cw: graphic violence and themes of death
Petra wordlessly fell to her knees next to Hanneman's body. All the fight left her as the adrenalin died. Hubert was gone, but so was her friend.
"I am having—I am sorry," she whispered.
Ignatz knelt next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Her heart wanted to nothing more to embrace him, to finally and properly reunite with him.
Instead, she reached out a hand to the spike through his chest. "Help me get him down," she whispered.
Ignatz acquiesced, and the two began the silent work of pulling the spike of Dark magic from his chest. As soon as they removed it, it began to dissipate like flower petals in the breeze. Flecks of magic vanished into the wind, gone from the world.
Petra lay him down on the ground, looking at the smile on his face. His last act was to save her. No doubt he'd been pleased at that. Hanneman had always been a good man. She stroked his hair before closing his eyes.
"You were known, you were seen, you were heard. You will be remembered." Words whispered, an ineloquent translation from her native tongue. Funeral words, the same she'd heard at her father's ceremony.
And she would never forget him, and what he'd done. She was alive. And that was when her tears began, emotion cracking through her walls at last. Why? Why had it taken this to happen?
Ignatz wrapped an arm around her, embracing her. "It's okay. You did well. He'd be proud of you."
They weren't the words she wanted, not that she knew what those were. "It is not. I am fucking it all up! Nothing I do is right! The past five years, these sins, these are my deeds. My life has amounted to so many wrongs—I do not deserve your words." She pushed him away.
He did not let go. Petra glared at him through tears, looking on his kinder—older—face. He'd aged well and grown into the man she'd always known he'd be.
"You don't need to do anything to deserve kindness, or happiness. You exist, you are alive. Isn't that enough?" he softly asked.
Petra didn't have an answer. But she did not push him away again.
Ingrid's pegasus landed on the roof, not far from the two people holding each other. The commotion she'd seen already came to a close. She dismounted, surprised to see Ignatz and Petra of all people.
At their feet, Hanneman.
She'd not known him well. Manuela had been her teacher, and the extent of her interaction with the older man came from sitting in on his archery seminars. But Ingrid didn't have to know him well to know he was a good man.
"Ingrid?" Ignatz said as she walked towards them. "How are you…?"
"Felix, Ashe, and I came to help," she said, kneeling next to Hanneman. She rested a hand on his forehead, and whispered a prayer. "What happened?"
Petra flinched and continued to remain silent. Ignatz spoke quickly, and briefly, for her sake.
"I see," Ingrid said. "Are you standing vigil?"
"No," Ignatz shook his head. "The battle—"
"Can you take him?" Petra interrupted.
Ingrid cocked her head. "Pardon?"
"He…he shouldn't be left here. He doesn't deserve that," Petra said, looking down.
Ingrid tried to meet her eyes, but she wouldn't. So she said, "I can. Is there anything you'd like to say? They say spirits linger by their bodies, after death."
Ignatz shook his head, but Petra cleared her throat. Though her voice shook, she said, "Thank you, professor." With that, she shrunk away.
Ingrid bent down and picked the man up. With one last nod to Ignatz, she turned to her pegasus and delicately draped his body over the beast. Slinging herself up, she called out, "The tide is turning, down there. But the fighting's still thick. They could use you down there."
"We'll be there," Ignatz called. Though they'd never been close, there was a bond in that moment. Ingrid smiled at him, then spurred her pegasus into flight. The wings beat, and they soared.
They flew over the field of battle, over the city as it devoured itself. Smoke, screams, both were in plenty below. Ingrid was glad that she could at least get him out of there.
"Hope you were happy with how your life went, professor," she murmured. "Hope that it was fulfilling, that it was good."
Though the dead couldn't speak, Ingrid thought Hanneman would say yes.
The heat of battle subsided for a moment. Claude rested a hand against a wall, breathing.
Holst walked to him and patted him on the back. "You know, never knew you were such a daredevil. I've never seen an Almyran rider do the kinds of things you do. Which makes me think they're more dangerous than you'd let on."
"Gotta give them a show," Claude joked. He sobered. "The sooner we end this, the sooner everyone is safe."
The older man nodded. "I agree. So go."
"What?"
"Go to them. Your friends, your family," Holst said. "I can manage things here. You go make sure people are safe."
"Are you sure?" Claude asked, loath to leave Hilda's brother behind.
He smiled. "Of course. They need you, as much as you need them."
Claude rested a hand on Holst's shoulder, before whistling. Tishtar perked up where she rested, bounding to him.
"Good luck," Holst called.
Lorenz drove his flaming spear through a man's skull, utterly desensitized. He yelled, "They're not faltering! We need to take the fight to their commander!"
Catherine, on the other side of the street, called back, "You got a plan?"
He started to reply before cutting himself off, bashing the butt of his lance into another imperial. Twisting, he jabbed the spear down through the soldier, killing them. He shouted, "You all, go! I can hold here!"
"Like hell you can!" Catherine yelled back. "Not without us you won't. I'm staying!"
"As am I," Shamir said, her voice carrying.
"Byleth!" Lorenz said. "Go!"
"You sure?" she said, from somewhere. Goddess, the fighting was so thick he couldn't even see her.
"Yes. Go!" he repeated.
Lorenz assumed she listened, because she did not reply. Giving orders to his teacher. How things had changed.
It was a protracted fight, one they'd likely win. But the cost was raising as bodies on both sides continued to pile. Lorenz found his footwork hindered by corpses, and he was sure he wasn't the only one.
Catherine cut her way towards Lorenz, pressing her back to his. Hissing, she said, "Holding on?"
"Barely," he said, the exhaustion sapping at him.
"You always did talk tough," Catherine laughed. "Could use a bit of that now."
"People of the Alliance!" he shouted for all who could hear. "We have them, keep fighting!"
"Ha, that's more like it," she said, voice far too faint for his liking.
Lorenz felt her slide down his back to her knee. Thunderbrand caught her from fully falling as the point drove into the ground. Blood was pouring down her body, dozens of cuts weighing on her.
"Catherine!" he shouted. Lorenz turned, doing his best to cut a berth around her. But like vultures, the imperials realized that Thunder Catherine was on her last legs.
"Catherine!" Shamir screamed, elsewhere. Lorenz could see her trying to get closer without much success.
"Press forward, we have her!" yelled an imperial. "Kill Thunder—ack!" An arrow sprouted from his neck and he collapsed into a bloody heap on the ground. Lorenz didn't pay Shamir's shot attention. He used the moment to get in front of Catherine as her shield.
Except Shamir was held back by people, with no way in hell to make a shot like that.
"For Faerghus! For the Alliance! For Fódlan's new dawn!" yelled a voice Lorenz hadn't heard in years.
Blue clad soldiers smashed against red with fury. They fought like they were possessed, scores of hardened veterans who showed no hesitation in the face of battle.
As an imperial fell, Ashe Lonato stepped into view with a friendly smile amidst well-groomed stubble, very much looking five years older. "Need a hand?" he asked, gesturing with his bow.
"For Faerghus!" Lorenz yelled, joining the rallying cry of their saviors.
"My lady," he said to me. "It's…"
"What," I snapped, grasping the woman's hand harder as she cried out.
"Poison," Aelfric whispered, horrified. "Lady Rhea, what does—"
"Myson," I snarled, more to myself than to him. He was killing Sitri. My dear friend. My hope for mother to return.
"Who is—"
"You are dismissed, Aelfric," I said. I rolled up my sleeves, though they were already bloody. "I will do what I can for her and the child."
Aelfric bowed, and quickly saw himself out without a fight.
(...)
"Please," begged Sitri, on her last legs. "My daughter…save her…"
"You know what that means," I whispered. "You will die."
"My daughter…Byleth. Her name is Byleth," Sitri pled. In the distance, I could hear Jeralt shouting with the guards I had posted.
"If I save Byleth, you will die," I repeated, praying, hoping, pleading, that she'd rethink her words.
"It's worth it," Sitri cried. "She's my baby." Sitri held her child close as if it would save the dying child.
(...)
Sitri was dead, by my hand.
I held the sleeping babe in my arms. A Crest and my blood now ran through her veins. The same fate I inflicted on Sitri would pass to her.
"I am sorry, my friend," I whispered, as if Sitri could hear. "You deserved better than I."
Sitri did not respond, gone from the world. Though it was a process I did often, I'd never created a vessel that I took to so well. The woman was beautiful, like a daughter to me.
I looked to the child in my arms. The hope was on her shoulders. This Byleth was my next vessel, though the words were heavy in my mind.
(...)
Weeks later, she was gone. Dead, in the fire.
Jeralt had left. Aelfric not long after. Sitri was dead. Seteth suspicious of me ever since Sitri had given birth. And now, Byleth gone.
I am alone.
Plans shattered. No longer was there hope for her. I am well and truly alone.
I feel the fire of revenge burning in my heart, as I did after the Red Canyon. I know it well, and know the danger. But I care not.
I will make them pay for taking my mother from me again.
Though she was weak, Hilda didn't let that stop her.
A long fight was a fight she'd lose. There was no hope of that. So she did what she did best, and attacked.
Crates lined the side of Anna's tent, giving her a wall to put her back to. Most didn't like putting themselves against a wall, but Hilda relished it. No one would sneak up on her now.
The six vultures fanned out around her, as if waiting for her to succumb. But she held the Sword and Shield of Seiros up, both flaring with faint light.
Make it quick, Hilda.
Hilda lashed out at the right-most assassin. His sword came up to block, but she pulled back before the blades touched, wheeling around and gouging the point into the woman on the left's neck. Blood sprayed and she crumpled to the ground.
"Still got it," Hilda muttered, though she didn't like how taxing just one stroke was. She lifted the shield to block a strike from the man she'd baited, while deflecting another with the sword. A third blade crashed against her shield, sending her staggering.
A fourth bit into her thigh and she swore. Not good. Not good not good not good—
A blade erupted from the man who'd scored a hit on her, withdrawing as the corpse crumpled. Anna stood, holding a blade while shaking, four enemies remaining.
Not one to let a moment go to waste, Hilda jumped back onto one of the crates. From it, she leapt, bringing the Sword of Seiros down onto the skull of the nearest assassin.
Three left.
"You're a feisty one," Hilda complimented, not taking her eyes off the remaining assassins.
"You're one to talk," Anna called back, doing the same.
The remaining female assassin turned on Anna, seeking to take care of the less capable foe. But in doing so, she exposed her back to Hilda and was punished for it. The wavy blade carved into her spine and with a twist, broke it. She fell, not dead, but soon to be.
The two that still lived started to back away. One of them looked behind Anna and ducked. The other did not.
Seteth, who had emerged from the tent, threw a javelin at the unaware assassin. Even with his nondominant hand, it flew true. The javelin caught him in the solar plexus and he fell, dying.
"Good shot, old man!" Hilda called out. She'd get an earful about that later. "So, wanna surrender?"
The man threw his sword down instantly, putting his hands in the air. Anna walked forward and picked the blade away. And with the pommel of her blade, bashed the man in the nose. It broke, and he fell over unconscious.
"Damn, girl," Hilda said, letting the Sword and Shield slip from her hands. "Nicely done." She sagged to the ground slowly, out of breath. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire.
"Thank you, Hilda," Anna said. "Are you okay? Can I do anything for you?"
"Yeah," Hilda chuckled weakly. "Tell my wife to come back sooner."
Anna spared a small smile. Seteth walked forward and knelt, giving her a one-armed hug. "Thank you," he whispered.
"That's what friends are for," she said, patting him on the back.
"Four dance partners! You spoil me, Emperor. Come! Let's punish your treachery in blood."
Myson's words had Edelgard refocus on him instead of her wife. Lysithea, not twenty feet from her, stared at Edelgard. It was a look Edelgard had never seen on her. Instead of the love she remembered, instead she saw a conflicted woman.
It all falls apart. No matter what. Edelgard clenched her fist, digging her fingernails into her palm. She knew this would be the result. Her burden to bear. And they weighed as they should, ones she would carry to her death.
So Edelgard did not speak to Lysithea. Instead, she addressed Myson. "Cease your pontificating, Myson. We care not for your prattle."
Myson laughed. "Have you no yen to the aims of your foes, Emperor?"
"You imply you deserve such," Edelgard growled.
He frowned, as if disappointed. Myson shrugged, sparing another laugh. "Very well. Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg. Lysithea von Gloucester, or is it Ordelia again? Yuri Leclerc, the Mockingbird, spawn of my brother. And of course, the traitor Bernadetta von Varley. Quite the cast arrayed here before me."
"He's adept at magic," Yuri said softly. Lysithea moved towards their group, apprehensive. "Watch for his lightning, he can condense it into a blade of sorts."
"Yuri, Yuri," Myson said. His face flickered into that of Aelfric briefly. "It's poor form to rely on the same tricks again and again. I taught you better than that." He reached up to the clasp that held his cloak together, and undid it. Beneath it, he wore a simple black sleeveless tunic.
His arms were muscular, the right arm turning black as it reached his fake hand. Slowly, he drew two blades from his back. One was a longsword that came to a hook at the end, while the other was a shortsword. Both were adorned with glyphs down their blades. He flipped them both in his hands, a handsome grin on his face. "They called these mage killers, a thousand years ago. Not for slaying mages, but weapons a battlemage would use."
"Goddess," Bernadetta squeaked, terrified.
"Your goddess is dead—she is not with you today," Myson said, pointing the hooked mage killer towards her. "At your ready, Yuri. Let's see if you really were worthy to lead Abyss."
"Do not rush in," Edelgard commanded.
Yuri grunted. "I'm not your soldier." They drew Begalta and walked forward. "I've got point, back me up." Bernadetta drew an arrow and knocked it. To Edelgard's right in the large throne room, Lysithea waved Thyrsus in her hand. It was but a few inches, but as magical energy swirled around her, she lifted from the ground. Her gaze did not turn to Edelgard.
Myson lashed out with the hooked blade. Begalta met it at its end, the hook gliding past Begalta, off course. The battlemage pulled the blade back, hooking it against Yuri's sword to try and yank it from their hands. Yuri held the blade tight, holding resolute as Myson tried to yank it from him.
Myson smirked, lightning surging from his hands up the glyphed blade. Each sigil lit up as they channeled and held the magic, bursting with electricity. It traveled down Begalta and into Yuri's hands as they screamed. Begalta, missing its firm grip, was ripped from Yuri's hand and the shortsword came up in two quick strokes across Yuri's chest. Myson lifted his leg and planted his foot where he'd cut and kicked Yuri back, sending the Mockingbird tumbling to the ground, groaning with pain and taken out of the fight, but alive. For now.
"Disappointing," Myson said, not sounding at all bothered. He leaned out of the way as Bernadetta fired an arrow at him.
"You'll pay for that!" Bernadetta yelled, the first time Edelgard had ever heard her do so.
"Please." Myson's hooked mage killer discharged its electricity, going inert. Flames kindled along its edge instead. "You are children playing at being adults."
"Bernadetta, Lysithea," Edelgard said, addressing her Eagles. "I will take point. Take any opening you have, no matter what."
"You're unarmed," Lysithea said. Goddess, her voice was beautiful.
"No, I am not." Beneath her skin, her veins moved. Porcelain skin flooded black, scaley sinew replacing it, mixed with glowing Crest Stones. Her entire right arm became the beast's, elongated wicked claws stretching from her fingers. It spread from her shoulder, massive pauldron-like growth protruding as she hunched over at the sudden weight. Black tendrils stretched across her body, held at bay, but holding her. She did not give into the beast within her, but she used it.
"Fuck!" Bernadetta yelped.
"El…" Lysithea murmured.
"Ah, the Hegemon," Myson said. "But you don't give into all of it. Why?"
"I'm not that person," Edelgard spat, voice warped. She flexed her demonic arm, acclimating to its longer reach.
"Then you'll fail," Myson said, shaking his head. "No matter, of course. I have Lorelei to replace you."
Edelgard roared, and it was the roar of a dragon. She bounded forward, unhindered by her armor's weight. She lashed laterally at Myson, claws streaking a black trail through the air. He raised his hooked blade and caught it, buckling under the force, but not before jabbing the shortsword into her side twice. It cut deep, but she did not feel it. Not in this state. Inky strands of the beast wrapped over the wounds, holding her blood in.
Myson rolled to the side as an arrow sailed past. His gaze fixed on Bernadetta and he slashed at the ground beneath him. A nova of flame exploded at his feet, serving to both blind Edelgard and blast Myson with his own concussion.
He flew through the air and caught himself with a show of flashy acrobatics, not breaking his speed as he closed the distance. Bernadetta, to her credit, kept the Inexhaustible aloft and pointed at him. She fired.
Myson held his faux-hand up like a gauntlet and the arrow broke against it, leaving not even a scratch. His hook stabbed into her shoulder and he yanked her towards him and onto the shortsword. Bernadetta screamed and Myson swung the hook again. Still attached to it, Bernadetta twirled like a helpless marionette onto the ground. Healing magic from Lysithea's hand rushed to her aid, but she was out cold.
Four became two, as Edelgard and Lysithea faced down Myson. Edelgard stepped in front of Lysithea protectively. He was picking them off to avoid fighting her. Myson was no fool, he knew she was strong.
Edelgard clenched her hand, a torrent of magic forming in her hand. Myson stood where he was, watching her, both blades out in front of him. The fire died, turning to ice instead along his sword. She roared again, thrusting her hand forward. The Darkness flew forward, as large as her head.
The Agarthan rested the hooked end of the sword on the ground, and dragged it along the floor into a swing. Stemming from its head, increasingly large ice crystals jutted out of the ground in the path of Edelgard's attack. Ice and Dark collided, exploding into shards across the floor.
That did not deter Edelgard, she bounded forward and stabbed forward with her claws, hooking them to the side as she followed through to the left. She drew first blood on Myson, the tip of a claw digging into his shoulder. No sooner had she struck, the wound closed in its wake.
In that case, she'd rend him to pieces. However the Chalice had altered him, Edelgard would like to see him heal from that. That he still evaded attacks implied there was a limit. Her clawed hand reeled back into another strike. Myson took it and buried his blade into her stomach, withdrawing it as tendrils tried to grab it.
Edelgard grinned, using her human hand to grab Myson around the neck. She held him and drove the claws into his chest. Blood spat onto her as she held her hand where it was, twisting to cause as much pain as possible.
Myson smiled, raising the ice-covered blade up and severed her clawed hand off.
Her shriek was inhuman, just like her, as Edelgard recoiled, clutching the stump of her arm. Myson backpedaled, wrenching the hand from his torso as it slowly began to heal. He grunted in pain, a flicker of surprise across his face.
Lysithea made her move. A fireball she'd been building flew through the air, towards Myson. He saw it and flung both his blades out, a gust of wind beginning to shield him.
The fireball detonated with a cacophonous boom, alighting the curtains and shattering the windows on that side of the throne room. Smoke filled the area, obscuring their vision.
Something glimmered in the haze, and Edelgard acted without thinking.
Thoron hammered out of the smokescreen, aimed directly at Lysithea. The lightning was like a column in motion, bigger and quicker than anything nature could conjure.
Edelgard was faster. She interposed herself between the attack and her wife. Her midsection took the attack, a hole blasting through her as the thoron spell knocked her back another thirty feet. She slid along the ground, leaving a long streak of blood and ichor behind. The tendrils tried to hold her body together.
All went white.
"NO!"
Lysithea dropped to the ground and ran to her side. "El!" she yelled, waving a hand of White magic. It flowed from her fingers, beginning to repair the damage. But it was akin to a pebble stemming a broken dam.
"Lys, I can't see," whispered Edelgard, almost inaudible, eyes wide open.
"Hold on, I can fix this. I can fix this!" Lysithea yelled, casting as quickly as she could. Flesh tried to reknit itself.
"I…tried to make a world where little girls could grow up safe." Edelgard murmured, not hearing her. "I made…mistakes. Promise me…"
Edelgard's hand, the soft skin that Lysithea remembered, caressed her cheek. "Be better than me."
Lysithea grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I'm here, El, I'm here. You're going to be okay."
"You were…the best part—" The hand went limp in Lysithea's hand, Edelgard's last words a trailing hiss of air.
"No," Lysithea mumbled, begging. "No."
"Finally!" crowed Myson, stepping out of the dissipating smoke. "That bitch is dead. I have dreamed of wiping that smirk off her face for so damn long."
Lysithea slowly stood, turning to the man who had killed Edelgard. Whatever her feelings had been, the woman had been a friend. She had been kind to her when Lysithea needed it.
Words could not capture her rage, her anguish. Magic bled from her fingers as she shook. Tears evaporated as they were shed, flame burning the air around her. The oxygen seeped away, devoured by the Thyrsus-flames. But she did not care, her focus was only on Myson.
"Burn in hell," she growled, becoming a phoenix.
Author Notes: Yeah, you read that right. Four-part update. Quad update. Because I don't know when to quit, and yall deserve a hell of a finish. Last part goes up tomorrow.
Edelgard's form in this chapter is inspired by her Fallen art in Heroes.
Editing Notes:
4/19/2022: Minor grammatical adjustments.
