made the training swords previously, but asking her is out of the question. That leaves purchasing or crafting. Also no goes, since I have no money and no ability to create something so specific.

I sigh. Might as well just focus on the hilt and handle and forget about it for now. I stare at the wooden chunk, envisioning the finished piece. Nothing fancy. Simple, like my sword. Plain crossguard and a hollowed-out handle for the dowel. That's the hard part. In the modern world, this is easy. A plunge router or drill press takes seconds. Here, though? I'm stuck using a sharp chisel to methodically bore through the wood. A major pain in the ass.

An hour later and I've carved the rudimentary shape of the hilt and handle. Time to chisel. Another hour. My hand hurts like hell. My fingers spasm. And it's not even close to done. I set the wood aside, massaging my hand. Red and raw skin greets me when I inspect it. Future blisters. Lovely.

"Oi. How goes the construction, master woodworker?"

The gruff voice startles me. I look up to see Sullivan glaring down at me, arms folded across his chest. His words have an unmistakable antagonistic lilt. Profound powers of observation aren't required to tell he's less than thrilled with me. Still, I humor him, answering politely.

"Well, I have the basic shapes done, but the finer details are hard. I and still have to connect the blade and hilt. Plus—"

Sullivan waves his hand. "I don't really care much about all that. Look, I got a better idea to pass the time while we're stuck here." His expression seems a tad menacing.

I knit my brows warily. "Which is?"

He smirks. "Oh, just some sparring. Figured I'd teach you a couple tricks. Gods know you ain't exactly real capable."

Ah. He wants an excuse to kick my ass. Fair enough. It is Sullivan, after all. Probably thinks I got off lightly. Which I did. After Freya, this feel like justice. Righteous justice.

"Fine," I say, standing and brushing wood chips off my clothes. "Where are the training weapons?"

Sullivan's mouth curves into a devious grin. "We're not using those," he grunts, slapping a fist into his palm. "It's all fists for us. Fella like you who has trouble holding onto his sword, I think you oughta learn to fight unarmed."

Old school beatdown, I see. Classic. This is gonna hurt. I've earned it, though. If knocking the piss out of me makes Sullivan feel better, so be it. I won't run away. I want his respect. I want all the Shepherds to trust me again. If I can win back even a tiny fraction of what I lost by doing this, then I will.

I shrug at him. "Suits me just as well." I look around the camp. "Is there someplace you have in mind?"

The red knight practically emanates aggression. "Right here's fine," he says, removing his breastplate and gauntlets. "Let's go! Show me your stance, rookie."

Bracing myself, I adopt my best Rocky Balboa. To be fair, I'll probably be blocking with mostly my face too. Sullivan beckons me forward using a taunting hand. Apparently, I get the embarrassment of making the first move as well. My opponent's posture is flawless, but he could be doing the chicken dance and still look intimidating with those biceps.

I approach cautiously, guard up and elbows in—pretty much the extent of my boxing knowledge. Sullivan bounces on his heels and rolls his neck. "Right, rookie, take a swing. Show me that form."

Here goes nothing. I decide to jab, throwing the fastest punch I can at Sullivan's nose. He dodges my sluggish strike, ducking under and bringing his fist into my gut with a fearsome uppercut. The air blows out my lungs, and I hit the ground a spluttering, gasping mess. I double over, clutching my waist while I spit into the grass. Goddamn, Sullivan.

"See, you're too slow, rookie! Get up! Let's go again," he rumbles, stepping back. He's enjoying this.

It's several seconds before I rise. Bastard hits fucking hard. I can't keep the tremor from my knees as I take up my stance again. Still, I shuffle forward, aiming my strike at his chest this time. He sidesteps deftly, extending a foot to sweep my leg. Poor balance lands me flat on my back.

Sullivan lets out a disdainful snort. "You're doing it all wrong! Up! Get up!"

We go at it like this for a while, me failing to land a single attack while Sullivan gets increasingly creative with his counters. He's just put me on my ass with an elbow to the ribs when he leans down and plucks me up by my collar.

"The hell's with you, punk?!" he snarls. "You a failure at everything?"

Robin's words from last night ring in my mind: "But I do know feeling sorry for yourself isn't the answer. Because you won't receive any sympathy. Not from me. Not from anyone. You want to fix things? Figure it out on your own." The Shepherds, and certainly Sullivan, aren't going to hold my hand. I can lie here like a sad sack, or I can take one more step towards changing. I choose the latter.

"YES SIR!" I bellow and bring my forehead into Sullivan's face with a mighty crack. Lights explode in my vision as he reels, clutching his head. Sullivan drops my shirt, and I crawl away, tearing up grass, struggling to stand.

The burly cavalier groans. "Son of a… You… You broke my nose!" Sure enough, blood trickles out one nostril, and the bridge of his nose bends unnaturally. I don't have much time to process what this means for me before Sullivan unloads a barrage of punches into my jaw and cheek. Blood oozes past my lips as I roll over, dazed. Through my hazy eyesight, I see Sullivan wiping underneath his nose and gingerly touching the skin.

I can't give up. Sullivan needs to know I'm serious. I'm not going to beat him. It's not about that, though. It's not about fighting. It's not about pride or ego. It's about identity. Who am I? Who am to Sullivan? Am I the one who quits, who lets his friends down, who ruins things? Or am I the one who stands up when things are tough, the one who may not be the strongest or the smartest but always does what he can. I'm not there yet. But I can stand up right now.

So, I do. Sullivan watches me rise, eyes widening. "Well," I cough. "We aren't done, are we?"

He blinks before breaking into a toothy smile, the malice from earlier subdued. "You got a pair of brass ones, don'tcha?" He cracks his knuckles. "Alright. Game on."

Sullivan prepares to charge when an angry voice cuts through the air. "What on Naga's earth is going on here?!"

We freeze and turn, catching sight of Chrom marching at us, a furious expression painted on her face. She plants her feet firmly a couple yards away, fixing us with alternating glares. Chrom's blazing gaze settles on me. "Michael! What are you doing? Is this your idea of changing? Starting fights? Acting like a common ruffian?" She shifts toward Sullivan. "And you! Sullivan, you're better than this! You should be setting an example. I don't care what—"

"Captain," Sullivan interjects, casting me a sidelong glance first. "Michael didn't start it. I did."

I'm ready to let Chrom blame me, to accept whatever punishment she doles out. Take responsibility for my actions. Sullivan's admission is unexpected. It's the truth, but he has no reason to defend me.

Chrom balks. It stings a little, seeing how convinced she is I instigated things. "Excuse me?"

Sullivan scratches his cheek. "He didn't start the fight," the cavalier says. "OK, well, he threw the first punch but only 'cuz I made him. I'm the one who asked to spar."

She gestures at our (well, mostly my) bloodied forms. "You call this sparring? Sullivan… I don't even know what to say."

He looks mildly ashamed. "You don't have to say anything, Captain. I just wanted to teach Michael a lesson. But I know it was wrong."

"Gods above," Chrom grumbles. "I'm going to get Liston. You two stay here. And please, don't kill each other!"

The princess strides toward the center of camp, shaking her head and muttering. Sullivan plops down, sighing and spreading his legs. I follow suit, my entire body aching in protest. It hurts just to move at this point. Sullivan did a number on me. I steal a glance his direction, watching him ruffle his crimson hair. He didn't have to tell Chrom any of that. It's not like I was going to argue. Sullivan could've let me take the fall.

"You broke my nose," he repeats from earlier, though not as an accusation, more a statement of fact.

"You broke my face," I reply.

He laughs roughly. If bears could laugh, I imagine they might sound similar. "I didn't think you'd get up after that."

I shrug. "Well, I did." I tap my thumb on the back of my other hand. "You stuck up for me."

"I just said what happened. Nothing else to it." Sullivan looks away.

"Thanks." I smile at the ground.

I hear him blow a stream of air. "Rookie, you may be a goat's hairy arsehole, but you got spirit. I'll give you that."

My smile fades, and I try to choose my words carefully. "Sullivan, I know I have a lot to make up for. And I know you're angry. But you better believe that I intend to become the best I can."

"Heh," he breathes. "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

We recline in comfortable silence until Chrom returns with Liston in tow. As the he heals us, he rants about our stupidity while Chrom looks on in agreement. Watching Sullivan's nose magically snap into place is grotesquely fascinating. My own healing goes smoothly, and the soothing numbness of the magic washes away most of the pain. After some experimental flexing, I determine my body is fully recovered. I murmur a thank you that Liston promptly ignores. He stomps off, calling us "bozo nincompoops."

I brace myself for Chrom's impending lecture, but it never comes. She eyes us, scowling, the steely glare lingering on me a bit longer. It's clear she wants to say something yet thinks better of it. Maybe a couple of idiots like us aren't worth wasting the words. However, I get the sensation it has more to do with last night than anything else. Eventually, she just heaves a massive sigh and tells us to carry on. I chew the inside of my cheek. I almost wish we'd been verbally flogged instead.

Sullivan and I part ways, a kind of mutual understanding between us. In Sullivan's world, I suppose fisticuffs is the best form of communication. Despite how Chrom reacted, I feel good about how I've left it with Sullivan. He's the type of person who appreciates wholehearted effort. He knows I'm at least trying. I can't ask for more than that at present.

Going back to chiseling the handle proves impossible; there's no energy in my fingers, no love pouring into the wood. My uncle always said no great woodworker ever made anything worthwhile without love for the process. I believe him. The first thing I built—a television stand—royally sucked. But when I looked at it, I saw the time and care and passion I expended during its creation. Only that mattered. The journey.

Before I realize it, my feet carry me to the edge of the clearing. Birds chirp, and squirrels nibble on fallen nuts. It's a tranquil sight, starkly contrasted with the bloodshed of yesterday. Chrom and the others fight to protect this world, to keep scenes like this innocent snapshot of forest life from destruction. An image of Freya writhing on the ground, her life slipping away, enters my mind. Something like that can never happen again. Ylisse, the whole planet even, depends on people like her.

A muffled sound, like a rustling of leaves, drags me from my thoughts. Tentative, I peer around the nearest tree trunk. Standing with his back against a sturdy maple, Sumner mangles a daisy, plucking its petals one at a time. I see his lips move but can't hear the words. Meaning to quietly withdraw, I inadvertently crunch a twig beneath my boot. Sumner's whole body whips around, and he drops the flower hastily.

"M-Michael!" he squeaks. "You startled me. What, er, brings you out here?" Sumner does his best to lean casually against the tree. He fails.

I rub my shoulder. "Nothing. I was just taking a walk. Didn't mean to interrupt your," I say, pausing to glance at the fallen daisy, "flower… time." Awkward.

The pegasus knight reddens. "You… saw that?" he asks. "It's not what it looks like!"

Dear God. This guy is hopeless. "And what does it look like?" I stare at him blankly. "Because to me it just seemed like a dude ripping apart a flower." Take it, man! Take the escape I'm offering you!

"Y-Yes! That's exactly what it was!" He nods vigorously. "Sometimes, you simply must tear up a flower, you know!" Right, Sumner. Right.

He trains his eyes on the ground, looking sheepish. I feel like a total dickhead for acting like I did during our first meeting. Just a jealous prick. Sumner loves Chrom. Truly loves her. And he's a great guy. Time to apologize.

"Listen, Sumner," I start, wringing my hands together. "I'm sorry. When we met at the barracks, I was an ass to you. You're a good person, and you didn't deserve that."

Sumner cocks his head, fixing me a quizzical look. "Honestly, I'd forgotten all about that, Michael. You were tired, right? Everyone gets a little grumpy when they're like that."

Damn you. Stop being so pure! "No, I'm serious. I want you to know I regret acting that way. It was wrong." I hesitate, feeling emotions welling up. What else can I say? To Sumner, this isn't a big deal, but to me it's another fuck up. Another error that needs correction.

As his face remains placidly bemused, I rack my brain for something to show my sincerity. What can I do for Sumner? Suddenly, I know. My heart pangs in reluctance, and that tells me it's the right thing to do.

"You should go for it," I say, not knowing how else to broach the topic.

His confusion deepens. "Beg pardon?"

"Chrom. You should tell her how you feel. I think… I know she'd be happy."

Sumner's expression morphs into one of frenzied panic. "W-W-What?! I-I-I don't—"

What a goober. "Dude. You stare at her like 24/7. You stutter incoherently when talking to her. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that you like her."

He gesticulates wildly, hands flying everywhere. "S-S-She's my Captain! Of course I l-like her!"

I rub my face. "As a woman, you marshmallow."

"Marsh… No! T-That's not appropriate! I could never…" He stops, sighing. "Please don't tell her."

"I won't," I say. "But you will."

Sumner blanches at the thought. This is for the best. Women like Chrom aren't especially common. One of a kind, really. Strong and beautiful and heartfelt. Always willing to help. Always moving forward. Sumner should be with her.

"Sumner." I keep my voice soft, curbing the usual abrasiveness. "After yesterday… I realized a lot of important things. So many things I need to work on. Life is… fragile. I've been living mine the wrong way. My point is you have to do all you can limit your regrets. I guess… I guess I don't want you to regret not saying anything."

He listens patiently, embarrassment giving way to pensive acknowledgment. "I'm not sure I'm brave enough," he admits.

I shake my head. "You are. I'm not saying go do it right now. Just make sure you plan to."

Sumner breathes deeply. "OK. I… will."

"Good." I rock on my heels. "I, uh, should get back to camp."

"Michael," Sumner says. I halt mid-turn. "Thank you."

I make a hasty retreat, leaving Sumner with a nod. As I walk, a smile dares to grow upon my lips. I feel… better. Our conversation motivates me, and I resume sculpting the handle of the training sword. Sunset tints the sky orange by the time I've finally hollowed out the wood enough to fit the dowel. I close my eyes, soaking in the satisfaction.

I think about Sullivan and Sumner. I'm lucky. I'm lucky to be surrounded by a group of people like the Shepherds. Hell, I'm lucky to even be alive. The Shepherds have given me so much. So much to someone like me. More than anything, though, they've given me purpose. In life, that may be the most valuable commodity of all. I'll never survive here without it.

"Shepherds!"

Chrom's commanding voice booms across the camp. I turn to see her standing atop a tree stump, Freya not far behind. The knight, while pale, assumes a steady posture. Guess she convinced Chrom to let her out of the tent. Unsurprising. Lying in bed is about as un-Freya as it gets. She rides ahead to sweep pebbles from the road, after all.

The Shepherds gather near Chrom. Everyone looks relieved that Freya is up and about. I hang back, within earshot but providing ample space. Freya and I meet eyes regardless; her cold, venomous glare forces my gaze to Chrom instead.

Once the Shepherds settle down, Chrom addresses the group. "After some… deliberation," she says, shooting Freya a pointed look that speaks volumes, "I have decided we will move out tomorrow at first light. Make sure you all get a good night's sleep. Regna Ferox is still several days away. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain!" comes the collective response.

Chrom nods. "Good! Dismissed!"

As they disperse, Chrom strides toward me. I suppress a wave of anxiety. She roots herself a few feet away, demeanor all business.

"After the battle with the Risen, the issue of your training has become more pressing than ever," she says curtly. "I'm aware that I told you I would teach you myself, but Freya has insisted I entrust her with the responsibility instead. Starting tomorrow, you will report to daily sessions after camp is made."

Shock sets in rapidly. Freya training me? What the shit? Surely, she wants absolutely nothing to do with me after her injury?

"But—"

"This isn't a request, Michael," Chrom says, cutting me short. "Freya is the most skilled soldier I know. You're in more than capable hands."

I resist the urge to protest further. Over Chrom's shoulder, Freya watches me, as if issuing a silent challenge. This is going to be hell. Fiery, agonizing hell. But I shouldn't complain. This is a necessity.

"I understand," I say. Chrom dips her head and turns away. I reach out and touch her pauldron. Her ocean blue eyes search mine. "Chrom… I won't let you down."

She doesn't answer, holding my gaze a while longer before leaving. Chrom disappears into her tent, and I return to my place on the ground, picking up the training sword handle and hilt once again.

I trace the grain patterns with my index finger. This morning it was nothing more than a tree branch. Soon, it'll be a fine training sword, a tool that will see many, many hours of use. I made progress today.

Progress.

Little by little.

Day by day.

I'll make progress.

Author's Note: Mike is learning! Slowly, but surely! Change doesn't come overnight, as Mike knows. This chapter was a bit more laid back than previous chapters; I wanted to give screen time to Sullivan and Sumner while Mike dealt with the aftermath of his actions. Of course, now he has training with Freya to look forward to! RIP Mike.

Once again, a huge thank you to all my supporters! You make this a joy. It's so exciting to watch this story gain momentum! Alrighty, review responses!

Shippersaurus- Intense is what I was going for! Glad I hit the mark. Also, I personally love Freya/Frederick, so expect Mike and her to flesh out their complex relationship.

Serendipitous- You have no idea how glad I am to see you review again! Your support is important to me, and I great appreciate your feedback. I'm happy to hear you approve of Mike's development. He's still got a long way to go, but it's progress!

RequiemAnon- Holy ravioli! You reviewed every chapter! Thank you so, so much! Follows and favorites are wonderful, but reviews are the lifeblood. And you made me one happy camper with all those reviews!

Caellach Tiger Eye- Once again, your incredibly detailed and thoughtful review provided a lot of insight and gave me much to think about. Your analysis of Mike and what we've seen so far in the story is right on point. From the very beginning, I've wanted to portray him as flawed yet relatable. Avoiding Stu-ness was my first priority, but I also wanted it to be abundantly clear that he was quickly digging himself a deeper and deeper hole. I'm extremely glad that it seems to be paying off now that his character arc is in full swing. Also, I was pleased to see you make the connection to Marth being female. As you said, it speaks to a deeper, more pervasive level to the changes Mike is seeing. So, no, you are not overthinking this. Keep it in the back of your mind. Finally, I have a name for M!Lucina chosen already (names were the first thing I did for this fic). Your expectations are clearly high, and when all is revealed, I think I can say with confidence that you will at the very least approve of that specific naming. Again, so much thanks for the reviews. Your detail is unmatched.

And to the guest who attempted to flame me- you're* ;)